OF THE 
 
 U N I VERS ITY 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 823 
 
 C8892f 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 V- 
 
FIDELIS 
 
NOVELS BY ADA CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 The Three Miss Kings. 
 
 “ The story is told with great brilliancy, the character and 
 society sketching is very charming, while delightful incidents 
 and happy surprises abound. It is a triple love-story, pure in 
 tone, and of very high literary merit .” — Chicago Herald. 
 
 My Guardian. 
 
 “A story which will, from first to last, enlist the sympa- 
 thies of the reader by its simplicity of style and fresh, genu- 
 ine feeling. . . . The author is au fait at the delineation of 
 character .” — Boston Transcript. 
 
 “The dencument is all that the most ardent romance- 
 reader could desire.”— Chicago Evening Journal. 
 
 Not All in Vain. 
 
 “ A worthy companion to the best of the author’s former 
 efforts, and in some respects superior to any of them.” — 
 Detroit Free Press. 
 
 “A better story has not been published in many moons.” 
 — Philadelphia Inquirer. 
 
 A Little Minx. 
 
 “A delightfully told tale; breezy to the last degree, 
 admirable in construction, satisfactory in characterization, 
 while the interest is sustained in a manner easy and nat- 
 ural.”— London Academy. r 
 
 A Marriage Ceremony. 
 
 “ It is a pleasure to read this novel .”— London Athenaeum. 
 
 “ This story by Ada Cambridge is one of her best, and to 
 say that is to at once award it high praise .” — Boston Adver- 
 tiser. 
 
 Each, 12mo, paper cover, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 
 
 New York ; D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue. 
 
F I D E L I S 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 BY 
 
 ADA CAMBRIDGE 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 THE THREE MISS KINGS, NOT ALL IN VAIN, MY GUARDIAN 
 A LITTLE MINX, A MARRIAGE CEREMONY, ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 
 1895 
 
Copyright, 1895, 
 
 By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. 
 
/ 
 
 ) 
 
 rj c J 
 
 ' \ » 
 
 Q. «p 
 
 FIDELIS 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A good many years ago, when the present mistress of 
 Dunstanborough was the baby of the house, the then mis- 
 tress, Lady Susan, engaged her children’s first governess. 
 She was a novice of eighteen, head pupil of Miss Pyke’s 
 well-known school at Lyntham, in which Lady Susan’s 
 mother took an interest. It was, in fact, the countess 
 who recommended the young person. 
 
 “ A highly respectable young person, my dear — daugh- 
 ter of Armour, the bookseller — thoroughly well educated. 
 She won our prize at Christmas ; and now, being finished, 
 is looking for a place. Miss Pyke spoke to me about her ; 
 and I at once thought of you. Baby, of course, needs no 
 teaching at present ; but it is quite time that Barbara was 
 taken in hand. And a young, bright girl, you see, my 
 dear, is better than an older woman. She is more cheer- 
 ful for the children, and — which is of the first importance 
 — you can use her more freely.” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Lady Susan ; “ but a young, bright girl — 
 
 ji 
 
 £ 
 
 
 
 V V\ 
 
 when there is a tutor in the house.” 
 
 “ I thought of that — naturally. But Dicky ought to 
 go to Eton now. He is nearly two years older than his 
 „ brothers were. Send him at once, and dismiss the tutor. 
 - You can dismiss one of the nurses, too. I am sure, my 
 
 1 
 
2 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 dear Susan, you will find this an excellent arrangement. 
 The girl will come for fifteen pounds a year, and Miss 
 Pyke says she is a beautiful needlewoman. I shall speak 
 to Roger.” 
 
 While she lived, the countess liked to manage the af- 
 fairs of all her family ; and even Roger, her very haughty 
 son-in-law, who thought her a vulgar person, permitted 
 himself in certain matters to be swayed by her strong 
 mind. Whereas he was a poor man for his position, she 
 was one of those wealthy people who love the saving of a 
 penny better than the spending of thousands of pounds ; 
 and occasionally she effected convenient economies on his 
 behalf which he could not and would not have stooped to 
 suggest. 
 
 She talked to him about Miss Armour; and he said, 
 in his high and mighty way, “ Just as Susan pleases,” — 
 all that was necessary, seeing that Susan was as wax in 
 her mother’s hands. And he consented to send Richard 
 to Eton because he was ten, which in those days was quite 
 an advanced age for the first form, and because he was 
 not under satisfactory control in the hands of the tutor, 
 who had been one of the countess’s cheap bargains. With 
 pleasure Mr. Delavel dismissed the tutor. 
 
 Then Miss Armour came. She was a pretty girl, — 
 always a disadvantage in a governess, even when there is 
 no young man in the house, — and she had a great deal of 
 manner. It was an elegant manner, for the bookseller 
 had brought her up genteelly, never allowing her to wait 
 in the shop or do anything that was considered unlady- 
 like ; but it went beyond the requirements of the nursery 
 schoolroom, to which she was desired, but did by no 
 means desire, to confine herself. Her little head was full 
 of her own concerns, when it should have been wholly 
 occupied with the responsibilities of her post. It was a 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 3 
 
 young head upon young shoulders ; and her transforma- 
 tion from schoolgirl to governess, even governess in so 
 great a family, did not convert it into an old one. Though 
 she had been Miss Pyke’s head pupil and the winner of 
 the earl’s prize, though she had been specially trained for 
 the profession on which she had so prosperously embarked, 
 her interest in teaching was the least of the interests of 
 Miss Armour’s life. She had regarded it all along as a 
 mere pathway to sentimental adventures, which in their 
 turn should lead to a comfortable marriage, involving 
 release from teaching and all unpleasant things. She 
 regarded it now as a base from which to commence the 
 campaign forthwith. The schoolroom had bound her, 
 with her wings to her side, like an unfledged butterfly ; 
 but now she was an independent woman, out in the world, 
 and free. 
 
 As soon as she had recovered from her first awe of the 
 house and family, and grown used to her own exalted 
 station, she began to look about her. 
 
 The tutor was no more — a person who would nat- 
 urally have been her chief support. The eldest of the 
 three sons — now dead and gone — was then not quite six- 
 teen, and all three were at Eton. Even a boy in the 
 house would have been some comfort. She used to meet 
 Mr. Delavel on the stairs sometimes, or in the drawing- 
 room on Sundays, and make pleasant observations to him, 
 with dimpling cheeks and coquettish gestures ; and he 
 simply stared at her, bowed, and passed on without re- 
 mark or smile. There was no nice young curate to be 
 asked to informal meals. Maxwell Delavel Pole — Max- 
 well Delavel then, the Pole falling to him later, with 
 property attached to it — was at school with his cousins, 
 and his humble dummy at Dunstanborough was an old 
 man. The family pew was a room with oaken walls, sur- 
 
4 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 mounted with close-drawn curtains of blue silk, higher 
 than one’s head, and was cut off by the rood screen from 
 the pews of other folks. The only man to be seen from 
 it was a man in marble who had been dead for 350 years, 
 and he had a marble wife and ten marble children. They 
 knelt together under a canopy fixed to the chancel wall — 
 five sons behind him, and five daughters behind her, with 
 a sort of altar in the middle inscribed with their names 
 and honours, and their combined arms above them — six- 
 teen quarterings of his, “ differenced ” with a crescent 
 impaling sixteen of hers. Sir Roger, in his plate armour, 
 was a great knight, in whom our young lady was more 
 interested than she was in Mr. Woodford’s sermons; but 
 a village doctor or some such person — not in marble — 
 would easily have eclipsed both. Even church decora- 
 tions offered no opportunities in those days. Large bows 
 were tied to the pew-ends by the parish clerk for Christ- 
 mas only, and members of the congregation never thought 
 of meddling. Delavel dinner parties did not include the 
 governess, nor did rent audit banquets. 
 
 But a young woman in quest of a young man is like a 
 black tracker in the bush. Where no one else can see the 
 trail she sniffs it out, and no difficulties baffle her. Miss 
 Armour was not to be circumvented. 
 
 There was a rent dinner in the great hall of the great 
 house — a place which stood empty save on such occasions, 
 and when sons came of age, and so on — and her ears 
 caught the sound of tenants’ boots on the ringing flags, 
 and the sound of tenants’ voices echoing from the wain- 
 scoted walls. Those walls were two stories high, and bi- 
 sected at one end by a gallery — the “ minstrels’ gallery ” 
 of old time — leading from disused dining to disused draw- 
 ing-rooms on the first floor. From this gallery many gen- 
 erations of proud ladies had looked down upon their lords’ 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 5 
 
 feasts, in those splendid days bygone ; and in like manner 
 Miss Armour felt that she would enjoy a sight of the 
 present vassals at their milder entertainment. Farmers 
 are of various sorts : there is the boor in fustian suit and 
 “ highlows,” who is as though he were not to a genteel 
 young lady ; but there is also the gentleman in broadcloth 
 and long whiskers, who rides to hounds and sometimes 
 drives his carriage. 
 
 She took her pupil with her to show her her papa, but 
 did not lift the child to the rail over which she was too 
 small to peer. Plumped down upon the floor, and bidden 
 to keep still on pain of a whipping, Barbara was left to 
 imagine the spectacle below, while the governess enjoyed 
 it to her heart’s content. Her fair head and shoulders, 
 set upon that background of age-blackened oak, lighted 
 by light that fell softly yellow through high stained win- 
 dows, were as attractive to the farmers — such of them as 
 could see her — as their features to her. First one and 
 then another looked up, until she had half a dozen ad- 
 mirers, amongst whom she selected a local bachelor for 
 her special favour, leaning like another Juliet over her bal- 
 cony to ogle him. The great squire had his back turned, 
 fortunately. 
 
 From this delightful pastime she was rudely disturbed 
 by Lady Susan, who had found Barbara crying in a lonely 
 corridor, whither she had strayed and lost herself. Lady 
 Susan wanted to know, with something of asperity in her 
 comfortable voice, what the governess was doing there ; 
 and Miss Armour said she was studying the glass in the 
 windows, being very fond of heraldry. She had come to 
 the gallery for a moment to please Barbara, who had 
 teased to see her papa, and she had become fascinated by 
 her discoveries in the genealogy of the family. 
 
 “ I never realised before,” she burst out rapturously, 
 
6 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 “ what a magnificent place it must have been in the olden 
 times ! ” 
 
 “ Oh, pretty well,” said Lady Susan, her frown melting 
 into a smile ; “ I don’t suppose there were many to equal 
 it. But now, my dear, go back to the schoolroom if you 
 please. I would not for anything have Mr. Delavel see us 
 here. He would be much annoyed.” 
 
 “ Come, darling,” said Miss Armour, with her cheerful 
 promptness, “ you have had your wish.” 
 
 “ I haven’t,” wailed Barbara. “ I haven’t seen him 
 once ! ” 
 
 “ Don’t tell stories,” adjured the governess. “ Mamma 
 won’t love her little girl if she tells stories, will you, 
 mamma ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly not,” said Lady Susan, sternly. “ I am 
 afraid you indulge her too much, my dear. If she thinks 
 she can have her own way in everything, she will never be 
 satisfied. You must try to be firm as well as kind.” 
 
 Miss Armour said she would, and retired from the 
 banquetting hall with the child in her arms. Beaching 
 the schoolroom, she stood her in a corner with her face to 
 the wall, for being naughty, and sat down to trim a bon- 
 net for Sunday — a bonnet that should further subjugate 
 the farmer of her choice, with whom she hoped to ex- 
 change a glance at any rate between church porch and 
 chancel. 
 
 It was her business not only to teach Barbara, but to 
 take her for walks. - Barbara’s legs were small and her 
 powers limited, and the park and grounds were large. 
 Outside the park and grounds neither of the little girls 
 was allowed to go ; for fear that, in air contaminated by 
 common people, they should “ catch something.” It was 
 Lady Susan’s rule. So that the mother was concerned 
 one day to hear her eldest daughter talking about Mr. 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 7 
 
 Drewe and his horse, and a ride she had had up and down 
 some lane, apparently on that horse’s back. 
 
 “ What lane, my dear ? ” was the natural inquiry, “ and 
 what were you doing with Mr. Drewe and his horse ? I 
 hope, Miss Armour, you don’t take her outside the park. 
 You know my wishes, I am sure ; I was so careful to ex- 
 plain them to you.” 
 
 “ Of course I never do,” Miss Armour vehemently 
 asseverated ; and looked at Barbara with meaning in her 
 eye, — a meaning which the child rightly interpreted into 
 a threat of slaps if she should say any more. 
 
 “ One never knows what rough characters one may 
 meet,” said Lady Susan ; “ and there is always the danger 
 of infection from the poorer cottages.” 
 
 “ Oh, I should not thinh of taking her outside,” Miss 
 Armour repeated. a We happened to be as far as the 
 west lodge to-day, and I was speaking to Mrs. Toogood, 
 when Mr. Drewe rode up. He wanted to speak to Too- 
 good, and while his horse stood there he set Barbara on 
 it, to please her. Just for a moment. He held her all the 
 time most carefully.” 
 
 “ Well, my dear, Mrs. Toogood’s baby is not at all in a 
 healthy state, and I would rather you did not go to the 
 lodges at present. Keep to the grounds about the house.” 
 “ I do, Lady Susan — I always do. It was only to-day 
 that we went a little * further. Barbara begged so hard.” 
 Lady Susan had lost a child between Richard and 
 Barbara, and another between Barbara and the baby, both 
 of scarlet fever. It was probably the grounds about the 
 house, a chief feature of which was a duckweedy moat 
 just under the nursery windows, which had proved fatal 
 to them ; but sanitation, as we know it, being an unborn 
 science at that date, such a theory had not occurred to 
 her or to the family medical adviser. They attributed 
 
8 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 those deaths to contact with the village people through 
 the medium of unprincipled nurses. This explained the 
 mother’s anxiety to limit the range of the present infants, 
 and her relief when Miss Armour assured her that she 
 had never taken Barbara to the confines of the park 
 before, and never w^ould again. 
 
 On the following day the Lord and Lady of Dunstan- 
 borough left home together to dine and spend the night 
 with a neighbouring squire, who lived about ten miles off. 
 When she was ready to start, Lady Susan summoned her 
 little girls to say good-bye to them. Baby came in the 
 arms of her nurse, and Barbara led by Miss Armour. 
 The fond mother took leave of them with many anxious 
 exhortations. 
 
 “ Don’t be out after schoolroom tea,” she said to the 
 governess; “and remember what I said about keeping 
 strictly to the grounds, my dear.” 
 
 “ Oh, yes, Lady Susan ! I will be very careful. Little 
 darling ! You may trust me to watch over her.” Miss 
 Armour lifted her charge to her breast and cuddled her 
 vehemently, showering over her a mass of fair ringlets, 
 like two bunches of laburnum blossom. The child began 
 to struggle ; but, warned by a quick pinch, desisted, and 
 watched her mother’s departure with a drooping lip. 
 
 Perfectly easy in her mind, Lady Susan walked down 
 the great stairs to her carriage in the courtyard, maid and 
 dressing-case behind her ; and Miss Armour waited at a 
 convenient window to see her disappear under the arched 
 gateway which had commanded the drawbridge in olden 
 times. Then she hustled Barbara to her tea, and, ere she 
 had swallowed two mouthfuls, to the bedroom they shared 
 together, where she clothed the child and herself in 
 “ spencers ” and cylindrical bonnets ; then rushed her 
 downstairs and out of the house at breakneck speed. The 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 9 
 
 head nurse saw them go ; but, with a tea-party of her own 
 on hand, had no time to interfere. 
 
 Meanwhile, the squire’s carriage rolled through the 
 park, and through the village, and along the quiet coun- 
 try road, until, at about two-thirds of the distance to its 
 destination, it met a mounted messenger, who informed 
 Mr. Delavel that his intended host had been stricken 
 with apoplexy, and that there would be no dinner party 
 in consequence. The carriage then turned round, and 
 rolled leisurely home again. 
 
 The countess’s paragon was enjoying the twilight hour 
 of a very chilly evening in pleasant converse with Mr. 
 Drewe — a full half mile on the wrong side of the park 
 gates — when, to her consternation, the carriage bore down 
 upon her, and she saw the stern eyes of her employers 
 fixed on her crimson face. Barbara was trailing behind 
 her, whimpering with fatigue ; her beaver bonnet hung 
 upon her back, and the cold wind whistled about her 
 throat and ears. In those days children — even common 
 people’s children — were not allowed to expose their ears 
 to out-door weather ; it was thought to be as terrible a 
 risk to health as the opening of bedroom windows. 
 
 Next morning, Miss Armour was packed off without a 
 character. It was Lyntham market day, and farmer 
 Morrison drove her home in his gig. Weeping she flung 
 lierself into her mother’s arms, in the parlour behind the 
 shop, and declared she had done nothing — nothing — noth- 
 ing to deserve such disgrace ; that there was no pleasing 
 Lady Susan, try as one might ; and that she was sure the 
 real cause of her being sent away was her good looks, of 
 which Lady Susan had from the first been jealous. 
 
 Mr. Armour, being told this tale, with variations, made 
 a journey to Dunstanborough, to see Lady Susan, who ex- 
 plained matters to the bookseller, in a manner which con- 
 
10 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 yinced him that she was not the tyrant his daughter had 
 described. And, while he was in Dunstanborough, and 
 in consequence of what he had heard at the Hall, he de- 
 termined to interview Mr. Drewe also. 
 
 This gentleman showed no reluctance to be inter- 
 viewed ; on the contrary, he was very glad to see any one 
 who could tell him what had become of his sweetheart, 
 torn from him so suddenly. He welcomed Mr. Armour, 
 gave him a good dinner, disarmed him of his reproaches, 
 and sent him home with an exulting heart. 
 
 44 Now, look here,” was what Mr. Drewe had said, 
 thumping a great fist on a Tiandsome mahogany table, 
 44 If she’s been sent away because o’ me I’ll stand by her, 
 as ’tis only right I should. Say the word, boss, and I’ll 
 marry her any day you like, with all the pleasure in life.” 
 He was a solid, hearty, red-faced sporting farmer, whom 
 the squires of the neighbourhood did not disdain to asso- 
 ciate with on public occasions ; he had a good house, and 
 he was generally well-to-do. The bookseller, though a 
 superior bookseller, of high repute in his town, was still 
 no more than a retail tradesman at any time in the eyes 
 of the squires ; and he had several children to provide for. 
 He did not feel justified in rejecting, or even trifling with, 
 the opportunity so generously presented to him. 
 
 44 Well,” he said, as he vainly strove to knit his brows, 
 44 I’ve no wish to stand in the way of my daughter’s hap- 
 piness. I will speak to her mother, and see what she says 
 to it ; and if she’s agreeable, I will let you know.” 
 
 Then he went home, turning the matter over in his 
 mind as he drove along, more and more convinced that 
 this was a fine thing for Arabella, who, with all her edu- 
 cation, did not seem cut out for a governess. 
 
 When he arrived, he did not give her the severe talk- 
 ing to he had promised Lady Susan to administer ; he 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 11 
 
 made allowances for a girl in love, and for the fact that 
 she had come out of her scrape with a profit, instead of 
 with a loss. He put Mr. Drewe’s offer before her, with 
 her mother’s consent, and bade her do what she pleased 
 about it. 
 
 She decided at once that she would have him. To be 
 married — to him, or to another — was her one aim in life, 
 and to be able to say that she had left Dunstanborough 
 Hall, because her engagement was a relief from many em- 
 barassments. The only thing she objected to was Mr. 
 Drewe’s name, — it was Abraham. 
 
 “ I could never call him anything so vulgar,” she said. 
 “ I shall alter it to Algernon.” 
 
 The gentleman was written to, and next market day 
 he dined with the bookseller’s family. He was a straight- 
 forward sort of person, hating to shilly-shally over any- 
 thing to which he had set his hand ; and, having “ passed 
 his word ” to Mr. Armour, he desired at the earliest mo- 
 ment to redeem it. Arabella would have liked a series of 
 Lyntham tea-parties, at which to parade him before envi- 
 ous girl friends ; but he did not accept the role of captive 
 gracefully, and it was thought advisable not to cross him. 
 Moreover, the glory of being a bride at nineteen, in a sil- 
 ver-gray satin, was greater than the glory of being en- 
 gaged. 
 
 Thus Miss Armour became Mrs. Drewe at an early 
 date, and could defy the countess and Lady Susan. 
 
 She returned to Dunstanborough in a carriage with 
 white horses and a postilion, and was cheered in the vil- 
 lage as she passed through it to her new home. 
 
 On the following Sunday, she appeared in church in 
 all her bridal garments, a white lace veil hanging from 
 the brim of her flowered bonnet over her pretty face and 
 pendant flaxen curls; and never had a bride caused so 
 
12 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 much sensation there since Lady Susan herself had been 
 one. 
 
 Lady Susan looked with the rest, and thought in her 
 kind heart, “ Poor little thing ! After all, you can’t ex- 
 pect a girl of that age to have the sense of an old woman, 
 and no doubt she was desperately in love. Now that she 
 is married, one must forgive and forget, especially as her 
 husband is one of our most valued tenants. I shall go 
 and see her to-morrow, and I will take her a little 
 present.” 
 
 Which she did. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 Abraham Drewe, like many others of his kind, had 
 succeeded his father and several grandfathers in the 
 whitewashed gabled house and the good farm that he 
 occupied ; and the former was old-fashioned in its ap- 
 pointments, even for its day. He said it was good enough 
 for him, and objected to radical changes. But Arabella 
 soon contrived to throw an air of elegance over her rooms 
 such as they had never worn, and such as conferred dis- 
 tinction upon herself as well as them. Her wax flowers 
 and leather flowers, her antimacassars in crochet and tas- 
 selled sofa cushions in Berlin wool-work, her water-colour 
 paintings and morocco-bound books, her beaded mats and 
 fire-screens, her piano, her finger-rings, her ermine tippet, 
 her Paisley shawl, her two silk gowns — in days when one 
 was Sunday best for half a lifetime — all these things, to- 
 gether with her beauty, her manners and her education, 
 served to fix her rank in a society where all ranks, at that 
 date, were inflexibly defined. Until she married him, 
 Abraham had been rather a hanger-on of the gentleman 
 farmer class, than an established member of it ; but after 
 his marriage his footing there was assured. Nevertheless, 
 he flatly refused to be called Algernon ; and his ambitious 
 wife had trouble in her endeavours to polish him up to the 
 requisite standard of gentility. 
 
 Lady Susan, to whom, even more than to her own 
 
 2 13 
 
14 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 merits, her social successes were due, made a protegee of 
 her. The bride had gladly humbled herself to beg for- 
 giveness at the earliest opportunity, and thereafter had no 
 greater enjoyment in life than to brag discreetly of her 
 intimacy with the family. Lady Susan took wine and 
 cake in Mrs. Drewe’s parlour, and inspected each new 
 piece of fancy-work, and gave advice upon housekeeping 
 matters. And by and by, when it was known that Mrs. 
 Drewe “ expected,” the Delavel carriage was seen con- 
 stantly at her gate. The mother of seven, though she was 
 her great ladyship, she took uncter her guardian wing all 
 the incipient mothers on the estate, as far as circumstances 
 permitted ; and that Mrs. Drewe had once been of her 
 household gave her an excuse that was gladly availed of 
 for doubling the ordinary attentions. 
 
 She gave the cradle and the basket, and a little hair 
 brush, and a powder-box, and a best cap with four yards 
 of fluted lace border and a rosette on it, such as cruelly 
 scraped the soft heads of the new-born in that benighted 
 age. She advised on the selection of a nurse, and con- 
 ferred with the village doctor, and instructed Mr. Drewe 
 as to his duties in connection with the impending event. 
 She fraternised with Mrs. Armour when that anxious 
 matron arrived upon the scene ; and when Mrs. Drewe 
 was really and truly taken ill, after many false alarms, she 
 was as excited about it as if the young person had been 
 one of her own people. Like love and death, motherhood 
 is a touch of nature that makes all kin — at least, so far as 
 women are concerned. 
 
 It was summer time, and, after the early dinner of the 
 period, Lady Susan had a long, light evening before her. 
 She had left Mrs. Drewe’s house at a critical moment in 
 the afternoon, and she felt impelled to return thither to 
 satisfy herself before she slept that all was well. She 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 15 
 
 called the governess — who, this time, was a middle-aged 
 widow — to take a walk with her, and by a short cut 
 through park and churchyard, they descended upon the 
 farmhouse, to the pleased surprise of its agitated inmates. 
 
 “ A boy, my lady ! ” said Mrs. Armour at the door ; 
 “ and she is doing as well as can be expected. Thank 
 you very kindly for coming to inquire.” 
 
 “ We happened to be passing,” corrected Lady Susan, 
 “ and I thought I would just call for news. I am so glad 
 she is all right. Ah-h-h ! Dear little creature ! ” — as a 
 thin, small cry, very quick and hoarse, just reached her 
 ear — “ let me have a look at it ! ” 
 
 She signed to the governess to stay below ; and, gath- 
 ering up her skirts, tip-toed after Mrs. Armour up the 
 creaking stairs to the smart “ spare bedroom ” — an apart- 
 ment sacred to these state occasions. 
 
 “ It’s a funny-looking little thing,” said the grand- 
 mother apologetically, “ but quite sound and healthy. His 
 legs and arms are beautiful.” 
 
 “ Oh,” said Lady Susan, “ they’re all funny-looking at 
 first. They soon get over that.” 
 
 The young mother lay sunk in the great down bed, as 
 in the trough of a billowy sea, and the flowered damask 
 curtains of the four-poster were carefully drawn all round 
 her. Of course, the windows were shut, and the fire to 
 dress the baby by burned smokily in the grate, which had 
 lain cold and empty behind a paper apron for years. The 
 nurse sat by the fireside, with her implements spread 
 round her and the newly born infant on her knee. Lady 
 Susan discovered, to her great satisfaction, that she was 
 in time to see it dressed. 
 
 But first she went to the bedside to murmur congratu- 
 lations to Mrs. Drewe, and impress a kiss on the girl’s 
 flushed face — an unprecedented condescension. 
 
16 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 “ Have you seen him ? ” cried Arabella, anxiously. 
 “ Oh, dear Lady Susan, do tell me if all young babies are 
 as ugly as that ! Oh, how dreadful it would be to have 
 an ugly child ! And why should we ? We are not ugly. 
 He’ll be different in a few days, won’t he ? He won’t be 
 like this always ? ” 
 
 44 Of course not,” said Lady Susan, smiling at the 
 innocence of this inexperienced young thing ; 44 they are 
 always ugly at first — that’s nothing. I am sure he is a 
 beautiful child. I am now going to look at him. Lie 
 still, my dear, and don’t excite yourself. Be very thankful 
 you haye got over it so well.” 
 
 She drew the curtains together again, leaving Ara- 
 bella in the dark ; and she tip-toed across the room, and 
 took a long look at the newcomer, whom the nurse dis- 
 played in silence. 
 
 44 Is he all right? ” called Mrs. Drewe, sharply. 44 Do 
 you think he is all right? Lady Susan, you have had so 
 many — you ought to know ! ” 
 
 “ Oh, quite — quite,” answered Lady Susan, 44 as right 
 as possible.” 
 
 44 A dear little fellow ! ” said Mrs. Armour. 
 
 44 As fine a child as you’d wish to see ! ” said the nurse. 
 
 But they glanced at each other in a confidential way. 
 
 And certainly Lady Susan was perturbed. She had seen 
 
 a great number of babies, but never one like that. Apart 
 
 from its crinkled skin and undeveloped complexion, it 
 
 was phenomenally ugly. All its features were down at 
 
 the bottom of its face, instead of being fairly distributed 
 
 over it. The eyes, under the great bulging forehead, 
 ^ 
 
 were large, and the ears enormous; the rudimentary 
 broad nose and mouth were puckered together as if a 
 weight had squeezed them. He was exactly like a little 
 goblin in a fairy picture book. 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 11 
 
 “ I’m sure you think him hideous,” wailed Arabella 
 from her bed. “ And so he is ! and I don’t believe he 
 will ever be different ! ” 
 
 “ Oh, yes, he will,” said Lady Susan, cheerfully : “ you 
 will see an immense difference in him when he begins to 
 fill out.” 
 
 * 
 
 “ And Abe insists, if it’s a boy, on calling him Adam,” 
 the young mother continued to lament. “ As if it wasn’t 
 enough to be ugly himself, but he must have an ugly 
 name, too ! I wanted him to be Guy Vavasour.” 
 
 “Adam was Mr. Drewe’s father’s name,” said Lady 
 Susan. 
 
 “ Yes ; and that’s why he insists on giving it to the 
 child. He says it shall be Adam, whether I like it 
 or not.” 
 
 “ Well, my dear, leave off talking and go to sleep, and 
 be grateful for all that God has done for you,” Lady Susan 
 exhorted. Then she sat down to see the baby dressed. 
 
 Poor little Adam Drewe ! He was no worse off than ■ 
 others of his age when that monster — to him — the monthly 
 nurse began to soap and sponge him ; but it was none the 
 less a pathetic circumstance that his first taste of life 
 should have been so bitter. He squirmed and shrieked 
 in her calm, hard hands, beside himself with the fright 
 and shock of his new experiences, so suddenly and so vio- 
 lently rushing upon him ; and the more he shrieked the 
 better pleased she was, because it showed how sound his 
 lungs were. The two tender mothers, sitting by, regarded 
 his agonies unpityingly. It was the custom to treat in- 
 fants thus. It is the custom still. They are in the tem- 
 porary position of dumb brutes, which cannot state their 
 case ; and therefore they have no case, and therefore no- 
 body ever does pity them. 
 
 When the ordeal of the first bath was over, and the 
 
18 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 victim simply ached to be rolled in warm flannel and laid 
 down to rest and recover from it, the first toilet was made 
 — in that desperate haste, and with that deadly determina- 
 tion to spare nothing, which marks the correct procedure 
 — the brutal operator all smiles and jokes, the helpless 
 babe lamenting bitterly. 
 
 She strapped him tightly in a straight piece of flannel, 
 which reduced his lung-and-rib-filled chest and his soft 
 stomach to a uniform shape and size, in order to supply 
 the “support” which Nature had not thought of giv- 
 ing him. Those of us who understand our business take 
 great care in the selection and adjustment of that bit of 
 flannel — it is the least that we can do — fixing it delicately 
 in its place with needle and thread ; but only the other 
 day the present writer found a professedly qualified 
 monthly nurse putting it on a new-born body with safety 
 pins. Even poor cart horses and working bullocks, that 
 would never lead the life they do if they had the gift 
 attributed to Balaam’s ass, are not used much worse than 
 that. We might feel fairly easy if rolled in a strip of 
 baize that was stitched up with piping cord, but not if 
 the baize was held together with the sugar tongs. This 
 nurse did not use safety pins because they had not been 
 invented ; but Adam’s mother had supplied the deficiency 
 by trimming his binder with silk button-holing at the 
 edges to make it smart, whereby he had, from this sad 
 hour forth, continual red creases under his arms and 
 across his breast, that did not begin to straighten out till 
 he was short-coated. 
 
 Being as tight as a German sausage in this woollen 
 skin, he was laid on his face, which crumpled helplessly 
 against the inexorable knee, and his shirt was put on. 
 Custom had happily decreed that this little thing should 
 be made of finest lawn ; otherwise the broad fold down 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 19 
 
 the back, where it came above the cylindrical flannel, 
 would have been another mortification to the tender flesh. 
 Still, the usual provision for making a dumb creature 
 uncomfortable was not wanting. His short sleeve was 
 trimmed with lace, and a little flap made to button down 
 over the shoulder strap of his next garment. The lace 
 was fine Valenciennes, as it always was, and is, in well- 
 regulated families ; but if the corresponding article of 
 attire in Arabella’s trousseau had been frilled round the 
 armhole with one of her crochet- work antimacassars, she 
 would have felt just as he did — not so badly, indeed, be- 
 cause he had never been accustomed to textile fabrics, 
 whereas she was hardened to them. As for the button, 
 it was, of course, a very small one — to her — but to him it 
 must have felt like lying on a cobble-stone when the nurse 
 put him down upon his side. Over the shirt more flannel 
 was swathed around him, cut to his figure, so to speak, 
 and strapped across his breast in lappets which fastened 
 behind with strings, so as to make sure ,that when he was 
 not lying on a shoulder button there should be a hard 
 knot to take its place. 
 
 Then came the flowing skirts — about five times the 
 length of the little legs that had to bear the weight of 
 them — which were the pride and joy of his tormentors, to 
 whom it never occurred to imagine themselves carried 
 along with a blanket and a sheet and a pair of Nottingham 
 window curtains tied round their waists, with perhaps an 
 eider-down quilt over all. The full-dress robe, with 
 sleeves tied up with ribbon, was withheld for the present ; 
 and little Adam was put into a “ monthly gown,” the 
 neck of which had a frill of cotton embroidery, with scal- 
 loped edges, calculated to act on the adjacent skin like a 
 toothed saw, especially when wet, as it mostly would be 
 with such a mother as Arabella to look after him. Like- 
 
20 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 wise the day-cap, with the ribbon-looped lace border and 
 protuberant rosette — not quite completed, because the 
 cockade was a distinction confined to boys, and therefore 
 it was necessary to ascertain the sex of the wearer before- 
 hand — was held in reserve for the moment, and a night- 
 cap was put on. It had an embroidered crown the size of 
 a five-shilling piece, and was full of little runnings of fine 
 bobbin, which were drawn up the size of his head and 
 tied in bows at the top, the tyiugs being inside, — next the 
 skin, of course. Round the face there was a triple row of 
 cambric frills, crimped with a penknife, and hemmed 
 cambric strings were tied tightly under the chin. Then 
 a much-worked head flannel was wrapped about him ; and 
 his first toilet was complete. His first meal followed im- 
 mediately — a large spoonful of castor oil — than which 
 nothing could be better calculated to make a human 
 creature sick of life at the very outset. In his bewildered 
 misery he sucked it down, with the aid of the nurse’s 
 finger thrust into his mouth ; and then it did seem that 
 his troubles were at an end for a little while. 
 
 Lady Susan took him up, and hushed him against her 
 tender breast. “ Now, let him go to his mother to get 
 warm,” she said; and she carried him to the bedside. 
 The very feel of the little body in her arms sent maternal 
 thrills all through her. “ Take him, my dear,” she crooned 
 softly, “ and cuddle him to sleep.” 
 
 Arabella looked with gratified eyes at the nice white 
 bundle, sweetly scented with violet powder and old brown 
 Windsor soap, as it was lowered into its nest in the feather 
 bed. But when the little goblin face appeared, peeping 
 from its shawl, her expression changed to one of disgust, 
 and she flung herself away from it. 
 
 “ TTgh ! nasty little ugly thing ! ” she cried, with a pet- 
 tish burst of tears. “ I can’t help it, Lady Susan ! Who 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 21 
 
 could be pleased with such a baby as that? You couldn’t 
 yourself. It’s simply hideous ! I wish it had never been 
 born ! I shan’t care if it dies — I hope it will ! ” 
 
 “ You are a wicked woman — you don’t deserve to be a 
 mother,” said Lady Susan, outraged in her most sacred 
 sensibilities ; and she marched downstairs without another 
 word. 
 
 Mr. Drewe was in the parlour, talking to the governess. 
 
 “ I congratulate you, Mr. Drewe, on the birth of your 
 son,” said the squire’s wife, her bosom heaving with in- 
 dignation, while her kind face smiled. “ I do hope and 
 trust you will look after him, and be good to him, poor 
 dear little man ! ” 
 
 “Why, surely,” replied the farmer, staring, half in- 
 clined to be offended. “ It would be a queer father who 
 wouldn’t be good to his own child — his first-born into the 
 bargain.” 
 
 “ There are such fathers,” she rejoined, severely, — 
 “ and mothers, too.” 
 
 This father, when his visitors were gone, obtained per- 
 mission to see the new member of his family ; and then 
 he understood what Lady Susan had meant. 
 
 “ Whew ! ” he whistled in dismay. “ Is that him ? ” 
 
 “Did you ever see such a little fright?” wailed Ara- 
 bella. “ Where can he have got that monkey face? Not 
 from my side of the house, certainly.” 
 
 “Hm — m — m! Well, old girl, we must make the 
 best of him,” said Abraham Drewe, after a troubled and 
 thoughtful scrutiny. “ There ought to be some brains in 
 that big forehead, at any rate.” 
 
 “ Brains ! ” retorted his wife. “ What good are brains 
 if you are ugly ? Oh, it’s too bad ! It’s too, too bad ! ” 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 Adam Drewe did not grow handsomer when he filled 
 out ; his forehead and his eyes seemed to bulge, and his 
 flat nostrils to expand, rather more than less, as his face 
 settled into shape. Nor did he die, though many oppor- 
 tunities were given him. Not that Arabella deliberately 
 put him in the way of catching colds and fevers ; but, as 
 he was not precious like the other children, she made no 
 effort to take care of him. He could go out without 
 wraps in an east wind, and without strong shoes when it 
 rained, and sit in wet clothes, and eat green fruit, and do 
 other things that would have killed a boy whose mother’s 
 heart was set on him ; and she did not bother. And he 
 took no harm. On the contrary, he grew tough and 
 sturdy, as a young oak, ruddy and strong like his father, 
 but without his father’s gallant height and bearing, as 
 without his comely countenance. Adam’s figure in those 
 early years was almost as ill-favoured as his face, — stumpy, 
 clumsy, and ungraceful ; and his appearance generally de- 
 luded his rustic neighbours with the idea that he was 
 not “all there,” like .normal children. But, in fact, 
 nature had put into that unsuitable body a soul of per- 
 fect symmetry, and was as indifferent to the sufferings 
 she thereby laid in store for him as the mother who 
 had irreverently presumed to call him out of the Un- 
 known. 
 
 22 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 23 
 
 It is not too much to say that his first really happy 
 day — happy enough to be remembered with pleasure for 
 the rest of his life — did not come to him until he was six 
 years old. 
 
 It began in misery, as happy times must do, the misery 
 arising from the circumstance that his father was not at 
 home. His father was not fond of him, as he well knew ; 
 but he was a just father, and treated all his children alike, 
 as he believed — as far as a real partiality for the second 
 and third over the first would let him. Before going 
 away, he had given each of his sons a shilling to spend at 
 Lyntham Mart ; and it had been understood that Mrs. 
 Drewe was to take them both, with the baby daughter, to 
 that great festival — one of the annual fairs surviving from 
 old times — which for a few weeks in early spring was the 
 centre of attraction to half the county. 
 
 This was the day appointed for the expedition. All 
 night had Adam dreamt of the booths and the shows and 
 the wild beasts and the dinner at “ Gra’ma’s,” of which 
 the family had talked so long ; he had an imagination 
 which pictured these things to his little mind in the hues 
 of fairy-land. At the break of day he was sitting up in 
 his crib, trembling with eagerness to be dressed and off ; 
 as his brother Tommy told him, his protuberant eyes 
 looked ready to jump out of his head. Tommy was five 
 years old, and, like his curly-headed sister of three, good 
 looking enough to do his mother credit. 
 
 They were all up early, and put down to their bread 
 and milk in makeshift garments, while Arabella flew 
 hither and thither, getting out their smart ones and her 
 own. She was to meet other guests at her father’s house, 
 at noon ; and the Mart itself was the rendezvous of all 
 neighbouring gentlefolks in those days : so she was 
 anxious to make the very best appearance, particularly as 
 
24 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 the cold February morning showed no prospect of rain to 
 injure her carefully preserved finery. 
 
 Well might little Adam watch her anxiously, and feel 
 that the joys he was anticipating were too good to come 
 true ! Before he had finished his breakfast she called 
 him to her bedroom — to dress him, he hoped ; but the 
 wheedling amiability of her tone made his heart sink. 
 
 “ Now, Adam, look here,” she said, as she laid her best 
 bonnet on the bed with a handkerchief over it ; “ you don’t 
 want to go to the Mart, do you ? You’d be far happier at 
 home with Sar’ Ann ; she would give you lots of treat — 
 don’t cry, now ! If you do, I’ll slap you. You know you 
 never do like to go where there are lots of people, because 
 they make game of you — and I’m sure I don’t wonder ! 
 I wouldn’t go where I was stared at and laughed at, if I 
 were you. Stay at home like a good boy, and I’ll tell 
 gra’ma you’ll come and see her another day, when she 
 hasn’t such a houseful of company. And I’ll buy you 
 something nice with your shilling, and we’ll tell you about 
 everything we see when we come back. And Sar’ Ann 
 will give you some cake — stop that, you nasty, horrid little 
 thing ! ” He screwed up his eyes and opened his mouth, 
 and howled, in his sudden woe ; and he looked so much 
 more ugly than necessary while doing so that she could 
 not bear it. Up flew her slender hand, and his great ear 
 rang to the blow she gave him. “ Now, I certainly shan’t 
 take you, Sir — just for being naughty.” 
 
 Instead of making him cry more, this treatment quiet- 
 ed him. He sobbed and snuffled stealthily, wiped his face 
 on his little sleeve, and resigned himself to fate. 
 
 “ That’s right,” said Arabella, when she and Tommy, 
 baby and nursemaid, were dressed, and the square-hooded 
 family vehicle that they called the sociable standing ready 
 at the door, “ You know you like stopping at home much 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 25 
 
 the best. Be a good boy, and Sar’ Ann will give yon sonue 
 treats. Won’t you, Sar’ Ann ? ” 
 
 They drove off in their gay clothes and high spirits, 
 waving their hands to him as he stood forlornly at the 
 road gate. 
 
 “ What’ll pa say, rna ? ” inquired Tommy. 
 
 It may here be stated that Abraham Drewe did not en- 
 joy being called “ pa,” contrary to the custom of his house, 
 but considered that so small a matter was not worth fight- 
 ing about. 
 
 “ I shall tell pa that he preferred to stay at home,” 
 said Arabella. “ So he did. He always does.” 
 
 “ Oh, ma, he didn’t ! He wanted to see the wild beasts 
 dreadful.” 
 
 “ Hold your tongue, Sir, and don’t contradict me, 
 or I shall box your ears. He wanted nothing of the 
 sort.” 
 
 When the sociable was out of sight, Sar’ Ann retired 
 to the stackyard for a talk with Andy Toogood, who was 
 at work there ; and little Adam sat down under a hedge 
 beside the empty road and cried his heart out, there being 
 nobody to slap hinr for it — cried for the wild beasts and 
 the marionettes, and the peep show of the Battle of Wa- 
 terloo, and the Punch and Judy, and the roundabouts, and 
 those infinite vistas of toys and gilded gingerbread, the 
 booths, down the planked alleys of which little boys could 
 trot all day without coming to the end of them. He had 
 seen them last year when his father had led him by the 
 hand, and he had dreamed for twelve months of seeing 
 them again. And now he was not to see them ! He wept 
 and sobbed until his little ugly face was all pulpy and 
 blotchy, and Sar’ Ann never thought of comforting him. 
 If she had taken him into the house and given him a piece 
 of cake, he might have borne his trouble better ; but she 
 
26 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 did not want him listening with his big ears to her talk 
 with Andy Toogood. 
 
 Presently the empty road was filled with the rumble of 
 wheels and the measured throb of trotting hoofs. There 
 was not time for the little boy to run away, and he was 
 too scared to stir when he saw the big carriage from the 
 Hall come thundering towards him. 
 
 “ Why, what is that ? ” cried Lady Susan, noting the 
 spot of brown holland under the hedge. “ Why, I do de- 
 clare it is that unfortunate child ! And all alone on the 
 public road ! And not a bit of hat or coat on in this 
 biting wind ! Stop the carriage, Dicky, and get down and 
 open the gate for him. He has evidently shut himself out 
 and can’t get in again.” 
 
 The tall Eton lad, who was escorting his mother and 
 sisters to the Mart, promptly leaped to the ground. 
 
 “ Hullo, young shaver, what are you doing here?” he 
 cried, as he bore down on the shrinking child. “ Can’t 
 you open the gate ? Why, bless my soul, I wouldn’t cry 
 about it. That’s not like a man. Why didn’t you climb 
 over, hey?” 
 
 “ It’s not shut,” sobbed Adam, with his arm across his 
 eyes. 
 
 “ Then what’s the matter ? What are you here for ? 
 Poor little devil ! They’ve been scolding you, I suppose ? ” 
 
 Adam pointed down the road. “ They’ve all go — one 
 to the Ma-art, and they w — w — wouldn’t take me ! ” he 
 burst out, and howled aloud, responsive through all his 
 being to that sympathetic voice. 
 
 “ What a burning shame ! ” cried Dicky indignantly. 
 “ And why wouldn’t they take you ? ” 
 
 “ M — m — ma didn’t want me.” 
 
 “Nor your father either?” 
 
 “ Pa’s away ; but he said I might go. He gave me a 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 27 
 
 shilling to spend. He didn’t mean me to stop at home. 
 But he’s gone away. He did — he did say I might go ! ” 
 
 Dick Delavel surveyed the child thoughtfully for a 
 moment ; then picked him up and carried him to Lady 
 Susan. 
 
 44 Isn’t it a dashed shame ? ” said the boy to his mother, 
 44 when Drewe told him he might go and gave him a shil- 
 ling to spend. Look here, mother — you won’t mind — let 
 us take him with us.” 
 
 44 Oh, my dear, nonsense ! ” cried Lady Susan. 
 
 44 Why nonsense ? I will look after him ; he needn’t 
 bother you.” 
 
 44 My de — ear boy ! ” 
 
 44 But why not — if I keep him away from all of you ? ” 
 
 44 Why — why — we can’t interfere with Mrs. Drewe’s 
 arrangements.” 
 
 44 Oh, yes, we can. His father meant him to go. Do 
 let me bring him.” 
 
 He urged and urged, and she wavered and gave way. 
 It was what she always did in the end. 
 
 44 Well, my dear, you must take the responsibility.” 
 
 44 All right. Come on, young ’un, and let us find 
 somebody to wash your face.” And Dicky took the child 
 pick-a-back, and scampered with him to the house, where 
 he gave Sar’ Ann a shock that she did not get over all 
 day. 
 
 44 Oh, sir,” said she as she shook little Adam into his 
 Sunday clothes, 44 I’m sure Missus will be in a dreadful 
 way at you and my lady putting yourselves to so much 
 trouble, just for him. And you’ll catch it, Adam, for 
 complaining to the gentleman — my word, won’t you ! ” 
 
 44 Never mind, Adam, I’ll take care of you,” said 
 Dicky. 44 1 won’t let anybody scold you ; don’t you be 
 afraid.” 
 
28 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 Adam was not afraid. No one ever was afraid to 
 
 \ 
 
 trust to Dicky Delavel. In a dream of joy the child, 
 when he was dressed, put his hand into the strong hand 
 of his protector, and trotted with him to the carriage ; 
 for somehow he had no shyness with these great folks, 
 who had stood by him more than once against an inhos- 
 pitable world. He was to them but one of many depend- 
 ents whose infirmities made them a sacred charge on the 
 benevolence of the landlord’s family; but all he knew 
 was that they were not ashamed of him, and that was all 
 he cared for. When Mr. Richard hoisted him over Lady 
 Susan’s knee, that kind lady, and the young ladies with 
 her, smiled at him as his mother smiled at Tommy ; and 
 the little guest, thus made to feel at home, beamed back 
 at them with his goggle eyes, as happy as a prince. 
 
 “ Now, then, he shall have a spree for once,” declared 
 Dicky, delighted with himself for what he had done ; “ I 
 will take him to everything.” 
 
 “You must mind you don’t lose him,” said little 
 Katherine. 
 
 “ Oh, I won’t lose him. I’ll tie a string to his ear ” — 
 pretending to do it. 
 
 Adam laughed at this sally. Then his laugh died 
 suddenly. 
 
 “Perhaps ma will see me,” he whispered, “and be 
 angry, and take me away from you.” 
 
 “ She won’t,” Dicky confidently assured him. “ I shall 
 not let her. We will keep you out of sight until we bring 
 you home. Then we’ll give her a surprise.” He chuc- 
 kled at the prospect. 
 
 They had great fun presently, when the carriage over- 
 took the one-horse vehicle in which Arabella was jogging 
 to the fair. She craned her neck to see the occupants of 
 the barouche, ready with her sweetest smiles and bows ; 
 
F1DEL1S. 
 
 29 
 
 and Lady Susan had a momentary idea that it would be 
 proper to stop and explain to her the liberty that had 
 been taken with her domestic arrrangements. Dicky, 
 however, flew at his mother, and nipped that impulse in 
 the bud. He said he would like to stop and make kind 
 inquiries after Adam, and why he had been left behind, 
 just to hear what Mrs. Drewe would say ; but this Lady 
 Susan objected to. So they compromised — passed the 
 sociable without stopping, while Dicky held Adam down 
 on the floor of the carriage under his own long legs, and 
 lifted his hat with exaggerated courtesy to Mrs. Drewe. 
 Lady Susan said it was teaching the child to be deceitful ; 
 but they all laughed so much when he was dragged up 
 again, grinning from ear to ear with joy at his escape, 
 that it was usdtess to moralise. 
 
 “ He is going to have a holiday,” said Dicky, “ and I 
 am not going to let it be spoilt for anybody. Hey, little 
 shaver! come and sit on my knee and let us have a 
 talk.” 
 
 Adam climbed into his friend’s lap, and was comfort- 
 ably covered in the fur-lined carriage rug, for the wind 
 was cold and his clothes not as warm as they might have 
 been ; and there he lay in a rapture of contentment such 
 as he had never known. To be spoken to in this tone of 
 voice, to be treated in this human fashion, was bliss un- 
 speakable ; and “ a little shaver ” became a term of endear- 
 ment sweeter to the memory than any other. 
 
 He was cathechised as to what he did with himself all 
 day, and whether he could spell “ cat,” and tell what two 
 and two came to. He answered that he had not been to 
 school yet, and that nobody had begun to teach him. 
 
 “ No school ! ” cried Dicky. “ No lessons ! No swish- 
 ings ! Blessed mortal ! ” 
 
 “ But it is quite time he began,” Lady Susan inter- 
 
30 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 posed. “ I shall speak to Drewe. They must not neglect 
 his education, whatever else they do.” 
 
 “ Please, sir, what’s swishings ? ” inquired Adam — a 
 curious child, who could rarely satisfy his curiosity. 
 
 “ Swishings, my little man, are the painful conse- 
 quences of being complained of by a master,” said the 
 Eton boy, who went to school in days when the birch was 
 a flourishing institution. “ If you do something you 
 shouldn’t — or even if you don’t do it — you are condemned 
 to the block, so to speak, without benefit of clergy, — like 
 King Charles, you know. But I forgot ; you haven’t been 
 to school, so you don’t know King Charles. Well, two 
 fellows hold you down, and — er — after due preparation, the 
 executioner, with a horrible instrument made of twigs tied 
 together — worse than any axe that was eve^forged ” 
 
 But here Dicky’s sisters interrupted the blood-curdling 
 narrative. They told him he should be ashamed to speak 
 of such things, and that he would make the child fright- 
 ened of going to school. 
 
 “ But not you ? ” gasped little Adam, looking up into 
 Dicky’s laughing, handsome face. 
 
 “ Yes, I — even I,” confessed Dicky, a “ swell ” of the 
 Upper Fifth, and “ in the boats ” by this time. “ I am 
 tingling now from the last one. Twelve cuts.” 
 
 “ What was it for ? ” 
 
 “ Ah — h — h ! You wouldn’t understand,” said Dicky, 
 'whose countenance was lit up with delightful remem- 
 brances. “ A terrible spree it was. And you can’t have 
 terrible sprees, you know, my little man, without paying 
 rather dearly for them.” 
 
 “ Then,” said Adam, after a moment’s serious thought, 
 “ I shall have — oh, I shall have to pay for this.” He 
 added with violent energy, which provoked much amuse- 
 ment, “ I don’t care. I don’t care what I pay for it ! ” 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 They drove into Lyntham half an hour in advance of 
 Mrs. Drewe, so Adam could stand up boldly in the high 
 carriage and see all the glories of the fair crowding the 
 great market place. Flags were fluttering, brass bands 
 braying, drums banging, whistles and rattles and bells and 
 penny trumpets squealing and tinkling in all directions ; 
 and he heard the thrilling yawns of the lions in Womb well’s 
 menagerie ; under that babel of merry sounds, and over 
 all, like angels up in the air, the chimes of the church 
 clock striking eleven. 0, Paradise ! 0, Paradise ! He 
 
 was as a disembodied spirit in this enchanting world. 
 
 The carriage clanged under a dark arch into the court- 
 yard of an hotel, and Lady Susan and her party were es- 
 corted to rooms that had been prepared for them. She 
 took off her bonnet and pelisse, and sat down in her large- 
 bodied satin gown, with its large lace collar, to wait for 
 the countess and Lady Elizabeth, who had arranged to 
 join her. The girls sat down also, for girl cousins were 
 expected ; but Dicky could not endure inaction, and 
 Adam’s little hand in his quivered as if full of electric 
 wires. 
 
 “ Mother, we had better go,” said the lad, “ before 
 granny and aunt Elizabeth appear ” — glancing signifi- 
 cantly at his small charge. “ Tell us when you want to 
 start home, and we will be here to the minute.” 
 
 31 
 
32 
 
 F1DELIS. 
 
 Lady Susan remonstrated a little against his leaving 
 them, but yielded to his wish. She gave him money, ap- 
 pointed four o’clock as starting time, and let him go. 
 
 Then did Adam drink his fill of pleasure, for the first 
 time in his life. Dicky knew that he was an ill-used 
 child, and delighted to be the purveyor of happiness to 
 one so well prepared to appreciate it. He found all his 
 own amusement that day in amusing his little charge ; 
 and he said afterwards that he had never enjoyed a Lyn- 
 tham Mart so much. Adam’s inexpressible rapture was 
 reward enough for that kind heart, which was to suffer so 
 much itself in after years. 
 
 The first thing they did was to have their lunch, early 
 as it was. There was a pastry-cook’s shop in Lyntham 
 High Street, that had a little nook like a tiny arbour in 
 it. There they settled themselves and feasted, after the 
 manner of growing boys. Adam was allowed a free hand 
 in his choice of fare, and began virtuously with a sausage 
 roll, because Dicky thought it imprudent to make a meal 
 wholly on sweets. After the roll he had a three-cornered 
 tart, then a cheesecake, then another three-cornered tart, 
 then a jelly, then a cream. Dicky, who had a pint of 
 stout, gave him sips out of his glass between the courses, 
 and a bottle of ginger beer for himself. What a feast ! 
 Better than gra’ma’s best dinners, at which his pleasure 
 was spoilt by perpetual admonishments to behave himself 
 and not make ugly faces. - He could not quite finish his 
 cream, though he tried his best. And that was the end 
 of this delicious and ever-to-be-remembered meal. 
 
 Dicky temporarily sustained his growing frame with 
 three sausage rolls and five tarts, and further entertained 
 himself and his guest with a warm flirtation. A young 
 lady who waited on the lunching customers, having served 
 his table, could not tear herself away from him. She hung 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 33 
 
 about the doorway of the alcove, twiddling the corner of her 
 silk apron, and blushing like the pink bow that fastened 
 her embroidered collar, evincing a desire to forestall his 
 little wants that could not fail to touch so susceptible a 
 heart. He begged her not to put herself to trouble, and 
 she answered sweetly that trouble was a pleasure. When 
 she set fresh tarts before him, he took the dish politely 
 from her, catching — quite by accident — her finger as well ; 
 and when he apologised, she again assured him that it 
 was no matter, but confessed to a budding whitlow which 
 pained her when it was squeezed. She coyly displayed it 
 to him, and he examined it tenderly, and prescribed a 
 certain poultice that was his mother’s remedy for such 
 things ; and he told her that her hand was too pretty for 
 its work, and asked her if the cornelian ring she wore on it 
 was an engagement ring. When she vehemently denied 
 having a young man, he said he was glad to hear it ; and 
 when she further explained that she had never met one 
 good enough for her, he expressed his entire belief in the 
 statement. This pastime seemed to exhilarate him great- 
 ly ; and Adam looked on with the deepest interest, feel- 
 ing that he had never been so honoured in his company 
 before. He shared his host’s admiration of the young 
 lady’s charms and their mutual homage, grinning happily 
 as he stared at them. But presently an ugly fat woman, 
 with a scolding voice, called the girl away. Then Dicky 
 paid the bill — propitiating the fat woman with pleasant 
 speeches while he did it — and the pair of adventurers 
 plunged into the revels of the market place. 
 
 First they strolled through the long booths, banked 
 up on either side with toys of every description, ranging 
 from gigantic dolls and satin-lined work-boxes, tea serv- 
 ices, guns, musical boxes, etc., etc., costing pounds and 
 pounds, to little things that could be bought for a far- 
 
34 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 thing ; — a dazzling display, indeed, calculated to turn the 
 head of any little boy. Guided by his companion’s face, 
 which if ugly was very expressive, Dicky began to make 
 reckless purchases. He presented Adam with an article 
 in painted wood, which, drawn down one’s back, made a 
 noise as of clothes violently ripped asunder; and he 
 bought a cake rabbit with two currants for eyes. Sud- 
 denly, they had a glimpse of Mrs. Drewe in the distance, 
 and Tommy blowing a tin trumpet ; at which they fled 
 precipitately to the wild beasts. 
 
 There they spent an entrancing hour — an hour which 
 covered gra’ma’s family dinner, during which it was not 
 necessary to watch doorways. In the straw-strewn oblong 
 space surrounded by the barred cages, crowds of people 
 gathered ; but there were no enemies amongst them, and 
 they were too much occupied with the animals to stare at 
 the little oddity whom Dicky carried on his shoulder that 
 he might see above their heads, and who had long for- 
 gotten to be conscious of himself. This pair walked 
 round and round, the happy child and the stalwart youth 
 embracing each other, following the showman as he 
 passed from beast to beast, stirring one occasionally with 
 his long pole, and explaining where each had come from. 
 Dicky made running comments on the official narrative, 
 and told hunters’ stories — stories that discovered a realm 
 of romance hitherto undreamed of, — another world for 
 little Adam to live in apart from that sad and narrow one 
 over which Arabella reigned. 
 
 There were the lions and tigers on the right-hand 
 side, the leopard and hyena, the sloth bear and the 
 wolves. There were the two elephants, the big and the 
 little one, at the end opposite the door ; the big one came 
 out and walked about, and Adam fed it with buns and 
 apples. He was a little timid until his hero called on 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 35 
 
 him to be courageous, showing him there was nothing to 
 be afraid of ; then he dared all, with unspeakable pride. 
 After that, they watched the funny tricks of the monkeys, 
 and gave them nuts. One of them tried to snatch their 
 hats off, and Adam laughed till the tears ran out of his 
 goggle eyes. They looked at the giraffe, with his head up 
 in the roof, and at the gorgeous birds, and at the snakes 
 in their blankets, and the slim-legged antelopes, and all 
 the other wonderful creatures that lived in such wonder- 
 ful countries, and had such wonderful lives when they 
 were free. Adam had a thought that does not often 
 ofccur to a child of six in a wild beast show. 
 
 “ How they must want to get out ! ” he said, as he 
 watched the tiger lithely plunging to and fro. “ Do you 
 think they lie awake and cry in the night when it is dark 
 and the people are gone?” 
 
 “ I expect they do, poor brutes ! ” said Dicky, feel- 
 ingty- 
 
 At last they dragged themselves from this fascinating- 
 place, and went to other shows — the Battle of Waterloo, 
 the giantess and dwarf, the performing dogs and the In- 
 dian jugglers, and they turned the wheel of fortune, and 
 let off pistols at a shooting gallery, and rode on a round- 
 about, and watched Punch and Judy, and a monkey on a 
 barrel organ ; watched also a sweet angel in tights and 
 spangled skirts — lovelier even than the young lady at the 
 pastry-cook’s — who danced on a platform in the cold air, 
 and less interesting, but more miraculous, acrobats, who 
 tumbled on a square of carpet on the ground. It was 
 here that Arabella nearly caught them for the second 
 time ; and to escape her they plunged again into a laby- 
 rinth of toy- filled booths ; and Dicky spent the last of his 
 pocket money on a whip, a top, a ball, a drawing slate, a 
 Noah’s ark, and a packet of bull’s-eyes; wherewith he 
 
36 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 overwhelmed the happy little fellow, who had scarcely 
 ever received a present until to-day. 
 
 Then the church hells chimed, and they returned to 
 the hotel. The cobbled courtyard was ringing with the 
 noise of departing vehicles when they entered it, but the 
 Dunstanborough carriage was not waiting for them, they 
 were glad to see. Dicky’s grandfather and uncle were in 
 the bar, with half-a-dozen other squires, telling sporting 
 stories over their hot brandy and water, and in no hurry 
 to separate ; and upstairs the ladies of the family still sat 
 without their bonnets, fortifying themselves for a cold 
 drive with sherry and cakes. 
 
 Adam was introduced to his mother’s patroness, and 
 graciously received. The countess had never forgiven 
 Arabella, and now took no interest in her interests. But 
 she had been told that this little boy was despised and 
 neglected by that unnatural wretch, which recommended 
 him to her favour. She asked him his name and his age, 
 and whether he had enjoyed himself at the Mart; and 
 when, in his great happiness, he answered prettily and 
 earnestly, she patted his back and gave him a piece of 
 cake. 
 
 “ A very well behaved and intelligent little fellow l ” 
 she said to Lady Susan, nodding her old head, with its 
 grey sausage curls. “ If he had inherited the good looks, 
 he might have inherited the rest with it.” 
 
 Adam did not know what this meant, but he under- 
 stood and remembered the remark which followed. 
 
 “ Very likely he will turn out a clever man ; these odd 
 children often do. The size of his brain is enormous, 
 Susan ; and brains are better than beauty, my dear.” 
 
 Lady Elizabeth, who had a sweet face, smiled at him 
 encouragingly. “ Mind you learn all you can, and grow 
 up a clever man, and beat them all,” she said. 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 37 
 
 “ He will, he will,” Dicky broke in. “ There’s a lot of 
 sense in that comical pate of his. Come here, young 
 shaver, those legs must want a rest.” 
 
 Adam was standing at the countess’s knee, in class- 
 room attitude, with his hands behind him, ordering him- 
 self lowly and reverently before his betters, as the Cate- 
 chism bade him ; and the kindly lad took the tired child 
 in his arms. Now that even his looks had won approba- 
 tion, nothing more was wanting to complete the little fel- 
 low’s bliss. While the gentlefolk continued to talk around 
 him, he lay smiling on Dicky’s breast until his eyes closed. 
 His protector carried him downstairs when at last a start 
 was made — hours after Arabella with her infants had been 
 despatched home by the careful gra’ma — and he slept the 
 sleep of peace under the carriage rug nearly all the way to 
 Dunstanborough. 
 
 Just before they reached the village, smelling of the 
 sea in the wintry night, he woke up, realising where he 
 was and what had happened. “ She will be so angry,” he 
 whimpered ; “ she’ll whip me for going away with you.” 
 
 “ She won't” replied Dicky, “ or I’ll know the reason 
 why. It’s all right, little man ; I’ll take care of you.” 
 
 The next moment the carriage had drawn up at the 
 gate — not the gate at which he had crouched and cried in 
 the morning, but a green-painted wicket dividing the 
 garden from the road. The latticed casement of the 
 keeping-room glowed with firelight, which dimly showed 
 a figure shuffling round the circular grass-plot on that 
 side. It was Abraham Drewe, in what he called his slip- 
 shoes — “ slip-shews ” in the local dialect — looking out for 
 his truant son. 
 
 “ Pa ! ” ejaculated Adam, now wide awake. “ Oh, I’m 
 so glad ! Pa is back.” 
 
 Dicky descended from the carriage, laden with the 
 
38 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 child and his numerous fairings, all of which he deposited 
 in the father’s arms. He explained how he had passed his 
 word that Adam should not be scolded, and Lady Susan 
 backed him up. 
 
 “ We did think it hard that the poor boy should be left 
 behind, when his brother and sister were taken,” she said; 
 “ I cannot bear to see a child treated unfairly, Mr. Drewe, 
 and I am afraid his mother does make a difference between 
 them.” 
 
 “ She sha’n’t do it again, my lady,” said the farmer 
 gruffly. “ When I came home and found what had hap- 
 pened, I gave her a piece of my mind, my lady. The 
 child is our child the same as the others, and he shall be 
 treated as such. As for your kindness, my lady, I don’t 
 know how to thank you for it.” 
 
 “ You must thank my son,” said Lady Susan ; “ it was 
 he who insisted on taking him to the Mart with us.” 
 Drewe held out his hand to the tall lad, with the other 
 he supported Adam and the toys. 
 
 “ You’ve done a kind act, sir,” he said, with much 
 feeling, “ and I sha’n’t forget it. It is a lesson to me, sir. 
 I am afraid I haven’t considered him enough, poor chap. 
 But I’ll look after him better in future. Good night, sir, 
 and thank ye ; thank ye kindly.” 
 
 Dicky laughed off these grateful protestations, flung a 
 joke to Adam, who reached out his burdened arms to 
 embrace his ever-to-be-beloved friend; and the carriage 
 vanished in the night. Drewe carried his child to the 
 house in a very fatherly fashion. His heart reproached 
 him for parental shortcomings, and unconsciously he held 
 his son of more account since the greatest of great folks 
 had done him honour. “ If he is good enough for them 
 he should be good enough for us,” was the thought in his 
 mind. Adam was at once aware of his father’s affection- 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 39 
 
 ate attitude, but took it as part and parcel of the hap- 
 piness life had brought him that day. 
 
 They went into the keeping room, where his mother 
 sat by the fire with a sullen air. She did not scold him ; 
 she hardly spoke to him, or to anybody, and her eyes 
 showed that she had been crying. The fact was that 
 Abraham Drewe, when he chose to assert himself, was not 
 a husband to be trifled with. 
 
 “Now you’d better go to bed,” he said to his son, 
 kindly. “Tom and Prissy are asleep long ago. You can 
 tell us about the Mart to-morrow. Bella” — with a de- 
 cided change of tone — “ come and put him to bed.” 
 
 Mrs. Drewe silently followed the pair to the nursery, 
 and perfunctorily undressed her son, Abraham standing 
 grimly by to superintend the operation. If Adam had 
 been fond of his mother her demeanour would have been 
 the one shadow upon his perfect bliss ; but he was almost 
 as indifferent to her — when she did not actively illtreat 
 him — as she deserved that he should be. He waited until 
 she had gone — and she went as soon as she could — and 
 until he had said his prayers at his father’s knee ; then he 
 poured out his tale of the day’s delightful doings, of 
 which his little heart was full. Never had his tongue 
 wagged so freely, and to such a tune, since he was born. 
 
 His father sat beside him for half an hour, lending an 
 attentive and sympathetic ear. These events were as 
 wonderful to him as to the child, his landlord’s family 
 being greater than royal personages in their tenants’ eyes ; 
 but his chief interest lay in the surprise of finding how 
 much the little chap had in him now that he was moved 
 to be communicative. 
 
 “ Pa,” said Adam suddenly, “ may I go to school ? ” 
 
 “ To be sure you may,” his parent promptly responded, 
 and began to make arrangements in his mind immediate- 
 
40 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 ly. “ But what’s put that into your head ? What do you 
 want to go to school for ? ” 
 
 “ I want to learn,” said Adam. “ I am going to be a 
 clever man when I grow up.” 
 
 “ And I shouldn’t be at all surprised,” thought Abra- 
 ham to himself, as he stole downstairs in his carpet slip- 
 pers to finish his pipe and his lecturing of his wife, “ as 
 like as not he’ll beat the handsome ones yet. I’d no idea 
 he was so sharp and noticing. Now, Arabella, listen to 
 me — you treat that child as a mother ought, or you and 
 me’ll have a falling out. Don’t you let me find him 
 chucked on the roadside, like a bit o’ dirt, for strangers 
 to take pity on, again.” 
 
 So little Adam’s happy day was happy to the last. He 
 fell asleep with all his toys around him, and had wild and 
 lovely dreams — not being accustomed to so many tarts at 
 once. He hunted lions and tigers all night, and had tre- 
 mendous and terrible adventures, but never came to any 
 harm, because his father and Mr. Bichard were with him. 
 
CHAPTEE V. 
 
 Dicky disappeared from Adam’s view that night with 
 the vanishing carriage, to be seen no more for a long 
 time ; and in the morning Adam’s father went out a- 
 hunting on a vicious horse. He kissed his little son be- 
 fore starting, and exhorted his wife to bear in mind what 
 he had told her, and take care that she treated that child 
 as a mother ought. Otherwise, he said, she would hear of 
 it. Then he rode away, curvetting and plunging, lashing 
 with his heavy crop ; and Arabella slapped her eldest born 
 as soon as the coast was clear. “ Who was he,” she de- 
 manded, “ that . the great Delavels should notice him, 
 while poor Tommy and Prissy were left out in the cold ? 
 She’d teach him to tell wicked stories — monkey face ! — 
 and if he blabbed to his father again she’d — she’d — she’d 
 flay the skin off his nasty little back — that she would ! ” 
 And she set her pretty teeth together, and cuffed him till 
 his big ears were as red as a cock’s comb. But Adam bore 
 up well. The thought of his father’s new love supported 
 him. It was like wine and a w'arm coat, to keep his 
 spirit from getting chilled. 
 
 All day he looked forward to his father’s return ; and 
 when the time seemed drawing near, he strayed to the road 
 gate to look for him. It was foggy and cold ; but weather 
 was never considered in his case, and he did not fear a 
 scolding to-day. Eather, he anticipated a ride on his 
 
42 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 father’s horse from the road to the house — a much-de- 
 sired privilege, which Tommy and Baby monopolised as a 
 rule. 
 
 When he heard the thud of approaching hoofs, the 
 little boy’s heart leaped. It sank when he discovered that 
 the horseman wore a red coat, and therefore was not a 
 farmer, but a fine gentleman of the hunt — the rector of a 
 neighbouring parish, who used to go to church with spurs 
 on, and even show colour through a ragged surplice at 
 times, without greatly shocking the congregation. Instead 
 of riding by to his home, Mr. Edwards pulled up, and 
 shouted, “ Hi, boy ! open that gate ! ” And when Adam 
 had climbed on a bar and laboriously opened it, the stout 
 parson galloped up to the house without further words. 
 Adam did not wonder what he had come for, but set the 
 gate wide for his father, and fastened it ; for evidently the 
 hunt was over. He hoped it would not be wrong to let 
 his father stop and take him up, before he divulged the 
 important news that Mr. Edwards had come to see them. 
 
 The next time he heard hoofs he attributed them to 
 horses from the common, meditating trespass, from a 
 knowledge that the gate was open ; and he placed himself 
 on guard to circumvent them. Instead of one clear trot 
 or gallop, several sets of legs advanced at a loose and 
 shuffling walk ; and it was not in that style that Abraham 
 Drewe rode home. Peering through the deepening dusk, 
 the child saw red coats, again — several red coats — drifting 
 through the fog like the beaten remnant of an army, the 
 horses hanging their heads and yawing about the road, — 
 not pounding home out of the damp and cold to their 
 warm stables and mangers, their comfortable dinners and 
 teas, as usual. Why did they travel thus ? He had but a 
 moment to wonder ; and then he knew. They had made 
 themselves a guard of honour to a Thing lying on a gate, 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 43 
 
 upborne upon the shoulders of some labouring men, who 
 staggered as they walked ; — a long heap under a horse- 
 cloth, with two upright boot heels at one end and a red- 
 dened handkerchief at the other. As it loomed through 
 the twilight, nearer and nearer, the little boy understood 
 that it was his father — dead ! He was a little boy of six 
 years only ; but he was old for his age, and had learned 
 many things from the servants, amongst whom his life 
 was chiefly spent. They liked nothing better than to talk 
 of coffins in the fire and winding sheets in the candle, 
 ticking death-watches and night-braying dogs, and the 
 fatal disasters that these phenomena had portended in 
 their respective family circles. He remembered at once 
 that Sar’ Ann’s sister’s brother-in-law, a keeper at the 
 Hall, who had been shot by poachers, was brought home 
 on a hurdle in the dark night. That, she told him, was 
 the way people always were brought home when they had 
 been killed suddenly. 
 
 The procession turned in at the gate, passing him 
 closely, without deigning to notice him. He could hear 
 the panting breaths of the bearers, marching unsteadily 
 under their load ; he saw Ajax, the big hunter, riderless, 
 being led on a long rein behind the other horsemen ; some 
 of them halted in the road to talk to Andy Toogood and 
 others who ran from house and farmyard to meet them. 
 Andy’s broad Norfolk tongue sounded clear through the 
 subdued but distracting confusion, when the Thing re- 
 vealed itself. He protested that it was impossible his 
 master could be dead. And the answer came from a dozen 
 throats at once, solemnly — “ Dead as mutton ! Dead as a 
 door nail ! ” Adam heard, and quite understood. It 
 meant that his protector and comforter had been for ever 
 taken from him. 
 
 He shuffled home at the heels of Ajax, who shuffled, 
 
44 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 too, apparently overwhelmed with remorse for what he 
 had done ; and he stood in the crowd of big men while 
 they laid the gate on the gravel, and uncovered his father’s 
 battered face on the kitchen floor ; and no one noticed his 
 presence or thought of his childish woe, the horror that 
 was searing his imagination like an ineffaceable burn. 
 Presently, when the face was covered again, and his 
 mother’s shrieks were calmed, a gentleman pointed him 
 out to Sar’ Ann. Then Sar’ Ann snatched him up, ran 
 with him to the nursery in breathless haste, bundled him 
 into bed, and abandoned him in the lonely darkness to his 
 visions of blood, to terrors and sorrows that nearly turned 
 his brain. When he cried to her to stay with him because 
 he was so frightened, she told him she had something 
 better to do, and that if he didn’t go to sleep at once, like 
 a good boy, she’d smack him. And she relentlessly de- 
 parted, shutting him in and turning the key upon him, 
 that he might not intrude where he was not wanted again. 
 Yet no one in the house was so kind to him as she, with 
 the exception of that kind father whose kindness would 
 shelter him no more. His wails sounded all night — “ Pa ! 
 Pa — a — ar ! ” — but no one listened to them. Tommy and 
 Prissy, his familiar companions, were put to sleep in their 
 mother’s room, because she was too frightened to sleep 
 alone. - 
 
 When Arabella had recovered from hysterics and 
 swoons and dressed herself in her widow’s weeds — crape 
 to the waist gathers, and a large white cap that covered 
 the whole of her flaxen head, curls and all — she began to 
 sit about in attitudes, grouped with Tommy and Prissy, 
 for her many sympathising friends to look at. She made 
 a touching picture, — so young a mother with those two 
 pretty children, the addition of Adam’s ugly face would 
 have spoilt it ! Therefore Adam did not pose, even in the 
 
 f 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 45 
 
 background. Where he went, or what he did, that mother 
 neither knew nor cared. For the most part, he clung to 
 Sar’ Ann, who sometimes smacked him and sometimes 
 gave him cakes, and who initiated him into whatever mys- 
 teries were still to learn concerning the processes of death 
 and burial. “ Poor Dadda is gone to heaven,” she would 
 tell him, pointing to the sky ; but, having heard her talk 
 with her cronies, and seen the coffin and the hollow grave, 
 he drew his own conclusions. 
 
 The day came when the spare room, in which he had 
 been born, and where the dead man had lain in state, was 
 restored to its usual order; and the blinds were pulled 
 up, and as many mourners as the parlour would hold sat 
 round, amongst the wax flowers and antimacassars, to 
 hear the will read — the widow in the armchair of honour, 
 with Prissy on her lap, and Tommy at her knee. Mr. 
 Pritchard, from Lyntham, officiated ; and informed the 
 company that the deceased had made the usual and proper 
 provisions for his family, appointing as his executors his 
 father-in-law, James Armour, and his friend, Alfred Hol- 
 ditch. Mr. Holditch was a neighbouring farmer and fox- 
 hunter, red-faced and black-whiskered, still on the right 
 side of forty, and still unmarried. He supported the 
 widow on this occasion, and seemed quite willing to con- 
 tinue to do so under the terms of the will. 
 
 Later, when some conferences had been held, it was 
 decided that Arabella should continue to live at the farm, 
 which had been tenanted by Drewes for so many years, 
 and that Mr. Holditch should manage it for her. “ All 
 places are the same to me now,” said Arabella, with her 
 black-bordered handkerchief to her eyes. But she knew 
 that her present home would be more to her taste than 
 her father’s house, — her home, with its sympathising 
 neighbours, summer visitors, sisters and friends to stay 
 4 
 
 V 
 
46 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 with her, and the liberties of a matron in full command ; 
 so she wept very much at the thought of being torn from 
 the sacred associations of her happy married life and from 
 her beloved husband’s grave. Mr. Holditch could not 
 bear to see her tears, and said she should not be turned 
 out if he could prevent it. Lady Susan, who could so well 
 understand these sentiments, folded Mrs. Drewe in her 
 arms and assured her it would be all right — that no one 
 would deprive her of her melancholy consolations — not 
 for the present, at any rate. And the lord of the manor, 
 being interviewed by his agent and the executors, gra- 
 ciously consented to allow Mr. Holditch to administer the 
 farm for Mrs. Drewe, reserving to himself the right to 
 revoke his consent should the experiment prove unsuc- 
 cessful. 
 
 It did not prove unsuccessful — from a landlord’s point 
 of view. Mr. Holditch was everything that an executor 
 and friend could be to a lone and lorn young widow. 
 There was hardly a day that he did not come to consult 
 her about something ; and her business was managed as 
 thoroughly and as profitably as his own. 
 
 Before Lady Susan could suggest it, Arabella took 
 steps to provide for her children’s education. She en- 
 gaged a nursery governess to take the whole of them off 
 her hands, that she might the more conveniently attend 
 to farming affairs and other engagements. Lady Susan 
 had a staid old person in her eye, a chaperon for Mrs. 
 Drewe ; but the latter’s choice fell upon a showy, coarse, 
 uneducated girl, who could be made to keep her place in 
 the background, and to keep the children out of the way 
 when they were not wanted. From her little Adam 
 learned a new experience — to hate. She was allowed a 
 free hand in her treatment of him, and used it heavily ; 
 and Adam would not receive her corrections as he did his 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 47 
 
 mother’s. He called her all the. bad names he had picked 
 up from his field friends, and kicked her till she was 
 black and blue. Then she complained of him to Ara- 
 bella, with many malicious lies ; and Arabella begged Mr. 
 Holditch to take him in hand, as she was incapable of 
 coping with so incorrigible a boy. And from time to 
 time Mr. Holditch thrashed him with a buckled strap or 
 with his riding-whip, roaring at him to know how he 
 dared behave so to such an angelic mother, and to warn 
 him of far worse penalties in store for him should he be 
 caught vexing her again. After which the child, his lit- 
 tle shirt sticking to his bleeding back, would return to 
 the smirking and triumphant governess, and the unequal 
 duel would immediately begin afresh. However, she put 
 him in the way of learning to read and write, which, in 
 spite of the painfulness of the process, repaid him for 
 what she made him suffer. No stupidity on her part 
 could make him stupid, or dull his desire to learn as much 
 as he could. He and his brother began on the same day, 
 but Tommy had not mastered his alphabet when Adam 
 astonished Mrs. Armour by reading a dozen words from 
 the family bible. 
 
 “ I declare,” said gra’ma, then on a visit to Dunstan- 
 borough, “ this child is going to be clever, Arabella. He 
 takes after his mother’s family in something , at any 
 rate.” 
 
 “ What’s the use of being clever,” retorted Arabella, 
 “ with a face like that ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, my dear, a great deal of use,” her mother as- 
 sured her, in the encouraging tone that she felt it her 
 duty to use whenever this subject was discussed. “His 
 face will matter very little if he has a great mind and can 
 make his way in the world. Clever people mostly are 
 plain— in fact, almost always.” 
 
48 
 
 FIDE LIS. 
 
 “Plain!” echoed Mrs. Drewe, with a disgusted look 
 at him, “if it were only plainness I wouldn’t care.” 
 
 Adam, frankly admitted to these discussions, got him- 
 self out of the room in shame, and presently went to seek 
 comfort from Sar’ Ann, who was now his only friend ; 
 for Lady Susan had again withdrawn her countenance 
 from the Drew^e household, and consequently from him. 
 Not only did she disapprove of Mr. Holditch’s exaggerated 
 ideas of the duties of an executor, but she had made the dis- 
 covery that her own hwo sons, Roger and Keppel, who 
 had left Eton for Oxford, had fallen into the habit of 
 calling upon the widow when they were at home for their 
 vacations ; dropping in with their guns and dogs at con- 
 venient and unconventional hours, not both together, but 
 one at a time, and having long interviews — yes, even after 
 their mother had forbidden them to do so. Naturally, 
 she was very bitter against Arabella, whom she now styled 
 “ that woman,” and was very sorry that she ever persuaded 
 Mr. Delavel to allow her to keep the farm after her 
 husband’s death. Young Dicky was, of course* not 
 allowed to accompany his brothers when they went to 
 cheer up Mrs. Drewe ; so that Adam never saw him either, 
 except sometimes at church. Sar’ Ann was his only 
 friend. But Sar’ Ann was a better friend than she used 
 to be, because, like Adam, she hated the nursery governess. 
 He asked her if she thought he would be a very ugly man 
 when he grew up, or only a plain one ; and she did her 
 best to reassure him. 
 
 “ I’ll tell you what you must do,” she said, regarding 
 his weak points with a reflective air, “you must grow 
 plenty of whiskers round your face — great big ones, that 
 spread all over, you know; and you must wear blue spec- 
 tacles — large, thick, dark blue spectacles. Then you’ll 
 look quite nice — not ugly at all, — to speak of.” Seeing 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 49 
 
 
 that this did not wholly comfort him, she patted his big 
 head, and bade him not mind what rude people said. 
 “ Don’t you take no notice, bor. Kemember that hand- 
 some is as handsome does. Beauty is but skin deep, and 
 passeth away like the flower o’ the field. God don’t care 
 about looks. He made you ; so He thinks you are all 
 right, depend on it.” 
 
 “ It is not God that I mind,” said Adam. “ I can’t see 
 Him looking at me, and I’m sure He can’t see plainly all 
 that long way off. It is people. I wish people were all 
 blind, Sar’ Ann.” 
 
 “ Oh, you wicked boy ! God ’ll strike you blind your- 
 self if you say such things. Then what ’d you do? Be 
 thankful you’ve got good sight and good hearing, and 
 good sense to get along with. Why, you might have been 
 deaf and dumb, or a drivelling idiot! How would you 
 have liked that ? ” 
 
 “ So might you,” returned Adam. 
 
 “ Don’t you be rude, sir. There never was any danger 
 of my being an idiot, thank you.” 
 
 “ But you are not clever. You can’t read like I can.” 
 
 “ I daresav not. I don’t want to. There’s better 
 «/ 
 
 things than being able to read books, I can tell you.” 
 She smirked at an imaginary looking-glass. 
 
 “ Is there ? ” cried Adam. “ Is there really ? Isn’t 
 it any use to be clever if you are not pretty, Sar’ Ann ? ” 
 
 She hastened to correct herself when she saw how he 
 hung upon her words. “ Yes, it’s all the use in the 
 world,” she assured him, — “for boys” Not for her sex, 
 but for boys and men. “ You grow up clever, Adam, and 
 you’ll turn the tables on ’em, — that you will. You’ll get 
 rich and grand, and drive your carriage, as like as not; 
 and beasts like that Miss Whittaker will feel proud if 
 they can black your boots.” 
 
50 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 Adam looked at her thoughtfully. 
 
 “ Will people like me better if I grow up very clever? ” 
 he asked. 
 
 “ Sure to,” the girl responded, heartily. “ They’ll 
 dote on you. Oh, there’s nothing like cleverness. It 
 beats everything.” 
 
 Then Adam took heart and went back to his books, 
 determined to learn all he could from Miss Whittaker, 
 though she was a beast. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 / 
 
 lx the late autumn of the year that Abraham Drewe 
 died, when Adam was seven years old, with the mental 
 stature of an ordinary child of ten, winding sheets began 
 to form upon the candles, and coffins to spring out of the 
 fire — with the usual result. His brother Tommy fell ill 
 and died. Tommy, who was always wrapped up so 
 warmly and taken such special care of, caught a bad cold 
 which attacked his lungs, and was carried off after a few 
 days’ illness. This was a fresh and terrible aggravation 
 of the hardships of our little hero’s lot, for two reasons. 
 Tommy had been his nursery mate and playfellow, 
 despotic but adored, and his loss was irreparable, and the 
 mother of them both, when one was gone, turned against 
 the other more violently than she had yet done. She hated 
 her eldest son, and did not disguise that she hated him, 
 for having presumed to keep alive and well — for having 
 usurped, as it were, his brother’s right to the favour of 
 Divine Providence. 
 
 “ Get out of my sight !” she raved passionately, as she 
 sat weeping by Tommy’s coffin. “ Don’t dare to come 
 near me with your ugly monkey face ! Oh, that you 
 should be left, and my pretty darling taken ! — my little 
 beauty, with his blue eyes and his golden curls ! ” 
 
 All the mothers of the village, with tender-hearted 
 Lady Susan at their head, came to condole with Arabella 
 
 51 
 
52 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 in her bereavement, forgetting her faults in their pity for 
 her supreme misfortune ; but no mother seemed to re- 
 member the unmothered living child, who was equally in 
 need of sympathy. He kept out of the way, and no one 
 troubled to inquire about him. He was too constantly 
 unhappy to have the habit of tears; but he did shed 
 some bitter ones at this time, under cold hedges and in 
 dark attics, where no one could see him, crying for the 
 just father who would never have punished him because 
 Tommy was dead. 
 
 However, there was a silver lining to this cloud, as 
 usual. The governess took her ease when Tommy had 
 left the schoolroom, and immediately after the funeral 
 she was sent away. Mrs. Drewe did not feel able to 
 afford twelve poilnds a year merely for Adam’s advan- 
 tage ; she said he could very well go to school, being so 
 robust. There was a little day-school in the village, 
 about a mile from the farm, where a genteel education 
 was given for a shilling a week. Thither Andy Toogood 
 took him and his dinner bag one morning, and fetched 
 him home in the afternoon ; and after that he trudged to 
 and fro alone, in all weathers, and began to enjoy himself 
 a little. His teacher was a severe old woman, and his 
 fellow-pupils teased and mocked him, and sometimes he 
 got bewildered in a snowstorm, and sometimes met bul- 
 locks on the road ; but a new world of interest came into 
 being when he began to watch the opening of hedge-row 
 buds, and the ways of birds and beetles, and the aspects 
 of the sea — the sea, whose breath had been in his nostrils 
 alwavs, but whose beau tv and mvsterv had never been 
 brought home to him until now. He was still a very little 
 boy — far too little to go that distance alone, and often in 
 the dark as Lady Susan indignantly asserted (but not to 
 Arabella, whom she dropped again when that bereaved 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 53 
 
 mother went to a party with Mr. Holditch only five weeks 
 after Tommy’s death) ; but the circumstances of his life 
 had developed him so far that he was no longer blind and 
 deaf to the romance of Nature, like most little boys. 
 
 The happy hour of his day was the dinner hour, when 
 the days were fine. He could steal away from his com- 
 panions into the road that ran to the sea between the 
 “ Delavel Arms ” and the Coastguard Station, and, taking 
 a field-path from the inn, and a flight of steps to the 
 beach, find himself amongst the boulders under the chalk 
 cliffs in about five minutes. And here was Paradise ! 
 While eating his dinner, or after bolting it in haste, he 
 wandered from rock to rock, and from pool to pool, or, 
 when the tide was out, over broad acres of corrugated 
 sand, finding wonders and treasures that filled his soul 
 with joy. He used to stuff his pockets with sea- weeds, 
 shells and starfish, bits of jet and cornelian, and things 
 of that sort, until his mother smelt them and saw the 
 stains on his clothes, after which he made a museum in 
 a hole in the cliffs, which he visited almost daily. On 
 two occasions his schoolmates tracked him, discovered 
 the hiding-place, and threw the contents into the roll- 
 ing surf ; and he found another and another, which he 
 stocked by degrees, and guarded with the far-sighted 
 cunning of a smuggler defending the secrets of his cave. 
 In this interesting pursuit he learned a great deal of 
 natural history, and absorbed the spirit of the sea to such 
 an extent that he was never afterwards wholly happy 
 when away from it. 
 
 On a certain delicious April noon, when Dunstan- 
 borough woods and lanes, and the fields above the cliffs 
 and the beach below them, all reeked with life and beauty, 
 and more wonderful things were presented to Adam’s view 
 than his voracious intelligence could grasp at once — at 
 
 
 xv\> 
 
 
54 
 
 FI DELIS. 
 
 the moment when, morning school being over, he was 
 making for his lair under the lighthouse, to eat his bread 
 and cheese and watch the tide come in — his enjoyment of 
 the world he had found for himself was crowned in an 
 - unexpected way. He suddenly met his old friend and 
 hero, Eichard Delavel. The lad had shot up into young 
 manhood since the Lyntham Mart adventure, and Adam 
 had grown out of his nursery childhood ; hut they recog- 
 nised each other at a glance, and renewed friendship on 
 the spot. 
 
 “ What, Adam ! Well met ! ” cried the young squire, 
 in tones that thrilled the listener’s heart. “ And how 
 goes it, little shaver ? Here, I haven’t seen you for ages. 
 You come along with me, and have a talk. I’m going to 
 buy a present for a young lady — you need not tell any- 
 body — a young lady friend of mine at Lyntham. Then 
 I am going for a sail with Sam. Wouldn’t you like to 
 come and have a sail ? It’s such a jolly day to be on the 
 water.” 
 
 To have a sail had been Adam’s dream of bliss ever 
 since he could remember. He had never been on the 
 water yet, though born so near it. But, alas ! there was 
 school to be considered, and his mother, and Mr. Hol- 
 ditch’s buckle strap. He told Dicky that he would give 
 anything — anything — to go with him ; but that if he was 
 not back in school at half-past one he would “ catch it.” 
 “ From whom ? ” demanded Dicky ; “ old Mother 
 D unford ? Oh, never mind her. I will tell her it was 
 my doing ; she won’t scold you then.” 
 
 “ And if I was late home, sir ” 
 
 “ If you are late I will go home with you and explain. 
 What’s that bag for ? ” 
 
 “ My dinner, sir.” 
 
 “ What have you got ? ” 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 55 
 
 Adam showed some bread and cheese, which looked 
 dry. 
 
 Dicky wrinkled his nose. 
 
 “ We’ll go to the ‘Arms’ and have a bite of lunch 
 together,” said he ; “ only first I must buy my present. 
 You can help me to choose something pretty, Adam — as 
 pretty as she is.” 
 
 “ The lady we saw when we went to the Mart ? ” 
 queried Adam. 
 
 “ Oh, no,” said Dicky ; “ another one.” 
 
 They turned in at a white gate, leading to the neat 
 white houses of the Coastguard Station. One of the men 
 who lived there was an ingenious worker in pebbles and 
 jet, and used to keep a little stock of ladies’ ornaments, 
 which he sold to the summer visitors. As yet the sum- 
 mer visitors had not arrived, and Dicky expected to have 
 a good choice. 
 
 He was received by the coastguard sman and taken 
 into his parlour, where the tfays of pretty things were 
 spread out upon the table. Jet bracelets and brooches, 
 strings of amber beads, crosses, hearts, and anchors for 
 hanging on neck-ribbon or watch-chain, cornelian finger- 
 rings were submitted to the young man ; and all were so 
 charming that he did not know which to choose. Adam 
 was so keen to know how they were made, in view of the 
 fact that he had quantities of jet and amber in his private 
 museum, that he could hardly give his mind to help his 
 friend. Finally they decided upon a large amber heart 
 and a “ Faith, Hope, and Charity ” — i. e ., a cross, an anchor, 
 and a heart cut out of red cornelian and strung together 
 on a ring, as a charm for a watch-chain — which Dicky 
 decided were the very things. Adam asked if both were 
 for the young lady at Lyntham ; and the purchaser ad- 
 mitted, in strict confidence, that they w T ere not. The 
 
56 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 heart was for her ; the “ Faith, Hope, and Charity ” for 
 another young lady, in another place. 
 
 The trinkets being packed in wadding and pocketed, 
 they repaired to the “ Delavel Arms,” where Adam com- 
 plied with his host’s command to have “ a good tuck-out.” 
 Fish, roast chicken, jam tart, were placed before him, and 
 he ate as much as he could stow away, and more than was 
 good for him. But Dicky liked to see him enjoy himself 
 in so natural, if gross, a fashion, and would have been 
 disappointed if his hospitality had been less appreciated. 
 It turned out that the “ Faith, Hope, and Charity ” was 
 for the daughter of the landlord of the “ Delavel Arms,” 
 a charming young lady who came to talk to them, through 
 the window, at intervals, while they had their lunch. 
 The gift was offered and received over the window sill 
 while Adam was finishing his second helping of tart, and 
 the parties to the transaction retired for a few minutes 
 thereafter, the donor returning in great spirits to his 
 guest. 
 
 “ That’s all right,” he remarked, in a tone of extreme 
 satisfaction. “ Now, if you are ready, Adam, we will go 
 for our sail.” 
 
 The little boy heaved himself up, also with a sense of 
 satisfaction ; and when Dicky had sent a message to 
 “ Mother D unford,” they took the field path to the black 
 stairway descending to the beach, and found Sam and his 
 boat awaiting them. Sam was the only resident water- 
 man in those days, and a great friend of Dicky’s ; and 
 Sam was good to little Drewe that afternoon, because of 
 the young gentleman’s example. 
 
 Oh, what an afternoon it was ! As a festival it ranked 
 next to the day at Lyntham Mart, to be remembered for 
 ever and ever. Adam was not ill, as under the circum- 
 stance, might have been expected, and the buoyant flight 
 
FIDE LIS. 
 
 57 
 
 of the boat over the water made him feel as if he had 
 wings himself. The sea ran briskly under a fresh spring 
 wind, and the little vessel skimmed along as if she were 
 alive, dipping and dancing, leaning over, sometimes, till 
 the foam she made was nearly flush with the gunwale. 
 But there was no being afraid, with Mr. Bichard at the 
 helm and Sam holding the sheet, and Adam was never a 
 coward at any time, in spite of all that had been done to 
 make him so. They visited a fishing smack, and ap- 
 proached the shores of Lincolnshire, which was like see- 
 ing France; and, while Sam conducted some business of 
 his own, the little boy explained his life as best he could 
 to his questioning and sympathising friend. He told 
 Dicky, amongst other things, that he had the “ scratch- 
 back ” still, hidden under a loose board of the nursery 
 floor for safety ; and that his other keepsakes had been 
 taken from him for Tommy and Prissy, who had destroyed 
 them. Then Dicky presented him with his own pocket- 
 knife, to cut string and sharpen pencils with ; and Adam 
 felt as if a patent of nobility had been conferred upon 
 him. Dicky was a great man now, and smoked a cigar, 
 but he was not above considering the interests and aspira- 
 tions of a neglected little boy. Adam simply worshipped 
 him. 
 
 Of course, they were late in getting back — so late, that 
 Dicky stood in as much risk of a reprimand as Adam him- 
 self. The sun was flushing the red and white cliffs and 
 blazing on the lighthouse lantern as they ran the boat on 
 Dunstanborough sands, and Sam took Adam on his back 
 through the shallow surf to shore. It was a beautiful hour 
 for the walk home, in that low and mellow light — almost 
 the first perfect evening of spring that year, with the first 
 nightingale singing in the Hall woods. But it was after 
 Adam’s bed time, and Dicky had lost his dinner. 
 
58 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 “ Well, it can’t be helped,” the latter remarked, cheer- 
 fully. “ In for a penny, in for a pound. I shall have to 
 take you to your mother now, and see that you don’t get 
 licked. How have you enjoyed yourself, eh, young 
 shaver ? ” 
 
 “ More,” said Adam, “ than I ever did in my life — ex- 
 cept when you took me to the Mart. And I don’t mind 
 being licked, sir — for this.” 
 
 “ Poor little devil ! ” Dicky ejaculated, patting the 
 boy’s head benevolently. “ We will have another lark to- 
 gether, some of these days.” 
 
 But it was many years before they had another lark. 
 
 Twilight was coming on as they neared the farmhouse, 
 but it was still light enough to see what was to be seen. 
 And Dicky saw something more than the green gate in 
 the green hedge that he was making for, while still a good 
 way off. He saw a female form leaning over it from the 
 inside and a male form leaning over it from the outside, 
 so that the two heads were in contact. He saw, moreover, 
 that these forms belonged to Mr. Holditch and' Mrs. 
 Drewe. At this time of night, and on that very quiet 
 country road, they naturally assumed themselves to be 
 unobserved. 
 
 Dicky paused in his stride, and checked Adam’s hasty 
 steps. 
 
 “ Hullo ! ” he muttered under his breath, and then 
 laughed to himself. “ I think we had better go round 
 by the other gate, Adam. Mr. Holditch is bidding your 
 mother good-night, and you don’t want to meet him, do 
 you ? ” 
 
 In the many confidences of the day, Adam had frankly 
 admitted to his friend that he hated Mr. Holditch. 
 
 They slipped into a by-road and approached the house 
 by the route used for the farm carts and cattle, the same 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 59 
 
 by which Abraham Drewe had returned home for the last 
 time. Dicky designed thus to come upon Arabella by 
 degrees, giving her time to prepare for him. But as he 
 entered the garden from the dairy side of the house, which 
 was a tree-sheltered walk, she turned a corner into that 
 path and met him face to face ; and Mr. Holditch was 
 not gone. He walked beside her, with an arm around her 
 waist. 
 
 All four were dismayed by the encounter, and even 
 more displeased. Dicky blushed furiously, but was other- 
 wise cold in his demeanour, and very Delavel-like indeed ; 
 and Adam glared strangely with his goggle eyes. The 
 lovers jumped apart, as lovers stupidly do when thus sur- 
 prised, too late to save appearances — the man angrily 
 shamefaced; the woman' all foolish simpers and giggles. 
 Arabella knew what to do at this awkward moment. She 
 promptly introduced Mr. Holditch as her affianced hus- 
 band. 
 
 “ We did not intend to announce it quite so soon,” 
 she said sweetly ; “ but, after all, it is not so very soon — I 
 have been a widow much more than a year. And with 
 the heavy burden of this farm, you see, Mr. Bichard, and 
 
 for the sake of my family Adam, don’t stand staring- 
 
 in that idiotic way ! Speak to your new papa, sir. It is 
 well for him, if for nobody else, that there’s to be a man 
 at the head of things again. What has he been doing 
 now, Mr. Bichard?” 
 
 Dicky explained ; and she thanked him profusely, but 
 eyed her son in no friendly way. 
 
 “ I suppose he has been getting over you with all sorts 
 of tales of how lie’s treated at home — wanting you to pity 
 him — when he has everything that heart can wish — un- 
 grateful boy ! ” 
 
 “Not at all,” said Dicky, stiffly; “ I took him because 
 
60 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 I like to have him, and I thought it would be a little 
 treat.” 
 
 “ He is always having treats. It is because he is in- 
 dulged so much that he’s such a naughty boy.” 
 
 “ But I don’t think he is a naughty boy, Mrs. Drewe.” 
 “ You don’t know him, Mr. Bichard. He doesn’t show 
 his true self to you — of course not. But you just ask Mr. 
 Holditch; he can tell you. If it hadn’t been for Mr. 
 Holditch, I don’t know what I should have done with 
 him sometimes. Believe me, it is more for his sake than 
 my own ” 
 
 Dicky lifted his hat abruptly. “ Excuse my interrupt- 
 ing you, Mrs. Drewe ; I really must be getting home. 
 My mother will be wondering what has become of me.” 
 
 “ Ah, what a good son ! ” she enthusiastically exclaimed, 
 “to think of your mother’s feelings! Would there were 
 more like you ! But won’t you come in and have some- 
 thing? Dinner at the Hall will be over, and my supper 
 is ready on the table. Do now, c?o.” 
 
 But Dicky would not, hungry as he was, and despite 
 the persuasive clutch of Adam’s fingers. He bade her a 
 cold good-night, and strode home in a rage on his little 
 friend’s behalf, seething with all sprts of benevolent plans, 
 which, however, came to nothing, — like nine-tenths of 
 benevolent plans. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Arabella had begun to tell Dicky that it was less 
 for her own pleasure that she was making a second mar- 
 riage, than for the profit of her son, who was going to 
 ruin for want of a father over him, and she subsequently 
 completed this statement to a great many people; and 
 yet the first thing she did upon becoming Mrs. Holditch 
 was to beg “gran’pa” and “gran’ma” to take Adam off 
 her hands. 
 
 “ Dear Alfy,” she said, “ can’t endure him at all — and 
 can you wonder at it? He doesn’t mind Prissy, — in fact, 
 he likes her; anybody would like such a pretty little 
 thing : but he says that to see that boy’s face before him, 
 morning, noon, and night — and not his own child, that he 
 must put up with — is too much altogether. He is making 
 me quite miserable with his fuss about it, and the house 
 is never at peace, with the rows and floggings that are 
 continually going on. Of course, Adam treats him as 
 ’ badly as he possibly can — never will call him papa, though 
 I have whipped him till I’m tired to make him do it. He 
 is just as obstinate as a mule. I declare it is ruining all 
 the happiness of my married life ” — putting her handker- 
 chief to her eyes. “ Will you, mammy dear, take him to 
 live with you ? It would be such a kindness if you would. 
 He is getting a big, strong boy, and he has plenty of 
 5 61 
 
62 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 sense, if he likes to use it. Papa might find him very 
 useful for running errands and doing odd jobs.” 
 
 Of course the grandparents demurred. They had 
 some of their own children still on hand ; and it was 
 hardly to be expected that they should provide for hers, 
 especially as Abraham Drewe had left property. Bat 
 Arabella pointed out that gran’pa was the executor to 
 that property, and could do as he liked with it — that he 
 could pay himself out of the money set apart for Adam 
 when he should come of age. She was sure the other 
 executor would have no objection. When Mr. Armour 
 told her that this could not be done for legal reasons, and 
 formally consulted the stepfather, an arrangement was 
 come to whereby the former engaged to take the child 
 for a time, and the Holditches to pay for his board and 
 schooling. But gran’pa wished it to be distinctly under- 
 stood that he consented under protest. The boy was too 
 young to be of much use to him at present, and he hardly 
 thought it was dealing fair by the dead father. Moreover, 
 the aunts at Lyntham looked coldly upon the prospect of 
 having a nephew so unattractive to take about amongst 
 their friends. Had he been a pretty child, they said, or 
 even tolerably decent-looking, it would have been quite 
 another matter. 
 
 But the deed was signed, and Adam was handed over. 
 When his grandmother, who had some bowels of compas- 
 sion, even for an ugly boy, undressed him in an attic 
 which contained great stores of books and papers, as well 
 as his little bed, she found his body covered with wheals 
 and bruises, old and new, which showed her what his ex- 
 periences had been of the tender mercies of a stepfather. 
 No doubt he had been a troublesome child ; but there 
 was reason in all things, she said to her husband, when 
 telling him about it, and no little creature of seven should 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 63 
 
 be beaten like that. Alfred Holditch was a fine man, 
 certainly, and Arabella thought the world of him ; but, 
 for her part, she should never care for him again — never. 
 She hid Adam’s wounds as well as she could from her 
 children and friends, but she never forgot them ; and she 
 was a much kinder gran’ma than he had expected her to 
 be. In fact, they became great friends in course of time. 
 From the night that she first put him to bed, and pitied 
 him for the way he had been ill-used, he loved her — 
 being keen for the smallest excuse to love anybody, and 
 as she grew an older and older woman, and consequently 
 an object of less and less account to an active husband 
 and daughters in the prime of life, it was pleasant to have 
 a grandson ready with cushions for her back and stools 
 for her feet, and glad to hunt for her spectacles when she 
 mislaid them ; one member of the family still treating her 
 with honour and respect, instead of good-humouredly de- 
 spising her as a person who had had her day. There even 
 came a time when she declared, in all sincerity, that that 
 dear boy was the comfort of her life, and that she did 
 not know what she would have done without him. 
 
 This was fortunate for Adam. Because, when she 
 had once got rid of him, Arabella was quite resolved 
 never to be saddled with him again. And she never 
 w T as. Once or twice he went on a visit to his father’s 
 house, which was now Mr. Holditch’s ; but then he was 
 taken by his grandparents as a matter of duty, and not 
 at all for his pleasure or his mother’s. When the grand- 
 parents and Holditch fell out over money, and one of 
 those slow animosities which people had time for in those 
 days was set up between them, aircommunication ceased 
 except through lawyers. Mrs. Armour became Adam’s 
 mother, and Arabella thought no more of her eldest son 
 than if he had never belonged to her. Even Prissy’s 
 
64 
 
 FI DELIS. 
 
 nose was put out of joint long before she died — at ten 
 years old — by Holditch’s children, Guy Vavousour, and 
 Gladys Geraldine, and Eodolf Mortimer Montagu, and 
 Euby Eosamond Evelina Eugenie, who came crowding 
 into the farmhouse, close upon each other’s heels, to feed 
 upon the substance of Abraham Drewe. By the dead 
 man’s will, executed soon after marriage, his wife had the 
 use of his money until his children were of age, and of a 
 third of it for life, on condition of maintaining those chil- 
 dren in a suitable manner in the meantime ; but out of 
 the very comfortable income thus secured to her she gave 
 but a pound a week towards Adam’s support, and that only 
 when she could not help herself. More often than not, 
 he paid for his keep with his own services ; and this was 
 how the coolness arose between the house at Lyntham 
 and the farm. 
 
 Adam’s services almost from the first were worth the 
 food he ate and the bed he slept on — a bed around which 
 rats disported themselves in great numbers, attracted by 
 leather bindings and other nourishing matter amongst 
 the bookseller’s stores. As a very small boy, sleeping in 
 the attic alone, he suffered much from these creatures ; 
 they represented the first of the great trials of his Lyn- 
 tham life. They used to loom through the shadows like 
 malicious hobgoblins, even on the sheet close to his nose 
 — awful apparitions on a moonlight night. They used to 
 knock down the wire cage that held his rushlight, and 
 roll it about the floor, making sounds like the clanking 
 chains of escaped maniacs. Once, when gran’ma had 
 poulticed a sore finger, he woke to find them trying to eat 
 the poultice through the rag ; which suggested that they 
 would eat him bodily some night, if he slept too soundly. 
 But time and custom hardened him to these things, and 
 then he set himself to catch the rats that damaged gran’- 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 65 
 
 pa’s property ; whereat gran’pa praised him, to his inex- 
 pressible delight. 
 
 He learned his way about the town in no time, and 
 became the most reliable of errand, boys. He swept, 
 dusted, sorted, in the shop, and kept watch over it while 
 gran’pa ate his dinner and his tea ; he cleaned windows, 
 and the knives and boots ; carted coals, washed bottles, 
 stirred jam, chopped suet ; in short, did all he could to 
 please and be useful, and thereby prove that beauty is 
 not everything in this world. He was dreadfully put 
 upon, of course, especially by his aunts ; but that he did 
 not mind. As long as they allowed him his human privi- 
 leges, as long as he could feel himself of any value and 
 importance, he was satisfied. And they acknowledged 
 what a good boy he was, when properly managed ; and 
 they never beat him, and never even jeered him about his 
 looks. 
 
 But what he did for himself in these years of boyhood 
 was the great achievement of all. His conscientious 
 guardian sent him to a good school, and at home he had 
 access to books of all descriptions. Where there’s a will 
 there’s a way ; and his will — with a stout body to support 
 it — was indomitable. In addition to the labours enumer- 
 ated above, he worked, at every opportunity, in every 
 spare minute, to store his mind with wisdom and knowl- 
 edge ; — for the love of it in the first place, and, in the 
 second, to get the better of his physical disqualifications 
 for success in life. Either Nature compensates her un- 
 gainly children by giving them better brains than com- 
 mon ; or the pretty ones, distracted by their frivolous 
 interests, fail to turn good brains to account : but it is as 
 Mrs. Armour said, and as the portraits of famous men 
 and women indicate — the clever people are almost always 
 plain. Adam’s cleverness was in proportion to his ugli- 
 
66 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 ness ; it was very marked indeed. The rate at which he 
 assimilated his intellectual food — devoured in his attic at 
 night, and in all sort of strange places by day — was quite 
 bewildering to gran’pa, whose extensive acquaintance with 
 the literature of his country was mainly confined to its 
 external forms. When it dawned upon him, all at once, 
 that his grandson was a genius, who might possibly set 
 the Thames on fire some day, an actual credit to the fam- 
 ily, with a right to all the advantages that family could 
 give him — a new and brighter day had come for Adam 
 Drewe. It was the realisation of Sar’ Ann’s prophecy in 
 part. 
 
 Only in part. Even when he had reached that dizzy 
 height which had seemed so inaccessible, where people 
 were proud of him, there was something wanting. It was 
 a something without which everything was unsatisfactory. 
 This he felt for a long time, but did not fully understand. 
 It grew clearer and clearer the older he grew ; and he dis- 
 covered what it was at last — when between sixteen and 
 seventeen. 
 
 His school gave a break-up party. lie had just fin- 
 ished his studies there, and the earl and the countess, as 
 they were respectfully designated, had bestowed a silver 
 medal upon him, the highest honour that a Lyntham 
 schoolboy could obtain. The evergreen countess had 
 added some compliments — paid in public, before all the 
 parents and friends, on the festive speech-day — and the 
 decrepit earl had given him a sovereign, and said some- 
 thing kind about his dead father, and about his early 
 patroness, Lady Susan, who was also dead. His proud 
 master had shaken him by the hand, and all the boys had 
 cheered him. Therefore he was in great feather, to use 
 gran’pa’ s words, gran’pa having become a braggart in re- 
 .spect to his clever boy. The bookseller wanted Adam to 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 67 
 
 wear his medal on his coat, as a permanent article of 
 attire ; failing that, he desired to exhibit it in the shop 
 window. The old gentleman was like his daughter Ara- 
 bella in some things. 
 
 Adam hid his precious bauble in a locked drawer, but 
 he displayed his “ feather ” openly enough in his bright- 
 ened aspect. Probably, he was at his very ugliest age at 
 this moment — half boy and half man, with a downy stub- 
 ble, that was not enough to hide it, creeping out upon his 
 face. “ Why is Piggy’s moustache like a cricket match ? ” 
 was a favourite conundrum of his schoolfellows, “ Piggy ” 
 being one of the least offensive of his many nicknames. 
 The answer was — “ Because there are eleven on each side ” ; 
 and this is a trying state of things, even for handsome 
 youths. Adam would have shaved, again and again, but 
 for his steadfast reliance on the wisdom of Sar’ Ann. She 
 had advised a beard and spectacles as sovereign remedies 
 for his misfortune ; and he wanted to get them as soon as 
 he could. Let me say here that her advice was sound. A 
 few years later, when the queer lower half of his face was 
 thickly covered with crisp hair, and his protuberant eyes 
 with learned-looking glasses, he was enormously improved. 
 As an intellectual young man, people then ceased to see 
 anything so very out-of-the-way in his appearance. 
 
 However, even though there were as yet but eleven on 
 each side, on account of which he suffered like a branded 
 Cain, he was pleased to go to the break-up party. The 
 scene of the party was the scene of his late triumphs ; he 
 had a standing there, amongst approving masters and 
 pupils who had not won medals. The thought of his im- 
 portance gave him confidence in himself ; and when he 
 went to his room to dress, he felt quite as other young 
 folks feel on such occasions. But he did not know how 
 utterly and perfectly happy he was going to be. 
 
68 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 Gran’ma went to his room with him — it was a real 
 room now, and not an attic shared with rats — to make 
 him as smart as possible. For the first time he had a new 
 pair of trousers, instead of gran’pa’s old ones cut down, 
 and a new tail coat to go with them ; they had been pur- 
 chased chiefly for the earl and countess to look at during 
 the medal function. As the boy had now a very decent 
 figure, broad and strong, if not as tall as it should have 
 been, he did unexpected justice to these garments, and 
 was quite proud of himself as he turned round and round 
 before the glass to look at them from all points. They 
 enhanced his confidence in himself greatly. 
 
 Gran’ma oiled his hair, and brushed it into a big feather 
 at the top and a curl at either ear. He had nice, bright, 
 brown hair, in which she could take legitimate pride ; it 
 had the quality of health and wholesomeness which char- 
 acterised his clear and ruddy skin, and which was, phys- 
 ically, his saving grace. She helped him to squeeze his 
 sturdy hands into white kid gloves, and she put a camellia 
 into his button-hole, and his dancing pumps into his tail 
 pocket. Then, when she had displayed him to an admir- 
 ing household and rolled him in great coat and comforter, 
 she kissed him, and sent him forth into the wintry 
 night. 
 
 “ Dear boy ! ” she said, returning from the street door, 
 satisfied, to her armchair by the hearth. “ I declare he 
 looks quite handsome when he is well dressed.” She was 
 an old woman now, and her eyes were growing dim. 
 
 Adam found himself amongst the first arrivals, and 
 received a warm welcome from his master’s wife and 
 daughters, who congratulated him afresh on his school 
 distinctions. This so emboldened him that he asked the 
 eldest daughter if she would give him the first dance. She 
 said at once that she could not, as she would have to be 
 
F1DEL1S. 
 
 69 
 
 looking after the guests, but that perhaps her sister Ellen 
 would. He went to Miss Ellen, who declared she was al- 
 ready engaged, and told him to ask Agnes. Agnes, almost 
 a child, but highly desirable nevertheless, giggled as she 
 looked him up and down, $nd said she “ really couldn’t,” 
 evidently regarding the proposal as a joke. 
 
 “ Why can’t you ? ” inquired Adam, with rising colour. 
 
 “ Oh, I couldn’t,” laughed Agnes, feebly. 
 
 “Do you think I can’t dance?” he demanded. “I 
 can, then. I have been learning of my aunts for a long 
 time.” 
 
 He had an uncertain bass voice, with casual treble 
 squeaks in it, and its tone betokened that she was giving 
 him deep offence. 
 
 “ Don’t be angry, Drewe. I’m sure you can dance as 
 well as anybody — of course — why not? But — but I have 
 promised so many of the boys, I really haven’t a dance 
 left” 
 
 “Where’s your programme?” he bellowed. Itwas 
 hanging to her sash, and he caught it as he spoke. 
 
 She snatched it back violently, and made an ugly gri- 
 mace at him. 
 
 “ As if they could write their names before they’ve 
 come, stupid ! Now I certainly won’t dance with you, 
 just for being rude.” 
 
 “ Agnes ! ” called her mother, sharply. The girl 
 flounced away, evidently to be scolded, and did not re- 
 turn. The hostess came up to Adam, and said, blandly, 
 “Fll dance with you, Drewe, with pleasure. Not the first 
 dance or two, as the people will be still coming, but as 
 soon as I can get free. You may put my name down for 
 as many as you like.” 
 
 She was an immensely fat woman, and her hair was 
 nearly white. 
 
70 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 “ Oh, never mind,” said Adam, “ I don’t really care 
 about dancing, thank you. I would just as soon look on.” 
 “Well, find yourself a nice seat, my dear. There will 
 be chess and backgammon in the card-room presently.” 
 As guests were now arriving in shoals, she had to leave 
 him hurriedly. 
 
 The big schoolroom was turned into a ball-room, beau- 
 tified out of all likeliness to its every-day self. Instead of 
 maps, festoons of evergreens and paper roses adorned the 
 walls, with candles, set in coloured ham frills, dotted round 
 amongst them. The desks were gone, but the forms were 
 ranged in a continuous line against the wall. A glorious 
 Christmas fire burned in the oft lukewarm grate, with a 
 nursery guard in front of it. The small inner class-room 
 was arranged for whist and table games ; and thither the 
 fathers betook themselves, while the mothers remained to 
 look at their frisking children. But Adam did not desire 
 the fathers’ company ; he stayed with the mothers. They 
 congregated in groups on the forms, and, while they 
 
 watched the revels, talked in a domestic way. It was 
 • _ 
 not seemly that boys should hear that talk, and therefore 
 
 they avoided Adam’s immediate neighbourhood. And 
 
 after the music had begun, all such things as medals were 
 
 clean forgotten. Had he worn his prize upon his breast, 
 
 it would have been as useless to him as his aunts’ dancing 
 
 lessons. 
 
 He sat lonely against the wall, his big hands in their 
 wrinkled gloves outspread upon his knees, and felt much 
 as he had done that morning, years ago, when his mother 
 went to the Mart without him. Though he wore a stolid 
 mien and was too old for tears, his spirit wept within 
 him as it had done then. This, he told himself, was to 
 be his place in life — to sit apart, and look on at the hap- 
 piness of others, himself for ever out of it ! 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 71 
 
 He would go home as soon as he had had his supper. 
 He was still young enough to think supper a most impor- 
 tant feature of an evening party, and was already conscious 
 of an appetite for it ne determined not to allow him- 
 self to be taken pity on by that old woman, and that he 
 would never, never again ask a young lady to dance with 
 him. And he wished — he wished from the bottom of his 
 heart, the sensitive heart of a budding man — that he had 
 had the proper pride to stay at home. 
 
 But he felt better presently. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Amongst the latest comers to the party there was a 
 little girl, who had to sit on a form the whole evening, 
 as well as Adam Drewe. She had a folded silk handker- 
 chief bound over her eyes, and could not see to romp 
 about ; so she was a companion in misfortune, for the 
 time. Apart from that charm, she was a sweet-looking 
 little girl ; the fair brow and tender mouth and chin 
 answered for what was hidden of her face; and nothing 
 in the way of costume could have been more engag- 
 ing than the book-muslin frock and pale blue sash, the 
 smooth silk stockings and bronze kid slippers, that she 
 wore. 
 
 % 
 
 From the moment that she appeared, clinging to an 
 elder sister’s hand, Adam watched her, fascinated. Here, 
 he felt, was the ball-room mate for him. The bandage, 
 which was like a shutter put up between her and the 
 other boys, was as an unobstructed window between her soul 
 and his, through which he might communicate with her 
 on equal terms — through which she would look at him , 
 if he could get near enough to attract her attention, and 
 not at his face. 
 
 He began at once to approach her by sidling move- 
 ments, as she was led from form to form. First, her sister 
 handed her to the hostess, and went off to dance and 
 amuse herself. Then the little girl was passed on to the 
 
 72 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 73 
 
 daughters of the house, and by them to some matrons who 
 appeared to be family friends. These ladies talked to her 
 a little, asking her how her mother was, and what the 
 doctor said and did about her eyes, but quickly returned 
 to their own gossip ; and the interest of the young folks 
 being concentrated upon a sprig of mistletoe over a door- 
 way, they could not be bothered to attend to her. She 
 sat quietly, her little toes hardly touching the floor, her 
 hands- folded in her lap, listening to the scuffles and 
 bursts of laughter in that doorway, with an air of eager 
 longing to know what was going on. Adam edged up to 
 her, and seated himself noiselessly, shaking with nervous- 
 ness. The hostess and others, noting the manoeuvre, were 
 sensibly relieved. 
 
 “ If only those two children will sit together and amuse 
 each other,” the former ejaculated, “ they will be off my 
 mind. Drewe is just a skeleton at the feast, glaring at us 
 with those uncomfortable eyes of his ; and what possessed 
 the Plunkets to bring Fidelia, when she cannot see to do 
 anything, I cannot conceive.” 
 
 Adam, having recovered from his embarrassment, was 
 informed by the little girl what her name was, and went 
 the surprising length of declaring his opinion, audibly, 
 that it was the most beautiful one he had ever heard. 
 She was astonished, thinking him in fun, and told him 
 she was called Delia by her family, except when the boys 
 said, “ Here, Fido, Fido,” to tease her, as if she were a 
 little dog. In fact, she had suffered from what was con- 
 sidered an eccentric name, and had often wished it was 
 Guinevere. 
 
 a Don’t ! ” cried Adam, who had read his Idylls of the 
 King . “ It won’t suit you at all. Fidelia — think of what 
 it means ! — it is the very one for you. I should always 
 think of you as Fidelity. Delia sounds weak and com- 
 
74 
 
 FIDELTS. 
 
 mon, a Dresden shepherdess sort of name. Anybody 
 might be Delia.” 
 
 The little girl fluttered in this strong air, so suddenly 
 arising. 
 
 “ And what is yours ? ” she inquired timidly. 
 
 “Adam Drewe.” 
 
 u Oh ! The boy that won the medal ? ” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 She glowed visibly. Small boys had been her portion 
 hitherto. This was the biggest boy, in every sense of the 
 word, who had ever deigned to notice her. “ How clever 
 you must be ! ” she sighed. “ I wish I was clever.” She 
 wanted to live up to him. 
 
 He said he was sure she was — a thousand times clev- 
 erer than he — a thousand times better, at any rate ; and 
 she protested earnestly. But since one eye had been 
 hurt, she explained, the doctors had forbidden her to use 
 either of them ; and of course you can't be clever if you 
 don’t read. “ Even you couldn’t,” she ventured to say, 
 respectfully. 
 
 “ How was it hurt ? ” asked Adam ; and the tenderness 
 of his new man’s heart for this incipient woman thrilled 
 in his voice, the deep notes of which were singularly rich 
 and sweet. 
 
 “ I don’t like to tell you,” she faltered, hanging her 
 head. 
 
 Adam hastened to apologise for his indelicate curios- 
 ity, and bade her never mind. Upon which she declared 
 that she didn’t mind telling him in the least, and stated 
 that a boy had thrown a stone at her. 
 
 “ A boy ! ” cried Adam. “ A boy hit you ! You don’t 
 mean for the purpose ? ” 
 
 “Well, it wasn’t quite an accident. I had been teas- 
 ing him.” 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 75 
 
 “ And he threw a stone at you — well ! ” Adam drew 
 his breath through locked teeth. u I wish I had been 
 there — that’s all. I would have given that boy something 
 to remember.” 
 
 Fidelia beamed with pleasure. Her very hands ex- 
 pressed it, fluttering along the edges of her muslin tucks. 
 “ What would you have done ? ” she asked him, turning 
 the bandaged face towards his, as if to look and smile at 
 him ! 
 
 He shrank from the seeming scrutiny, but instantly 
 returned to bask in her blind loveliness, which warmed 
 him like a sun ; and he said, with passion, “ I would have 
 hilled him.” 
 
 “ Then I am glad you were not there,” she gasped, 
 still pleased, but sobered. She added, after a pause, “ No, 
 I am not glad. For if you had been there he would not 
 have done it. You would have stopped him.” 
 
 “ I should ,” said Adam. 
 
 They drew a little closer, and were silent for a while, 
 full of the sense of their proximity ; she, like a little purr- 
 ing kitten at his side, and he thrilling and throbbing 
 with the joy of the promotion that he owed to her — or, 
 rather (but he forgot to think of that), to the doctor’s 
 bandage. She broke the silence to ask what the boys and 
 girls were doing, who laughed and scuffled so continuously 
 in the doorway near. 
 
 Not for the world would Adam have told her they 
 were kissing each other. They were “ fooling,” he said, 
 with a blush, under a branch of mistletoe, at which she 
 blushed also, and questioned no more. Adam remem- 
 bered they would have to pass through that doorway on 
 their route to the supper-room, and fought against suffo- 
 cating thoughts that he felt to be profane under the cir- 
 cumstances. But one thought he seized and held ; — no 
 
76 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 other fellow should be permitted the chance to take unfair 
 advantage of her helplessness. 
 
 Thinking of fellows, his mind turned again to the 
 miscreant who had hurt her, and he wanted to know 
 who it was. 
 
 Fidelia replied, bashfully, that she would rather not 
 tell. 
 
 “Why?” queried Adam. “ Is he anybody I know? ” 
 
 “ He is one of your schoolfellows.” 
 
 “ What ? ” He glared about the room, from boy to 
 boy, murderously. 
 
 “ And he has been punished enough,” said Fidelia. 
 
 “ He never meant to hurt me seriously, of course. When 
 he heard me shrieking — I could not help it — the pain was ' 
 so awful — it was like fire — and saw the blood running 
 down my face ” 
 
 “ Don’t ! ” cried Adam, writhing. And she stopped 
 short to beam on him, and tell him how good he was to 
 care so much about it. 
 
 “ No one could have been more cut up,” she con- 
 tinued, pleadingly. “ Of course we forgave him at once, 
 for we knew he never meant it ; and you must forgive 
 him, too. He cried — he cried himself. You must not 
 speak to him about it ; he says he can’t bear it. Promise 
 me you will not.” 
 
 “ I think it will be better,” said Adam, inflexibly, 
 
 “ if you don’t tell me any more. I don’t want to know 
 his name ; I might be tempted some day. He lifted his 
 hand to you — to a girl — to you ! It would be the same 
 if the stone had not touched you. I could never forgive 
 him.” 
 
 She became frightened at this vehemence, feeling 
 that she had already said too much. “ Please — please ,” 
 she begged, with her hand on his sleeve, “ for my sake.” 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 77 
 
 “Well — for your sake,” Adam murmured, touching 
 the little glove with trembling reverence ; “ if you put 
 it that way ” 
 
 “ They are getting ready for supper,” she broke in, 
 nervously, “ and he will be coming to look for me. He 
 is my cousin ; he lives here. I don’t ; I am only staying 
 with my aunt, to be near the doctor who attends to my 
 eyes. He said, before we came, that he would take me in 
 to supper. He always tries to be kind to me, because of 
 what he did.” 
 
 “ Kind ! ” echoed Adam, fiercely. “ You shall not 
 go with him. How dare he ? Kind, indeed ! He must 
 have a cheek of brass.” 
 
 She named the villain, and it was Harry Bowen, his 
 rival for first place in the school, and one of the hand- 
 somest lads in Lyntham. Not handsome only — a “ swell ” 
 also — the son of a solicitor, the grandson of a Church 
 dignitary, and not of a retail tradesman. Hearing that 
 name — already sufficiently repugnant to him — Adam’s 
 heart swelled with rage, and then sank with despair, all 
 his new-born dash and valour evaporating in a moment. 
 
 “ Of course,” said he, when he could speak, “ you 
 would rather go to supper with him than with me. He 
 is far above me, I know, though he is a coward. A big 
 fellow like him to throw a stone at a girl — even to pre- 
 tend to throw one. Well, I’d rather be as I am, and 
 know that I’d die sooner than do such a thing.” 
 
 “ I am sure you would,” his little companion ventured 
 to say, troubled by his bitter tone. “ You are very dif- 
 ferent; and — and I wouldn’t rather go to supper with 
 him at all ’’—blushing at the bold avowal, like a coquet- 
 tish woman. 
 
 “ Do you mean,” cried Adam, plucked back to 
 strength and courage, “ that / may take you in ? ” 
 
 6 
 
78 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 “ If yon don’t mind — if you haven’t any one else. 
 But I am afraid you will be quite tired of me,” she 
 murmured ; “ I am so stupid — compared with you.” 
 
 “ Stupid ! ” echoed Adam, in rapture. “ Tired of 
 you ! oh, my stars ! of you ! ” 
 
 He sprang from his seat, with an eye upon Harry 
 Bowen, who was prancing about the room with a young 
 lady of whom he was evidently not yet tired ; and 
 Fidelia rose at the same moment, fluttering with joy. 
 Somehow her hand became locked in Adam’s, and 
 neither knew which had been outstretched first. 
 
 “ Let us go before Bowen comes to look for you,” he 
 whispered, under his breath. 
 
 “ Let us,” she whispered back. 
 
 He led her through the door that had the mistletoe 
 over it, and imagined the blissful impossible under stern 
 self-control, and he escorted her along a passage into the 
 supper-room, and tenderly lowered her into one of the few 
 chairs, in the most retired corner he could find. There, 
 presently, he fed her with small dry sandwiches and jam 
 tarts, and sips of tepid negus, disregarding the claims of 
 his own healthy appetite ; and crowds of boys and girls 
 and fat fathers and mothers stood in front of them, with 
 backs turned. 
 
 “ Tell me,” said Adam, softly, “ do you like books ? ” 
 
 Misunderstanding the question, she said she liked 
 some books, and instanced them. The Heir of Redcliffe 
 was her favourite. 
 
 “ I mean books f said Adam. “ Lots of books — all sorts 
 of books. Do you like reading better than anything in 
 the world ? ” 
 
 She hesitated, anxious to believe that she did, but also 
 to be truthful ; then told him that she liked reading when 
 she could see to read herself. It was a different thing 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 79 
 
 haying to get somebody to read to you. Either people 
 had not time, or they would choose books you did not 
 care for. 
 
 “ I wish I could read to you ! ” sighed Adam. 
 
 “ Oh, if you could ! ” she sighed in response. 
 
 Then he honoured her with the most precious secret 
 of his life. 
 
 “ If I tell you something,” he whispered, “ will you 
 promise never to breathe it to a single living soul ? It is 
 something that I have never told anybody.” 
 
 She leaned towards him, palpitating with pride and 
 eagerness. 
 
 “ I don’t intend,” he continued, “ to let anybody know 
 about it — except you — until I am famous.” 
 
 Her grateful smile sobered to a sweet solemnity as she 
 assured him that she would keep the secret safe to her 
 life’s end. 
 
 “ Well, then ” — Adam’s voice trembled, and his face 
 was red — “ I am an author myself” 
 
 The effect of this announcement was all that he could 
 have hoped. 
 
 “ What ? Oh — h — h ! ” she gasped, under her breath ; 
 and was lost in awe. 
 
 “ Yes. I am writing a book. I have not done much 
 of it yet, but I shall work at it all holiday time. It’s a 
 historical novel, — time of Elizabeth.” 
 
 “ Oh ! ” she sighed again, “ I wish I could read it.” 
 
 V You shall, when it is finished.” 
 
 “ Will it be published ? But of course it will.”* 
 
 “ Oh, yes. I wrote a ballad to put into it, and they 
 published that in a magazine I sent it to.” 
 
 “ Did they ? Oh, how splendid ! Oh, how clever you 
 must be ! What was the ballad about ? If I could only 
 see it ! ” 
 
80 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 A young author does not mislay these treasures, as a 
 rule. Adam’s verses were in his pocket book, which he 
 wore by day and put under his pillow at night. He 
 stealthily withdrew them from the pocket of his new coat, 
 unfolding with shaking hands the sheet of blue foolscap 
 to which he had pasted his printed page when it began to 
 fall to pieces. “ Perhaps,” whispered he, “ I can read it 
 to you, if you care to hear it. But, no, I woij’t ; it is 
 nothing but rubbish, — utter rubbish.” He made a feint 
 of resolutely refolding the paper ; but, yielding to her ex- 
 postulations, kept it open in the shadow of a bended arm, 
 and began to stumble through a few lines about a belted 
 earl waiting for his beautiful lady at a postern gate. He 
 stopped in the middle of the second verse and glared at 
 the people round him. 
 
 “ It’s — it’s magnificent ! ” sighed Fidelia. 
 
 “But I can’t read it here,” he muttered, angrily. “We 
 are too public. They are all listening and staring.” 
 
 “ Horrid people ! Whisper more. I can hear you.” 
 
 “ I can’t.” 
 
 But he could not bear to deprive himself and her of 
 their expected treat, and volunteered to lend her the paper 
 to read when she was able to use her eyes again. She had 
 already told him that the bandages were soon to come off, 
 and also that she was to leave Lyntham on the morrow. 
 
 “Oh, would you? Would you, really ?” she ex- 
 claimed, as if overcome by his generosity and condescen- 
 sion. 
 
 “ If you like,” he replied. “ If you will take care of it 
 until you have a chance to give it to me again. But be 
 sure you put it in a safe place, where nobody will find it. 
 I don’t want anyone to know me as an author until I am 
 a great author.” 
 
 She had but one safe place at present — her little four- 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 81 
 
 teen-year-old bosom — into which she tucked the precious 
 document, holding it down outside her frock with a rev- 
 erent outspread hand. 
 
 “ And you are going to be a great author ! ” she ejacu- 
 lated with ineffable pride. 
 
 “ Hush — sh — sh ! Yes, some day,” said Adam, firmly. 
 He was not arrogant, as a rule; but felt it necessary to 
 recommend himself, as strongly as possible, against the 
 day when she might see him, as well as his verses, with 
 unbandaged eyes. 
 
 Here they were parted suddenly by Harry Bowen, sent 
 to fetch her to her friends. Harry, having routed his 
 rival, informed her that she had been spending the even- 
 ing with a fellow as ugly as a laughing hyena. 
 
 Fidelia, with only his kind strong voice to imagine 
 Adam by, smiled serenely. 
 
 “ The head boy of the school, at any rate,” she re- 
 torted. 
 
 “ A boy,” pursued Harry angrily, “ that no girl would 
 take up with if she didn’t wish to make herself a laughing- 
 stock to everybody.” 
 
 Fidelia judged this to be mere schoolboy jealousy, and 
 just smiled on. 
 
 While, as for Adam, he went home intoxicated. He 
 was so wildly happy that he could not settle back into the 
 groove for days, nor sleep of nights, for thinking of it. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Mrs. Holditch sent word to gran’pa that Adam was 
 to be confirmed. She was not in the habit of remember- 
 ing his existence, except when some squabbling was going 
 on concerning the money for his keep ; but Mr. Delavel- 
 Pole had been making inquiries, and pointing out her 
 maternal duty to her. The rector of Dunstanborough 
 was the great squire’s nephew, as well as a faithful son of 
 the Church. 
 
 Gran’pa at once made answer to Arabella that he 
 knew what was right and proper without requiring her 
 to tell him. And then he called upon the incumbent of 
 his parish, who was preparing classes for candidates, and 
 entered Adam’s name. 
 
 Adam instinctively objected to be confirmed ; but as he 
 did not exactly know why, and was accustomed to defer to 
 others, he yielded to the general wish, that he should make 
 himself as other good boys of respectable family, and not 
 grow up like a low dissenter. But he went to his prepara- 
 tion, as he went to everything, with an open and an honest 
 mind, determined to see just where he was going, as far as 
 his lights would serve him. 
 
 The results were curious, and, to his relatives, as un- 
 foreseen as they were scandalous. For he slowly groped 
 to the conclusion that it would not be right to commit 
 himself. Having attended all the classes, and given the 
 
 82 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 83 
 
 most anxious attention to every point raised by the poor 
 young curate, his teacher — whom, by his unconventional 
 counter-questions, he drove to a perfect frenzy — he re- 
 spectfully but firmly announced his determination to with- 
 draw from the final ceremony, on the ground that he 
 thought it wrong to stand up before God and man and 
 make pledges about things that he couldn’t properly un- 
 derstand, and therefore pledges liable to become perjuries, 
 through no fault of his. Vows, he gravely opined, were 
 always a mistake ; especially vows when you were young 
 and didn’t know what you were going to grow to. He 
 had internal premonitions that he was not going “ to be- 
 lieve and to do ” what his pastors and masters expected of 
 him, and the course of his examination only made this 
 more clear ; so that he really felt it would be putting him- 
 self in a false position to submit his big ugly head to the 
 bishop’s hands. It would do him no harm, he knew, to 
 have a good man’s blessing ; but there was more than that 
 in it. He begged everybody’s pardon, and was very sorry, 
 and not at all defiant or opinionated ; but he was quite 
 
 firm. In a small wav it was the ordeal of Richard Del- 
 
 «/ 
 
 avel over again ; but Adam was not of his friend’s im- 
 portance, and the consequences to him were comparatively 
 trifling. His mother wrote in a rage to say that he was 
 no longer to consider himself a son of hers, while declar- 
 ing that his present contumacy was all of a piece with his 
 wicked conduct in the past : but there was no fresh sting 
 in that. And gran ’pa and the aunts, having expostulated, 
 scolded, and sulked while the matter was undetermined, 
 soon recovered themselves when the bishop was gone, 
 seeing that Adam was of too little account for his vagaries 
 to attract much notice, and having many more important 
 affairs of their own to attend to. 
 
 Gran’ma all along stood out of the dispute. She 
 
84 : 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 tacitly conceded to her domestic superiors when they 
 talked to her about it, that her boy was a bad boy ; but 
 when they left her alone she forgot all about it, and loved 
 him and “cosseted” him as foolishly as ever. Indeed, 
 they became closer friends than before. Xow that he was 
 a man — and this episode marked the point of change — 
 and had begun to deal on his own responsibility with the 
 grave matters of life, Adam found himself more solitary 
 and more misunderstood than he had been as a child ; 
 and daily poor gran’ma became more of a toddling old 
 lady, lagging superfluous upon the stage when her work 
 was done. Her children ignored her unimpressive little 
 person, and pooh-poohed her innocent suggestions ; they 
 smiled patronisingly upon her old-fashioned opinions, and 
 soothed her with perfunctory platitudes when she com- 
 plained of feeling “ sadly,” and that her sight or her hear- 
 ing was not what it used to be. But Adam never did. 
 He talked to her as if she were still a feeling woman, and 
 a person of the first importance ; and when she was ailing 
 he sponged her wrinkled face, and brushed her scant grey 
 hairs, and held and patted her gnarled, soft, shiny, old 
 hands, as if she were still young and pretty. And 
 gran’ma’s heart and mind were in excellent preservation, 
 though the case was so dilapidated. Adam knew it, 
 and she knew that he knew it. So they comforted each 
 other. 
 
 She had the habit, common to superfluous old ladies, 
 of sitting at home in the chimney corner, while the vigor- 
 ous members of the household pursued their various di- 
 versions out of doors. In fact, she was left there. And 
 Adam, being almost as much out of touch with general 
 society, was frequently left there also. Then he used to 
 read to her, — not the bible, nor sermons, nor even the 
 county newspaper ; and of course not the solid works on 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 85 
 
 which he mainly fed himself. G-ran’ma’s taste ran to 
 novels — most old people’s do, only they are foolishly 
 ashamed to own it — novels full of love and tragedy, like 
 Jane Eyre , which was rather a new book then. She 
 would thrill, and weep, and thoroughly enjoy herself, for- 
 getting that she was old and out of date, as she listened 
 to her boy’s beautiful voice, breathing life into every 
 scene and character. To give her enough of this enter- 
 tainment, and protect her tender feelings from ridicule — 
 to which she was absurdly sensitive — Adam contrived a 
 garden arbour, and other places of retirement, to which 
 they might surreptitiously repair ; and in the warm 
 weather he took her for little walks, upon his arm, when 
 they would talk over whatever story they happened to be 
 engaged on. 
 
 And at last he confided to her his great secret — even 
 though he was not yet famous — seeing that she was al- 
 ways hovering around it with him, and that he had not 
 another sympathetic soul to speak to. Gran’pa and the 
 aunts — women as sternly practical as gran’ma was senti- 
 mental — had no patience with anything that seemed to 
 them like waste of time on the part of a youth who had 
 to make his way in the world ; and the particular way 
 that he was to make had been by them appointed for him. 
 He was to be a partner in the old-established family 
 business when he became of age and inherited his father’s 
 money, and he was to become its responsible head at 
 gran’pa’s death. Daily they impressed upon him the im- 
 portance of his high mission, and his duty in preparing 
 for it. They would inevitably have disapproved of any- 
 thing that interfered with this preparation; and, more- 
 over, while knowing a great deal about books, they knew 
 nothing of literature, and cared less. So that Adam 
 guarded his secret from them, as he had guarded his cave 
 
86 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 in the cliffs from his schoolfellows at Dunstanborough. 
 But dear old gran’ma — a fellow outcast from domestic 
 sympathy, conscious of an inner romantic youthfulness 
 that he only had divined — was another person. She could 
 feel for him. And she did. In fact, he became her 
 favourite author. 
 
 Then, when the bright day of success began to dawn, 
 this beloved companion began to fail. Their last walk 
 together coincided with the last chapter of The Revolt of 
 the Stepson , Adam’s first published work, which he had 
 been writing during the summer, and reading to gran’ma 
 as he wrote it, page by page. Chilly Autumn had now 
 arrived ; and the thoughtful grandson was, perhaps, less 
 thoughtful than usual, being so full of his book. Gran’- 
 ma caught a cold that day from being out too late, and 
 never managed to shake it off. She, like him, was too 
 full of the book to be conscious of setting suns and .rising 
 mists, of damp creeping up her legs and shivers running 
 down her spine, until suddenly it was gas-lit night, — and 
 the mischief was done. 
 
 The stepson absorbed them. He was the hero of a 
 full novel, and a most striking personage. Gran’ma had 
 all along protested that he was too singular to be natural, 
 and too advanced in his opinions to be popular, especially 
 with editors; and now, surveying the dramatic denoue- 
 ment, she was deeply excited and concerned. She told 
 Adam that he really must alter it ; and Adam said he 
 really couldn’t . She declared in effect that it was a mis- 
 take in art and in morals alike ; and he replied that it 
 was true to life and the probabilties, and, therefore, true to 
 art ; and that as to morals, he had nothing to do with 
 them. Gran’ma urged the indispensability of a moral 
 tone; and they had an affectionate wrangle over that 
 point. She was too weak and fond a gran’ma to be severe 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 87 
 
 upon his incipient heresies, which would have made her 
 hair stand on end in earlier days ; and so he flaunted them 
 freely, and took pleasure in making them appear to her 
 much worse than they really were. 
 
 “ Gerald, you see, dear, is Gerald, and not a curate,” 
 he explained, by way of justifying his hero and himself. 
 “ Therefore he had to kill his stepfather. He had to do 
 it. When he found that Moggs had stolen Lilian’s letters, 
 and read them, and then gone to bully and insult her — to 
 frighten her into the illness that caused her death — I 
 don’t see how he could help it.” Adam glared fiercely 
 along the misty road, which should have been taking them 
 towards Lyntham instead of away from it. 
 
 “ And she such a sweet angel ! ” sighed Gran’ma. 
 “ Well, she never would have been happy with that blood- 
 thirsty man.” 
 
 The author felt hurt. “ You don’t understand,” he 
 said, gently. “You can’t enter into Gerald’s feelings 
 when he learns the truth.” 
 
 “ Perhaps not,” she cheerfully rejoined ; “ but, my 
 dear boy, I know what the editors’ feelings will be when 
 they learn the truth. They will treat the book as Gerald 
 treated Mr. Moggs — mark my words. They will never 
 endure that ending. It is not fit for family reading. The 
 more I think of it, the more I feel that it spoils the whole 
 story.” 
 
 “ No,” persisted Adam, with the artist’s, especially the 
 young artist’s, thorough confidence in his own methods. 
 “ Given a man like Gerald, it is exactly what he would 
 have done. It is the inevitable climax. Any other end- 
 ing would have spoiled the whole story.” 
 
 “No — no — no! Not his father , Granny! That 
 would have been quite another matter. His own father 
 would have been privileged, — however great a fiend. 
 
88 
 
 F1DELIS. 
 
 But Moggs was no more to him than the man in the 
 street — much, much less.” 
 
 “ In the place of a father, my dear — just as one’s 
 sister-in-law is the same as a sister.” 
 
 “ Never ! ” retorted Adam, firmly ; “ never ! ” 
 
 And gran’ma divined that he was thinking of Alfred 
 Holditch, and she turned the subject. She remarked 
 that the light was going very fast, and that the dew was 
 heavy. 
 
 They turned then, and Adam trotted her home as fast 
 as she could go ; but a fairy rime overspread her Paisley 
 shawl and her flowing lace veil, and her feet were clammy, 
 and her skin all creeky-crawly, as she expressed it, before 
 she got indoors ; and, sinking into her armchair, she said 
 she had never felt so dog-tired in the whole course of her 
 life. 
 
 She was ill next day ; and she was ill, off and on, dur- 
 ing the winter, failing a little more and more after each 
 attack. She was nearing seventy ; therefore, as her fam- 
 ily cheerfully recognised, such failure was in the order of 
 Nature, and only what was to be expected. Poor gran’ma 
 was generally spoken of as “ breaking-up fast.” Adam 
 alone refused to see it, and prophesied that she would 
 rally and be her old self again in Spring ; and his devo- 
 tion to her was as that of a mother to an ailing babe. 
 
 “ I never had a son of my own,” said gran’ma one 
 evening, when he brought her a little posset of his own 
 manufacture, as a “ nightcap,” and fed her with it. Her 
 lips, open for the spoon, shook loosely, and her faded eyes 
 overflowed. “ I never had a son of my own — and many’s 
 the time I’ve fretted about it — but my Heavenly Father’s 
 made it up to me. No mother’s son was ever such a son 
 to her as you’ve been to me, my precious, ever since 
 I took you; and to think that I grudged taking you, 
 
F1DEL1S. 
 
 89 
 
 and gave you the attic to sleep in ! Oh, my boy ! my 
 boy ! ” 
 
 She leaned to him as he sat on the pillow beside her, 
 under the flowered damask bed-curtain, and he pat his 
 disengaged arm round her, and she sobbed upon his 
 breast. He was so stout and strong, and she so small 
 and helpless. But there was a time, as he reminded her, 
 when the case was otherwise. 
 
 “ What should I have done without you in those days, 
 granny ? And haven’t you been all the mother I’ve ever 
 had ? ” 
 
 Then Aunt Harriet, hearing sounds, came in to scold 
 the old lady out of her dismal mood, and to scold Adam 
 for pandering to it. Her medicine for her mother’s com- 
 plaint was a hard and exaggerated cheerfulness; — this 
 was, in her view, the treatment proper for all ailing peo- 
 ple, whose state naturally disposed them to imagine any- 
 thing. 
 
 “ It is the greatest mistake in the world to be sym- 
 pathising,” she would say. “ It only makes them worse. 
 The truest kindness is to help them to forget their trou- 
 bles.” Then she would remark, with a mournful shake of 
 the head, that “ ma ” was evidently feebler, and agree 
 with her sisters and the still active “ pa ” that it would 
 be a happy release for her, poor dear ! when the Lord 
 took her. 
 
 They agreed thus on the present occasion, while Adam 
 was surreptitiously wiping her eyes, and tucking her up, 
 and making her comfortable for the night, as no one else 
 could do ; but their prediction appeared to be falsified 
 next day when he brought her the wonderful and joyful 
 news that The Revolt of the Stepson had been accepted. 
 
 “ Now, then ! ” he exclaimed, entering her room like 
 a tornado, waking her from an afternoon doze. “ Now 
 
90 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 what do you say, granny? You were so sure that Gerald 
 was going to be kicked out every time, weren’t you? 
 Aha ! ” He flourished the editor’s letter over his head. 
 “ He is welcomed — as he ought to be — at the very first 
 place he goes to ! I knew it — I knew it ! Oh, you blind 
 old mole ! You couldn’t see what a splendid piece of 
 work it was ! ” 
 
 But gran’ma saw it now ; and, in order to see still bet- 
 ter, she asked for her specs, through which she laboriously 
 perused the document submitted to her, flushing and 
 palpitating like a girl over her first love-letter. It ac- 
 knowledged receipt of the MS., posted two months ago, 
 and in unmistakable terms notified that the same had 
 found favour, and would appear in due course. 
 
 “ Oh, Ad — am ! ” she quivered, as she reached to kiss 
 him. “ Oh, my boy ! My dear, darling, precious boy ! ” 
 
 “ Now, don’t <jry, gran’ma,” he warned her, quite in 
 Aunt Harriet’s manner ; “ there’s nothing to cry about in 
 that . Do you understand what has happened, granny ? 
 My fortune is made . Oh, they don’t say anything about 
 payment, I know — that’s nothing ; it is the start ! Such 
 a start is worth millions. And no influence, mind you — 
 nothing but my own merits — the real goodness of the 
 writing,” said Adam, with the candid complacence of the 
 literary beginner, — that most “ cocksure ” of mortals. 
 “ It will come out in the magazine, where everybody will 
 notice it first ; then it will be published as a volume, of 
 course, — a six-shilling volume, I suppose. I daresay they 
 will give me half-profits ; that’s the usual thing. Four or 
 five of the six shillings will be pure profit — the mere print- 
 ing and binding is nothing ; so I shall have at least two 
 from every copy sold. A successful book — if it should be 
 successful — runs into fifty thousand or so in no time. 
 That would bring me — let me see — five thousand pounds. 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 91 
 
 Perhaps by this time next year ! Then, granny, you and 
 I will do things. You shall have a carriage to go for 
 drives in, and when you are quite well we’ll have a little 
 trip to the seaside ; perhaps we will go for a travel on the 
 Continent — at any rate, we’ll go to London, and you shall 
 see the sights ; you can have a Bath chair if you don’t feel 
 able to walk about in the picture galleries and places — 
 and a sable cloak to keep you warm and comfortable. 
 Granny! Don’t spoil good luck by crying over it! If 
 you cry somebody will be coming to see what is the mat- 
 ter, and you will be letting the secret out.” 
 
 She recalled the freshly starting tears, and smiled 
 tremulously. 
 
 “ Mayn’t they know now?” she queried, surprised that 
 he should object to have his triumph publicly proclaimed. 
 
 “ Certainly not. It must be our secret still — until the 
 story is out. Then, when we hear everybody talking 
 about it, and asking who 4 Ewerd ’ is — then we’ll hurl 
 the thunderbolt, granny ! ” 
 
 He lived to congratulate himself upon this self-re- 
 straint. For the editor — that editor for whom he had felt 
 such enthusiastic admiration, as one with brains to discern 
 the difference between good work and bad — a thing 
 beyond the capacity of all other editors of his acquaint- 
 ance — turned out to be a human fiend, not less detestable 
 than the stepfather himself, and a prodigy of unbelievable 
 ignorance, dumbfounding to contemplate. 
 
 He kept back the story for two more months, while he 
 flooded his pages with schoolgirl rubbish of the most sick- 
 ening description ; but that was nothing, though Adam 
 fretted himself thin over the strain of such suspense. 
 When it appeared at length, its appropriate title had been 
 removed from it, and nothing could have sounded more 
 weak and meaningless in the author’s ears than the one 
 
92 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 substituted — Gerald Vaughan and His Stepfather . Why, 
 why had his rights, not to say his title, been set aside in 
 this way ? the author questioned the universe ; and then — 
 in a note that he struggled hard to make courteous and 
 business-like — the editor himself. No answer was vouch- 
 safed. “ Oh, well,” thought the author, “ it doesn’t much 
 matter, so long as the thing is out at last. I can alter it 
 again when the book is published.” And he ordered 
 copies of the magazine to send to his friends ; one set for 
 Sar’Ann, now the wife of a Dunstanborough labourer 
 and mother of children who had learned to read ; and one 
 to be sent to Richard Delavel in Sydney, if, haply, it might 
 find him at that vague address. Adam would have liked 
 to order a set for Fidelia Plunket ; but he did not dare. 
 Perhaps she had forgotten him by this time. Or — hap- 
 pier thought! — perhaps she would recognise him in his 
 nom-de-plume of “ Ewerd,” knowing what his profession 
 was fco be. 
 
 But, alas and alas ! His splendid and powerful work, 
 when given to the world, was discovered to have been 
 edited out of all likeness to itself. Its finest passages 
 were all cut out, or so watered down as to have no 
 taste left in them. Gerald the implacable, with his 
 set teeth and his flashing eyes, masqueraded as a poor 
 chicken-livered nincompoop (the author’s phrase), while 
 Mr. Moggs — a cross between the Devil and Bonaparte 
 Blenkins — became a commonplace nonentity, with all his 
 swear- words eliminated. Even the angelic Lilian was not 
 allowed to make love, or to be made love to, in the impas- 
 sioned terms required by the art and nature and the circum- 
 stances of her sad case. When she would have declared 
 her willingness to burn in hell-fire for ever and ever — of 
 course for the hero’s sake — she was made to say merely 
 that she would “do anything” for him. Worse still, 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 93 
 
 pious platitudes were put into both their mouths, in place 
 of strong-minded sentiments of a robustly pagan cast. 
 And — worst of all ! — the grand climax was left out alto- 
 gether. When Gerald “ learned the truth ” and was about 
 to walk quietly to the gun-rack, and Adam was quivering 
 with dread of what his masterpiece might have suffered 
 at the ruthless pen, lo ! there appeared, in place of 
 the masterpiece — the tragic episode that was to dignify 
 the whole — two little words in small capitals. Nothing 
 more ! The last chapter was suppressed bodily. Gerald 
 never killed his stepfather, never even remonstrated with 
 him. The man who should have been a man indeed was, 
 for all the reader could tell to the contrary, indifferent to 
 his own infamous wrongs and his lovely sweetheart’s fate. 
 
 Adam, who had writhed in anguish for weeks — from 
 March to May — broke down under this last blow. He re- 
 tired to his old attic chamber, unseen by the household, 
 locked himself in stealthily, cast himself prone upon the 
 rotten floor, and there lay and wept for hours in the dark, 
 while the rats played round him. It is useless to attempt 
 any description of his feelings, for only an author could 
 understand them, as only a mother can understand what 
 it is to lose a child. 
 
 
 7 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 Gran’ma never knew how right she had been in her 
 view of Gerald’s case. She could neither triumph over 
 the stricken author, nor support and console him. For 
 when May and Easter came, instead of renewing herself 
 in the balmy air, she continued to decay, like an Autumn 
 leaf that young Spring treads underfoot. One half of the 
 mutilated chapters were never read to her, because she 
 would not have been able to remember the originals ; and 
 those two words in small capitals, marking their untimely 
 and unhappy close, signified also that the gentle story of 
 her life was at an end. Almost at the moment when Mr. 
 Moggs should have paid the penalty of his shocking 
 crimes in the most dramatic manner, and on the most 
 public scaffold, it was discovered that she was about to 
 pass from the little stage of her humdrum existence, — 
 unobtrusively as she had always occupied it, her small 
 part played out, her humble work well done. 
 
 Adam was roused from his too absorbing grief by the 
 news of a “ change,” which, under other circumstances, 
 he would have been the first to notice. Gran ’pa and the 
 aunts called him to the bedside of the invalid, and after- 
 wards to a consultation in the keeping-room, where it was 
 decided that poor gran’ma was certainly going this time, 
 and that in such a case family feuds must be ignored and 
 Arabella sent for. 
 
 94 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 95 
 
 “ What would people say,” quoth Aunt Harriet, with 
 real tears in her eyes, “ if she let her own mother die with- 
 out being reconciled to her ? It would be a disgrace to 
 us all.” 
 
 “ It must not be,” said gran’pa, with a tremor in his 
 voice ; “ I will fetch her myself, in case that fellow makes 
 objections.” 
 
 “ That fellow ” was Mr. Holditch, Arabella’s scape- 
 goat. He was supposed to be responsible for the breach 
 that had occurred, and the transformation of a dutiful 
 daughter into an undutiful one ; whereas the man who 
 bullied his labourers and had ill-used a helpless child was 
 completely under the thumb of the little woman, who 
 pretended — when it suited her — to be dominated by him. 
 
 “Ah,” the Armours would ejaftulate, whenever the 
 painful subject was mentioned, “ if only dear Abraham 
 had lived ! He was a man, if you like ! ” 
 
 They would perhaps honour Adam by stating that he 
 was like his father, except in looks. 
 
 Arabella came, leaving all the babies at home for Al- 
 fred to take care of, and bringing with her a spirit of love 
 and charity that was beautiful to see. She was glad to 
 rest again in her father’s comfortable house ; glad to have 
 her spinster sisters to talk to, and to talk down from the 
 elevation of her matrimonial experiences ; and keen to be 
 on the spot when shawls and gowns and bits of jewellery 
 were to be apportioned to those who had the right to 
 them. She was also charmed to renew acquaintance with 
 her son, who was so wonderfully improved, who was near- 
 ing his twenty-first birthday, and whom nobody could 
 prevent inheriting the considerable fortune left for his 
 offspring by Abraham Drewe. Tommy’s and Prissy’s 
 shares would be added to Adam’s own, and quantities of 
 interest — she called it a burning shame ; but there it was 
 
96 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 — so that that ridiculous boy would actually be quite a 
 rich man in a few months, doubly as rich as all the Hol- 
 ditches put together, and trebly as rich as his own mother. 
 Before gran’pa came to fetch her, she had begun to tell 
 Alfy that the family feud was a nuisance, and to propound 
 a new policy. The invitation to gran’ma’s death-bed was 
 the very opportunity that she desired. 
 
 “ Where’s my boy ? ” Adam heard her exclaim, a few 
 minutes after entering the house. “ If ow that I am at 
 last permitted to see him, don’t keep him from me ! ” 
 
 He was watching at gran’ma’s bedside, while the others 
 devoted themselves, with much bustle and emotion, to 
 the returned prodigal. His air was cold and calm, and he 
 had listened to the stir of her arrival without moving a 
 muscle. When she asked for him, and Aunt Priscilla, the 
 softest-hearted of the aunts, eagerly called his name up 
 the stairs, he turned red as fire, but he did not budge. He 
 was not a weathercock, like his mother, to change with 
 the wind ; and his broodings upon her treatment of him 
 had been long, profound, and bitter. 
 
 Aunt Priscilla, getting no answer to her summons, ran 
 up to the sick room. 
 
 “ Adam ! Adam ! ” she whispered, excitedly, “ your 
 mother has come, and she wants to see you. Go — go ! It 
 is not her fault, poor dear ! that she hasn’t been before — 
 that wretch wouldn’t let her. She wonders why you 
 weren’t downstairs to welcome her — your own mother ! ” 
 
 “ No,” Adam quietly interposed, looking upon gran’- 
 ma’s pinched and dull-eyed face ; “ here is my own mother, 
 and I can’t leave her, Aunt Prissy, unless some one comes 
 to take my place.” 
 
 “ I’ll stay. She’s asleep and doesn’t want anything, 
 but I’ll stay while you go. Don’t be hard, Adam ; a 
 mother is a mother ” 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 97 
 
 “ Not always,” he persisted, resolutely. 
 
 “ And it’s wicked to bear malice and to be undutiful 
 to parents ; and we don’t want her made miserable as soon 
 as she comes into the house. Goodness knows we have 
 trouble enough.” 
 
 She looked at the bed, and laid her hand on Adam’s 
 shoulder. He slowly rose, stooped to kiss the poor face of 
 his best friend, who as yet always knew when he kissed it, 
 crooning a faint response ; then went slowly downstairs, 
 looking more like his sturdy, stubborn father than he had 
 ever done in his life. 
 
 Having the idea that the impending interview was 
 something peculiarly sacred, gran’pa and aunts had re- 
 tired for the moment, and Adam found his mother alone. 
 She at once flung herself into his arms, to his extreme 
 embarrassment. He looked over her head — golden as 
 ever, and ornamented with a large chignon and a braid, 
 stuffed with horse hair and set on edge like a coronet — 
 while she snuggled into the hollow of his shoulder, and 
 did her best to weep and be overcome. But his heart 
 thumped, and he trembled all over. 
 
 “Have you no kiss for me, darling?” she pleaded, 
 when he blinked at her upturned face, and she snuffled 
 pathetically, and rubbed her eyes with a dry handker- 
 chief. “ Have you quite forgotten your poor old 
 mother ? ” 
 
 “ Poor old mother,” indeed ! She was barely forty, 
 and had the secret of perennial youthfulness, possessed 
 by women of her character, even under the severe disad- 
 vantages of a large young family. Trim and smart as 
 she could be from top to toe, in a new and stylish cos- 
 tume of mauve delaine and a bonnet of white lace and 
 daisies, she was as impressively feminine now as when gal- 
 lant Abraham succumbed to her. And Adam was the 
 
98 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 son of his father, and had the feelings of a man. He felt 
 with Aunt Priscilla, that a mother is a mother, when all 
 is said and done ; and — apart from that — his sex disabled 
 him for warfare with such a dainty creature. So he be- 
 stowed the filial kiss, and thereafter pursued the filial 
 course to which that act committed him. 
 
 He took Arabella to her room, and fetched her wine 
 and cake, and hot water to wash with. The eager aunts — 
 who seemed so much older than she did — would have fore- 
 stalled him, and so would gran’pa ; they wanted to do for 
 her what we always want to do for those of our belong- 
 ings who reflect credit upon us — our belle of the family, 
 our flower of the flock — whose charms and value we have 
 unaccountably overlooked ; but all felt that Adam had 
 first claim to whatever privileges were going — himself in- 
 cluded. And Mrs. Holditch allowed no one to come be- 
 tween her and her dear son ; all her choicest favours were 
 lavished upon him. 
 
 And Adam thawed, melted, warmed, under her artful 
 blandishments, in the idiotic male person’s manner. He 
 took her at her word, and sucked down her gross flatteries 
 as he had sucked down castor oil when a baby, under 
 the impression that it was mother’s milk. Even when 
 she said to him, in a thoughtful, meditative way, “ Ho 
 you know, darling, you have grown absolutely good-look- 
 ing — really almost handsome — since you have grown up ! ” 
 he merely blushed and simpered foolishly. Her lies were 
 all so silky-soft and sugary that the biggest of them could 
 not choke him. 
 
 They sat together at gran’ma’s bedside. The old lady’s 
 faculties were no longer in order, and her weakness was 
 so great that it was difficult to discover when she was 
 awake and when asleep. Adam generally seemed to 
 know, and sometimes he would not allow his mother to 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 99 
 
 talk lest she should disturb the sufferer. At other times, 
 when he was sure that gran’ma slept, and when he could 
 subdue the conversation to whispers, Arabella prattled to 
 him by the hour, in the most maternal fashion. 
 
 “ When this dear soul is at rest,” she would say, as- 
 suming for the moment an aspect of the deepest grief, 
 “ you will want a change, my love. Yes, indeed, after 
 this terrible strain ! I can see what it is, Adam, and how 
 it is telling upon you. You must come away at once, 
 
 darling — as soon as the funeral is over ” 
 
 “ Hush — sh — sh ! ” 
 
 “ Oh, she can’t hear ; if she could, she wouldn’t un- 
 derstand, poor thing ! You must return to Dunstanbor- 
 ough with me, and recruit in your native air, and in your 
 own father’s house, which is your proper place.” 
 
 Then she would describe to him how she had felt his 
 loss, and pined for him, and only by sheer force been pre- 
 vented from recalling him, in such moving terms that he 
 half believed her. But not altogether. In this matter he 
 felt that facts were at variance with her representations, 
 though he credited her with the wish to deceive herself 
 rather than him. And he always had his answer ready. 
 
 “ It is not my own father’s house, but Mr. Holditch’s. 
 I have no proper place there, mother.” 
 
 Whereupon she would go back on all her former 
 statements concerning her present husband’s tyranny, and 
 his responsibility for Adam’s wrongs, and declare that 
 Mr. Holditch not only bore no malice, but was almost as 
 anxious as herself to welcome his stepson under the old 
 roof. These discrepancies Adam would put down to a 
 kind heart, desiring to make the best of things ; and he 
 would continue to shake his head, gently but resolutely. 
 
 However, one day it was his resolution that was 
 shaken, and not his head. She was gossiping of Dunstan- 
 
100 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 borough and its little social vicissitudes, and happened to 
 mention that new people had come to Thurlow Hall, 
 which was the fine old homestead of one of the squire’s 
 best farms. 
 
 “ Plunket is the name,” she said ; “ and they are such 
 a charming family ! Real gentlefolks, with a carriage 
 and pair. I went to call on them as soon as they came, 
 and they were so affable ! They have not returned my 
 call yet; I hope they won’t till I get home again. It is 
 such a comfort to have people of that class to associate 
 with in a country place. We shall be great friends, I am 
 sure.” 
 
 Not only his beard and spectacles, but the darkness 
 of 10 p. m., made rather darker by the single night-light 
 burning in the bottom of a hand-basin, obscured Adam’s 
 face and protected his sacred feelings. 
 
 “ What family ? ” he inquired, after clearing his throat 
 carefully. 
 
 “ Five,” said Arabella. “ One son at Cambridge — a 
 charming young man ; I just caught a glimpse of him. 
 One daughter married, and two at home. The youngest 
 has something the matter with her eyes ; but the other is 
 charming — the most elegant girl I ever saw. Then there 
 is Mr. Plunket himself — a charming old man — quite the 
 gentleman — a perfect aristocrat. Mrs. Plunket is dead ; 
 but her widowed sister, Mrs. Hetheringon, keeps house 
 and chaperons the girls. A most charming woman— like 
 a duchess.” 
 
 From this moment Adam began to wonder whether it 
 would be possible, with any sort of pride or decency, to 
 accept — some day — his mother’s oft-repeated invitation. 
 Strange, how his memory of Dunstanborough — the sea, 
 the fields, the hedges and the birds, and stately Thurlow 
 Hall, with its tile-roofed gables, and elm trees, vocal with 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 101 
 
 nestling rooks — became all at once like a picture gallery 
 when the window shutters are thrown open. He could 
 see it all, and his beautiful Fidelia in the old garden, and 
 in the nut-walk, and amongst the rosy-blossomed apple 
 trees of the orchard behind the house ; and a great 
 home-sickness seized him — a new complaint. He had no 
 sympathy with his mother’s ambition to be “ great friends ” 
 with Fidelia’s family ; not for the world would he obtrude 
 himself upon their notice or hers ; but, oh, to see — only to 
 see, a long way off — that beloved friend, that true soul’s 
 mate, once more ! The very spirit of the Spring she 
 seemed, in his thought of her, growing up to womanhood 
 amongst these vernal scenes. Thurlow Hall in May ! 
 His longing to be there kept him awake all night. He 
 even dreamed of it in the sick room — where a bunch of 
 violets stood on a table amongst the medicine bottles — 
 instead of giving all his mind to gran’ma. 
 
 Gran’ma at this juncture was like a passsenger on a 
 departing ship that takes a long time to get under weigh 
 after the anchor is up. The friends stand on the wharf 
 and wave handkerchiefs, and wave, and wave, until they 
 get tired of waving, overstrained by a crisis so long drawn 
 out. The old woman was evidently dying; she was too 
 far gone to communicate with her friends any more ; yet 
 she was still there, and the doctor could not say for cer- 
 tain that she would not be there for weeks. This was an 
 opportunity for Adam’s strong youth to take advantage 
 of him. It was also an opportunity for gran’pa’s business 
 instincts to assert their sway. There was plenty of life 
 in gran’pa yet, though his years were more than gran’- 
 ma’s ; for men do not work themselves old before their 
 time, as women must — being good women, like her — the 
 heaviest burdens falling to their lot, who have least 
 strength to bear them. 
 
102 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 One day gran’pa called for his grandson, and said to 
 him, “ Just run round to Mr. Bowen’s for me, Adam, like 
 a good boy. Take him this proof, and ask him if he 
 wants any alterations. It’s quickest to go yourself, and 
 you’ll understand about it. Besides, the walk will freshen 
 you.” 
 
 Adam came down from the sick room and his dreams 
 of Thurlow Hall, and set forth on this prosaic errand. 
 All the way along the street he thought of hawthorn 
 hedges, and fluting blackbirds, and things of that sort, and 
 of the spirit of the Spring that dwelt amongst them. On 
 the roof of Mr. Bowen’s house there were pigeons patting 
 up and down puffing and bobbing, croaking and cooing to 
 one another ; but it never occurred to him to notice them. 
 
 “ Mr. Bowen at home ? ” 
 
 The maid who came to the door said he was not. On 
 hearing that Adam had particular business with him, she 
 asked him if he had not better wait a bit. She did not 
 think her master had gone far, or would be away long. 
 She would go and inquire. 
 
 Adam passed into the lawyer’s study, which was close 
 to the street door, and sat down there. It was a comfort- 
 able, well-worn, much-littered room, with a warm, dusty 
 fire dropping ashes that made a noise in the silence. A 
 large cat slept on the hearth-rug. There were pictures 
 on the walls, and many books on shelves and tables, in 
 which the visitor would have been interested had his 
 mind been free; and the general aspect of things im- 
 pressed him with its alien charm, the distinction of the 
 class to which it belonged, which was not his class. He 
 had a little bitter feeling in the thought that it was not 
 his class — that, superior as he was to Harry Bowen, his 
 place in the room was on a stiff chair against the door ; 
 whereas Harry had a right to swagger through it as he 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 103 
 
 pleased, and through others like it, and fling himself into 
 any armchair that stood empty. Sentiments of this kind 
 were incidental to Adam’s time of life, and were soon out- 
 grown. 
 
 Sitting in his corner, peering at his surroundings 
 through the goggles which falsely accused him of imper- 
 fect sight, he listened for the footsteps of the lawyer or 
 the returning parlour-maid, and for some time heard only 
 the ticking of a clock and the tinkle of falling cinders. 
 Then, with no preliminary sound, the door softly opened ; 
 and there stood a slim, tall girl, in a white frock, with a 
 bandage over her eyes. Fidelia herself was before him. 
 
CHAPTEK XI. 
 
 Fidelia herself, — Fidelia dressed for dinner was be- 
 fore him — he knew her at once — so close before him that 
 when she put out her hand to feel her way into the room 
 she touched his breast. It was no more than the touch 
 of a flitting butterfly, but it stunned him like a sword- 
 thrust, and it caused her to reel as if he had been there to 
 knock her down. 
 
 “ Did you — did you wish to see my uncle?” she in- 
 quired, blushing to the roots of her fair hair and the soft 
 white frill around her neck. “ I am so sorry he is out. 
 But he cannot be long now.” Then she made an effort 
 to say, “ Isn’t it Adam Drewe ? ” 
 
 “ Do you remember me ? ” stammered Adam, hardly 
 daring to take the hand she proffered. “ After all this 
 time ! ” 
 
 “ Do you remember me ? ” she returned, a smile on her 
 angelic mouth. “ I made sure you must have forgotten all 
 about me years and years ago.” 
 
 “Never! Oh, never, never ! ” cried Adam. “Never 
 for a moment ! I— I ” 
 
 But she gently withdrew her hand, and his courage 
 went with it. 
 
 “ I have had your poem to remember you by,” she con- 
 tinued, smiling still, a happy, bashful smile, full of sweet 
 welcome for him and a kindness too exquisite for words. 
 
 104 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 105 
 
 “ I know I ought to have returned it to you ages ago. But 
 I never had a chance. Perhaps you know that we have 
 been abroad? We have not been back very long; we are 
 only just settled down again. But I kept it safely in my 
 desk, in a locked drawer. I have it still.” 
 
 “ Oh, burn it ! — burn it ! ” he exclaimed, frowning and 
 reddening. “ Such utter rubbish ! Such unspeakable 
 twaddle ! What was I thinking of to let you see such 
 stuff? But I was a boy then.” 
 
 “ And now you are a man,” she breathed. 
 
 The hidden eyes seemed to scan him through the silk 
 bandage ; and he shivered and shrank. But he need not 
 have done so. They did not look at him. What they 
 saw was Apollo in a coat and trousers, the figure of the 
 Fairy Prince himself. For relenting Nature had deepened 
 and enriched his voice to organ strength and sweetness, 
 and it was only by his voice that she could imagine 
 him. As she blindly gazed at him, he gazed at her, with 
 reverence unutterable. He would have liked to kneel. 
 For if he was a man, she was all but a woman — the sacred 
 mystery of mysteries, the informing spirit of his new man’s 
 world. And with that lovely mouth, that tender throat 
 and chin, that exquisite curve of her young breast ! He 
 stood spell-bound before her, suffocated with emotion. 
 
 As if she heard his heart thumping, and was frightened 
 by it, she shrank away a little and turned her head. 
 
 “ Won’t you,” she said, “ won’t you come a little nearer 
 to the fire ? ” 
 
 She moved into the room, and he followed a step or 
 two, then put out his hand to guide her. 
 
 “ Your eyes — your poor eyes ! ” he murmured. “ They 
 are still ! ” 
 
 “ Ah, they have been so well ! ” she answered quickly. 
 “ I have had to be careful of them, of course, but I have 
 
106 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 been able to use them like other people ; they have been 
 all right till now. I think I was reading too much, or I 
 might have caught a cold — I don’t know ; but they have 
 got worse, all at once. I was sent here to see my old 
 doctor, and he did something to them yesterday, and I 
 have to wear this for a week. I never, never thought I 
 should have to put it on again ! ” 
 
 She had reached the hearth-rug, and stood, with a foot 
 on the fender, leaning against the mantel-shelf. Adam 
 divined a tear under the silk handkerchief, and became a 
 bottomless well of pity. 
 
 “ Won’t you sit down?” she asked politely. 
 
 “No, thanks,” he replied panting. “ I would rather 
 stand.” 
 
 They both stood, and kept silence for a minute, while 
 the clock ticked aggressively. The big cat rose, and 
 rubbed itself against the foot on the fender. Adam 
 stooped to stroke that happy, happy cat ; and she purred, 
 and arched her back, and curved about his legs caress- 
 ingly, for he was the friend of all dumb beasts. 
 
 “ Pussy ! Pussy ! ” he murmured. 
 
 “ Kitty ! Kitty ! ” breathed Fidelia. “ She loves the 
 fire — as I do. Isn’t it rather a cold evening? ” 
 
 “ Very cold,” said Adam, “ for the time of year. You 
 — you must be extremely careful when you go out of doors, 
 Miss Plunket, — the wind, you know.” 
 
 “Yes, I must — I am. Oh, I wish, I wish I had eyes 
 like other people ! ” 
 
 Her lips quivered, and she pressed a hand over the 
 bandage. 
 
 “ They don’t hurt you now, do they ? ” 
 
 His voice was beautiful in its depth and manly tender- 
 ness, as he put the question ; and she felt it all through 
 her. 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 107 
 
 “No,” she said, turning to him, sweetly confiding* 
 “ They only hurt me when the stuff is dropped in. It 
 isn’t that. But — but I can’t help feeling frightened 
 
 when they fail like this. I can’t help thinking — sup- 
 pose they should fail altogether some day, and I should 
 go blind!” 
 
 A little laughing sob accompanied the dreadful word. 
 It came from the depths within her, thrilling with fear ; 
 and Adam’s young heart, yearning over her, felt bursting. 
 
 “Oh, don’t — don’t!” he cried, “don’t think of such 
 things ! ” 
 
 “ Such things do happen,” she persisted. “ Why not 
 to me as well as another ? But if it did — oh, if it did ! ” 
 
 “ If it did,” said Adam, suddenly illuminated, elec- 
 trified, by his thought, “every soul belonging to you 
 would — would spend himself, like water poured out, to 
 make it up to you— to be eyes to you — to comfort you — to 
 work for you ” 
 
 “ Ah, no,” she broke in, sadly, but blushing beauti- 
 fully, “ that is not how blind people are treated. They 
 are gradually left out of everything, and forgotten. Peo- 
 ple get used to it, and get tired of it, and are glad to be 
 rid of you. That is how it was when I was a little girl, 
 and wore the bandage for so long. They found it a bother 
 to dress and undress me so often, and to have to lead me 
 about when they wanted to do things. They said they 
 didn’t, but I knew they did — I heard it in the tones of 
 their voices — I seemed to feel it in the air — that I was a 
 trouble to them, hampering their free movements, like a 
 clog tied to their legs. I never thought” — she stopped a 
 moment, as if to swallow something — “ it was going to be 
 like that again ! ” 
 
 “ It can never be like that again,” Adam protested, 
 with passion. “ Sometimes people don’t mind, with chil- 
 
108 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 dren; but it is different now — oh — oh ! If I — if 
 
 I 55 
 
 And at this eloquent moment the still house broke into 
 coarse and hateful tumult. A great deafening dinner-bell 
 clanged in the hall, the front door was burst open and 
 banged to, Mr. Bowen was heard questioning the parlour- 
 maid in a loud and peremptory manner, and Fidelia was 
 slipping from her young lover’s side as fast as she could 
 feel her way. 
 
 “ A gentleman is waiting to see you, uncle,” Adam 
 heard her say — and blessed her sweet voice. 
 
 “ All right, my dear,” the bluff lawyer answered her. 
 “ There’s dinner — I’m late — go in, and tell them to begin. 
 I won’t be five minutes.” 
 
 One minute was enough for business; and then Adam 
 sailed home, with his head in the clouds, feeling more like 
 a winged archangel than a man. 
 
 He was brought to earth again, with a sharp shock, on 
 hearing that gran’ma had taken a bad turn in his absence, 
 and was apparently going fast/ He rushed through the 
 house, where all was confusion — maids and neighbours 
 whispering in the passages, the muffins and the lamb 
 chops growing cold on the tea-table — and upstairs to the 
 sick room, where he saw gran’ma half sitting up in bed, 
 with her family around her. She was more awake than 
 she had been for weeks, restless with her laboured breath- 
 ing, and talking — talking — in a delirious kind of way. 
 The doctor, they told him, had been and gone, saying that 
 he could do no good, though ready, if they wished it, to 
 return at any moment. It was a question of hours. They 
 were all crying, more or less, except Arabella, who ap- 
 peared to cry the most, contorting her face, and using her 
 handkerchief freely. In reality she was thinking of dye- 
 ing her mauve delaine, and other garments, and wonder- 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 109 
 
 in g anxiously whether they would come out a good black. 
 She sat against the bed, facing gran’ma, who hitherto had 
 hardly noticed her married daughter’s presence. Sud- 
 denly the wandering eyes were fixed upon her, with a 
 strange look. 
 
 “ She knows me,” said Mrs. Holditch, in the feeling 
 voice that had no feeling heart to back it. “ Mamma, 
 dear, you know me, don’t you — your little Bella ? ” 
 
 The dying woman continued to gaze at her for some 
 seconds, panting for breath. Then she said, vehemently, 
 “ What have you done with Adam ? ” 
 
 “ He’s here, dear ! He’s here,” they murmured in 
 chorus. And Adam came forward and put his arm round 
 the pillows that supported her. 
 
 “ There are wheals on his back,” said gran’ma, “ that 
 you can lay your finger in. Bruises black and blue. His 
 
 poor little calves cut through with the whip ” She 
 
 stopped, and pointed a witch-like claw at Arabella’s red- 
 dening face. “ You call yourself a mother ? Pooh! Don’t 
 you call yourself a mother ! You’re no mother ! ” 
 
 “ You’re no mother yourself, to talk to me in that 
 cruel manner, and at such a time as this,” Mrs. Holditch 
 was moved to retort — for her feelings were hurt. “ I 
 didn’t do it.” 
 
 “ Be quiet,” said Adam, sternly. 
 
 W I won’t be quiet for you,” she snapped, viciously, 
 turning upon her son. “ How dare you, sir, say ‘ be 
 quiet ’ to me ? ” 
 
 “ Hush, Bella ! ” her father interposed. “ No bicker- 
 ing here, if you please.” 
 
 “ Don’t you mind,” murmured the aunts, who were 
 making so much of their sister just now. “ You can 
 see she is wandering, and doesn’t know what she’s say- 
 
 • 51 
 
 mg. 
 
 8 
 
110 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 u His dear little throat,” continued gran’ma, whim- 
 pering, “ all swelled inside, so that it hurts him to 
 swallow, and the blue finger marks outside, where it was 
 gripped hold of ” 
 
 “ That’s all done with, dear,” said Adam, trying to 
 stop her. “ Long, long ago ! ” 
 
 “ Deaf o’ one ear for weeks, he was — and blood dried 
 in it, like black treacle — boxed and boxed till the blood 
 came — a little babe like him ! ” Again she fixed her 
 eyes on Arabella. “ You call yourself a mother? Pooh ! 
 You’re no mother.” 
 
 “ Papa,” said aunt Harriet, “ we had better send for 
 Mr. Nethersole.” 
 
 Mr. Nethersole was the curate of their district — the 
 curate who had attempted to prepare Adam for confir- 
 mation. Since that unfortunate affair there had been a 
 coolness and a sense of awkwardness between the Armour 
 family and their pastor ; wherefore they had delayed to 
 send for him — delayed far too long, as they now recog- 
 nised. 
 
 “ Adam,” said gran’pa, “ go and fetch him.” 
 
 But gran’ma turned and clung to her boy. “ No, no,” 
 she cried, in her toneless, breathless voice. “ He is not 
 to go ! He shan’t be sent back there to be beaten like a 
 dog ! J ames, he is not to go — he is not to go ! ” 
 
 “ Very well, dear — very well, he sha’n’t,” said gran’pa, 
 who was greatly distressed by this strange and inappro- 
 priate mood ; and he whispered to aunt Priscilla, “ Send 
 Betsy.” 
 
 Then poor gran’ma’s excitement calmed down — beaten 
 down by the rising tide of anguished insensibility in 
 which she was drowning, beyond reach of help. For 
 some time they watched her silently — the sinking eyes, 
 the dropping jaws, the irregular, dragging respiration, 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 Ill 
 
 the failing pulse — and, when nothing happened, they 
 stole away, one at a time, to snatch a bite of food and a 
 cup of tea, and stole back again. Only Adam never 
 stirred from his post, though every bone in his body 
 ached. Gran’ma lay on his numb right arm, and lay 
 there till she died. The last thing she saw was his face 
 bending over her — the ugly face that love had made 
 beautiful ; and her last thought and words were given to 
 him. 
 
 “ He’s — to have — my watch — my gold watch — and 
 chain. Do you — hear, James ? Adam — my watch and 
 chain ” 
 
 “ Yes, my poor old girl, he shall,” said her husband, 
 weeping. 
 
 “ For his wife — Adam’s wife — in memory — of me.” 
 
 Adam’s heart swelled as he stooped to kiss her, in 
 acknowledgment of the precious gift. His wife ! The 
 piercing thought went through him that his wife — the 
 only wife he could bear to think of — might never be able 
 to tell the time. 
 
 Then a stir downstairs, and the group about the bed 
 announced the arrival of Mr. Nethersole. The clergy- 
 man came up with his official face and a little black 
 bag, out of which he drew a surplice, a red-edged prayer- 
 book, and some tiny silver vessels in a morocco case. 
 
 Mrs. Holditch, in a soft bustle, moved the medicine 
 bottles from the bedside table, and procured that fair 
 white linen cloth, which he required to complete his prep- 
 arations. Presently she was kneeling by the table, with 
 bowed head and hands folded on her breast, like an ec- 
 static nun. 
 
 They asked Adam if he wished to partake, and he 
 said “No.” They asked him if he wished to withdraw, 
 and he said “No ” again. Then they went on with their 
 
112 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 little ceremonies, ignoring him as he ignored them, while 
 gran’ma’s fixed eyes filmed over, still gazing into his. He 
 and gran’ma were outside together. They put a crumb 
 of bread into her mouth, and a drop of Lent wine from 
 the Lilliputian goblet ; but she did not swallow either. 
 She knew less of what was doing than a christened baby 
 when the sign of the Cross is made in water on its brow. 
 In fact, before the rite was oyer she was dead, though 
 only Adam knew it. 
 
 And when she was dead, and even before she was 
 buried, unseemly disputes arose in the family as to who 
 should have this and that of her little duds. Arabella 
 was the eldest daughter, and as such claimed right of 
 choice, and even sole heirship, just as an eldest son would 
 claim to succeed his father. On the other hand, the 
 aunts pleaded their husbandless, houseless, futureless, 
 condition as entitling them to all and everything — little 
 enough, as they said, compared with their sister’s posses- 
 sions — and passionately upbraided her for being mean 
 and selfish. There was a diamond ring that became a 
 terrible bone of contention, because a diamond ring was a 
 great distinction to a family in those days, and in that 
 class of life. The stones were not bigger than pins’ heads, 
 but they were more to the Armour ladies than koh-i-noors 
 to princes. There was also a Paisley shawl — middle-aged 
 matrons can remember what a Paisley shawl represented 
 when they were young — as well as a good black silk gown 
 that could be turned and made like new, and was specially 
 desirable in conjunction with crape. But the gold watch 
 and chain were above all these things in value; and Ara- 
 bella declared that she would have them. Gran’ma had 
 left no will, and what she had said when her mind was 
 wandering needed not to be considered for a moment. 
 The mother’s watch always went to the eldest daughter — 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 113 
 
 it was a sort of heirloom, naturally entailed ; more than 
 that, Mrs. Holditch boldly asserted that it had been prom- 
 ised to her ever since she was a baby. She rummaged all 
 gran’ma’s drawers and boxes, looking for it — it was a 
 fine, fat, handsome, gold, English watch, whereas her 
 own was a poor Geneva — but she could not find it any- 
 where. 
 
 “ Adam,” she said at last, “ do you happen to know 
 where they put poor gran’ma’s watch and chain ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, mother,” said Adam. “ I have them.” 
 
 “ My dear boy, you don’t suppose — you haven’t been 
 taking that seriously ? Of course, she was only wander- 
 ing in her mind when she spoke of your having them. 
 Why, the watch was promised to me ages and ages ago, 
 before you were born or thought of.” 
 
 Adam looked stubborn, like his father. He neither 
 moved nor spoke. 
 
 “ Give it to me,” Arabella ordered, extending her 
 hand. 
 
 “ I can’t,” he said. 
 
 “ Adam, give me that watch this instant, or I will go 
 to gran’pa, and he’ll make you.” 
 
 “ Gran’pa brought it to me himself, mother, the 
 morning after gran’ma died. She wished me to have it. 
 I cannot give it up to anybody — not to anybody — until — 
 until ” 
 
 “Until what? Until you have a wife, I suppose? 
 A wife , indeed ! Your wife ! ” She threw up her head, 
 and wrinkled her nose, and laughed offensively. 
 
 Adam turned as red as fire, and grimly locked his teeth. 
 
 And so all the work of reconciliation was undone 
 again, and they were as much estranged as they had ever 
 been. More — for now her son could understand her 
 better. 
 
114 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 But in a few weeks after gran’ma’s death, Adam came 
 of age, and came into his money ; and the first thing he 
 did with it was to buy the most beautiful watch that 
 Lyntham could produce — gold all over, with her mono- 
 gram on the back of it, and a wreath of jewels round 
 the face — and send it to her for a present. Whereupon 
 Arabella wrote to him to say that he was a darling and a 
 dear, and that she was pining away for another sight of 
 him. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 And Adam was actually in Dunstanborough once 
 more. 
 
 Mr. Holditch had behaved well at gran’ma’s funeral ; 
 he had behaved still better over the business of his 
 stepson’s majority. It really seemed as if the undoubted 
 trials of his married life had softened and improved him 
 — as if his wife had somewhat drawn upon her imagina- 
 tion in her account of his character and conduct. And for 
 this reason — so he told gran’pa and the aunts — Adam 
 consented to accept that invitation, which he had so 
 firmly declared he never would accept. Of course, there 
 were other reasons. The bread of the enemy largely lost 
 its bitter flavour when the eater of it was a comparatively 
 rich young man, with power to make ample return for it ; 
 that was one. And for another — which covered all the 
 rest — Fidelia was at Thurlow Hall, and Thurlow Hall 
 was in Dunstanborough. 
 
 Yet he seemed to go with reluctance, putting it off 
 until Summer — the proper time to recruit in the country 
 and at the seaside — was past, and stealing thither like a 
 thief in the night, when no one expected him ; choosing 
 a Monday evening, when it rained, to avoid Sunday, lest 
 his mother should plague him to go to church. 
 
 He was not at all grotesquely ugly at this time of his 
 life ; indeed, from a little distance, he appeared quite a 
 
 115 
 
116 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 fine fellow. He had grown well during his later and 
 happier years, and developed an excellent figure, though 
 still short for his breadth. He wore the goggles that Sar’ 
 Ann had recommended, and his young beard and mous- 
 tache covered his mouth and chin ; both improved him 
 enormously. And no empty-headed dandy could have 
 been more fastidious about his clothes, or shown a better 
 taste in the selection of them. This was particularly the 
 case after he had come into his money, and could buy to 
 please himself. He looked strong, and he looked gentle- 
 manly ; and if he looked odd, it was with no despicable 
 oddness now. It is quite possible that he would have 
 passed muster with Fidelia, had he allowed her to see 
 him, and given her time to get used to it, considering her 
 predisposition to exalt him. 
 
 But that she should see him — see him at the wrong 
 time, too soon or too suddenly, before he had assured 
 himself that both or either of them could bear it — was 
 the terror of his life. The older he grew, the more sensi- 
 tive he grew; the better-looking he became, the keener 
 did he feel his ugliness ; the more he loved Fidelia, the 
 more he dreaded to be separated from her ; and he had 
 good reason to know what was most likely to part them. 
 So he put off going to Dunstanborough until he could no 
 longer restrain himself ; and when he went it was in fear 
 and trembling for the consequences. 
 
 Would the bandage be on or off? That was the great 
 question. And there was this greater one — would she 
 eventually get well, or would she lose her sight ? — her 
 sight, which his life and all his love could not buy back 
 for her, if it was to go. He turned these questions over 
 and over in his mind, as he drove to his old home alone 
 in a hired gig, under cover of the September dusk. He 
 told himself that he ought to have waited to hear the 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 117 
 
 answer ; at least, to hear what was likely to be the answer. 
 But he also told himself that to wait longer was impossi- 
 ble. After all, he was going to see, and not to be seen. 
 
 His mother’s children, for whom he had brought a 
 wonderful box of toys, were all in bed, and so was the 
 stepfather. Mr. Holditch, suffering from the farmers’ 
 perennial bad times, had all he could do to feed his wife’s 
 necessities ; such a luxury for himself as a bailiff to get 
 up at four or five in the morning to set milkers and 
 carters on their jobs, was not to be thought of. Arabella, 
 getting supper for her son, told a moving tale of poverty 
 and hardship, and said she wondered what his poor dear 
 father, who had thought nothing too good for her, would 
 say if he could see her now. 
 
 As Adam saw her now, she appeared blooming and 
 comfortable. She didn’t have to go to bed, “ dog-tired,” 
 in daylight, and get up in the dark to work. Her keep- 
 ing-room was much handsomer than it had been in the 
 old times, and she used what used to be the best silver 
 teapot in pouring out his tea. She had a better teapot 
 now for company occasions — gran’ma’s bridal teapot, 
 wrested violently from Aunt Harriet and Aunt Priscilla 
 after gran’ma was dead. 
 
 “ There’s no doubt about it,” she remarked, with an 
 air of motherly candour ; “ I ought, at least, to have had 
 the uso of Tommy’s and Prissy’s portions until they 
 would have come of age — and that’s years off yet. I’m 
 sure my dear old fellow never intended that money to 
 lie by idle, while I was pinching and struggling for want 
 of it.” 
 
 “I suppose father left it to you,” said Adam, a for 
 their support, as he left it in that way.” 
 
 “ Of course he did ; but it was for my use as well. 
 Do you suppose that he ever imagined for a moment that 
 
118 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 they were going to die ? — fine, strong, hearty children as 
 you would wish to see ! No ; he expected them all to 
 grow up around me, and then take care of me when they 
 were men and women.” 
 
 She looked at Adam, and waited for him to make 
 comments. But he ate in silence. He forbore to men- 
 tion the funds of the trust that had provided for his own 
 legal infancy, and how they had been administered. 
 When he spoke it was to praise the veal and ham pie as 
 the best he had ever tasted, and to ask her if she still 
 brewed her own beer. 
 
 “Oh, dear, no!” she replied to this question. “We 
 can’t afford to brew beer in these days.” 
 
 “I should have thought it was cheaper than buying 
 it,” said Adam, “since you have the brew-house and 
 plant. You want such a lot at harvest time.” 
 
 “ Oh, we have to want a good many things that we 
 can’t get,” sighed she ; and she hastened to block the 
 subject of autumn crops, which she saw him about to lay 
 hold of. “ I often think if my dear, dear Abraham could 
 have foreseen ” 
 
 But here Abraham’s son was irresistibly moved to sug- 
 gest that things would probably have been no better had 
 his father foreseen that Mr. Holditch was immediately to 
 step into his shoes. 
 
 “ It was not immediately,” protested Arabella. “ It 
 was years and years afterwards. And let me tell you, 
 Adam, he was the last person in the world to have any 
 mean jealousies of that sort. All he thought about was 
 my comfort and welfare. He would have been the first 
 to wish me to marry again, left as I was, if it was for my 
 happiness.” 
 
 “ Well, mother, if you have been happy ” 
 
 “ I have not been happy ! Far from it ! But I did 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 119 • 
 
 not marry for happiness, Adam. I did it, my boy, for 
 your sake.” 
 
 Adam thought it time to give up arguing after this. 
 He asked for some of that nice cold bread and butter 
 pudding, and racked his brains for a fresh subject. She 
 gave him no time to find one. 
 
 “ What’s a third ? ” she ejaculated. “ Oh, it’s well for 
 you, that are rolling in money — interest and compound 
 interest — to talk about my third ! ” (He had not men- 
 tioned it, and his great wealth amounted to about £500 a 
 year.) “ Do you suppose I get any of it? — with a hus- 
 band who never seems to know how to make a shilling 
 for himself, and seven children depending on me ? Poor 
 dears, I don’t know what’s to become of them — I don’t, 
 indeed. There’s my eldest boy — I mean my eldest of 
 Alfred’s — a fine, handsome, clever fellow — but you’ve seen 
 him haven’t you ? ” 
 
 Adam thought he had seen him at Lyntham once or 
 twice, at the Tuesday market, with his father. To look 
 at, he was a lumping lout. 
 
 “ There he is — only just thirteen — working out of 
 doors like a common person’s son, when he ought to be at 
 boarding school. His papa makes him — says he can’t 
 afford Expensive schooling, with so many others coming 
 on, and that it’s time for him to be doing something. 
 I’ve seen that boy go out in the dark of a winter morning, 
 in thick highlows, like a common labourer, to cut hay out 
 of the stack when it’s covered with snow and icicles ” 
 
 She whimpered, and took out her handkerchief. Adam 
 began to look grave and thoughtful. He had his senti- 
 mental impulses, but not in connection with money ; here, 
 as in many other things, he was his hard-headed father’s 
 son. Quite plainly he saw her designs upon his newly- 
 acquired property, and quite resolved was he to circum- 
 
 i 
 
120 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 vent them. Not only had she no right to anything, but 
 Fidelia had the right to all. He meant to be a miser for 
 her sake — until that day when she might possibly come 
 to him, blind, to be taken care of. At the same time, he 
 wished to pay handsomely for the veal and ham pie, and 
 the bread and butter pudding ; and the subject of a boy’s 
 education was one upon which he felt strongly. He did 
 not like to think of Guy Vavasour cutting hay for the 
 cows when he ought to be at school. He knew what 
 good schooling had done for himself. So he said to 
 
 his mother, “ Perhaps Mr. Holditch will allow me ” 
 
 And was unable to finish the sentence, because at this 
 point he was suddenly strangled by her arms around 
 his neck. 
 
 “ Oh, you dear, darling boy ! Oh, you good son ! I 
 knew your generous heart — your poor father’s, all over ! 
 I knew you would help us as soon as you had the power — 
 as soon as you knew how things were ! ” 
 
 “ Say,” added Adam, cautiously, when he could artic- 
 ulate again, “ say for two years.” 
 
 “ Yes, dearest ; I will speak to his father. I’m sure 
 he will only be too thankful to accept your offer. It will 
 be the making of our poor boy. Then, perhaps, he will 
 be qualified for a lawyer’s office, or some gentlemanly 
 profession of that sort — something worthy of him.” 
 
 “ I can’t make any promises about the lawyer’s office,” 
 said Adam. 
 
 “Of course not — that’s all in the future. Have you 
 had a good supper, darling ? I wish I’d had something 
 better for you — I would if I had known. Not a little 
 bit of cheese, love, and a biscuit ? A gingerbread nut ? 
 You used to be so fond of gingerbread nuts when you 
 were a little boy.” 
 
 Adam said he had quite done, and that he would like 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 121 
 
 to go to bed if she would not mind. He was sure that 
 was where she ought to be herself at such a late hour. 
 
 “Late? It’s only half-past nine,” she returned, joy- 
 ously. “ I could sit and talk all night.” 
 
 “ That would be very bad for you, then. Come, let 
 us go, and do the rest of our talking to-morrow. I 
 might be obliged to go home to-morrow — I don’t 
 know ” 
 
 “ Oh, no, no,” she cried ; “ I will not hear of such a 
 thing. Now we’ve got you, we are going to keep you. 
 Where’s home , I should like to know, if it isn’t here — with 
 your own mother?” 
 
 He laughed ; he could not help it. “ Good-night,” he 
 said. “ If you want to keep young and pretty, as you are 
 now, you must have your beauty sleep. Where are you 
 going to put me ? ” 
 
 He found that he was actually going to be put into 
 the spare room, which was never intended for such com- 
 mon use. He had not given her time to think out an- 
 other plan, which should respect his new importance 
 without deranging the order of the house. He protested 
 against an honour unto which he was not born, and said 
 that any shakedown would do for the likes of him ; but 
 she made a joke about the fatted calf, implying that noth- 
 ing was too good for him under the circumstances, while 
 she folded away the best quilt and covers, and put the 
 lace-and-satin pin-cushion into a drawer. So, after an 
 affectionate good-night, she left him, and he retired into 
 the downy interior of the big four-poster, the feel of which 
 was somewhat cold and clammy from long disuse. 
 
 He slept little, and was up early. The fresh morning, 
 lightly foggy, with sunshine struggling through the fog, 
 was grateful to his healthy lungs and nature-loving eyes ; 
 and his little prowl about the place before breakfast, with 
 
122 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 his memories and reflections, was deeply interesting. 
 There was not time to reach the sea, nor any point from 
 which Thurlow Hall was visible ; but he saw the grey 
 towers of Dicky Delavel’s home amongst its woods, from 
 the old road gate — the gate of sorrowful associations. 
 Dicky, like himself, was an outcast from his father’s 
 house — because he had married a “ common ” girl, old 
 Morrison’s pretty daughter. John Morrison passed the 
 gate in his gig, already on his way to Lyntham Market, 
 for it was Tuesday morning. Adam stopped him to ask 
 if he had any news of his brother-in-law, but John surlily 
 shook his head. Mrs. Eichard, he said, was “ above ” re- 
 membering the existence of the likes of them — meaning 
 himself and his shrewish wife, Ehody Appleton that was. 
 In this Mrs. Eichard was like Mrs. Holditch ; the latter 
 positively refused to “ know ” the Morrison family, even 
 though they had become connected by marriage with the 
 great Delavel house. Adam had a speaking acquaintance 
 with John, dating from the old days ; and no one who 
 knew them ever made the mistake of confounding Adam 
 with the Holditches. 
 
 “ Didn’t expect to see you here,” was the farmer’s first 
 remark, when the young man accosted him. And Adam 
 replied that he was rather surprised himself, when he 
 came to think of it ; but that, after all, it was his birth- 
 place, and he found it pleasant to renew acquaintance with 
 the old scenes. He supposed he would find many changes 
 after so many years. 
 
 John said “yes,” and spoke of them — particularly of 
 Dicky Delavel’s marriage and sad departure. 
 
 “ Many others gone ? ” queried Adam. 
 
 John instanced a few; first and foremost his old 
 father, though he had been a long time dead. 
 
 “ Any new people come ? ” 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 123 
 
 The farmer enumerated several ; amongst others, the 
 tenant of Thurlow Hall. 
 
 “ Do you know him at all ? ” 
 
 “ Of course I don’t — no more than I know the squire 
 — ’cept as I meet him in the way of business.” 
 
 “ What family has he ? ” 
 
 “ Know nothin’ about his family. I’ve heard he’s 
 some connection of her poor ladyship’s. Ah, there was a 
 loss, when she went ! As good a woman as ever stepped. 
 She’d ha’ forgiven Master Richard if they’d ha’ let her.” 
 
 Then farmer John resumed his journey, for Adam 
 had no more questions to ask. Many years ago he had 
 learned all there was to know about Master Richard from 
 Sar’ Ann, who had come to Lyntham for her wedding 
 tour at the time when Dunstanborough was ringing with 
 his exploit and disasters. The news required now was 
 news of Fidelia, and Adam proposed to go to Sar’ Ann 
 for that also, as soon as he could find an opportunity. 
 Greatly depressed by what he had heard concerning his 
 darling’s rank in life — for to be a connection of the Dela- 
 vels was to be a sort of princess of the blood royal, in the 
 eyes of a Dunstanborough native — he returned to the 
 house along the old cart road which was so full of his 
 childish footprints. Going to and from school, he had 
 never been allowed to use the front gate and gravelled 
 garden paths ; in all weathers he had tramped this way, 
 over the ridges and furrows made by the waggon wheels. 
 In winter, when the deep ruts were full of frozen slush, 
 his little feet used to slip and stick in them, and his rub- 
 bishy boots to squelch with water for the whole cold day : 
 and then at night he would scratch his chilblained heels 
 and toes to pieces, and have terrible wounds for his socks 
 to tear the half-healed skin from — wounds which were 
 never mollified with ointment, or protected with wash- 
 
121 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 leather, or, indeed, taken the slightest notice of, until 
 gran’ma observed them. He thought of these things as 
 he approached the paved backyard and the kitchen door 
 — hard by the cool, lattice- wind owed dairy under the 
 elder trees, wfflere Sar’ Ann used to work — and heard his 
 mother calling him in endearing accents to come to 
 breakfast. 
 
 She had an excellent breakfast for him — ham, and 
 brawn, and new-laid eggs, and cream for his tea — and the 
 keeping-room wore a cheerful and hospitable air. The 
 whole family had assembled in it to give him formal wel- 
 come. Mr. Holditch, who had finished his repast, though 
 it was barely seven o’clock, and done a couple of hours’ 
 work besides, apologised quite handsomely for having 
 been abed on his stepson’s arrival, and told him, with 
 every appearance of sincerity, that he was glad to see 
 him. He really bore no malice to speak of, and had no 
 idea that he had been particularly cruel as a stepfather. 
 It subsequently transpired that Guy Vavasour and Eodolf 
 Mortimer Montagu had had painful experience of the 
 whip and the buckled strap ; and that even Algernon 
 Herbert, aged four, was liable to either, whichever hap- 
 pened to be handy, when he was a naughty boy. The 
 British farmer is very much of the old times ; and in old 
 times it was held that to spare the rod was to spoil the 
 child more thoroughly than you could spoil him in any 
 other way. 
 
 The elder boys had seen their half-brother before, and 
 merely hung their heads and shuffled their feet when 
 called upon to be brotherly. The darling of Arabella’s 
 heart was particularly sulky and mulish. It had been 
 explained to him how much he owed to dear Adam’s 
 goodness, and how grateful he ought to be to show 
 himself; but to go to boarding school was the very 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 125 
 
 last thing that Guy Vavasour desired. Indeed, he had 
 privately asked his mother if she “ didn’t wish she might 
 get it ” — i. e ., get him to go. The younger members of the 
 family were not acquainted with her first-born, and she 
 now proudly introduced them to him, one by one. He 
 beamed on them through his spectacles, and they gazed 
 up at him with pert curiosity. 
 
 “ Oh, what a funny man ! ” growled Algernon Her- 
 bert. 
 
 “ Oh, what a funny man ! ” piped Maria Louise Vic- 
 toria. 
 
 “ Funny man ! ” echoed Antoinnette Isabelle, the 
 baby. 
 
 And they all cackled together, in great enjoyment of 
 his appearance, until their mother boxed their ears for 
 being rude. 
 
 Then Adam consoled them by telling them of the 
 toys he had brought them, and they became very good 
 friends with him. But still, as they sat over their basins 
 of bread and milk, they kept their eyes intently fixed on 
 his face ; and whenever for a moment they looked at one 
 another, they giggled again as much as they dared. Adam 
 did not like it a bit. 
 
 However, he made a hearty breakfast ; and after 
 breakfast, having received their presents, the children 
 were sent to school and elsewhere out of the way. Then 
 Arabella apologised for being obliged to leave her guest 
 for a little while ; and Adam begged her to make no 
 company of him, for that he could perfectly well enter- 
 tain himself. And as soon as she had gone about her do- 
 mestic duties, he snatched up his hat and sallied forth in 
 quest of Sar’ Ann. 
 
 9 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 There was no railway in Dunstanborough then, for 
 the old squire was still alive ; there was no high farming 
 as yet, to spoil the lovely hedges and scatter the birds 
 that lived in them ; and Adam walked through the lanes 
 and stubble fields, as his mythical first father walked 
 through Paradise, finding all that his soul desired — ex- 
 cept the one, last, chief thing, without which neither 
 Adam was a perfect man. The mists of dawn had 
 melted into a sweet blue sky, crossed and crossed with 
 the silver gleam of white pigeons’ wings, wheeling and 
 rising and dropping over the fields where the yellow 
 wheat had waved but yesterday. The blackberries were 
 ripe, and the wildbines still in flower, and little harebells 
 amongst the grass ; and the Hall woods were kindling 
 into autumn colour, and the perfume of fresh-ploughed 
 earth was in the air. But to enumerate these things was 
 not to describe their effect upon the soul and senses of 
 our young man, now in his “ magnetic ” years — the en- 
 chanted morning of his life. 
 
 Dunstanborough revisited — after years of shops and 
 streets — was a new garden of Eden to this Adam, far 
 more beautiful than he had remembered it. But Sar’ 
 Ann — poor Sar’ Ann, who had been so perky and pretty 
 and proud of herself — alas ! she was almost unrecog- 
 nisable. She lived in a two-roomed cottage, and she 
 
 126 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 127 
 
 had five young children, and she fed mainly upon cab- 
 bages, and she worked in the fields — turned hay with a 
 pitchfork in summer, and reaped corn in the burning 
 days of August, with the latest baby lying under a shock 
 or a hedge near by. The once blooming face was hard 
 and shining ; the once plump neck and dimpled arms 
 were stringy and leathery, tanned brown by the harvest 
 sun; the once trim figure was bent, pulpy, collarless, 
 almost buttonless, with no youth or grace left in it. 
 Adam had to look twice before venturing to accost her 
 as his old friend. She, however, frankly affirmed that 
 there was no mistaking him , because he was, and always 
 would be, entirely different from other people. 
 
 “ But,” she said, as she dusted a milking stool for him 
 to sit on, while her barefooted progeny gathered around 
 to stare, “but you’re quite the gentleman, Adam! I 
 really thought for a moment that it was Mr. Roger com- 
 ing along. Well, you do look grand ! I mustn’t call you 
 4 Adam ’ any more. And you’ve got the property, too ! 
 My word, I was glad when I heard o’ that. She’d ha’ 
 done you out of every penny, if she could. You’ll excuse 
 my speaking so boldly of your mother. But she never 
 was a mother, to call a mother, as everybody knows.” 
 
 “ I would rather you didn’t,” said Adam, with that air 
 of the gentleman which so cowed her native self-assur- 
 ance. “ Tell me about yourself, Sar’ Ann, and how the 
 world has gone with you. Not very easily, I am afraid.” 
 “ You may say that,” she sighed fiercely, “ with a hus- 
 band that earns the wages of a ploughboy, and spends half 
 of that at the public house.” 
 
 And she proceeded to talk about herself at such length, 
 and with such multitudinous detail, that Adam found no 
 chance to mention in a casual manner the subject he 
 wanted to introduce. He was obliged to force it on her 
 
128 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 during a necessary pause for breath, and probably would 
 have failed to fix it upon her attention then, had he not 
 relieved her mind of some of its burdens by the proffer of 
 a handsome present. 
 
 “ You were good to me in the old days,” he had said, 
 “ when there were not many to be good to me. I could 
 not repay you then ; but I can do a little towards it now, 
 if you will let me. You won’t be too proud to take a 
 five-pound-note, as a little token of friendship, will 
 you ? ” 
 
 Sar’ Ann was not too proud. She would not have 
 been so in any case ; but as things were with her now, 
 five pounds meant all the difference between bliss and 
 woe. She took the potent wisp of paper, and was trans- 
 figured in the act, as by the hand of enchantment. Her 
 wrinkles were smoothed out, her complainings died away ; 
 she became benignantly maternal — lauded the natural 
 charms of her unkempt brats, and declared that, now she 
 could get them boots and clothes, they should certainly 
 go to Sunday School. Whereby Mr. Delavel-Pole, who 
 was always “ at her,” would be appeased, and the great 
 gods of the village placated. And then Adam asked her 
 who Mr. Delavel-Pole had now to teach in the Sunday 
 School, and she named the “ new young lady at Thurlow 
 Hall ” amongst others. 
 
 “ Which ? ” Adam breathlessly demanded. 
 
 “ There is only one,” said Sar’ Ann. “ The eldest 
 Miss Plunket is married. They do say her husband’s 
 mother’s cousin was a Miss Delavel, but I don’t be- 
 lieve it.” 
 
 Adam hoped it was true ; he had feared a closer con- 
 nection. 
 
 “ But I thought there were two unmarried Miss 
 Plunkets,” he exclaimed ; “ I am sure I was told so.” 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 129 
 
 44 There’s two, counting the one with the^eyes. But 
 she can’t teach in Sunday School. She can’t see.” 
 
 44 What, not at all ? ” 
 
 Adam was barely able to articulate this query, and 
 his heart leaped and thumped. “ Oh, darling ! dar- 
 ling ! ” he sighed to himself, pitiful beyond expression, 
 but solemnly exulting, too. 44 Oh, my poor, poor little 
 love ! ” 
 
 44 Well,” said Sar’ Ann, 44 she’s been seen with her 
 eyes uncovered, and they do say she looks awful — for all 
 the world like a blind person, peering and poking. But 
 what I say is — if she couldn’t see a little, how could she 
 take music lessons ? ” 
 
 “ Who gives her music lessons ? ” 
 
 “A man from Lyntham. He comes over twice a 
 week. She’s very fond of music is Miss Delia, so they 
 say. She plays the organ in the church, behind the 
 curtain. Mr. Delavel-Pole has got a new organ put in 
 since you were here, Adam. But I beg your pardon — I 
 shouldn’t say 4 Adam ’ now.” 
 
 44 Every Sunday ? ” inquired Adam, wishing he had 
 come to Dunstanborough two days sooner. 
 
 44 Oh, no ; Miss Katherine mostly plays o’ Sundays. 
 Miss Delia comes by herself o’ weekdays, when nobody’s 
 there. They drop her at the church when they go for 
 walks and drives, and pick her up on their way back. Or 
 else a servant comes with her — a very nice girl — Esther is 
 her name ; the cook at the Rectory is a great friend of 
 hers, and she goes and sits there while she waits. They 
 do say Miss Delia means to earn her living as an organist, 
 if the doctors can’t cure her. She’s so afraid of being a 
 burden on her family.” 
 
 44 Oh, do they ? ” thought Adam. 44 1 know more 
 about that than they do, or she either — poor, precious 
 
130 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 child ! EsPrn her living, indeed — while I have eyes and 
 hands, and five hundred a year ! ” 
 
 “ And, of course,” continued Sar’ Ann, “ no one would 
 marry her if she went quite blind. Though, for the mat- 
 ter o’ that, it’s a’most as well to be blind as to have such 
 a husband as I’ve got. Perhaps better.” 
 
 She sighed from force of habit, though still irradiated 
 by the comfortable thought within her. Adam smiled 
 behind his beard and spectacles. 
 
 “ Who blows the bellows for her ? ” he asked, casually. 
 “ A boy in her sister’s class — one of the young Too- 
 goods. She gives him something for doing it.” 
 
 “ Don’t the young Toogoods go to school on weekdays 
 as well as Sundays ? ” 
 
 “ Of course they do ; Miss Barbara sees to that. She’s 
 as particular about the children going to school as my 
 lady used to be, and far more severe with them. My 
 lady, poor thing !- had a kind word for one and all; but 
 Miss Barbara’s like her pa, — she’s too high for anything, 
 except finding fault and giving orders.” 
 
 “ Then,” said Adam to himself, “ it is between four 
 o’clock when young Toogood comes out of school and 
 half-past five when she must go home to get ready for 
 dinner, that Fidelia comes to the church to play.” 
 
 He rose from the milking stool, and bade Sar’ Ann 
 farewell. 
 
 At three o’clock of the same day he was — of course he 
 was, in spite of Arabella and other difficulties — looking at 
 the graves of his forefathers in the old churchyard. These 
 graves were many and interesting, for there had been 
 Abraham Drewes and Adam Drewes in Dunstanborough 
 for, at least, two hundred years ; the record of the weath- 
 ered headstones went back to dates undecipherable, and 
 commemorated men and deeds more worthy of their coun- 
 
F1DEL1S. 
 
 131 
 
 try and more valuable to it than all the Delavels, and all 
 their battles and achievements, of which the church itself 
 was the monument. He, the last of the sturdy line, 
 found unexpected satisfaction in the tracing of his humble 
 pedigree from one honest farmer to another, as he waited 
 for his lady’s coming ; he had not, as a sojourner in his 
 native place, been old enough to read and understand it 
 until now. The long mounds, in a double row, lined a 
 footpath on one side from gate to porch ; and his father’s 
 grave, and those of little Thomas and Priscilla Mary, were 
 in an angle of the latter, and there was no room for any 
 more. Moreover, they were making a new cemetery for 
 Dunstanborough. 
 
 The churchyard elms were yellowing, and the yellow- 
 est leaves floated down upon the grass. The air was so 
 still that the smoke from the Rectory chimneys across the 
 road went straight up into the mellow sky, the colour of 
 which was so beautiful a contrast to the grey masonry and 
 the green sod. In that stillness the wings of wayfaring 
 birds were distinctly audible, and the echo of gunshots 
 came from many miles away. The waiting lover, so sen- 
 sitive to the moods of Nature, waited without restlessness, 
 though he waited long. 
 
 At a little after four, young Toogood slouched up the 
 footpath with his hands in his corduroy pockets, whis- 
 tling. Adam intercepted and questioned him; learned 
 that Miss Delia Plunket was still wearing her bandage 
 occasionally, and was indeed coming to practise that 
 afternoon ; also that Tommy Toogood was her henchman, 
 at a wage of a shilling per week. Sometimes she kept 
 him for an hour, and sometimes for more, Tommy said, 
 with the air of a boy whom church walls suffocated. 
 
 Adam tendered half-a-crown and liberty. The first 
 was pocketed on the spot, the latter held over until Miss 
 
132 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 Plunket should have settled down to work — because 
 Adam, much as he desired the pleasure and novelty of 
 blowing bellows, first wished to see how it was done. He 
 also reserved the right to back out of the job, should he 
 subsequently feel unequal to performing it without risk 
 of annoyance to the young lady. Other little arrange- 
 ments were made, not without misgivings as to their 
 propriety on the part of the maker; and then Tommy 
 fetched the keys, and the conspirators passed into the 
 church. 
 
 It was a greatly altered church, internally. There 
 was a new altar, with candles and vases on it ; new car- 
 pets and new hangings — red, with a pattern of yellow 
 fleur-de-lys — and curly brass-work that glinted in the 
 dusk ; new oak benches in the nave, in place of the old 
 square pews, and new colours and stencillings on the once 
 whitewashed walls ; above all, a new organ — tucked into 
 the little transept where rustic schoolboys used to sit, under 
 the shadow of a punitive ash-rod, wielded by the parish 
 clerk. The three-decker, which was his awful throne, had 
 also disappeared, and the eagle was in another place ; so 
 that Adam wondered for a moment where he was, in the 
 soft gloom that was almost darkness after the light outside. 
 But not all was changed. The stone knights and cru- 
 saders still lay on their stone beds, and knelt in their 
 mural niches, and were otherwise represented in every 
 part of the fabric, as of old ; and the high-panelled, silk- 
 curtained enclosure in the chancel, sacred to the living 
 potentate, was still untouched. 
 
 Behind the squire’s pew — between it and the altar 
 rails — there was a rather large space of floor, empty save 
 for the old brasses inlaid in it, the overhanging effigies of 
 Sir Boger and his family, and one lowly wooden form. 
 On this form — terribly exposed to the eyes of their liege 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 133 
 
 lord as he came in and went out through his own chancel 
 door — surplus school children or very naughty ones used 
 to sit ; also candidates for confirmation, and women being 
 churched, and brides and bridegrooms waiting to be mar- 
 ried. Adam found it in its old place, to his surprise and 
 satisfaction, and promptly sat down upon it. There was 
 he, perfectly lost to view from anywhere in the body of 
 the building, three feet of oak panel and silk curtain ris- 
 ing up above his head. 
 
 As he sat there, facing the new altar and the old east 
 window — full of saints and the arms of the family — he 
 heard Fidelia come in. Some one was with her, and they 
 clattered at the organ for a few minutes, then the some 
 one passed out, and there was a rustling and a silence ; 
 then the sweetest strain of music he had ever heard. I 
 think it was the andante from Mendelssohn’s violin con- 
 certo, — at any rate, the sound of it made his head swim 
 and his heart swell. 
 
 He looked cautiously round the corner of the squire’s 
 pew. There she sat. He could just see her dear face, 
 outlined against the organ curtain, lifted upwards, and 
 the white bandage was on it. He emerged from his hid- 
 ing-place, stepping softly ; shook his head in response to 
 Tommy’s craned-out neck and questioning eyes, and, 
 pausing by the brass eagle, stood there, with his arm on 
 the Bible and his chin on his hand, listening, rapt in 
 dreams, like St. Paul in Raphael’s picture of St. Cecilia. 
 
 But he was not St. Paul. He was a young lover, 
 thrilling with strong young life, and having the soul of a 
 poet in him. Also, she was not a saint, but a most human 
 woman, as full as he was of the feeling of their tender 
 years. And she, too, had the poetic soul — it breathed 
 through her fingers into the organ pipes, unmistakable to 
 the soul it called to — and it was Mendelssohn’s andante 
 
134 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 that she played. Not everybody will understand the 
 situation. Only a reader here and there. 
 
 He did not know what it was he longed for, but his 
 longing grew and grew, until brain and heart seemed 
 bursting. He moaned inaudibly, in his swimming rap- 
 ture and pain — much as a dog will do, audibly, when its 
 emotions are similarly played upon — and clutched the 
 lectern with convulsive movements of the hand. When 
 the delicious melody sank into murmurs and whispers, 
 his eyes closed in a swooning way ; he shut his teeth to- 
 gether, drawing long internal sighs, while the tongue of 
 his soul, which only the ears of the soul can hear, uttered 
 what may roughly be interpreted as “ My love ! my love ! 
 my love ! ” over and over again, without knowing what it 
 was saying. 
 
 Then came silence, and some new self rose up within 
 him — some worm turned — unsuspected until so mightily 
 provoked. Tommy Toogood was peremptorily waved from 
 his stool and from the church — so hurried away that his 
 highlows clattered as he went, and the door clanged like a 
 cannon fired after him ; and the sound of the strange 
 step, ringing and resolute, made Fidelia wonder for a mo- 
 ment whether burglars and murderers were upon her. 
 
 Only for a moment. Then she knew whose it was — 
 because she had been listening for it ever since she came to 
 live in Dunstanborough. In every line of her quivering 
 little form, as she stood by her stool— in the pink flush 
 that streamed from beneath the white bandage into the 
 neck of her white gown — was evidence that she divined 
 what she could not see. Yet she cried, in a tone that 
 sounded sharp with fear, “ Who — who is it?” 
 
 “ It’s me,” said Adam ; and a soft wave seemed to pass 
 over her. “ It’s only me — don’t be frightened. I came 
 to — to — to blow the bellows for you — Adam Drewe.” 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 135 
 
 “ Oh, Adam Drewe ! Oh, I knew your voice the first 
 moment ! Oh — h ! ” 
 
 She spoke as if little singing birds were fluttering in 
 her throat. And he answered as if something in his 
 choked him. 
 
 “ Oh — h — h — h ! ” 
 
 There was only one way in which to express the in- 
 expressible. He took that way. He simply could not 
 help it. 
 
 But the moment after — when she cowered down with 
 that pitiful, reproachful cry — the magnitude of his crime, 
 of the sacrilege that he had committed, overwhelmed him. 
 He could not speak, even to beg her forgiveness, so 
 stunned and shocked was he, so utterly swallowed up in 
 his remorse and despair. When she sank upon her stool, 
 with her blind face in her hands, he turned and fled, as if 
 Furies pursued him ; got home, he knew not how ; har- 
 nessed his hired horse to his hired gig, and drove through 
 the night to Lyntham and his lair in the bookseller’s attic 
 — like Cain with his brother’s blood upon his hands. He 
 locked himself in, and sat in darkness till morning, fight- 
 ing a trouble compared with which the disaster to his 
 story and the death of gran’ma were as nothing. 
 
 “ She can never forgive me ! She will never be able 
 to bear .the thought of me again ! ” was his passionate 
 lament. And yet a tragic exaltation possessed him, despite 
 his shame. Never more would he be what he was before 
 he kissed Fidelia. That kiss had indeed made him an 
 older and a wiser man, had given him new strength to 
 fight and strive. He would make atonement for his sin 
 in great deeds for her ; he would get money and power to 
 spend in her dear service. The dreadful joy in the thought 
 that blindness might give her to him in the end, and the 
 resulting visions of his powerful imagination, uplifted him 
 
136 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 as on the crest of a mighty sea- wave ; but every wave had 
 its sickening fall into that black trough of despair. 
 
 “ I have profaned the Holy of Holies. I can never 
 forgive myself, or be forgiven ! ” 
 
 It may be said here that his physical conscience — if 
 one may thus designate it — which had so fine a quality in 
 youth, did not grow insensitive with years, as is the case 
 with most men. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Adam set to work forthwith, determined to be fa- 
 mous, and not to see Fidelia again until his laurels had 
 made him worthy. 
 
 He had already recovered from what may be called 
 the measles of his literary infancy, and became much 
 stronger than before. Bitter as is the discipline to which 
 a budding author is subjected, he is always the better for 
 it, if he has the right stuff in him. There is no teacher 
 of style like the unfavourable reviewer who for the mo- 
 ment breaks his heart, provided that the reviewer be fair 
 and serious and properly qualified for his work. And 
 even the editor who cut him up so cruelly — which is a 
 thing no editor should do, since he is free to refuse what 
 does not suit him — prompted Adam to a self-restraint that 
 was decidedly advantageous to the next story. 
 
 The Revolt of the Stepson was hurried into oblivion 
 as fast as he could send it. No friend received copies of 
 the magazine containing it; no revised volume was at- 
 tempted, to lead the reader’s memory back to the un- 
 authorised first version ; the very sight of the offending 
 periodical, long after he had done with it, gave him a cold 
 shudder; and he never read his tale in type a second 
 time. But he wrote another tale — Morning Glory was 
 its name — a tale of young love, more full of blood and fire 
 than any Warcry ever was, yet as chaste as his own pure 
 
 137 
 
138 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 heart, and treated in the light of his better knowledge of 
 artistic requirements ; and this tale was printed, with the 
 text intact. Oh, happy fortune ! And it was paid for, 
 moreover. And a critic pointed out that here was some- 
 thing rather above the average. It was, of course, imme- 
 diately followed by a third — which had a like success; 
 and the fourth was not offered, but asked for. And thus 
 Adam became an author — a full-blown professional ; and 
 gran’pa was respectfully given to understand that he must 
 find another man to sit upon his throne. This was a 
 blow to gran’pa at first ; but when a most capable new 
 assistant was installed, and almost immediately engaged 
 himself to Aunt Priscilla, the old gentleman was consoled. 
 And he came to see that Lyntham and the shop were too 
 narrow for his boy’s greatness — that London w T as his 
 natural heritage and home. 
 
 To London Adam went, still — after long months of 
 separation from Fidelia — with the consecration of their 
 kiss upon him. It was the inspiration of his genius, of 
 all that was highest and finest in his work and in his life. 
 It is nofc too much to say that the memory of that mo- 
 ment — that moment of moments — was a vision that never 
 faded from his inward eyes. Never, save in sleep, and not 
 always then; and many an hour of precious sleep was 
 squandered for the sake of seeing it in quiet hours, when 
 he could give it all his thoughts. In the gallery of his 
 recollections it was a picture always in the light. The 
 picture ! All the rest had become daubs, and valueless. 
 
 He endeavoured continually, and often with success, to 
 sweetly persuade himself that it was not all his fault. 
 Not even the fault of nature, which had made his strong 
 mind and body, one and indivisible, at the most critical 
 stage of their development, responsive to the provocation 
 of a fair girl’s friendliness, as sleeping gunpowder to a 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 139 
 
 lighted match. Not even the fault of the music, which to 
 such as he was more intoxicating than wine. It seemed 
 to him — sometimes — that Fidelia herself had had a hand 
 in the catastrophe. The earth turns her dewy morning 
 face to the sun before he shines upon her ; and Fidelia, 
 unknowing — oh, doubtless unknowing! — had turned to 
 her young adorer as if on purpose to be flooded with the 
 passion that hitherto had spent itself in space. He saw 
 her again, saw her perpetually, the slim, white creature — 
 she had always come to him white-robed, like an angel — 
 thrilling at the sound of that long “ Oh — h — h ! ” which 
 burst like a groan from his heart, her pretty blush fading 
 quickly to that frightened paleness — ah, poor child ! — so 
 strangely at sea and helpless, with the bandage on her 
 eyes. The bandage had concealed her terror of the loom- 
 ing monster, whose beauty she had to know to under- 
 stand ; her blind stillness had misled him. And yet — 
 and yet ! 
 
 Well, some day, perhaps, he would know — some day, 
 when he was worthy to ask. 
 
 And so he laboured and struggled, with all his soul 
 and with all his strength. And he finished his great 
 work — the first of his great works. Then he started for 
 London. The new novel was in his new portmanteau, 
 with his new clothes ; he and it were going to London to- 
 gether to seek fame and fortune for Fidelia’s sake. 
 
 But on his way thither a tragic adventure befell him, 
 the result of which, was that he never carried out his 
 plan. 
 
 He was walking up and down the platform of a coun- 
 try station, where he changed his train, when his atten- 
 tion was drawn to a lady also walking up and down. She 
 was on the arm of a grey-moustached gentleman, who ap- 
 peared to be her father, and she looked at Adam as she 
 
140 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 passed — looked but once, in the cold way that he was 
 accustomed to, and then took no further notice of him. 
 But he looked at her with great interest every time she 
 passed him ; for it seemed to him that he had seen her 
 before, though he could not remember the circumstances. 
 She was very young ; she was beautifully dressed, in the 
 simple, well-bred manner ; and she had, he thought, the 
 loveliest face in the world — the loveliest eyes, particularly. 
 When she looked at anything, she puckered them up and 
 peered through narrowed lids in a near-sighted way ; but 
 that little trick only added to their charm. Where — 
 where had he seen her before? He searched memory in 
 vain, and finally searched for the labels on her luggage, 
 when her back was turned. And there he found enlight- 
 enment. “ Miss F. Plunket, passenger to London.” Of 
 course ! He might have known it. Fidelia, with the 
 bandage off ! 
 
 The bandage was off, and she was now as other women, 
 only more so ; consequently, she was dead to him. Oh, 
 no, not dead ! — more divinelv alive than ever ! — but lost, 
 hopelessly ! He had not known till now that he had ever 
 believed in the possibility of possessing her ; yet he felt 
 his bereavement as if all that was his very own had been 
 taken from him. The very manuscript in his portman- 
 teau, and every hope inwoven with it, turned to ashes, as 
 if consumed in fire. 
 
 Her father — if he was her father — put her into a car- 
 riage of the up train ; a young woman accompanying her, 
 who appeared to be her maid, took her place in another 
 of a lower class ; Adam sought a third, as far from both 
 as he could get, in dread of his identity being discovered 
 by either of them. The look that Fidelia had cast upon 
 him, not recognising her soul’s affinity under his mask of 
 flesh, was burned indelibly upon his brain. She must 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 141 
 
 never see him with those sweet eyes uncovered again. 
 Like the fallen Lucifer, when no reinforcement could be 
 gained from hope he extracted resolution from despair; 
 and this it was. He would save the memory of himself 
 as she had imagined him, at all costs. If necessary — if 
 there seemed any danger of chance meetings, which 
 should destroy the image still honoured in her thoughts 
 — he would emigrate to some far country, which should, 
 for her, become his grave. He would go to Mr. Eichard 
 in Sydney — that friend of friends, who had known all and 
 forgiven all — and come back no more. 
 
 But while he braced himself thus sternly, sitting rigid 
 in his corner seat, peering at the flying landscape through 
 his blue goggles and a window that might as well have 
 been a schoolboy’s slate — while he fiercely resolved never 
 to risk another meeting with Fidelia, until, perchance, 
 they met in another world — cunning Fate was contriving 
 to circumvent him in her unexpected way. She presently 
 caused the train into which she had put them both to run 
 off the line. 
 
 It was not much of an accident, but it was enough. 
 The engine buried its fore paws in the soft earth of an 
 embankment, where engines were not meant to go, and 
 then paused abruptly in the attitude of a little dog hiding 
 a bone in a flower-bed ; the embankment sloped down in- 
 stead of up, and the monster hung upon the edge of it, 
 nose to the ground and hindquarters in the air, looking 
 as if a baby’s touch would send it over. Several carriages, 
 violently running upon it and being checked suddenly, 
 stood on tip-toes, so to speak, and fell into each other’s 
 arms with a vehemence that completely overset them ; one 
 rolled right down the bank, head first, and the others 
 tumbled upon its kicking wheels. It was all over in a 
 moment; and the dazed passengers, realising in a second 
 10 
 
142 
 
 F1DELIS. 
 
 moment that the end of the world was still an event in 
 the future, picked themselves up as best they could. No 
 one was killed, but some were badly shaken, and most of 
 them screamed horribly. The sound of those screams, 
 mingled with the clanking and crashing of riven wood 
 and metal, and the hissing of escaping steam, conveyed 
 the idea of such an appalling catastrophe as would make 
 history for the world. 
 
 Needless to say, Adam forgot all about his appearance 
 and how it would affect Miss Plunket (as his), and started 
 off to look for her the moment he could extricate himself. 
 He was in one of the upper of the fallen carriages, and 
 had to draw cut legs out of one window to climb to the 
 other, from which he emerged, like a Jack-in-the-box, to 
 find nothing but sky above him. There were fiendish 
 glares and flares of light dancing about the wreck, but the 
 darkness which they intensified was impenetrable. And it 
 was a lonely bit of fen on which they had chanced to come 
 to grief ; not so much as a cottage within hail, apparently. 
 
 He raged from point to point, swarming like a monkey 
 over the tottering pile, tugging and tearing at jammed 
 doors and splintered panels, while frenzied females 
 stretched arms to him which he disregarded or repulsed, 
 because they were not Fidelia’s. 
 
 “ Where is she ? ” he groaned — a wailing, bursting 
 groan — as from time to time he pounced on a woman’s 
 form that looked like hers, and found that it belonged to 
 another. “ God ! God ! What has become of her ? ” 
 
 Then, when all were out — all miraculously alive as he 
 was told — and help had been sent for, he suddenly heard 
 her voice behind him, a mere whisper in the loud confu- 
 sion, but more penetrating than screams. 
 
 “No,” she was saying, “I am not hurt. Only I feel 
 so dizzy ! ” 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 143 
 
 Turning, he saw her staggering out of the crowd, 
 leaning upon her maid, who supported her with a sturdy 
 arm. Instantly he flung himself after her, in a frenzy 
 of joy. 
 
 “ Oh, thank God! Thank God!” he sobbed. “You 
 are safe, after all ! ” 
 
 She knew his voice, as he had known hers, and re- 
 sponded with a quick cry, full of gladness that he dared 
 not recognise : and she put out her hand, and he seized 
 it, and they stood shaking together, as if their two bodies 
 were one, with an electric current running through them. 
 The lights of the train were in her face as she turned to 
 him, and he saw her eyes narrowing and peering as she 
 tried to make him out. But her sight was not good, and 
 a perfect blackness of darkness hid all but the outline of 
 his sturdy figure ; seeing which, and that he was saved 
 for the present, he shifted his hat, and determined not to 
 shift his position. 
 
 “You are not hurt? You are not hurt?” he kept 
 saying, unable to control the tremulousness of his eager 
 tones. “ You are sure, sure that you are not hurt?” 
 
 The shock of seeing him seemed to have taken from 
 her the power of speech, but her maid answered for her. 
 She said she believed no bones were broken, but that her 
 young lady was so faint she could hardly stand. 
 
 “ Make her sit down,” said Adam ; and he tore off his 
 great-coat and spread it on the ground (it was October, 
 and the ground was damp). “ I will go and get her some- 
 thing.” By which he meant one of the several spirit 
 flasks he had seen handed round amongst the wounded. 
 
 But here Fidelia found her voice. “ Do not go,” she 
 pleaded, with a timid touch upon his sleeve. “ Stay with 
 me, or we shall not find each other again,” — words which 
 caused him to doubt the evidence of his astonished ears. 
 
144 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 Could she, he asked himself, even under these distracting 
 circumstances, have forgotten his sin against her ? Ap- 
 parently she had. 
 
 He sent Matilda in quest of stimulants, and remained 
 with his beloved as a matter of course. He did more — 
 he moved her right away from the circle of lights and 
 people, so as to place her where she could have support for 
 her back, against an invisible gatepost. And Matilda, 
 having wandered far and wide in search of brandy, and 
 found the supply exhausted, groped about with a borrowed 
 smelling-bottle, seeking for them, until she lost herself. 
 
 Fidelia shook all over with the fright of the accident — 
 she said it was that which so upset her — but recovered 
 from her faintness rapidly. And even then she did not 
 remember that Adam had forfeited all claim to her regard. 
 The tone in which she spoke to him was not only forgiv- 
 ing ; it was caressingly affectionate. 
 
 “You are sure, you are quite sure, you are not hurt? 
 Do tell me the truth,” she urged, again and again ; it was 
 all they could say to each other while their agitation lasted. 
 And Adam, with hot tinglings in his leg, and a foot audi- 
 bly squelching in a blood-filled boot, declared every time 
 that he was as right as possible. 
 
 Then they gathered, from calls that came to them 
 across the darkness from those infernal-looking figures in 
 the light, that nothing very dreadful had happened — no 
 lives lost, and no serious casualities ; and the tension of 
 their minds was relieved, and they talked less awkwardly. 
 Other questions were exchanged. “ How are you ? How 
 did you come to be here ? What have you been doing ? 
 What are you going to do ? ” And meanwhile she wist- 
 fully tried to scan his face, and he resolutely kept it in 
 the shadow of the night, which was black as the proverbial 
 wolf’s mouth. Trusting to this cloak, he slid to his knees 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 145 
 
 before her, and gradually sunk upon the ground at her 
 side ; and when they had brought their personal history 
 roughly up to date, they came to the silence which was 
 their souls’ real meeting-place. 
 
 It was the opportunity of their lives. And — as we 
 mostly do, because the conventions have made cowards of 
 us — they lost it. In that silence he might have heard her 
 heart calling to him — “Adam, Adam, why did you go 
 away?” And she certainly understood the language of 
 his shaking pulses, which thrilled the air around her. 
 And yet they counted the precious moments, knowing all 
 their preciousness, and dared not speak. So their great 
 chance passed. 
 
 “ I hear the relief train coming,” whispered Fidelia, 
 breathing quickly. 
 
 Adam heard it too, and despair seized him ; also a 
 qualm of physical sickness that made his head swim and 
 his legs give way under him, as he rose with her from the 
 ground. People were looking for them and shouting for 
 them. It was the last good-bye. 
 
 “ Well,” he said, with bitter calmness, “ you will be all 
 right now. Other people will take care of you. And 
 when you are out of this — when you are back in your 
 own world — you will never give another thought to me.” 
 
 “ Isn’t it the other way ? ” she retorted, in a low, 
 quick tone. “ Don’t you forget that I exist, except when 
 you come across me like this, once in a dozen years, by 
 accident ? ” 
 
 “ Never, never do I forget it, for a single instant, 
 night or day.” 
 
 It was a bold statement, but the voice that made it 
 
 / 
 
 was weak. 
 
 “ Then why — why ? You have not even inquired 
 
 after me ! ” 
 
14ft 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 a I have not dared.” 
 
 “ Oh, what nonsense ! Why not ? ” 
 
 “ Because I am not worthy.” 
 
 “ Not worthy ! You — you ! Oh, no, it’s the other 
 way ; it is I who am not good enough.” 
 
 He groaned a passionate dissent ; but he felt so ill at 
 the moment that he could do no more. And he could 
 have killed Matilda, who took that moment of all mo- 
 ments to bring the outside world upon them. 
 
 “ Is that you, Miss Delia ? Oh, miss, I’ve had such a 
 hunt ! They have sent a train for us, and we shall soon 
 be safe in our beds.” 
 
 “ All right, Matilda, I am coming,” said Fidelia, sud- 
 denly bright and self-possessed. “ Go on and find the 
 things — I am coming.” 
 
 Then she turned to Adam with an inviting gesture. 
 She wanted him to bring her to the light, that she might 
 see him. She expected him to travel with her to their 
 journey’s end. 
 
 But Adam held back. “ I — I will come presently,” 
 he mumbled ; and such was his air of embarrassment that 
 she concluded he had some reason a lady could not pry 
 into for wanting to be by himself — probably torn clothes. 
 “And — in case I don’t see you again — good-bye, Miss 
 Plunket ! ” 
 
 She thought she heard him sobbing, and she went up 
 to him anxiously — so closely up to him that he put his 
 hand over his face. 
 
 “ You are hurt ! ” she cried. 
 
 “ No — no ; I think I feel a little scratch, but it’s noth- 
 ing. I am going to tie something round it.” 
 
 “ Ah, I knew it. Take my handkerchief. Let me 
 bind it — can’t I ? ” 
 
 “ No, you can’t. Thank you all the same.” 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 147 
 
 Their hands, which it was too dark to see, knew the 
 way by instinct to each other ; they clasped tightly. 
 Adam’s head was turned away. 
 
 “ Miss Plunket,” he panted, making an effort to un- 
 derstand what he was going to say, “ promise me some- 
 thing before you go.” 
 
 “What is it?” she murmured tenderly; “of course 
 I will.” 
 
 “ Bead my new book when it comes out.” 
 
 She replied, with a soft laugh — “ Oh, as if I shouldn’t ! ” 
 
 “ It was written for you. They will all — all — be writ- 
 ten for you. Remember that.” 
 
 “ I shall not flatter myself. But, you know, you know 
 I shall read them, every word. I have read ” — dropping 
 her voice — “ that lovely Morning Glory — I lcnew it was 
 yours ” 
 
 “ Miss Delia,” wailed Matilda, “ they’ll go without us 
 if you don’t make haste.” 
 
 Adam still stood by the gatepost, feeling the need of a 
 prop in his increasing giddiness ; and Fidelia, seeing that 
 he really was not coming, sadly bade him good-night, and 
 surrendered to her maid. When she had gone a lagging 
 step or two, she turned back, and spoke to him with a 
 wistful sweetness that, under the circumstances, was heart- 
 breaking. 
 
 “You will call on me in London, Mr. Drewe? My 
 married sister is there — I am going to her ; she will like 
 to thank you for taking such good care of me.” 
 
 Adam made one more effort. 
 
 “ I am afraid I cannot,” he said. “ I think I am going 
 away — too far away ” 
 
 “ Just as you like, of course,” she rejoined, deeply 
 wounded — wounded by liis hand. And then, in pain and 
 shame — asking herself whether he indeed had kissed her 
 
148 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 because he loved her, or whether she had wholly misun- 
 derstood him — she left him finally. He traced her shadow 
 through the darkness to the light, and saw her in the light 
 looking back to where he stood — still, still expecting him 
 — still trusting to the instinct of her true heart, which 
 vouched for his sincerity. He clung to the gatepost until 
 the relief train had gone, taking her with it, and leaving 
 only workmen to flit all night, gnome-like, about its pros- 
 trate brother ; then he sank down where he stood, and lay 
 there until dawn revealed him, slowly bleeding into in- 
 sensibility, and wishing that he was dead. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Richard Delayed — whose story has been told in 
 another place — was living in Sydney, and, so far as his 
 worldly interests were concerned, prospering exceedingly. 
 He had a valuable partnership in an extensive shipping 
 firm, which was the business to which he mainly devoted 
 himself, and was also making much money in the share 
 market, as seemed so easy to do in those good old times. 
 Domestically, he appeared equally fortunate. His com- 
 paratively low-born wife, for whose sake he was an exile 
 from his home and country, had developed into what is 
 known as a perfect lady, and their only child was a 
 daughter, in whom he saw no fault at all. His new house 
 on Darling Point — his “place,” as it was called, being so 
 much more than a house — was an ideal home to look at, 
 even in that paradise, and it was ordered perfectly. No 
 lack and no waste, no hurry and no muddle, no dust on 
 the books nor dead flowers in the vases, no mistakes in 
 tradesmen’s accounts, nor accidents with the wine or with 
 the mutton, were permitted in that establishment, whose 
 mistress was not merely the pearl of housekeepers, but an 
 exceedingly pretty woman, with an admirable taste in 
 dress. And Richard himself was still young, though 
 grown sedate beyond his years, a fine tall fellow, hand- 
 some as he always was, with very keen eyes that were 
 
 149 
 
150 
 
 FI DELIS. 
 
 colder than their wont ; a man of grave affairs, whose wild 
 oats were sown — and perhaps reaped also. 
 
 One day he sat in his room at the Pitt Street office, 
 quietly attending to routine matters. He was interrupted 
 by a message through his speaking tube, intimating that 
 a gentleman wished to see him. 
 
 “Who is it?” he called impatiently; “ask his name 
 and business.” 
 
 The unexpected answer was — “ Mr. Adam Drewe, from 
 England.” 
 
 Then did the coldness melt from those steel-bright 
 eyes, and all official stiffness from the body belonging to 
 them. It was Dicky Delavel once more, as he was in the 
 old days before his troubles sobered him. 
 
 “ Adam Drewe ! Little Adam ! Gracious powers ! 
 Why, Adam, of all people! Well, this is a surprise! 
 Come in, come in, my dear fellow, and give an account of 
 yourself. Where on earth have you sprung from ? And 
 what are you doing in these parts ? How well you are 
 looking, Adam ! I shouldn’t have known vou.” 
 
 “ Oh, I think you would have known me,” said Adam, 
 smiling rather grimly behind the beard and goggles. “ I 
 am not so like everybody else that you wouldn’t know me 
 again.” 
 
 “ Well, I see it is you, of course. But you are looking 
 splendid.” He meant that Adam, well-tailored and well- 
 barbered, had the air of a gentleman, and of a gentleman 
 in prosperous circumstances ; wherein he differed pleas- 
 antly, not merely from his old self, but from the every- 
 day new chum in quest of successful old acquaintances. 
 “ And how goes it, Adam ? It is strange indeed to see 
 an old Dunstanborongh face again. How has the world 
 been using you, old fellow? Well, I hope. Sit down — sit 
 down. What’ll you have ? Whisky and soda, or beer ? ” 
 
F1DELIS. 
 
 151 
 
 Both were rather overcome by their meeting, and the 
 memories revived, and, of course, did their best to hide 
 it from each other. Richard fumbled with bottles and 
 glasses at a cupboard, while Adam winked away an in- 
 cipient tear. 
 
 “ Thank you, I’ll take a glass of ale, if you have it 
 handy,” said the guest. “ Oh, the world has used me 
 very well, Mr. Richard^in one way. I’ve come in for a 
 nice little sum under my father’s will, and my book is 
 selling — it’s in a third edition ; I got word at Adelaide, 
 by telegraph.” His face lighted up. 
 
 “ What book?” queried Richard, staring. 
 
 And then he had the amazing news that Adam was an 
 author, and an author fairly afloat, with the wind in his 
 sails. Richard knew the book that had gone into its third 
 edition ; he had just read it and been delighted with it — 
 a strong and original study of life in the shopkeeping 
 class, which was new material to the novelist. Desperate 
 struggles and triumphs on the part of a gifted shop-boy 
 were graphically depicted, leading to the touching climax 
 of a love-match with a duke’s daughter. Not only was 
 the story as real as art could make it ; the literary stjde 
 was terse and powerful, faintly — very faintly, of course — 
 resembling that of the prince of tale-writers, who must 
 have been a child in pinafores at that date, incapable of 
 being plagiarised. 
 
 “ What ! ” cried Richard, with the beer cork half out 
 of Hie bottle, and there sticking, in the paralysis of his 
 surprise ; “ you mean to say you wrote In Spite of all ? 
 You!” 
 
 o 
 
 Adam sat and beamed. 
 
 “ Well ! ! ! ” 
 
 Then the cork came out, and the creaming ale, and the 
 distinguished person was toasted enthusiastically. “ More 
 
152 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 power to your elbow, Adam ! You are going to be famous, 
 man. Why, how old are you? Not much over twenty, 
 
 eh ? If this is your beginning ! Oh, I am glad 
 
 indeed ! I do congratulate you. But you were always a 
 clever little chap. Don’t you remember my old granny 
 and my aunt Elizabeth prophesying that you were going 
 to beat the — that you were going to do something out of 
 the common — the day I took you to Lyntham ? Have 
 you forgotten our little spree at the Mart, Adam ? ” 
 
 The young man shook his head emphatically. 
 “ Never ! ” he burst forth, as if the word were a lead 
 bullet. 
 
 Bichard drained his glass, set it down gently, and 
 looked at it. 
 
 “ I suppose you haven’t heard anything of the old 
 folks, Adam ? ” 
 
 “ Not much, sir. It is fully a year and a half since I 
 was in Dunstanborough.” 
 
 They sat silent for a space, Bichard listening for news, 
 and Adam wondering what he could say. For Lady 
 Susan had died since their last meeting ; Mr. Keppel had 
 died — destroyed by his own hand ; Miss Katherine had 
 married the enemy ; and the old squire had shut himself 
 up in his old house with his eldest daughter, who was too 
 proud to notice people in whom her mother had taken an 
 interest. 
 
 “ There have been great changes,” said Adam at last. 
 
 “ Yes,” sighed Bichard. 
 
 “ The new earl, your uncle, seems very much liked in 
 Lyntham.” 
 
 “ Oh, does he ? ” 
 
 “ Mrs. Boger, your sister-in-law, is a great beauty, they 
 say.” 
 
 “ Oh, is she ? ” 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 153 
 
 But these details were mere straw and chaff to the 
 hungry man, and he impatiently turned from them. 
 
 “ When did you come, Adam ? ” he asked, reverting to 
 the matter in hand. 
 
 “ Only this morning,” replied the visitor. “ We landed 
 just after breakfast, and I have been settling myself at the 
 hotel, and finding my way about a little — looking for you. 
 I thought I might venture ” 
 
 “ I should think so, indeed ! You must let me do all 
 I can for you. Are you going to stay any time ? Are 
 you merely travelling, or are you thinking of settling out 
 here ? It is a fine country, Adam. Lots of new material 
 for novels, and all that sort of thing.” 
 
 “ I was thinking of settling,” said Adam, gravely, “ but 
 I have no definite plans as yet. I thought if we could 
 talk things over together — some time when you are quite 
 at liberty ” 
 
 “We will — we will ; I am at liberty now, and for the 
 rest of the day.” He opened and shut his watch. 
 “ Come home to lunch with me now, Adam, and this after- 
 noon I will row you down to my camp, where we can be 
 quiet and comfortable. I’ve got a place away down 
 there ” — waving his hand vaguely — “ right in the bush, 
 on the edge of the water, looking over to the Heads. It 
 is my smoking-room — my bachelor den, so to speak ” 
 
 “ But you are not a bachelor,” Mr. Richard. 
 
 “ Oh, no ! Oh, dear , no ! ” 
 
 “ I think I remember Mrs. Delavel,” remarked 
 Adam, modestly ; “ she went to the little school I went 
 to. She was an elder pupil when I was the smallest of 
 them all.” 
 
 Richard laughed, as if this reminiscence amused him ; 
 and he took his hat from its peg, and sallied forth. 
 “ Come and let me introduce you to her,” he said, “ and 
 
154 
 
 FIDELIS. , 
 
 after lunch we’ll have the boat out, and a jolly afternoon 
 all to ourselves. How do you like Sydney, Adam — as 
 much as you’ve seen of it ? What do you think of our 
 harbour ? ” 
 
 The harbour — as to which Adam readily endorsed the 
 prevailing opinion — lay outstretched beneath the win- 
 dows of Mr. Delavel’s house, between which and it 
 dropped terrace upon terrace of one of the loveliest gar- 
 dens in that Eden of the South. It was early winter — 
 chrysanthemum time — six months from the October 
 night of the railway accident — and a typical Sydney 
 morning. Never in his life had Adam seen Nature 
 through such an atmosphere. He looked at the emerald- 
 green foliage, the jewel-bright flower borders, the sap- 
 phire-blue water, the turquoise-blue sky, then up at the 
 house, which was a palace to his old-fashioned, provincial 
 eyes, shining in the sun like washed alabaster ; and he 
 said, impulsively, “ Well, sir, you ought to be happy in a 
 place like this ! ” 
 
 Richard laughed as his eyes roved lightly over his 
 domain. 
 
 44 A little heaven here below, isn’t it ? But I doubt, 
 
 Adam — I doubt verv much whether I was ever meant for 
 
 */ 
 
 heavens— of anv sort.” 
 
 Adam understood that he had spoken without thought. 
 
 “ It is a charming residence,” he remarked, more 
 gravely. 
 
 44 It is,” the proprietor assented (though, in fact, it 
 was not conceived in such perfect taste as he and his 
 guest supposed). 44 1 had a first-rate architect, and I 
 told him that money was no object.” 
 
 That money evidently was no object impressed Adam 
 even more than the fine things which illustrated the fact. 
 It was a pleasure to see such proofs of success 'and pros- 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 155 
 
 perity, but not all a pleasure. He felt the want of har- 
 mony between his old hero of romance and an Australian 
 merchant prince who had risen to his position from a 
 common office stool ; and indeed, Richard was variously 
 out of his element in the present surroundings (as has 
 been elsewhere recorded). An Englishman of his class — 
 not to speak of his personal temperament — has no busi- 
 ness to become rich as he had done. He could, with 
 Renan, have proved the nobility of his house by the fact 
 that it was habitually defrauded when it attempted to 
 engage in commercial business. “ When it comes to 
 taking the best pieces out of the dish which is handed 
 round, our natural politeness stands in our way.” He 
 should have been a Jackeroo — say, on a big cattle sta- 
 tion, where the Jackeroo is in his glory — a wild horseman 
 of the desert, got up for the part in the young English 
 gentleman’s delightful -stage-bandit fashion, running his 
 horses and the milking cows, mustering and drafting the 
 mobs from the run, store-keeping, boundary riding, and 
 so on and so on ; this, to all appearances, had been the 
 destiny prepared for him. But fortunes have a way of 
 making themselves in this part of the world ; at least, 
 they had. Any man, going to bed anxious about his 
 bank overdraft, might wake up and find himself to all 
 intents and purposes, a millionniare — merely, perhaps, in 
 consequence of a fall of rain. And Dicky Delavel, not 
 having the means to buy big boots and stock whips, and 
 otherwise establish himself in the unprofitable calling of 
 a rouse-about, to which he must have been naturally in- 
 clined, being tied to the city which first received him, was 
 driven to mere trade for a living — with his unexpected 
 and hardly sought for result. He had been in luck’s way, 
 and the times had served him. 
 
 The mistress of the house, when he was re-introduced 
 
156 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 to her, was more of a surprise to Adam than the house 
 itself. She was passing through the stately hall as Rich- 
 ard led him into it, and, being called to, turned with the 
 air of a queen to survey him. Lady Susan had never 
 worn that air, nor the old countess in her best days ; it 
 seemed to him impossible that so regal a lady could be a 
 Morrison of Dunstanborough, sister of farmer John; yet 
 he saw the family likeness in her handsome face. At 
 Dunstanborough, the Morrisons had ranked far below the 
 Drewes in social consequence, and at the present day Mrs. 
 Holditch utterly refused to know Rhody Appleton that 
 was ; but here the representative of the Drewes, a highly 
 cultured man and a successful artist, bowed before the 
 least worthy of the Morrisons with a feeling that he ought 
 to have entered her house by the back door. Her mag- 
 nificence compelled him. 
 
 “ Annie, my dear, here is an old friend of ours,” said 
 her husband, in a light tone. “ An old friend from Dun- 
 stanborough.” 
 
 A flush rose to her cheek, her lips tightened, her chin 
 lifted a little. Richard regarded her mischievously, but 
 his eyes were hard. 
 
 “ You ought to know him,” he continued, “ for he was 
 at school with you.” 
 
 “ At Mrs. Dunford’s,” murmured the guest. “ Adam 
 Drewe — Abraham Drewe’s son.” 
 
 She pretended to smile and make a feint of welcoming 
 him, but such a reminder of her humble past was the 
 most annoying thing that could happen to her. She was 
 enraged with him for intruding upon the present, and 
 with her husband for permitting it; so that her smile 
 and the cold touch of her hand barely indicated the letter 
 of hospitality, .while the absence of its spirit was unmis- 
 takably proclaimed. 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 157 
 
 “ Come in, dear old fellow,” cried Richard, laying his 
 hand heavily upon Adam’s sturdy shoulder. “ Come up- 
 stairs with me and have a wash. I must introduce you to 
 my little girl. Here, Sue ! Sue ! ” 
 
 “ Do not disturb her at her studies, Richard,” Mrs. 
 Delavel remonstrated, with an air of gentleness, belied by 
 the severity of mouth and eyes. “ She will come down to 
 lunch.” 
 
 “ She is not in school at one o’clock,” he returned, 
 shortly. “ And she will come when I want her. Sukey ! 
 Where are you, Sukey ? ” 
 
 Mrs. Delavel slowly turned and swept away, and her 
 husband ran upstairs, calling to his friend to follow him. 
 As Adam did so, glancing to right and left at pictures 
 and carvings, he reminded himself that little heavens 
 here below are not constructed by mortal architects. 
 “ What would the people at home say,” he thought, “ if 
 they could see her now ? And if they could see him ! ” 
 
 On the first spacious landing a door opened, and a 
 little girl came out — flying to her father’s arms. 
 
 “ Here she is ! ” exclaimed Richard, in his old boyish 
 way, running over with pride. “ What do you think of 
 her, Adam? Who is she like? This is an old friend 
 of daddy’s, pet — a very dear old friend. Shake hands 
 with him.” 
 
 She reminded Adam of Fidelia when he saw her first ; 
 but she was much younger, and she was not half — not a 
 quarter — oh, not a hundredth part as pretty ! Yet she 
 had a taking little face, sweet and frank and fresh, and 
 in every other respect was a delightful child to look at, 
 being well grown and healthy, and beautifully dressed 
 and cared for. 
 
 Adam looked at her earnestly, and she shrank and hid 
 from him. 
 
 11 
 
158 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 “ I don’t know,” he said. “ I can’t see any likeness to 
 anybody.” 
 
 “ Not to my mother, Adam? She has my mother’s 
 name.” 
 
 Kichard tried to expose his daughter’s bashful counte- 
 nance ; but little Susan objecting, Adam begged that she 
 might not be teased. She then returned to her governess 
 to be prepared for lunch. 
 
 This was quite the daintiest meal that Adam had ever 
 partaken of. The artistic side of him was gratified by the 
 delicate dishes and the refined prettiness of the table 
 arrangements ; and again, thinking of Mrs. Delavel’s up- 
 bringing, he wondered at her elegance. But he had sel- 
 dom enjoyed his food less, because she steadily, though 
 silently, counteracted every effort of her husband to make 
 the guest feel welcome and at home. A hostess can do 
 this without being distinctly rude. She asked no questions 
 of Adam concerning his circumstances or plans, and when 
 he tried to make conversation by informing her that he 
 had seen her brother at Lyntham on the last market day 
 before he left, and that Mr. Morrison was looking well, 
 she froze him with the “ Indeed ? ” which was her only 
 response to the remark. The governess had evidently 
 been taught to keep her place, for she scarcely spoke at 
 all; and little Sue, equally dumb, stared at him across 
 the table, as if there was some magic in him to hold her 
 eye fixed. In vain her father admonished her to attend to 
 her dinner ; she could attend to nothing but this odd-look- 
 ing man, who was strangely disconcerted by her direct gaze. 
 
 When Mrs. Delavel rose, announcing that she had an 
 engagement at Government House, she inquired of her 
 husband whether this “ gentleman ” would give them his 
 company at dinner. Outwardly it sounded like an invi- 
 tation, but another meaning underlay the words. 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 159 
 
 “ He will dine with me at the club,” said Eichard, look- 
 ing at her. “ Yes, Adam ” — waving aside the guest’s has- 
 tily concocted excuse — “ I am not going to part from you 
 yet, old friend. Have some more wine? No? Then 
 come into the smoking room for half an hour. Then we’ll 
 go down to my camp. That’s the place to be thoroughly 
 comfortable in.” 
 
 In the smoking room they sat for a space, quietly, in 
 two deep armchairs, the master of the house with his pipe, 
 which had become very dear to him ; and they did not 
 impede the processes of digestion by talking too much. 
 In fact, the near neighbourhood of Mrs. Delavel, who was 
 not due at Government House before three, depressed them 
 slightly, like a damp atmosphere. But when the pipe was 
 finished, and Eichard led the way down his terraced gar- 
 den to a little landing stage at which a boat was moored, 
 the weight was off him, and he was another man. 
 
 “Now,” said he, “now we can yarn till all’s blue. 
 We’ve got the whole afternoon before us. Can you man- 
 age the tiller, Adam ? ” 
 
 Adam said he could, and seated himself astern. Eich- 
 ard cast off and swung his oars out, dipped them lightly, 
 and was soon sweeping over the water with a long strong- 
 stroke, reminiscent of the years of his single manhood 
 that were so glorious and so short. His friend, watching 
 him, remarked that he was in fine training ; and he replied 
 that it was his custom to row to his camp in Middle Har- 
 bour about every other day. 
 
 “ It’s not much better than a black fellow’s gunyah, 
 but — but it’s my second home, all the same — I don’t know 
 that it isn’t my first,” he said, with that light laugh 
 which had no merriment in it. “ Stone walls do not a 
 palace make, Adam. I’ve.got to hate walls, stone or other- 
 wise. Climate, I suppose.” 
 
160 
 
 FIDE LIS. 
 
 “ I think I should feel the same,” said Adam, “ in such 
 an air as this.” 
 
 “ I like the smell of the bush and of the sea. And I 
 like peace and quiet — shows I’m growing old, don’t it ? I 
 put a sheet or two of bark together one day, so as to have 
 a shelter from the weather ; now I’ve got a shed that I can 
 lock up, and therefore keep a bottle and a bite of grub in. 
 Also a truckle bed. I often sleep there when nights are 
 fine. Some day I’ll make a still better place of it, if I’m 
 let alone — a place where I can board and lodge a friend, 
 as well as myself. Only then I must have a housekeeper, 
 — some old sea-dog, past other work, who’ll be able to keep 
 off trespassers and cook a decent chop.” 
 
 Adam listened, and understood. He made no com- 
 ment. And the panorama of the opening shores, as the 
 boat sped by them, was too exquisite for words. It had 
 been hardly daylight when his steamer came up over the 
 same course, and an autumn fog had blurred the scene ; 
 now it was in all its glory of enchanting colour — or fast 
 approaching it, as the sun declined — a bloom of rosy mist 
 that did not blur, but changed mere earth into the sem- 
 blance of a dream. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Skirting Double Bay and Point Piper, with Clark’s 
 Island to the left — then Shark Island to the right and 
 Bradley’s Head against the sun, over the spot where, 
 years afterwards, Richard’s wife was drowned — past 
 Chowder Head and George’s Head, and the three beau- 
 tiful bays, with all the lilac-tinted points and coves on the 
 other side — the little boat came at length to the great 
 gateway of that Paradise, and rocked to the swell of the 
 Pacific seas. 
 
 The rudder was unshipped, and each man had an oar ; 
 they rested upon them for some minutes, while they 
 looked, and listened, and wiped the perspiration from 
 their brows. Richard spoke of the “ creeping tide ” of 
 Dunstanborough, with the yearning of a homesick exile ; 
 and Adam, of the colour of this liquid light around him, 
 bluer than English water ever was, with the rapture of a 
 young traveller newly let loose upon the world. To the 
 ears of both the murmur of thundering surf was the 
 sweetest music made by any instrument ; it came to them 
 now, across the rippling sound, low and soft, like a dear 
 voice out of the past. 
 
 “ Do you remember,” said Adam, over his friend’s 
 shoulder, “ that day when you took me for a sail — my 
 first sail — when I was a little chap?” 
 
 “I remember it well,” returned Richard, dreamily. 
 
 161 
 
162 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 44 Ah — h — h ! What things have happened since that 
 day ! ” 
 
 44 Yes,” sighed Adam ; and he thought of Fidelia, 
 standing in the glare by the wrecked train and looking 
 into the night behind her — looking for him. Was she 
 looking for him still? The passing thought quenched 
 the glory of the shining afternoon, as if a cloud of rain 
 swept over it. 
 
 Middle Head — looking upon the great North and 
 South Heads and the ocean highway between them — was 
 rounded with some effort, and the two friends rowed into 
 the bay behind it, and into a solitude strange to find on 
 that side of the sea gate and so near a crowded city. What 
 it may be now I cannot say, but when Richard’s camp 
 was there, as it was for many years, and when he died 
 there at last, not so very long ago, that bit of Middle 
 Harbour was virgin bush and shore, save for what he had 
 done to it; a strip of fine, firm beach, with green heights 
 behind and the lovely sea before — the Sound, and the 
 surf, and* the wayfaring ships — and between hills and 
 beach a rude log hut (afterwards a nest of tents in a little 
 garden with a two-foot palisade around it) ; a sanctuary 
 of peace for the world-weary owner, who held his property 
 as a gift from Nature, though ready to buy it at any mo- 
 ment, if necessary. 
 
 The wild scrub came to within a yard or two of the 
 tide, which ebbed but slightly ; a tough hedge grew out 
 of the low ridge of sand that marked high water, and 
 screened the hut from view seawards, while permitting a 
 wide outlook from its door upon all that passed. The 
 only signs of human habitation that Adam could see, as 
 he approached, were a little staging run out into the 
 water and — when it was laboriously pointed out to him — 
 the apex of a small zinc roof. 
 
FIDE LIS. 
 
 163 
 
 “ It is hideous,” said Richard, “ in such a place, hut it 
 catches the rain and runs it into a tank. By cleaning the 
 tank every now and then, and keeping the key of the tap, 
 I can have water to make tea with and to wash in, with- 
 out going into the bush to fetch it. However, I shall 
 abolish the whole arrangement presently, and start a 
 better system.” 
 
 Adam was sufficiently satisfied with the present ar- 
 rangements. He could scarcely understand the attraction 
 of the hut as a constant place of resort, to a householder 
 in his friend’s luxurious circumstances, but thought it an 
 admirable base for picnic purposes, and its site and sur- 
 roundings exquisitely adapted to the moods of a tired and 
 misanthropic man. 
 
 They pulled their boat up to a post, and fastened it, 
 then plunged through bushes into the clearing where the 
 building stood — mere walls and roof, rude but strong, the 
 seaward front formed of two stout doors, padlocked to- 
 gether. These the host unfastened and flung back, as 
 one opens the front of a child’s doll’s house, leaving the 
 whole interior exposed. 
 
 “ Let us air it first,” said Richard, sniffing fastidiously ; 
 and Adam merely looked in for a moment. He saw that 
 the end of the shed was partitioned off into cupboards, on 
 the top of which stood a lamp and books ; and that the 
 other furniture consisted of a bed, a stout table, and two 
 comfortable wicker chairs. The raised floor was roughly 
 planked, and the walls panelled to keep draughts out and 
 lamplight in. Numerous nails studded the walls, sup- 
 porting cooking utensils, towels, and an old coat, boat- 
 ing gear, a lantern, and other useful but unornamental 
 things. 
 
 “I’ll have canvas next time,” said Richard, “and a 
 separate pantry. I hate the smell of grub in the wrong 
 
 t f 
 
164 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 place. But it’ll be gone directly. Come and let’s sit on 
 the beach, Adam, and make believe that we’re at home 
 again. I wish you smoked; you don’t know what you 
 lose. Oh, Lord, what should I have don^ all these years 
 without my pipe ? ” 
 
 He spoke with the empty pipe between his teeth, and 
 pared tobacco into his palm, as an old woman knits stock- 
 ings, with a hand that needed no direction from the 
 brain. When he had stuffed the bowl and lighted it, he 
 spread a rug upon the sand, and the two lay down to- 
 gether, their shoulders against the ridge under the bushes 
 and their boot-soles within a yard or two of the ripples, 
 that tinkled in the silence with so soft and sweet a sound. 
 For some time the echo of Bichard’s last remark seemed 
 to fill the air. Then Adam made his comment upon it. 
 
 “ You are home-sick, sir.” 
 
 “ Drop the 4 sir,’ ” returned Bichard. 
 
 “ Thank you ; why don’t you go back, if you feel so ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, that isn’t how I feel — not as you think. I don’t 
 crave for Dunstanborough ; at least, not much. You can 
 be home-sick for another sort of home — I couldn’t ex- 
 plain it.” 
 
 “ Yes,” said the young lover, banished from his mate, 
 “ I know that.” 
 
 “ What ! do you know it too ? You are not old enough 
 to know it, Adam.” 
 
 Adam smiled in a convincing wav, and remarked that 
 he began young. 
 
 “Well, now, interpret,” said his companion, “for I 
 don’t think we quite know what we are talking of. Tell 
 me all about it ; that is, if you care to tell me. Some 
 things, of course, one can’t ever speak of.” And he took 
 his pipe from his mouth as if afraid of biting the stem 
 through, and sighed fiercely. 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 165 
 
 Adam divined that the well of sympathy, to which he 
 had brought his bucket from so far, was fuller and deeper 
 than when he had last drawn from it; and it was not 
 long before his tale was told, without any reservations. 
 Never was tale of young love crossed more kindly listened 
 to, more unselfishly considered, by one not an actor in it. 
 
 “ And so you came away because you could not trust 
 her to love you in daylight ! ” ejaculated Richard. “ You 
 should have tried her first, Adam.” 
 
 “ I had tried her,” was the reply. “ I shall never for- 
 get how she looked at me when she passed me on the 
 platform. Once was enough.” 
 
 “She would not have looked that way if she had 
 known you.” 
 
 “ Oh, I am not fit for her ! I felt it all the time.” 
 
 “ That’s nonsense, you know.” 
 
 “You wouldn’t think it nonsense, if you could see 
 her, Mr. Richard. She is the loveliest woman ever 
 born.” 
 
 Richard smiled to himself. 
 
 “ And she thinks me — I don’t know what she thinks 
 me — but, whatever it is, she shall always think * it. And 
 some day, perhaps — well, I may get famous and rich, and 
 be able to do something for her still. I’ve got that to 
 live for.” 
 
 “ Poor old chap ! ” 
 
 Ashamed of being pitied, after the manner of young 
 Englishmen, Adam opined that he was not so very poor, 
 as the world went. He had no doubt there w T ere many 
 poorer. 
 
 And Richard said, with an odd touch of sombre pas- 
 sion, “You are right there — those who haven’t your 
 grit, Adam — those who let themselves be floored by their 
 troubles, instead of standing up like men.” 
 
166 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 Not understanding the allusion, and not knowing that 
 he had been heroic, the lad held his peace ; and his com- 
 panion, feeling helpless to improve the situation, made an 
 effort to detach them both from the grasp of a useless 
 melancholy. 
 
 “ Now, look here,” said he, knocking the ashes from 
 his pipe, “ if you are going to stay in this country, we had 
 better think out what’s best to do. Have you any friends 
 here, Adam ? ” 
 
 “None but you,” was the reply; “and I particularly 
 don’t want any more.” 
 
 “ Then why not stay with me ? I don’t mean in my 
 house — of course, I know you’d rather have a place of 
 your own — any man would — but in my business. It is a 
 big business, and interesting when you get hold of it. 
 Perhaps you are too well off to want any business ; but 
 even if you are, it’s a great help to have plenty of work. 
 You’ve got your books, I know; but it isn’t well to be 
 writing always. Writing is thinking, and that’s what we 
 want to get away from.” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Adam, looking with some intentness at 
 his old friend ; “ yes, I feel that.” 
 
 - And then they talked over a plan for making a clerk 
 of Adam, while he learned the shipping trade, so that he 
 might have wholesome distraction from unhappy thoughts 
 as well as fraternal companionship. For Richard Delavel, 
 though he had become rich, was not a true man of busi- 
 ness. He made no inquiry into Adam’s qualifications for 
 the offered post, being satisfied with the fact that the boy 
 loved him, and came from Dunstanborough. 
 
 It had grown late by this time. So absorbed had they 
 been in their many confidences that evening had stolen 
 upon them unawares ; and what an evening ! The water 
 was shining still, pallid and silky, and its fringing waves 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 167 
 
 ran white along the sand ; but the velvety hills and head- 
 lands were turning from indigo blue to black, and the 
 fairy gauze, shot with so many hues, that had veiled the 
 brows of some of them was gone. Little winds of night 
 were springing up, keen with the breath of the salt sea, 
 but sweet to feel and taste, whispering in the trees and 
 bushes ; and through the autumnal dusk and the delicious 
 quiet and solitude came the boom of breakers outside, 
 a gentle, continuous murmur, in perfect tune with all. 
 
 “ Well,” said Richard, suddenly, “if we don’t go, and 
 make haste about it, too, you will get no dinner.” 
 
 “ As far as I am concerned,” said Adam, “ I am not 
 used to getting it at this time of the day, and so it would 
 be no loss. Tea and bread and butter, with perhaps a 
 taste of jam, was my evening meal at home, year in and 
 year out. But you ” 
 
 “ Oh, I ! Anything does for me; and I’ve got some 
 tucker, of a sort, in there ” — pointing over his shoulder 
 with the pipe. “ Tinned things and a box of biscuits, 
 and some beer, besides flour and stuff to cook with, and 
 tea, of course. Shall I make you a damper, Adam ? I 
 can ; only it takes rather a long time ; or will you have 
 roast potatoes ? It is very unhospitable, but — there’s go- 
 ing to be a lovely moon now directly.” 
 
 They agreed not to light a fire, but to feed upon what 
 the cupboard could supply at once, waiting only for the 
 moon. So the host locked them both inside the hut — in 
 order that no casual prowler should suspect a cellar on the 
 premises — and they spread the table together. It had no 
 damask cloth, and the meats and biscuits were served in 
 their tins ; but that did not matter. Both were excellent 
 to hungry men, who were not obliged to live on them ; 
 and the tumblers of good Bass, clear as topazes, with the 
 foam running over, were superlatively excellent. They 
 
168 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 sat vis-a-vis , with the lamp between them, and talked as 
 they ate of the historic feast at Lyntham, the old times 
 that were so pathetic now ; and each scrutinised the other’s , 
 countenance when he was not looking. 
 
 “How splendid he is!” thought Adam. “Why, why 
 should he be so unhappy — with a face like that ? ” 
 
 “ How much he has improved ! ” thought Richard ; 
 
 “ and yet I think he was wise not to let her see him.” 
 
 Neatly, when the meal was over, was the refuse of it 
 collected to be deposited in a kitchen hidden under- 
 ground, or in the sea ; for Richard respected his camp as 
 he did a house, and left no mess upon the carpet, which 
 his hostess Nature spread for him. It was one of manj> 
 trifling indications that he was a born gentleman. He 
 washed the vessels that had been used, and returned them 
 to their pegs and shelves ; he extinguished the lamp, and 
 set wide the doors of the hut to air the smell of food out 
 of it ; and he begged for one more pipe before starting on 
 the homeward voyage. 
 
 And now it was night — more beautiful than day ; and 
 as they sat upon the edge of the hut floor, which was the 
 doorstep, with feet in the loose dry sand, watching 
 through the darkening bushes the gradual whitening of 
 the water and clearing of the misty air — as they listened to 
 the mighty voice that was the voice of their oldest friend 
 — the two lone men felt less lonesome than they were ac- 
 customed to. They dumbly comforted each other. 
 
 “ This is the hour I like,” said Richard, musingly, 
 with the glow of the rising moon in his fixed eyes. 
 
 “ About this time I come down now and then, and sleep 
 here. I sleep with the doors open like this, so that I can 
 see out as I lie in bed. Sometimes the wind blows the 
 bed-clothes off me. It isn’t often I bring anybody here, 
 Adam. It is the one place that I keep to myself.” 
 
F1DEL1S. 
 
 169 
 
 Adam murmured something in acknowledgment of 
 the favour done him ; and they relapsed into sympathetic 
 silence until the pipe was finished. 
 
 Then the hut was locked up, and the boat unmoored, 
 and they returned to the busy world once more ; and 
 Adam saw the exquisite harbour in still another aspect, 
 and confessed it more satisfying than the finest dinner 
 ever cooked. For now the moon was up, a radiant cres- 
 cent in a clear, deep blue sky, without a feather of cloud, 
 or a shred of sea-spun mist. 
 
 The many hills embracing the labyrinth of waters had 
 “ come out ” like a perfected photograph, every outline 
 sharp and true, on that divine .background. And below 
 — it was like fairyland, with those innumerable fixed and 
 moving lights, studding the velvet blackness of the shore, 
 and the satin surface of the stream. And above — the airy 
 Infinite was unspeakable. 
 
 “ Paradise ! ” sighed Adam. 
 
 “ With the serpent all alive and kicking — as usual,” 
 said Richard. 
 
 “ One would prefer not to think so.” 
 
 “ Oh, one would prefer it. One would prefer a lot of 
 things ! ” 
 
 The words were the mere froth of words, but the tone 
 was full of dreary meaning. Adam wondered for the 
 fiftieth time what was the matter ; but, of course, he did 
 not ask. All that Richard revealed was the fact that they 
 were companions in sorrow, and, therefore, able to feel for 
 one another. 
 
 But they were back in the world now, and it was time 
 to cease being sentimental. The boat having been stealth- 
 ily housed in its own boat-house, and a cab having surrep- 
 titiously borne them from adjacent stables to the free and 
 independent city, a good supper was insisted upon — sup- 
 
170 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 per of the choicest obtainable, with champagne of the 
 best, in which to drink the health of the new comer, as 
 guest and author. 
 
 This took place at Richard’s club, and was a cheerful 
 function ; for he still had the art of social popularity with 
 the best about him, and he introduced Adam to a group 
 • of men, who, as far as he could detect, absolutely ignored 
 his personal appearance, while they thoroughly understood 
 his position as the author of In Spite of All . In fact, 
 Adam never was in such good company — as a man and a 
 brother — in his life as he was that night. And his tongue 
 was loosed, so that he spake of what was in him, and became 
 as good company himself as intelligent men could wish 
 for. And both host and guest were as merry as could be, 
 forgetting for the moment that they had a trouble in the 
 world. 
 
 They parted in the small hours at Adam’s hotel, 
 Richard promising to call after breakfast, and take his 
 friend to some lodgings that he knew of. And, elated 
 with wine and kindly fellowship, and the delightful sur- 
 prise of finding that his book and its fame had already 
 made the circuit of the world, our hero laid his head on 
 nice soft feathers and clean white linen, and could not 
 sleep for thinking how lucky he was. 
 
 And then in the morning he got his letters from the 
 post office ; and there was one from Fidelia, which made 
 him curse himself for having left her, and turned his 
 blossoming desert into a howling waste once more. She 
 had sent it to his publishers, and they had forwarded it 
 by the very mail that brought him out. He had travelled 
 with it from Egypt to Adelaide — her first letter to him — 
 without knowing it. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Fidelia’s letter was simple, modest, womanly, like 
 herself. It ran thus : — 
 
 “ My dear Mr. Drewe : As you asked me rather 
 particularly to read your book, I thought you might like 
 to hear that we have all done so, and that my aunt and 
 sisters join me in congratulating you on the production 
 of so beautiful a work and in thanking you for the great 
 pleasure that it has given us. As we are in London just 
 now, with my married sister, we are in the way of hearing 
 about it from a great many quarters, and I do not wonder 
 that it is (as a gentleman belonging to the press told me 
 last night) making you quite famous. Do you remember 
 foretelling this when I first met you, and you were so 
 good and kind to me, at the break-up party ? I feel so 
 proud of the confidence you reposed in me, and to see how 
 our prophecies have been fulfilled ! I was quite as sure 
 as you were that they would be, particularly after I grew 
 older and knew you better. 
 
 “ My sister quite envies me my acquaintance with you, 
 and wishes she could share it. She is nearly always at 
 home at about five o’clock, and her little parties are much 
 pleasanter than most, because she tries to get clever 
 people ; but I daresay it would bore you to come and see 
 us when you must have so many better things to do. 
 
 171 
 
172 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 “ It is odd to think that I have never really seen you, 
 and perhaps should not know you at a first glance ; but 
 there are plenty to know you now, and I never go to an 
 unusually large or select party without hoping to have 
 you pointed out to me. Not that I think I should need 
 to be told. Eather, you would fail to recognise me, now 
 that my eyes are well. The bandage must have made a 
 dreadful fright of me. I am half tempted to send you a 
 photograph, just to spare myself the ignominy of being 
 cut dead when we do happen to come across each other 
 again. The chance would be one I could not afford to 
 lose in that way. There is so much that I want to say to 
 you, and still more that I want to hear, after so long a 
 time and the happening of so many great events. 
 
 “ I have not said anything about the book — it is very 
 hard to do so in a letter — I’m afraid you would accuse 
 me of 4 gush,’ which is a thing I really am not given to. 
 I think Eoderick the most splendid man that ever lived 
 in any story. I hope you won’t mind my saying that 
 Dorothea seems to me not half good enough for him. 
 The idea of a girl — such a woman as he would think 
 worthy to love — caring about his family connections, or 
 whether he was poor or not ! The real Dorothea would 
 not have waited for him to be a great man and a mil- 
 lionniare, even though she was so beautiful and a duke’s 
 daughter (I don’t think much of such dukes’ daughters as 
 I have met, by the way ; I don’t believe there is a real 
 Dorothea amongst them). She would have seen his 
 greatness for herself long before that time, and been only 
 too proud to be his choice. 
 
 “ But, after all, the Morning Glory is my favourite. 
 
 “ I have them both, in copies of my own, which I 
 don’t lend to anybody. I got a bookbinder to put them 
 into strong calf, and I have a fancy for having my name 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 173 
 
 written in them by the author himself. May I ask that 
 favour? I would send them to you, only I don’t know 
 your London address. Perhaps it would not bother you 
 to write it on a post card, and post it to me ? I am stay- 
 ing with my sister, Mrs. Pelham-White, and shall be here 
 for a long time. 
 
 “ With kindest regards, in which my family join, 
 
 “ Believe me, dear Mr. Drewe, most truly yours, 
 
 “Fidelia Plunket. 
 
 “ P. S. — I enclose a photo, in view of the contingency 
 I mentioned. I wonder if you would send me one of 
 yours, for the same purpose ? ” 
 
 Out of the letter, when his trembling fingers opened it, 
 fell that photo — the sweetest picture that maddened lover 
 ever gloated on. In fact, it flattered the original, who 
 was quite pretty enough to need no flattering ; and prob- 
 ably that was why she sent it. The soft pure lines and 
 artistic lights and shadows made a face too lovely for this 
 world — a face for dreams ; and yet it was Fidelia’s un- 
 mistakable own face — her “ living image,” in her lover’s 
 eyes. 
 
 He held it, shaking as in palsied hands, and stared 
 at it ; set it up like an altar-piece and knelt before it ; 
 hugged it to his breast; kissed it; groaned over it; wept 
 over it ; and came anew to the conclusion that such as 
 she was not for such as he — that more than ever, now 
 that she so sweetly, so significantly called him, was he 
 bound to respect her ignorance of what he really was, 
 and refuse to go to her, even in the guise of a photo- 
 graph. 
 
 “ She expects a Roderick — my beautiful Dorothea! — 
 made to mate with a prince of men. What would she 
 say if she saw me ? How would she look ? Oh, I know 
 12 
 
174 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 how — as she looked when she saw me on the platform 
 that last day ! ” 
 
 For he had not found courage to make the hero of In 
 Spite of All different from other heroes. Like the ass in 
 the lion’s skin, he had wooed Fidelia in his book through 
 the person of a shop-boy of six feet four, whose splendid 
 lineaments and fascinations put those of the great Laun- 
 celot himself into the shade. Even there, where he had 
 so good a chance of pleading for his rights — where he 
 might have tested her on the subject of physical versus 
 moral charm — he had been afraid to make the attempt, 
 lest he should lose but a little of what he had already 
 gained. And now she was wooing him — and it was not 
 him ! This was indeed the bitterness of death. 
 
 “ Oh, go to her ! Go to her ! ” said Richard, when he 
 came about the lodgings, and found his friend qualifying 
 for a lunatic asylum. “ Go straight back to her, man, 
 and chance it. Mind you, when a woman is a woman, 
 she’s heaven and all the angels rolled into one for the 
 man she loves. There’s no camel that she won’t swallow 
 for him. I don’t say it because I think it, but because I 
 know it.” 
 
 But Adam did not know it, and could not believe it. 
 He said that his camel was just the one camel that no 
 woman had been known to swallow — or, at any rate, to 
 digest; and he refused to go back. So, when he was 
 calmer — with the calmness of despair — they went to look 
 at lodgings. 
 
 And when he was settled in his lodgings — they found 
 them in Macquarie Street, with the beautiful gardens by 
 the shore in front of them, for him to moon in — he sat 
 down to answer Fidelia. He was all the time until the 
 mail went out — several days and nights — answering her, 
 and wrote fifteen letters altogether. The last of these, 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 175 
 
 and the one that got posted, was a poor thing compared 
 with any of its fourteen predecessors. 
 
 “My dear Miss Plukket: It was indeed good of 
 you to give me the pleasure of knowing that you had read 
 my book, and liked it. I wish I could persuade myself 
 that I deserved your kind thoughts and praise, for there 
 is nothing in the world that I value more. I cannot ex- 
 press my gratitude to you for writing to me, and for send- 
 ing me the beautiful photograph of yourself. It is indeed 
 beautiful, and I can see that it is a perfect likeness. You 
 can have no idea of the value I set upon your gracious 
 gift, and what it will be to me in the solitary years to 
 come. 
 
 “ Your letter was posted just a week after my depart- 
 ure from London. I only wish I had known, so that 
 I could have waited for it. I trust you have heard by 
 this time where I am, and are not blaming me for delay- 
 ing to acknowledge your goodness ; I am of course doing 
 so at the very earliest opportunity, and if I dared I would 
 beg for another letter some day — when you have nothing 
 better to do, and if it would not trouble you too much ; 
 for I shall always be anxious to know if your eyes are 
 keeping well, and you are so kind in giving me news about 
 my books, which I am not likely to get elsewhere. I 
 could not hope to make my replies equally interesting, 
 but still it might amuse you to hear something of this 
 country and my experiences in it, from time to time. 
 
 “ I find it really an amazing place. No words could 
 give you an idea of what Sydney is (considering its years), 
 and of the beauty of its site and surroundings. If I 
 might take such a liberty, I should like to send you a set 
 of photographs and a map of the harbour, which must, I 
 think, be the most extraordinary piece of water in the 
 
176 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 world. It has more limbs than a centipede, each lovelier 
 than the rest ; but its charm of charms is the atmosphere, 
 which no photograph can give. Perhaps you have found 
 something like it in your European travels, but I never 
 have. 
 
 “ I suppose you do not remember Mr. Richard Dela- 
 vel, who left home some years ago, having made a mar- 
 riage that his father disapproved of ? He is living here, 
 in a very beautiful house, and has one sweet little girl. 
 I am afraid he and his family are still unreconciled. The 
 loss is theirs, for a finer or better man never lived, I am 
 convinced. When I was quite a small boy, he was my 
 dear, and I might say, only friend ; and I find him quite 
 unchanged after these many years, except that he seems 
 to me more true and good than ever, and more noble and 
 handsome. It was to see him again that I chose Aus- 
 tralia, when, for a reason that I cannot explain, I felt 
 obliged to seek a home out of England ; and it has indeed 
 been a pleasure to find him as he is. 
 
 “ I must have made a sad bungle of my portrait of 
 Dorothea, if you can imagine that Roderick was too good 
 for her: By the way, as you are kind enough to wish me 
 
 to write your name in my books, and as it takes so long 
 to send them out and back, I am having some bound 
 here (where they do first-class work), and will post them 
 to you, duly inscribed, by the mail following this. As a 
 fair exchange, will you send me your copies, with my 
 name in them in your handwriting ? But I am afraid I 
 am asking so much that I shall get nothing. 
 
 “ Dear Miss Plunket, I could write many booksful in 
 writing to you, but I must restrain myself, or there will 
 be no chance for me of hearing from you again. Please 
 convey my respectful regards to your aunt and sisters, 
 who are so kindly interested in my work, (In Spite of All 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 17 ? 
 
 has, I hear, gone into a third edition,) and believe me al- 
 ways Your humble, grateful, and faithful friend, 
 
 “ Adam Drewe. 
 
 “ P. S. — I have ventured to send you a few views of 
 Sydney and neighbourhood. Also a newspaper contain- 
 ing (in the shipping column) an account of my voyage, 
 which was very pleasant.” 
 
 Thus were all the passionate phrases eliminated — even 
 the hope, expressed thirteen times in thirteen different 
 ways, that she would reach the altogether impossible hap- 
 piness of marriage with some one worthy of her — even his 
 non-committing statement that he would pray for her 
 night and day if he could believe (also an impossibility) 
 that she would be by one straw’s worth the better for it ; 
 and the message, as it left his hand and reached its des- 
 tination, metaphorically broke Fidelia’s heart. 
 
 However, she kept the fact to herself, like the lady 
 that she was. Being recovered from an attack of illness, 
 due, the doctor said, to weather and a neglected drain, she 
 indited the following rejoinder : 
 
 “ Dear Mr. Drewe : No one had told me that you 
 had gone so far, and therefore it was a great surprise to 
 me to get your letter. I had fancied that perhaps you 
 were too busy to answer mine, and was sorry that I had 
 troubled you with it ; I am glad, at any rate, to find that 
 I was mistaken there, and that though you had left Eng- 
 land without bidding me good-bye, you had not altogether 
 forgotten me. 
 
 “How good of you to send me those lovely photo- 
 graphs ! What an exquisite place Sydney must be ! I 
 wish I could see it. I have always had an intense desire 
 to travel out of beaten paths and see quite new countries, 
 
i78 
 
 PIDELIS. 
 
 so I can understand your enjoyment. But still I wonder 
 that you should have left us at this particular time, just 
 as you had become so well-known and were being made 
 so much of. You speak of being ‘solitary,’ but surely 
 that is from choice ? No one need be less so than the 
 author of In Sjnte of All. I am glad to tell you, if you 
 do not already know it, that the seventh edition is just 
 out * and I enclose you a few reviews which I have col- 
 lected, and which will show you what the public think of 
 it. I also send you my two copies that you asked for — 
 your beautiful ones have arrived safely — thank you so 
 much. But where is the photo of yourself ? If we are 
 to make the 4 fair exchange ’ you suggest, you must keep 
 your part of the bargain. Please do not forget to send it 
 when you next write. 
 
 44 I shall indeed be glad to have news of you from time 
 to time, and will, in return, keep an eye upon your inter- 
 ests here, and tell you everything I can find out. As I 
 have not been very well in London lately, my father 
 wishes me to return home, and I go in a few days ; so 
 that I shall be rather cut off from the literary world now. 
 But I take a good many papers, and, happily, I am now 
 able to read them, though I have still to be careful of my 
 eyes, which get tired easily. By the way, I trust that it 
 is not for health that you have gone abroad ? The gen- 
 eral impression is that you are seeking original material 
 for the next book. You do not tell me when that is likely 
 to appear, nor the probable date of your return. You 
 speak of 4 seeking a home,’ but surely you would not set- 
 tle down in one so far away from the centres of intellec- 
 tual life and from your friends and business ? Perhaps 
 you will tell me your plans when you write again. 
 
 44 1 do not remember Richard Delavel at all, but have 
 always heard that he was a nice boy and poor Lady Susan’s 
 
F1DELIS. 
 
 179 
 
 favourite. It is very interesting for you to meet him 
 again, and I am very, very pleased to know that alto- 
 gether you are enjoying yourself so much. Trusting that 
 you will not quite forget your other friends, 
 
 “ I am, dear Mr. Drewe, 
 
 “ Most truly yours, 
 
 “Fidelia Plunket.” 
 
 This letter, so long and feverishly expected, chilled 
 the heart of the recipient, -as his had chilled hers. He 
 hunted it through and through, and a hundred times 
 through, phrase by phrase and word by word, and found 
 nothing under the dry husks of commonplace to nourish 
 and comfort him. 
 
 “ She does not care for me,” was the conclusion he 
 came to. “ Not even for the man that she thinks I am ! ” 
 
 And Fidelia at the same time was spending nights in 
 tears and days in dolour, because of her conviction that 
 he did not care for her. The kind of stupid thing that 
 lovers do, when they ought to know better ! 
 
 Adam tried to write to her again, but somehow could 
 not manage it. Weeks and months went by, while he 
 composed paragraphs describing the wonders of Australia, 
 and explaining in various ways why he had not had his 
 likeness taken ; and always the manuscript went into the 
 fire or the waste paper basket, and not into the post. It 
 was hot November, and he was spoiling paper still, in the 
 vain attempt to produce a letter that would neither tell 
 the truth nor convey wrong impressions, when he sus- 
 tained the unexpected shock of another one from her. 
 And such another ! 
 
 “My dear Friend : Though I have not heard from 
 you for a long time, I am still in hopes that I am kindly 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 "180 
 
 remembered , and I do not like any great event in my life 
 to take place without at once acquainting you with it. 
 
 “ I am engaged to my cousin, Harry Bowen, of 
 Lyntham, whom you may remember as a former school- 
 fellow of yours, and I believe we are to be married at 
 about Christmas. I know that I may confidently count 
 upon your good wishes. 
 
 “ I suppose you are wholly occupied in the prepara- 
 tion of your next book. When is it coming out ? Many 
 people are asking about it, and we are all impatient to 
 see it. 
 
 “ Excuse a very short note. I have a great many to 
 write just now. Yours very sincerely, 
 
 “ Fidelia Plu^ket.” 
 
 This closed the correspondence ; or, rather, the brief 
 word of congratulation with which Adam replied to her, 
 closed it. 
 
 On the arrival of the English mail thereafter, he went 
 to a public reading-room to look at the marriage column 
 in the Times . When he saw the little paragraph which 
 told him that she was indeed no more, he took her photo- 
 graph out of his breast and set it on his table in a frame 
 of solid silver, for which he gave five pounds. He would 
 have given ten or twenty and framed her in gold, but for 
 the danger of having her — all that was left of her — stolen 
 from him. 
 
 “ So that is over ! ” he said to himself — meaning that, 
 to all intents and purposes, he had lived his life. 
 
CHAPTEE XVIII. 
 
 But lie had not lived his life. Far from it. 
 
 Manhood is manhood in the ugly as in the beautiful. 
 What is more, it is far stronger, keener, more insistent, 
 in the ugly who are intellectually gifted than in the 
 beautiful who have common minds, other things being 
 equal. In spite of which — the laws of literary romance 
 being so much at variance with the laws of Nature — 
 Adam will be held to have disgraced himself as a hero, 
 when it is stated that he continued to hunger for feminine 
 sympathy as well as for his daily dinner. 
 
 Like Eichard Delavel, he was faithful to his true love, 
 through the many years of his separation from her, but 
 not so wholly faithful ; and that was because the circum- 
 stances of the two cases were altogether different — it is 
 not necessary to describe how. Let the reader try to 
 imagine him as a man of the world we live in, and not of 
 the world of sentimental fiction, and he will at once un- 
 derstand that what he did was not merely inevitable, but 
 no discredit to him whatever. 
 
 In the first place he moped for a long while — wrote 
 morbid verses and a very fine novel with a “ problem ” in 
 it, horribly tragical ; and as for women — except “ her,” 
 and the creatures of his imagination, and a housemaid at 
 his lodgings, who merely endeavoured to earn the extrava- 
 gant tips he bestowed upon her — they were to him as 
 
 181 
 
182 
 
 FIDEL1S. 
 
 though they were not. In other words, he was ill. Many 
 are the obscure complaints which derange the human or- 
 ganism without calling for the doctor. 
 
 When he began to recover, he began to take an in- 
 terest in the housemaid, a good honest girl, who waited 
 on him as a servant loves to wait on one who considers 
 her little feelings, and as no one, male or female, had ever 
 waited on him before. She was clean and wholesome, 
 she could read and write, she was not bad looking, nor 
 unintelligent, and she was kindness itself. The more he 
 tried not to give her trouble, the more she took — thought- 
 fully, unobtrusively, avoiding thanks and half-sovereigns 
 when she possibly could ; that is to say, they treated each 
 other as interdependent human creatures, rather than as 
 employer and employed, because that was Adam’s way, 
 due to his peculiar temperament and experiences. And 
 the natural consequences ensued. The habit of domestic 
 comfort grew upon him — so well fitted to appreciate it — 
 and with his grateful regard for her to whom he owed it. 
 Her name was Tryphena, and they called her Triffy — 
 Triffy Miggs. He said to her one day, when she had res- 
 olutely kept out three unimportant callers who wanted to 
 disturb him when he was in a mood to write, “ I don’t 
 know what I should do without you, Triffy.” 
 
 She answered, in her cheery way, “ Well, you won’t 
 have to try — not yet awhile, at any rate.” 
 
 “Xever, I hope,” said he, with thoughtless impetu- 
 osity. For he had just done a beautiful chapter, that 
 would have been spoiled but for her care. 
 
 “ Oh, as to that,” she laughed, “ never is a long day. 
 I don’t look to be a servant always, any more than other 
 girls.” 
 
 He was struck with this remark, pregnant with so 
 many suggestions. He turned it over in his mind as he 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 183 
 
 sat alone, and when she came about him again, regarded 
 her as from several new standpoints. 
 
 “Why not?” he asked himself, in the spirit of the 
 hero of Locksley Hall, desolate and desperate. “What’s 
 the use of crying for the moon? Who am I, that I should 
 ask a lady' to marry me? At least, I am good enough for 
 Trifly. I couldn’t love her, of course — nor anybody — but 
 I could make her a good husband, and she would make 
 me a peaceable and capable wife. Because I am not 
 allowed to enter Paradise, am I therefore not to have a 
 home ? Because I cannot get the moon, am I to be de- 
 prived of bread and butter ? Because I have lost my true 
 mate, am I to die childless? Triffy’s children would be 
 sound and strong, and her house warm and cheerful, and • 
 her dinners excellent. Well, is that nothing?” 
 
 The young blood in him determined the reply, and life 
 began to be interesting again when he began to court 
 Triffy. It was a sober courtship, not to be confounded 
 with love-making, but, once it was started, the domestic 
 conditions kept it from becoming stale. I should be 
 afraid to say how the matter grew upon him, from day to 
 day, and from hour to hour, owing to constant propin- 
 quity and their peculiar social relationship ; it is certain 
 that he did no literary work for a long time except that 
 which had for its object the improvement of Miss Miggs’s 
 mind. He made her neglect her duties to read books of 
 his selection, and to listen to his disquisitions thereupon. 
 But such was his modesty and his delicacy, as a suitor and 
 a man, that he never made her understand what he was 
 driving at. 
 
 And then she came to him one day to bid him good- 
 by, because she was going to marry the grocer’s man — to 
 whom she had been engaged, she explained, “ for ages.” 
 Genuine tears were in her eyes when she spoke of leaving 
 
184 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 her good place and the service of one who had been so 
 kind to her; but when she mentioned her prospective 
 husband, smiles clothed her as with a garment. It was 
 quite evident that she was satisfied with him. 
 
 “ What’s he like ? ” inquired Adam, in a rage of 
 jealousy. 
 
 “ Well, it's not for me to say,” Triffy modestly replied. 
 “ But they call him ‘ Handsome George.’ ” 
 
 “ Oh,” said Adam, “ I know that sort of man.” 
 
 “ Begging your pardon, sir, I don’t think you do,” 
 said Miss Miggs, firmly ; “ judging by the way you 
 speak.” 
 
 “ Handsome is as handsome does. I am only hoping, 
 my dear girl, that you have borne that in mind.” 
 
 “ Indeed, indeed, I have good reason to know how 
 true it is ! ” she ejaculated, with an affectionate look at 
 him — intending a grateful compliment. “ But my George, 
 Mr. Drewe, is as good as he is handsome.” 
 
 “ Then nothing remains but to give you my blessing, 
 Triffy. May you be happy, dear — may you — there, go 
 and get mv tea readv.” 
 
 * — V %J 
 
 “You won’t want for anything when I’m gone,” she 
 assured him, soothingly. “ A cousin of mine is coming 
 here in my place, and she’s the best servant you ever 
 saw — far better than what I am. I wouldn’t go — I told 
 George I wouldn’t — till I’d seen you made comfortable.” 
 
 So she married the grocer’s man, and Adam presented 
 her with a big cheque on her wedding day. And that 
 episode was closed. 
 
 Shortly afterwards, he left his lodgings in Macquarie 
 Street, to escape from the offensive familiarities of Triffy’s 
 cousin, who — as Triffy’s cousin — could not be kept in her 
 proper place. 
 
 Then the novel with the problem in it — a sex problem, 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 185 
 
 of coarse — came out, and made a great sensation, as works 
 of that sort do. Usually they may be described as prob- 
 lems with novels in them, kites that any paper tail will 
 fly ; but this book was literary as well as startling, distin- 
 guished by those qualities of thought and workmanship 
 without which no book is a real book, however fascinating 
 its theme. 
 
 While the general public smacked its lips over the 
 shocking marriage theory propounded, the fine palate of 
 the cultivated reader was charmed with the skilful manner 
 in which the dish was cooked — those delicate flavours of 
 good style so rarely associated with the conventionally in- 
 delicate subject, evidences at once of a practised hand, a 
 sound mind, a pure heart, and the genius of a born artist. 
 It was not the novel of the day, but it was one of the good 
 books of the season, admitted to that intellectual good 
 society from which the novel of the day is sometimes a 
 hopeless outcast, with any number of letters of introduc- 
 tion to recommend it. 
 
 As a community, Australia takes the advice of Eng- 
 land as to what it should read and admire and what it 
 should leave alone ; but there are individuals amongst us 
 — and small choice groups of them — who can guide them- 
 selves aright without assistance. Their noses are as keen 
 for the scent of good things as the nose of the professional 
 London critic — so curiously at fault, sometimes, in his 
 headlong hurry ; and they keep themselves almost as 
 closely in touch with the affairs that concern them. Such 
 a group, representing a small, informal club of pressmen 
 and artists, and their various confederates, including men 
 like Richard Delavel, as well as seedy Bohemians, pos- 
 sessed of nothing but their brains, made an oasis in the 
 literary desert upon which our author was cast. Its 
 humble rooms in a back street — the bushel from under 
 
186 
 
 F1DELIS. 
 
 which more than one light has since been taken and set 
 npon a hill, to give light unto the world — were his haunts 
 and home after Triffy had forsaken him, attaching him 
 to Sydney for several years ; and his warrant of admission 
 to full membership of the society was The Law Made 
 Flesh , to which a royal welcome was given, and to him 
 for its sake, while yet the right of the book to be success- 
 ful was undetermined by the high authorities. 
 
 The Society proper was composed of men, who, in the 
 dingy hole that was their headquarters, and in their own 
 unfashionable way, were extremely select and unapproach- 
 able; but most of them were family^ men, and at times 
 they gave parties to which ladies were invited. They 
 covered their walls with their unsaleable paintings and 
 newspaper drawings, and their tables with scientific instru- 
 ments and curiosities, and set up a black-board to make 
 lightning sketches on, and hired a piano, and ordered 
 largely of the confectioner — no wife being allowed to in- 
 terfere with any part of the arrangements ; and then the 
 company came, and was so tightly packed that one could 
 scarcely turn round, especially the stylish person with a 
 long train to her gown ; and all dripped with perspiration, 
 and were very jolly notwithstanding. The artists played 
 and sang and recited, and made wonderful pictures on the 
 black-board with a few strokes of the chalk, in one room ; 
 while the scientists conducted experiments and explained 
 phenomena in another ; and the press writers, joying in 
 the sense of Saturday night, showed photographs and 
 talked nonsense to the fair guests crowded out from the 
 special entertainments. And by and by plates of sand- 
 wiches and cakes, and trays of coffee cups and wine glasses, 
 circulated at arms’-length overhead, and were with diffi- 
 culty distributed, often in the wrong place ; and then the 
 ladies reluctantly departed, leaving the men to recruit 
 
FIDELIS. 187 
 
 after their labours — to riot until daylight in excited talk, 
 over pipe and whisky bottle. 
 
 In the republic of intellect one does not need to be 
 handsome, any more than to be rich, to command atten- 
 tion, and Adam found himself quite a lion at these par- 
 ties, when he began to go to them. Not men only, but 
 clever women also, were interested in him for the sake 
 of his achievements, and took pains to show it in the 
 most acceptable way. It certainly was the case that the 
 particular clever woman to whom he felt most grateful 
 was rather plain herself, and by no means so young as he 
 was : but that was of no consequence. It was her clever- 
 ness that drew him, as his drew her — the cultivated mind 
 and quick intelligence, which so thoroughly separated her 
 from Triffy and her class. 
 
 They sat together at an artists’ conversazione, side by 
 side. Chance had determined the position early in the 
 evening, and it became almost a physical impossibility to 
 alter it. The chairs and rows of chairs were so close to- 
 gether and completely filled that the two were built in, so 
 that Adam was not even able to offer his seat to a standing 
 lady without giving and taking more trouble than it was 
 worth. And the desire to move was not in him nor in his 
 companion, who did not get the whole ear of a lion every 
 day. She wore her hair short and curled, and a pince-nez, * 
 and a high-necked dress. And she talked to him about 
 his beautiful book until one could almost see him purring. 
 
 The way she talked about it rather shocked him at 
 first. But then — as she put it to him — where was the dif- 
 ference between writing things and speaking things ? She 
 supposed he considered his novel fit for women to read ? 
 Then why not for women to discuss? And was it not 
 better to be frank and honest about those things which so 
 seriously concerned them, than to make silly conventional 
 
1SS 
 
 FIBELI5 
 
 pretences, that were really immoral ? He conceded that 
 it did seem better — in fact, he was sure of it — when he 
 had got over the uncomfortable strangeness of the thing ; 
 but wnen he thougrt of Fidelia talking modern marriage 
 problems with a young man — good heavens ! It made him 
 feel hot all over. However. Fidelia was Fidelia, and Mrs, 
 Staines was quite anotner sort of woman, living in quite 
 another world. 
 
 And he liked that world, and he liked the modem 
 relationship between him and her, — the frank, equal com- 
 raaeship. as between man and man. which she alwavs de- 
 clared was the one designed by Mature and mined by the 
 practices of a wicked world. He soon grew accustomed 
 to speaking his thoughts to her freely, upon problems of 
 all sorts, and she taught him manv things that were verv 
 useful to him. 
 
 For years she was his conhdential friend — only that, 
 according to his view. Eiehard Delavel was not very 
 accessible, and had become a moody and silent man. more- 
 over. sombrely preoccupied and reserved : besides, a man 
 can never be to a man what a woman is — and vice verm 
 — no matter how they stand to one another. Adam 
 thought it was purely intellectual sympathy, and not sex 
 — they both averred that it was not sex — which made 
 Mrs. Staines such a constant comfort to him : but in the 
 harvest rime of experience one gathers the knowledge 
 that either the second nature of habit has destroyed our 
 angel innocence or that primal nature is on the side of 
 the Philistine who disbelieves in platonic attachments. 
 We know, as soon as we are old enough to know, that 
 brothers and sisters are born and not made. When Adam 
 attained to his ripe thirties, he discovered his self-decep- 
 tion under painful circumstances. 
 
 Mr. Staines, who was a painter, sought a divorce from 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 189 
 
 his wife — why or wherefore Adam could not conceive, be- 
 cause the men he consorted with were always careful 
 never to mention her to him. She flew to him in her 
 distress, with cruel tales of her domestic martyrdom ; and 
 his raging pity and indignation were such that he could 
 not express them save by taking her in his arms and kiss- 
 ing her. Alas, yes ! But she put her head upon his 
 shoulder first. 
 
 “ Poor girl ! Poor darling ! ” was what he said to her 
 in the excitement of the moment and the intoxication of 
 the sweet compliment she had paid him. “ I am glad 
 you came to me. I will stand by you ! I will see you 
 through it ! Til defend you against the slanders of that 
 beast — to the last penny that I possess — to the last drop 
 of my blood ! ” 
 
 And off he went, like a knight with his sword buckled 
 on, regardless of her timid suggestion that it might be 
 better if he did not appear in the matter. He secured 
 the best lawyers that were to be had, and marched into 
 court himself along with them, determined to do or die 
 as became a true champion of helpless and innocent 
 womanhood. By that time he had discovered, as he 
 thought, that he had been her unconscious lover all along, 
 and she his, and had made up his mind to abide the con- 
 sequences — a painful but delicious prospect; but he was 
 quite convinced that, apart from him, she was as innocent 
 of wrong-doing as she declared herself to be. 
 
 However, there was a co-respondent — black-haired, 
 shifty-eyed, a stranger to the artists’ club — and there was 
 evidence, convincingly corroborated, that made the hair of 
 the author of The Law Made Flesh to stand on end with 
 horror. That the lady was in a position to plead her con- 
 duct as merely a literal translation of that great work — 
 that, with the desperate courage of a woman at bay, she. 
 
 13 
 
190 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 affected to glory in it, taking her stand upon high prin- 
 ciple — did not tend to soothe him. And when, as the 
 trial proceeded, he found himself mixed up with it — a 
 red herring drawn across the trail — held up to the public 
 view as a Don Juan of the co-respondent’s type, and ab- 
 surd at that with his lack of the first essential to the char- 
 acter — well ! his state of mind was such that words are 
 inadequate to describe it. When the affair was over Mrs. 
 Staines found herself much where she was before, because 
 Mr. Staines, being tarred with the same brush, was put 
 out of court as an injured husband entitled to relief; but 
 Adam found himself a changed man, utterly sickened 
 with life and with his own shame and folly, with his 
 books, with Sydney, with everybody and everything. 
 
 “ I must get out of this,” he said to Richard Delavel, 
 sitting in the new tent of the old camp, his head bowed 
 over his knees and his face in his hands. Richard was 
 the only person to whom he could reveal his heart ; and 
 even that best friend, with his cool and easy cynicism, was 
 a disappointment now. 
 
 “ Why should you ? ” was his unfeeling response. 
 “ What does it matter ? We are all mortal — we are bound 
 to fall into women’s traps, one way or another — nobody 
 that knows you will think the worse of you, and it’ll all 
 be dead and forgotten by the. day after to-morrow. I 
 wouldn’t care a twopenny damn, if I were you.” 
 
 “ You wouldn’t care ? ” Adam almost shouted, staring 
 through his tear-blurred goggles at the callous man. 
 “ Not care to be dragged through mire like this — to have 
 made yourself a common divorce court beast — after you 
 had known what it was to love a — oh, Lord ! How little 
 you understand ! ” 
 
 “ I don’t think I misunderstand,” said Richard. “ But 
 I’m older; you’ll be older some day.” 
 
FIDEL IS. 
 
 191 
 
 “ If I’m not old enough now — to know better than 
 this — I never shall be.” 
 
 “ We never are — we are young all the time, up to the 
 last moment. I’m a fool too — and worse — only not quite 
 such a fool as I have been. Cheer up, Adam ! It’s all in 
 the day’s work. Go away for a spell if you want to, till 
 you get your nerves steady, but don’t root things up like 
 a wild boar of the woods, in a savage fit like this. Come 
 back in a couple of months, and you’ll be surprised to 
 find how little damage has been done.” 
 
 “ I could never,” groaned Adam, “ come back to this 
 cursed place.” 
 
 “ Then go and live in England. Go and wear your 
 laurels in London, where you ought to have been all 
 along.” 
 
 “ Live in England ! Breathe the same air with her — 
 my white lily ! my — oh, when I think of her ! But I am 
 not worthy even to think of her.” 
 
 “ Nonsense. Go on thinking of her, night and day ; 
 it’ll be a disinfectant. Go on worshipping her, if she is 
 only a shade — however, you’re not in a condition to be 
 argued with. Go for a sea voyage — that’s best. And 
 when you’re tuned up again, if you still don’t like the 
 notion of returning here, go and take charge of the Mel- 
 bourne office. We want somebody there — and you don’t 
 want to chuck the business, I suppose — and it’s as good a 
 place as another to make a new start in.” 
 
 “ That’s what I will do,” said Adam, when he had 
 cooled down and become practical again. 
 
 And that was what he did. 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 When Adam settled in Melbourne, a year or two after 
 he had shaken the dust of Sydney from his feet he was a 
 rich man — rich and intensely respectable. No more Bo- 
 hemian Clubs ; no more revolutionary novels ; no more 
 platonic friendships ; an austere reserve and exclusiveness 
 now marked his mien and manner of life ; his hair had a 
 thread of grey in it, and he was sober as a judge. The 
 little misfortune that was so much greater to him than it 
 would have been to another had blown over by this time, 
 and he might have had all the social attentions so readily 
 bestowed upon the wealthy and the notorious, no matter 
 what else they be ; but he had lost his taste for sweets of 
 that kind, and also took the view, proper to a proud man, 
 that he was disqualified for good society by the public 
 obloquy that he had undergone. 
 
 Business, strict business, was the order of the day. 
 He took a small suite of rooms in a hotel — the “ Esplan- 
 ade,” at St. Kilda — went every morning by train to the 
 office, lunched in the city, and, returning in the afternoon, 
 dined alone, with a book beside his plate, and spent the 
 evening at his fireside, or in a bow window overlooking 
 the sea, at steady work upon the novel that was his world 
 for the time, and eventually his greatest achievement. 
 Society will not run after people who do not run after it ; 
 and an author who does not advertise himself is in no 
 
 192 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 193 
 
 danger of being pestered by his admirers, particularly in 
 a country where “ letters ” are scarcely acclimatised. 
 
 To his sincere satisfaction, our author discovered this 
 — which, under other circumstances, might have pained 
 him. His name, he knew, was a household word in many 
 lands ; here, where he lived, he was as the hero to his 
 valet, and could drop out of notice almost as easily as a 
 common person. Certainly he remained a hero in the 
 office, by virtue of his position as a “ boss ” of the great 
 firm, and he was an important person to the secretaries 
 of many benevolent institutions ; otherwise his money and 
 his distinctions were, like gala clothes, laid away in a 
 locked drawer. Not being seen, they were forgotten ; and 
 he was a nobody without them. Just now he desired the 
 privileges of independence which pertain to that humble 
 state ; and he enjoyed them for a long time. 
 
 Yet still — still he had good red blood in his veins. 
 And still the earth was fair — and particularly the sea, his 
 passion for which had not grown cold in Sydney. And 
 still the sweet face of a woman had its rightful power to 
 please him. 
 
 When the weather was warm, and the Esplanade 
 Hotel was crowded and fashionable, he took to the water 
 in a yacht of his own, and lived upon it more and more. 
 He had naturally been a yachtsman in Sydney — every 
 lover of a good craft, who can afford it, is, in that paradise 
 of waters ; and all the charm came back to him as soon 
 as he set foot upon a floating plank again. 
 
 What he missed in beauty was made up in space, and 
 the joy of a bay whereon one could sail for twenty miles 
 on one tack, compensated for the lovely shores that had 
 heretofore hemmed him in so closely. The pursuit grew 
 upon him, as it always must upon one born with the sea 
 in his ears, and in his blood ; and he presently exchanged 
 
194 : 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 his pleasure boat for a racing cutter, joined a club again, 
 and looked forward to Saturday afternoons with the zest 
 of a schoolboy. Sometimes he raced, sometimes he idly 
 cruised about by himself, and picked up friends amongst 
 other water lovers, who, caring nothing about his money 
 or his books, and very little about his personal appearance, 
 took his boat and his seamanship as guaranteeing him a 
 good fellow. 
 
 He also attached to himself as crew an excellent old 
 man, remarkable for the scar of a burn that had deprived 
 him of an eye, and crumpled his face out of shape, called 
 Obadiah Spiers, and a smart lad, with a squint, who went 
 by the title of Obadiah’s wife’s nephew, his own name — 
 Sennacherib — being even more inconvenient to pronounce. 
 To them were added, on important occasions, a young 
 fellow, called Jim — simply Jim — who had lost an arm 
 from an accident fin a ship’s hold. Good seamen all, in 
 spite of their little peculiarities, and devoted to their 
 master. 
 
 One summer afternoon, when he was cruising off 
 Williamstown with the old man and the boy, he had a 
 little adventure. 
 
 The yacht was shearing through the water in a deli- 
 cate wind, and he was lying along the deck, with his head 
 on a pillow and his hat over his eyes, when Obadiah and 
 his wife’s nephew simultaneously called to him, rousing 
 him from a delicate reverie. When he sat up to see 
 what was the matter they pointed to two objects — a boat 
 coming round the breakwater pier, violently propelled by 
 a woman, and, at a good distance from it, a little skiff, 
 drifting bottom upwards, with two small heads bobbing 
 round it. In a moment the yacht was heading for the 
 wreck, and in five minutes Adam had fished up the casta- 
 ways with a boat-hook, and deposited them, unharmed, 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 195 
 
 upon his own spotless deck, which they messed hor- 
 ribly. 
 
 “ It’s them young Frenches,” growled Obadiah, with 
 the air of one who knew them well. “ Young limbs they 
 be, to be sure ! ” 
 
 They looked the character. Staggering in their ex- 
 haustion and the weight of their steaming clothes, throats 
 and eyes full of salt water, they grinned at their preserver 
 and at each other as at some joke too funny for words. 
 The youngest was still in knickerbockers, the eldest could 
 not have been more than fourteen ; they had impudent, 
 bright-eyed faces, deeply tanned, and were evidently ex- 
 perienced as well as notorious persons. Their first splut- 
 tered words were a request that the skiff might be righted 
 and made fast, and the floating oars rescued. 
 
 “ That duffer,” said one, indicating the other, “ leaned 
 over the gun’le and upset himself, and then he upset the 
 boat trying to get in again.” 
 
 “ Because that idiot let his oar go,” was the prompt 
 defence of the accused. “ I tried to get it for him, and 
 reached too far. It was his own stupid fault.” 
 
 “ You have no business with a boat — brats like you,” 
 said Adam, paternally severe. “ If we hadn’t been here 
 to pick you up, you’d soon have been drowned, with those 
 heavy hob-nailed boots on.” 
 
 They scoffed at the absurd suggestion. Drowned, 
 indeed ! No, fear ! Not they ! They could have got 
 ashore, easily enough, only they didn’t like to go back 
 without the boat, which did not belong to them. 
 
 “ And who is it that gives you boats to fool with in 
 this way?” inquired Adam. 
 
 “ Nobody,” they confessed. They took boats as they 
 wanted them. This one did not seem to be in use, and 
 so they thought they might as well borrow it for an hour 
 
196 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 or two. They were sure the owner would not mind. 
 “ He knows us,” they remarked complacently. 
 
 “ And your poor mother ” 
 
 Adam turned to look for the boat with the woman in 
 it, and saw it drawing near, but slowly and heavily, as if 
 the rower’s arms were tired. She had ceased to look over 
 her shoulder to see where she was going, and he prepared 
 to stand by with the boat-hook to assist her to the little 
 gangway he had thrown out. 
 
 “ Oh, that isn’t our mother ! ” cried the urchins in a 
 breath. “ That’s only old Sal.” 
 
 Being questioned, they explained that “ old Sal ” was 
 their sister, who made it her business to harry them at 
 every turn, and to spoil all their innocent pleasures as far 
 as she could. 
 
 That afternoon they thought they had given her the 
 slip, but, lo and behold ! they were not fairly off before 
 they saw her coming after them. It was in trying to row 
 away from her, and generally to lead her a dance, that 
 their little accident had occurred. 
 
 “ Take off those boots,” said Adam ; “ empty them over 
 the side, and set them in the sun. Pull off your jackets, 
 and then go below, and my boy shall find you something 
 to put on while your clothes are drying.” 
 
 Obadiah’s wife’s nephew came forward, having secured 
 the derelict on a tow-rope, and the three were bundled 
 into the cockpit rather hurriedly — in order that the pur- 
 sued may be placed in a position necessitating their de- 
 tention on the yacht for an hour or two, before the pur- 
 suer could arrive . to prevent it. For this was an oppor- 
 tunity to be hospitable and pleasing which did not present 
 itself to Adam every day. 
 
 Obadiah attended to the yacht, while the skipper — 
 very smart in white flannel, and with his hat brim all but 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 197 
 
 touching his nose — manoeuvred to get the second boat 
 alongside. As soon as it was near enough for the lady to 
 look at him, he bowed his best bow ; and the friendly re- 
 sponse of her anxious eyes delighted him. 
 
 She had a strong and good rather than a pretty face, 
 and none of the little affectations common to young ladies 
 when they speak to a strange man. Her attire was homely 
 — a cotton gown, a sunburnt hat, and no gloves — and her 
 figure large and substantial ; she had no air of fashion, of 
 “ blood,” or of money, and she looked about eight and 
 twenty. Such as she was — wholly unlike Fidelia, of 
 course, but still more utterly different from Triffy Miggs 
 on the one hand and Mrs. Staines on the other — Adam 
 took to her at once. He seemed to know by instinct that 
 she was a nice woman. 
 
 “ They are all right,” he called, as he drew her boat to 
 the steps. “ Just a ducking — that’s all.” And if he had 
 been taken with her honest face, she was won by his voice, 
 every note of which was pure music, ringing true as minted 
 gold — as a cathedral bell. 
 
 “ Mr. Drewe, I think ? ” she hastily interrogated ; and 
 he bowed again, pleased to find himself better known 
 than he had supposed. “ Oh, Mr. Drewe, I cannot thank 
 you ! No one else seemed to see them, and I was in such 
 terror of the sharks ! The boys themselves were fishing 
 for a big one yesterday, with the piece of meat that should 
 have made their own dinner — close to that very place ! 
 Of course, they never thought about it — they never think 
 of anything. They are dreadful boys ! ” 
 
 But she laughed in an indulgent, sisterly way, even 
 while she abused them. 
 
 “ Boys will be boys,” remarked Adam, bending down 
 to pull her to the gangway. 
 
 “ Oh, don’t trouble — I can hold on here until you 
 
198 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 fetch them. Please tell them to be quick. I must get 
 them home and out of their wet things.” 
 
 Then Adam explained that, having dry togs on board 
 
 for these emergencies, he had already sent the boys to 
 
 * change. It was always more or less dangerous to remain 
 
 long in wet clothes, and it seemed inexpedient to alarm 
 
 their friends on shore by returning them thither in an 
 
 apparently drowned condition. In short, he persuaded 
 
 her to take charge of them where they were, until all 
 
 damage was repaired, and she had no choice but to do so. 
 
 Xever had he been less troubled with shyness in an en- 
 
 «/ 
 
 counter with a strange young woman, and in half an 
 hour from the time she stepped on board, most re- 
 luctant to “ intrude,” as she called it, but otherwise 
 willing to be there protected and entertained, they were 
 all at home with one another, like a comfortable family 
 party. 
 
 Xothing could exceed the delight of the boys in the 
 issue of their adventure. Their appearance in Adam’s 
 clothes, the novelty of the yacht, the goodness of the pro- 
 visions on -board, the comradeship of Obadiah’s wife’s 
 nephew, the prospect of a sail while their garments 
 were drying — everything was full of amusement for them ; 
 and their sociability and their liveliness kept even Oba- 
 diah on the broad grin. Xo one could possibly be dull 
 where they were, and a cheerful atmosphere is to bud- 
 ding friendship what warm sunshine is to a budding 
 flower. 
 
 Miss French, when she had given her brothers a piece 
 of her mind, and been “ cheeked ” for her pains — which 
 she did not resent, but Adam did, and summarily put a 
 stop to — sat on deck with her host for the whole of a 
 summer afternoon, apparently without once asking her- 
 self what the time was. Chaperoned by her young com- 
 
FIDE LIS. 
 
 199 
 
 panions, spurred by their ceaseless questionings and con- 
 fidences, she told him her simple history — how her father, 
 who had been in the Customs, was dead, her mother in 
 somewhat narrow circumstances, herself engaged as a 
 daily governess in Melbourne, near the school which the 
 boys attended (in order, as she implied, to look after them 
 as they went and came, and to assist with the expenses of 
 their education) ; and how those boys were dear good boys 
 and affectionate brothers, appearances notwithstanding. 
 
 And Adam described his domestic solitude in the 
 crowded hotel, and how the racket of the children in the 
 corridors disturbed him at his work, and how he loved 
 the sea, and so on. 
 
 There was no need to speak of either of his professions, 
 for she had read his books, and was acquainted with a 
 clerk in his Melbourne office. 
 
 And all the time she looked at him with kind frank 
 eyes, that never once reminded him of his life-long mis- 
 fortune. 
 
 Before another Saturday the yacht was furnished with 
 a Goy’s Amateur’s Canteen, and a jar of spirits of wine, 
 but to-day — to his extreme mortification — there was no 
 appliance for making tea. However, he did his hospita- 
 ble best for her with cooled wine and soda water, and 
 crisp biscuits from a newly-opened tin, and she was more 
 than satisfied ; while the boys “ wolfed ” preserved meats 
 and gingerbread in the most gratifying manner. 
 
 And during their repast and for some time after it 
 was finished, the Kittiwa/ce , under Obadiah’s direction, 
 gently wafted them to and fro — to the St. Kilda shores, 
 to the Cape Verde wreck, round the lightship, and back 
 again. 
 
 It was six o’clock before the boys’ clothes were found 
 to be dry enough to put on, and it was nearer seven than 
 
200 
 
 FIDEL1S. 
 
 six before the party separated ; the breeze was then dying 
 with the dying day, unheeded by the skipper, who was so 
 far from home. He rowed his guests ashore in one of 
 their own little skiffs, towing the other, and adjusted 
 matters with a waterman who was inclined to be irate — 
 the man who, as the boys said, “ knew them.” 
 
 He did know them, evidently, but not in a way to 
 boast about ; like Obadiah, he called them “ limbs,” and 
 threatened to trounce them handsomely if he caught them 
 meddling with his boats again. 
 
 “ You’ll excuse me, miss,” he added, with an amiable 
 nod to Sarah. 
 
 “ Oh, yes,” laughed she. “ Please, do — if you can 
 catch them.” 
 
 And then Adam assumed the airs of a father on her 
 behalf. 
 
 “ Look here, boys — if you will promise not to go out 
 by yourselves without leave again, I will take you for 
 cruises with me — if your sister will trust me — any Satur- 
 day afternoon that you like to signal for me from the 
 pier, or come over to St. Kilda, where my moorings 
 are ” 
 
 “ Oh, no, no ! ” Miss French broke in, while her 
 brothers shouted to her to hold her tongue, and mind her 
 own business. “ You must not be troubled with them — 
 indeed, we cannot allow it, Mr. Drewe. It is aivfully 
 kind of you, but if you knew what you were undertak- 
 ing ! ” 
 
 “ Shut up ! ” howled Bunny and Billy, in their polite 
 fraternal fashion. “We wouldn’t be any trouble at all, 
 Mr. Drewe. We’d help you to work the yacht — we’d be 
 no end of use. She doesn’t know anything about it, 
 though she thinks she’s so clever — always poking her nose 
 where she isn’t wanted.” 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 201 
 
 “Oh,” said Adam, and paused gravely; “if you don’t 
 know any better than to speak to ladies in that way ” 
 
 He made a gesture signifying that, this being so, he 
 washed his hands of them. 
 
 Whereupon they hastened to assure him that they 
 were never rude to Sal unless she forced the necessity 
 upon them, and that, in any case, a sister was not a lady ; 
 and they begged that they might sail with him on the 
 following Saturday, promising to get over to St. Kilda 
 somehow, to save him the inconvenience of coming to 
 fetch them. 
 
 “ Try us,” they implored, with passionate earnestness, 
 “ and then, if you find us troublesome, don’t take us any 
 more.” 
 
 To this arrangement Miss French gratefully but re- 
 luctantly consented, when Adam had pleaded his own 
 loneliness on board, and desire for their entertaining com- 
 pany ; and when they had pointed out to him the group 
 of trees which indicated their abode, they all shook hands 
 cordially, like old friends, and said “ Good-bye,” in a way 
 that meant “ Until we meet again.” 
 
 As Adam drew away from the pier, he watched the 
 brothers and sister walking up and off it. The tall girl 
 was in the middle, and the uncivil boys on either side of 
 her, affectionately hanging upon her arms. 
 
 When crossing the piece of open ground that kept a 
 view of the bay for the shops in Nelson Place, they 
 turned to watch him board his yacht, and Bunny waved 
 his cap on high, and Billy his grey-hued pocket hand- 
 kerchief. 
 
 The signal was eagerly acknowledged. 
 
 “ We’ve lost the wind,” growled Obadiah, “after them 
 young imps.” 
 
 “ Oh, I think there’s enough to take us across,” said 
 
202 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 Adam, happily; “we are in no hurry — at least, I am 
 not.” 
 
 There was enough to take them a little way — just far 
 enough to show them Williamstown transfigured into a 
 carmine sunset, between the golden water and the heaven- 
 ly sky — beautiful as any Venice of one’s dreams in that 
 beautiful hour, in its fairy, veil of pinky-blue mist — a 
 picture that Adam felt he had never appreciated before. 
 
 “ What a peaceful place ! ” he thought. “ How quiet, 
 and homely, and unpretentious ! Not overrun with sum- 
 mer lodgers, like St. Kilda. I should think one of those 
 old houses on the Strand, buried in those old gardens, 
 would be awfully nice and private, and good to write in ; 
 and just as handy for the office, too.” 
 
 “Well,” sighed Obadiah, to whom the old port and 
 town were no more than the traditional primrose, “ we 
 shall have to take to the oar, sir, unless we can get a tow 
 from sombody.” 
 
 “ Not yet,” said Adam, softly ; “ have a pipe, old man. 
 I don’t care if we are out all night. There’s plenty of 
 grub on board.” 
 
 He was hot from rowing, and his flannels felt sticky, 
 and the water irresistibly invited him. How still it was 
 in that last gleam of the summer day ! — like a shining in- 
 land lake. But not really still, any more than he was. 
 Wffien, seeing no sign of sharks about, he dropped into it 
 and sank to the cool floor, he heard all the little pebbles 
 rolling and rubbing against each other, polishing them- 
 selves ceaselessly in the deep breathing that stirred them 
 even there. The sea was only sleeping lightly, like his 
 own spell-bound spirit. 
 
 He swam upward through the paling glimmer, passive 
 as a rolled pebble, filled his lungs with the sweet air, sank 
 again, and again rose, effortless, to lie and sway upon the 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 203 
 
 surface as in a hammock of dove-blue satin. How happy 
 he felt ! How young ! How strong ! Merely because he 
 was warm and without his clothes? Or because Nature 
 had again taken him to her mother’s breast ? He was too 
 idly contented to ask why, or to care. Sufficient for the 
 delightful hour that he was as he was. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 The following day was Sunday, which Adam liked to 
 spend at sea, “ out of the dust,” as he expressed it, when 
 weather permitted. This particular Sunday being par- 
 ticularly fine, he was away in the Kittiwake before the 
 church-goers were out of bed ; but he had her at moorings 
 again by noon, and after lunch set forth in full Sunday 
 costume to call on his new friends at Williamstown. It 
 seemed to him the civil thing to inquire if the boys were 
 all right after their wetting. 
 
 Train to the Bridge, tram from Flinders Street to Port 
 Melbourne, and the “ Gem ” from pier to pier across the 
 bay — this was the way of his journey, two stages of which 
 were to become as much a part of his daily life as his office 
 work and meals. As he neared the old town, which had 
 the charm of not being a watering-place, though the water 
 almost surrounded it, he considered it thoughtfully as a 
 place of retirement for a literary man ; and though it made 
 no pretence to be pretty at three o’clock in the afternoon, 
 its daylight face had a homely, work-a-day air that pleased 
 him, as something sincere and appropriate to the artist’s 
 calling. The flavour of the true sea hung round it, which 
 one could rarely get at the “ seaside,” and made even old 
 tumble-down sheds and rotten hulks poetical. As he 
 sauntered along the quiet Strand, between the salt water 
 and the sweet gardens, sniffing the scent of the seaweed 
 
 204 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 205 
 
 and the roses, the merit of his bright idea grew more and 
 more conspicuous. And his mind was made up when he 
 came to Mrs. French’s house. 
 
 A plain, single-storied, long, low cottage, on a raised 
 verandah, all built of hard wood that was grey with age — 
 a substance and colour that go with trees and flowers like 
 nothing that a paint-brush can produce — and all as unlike 
 a St. Kilda lodging-house as it could possibly be — Adam 
 stood at its old gate to look at it, snuggled in its green old 
 garden, and thought that if ever a place was made on pur- 
 pose for an author to write his books in, that place was 
 here. From the high verandah one could see the ships all 
 day going into the river and coming out, all the life of 
 the port on both sides of the water, all the lights at night ; 
 but no traffic of men and trades on shore. The lanes of 
 Dunstanborough were not so out of the busy world as the 
 asphalt-bordered roadway leading to and past it. 
 
 “ If I could only buy it ! ” was his first thought — the 
 natural first thought of a rich man concerning the thing 
 he covets. 
 
 But he was to do better with it than buy it. 
 
 Mounting the grey steps, between two lovely rose- 
 bushes, he looked across the wide verandah — lined with 
 tubs and pots of plants in the perfection of condition — to 
 the cool hall of the house ; and there he saw nothing to 
 disappoint his expectations. The pattern was almost gone 
 from the linoleum on the floor, and there was no colour 
 in the wall paper, and the furniture was as plain as possi- 
 ble ; but the shining cleanliness of every part, the sugges- 
 tion of pure soap and water, of habitual orderliness (in 
 spite of Bunny and Billy), affected him like positive beauty 
 of the most refined description. This was a matter of race 
 instinct, doubtless. The every-day artist, being the graft 
 
 of a more or less lawless stock, has another eye for such 
 14 
 
206 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 effects. At the back of the hall a French window opened 
 into a small fernery, neatly walled and roofed with green 
 lattice work and matting, some of it moveable in the form 
 of light shutters, the whole an evidently home-made con- 
 trivance. In the broken lights sifted over them he could 
 see that all the fern-fronds, big and little, were as dewy 
 fresh and green as constant care could make them. 
 
 A fat woman with a homely face — Sarah’s face as it 
 would be some day — answered his knock upon the open 
 door, and it gave him a pang to see how immediately she 
 identified him, how easy it had been for her children to 
 describe him to her. But he was comforted by the un- 
 hesitating manner in which she almost threw herself into 
 his arms. Had he been the Fairy Prince himself, she 
 could not have looked at him more adoringly through her 
 maternal tears. 
 
 “ They have no father,” she said, “ and we can’t always 
 be after them — we do our best ; but two fine, high-spirited 
 boys — not a bit of vice in them, you understand — but boys 
 that want a father’s hand — and that big shark not caught 
 yet — oh, to think ! — to think ! — and now I have them safe 
 and sound — and but for you — but for you ” 
 
 Adam protested that he had done nothing^ at all ; but 
 she would not hear him ; and the velvet richness of his 
 voice, and the way he laid his left hand over their two 
 clasped right ones, only made her feel more and more 
 inexpressibly ; for she was a soft-hearted, susceptible crea- 
 ture. She led him into her charming old-fashioned sit- 
 ting-room, so simple, so comfortable, so threadbare, so 
 exquisitely “ nice,” and put him into a worn armchair, 
 and talked to him at length about her dear boys, as if she 
 had known him for years and been in the habit of confid- 
 ing in him. He had the sweet conviction that it was to 
 Sarah’s report of him he owed this, and felt filially drawn 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 207 
 
 to Sarah’s mother. She reminded him a little of poor 
 gran’ma, with her side-curls and her black silk apron 
 — things that old ladies in general had long ceased to 
 wear. 
 
 “ And do you think,” said Mrs. French, anxiously, 
 “ that their school is a good school ? Sometimes, I fancy 
 their want of — their wilf — their flighty little ways must 
 be due to faulty discipline in the school ; for better boys 
 than they are at heart you could not wish to see.” 
 
 Adam said he did not know the school — which she 
 named — but that he would certainly make inquiries about 
 it. It was a subject, he explained, about which he felt 
 very deeply — the education of boys. For his part, he had 
 great faith in a public school — the larger the better — for 
 the high-spirited ones, and thought it best for those with- 
 out a father to be boarders, if possible. 
 
 “ Ah, but it isn’t possible,” sighed Mrs. French. “ It 
 is all I can do to make ends meet as it is, with my dear 
 girl to help me.” And here she went into details con- 
 cerning her income and investments, some of which had 
 turned out badly. “ We can manage at present by being 
 careful, but when it comes to putting the boys out into 
 the world — there’s where it is, you see. That’s what 
 .makes us so anxious. Often and often have we talked 
 over ways and means for making a little fund, against 
 that time comes ; but I really don’t see what more we can 
 do. My daughter sometimes thinks of opening a school, 
 but then she might not make so much as she does now, 
 the place being so out of the way ; and I — I am too old — 
 unless I took in a boarder. Of course I could 5o that. 
 But the boys do so hate the idea of strangers in the house 
 — we all do — and not having our home to ourselves. And 
 it wouldn’t do, either. A lady boarder is quite out of the 
 question, and there are objections to a man — when you 
 
208 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 have a young daughter — and no father — and growing 
 boys ” 
 
 Here Adam broke into her innocent prattle, which he 
 knew was not addressed to him as a rich man, though it 
 might have appeared so to a less discriminating person in 
 his place. “ I wonder,” he said, with impulsive earnest- 
 ness, “ whether there would be any great objection, any 
 insuperable objection, to me? I am not a young man, 
 Mrs. French, and I am looking for some quiet house — 
 just like this — where I can write my books in peace — a' 
 place not too far from my town office, and yet out of the 
 way of people who would interrupt — a couple of rooms 
 that I could call my own — which I could furnish with my 
 own things — and board with the family, or not, just as 
 they liked — you understand? Five pounds a week, even 
 ten, would be a cheap price to pay for what I want, the 
 comfort, the tranquillity, the homely life, of a house like 
 
 this — with friends — for I feel as if vou were friends — and 
 
 •/ 
 
 out of the bustle of Melbourne, which is a constant dis- 
 traction — if you don’t think it a great impertinence for 
 me to propose such a thing? ” 
 
 Mrs. French did not think so — no, indeed! she said, 
 in a voice broken with emotion, that it reallv seemed as 
 if he had dropped from Heaven to be their good angel in 
 the time of trouble. Calling him an angel did not pre- 
 vent his feeling rather painfully that she never for a mo- 
 ment placed him in the category of gentlemen boarders 
 dangerous to have in the house with a fatherless young 
 daughter. He was not like a stranger, she remarked; 
 his beautiful books had made him known and loved 
 wherever they were read — and there they were, on the 
 bookcase beside her. 
 
 She felt it a great honour that he should think her 
 house good enough for him to live in — humble folks as 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 209 
 
 they were — and was sure it would be the greatest happi- 
 ness to her daughter and herself to do their utmost to 
 make him comfortable. She thought she would have to 
 consult her daughter before giving him a definite answer, 
 though she was quite sure Sarah 
 
 And here he heard Sarah’s voice at the gate, calling to 
 Bunny, the eldest of the boys — telling him to be home at 
 half-past five — and was horror-stricken. For he saw what 
 a mistake he had made in embarking upon these negotia- 
 tions with her mother instead of with her. An old woman 
 might regard him as a mere producer of income ; but a 
 girl, he still hoped — Sarah, if no other girl — would con- 
 sider him to be a man also, not essentially different from 
 other men. He felt with shame that he had not behaved 
 like a gentleman in proposing to thrust himself as a 
 house-mate upon Miss French before he knew whether it 
 would be agreeable to her. All the more, when seeing 
 him, her sincere face became one broad smile of welcome. 
 
 “ Oh, Mr. Drewe, how kind of you ! ” she exclaimed. 
 “ How kind of you to give my mother this pleasure ! I 
 believe she had no sleep all night, thinking of what you 
 had done for the boys, and worrying for a chance to thank 
 you.” 
 
 “ I did not come to be thanked,” stammered he, as he 
 took her kind hand, blushing all over. 
 
 “ We don’t need to be told that. You came 
 
 oh, yes, I know to inquire if the boys were all 
 
 right ” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ They are, thank you. They always are. It is one 
 of the most striking of their many striking points, that 
 whatever the trouble they get into, they get out of it 
 unscathed. They carry charmed lives. Boys do, some- 
 how. Otherwise we should have no men — and there 
 
210 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 would be a solution to all the problems of life that vex 
 us so ! ” 
 
 “ Do they vex you ? ” Adam inquired, standing beside 
 her while she took off her hat and gloves. She had a 
 fatigued and worried air ; noting which, he had an im- 
 pulse of strong resentment against the fate which pro- 
 posed to sacrifice her for the advantage of “ the boys.” 
 
 “ Oh, rather ! ” she replied. “ Why, for instance, 
 should one have to teach Sunday School in these days, 
 when one knows one is a false prophet all the time — par- 
 ticularly in roasting weather, after slaving at the real 
 thing all the week ? ” 
 
 “Does one necessarily have to do that?” 
 
 “ Yes, if one has young brothers who won’t go to Sun- 
 day School unless they are personally conducted, and who, 
 if they were not there, would spend Sunday afternoons in 
 continual scrapes of the most scandalously secular kind — 
 like yesterday’s.” 
 
 “ I think I should rather chance the scandal, if I were 
 you.” 
 
 “ Not if you were me. I do my little best. You see 
 mother gets the opportunity for a quiet snooze in her arm- 
 chair, which does her good. In fact, the great incontest- 
 able value of Sunday Schools is in the relief they afford to 
 overtaxed parents and guardians. Do sit down, Mr. Drewe, 
 and I will get some tea — if you are not above tea. I am 
 dying for a cup. They have gone for a walk in respectable 
 company, so I hope they are all right for another hour.” 
 u You’ll make him think,” said Mrs. French, “ that 
 they are perfect demons, instead of being the best little 
 
 fellows — when not carried away by their high spirits ” 
 
 “ Oh, no, mother dear, not the best,” interrupted 
 Sarah. “ Not quite the best. But then we don’t want 
 them to be, Mr. Drewe. Not unnaturally good, like some 
 
FI DELIS* 
 
 211 
 
 boys — the boys that die young, or become directors of 
 bubble companies in after life. Not too good for this 
 world, don’t you know ? ” 
 
 She went out, laughing. To his consternation Mrs. 
 French begged him to excuse her for a moment, and went 
 out also — of course to confide his insolent proposals to her 
 daughter. In their absence he composed sentences with 
 which to propitiate the latter and persuade her to her 
 mother’s view of him. 
 
 “ I could be a lot of use with those boys,” he thought, 
 “ if she would only see it. I could take them for walks 
 on Sunday afternoons, so that she might rest at home — 
 I could make them behave themselves better than they do 
 — I could superintend their evening studies — I could re- 
 lieve her of them in scores of ways.” 
 
 Considering the character of the boys, and that he was 
 leaving St. Kilda because the children in the hotel dis- 
 turbed him, it was odd that he should be so pleased with 
 the idea of becoming a sort of nursemaid to Bunny and 
 Billy. He regarded those “ limbs ” as the attractive fea- 
 ture of his scheme. 
 
 When Sarah returned, bearing a comfortable tea-tray, 
 her mother staying behind her to watch the still luke- 
 warm kettle, he saw at once that no persuasion was needed 
 to bring the views of the old and young woman into ac- 
 cord. This, being the fulfilment of his hope, should have 
 relieved and gratified him ; to some extent it did. At the 
 same time it caused him almost to regret what he had 
 done — such is the perversity of human nature, even in the 
 most sensible of men. It was convenient to have Miss 
 French, like her mother, regarding him as a mere income 
 producer ; but it was also mortifying. However, the pang 
 was brief. No one, he reflected, could foresee what would 
 happen to-morrow and the day after to-morrow. 
 
212 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 “ Mother has been telling me,” said she, cool, cheerful, 
 and business-like, “ of your proposal to come and live with 
 us as a boarder. It would be a splendid thing for us, but 
 I am really afraid you have overrated the advantages of 
 such an arrangement to yourself. I don’t think you’d 
 find you liked it — not a little bit.” 
 
 Adam said, in effect, that he knew better what he 
 should like than she could do. He did not want grand- 
 eur or luxury, but only a quiet life. 
 
 “ How can you possibly have a quiet life in the same 
 house with the boys? You evidently don’t know those 
 boys.” 
 
 He answered that, five days out of the seven, their 
 studies would leave them no time to molest him — that he 
 meant to have them in the yacht on Saturdays, for com- 
 pany, being lonely by himself (and perfectly devoted to 
 boys)- — that it was easy to have double-doors, if it came 
 to that — and, in fact, that he should awfully like to try 
 it, if she didn’t greatly dislike the idea of an interloper in 
 her family circle. Not that he proposed to be an inter- 
 loper ; he would live to himself just as much or as little as 
 ever she liked. 
 
 “ Well, come and take a look round while we are wait- 
 ing for the tea,” said she. “ There are just two rooms 
 that we can do without, if you really like to take them — 
 on trial.” 
 
 She showed him the rooms, which adjoined each 
 other. One, the drawing-room of the house, which 
 looked unused, though not uncared for, fronted the bay, 
 and had great capabilities ; the other, a spare bedroom, 
 had the same aspect from one window, while the other 
 opened upon a green nook of the garden, most grateful 
 to the aesthetic eye and the fastidious nose ; and the little 
 suite could be shut off from the rest of the house, if ne- 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 213 
 
 cessary, by blocking a short passage with the suggested 
 double-doors. 
 
 Adam said it must all have been designed on purpose 
 for him. And there and then the bargain was struck. 
 They haggled dreadfully over terms, — the landladies, con- 
 trary to the habit of landladies, refusing to accept as 
 much as the tenant wished to pay ; but eventually they 
 agreed upon a compromise and settled the matter. Adam 
 stayed to a second tea, at which Bunny and Billy as- 
 sisted, sitting affectionately on either side of him; and 
 they and their sister walked with him to the station in 
 the summer moonlight, when he set forth at last. 
 
 During the following week Mrs. French turned out 
 her drawing-room and guest chamber, and distributed 
 her knick-knacks through the house. The painter and 
 paper-hangers made both rooms fresh and bright, and in 
 the passage that led to them the carpenter put up green 
 baize doors with strong springs and bolts to them. Adam 
 sent over his big writing-table, his book-shelves and 
 books, his leather chairs and sofa, his rugs that he had 
 bought out of the Exhibition, his valuable ornaments and 
 pictures — including the photograph of Fidelia in its sil- 
 ver frame. When Sarah, helping him to arrange his 
 things, saw this treasure of treasures in the place of hon- 
 our on his writing-table, she looked at it long and ear- 
 nestly. 
 
 “ What a lovely face ! ” she ejaculated. 
 
 “ Yes,” said Adam. “ A friend of mine at home. I 
 will tell you about her some day.” 
 
 And he told her — that, and the whole story of his life 
 — before another week had passed ; by which time he 
 was in the position of a son of the house, as settled and 
 comfortable as if he had always lived there. 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 There comes a time — anywhere between thirty-five 
 and fifty, according to the quality of one’s intellect and 
 experiences — when one looks back, and looks down, upon 
 the splendid fervours of youth as from a clear hill to a 
 hot and dusty valley, full of the still blindly struggling 
 (who are so sure that they have not only sight, but sec- 
 ond-sight), for whom one’s heart bleeds. Poor children ! 
 — who know no better. The grand passions, and ideals, 
 enthusiasms, the noble intolerances and rebellions — the 
 cryings for the moon, in fact — one’s change in view with 
 respect to these things does not mean that they have 
 palled upon a stale and worn-out palate, but that the 
 education of life has taught one to understand them, to 
 discriminate values, to fix the limits and the bearings of 
 the possible and the true. It means that one has been 
 carried past that stage to a higher and a better — yes, a 
 better ! — unless one is incapable of learning, a mere ani- 
 mal with an appetite, spiritually sterile, without wings to 
 rise. 
 
 We are not thinking of such in this connection, but 
 of men and women of the quality of Adam Drewe. 
 
 He was nearer forty than thirty, and had lived his 
 time with much more intensity than from this poor 
 chronicle would be supposed. Many bubbles had he 
 pricked, many delusions fathomed, many truths and un- 
 
 214 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 215 
 
 truths proved ; and he could now appreciate the beauty 
 of a great many things which are necessarily above the 
 comprehension of unchastened youth. 
 
 And it became evident that he was born for a domes- 
 tic life. To the gentle, but efficient, guardian of depend- 
 ent women, the firm-handed, patient ruler of “ high-spir- 
 ited ” boys, the care-taker of a nice garden, the cheerful 
 playmate of winter evenings and Saturday afternoons — 
 the interested, sympathising, devoted nurse of poor, com- 
 mon headaches and cut fingers — the support and stand- 
 by, generally, of a wholesome-hearted, simple-minded 
 family — this was his true vocation. 
 
 What the Frenches did before he came, they said they 
 didn’t know ; nor how they should ever again manage to 
 get along without him. 
 
 A feeling of this sort is not all on one side. He came to 
 regard it as practically quite out of the question that he 
 should attempt to do without them. The roses that he 
 budded, and the poultry yards that he laid out, and the 
 arbour and the aviary, and the summer meat-safe that he 
 builded, and the dogs that fawned on him, and the cats 
 that rubbed against his legs, represented the beloved and 
 peculiar interest of a home that he felt was his own 
 home — as no other house had been, even gran’ma’s in her 
 later years. His money, literally was not “ in it.” He 
 hardly remembered how rich he was, wanting nothing for 
 himself that five or six hundred a year was not sufficient 
 for — over and above what the affection of his house-mates 
 gave him. 
 
 Warm-hearted Mrs. French, enjoying the kind of 
 treatment that gran’ma had so much appreciated, and 
 never having received the same from any male relative, 
 adored him openly. He had charge of her little financial 
 affairs, and by mysterious methods that she never under- 
 
216 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 stood, caused her small investments to increase and mul- 
 tiply, until they produced what to her was a handsome 
 income ; and she so relied upon his judgment to guide 
 her to profit in other things that she was not happy even 
 to buy a pair of boots without consulting him before- 
 hand. And nothing was too trivial for him to interest 
 himself in and attend to. Her served her like a son, and 
 advised her like a husband — as sons and husbands should 
 be, not as they usually are ; and she bragged about him 
 to her friends, when he was not by to hear her, as an 
 angel from heaven dropped down upon her path — which 
 greatly amused them. 
 
 To Bunny and Billy he felt like a father, and to all 
 intents and purposes was one. The authority of the 
 domestic ruler was ungrudgingly conceded to him by the 
 two poor women, neither of whom had been strong enough 
 to wield it effectively; and never was there a more judi- 
 cious and conscientious acting-parent. He made those 
 boys behave themselves by the constraint of affection and 
 a firm hand ; they “ minded ” him, though they would 
 not mind anybody else, except because he bade them. 
 
 Owing to escapades in Melbourne, he removed them 
 to a local school, the work of which he was able, as a 
 munificent patron, to usefully supervise ; and every night 
 they prepared their lessons in his room, under his eye and 
 with his expert assistance. It seemed to him more im- 
 portant than writing novels, which pursuit languished 
 greatly in these days. 
 
 And what holidays they enjoyed with him ! What 
 football and cricket ! What excursions into the bush ! 
 What cruises on the bay ! What racings of the gallant 
 Kittiwahe against the Kiwi and the Magpie , her pre- 
 sumptuous rivals ! What circuses and pantomimes, and 
 cycloramas, and agricultural shows ! 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 21Y 
 
 The boys, like their mother and sister, had had nobody 
 to take them to such things till now. Now they were 
 always going somewhere, under the escort of the odd- 
 looking man in spectacles, whose beaming family face 
 was so noticeable in a crowd. 
 
 To Sarah he was not a brother. But Sarah was the 
 large element in his happiness at this time, which was the 
 happiest time he had yet known. He could not get her 
 to give up her teaching labours, but as a set-off to this he 
 had her company on the journey from Melbourne to 
 Williamstown five evenings a week. All day he used to 
 look forward to that trip across the water, and their talks 
 by the way. 
 
 The monotony of this peaceful life was varied by 
 visits to Sydney, to carry matters of business to and from 
 the firm’s fountain-head, and to have a yarn with his old 
 friend at the camp in Middle Harbour. 
 
 It was a much improved camp in these days, and as 
 delightfully out of the world as ever. In place of the old 
 shed there was a cluster of tents — nice, airy, weather- 
 proof tents, with boarded floors to raise them from the 
 sand — set in a neat garden of stocks and marigolds, 
 intersected with shingled pathways that crunched under- 
 foot, the whole enclosed on three land sides in a little 
 fence about two feet high. And Richard kept a house- 
 keeper — an old mariner, long superannuated as such — who 
 was the best of servants and care-takers, save when over- 
 come by a particular weakness, which would have dis- 
 qualified him for service under a less easy master. Never 
 was there a camp in the world so tidy as this camp ! Not 
 a bottle nor a bone, not a shred of potato rind nor a scrap 
 of waste paper, was allowed to become litter when it 
 became refuse, while the bo’sun was capable of prevent- 
 ing it. 
 
218 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 The mathematical flower beds and borders, that were 
 the amusement of his many leisure hours, were never per- 
 mitted to bear a weed, or to conceive one ; and nothing 
 in the shape of dirt, nothing but impalpable sand and 
 salt, could get lodgment on floors and furniture. And 
 his pet toy, a flag-staff and halliards, was as correct an 
 indicator of the time of day as a good cook’s kitchen 
 clock ; regularly at sunrise a bit of bunting was run up 
 to the top of it, to flutter all day like a bird’s wing above 
 the trees ; punctually at sunset it was hauled down and a 
 ship’s lantern substituted — a lone little pin-point of light 
 in the darkness of the folded hills, but answering its in- 
 tended purpose of showing the way to the master when 
 he came down at night. And yet, within a step of the 
 threshold of the big tent, on the other side of the wild 
 bushes that screened it just enough without shutting out 
 the view, there was beautiful Nature unadorned, the lily 
 without any paint, nothing but her dear form before her 
 lover’s eyes. 
 
 Thither would Eichard and Adam betake themselves 
 on the rare occasions when they were free to do so — occa- 
 sions which all but ceased after the second Mrs. Delavel 
 came home ; and the bo’sun would make them a dinner of 
 fried sausages, or of chops and stewed tomatoes, or of 
 beef steak and onions, or of eggs and bacon, with pota- 
 toes roasted in their jackets ; and they would sit in the 
 moonlight on the edge of the tent floor, or out upon the 
 slip of beach, to digest the delicious meal ; and Eichard 
 would smoke and gaze into the infinite, in his meditative 
 way ; and Adam would talk to him about books, his own 
 and other, and his social views, and his private feelings — 
 all the things that one keeps for the ear of one’s old 
 friend, and cannot discuss with mere acquaintances. 
 Nearly all — not quite. For he never talked of Sarah. 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 219 
 
 Whether he was ashamed of his backsliding, in the com- 
 pany of one who had* never backslided, did not appear ; 
 he did not ask himself the question. He probably did 
 not notice that he left the topic out. 
 
 And, after all, he did not slide far this time — not even 
 so far as he had done before. 
 
 When, in the long light evenings, he built the summer 
 house, and Sarah, with her needlework, sat by to watch 
 him do it, it was not his fault that he did not slide all the 
 way to that bourn of matrimony whence no traveller 
 returns. She looked the very incarnation of Home, with 
 her cheerful healthy face, her strong busy hands, her neat 
 hair, her neat dress ; she suggested every idea of comfort 
 to the. constitutionally domestic man, whose tastes in the 
 matter were largely determined by his humble breeding. 
 In particular, she suggested the bright-eyed, wholesome 
 progeny which was his heart’s desire in these matur- 
 ing years. She might have sat for a statue of Mother- 
 hood — of Charity, with a babe at her ample breast, 
 and others clinging to her supporting hand; Nature 
 had so evidently intended her to play the part. Not 
 less unmistakablv had the Mother of all designed him 
 to be the father of a family — the pattern father, who 
 would get up o’ nights to hush a fractious infant, and 
 enjoy it. And the thought of his non-existent children 
 — the boys and girls who should long ago have been pre- 
 paring the crown for his old age — began to mix itself with 
 all his dreams. 
 
 He was hammering at the trellis of the summer house, 
 and Sarah was sitting by with her well-filled work-basket, 
 a ragged stocking drawn over one hand, a needle flying to 
 and fro in another ; and they paused simultaneously to 
 kill mosquitoes. In a garden so carefully watered every 
 evening they were numerous and deadly. 
 
220 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 “ Look here,” said Adam, “ yon can’t sew with those 
 things teasing you. Wait a bit, and I’ll fix you up.” 
 
 He flung down his tools and ran into the house, 
 whence he emerged in a few minutes with an armful of 
 mosquito netting. In his kind and clever fashion, he 
 contrived a tent of this, upon the framework of his 
 skeleton building, and enclosed her and her chair and 
 basket in it. 
 
 “ Oh, how nice ! ” she exclaimed, looking at him 
 through the veil. “ What a relief it is ! How comforta- 
 ble you do make people, Adam ! You are a perfect 
 genius at it ! ” 
 
 He beamed upon her through his goggles, with a satis- 
 faction that fully equalled hers. 
 
 “ I wish the boys had a tithe of your thoughtfulness,” 
 she went on. “ Do look at this knee ! ” — displaying the 
 upper part of a stocking, with her large fist thrust 
 through it. “ How would you like to have to mend a 
 hole like that ? ” 
 
 “ But surely that’s past mending,” he returned, sur- 
 veying it seriously. He thought how charming it would 
 be to see her darning Ms socks ; but he carefully bought 
 new pairs every week or two, so that not even a thin 
 place should be discoverable when they passed through 
 her hands from the wash-tub to his drawers. 
 
 Not a feather would he add to the burden of hard 
 work which she never seemed to throw off, and which — 
 though she was quite strong enough to carry it — was 
 such a constant distress to his kind heart. He knew that 
 she dusted, and even swept, besides making the family 
 beds and devising the day’s meals, before going off to 
 Melbourne in the morning, and that she spent all her 
 leisure hours, as she called them, in darning and patch- 
 ing ; and it took away his comfort in his own easy life. 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 221 
 
 Merely to feed fowls and water flowers and hammer nails 
 for her was not to help as he wanted to help ; and she 
 would permit no more. 
 
 There was but one way in which 'he could get the 
 better of that pride of independence which so pleased 
 and exasperated him. He had thought of it many times, 
 and now he thought of it again. And at last he spoke of 
 it. He had ever been a bashful wooer, and it was perhaps 
 the mosquito net which emboldened him. 
 
 “ To waste time and darning cotton on a rag like 
 that,” said he, “ seems a false idea of economy to me. 
 I should think it would be far cheaper to buy new 
 ones.” 
 
 “ Oh,” she laughed, “ one might be always buying, at 
 that rate ! ” She added, inadvertently, “ And we haven’t 
 all a purse like yours to go to.” 
 
 She saw the slip she had made. She felt that Adam 
 was opening his mouth to say in effect that it was hers if 
 she would have it. Strangely, it had not occurred to her, 
 any more than to her mother, to imagine this dear friend 
 in tlie character of a lover ; all in a moment she recog- 
 nised the transformation, though he stood with his back 
 turned. The woman-instinct is like a hound’s scent in 
 these cases. And her first impulse was one of repugnance 
 and revolt. 
 
 He began to stammer, in a thick voice, “ I wish — I 
 wish ” 
 
 And she broke in — rapidly, flippantly, violently tug- 
 ging at her work, and averting her flaming face — “ Oh, 
 it’s a pleasure to do for them, poor little brats, while I 
 can. When I am married — I suppose you know that I’ve 
 been engaged for some years ? — I shall not be able to 
 mend their socks and patch their torn clothes ; and I’m 
 sure I shall miss it dreadfully,” etc., etc. She gabbled on 
 15 
 
222 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 as long as she could ; and Adam listened, while he me- 
 chanically measured laths and posts. 
 
 A painful silence ensued, which neither seemed able 
 to break. Then he said, quietly, “ I had no idea you 
 were engaged — not the faintest.” 
 
 “ No ? I thought mother might have mentioned it.” 
 
 “ Not a word. I can’t understand why she didn’t.” 
 
 “ Well, we don’t talk about it much. I see him so 
 seldom. It is a very old affair.” 
 
 “ And I should have thought the boys ” 
 
 “ Oh, we keep it from the boys, advisedly — we always 
 have done. You see they are such imps of mischief — 
 nobody would have any peace.” 
 
 “ And you don’t wear a ring.” 
 
 “ I have never had one,” laughed Sarah, with a new 
 blush. “ Howeyer, that was my own fault. He was very 
 poor at the time, and I forbade him to buy one. I knew 
 he could not afford it.” 
 
 Adam hammered for a time, in a desultory and clumsy 
 way; then he threw down his tools, and seated himself 
 on the grass beside her. “ Tell me about it,” said he. 
 
 “ Won’t you come under the net?” she returned gen- 
 tly, thrilled by the tone of the kind voice, so out of keep- 
 ing with the plain face. She could not see his face, but 
 only the top of his hat and part of his brown beard. 
 
 u No, thanks; I’m all right. Was it long ago? Be- 
 fore I came here, I suppose ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, Adam — a thousand years before you came here ! 
 I was only eighteen. Now I am twenty-five.” 
 
 Then she told her tale. A simple young-girl tale of a 
 dance, a picnic, a moonlight walk — the usual thing, in 
 short. Nothing out of the common in it, but her own 
 faithful and steadfast heart. 
 
 “ And where is he now ? ” inquired Adam, looking up. 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 223 
 
 “ He is in your office — the Sydney office,” said Sarah, 
 looking down. Her face was quite pretty at the moment, 
 viewed through the mosquito netting — like a bride’s be- 
 hind her veil. 
 
 i 
 
 Adam ran over in his mind the names and histories of 
 the Sydney clerks, and said, “ I don’t think I know him.” 
 
 “ No. He was in the Adelaide branch for some time. , 
 His family are Adelaide people — distant connections of 
 ours. We knew each other as children. They all went 
 to Sydney some time ago, and his mother got Mr. Delavel 
 to transfer him. She died soon after, poor thing.” 
 
 “ You don’t see him often, I suppose?” 
 
 “ Oh, never ! ” she sighed. “ Hardly ever. It costs 
 too much.” 
 
 So, once more, Adam had to give up his dream of a 
 home for himself, and sons and daughters to be the staff 
 of his declining years. And he felt it far more now than 
 when he was young and sanguine and sentimental. He 
 had grown wise enough to recognise in Sarah the poten- 
 tial pattern wife, made of sound stuff that would wash 
 and wear for ever, and the potential good mother whose 
 children would call her blessed. He had grown old 
 enough to understand that a man can hardly hope for 
 anything better — in the long run. 
 
 Having swallowed the first bitterness of his disappoint- 
 ment, and thought the matter over, he wrote to the senior 
 partner of his firm. 
 
 “ Can you give me Richardson for the Melbourne 
 office, and make it a rise for him ? I have a particular 
 reason for asking. Young Murray here might take his 
 place — a capital young fellow, who deserves promotion 
 and would like the change. I want Richardson to have a 
 considerable increase of salary, even if he does not quite 
 deserve it.” 
 
224 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 • Eichard Delay el, then in the full enjoyment of his 
 Indian summer — the “ three years out of fifty ” which 
 closed his life — and apt to be brief and perfunctory in his 
 dealings with business matters, replied, as follows — 
 
 “ Certainly. You can have him and welcome. Glad 
 to be rid of him.” 
 
 And Sarah’s fiance came over to the Melbourne office, 
 and over to Williamstown to tea. He was a champion 
 footballer, six feet high, with a Greek profile and a curly- 
 brimmed high hat — very “ swagger,” to use the expressive 
 definition of the boys. In his presence the homely Sarah 
 (in a new and fashionable frock) blushed and paled, and 
 simpered self-consciously, like any empty-headed ball-room 
 belle. 
 
 “ Oh, of course ! ” thought Adam, sighing bitterly. 
 “ Of course ! ” 
 
 And he threw up the game. 
 
CHAPTEE XXII. 
 
 All thought of self was driven from his mind when 
 the news was telegraphed to him that Constance Delavel 
 was dead. 
 
 The message reached him at his office ; and he left 
 for Sydney the same afternoon, arriving at Darling Point 
 by noon next day — the day of her funeral. 
 
 Noel Eutledge, the son-in-law of the house, only just 
 returned with his wife from a two years’ European tour, 
 received him. 
 
 As he entered the hall, darkened by the closed blinds, 
 he heard the little cry of the new-born baby. 
 
 The two men gazed at each other when they met, in- 
 capable of speech. It was all too awful for words. But 
 presently Adam was able to make inquiries, and Eutledge 
 found it a relief to talk to one who so thoroughly grasped 
 the situation. 
 
 “Yes,” he said, “we were just back in time. I’m 
 afraid it was our coming that did it — exciting her too 
 much. And her death, no doubt, upset my poor girl, 
 who did not expect to be confined for a week or two. 
 But she’s all right, and the child, too ; and I’m thank- 
 ful it has happened so — to give her a bit of comfort, 
 and to keep her out of the way of seeing her father. 
 Not that he makes any fuss — I wish he would ! — he’s 
 quieter than any of us ; but he looks — upon my soul, I 
 
 225 
 
226 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 daren’t look at him — I’m afraid to go near him. He is 
 in with her now. They’ll be coming for the coffin in an 
 hour. I wish somebody would have the mercy to shoot 
 him. How do you suppose he will be able to go on living 
 without her ? ” 
 
 “ He won’t,” said Adam ; “ he can’t.” 
 
 “ Ah, we all say that ! But grief does not kill peo- 
 ple.” 
 
 44 He is not like other people,” said Adam ; 44 and this 
 is not a grief like other griefs.” 
 
 He spoke with a noble envy of one who could reach 
 such heights and depths of love and woe. 
 
 He would not go to the funeral of Bichard’s wife, nor 
 assume the rights of a member of the family to intrude 
 upon the widower. 
 
 44 If he cares to know,” he said to Rutledge, 44 tell him 
 that I am looking after the office for both of you.” 
 
 And he then went to Pitt Street, and took command 
 of a somewhat disorganised staff ; and spent all the miser- 
 able afternoon working at accounts and business letters. 
 However little such things might matter now, still they 
 did matter ; and the only help he could give was to attend 
 to them. 
 
 At the hour of the funeral — as has been elsewhere re- 
 corded — a heavy thunderstorm broke into the sultry still- 
 ness of the day ; the dark rain on the windows made it 
 difficult for him to see to write. But when the office was 
 closed, and he turned into the nearest restaurant for a 
 chop and a cup of tea, there was the promise of a fine 
 evening. The then wet, hot, muggy atmosphere felt sti- 
 fling within streets and house-walls, and, not knowing what 
 to do with himself in his restless mood, he took the fancy 
 to go out to the camp and sleep there. He had done it 
 several times, at Richard’s invitation, using the tent and 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 227 
 
 bed that were Mrs. Rutledge’s before her marriage, and 
 had no fear of intruding now, when he supposed the place 
 deserted. Even the bo’sun, he imagined, would not think 
 it worth while to remain on guard, now that the master’s 
 wife was dead, and the value taken from all his possessions, 
 a conjecture which seemed confirmed when Adam came 
 over the hills from Mossman’s Bay, and saw the tip of the 
 camp flag-staff with no lantern on it. It was long past 
 sunset then. The last streak of colour — soft, rusty red, 
 the tint of elm blossoms in spring — had faded from the 
 cloudy west, and the moon was coming up behind the 
 black North Head, and the South Head flash-light was at 
 work, making darkness visible. 
 
 He wandered down the winding pathway, brushing 
 showers of rain drops from bush and bough, halting at 
 every turn to survey the prospect, and to drink the fresh- 
 washed air, fragrant with earthy and leafy breathings and 
 the ineffable scent of the salt sea. As night deepened, as 
 the moon brightened, as the delicate sky cleared more and 
 more, and the waters of the Sound began to twinkle and 
 glitter, and the shadows ashore to fall in patterns like 
 black lace upon silver brocaded satin — the charm of that 
 hermit solitude took possession of him, stirring to beauti- 
 ful thoughts and images the poetic spirit which informed 
 the graceful pen. Williamstown and Sarah’s garden had 
 no such inspiration to give him. Nor had life in her 
 sober household and companionship the power of these 
 tragic Sydney circumstances to uplift his soul. He de- 
 scended into the soft gloom, in which the roofs of the 
 tents made vague white patches, and passed out of it, be- 
 side the low fence, to the clear level of the beach, open to 
 the wide night and the wide sea, all flooded now with the 
 rays of the risen moon ; and as he stood to gaze, he saw 
 in the fairyland of his imagination visions that matched 
 
228 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 the enchanting scene — visions whereof the relics would 
 be found embalmed in printed pages some day. They 
 were infused w T ith Richard’s passion and sorrow; but 
 Richard personally was not in them — only the creations of 
 the author’s brain. He was forgetting to be conscious of 
 actual people and events. 
 
 And suddenly he saw a boat floating at the landing- 
 stage. Almost at the same instant he saw a figure, black 
 and rigid, carved like a cameo upon the pearly haze — 
 Richard himself, sitting on a log of driftwood close to the 
 shore, his arms round his gaunt knees, his eyes fixed on 
 the illimitable beyond the Heads, where thunderings of 
 the late storm still sounded in the heavy surf, that made 
 a continuous booming roar like an approaching railway 
 train. It was the electric beam which discovered his 
 face to the shocked intruder, showing in the momentary 
 glare its hopeless immobility ; and the same flash revealed 
 to the mourner that he was not alone. 
 
 “ That you, Adam Drewe ? ” he called gently, turning 
 from his blind contemplation of fate. 
 
 “ Oh, sir,” cried Adam, drawing near, “ forgive me for 
 disturbing you. I wouldn’t for the world have come if I 
 had known. I believed the camp was empty — I saw no 
 light ” 
 
 “ I took it down,” said Richard ; “ and the bo’sun — 
 he was drunk, as usual. I don’t blame him, for I know 
 he’s unhappy — I wish I could do the same — but I thought 
 he’d be the better for a little holiday amongst his friends. 
 Did you come over by the steamer ? Sit and rest a few 
 minutes after your walk ; then you may take my boat 
 back, if you like. I’m going to sleep here — I shan’t 
 want it.” 
 
 “ Oh, I won’t stay ” 
 
 “ Yes — sit down. I’ll get you something to drink be- 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 229 
 
 fore you go. You’re not like the others, Adam. You 
 and I were boys together — in old Dunstanborough — Oh, 
 my God ! ” He caught himself back, on the very verge 
 of madness, and muttered, in a tone of apology, “You 
 won’t mind if I don’t talk to-night ? Go and get your- 
 self some whisky, won’t you? The kegs are there.” 
 
 Adam went to the tent, and returned with a stiff 
 nobbier for his friend, who straightened himself to re- 
 ceive it, fighting for the decorum which to a British gen- 
 tleman is dearer than life. 
 
 “ Thanks — thanks. I hope you helped yourself. Do 
 you know, Adam, that I am a grandfather ? ” 
 
 Adam intimated that he did. 
 
 “ A very fine child, they say. Poor little child ! Poor 
 
 human creatures — that have to grow up ” 
 
 “ Do you know, sir, that you are dripping wet? Your 
 clothes are simply saturated.” 
 
 “ Are they? I didn’t notice it. It has been raining a 
 good deal.” 
 
 “ Hadn’t you better get them off and go to bed at 
 once? If you’ll let me, I’ll light a little fire and dry 
 them for you.” 
 
 “ It isn’t necessary ; the sun will dry them in the 
 morning. You take the boat and go home to your own 
 bed, and don’t bother about me.” 
 
 “ May I come again, to see if you want anything ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, I shan’t want anything. There’s nothing to 
 want now.” 
 
 “ Not food ? ” 
 
 “ I have plenty.” 
 
 “ Not to hear how Mrs. Rutledge and the baby are?” 
 “ Come and tell me if everything is not right ; other- 
 wise, never mind. I shall conclude that no news is good 
 news. Have an eye to the office, like a good fellow. Rut- 
 
230 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 ledge won’t want to leave his wife. And if you can keep 
 them all away for a little while — the condolences — Adam, 
 for God’s sake — I am trying to bear it — but I can’t stand 
 any more ” 
 
 • • • • • • ^ # 
 
 Two nights later, having filled the intervening days 
 with office business, Adam returned to the camp, driven 
 by unspeakable forebodings. He went down by boat 
 alone, hoisting a little sail to the upspringing evening 
 wind ; and in the now moonless twilight had a difficulty 
 in making port, owing to the bo’sun’s beacon being still 
 absent from his masthead. No one appeared to receive 
 the visitor on landing, and when he walked into the 
 fenced enclosure he found all dark and silent as the 
 grave. “ Gone ! ” he thought. “ Or dead ! ” He noted 
 that the front of the big tent was open, and in his mind 
 pictured his friend on the bed within, as he expected to 
 find him — mercifully released from his intolerable pain — 
 the keen face set in the ' expression he had last seen 
 on it, the blank stare seaward fixed in the glassy eyes. 
 No circumstance hitherto conceived by the fancy of the 
 novelist had the dramatic elements of this awful situa- 
 tion. 
 
 But as he drew nearer, fumbling in his pocket for a 
 match-box, a sorrowful sound of life fell suddenly upon 
 his tingling ear — a harsh cough, ending in a prolonged 
 moan. At the same moment the electric ray passed over 
 the cavernous tent entrance, and into it like a flood- wave, 
 revealing the hermit on his bed — not stark and stiff but 
 tossing restlessly, with his arms thrown wide. 
 
 Feeling Adam’s shadow in the light, he lifted his head, 
 and called, “Who’s there?” Adam hardly recognised 
 the voice, and the glitter of the peering eyes was like a 
 knife thrust in him. He ran into the tent as the beam 
 
F1DELIS. 
 
 231 
 
 passed, and groped for the hand he had seen stretched out 
 in greeting. It was like touching fire. 
 
 “ Oh, why did I leave you by yourself ? ” he cried, in 
 passionate concern. “ What — what is the matter ? ” 
 
 “ I am not very well,” said Richard, breathing quickly. 
 “ I’ve caught cold, I think. It’s of no consequence. Get 
 me a drink of water, like a good fellow. There’s none left 
 in the filter, and I don’t feel quite able to go out after any 
 more.” 
 
 “ Where’s the bo’sun ? ” 
 
 “ He’s not back yet. I told him not to hurry.” 
 
 “ Where does he live when he’s at home ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, don’t you go after him. He’ll turn up soon. He’s 
 a faithful old beast — he won’t feel easy to stop away after 
 he gets sober. Don’t you go. You’re not like the others 
 
 — we were boys together in old Dunstanborough ” 
 
 “ I am not going, certainly,” Adam broke in, seeking 
 matches and candle when the South Head light returned. 
 “ Except that I must get somebody to fetch things. 
 You’re in a high fever, and you’ve got to be properly at- 
 tended to.” 
 
 “ Nonsense ! I don’t want anything — except a drink. 
 It’s only a cold — it’s the sultry weather, and not being able 
 to sleep — it’s nothing. You hear, Adam?” — as Adam 
 took up lantern and water-jug to go out to the tank — “ I 
 won’t have anybody fetched — I won't ! ” He sat up to 
 emphasise the command, coughed like a horse, and fell 
 back with a long, tired groan. “ I can’t be bothered,” he 
 muttered, hardly above a whisper. 
 
 Then Adam turned up his shirt sleeves, and set to 
 work to do what a man and an amateur might to supply 
 the place of the required nurse. He found mustard in the 
 bo’sun’s stores, and made it into paste, and spread it on 
 Richard’s chest, which it presently denuded of filmy skin. 
 
232 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 Remembering that gran’ma used to give him hot drinks 
 when he had a feverish cold, to throw him into a perspi- 
 ration, and then load him with blankets to keep him in 
 that state, he lit the spirit stove, boiled water, poured it 
 on squeezed lemon juice, and administered the compound 
 — a cruel substitute for the cold draught called for ; hav- 
 ing done which he lowered the curtain of the tent, 
 smoothed the ruffled bed, and sat down in the confined 
 air to his anxious vigil. The sick man yielded to the treat- 
 ment so far as to sleep for some hours ; otherwise his fever 
 did not seem to subside. The hurry of his hard breath- 
 ing, the nightmare mutterings, the open mouth and half- 
 open eyes, were no signs of rest or recuperation ; he was 
 as far from “ the balm of woe, the poor man’s wealth, the 
 prisoner’s release,” as the wakeful watcher beside him. 
 Even this semblance of sleep passed off before half the 
 night had gone. He called “ Constance ! ” and the word 
 seemed to rouse him as if some one else had called it ; he 
 held his breath for a moment, listening, and then said 
 quietly, “ Isn’t the moon up, Adam ? ” 
 
 “ Yes,” Adam answered, reaching for a cup of Liebig 
 that he had stealthily prepared. “ I expect it is up by 
 now.” 
 
 “ Why are we shut in like this ? It’s stifling. I never 
 sleep with the curtain down, even when it rains. Roll it 
 up, there’s a dear fellow.” 
 
 When he found there was no perspiration, Adam 
 obeyed ; and the lovely summer night poured in — an air 
 as fresh as the breath of life itself, and as soft as down 
 feathers — a celestial radiance of moon and sea. And the 
 voice that was never silent — the speech of the Eternal to 
 human ears — filled all the midnight solitude. 
 
 “ Oh, how cool it sounds ! ” groaned Richard. “ If I 
 were only in it — out there ! Shall we go for a long swim, 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 233 
 
 Adam ? I have always had a fancy to go for a swim 
 at night. How cool it sounds ! And I feel like a lump 
 of fire. Give me a drink of water — cold water ! ” 
 
 “ Take this first,” said Adam, and made him swallow 
 the nauseous tepid broth, that he might not die for want 
 of nourishment. 
 
 The stuff seemed to stimulate him, for he did not 
 sleep again, but talked a great deal. As the night wore 
 on, his talk became slightly incoherent ; still he knew 
 what he was saying. 
 
 “We have been through the mill together,” he re- 
 marked to his old friend ; and he repeated the significant 
 phrase again and again, as he did the statement that they 
 had been boys together at old Dunstanborough. “We 
 understand what it is, Adam — you and I.” 
 
 Then he asked questions about Fidelia; and Adam’s 
 spirit called her back, to take her old part in the divine 
 tragedy. 
 
 • • • • • • • 
 
 Ten days later, the camp was a centre of attraction to 
 crowds of people who had previously been unaware of its 
 existence. They blackened the hills above it ; they 
 swarmed in the surrounding bushes and invaded the 
 bo’sun’s garden ; they congregated on the water in a fleet 
 of miscellaneous craft, the yachts all flying their little 
 flags at half mast, like the ships in harbour ; they stood, 
 in black clothes, on the deck of a steamer lying at the 
 small jetty, which had never given accommodation to 
 anything of her size before. The object that drew them 
 was a long coffin, of which they could see nothing but the 
 polished wood and the silver plate and handles as it was 
 borne on sturdy shoulders — Adam’s amongst them — to the 
 funeral barge. 
 
 In that coffin Richard Delavel left his camp for the 
 
234 
 
 FIDEL1S. 
 
 last time, and was laid at the side of her whose death a 
 
 fortnight earlier had killed him. 
 
 • • • • • • 
 
 In du Maurier’s beautiful second book — a possession, 
 exclusively, for the beautiful in mind — there are touches 
 of truth which to the initiated are more clear than day ; 
 it is, indeed, as full of them as a ladder is full of holes ; 
 and none more true than that contained in the final para- 
 
 JL 
 
 graph — the picture of Mr. and Mrs. Wynne, “ tired, 
 yawny, sleepy, and very sad,” walking home to their 
 hotel in the small hours, and thinking “ that a week in 
 Paris was just enough — and how nice it would be, in just 
 a few hours more, to hear the rooks cawing round their 
 own quiet little English country home — where three jolly 
 boys would soon be coming for the holidays.” 
 
 “ There,” says the author, who, happily, did not begin 
 to write novels until he was old enough to know what he 
 was writing about, “ there we will leave them to their 
 useful, humdrum, happy, domestic existence — than which 
 there is no better that I know of, at their time of life — 
 and no better time of life than theirs.” 
 
 Oh, we know it — we know it some day, if we live long 
 enough ! The great passions that break our hearts and 
 that we never get over — the great dreams and plans — we 
 have to do without them as best we can ; somehow they 
 don’t seem to fit into the scheme of married life — better 
 that it is so, perhaps, both for it and them ; but there are 
 compensations still. 
 
 The father and mother out for their second honey- 
 moon while the boys are at school, the intelligent man 
 and woman looking at the world with instructed eyes, 
 bound together by long habit of companionship and mu- 
 tual dependence and sympathy, by their innumerable 
 common interests and intimacies, by all manner of kindly 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 235 
 
 compromises and forbearances — well, they can afford to 
 let the young lovers turn up their noses at them. 
 
 Circumstances, however, alter cases. There are ex- 
 ceptions to every rule. Men like Richard Delavel and 
 Adam Drewe are apt to stand out even from their own 
 class, which is itself so small, so distinct and distin- 
 guished. The dead man did not die until long after his 
 passion time was supposed to be past, and after he had 
 reached, or should have reached, the greybeard’s haven of 
 domestic peace, which becomes his heaven as well, after 
 the storms of youth. He had had many years of luxuri- 
 ous housekeeping, and a daughter to rear and rejoice in, 
 books, and boats, and good company, and an important 
 and exacting business; and yet none of these things had 
 deposed the idol of his young manhood from her first 
 place. Time and change, and absence and silence, that 
 steal the fire from the morning altars, never stole from 
 his. It was sacred to the last, and more so at the last 
 than ever. 
 
 And this shining example of faithfulness unto death 
 — of immortal love, if death be not the end of all — had a 
 deep effect upon Adam ; that, or the revival of so many 
 poignant memories. When he went back to the little 
 house at Williamstown — after some months spent in Syd- 
 ney, to attend to business on behalf of the bereaved family 
 — he did not feel that he was going to his home. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 Sarah, too, had changed in the interval, which had 
 seemed to both of them so much longer than it really was. 
 
 For the first time they regarded one another reticently, 
 and yet wistfully, as not quite understanding how they 
 stood in each other’s mind. He had never been so in- 
 different to her since he had known her ; she had never 
 been more interested in him. It was, in fact, another in- 
 stance of that perversity of human nature which is like a 
 natural law, independent of other laws, the only one 
 which persistently defies our calculations. They were 
 playing the part of the man and woman of the rustic 
 barometer, one figure of which is only out while the other 
 is in. Real men and women seem quite as helpless as the 
 puppets to prevent themselves from doing it. 
 
 “ We thought you were never coming back to us,” she 
 said to him soon after his return, hovering about his room 
 as if she could not tear herself away ; poking his fire — 
 the first of the autumn fires — and touching up the flowers 
 on his table and mantelpiece. “We have all been lost 
 without you.” 
 
 He thanked her, in his kind way, with an absent- 
 minded gaze at Fidelia’s photograph. He did not notice 
 the significant “ all.” There were lots of things he did 
 not notice. And she felt the difference in him that she 
 could not define or understand. 
 
 236 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 237 
 
 “ I’m afraid it’s been a sad time for you, Adam ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, heartbreaking ! ” he ejaculated. “He was my 
 oldest friend. I loved him — no one knows how I loved 
 him! I feel as if I should never get over it.” He turned 
 from her with a quick sigh. “ Boys all right, Sarah ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, yes. They’ve been a bit unmanageable, of course 
 — without you.” 
 
 “Have they? I must lecture them about that. I 
 must take them in hand. Where are they ? ” 
 
 “ I’ve sent them — they are out to tea. Never mind 
 about them now. Best yourself ” — looking at him with 
 the tenderest, anxious, maternal eyes — “ rest yourself, after 
 all your worries, now that you’re at home, and can. Let 
 me bring you a little tray in here, and have tea quietly by 
 
 yourself — by your own fireside, comfortable ” 
 
 “ Certainly not,” he interrupted. “ The idea of it ! 
 As if I would let you carry trays about for me ! ” 
 
 “ Then Emma shall. I’ll send Emma with it. I can 
 see you want quiet — not the nuisance of a lot of women 
 and boys. Do you know you’re quite thin? The heat of 
 Sydney summer is not good for you at all. It’s high time 
 you were back at home.” 
 
 He allowed her to persuade him to have his evening 
 meal in private, on the understanding that it was to con- 
 sist of tea and bread and butter only, and that Emma, the 
 maid, was to bring it to him. For he did crave for soli- 
 tude. He wanted to think of his novel — the new novel 
 into which he always plunged at these crises of his life. 
 He had not been writing for a long time — actual affairs 
 had been too pressing ; now — now that he-was adrift in a 
 sort of fog of disappointment — the fever was on him to go 
 a-wandering again in that enchanted world where dreams 
 came true and the noble heart was satisfied. 
 
 Then as he sat in his deep leather chair, the pleasant 
 16 
 
238 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 firelight dancing on his spectacles and warming his slip- 
 pered feet, in came Sarah, with the step of a sick nurse, 
 and softly cleared a table, and lit the gas, and drew the 
 blinds over the sad twilight windows. And he never even 
 heard her. A second time she entered, weighted with a 
 big tray that contained a whole substantial meal — a 
 flounder on a hot plate, roast chicken on another, shav- 
 ings of toast, a delicate pat of butter, a little teapot — 
 everything, in short, that he could want, and all of the 
 utmost daintiness — and had put it down by his elbow be- 
 fore he realised that she had disobeyed him, and was not 
 Emma after all. Then, indeed, he rose and rebuked her 
 roundly, daring her ever to do such a monstrous thing 
 again. But somehow a scolding, even a scolding so kind 
 and so altogether Adam-like, was not exactly the result 
 she had anticipated. 
 
 When Bunny and Billy came home, she informed them 
 that Adam was tired, and they were not to bother him 
 until the morning. She implored them to go to bed like 
 good boys, and let her give them lollies. She laid violent 
 hands on them to force them from the baize doors; she 
 barricaded those doors with her own person. All in vain, 
 of course. The boys had not been five minutes in the 
 house before their arms were round Adam’s neck and 
 their legs astride his knee, and they were asking him what 
 Mr. Delavel had died of, and whether they couldn’t have 
 a whole day’s cruise next Saturday. 
 
 “ We’ve been having such beastly Saturdays,” they 
 told him. “ She wouldn’t let us go out with Jim and 
 Obadiah, though you said we might.” 
 
 “ She” was standing at the door, clucking like a hen, 
 as Bunny expressed it. 
 
 “ Come to bed, boys. Don’t tease Adam now. Adam, 
 do please make them come to bed.” 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 239 
 
 “ Boys, you must obey your sister,” said Adam, gently 
 disengaging himself from their twining limbs. “ She 
 wants you to go to bed, so go — pack off.” 
 
 “ Oh, not yet, Adam, when we haven’t seen you for 
 such ages ” 
 
 “ I’ll give you three minutes,” said Adam, taking out 
 his watch. “ If you are not gone then, there’ll be no pres- 
 ents to unpack to-morrow.” 
 
 “ Well, we’ll have the KittiwaTce out on Saturday, won’t 
 we?” 
 
 “ Oh, yes ! Good-night.” 
 
 “ Every Saturday, Adam ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, yes. Be off.” - 
 
 And they went off, hustled along by Sarah, who had a 
 painful impression that Adam was glad to be rid of all 
 three of them. 
 
 One evening there was a party — a little party for 
 whist and round games and a sandwich supper. Two 
 old ladies, four girls, and four men — Lovell Richardson 
 amongst them. Sarah dressed herself in her Sunday 
 tweed, but two of the young ladies came in low necks 
 and short sleeves. One was a very pretty Miss Alderson, 
 whose brother was in the office, and a friend of Richard- 
 son’s ; her pretty little frock was of pale pink silk, rudely 
 criticised by the boys. 
 
 Sarah went to Adam after the family high tea, and 
 said to him in a confidential way, “ Don’t you bother 
 yourself about this affair to-night. Stay here, comfort- 
 ably, and get on with your book. If you bolt the passage 
 doors no one will disturb you, and you won’t hear a 
 sound.” 
 
 But Adam would not listen to such a suggestion. 
 Already his tender conscience was accusing him of self- 
 
240 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 ishness in having allowed his new book to withdraw him 
 so often from the family circle, and he knew his value on 
 an occasion of this kind. Who would be butler and 
 house-father, to draw corks, and look after the old ladies, 
 and keep the boys in order, if not he? Besides, there was 
 his microscope, and his photographs, and all sorts of 
 things, with which he could amuse the guests; and it 
 would be a convenience to the house to give them his 
 room to overflow in. 
 
 “ Of course I am coming to the party,” he replied to 
 Sarah. “ I like to come. I want to come.” 
 
 He locked away his papers, tidied his always tidy 
 room, changed his clothes, and plunged at once, and with 
 the customary thoughtfulness and thoroughness, into his 
 duties as host. 
 
 The visitors all knew him, and had ceased to look at 
 him curiously out of the corners of their eyes ; most of 
 them treated him with vast respect, as a partner of the 
 firm, suspected of untold wealth; and each fairly con- 
 tributed to the entertainment of the rest. They played 
 nap together, and whisky poker, and solo whist, and sang 
 songs, and looked at the microscope, and laughed and 
 jested, and did not seem to have a dull moment from first 
 to last. 
 
 A slight disturbance of the harmony occurred when 
 Bunny and Billy stealthily laid a young kitten upon Miss 
 Alderson’s back. The little animal could only hold on 
 by digging its claws into her, and this it did with such 
 terrified energy as to provoke a genuine shriek of pain. 
 The marks of the claws showed red on the white skin, 
 and the chiffron frill round her bodice was ravelled up 
 and torn ; and Adam came down upon the offenders 
 heavily. He made them apologise there and then, and 
 told them, before all the company, that if they misbe- 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 241 
 
 haved themselves in that way again they should be sent 
 straight to bed. They were so much affected by the 
 severity of the reprimand that he had to forgive them five 
 minutes afterwards. But it did them good for a long while. 
 
 The evening was nearly ended, when they announced, 
 breathlessly, that there was a fire over in Melbourne. Of 
 all things they loved a fire — they would have danced for 
 joy at the spectacle of the whole city in flames — and when 
 they discovered that one had started they always watched 
 it hopefully, being convinced that the fire brigades were 
 powerless long after the foe had been subdued. 
 
 “ Such a monster ! ” they cried, in ecstacy. “ I do 
 believe it’s the Mutual Store again ! ” 
 
 It was only a four-roomed wooden cottage that had 
 upset its kerosene lamp ; and the blaze on the horizon 
 died down in ten minutes, leaving the usual band of 
 thick-set lights unbroken. But all rushed out upon the 
 verandah to watch it, and some seemed too fascinated by 
 the sight of the mere place where it had been and gone 
 to go in again. 
 
 It was the best sort of night for seeing fires — intensely 
 dark, without moon or stars. It was also very cold, after 
 the heat of crowded rooms, and, therefore, unfit for young 
 ladies in evening dress to be out in. Much these young 
 ladies cared for that, however ! The old ladies exhorted and 
 entreated them, and they said, “ Yes, yes — in a minute,” 
 and went on murmuring to their companions, without at- 
 tempting to stir. 
 
 Adam stood back from the several groups, and leaned 
 against the house wall, for there was nobody to murmur 
 to him. He was presently aware of Sarah at his side ; she 
 seemed in the same position. 
 
 “ Shall I fetch some shawls ? ” he asked her. “ Those 
 girls will get their deaths.” 
 
242 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 “ Oh, no,” she replied, in an indifferent tone. “We 
 won't encourage them in their folly; besides, we don’t 
 know where they are. It’s too dark to see one girl from 
 another.” 
 
 In that darkness the host and hostess permitted them- 
 selves to rest for a few minutes with their own thoughts ; 
 and so absent-minded did they become that they missed 
 the warning conveyed by certain whisperings and gigglings 
 near them. Suddenly a match was struck — flamed for a 
 moment, causing a strange commotion — and as suddenly 
 went out. 
 
 Adam dashed into the garden after two small flitting 
 shadows, and Sarah thought he had not seen a black 
 arm round a pink silk waist. But he had ; at least he 
 thought he had ; and he began to comprehend things — 
 partly. 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 Adam left his office one afternoon, with a grave face 
 and a heavy heart; as he walked to the station he made 
 inaudible ejaculations. 
 
 “ Poor girl ! Poor girl ! ” 
 
 The poor girl was on the platform, as usual. Until 
 his hat appeared over the gate behind her, she had been 
 watching for him ; as soon as she knew that he had come, 
 she put on the appearance of ignoring his existence. 
 Then, when he spoke over her shoulder, she turned with 
 a warm, sudden smile, as if agreeably surprised to see him. 
 
 “ You got away in time to-day?” 
 
 (He did not seem to get away in time now, as often as 
 he used.) 
 
 “Yes; and glad enough to get away. It has been a 
 day of worries.” 
 
 “ Has it? I’m sorry for that; but so it has with me.” 
 
 “ What’s the matter with you ? ” 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 243 
 
 They had seated themselves in an empty carriage, and 
 its lamp was being thumped into the hole above them. The 
 light flashing into her face showed a passing flush that in- 
 dicated embarrassment ; it drained away quickly, leaving 
 her noticeably pale. She had shadows under her eyes, 
 and she sat limply, with lateral creases in her closely-fit- 
 ting coat. 
 
 “ You do look tired ! ” exclaimed Adam. 
 
 “ My children have been naughty,” she said, smiling. 
 “ And I have been stupidly wakeful these few nights — I 
 suppose it’s that.” 
 
 “ I thought you were such a sound sleeper.” 
 
 “ I am, as a rule.” 
 
 “Well, you must go to bed early to-night, and try to 
 make up arrears. You can’t work properly if you don’t 
 rest properly.” 
 
 He said to himself — bending over an evening paper, 
 and opening another on his knee — “ I wonder if she 
 knows? I believe she knows. No, she doesn’t ; she only 
 fears. Shall I tell her ? I ought to tell her. It is not for 
 me to warn him, but she might do so ; to-morrow it may 
 be too late. What will she say to me if I let him fall into 
 the clutches of the law, when I might have saved him? 
 Yet how can I save him? How can she? He must lie 
 upon the bed he has made; he must face the consequences 
 of his folly. It may do him good in the long run. It 
 will do him no good to encourage him to be a coward as 
 well as a thief — more of a coward than he is already. And 
 as for her — let us hope this will open her eyes. Let us 
 hope it will save her from him, for a better fate. It will, 
 if she is not stupidly, viciously, immorally self-sacrificing, 
 as women in these cases so often are — poor, dear, soft 
 things ! — imagining that they are noble and high-minded. 
 Surely she is not so weak ” 
 
214 : 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 He gazed at her as he mused, while pretending to read 
 the London telegrams, and he hoped she would feel about 
 it as he did — that dishonesty was social leprosy, and that 
 the clean-handed owed a sacred duty to one another. All 
 human frailties were tolerable, when they were not actually 
 loveable — except this one ; this only one was the unfor- 
 giveable sin, carrying the doom of moral outlawry. 
 
 Such was his creed, and never before had he felt such 
 stern satisfaction in it. 
 
 “ After all,” he thought, “ there is something better in 
 the world than a fine profile. Perhaps she will see that 
 now. Indeed, I believe she already sees it. She would 
 not look pale and tired, and have wakeful nights, if 
 she were happy. How blind women are ! How blinded 
 by their very eyesight!” And he thought of Fidelia, 
 who without eyes had seen more clearly than any of 
 them. 
 
 They passed down the pier together, side by side, as 
 their custom was. The breeze was rough and cold, beau- 
 tifully fresh, full of the sound of running waves ; they 
 faced it with bent heads, holding on their hats, and occa- 
 sionally bumped against each other. 
 
 Through the noise of wind and water came the sweet, 
 sharp tang-tang of ships’ bells, from the looming cluster 
 of vessels moored alongside, dim and distant in the dusk, 
 across which bands of black and red on the horizon denoted 
 Williamstown and sunset, both fading fast. 
 
 Lights were coming out, like flowers of the night, in 
 all directions. The Gem was indicated by her impatient 
 signal ; to see her one had to stoop until the top of her 
 twin funnels, with the lantern between them, cut against 
 the clear upper sky. Little did they think, as they plodded 
 towards her, that this was the last time they would be 
 companions in the daily journey. 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 245 
 
 “Shall I tell her?” Adam continued to ask himself. 
 
 “ It must come out soon, and another might not do it so 
 considerately as I.” But he thought of her tired face, and 
 the day of worries that she had had, and decided that she 
 should sleep first. It would keep till morning. 
 
 So the last journey was not spoiled for a memory. 
 They hardly spoke while crossing, sitting on an outside 
 bench in the fresh wind. Other passengers sat on either 
 hand, but no one interrupted their silent converse. 
 
 It was too dark in the shadow of the deckhouse to • 
 identify one’s nearest neighbour. The ticket collector 
 trusted entirely to the honour of those who should have 
 tickets, and they had to grope for his outstretched hand. 
 Adam merely asked Sarah if she felt cold and whether she 
 would like to go inside, but the depth of kind solicitude 
 in his voice went far beyond such questions. Peace rested 
 upon her long-troubled soul. 
 
 An acquaintance accosted them as they left the boat 
 and accompanied them to their gate, where the boys 
 awaited them, bursting with the announcement that they 
 were going to an entertainment after tea. Sarah had to - 
 brush clothes, trim finger nails, attend to collars and 
 neckties, and, generally, make herself their slave for an 
 hour ; then they were conveniently disposed of — they, and 
 their mother too. The profound tranquillity of the house 
 after their departure so overcame Mrs. French that she 
 could not keep her eyes open. She retired early, upon 
 Adam undertaking to fetch the boys home and see them 
 safely to bed. 
 
 “ Now,” thought Adam, “ I must tell her — now that 
 we are alone and quiet. I shall not get such another 
 chance.” 
 
 As he thus resolved, calling up all his courage for the 
 ordeal, he heard the gate bang, and a voice at the door 
 
246 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 hurriedly inquiring if Miss French was in. Sarah’s scar- 
 let face denoted who the visitor was. 
 
 “Shall you see him?” inquired Adam. His voice 
 shook a little. 
 
 “ Certainly,” she replied, trembling too. “ I have 
 long wanted to see him.” 
 
 Adam at once walked out of the room, and disappeared 
 behind his baize doors. 
 
 And no sooner did Lovell Richardson present himself 
 than he proclaimed the catastrophe, without need of 
 words. It was writ large all over him that he had done 
 something disgraceful and been found out. The look of 
 a person in such a case is not the look of one suffering 
 from common trouble. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Wild-eyed, unnerved, terror-stricken, the young 
 man flung his hat upon the table, and cried violently, 
 “ Sally, I’m ruined ! I’m ruined ! ” Then he sat down, 
 and sobbed and wept. 
 
 Strange to say, she resisted the appeal which of all 
 others is supposed to be the most overwhelming to a 
 spectator with human feelings — that of a strong man in 
 tears — and surveyed the demoralised figure from the 
 other side of the table unstirred by the natural feminine 
 impulse to caress and console. He felt at once her in- 
 sensibility to his surpassing woe — that she did not pity 
 him as a man in trouble expects to be pitied by his own 
 woman. 
 
 “ And you don’t care a bit ! ” he burst out, savage at 
 the fresh wound, — the (to him) unfair blow. “ Ob, I’d 
 better go and cut my throat and have done with it ! I 
 will, too.” 
 
 He jumped up as if to do it forthwith. But even this 
 did not melt her hard heart — perhaps because she knew 
 he had not the stuff in him for such a deed. With the 
 air of a calm governess reasoning with a passionate school- 
 girl, she adjured him to collect himself and explain what 
 had happened. In face of her pale composure, which 
 was an assumption of superiority over her natural lord, 
 not to be tolerated at such a time, he found it a severe 
 
 247 
 
248 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 task ; it was easier to rave about fair-weather woman, all 
 honey and butter to a fellow while he was prosperous, and 
 all vinegar and gall as soon as fortune deserted him. 
 This he did at length, and with much bitterness. 
 
 But eventually he told his tale. 
 
 No clerk of the firm, it appeared, had been more use- 
 ful, more conscientious, more indefatigable than he. His 
 entire being had been concentrated upon the task of 
 promoting and conserving its many important interests. 
 Self had not entered into the question. It was for the 
 firm’s sake that he had striven to keep himself respect- 
 able and maintain a gentlemanly appearance. The firm 
 had made this a cruelly difficult thing to do by its nig- 
 gardliness in the matter of salary ; he had been obliged 
 to find ways of supplementing his absurd income, and 
 had done so through the usual and honourable channels. 
 It was not his fault that sharebrokers were rascals, and 
 that the deadest of dead certainties had inexplicably mis- 
 carried. The babe unborn was not more utterly innocent 
 of wrong intentions — though he confessed that he had 
 been weak, under irresistible pressure of circumstances, 
 the best of men being liable to make mistakes at times. 
 And yet the firm was now down upon him, as if he were 
 the wickedest of the wicked and the lowest of the low ! 
 Mr. Rutledge himself, who had none too good a record of 
 his own, had telegraphed directions for an investigation, 
 which at this stage must necessarily be disastrous. A few 
 more days — a few more hours even — and all would have 
 been made right. But there it was. Those you do the 
 most for are always the most ungrateful, and the men 
 who have risen from nothing have the least feeling for 
 the unfortunate. Behind this moving tale the silent 
 truth stood plainly visible — he had borrowed the money 
 of his employers without leave, and the transaction had 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 249 
 
 been prematurely discovered. The law, which called it 
 embezzlement, was about to step in. 
 
 Adam could not regard that class of misdemeanour 
 with greater loathing than did this austerely scrupulous,, 
 proudly independent girl. He need not have feared the 
 effect of the revelation upon her, coming on the top of 
 many fatal dissatisfactions. She stood before the narrator, 
 impervious as the law itself to his tears and self-justifica- 
 tions. But he did not see it for the moment. He was 
 incapable of understanding it. 
 
 “ I have come to you for help,” he said, reaching to- 
 wards her, overcome by the pathos of the case as he had 
 just put it. “ My darling, darling Sally ! ” 
 
 He attempted to clasp her waist. She firmly held his 
 wrists and prevented him. 
 
 “ Why to me?” she inquired. “ I don’t know whether 
 you have noticed it, Lovell ; but it is just six weeks since 
 you came to me for anything.” 
 
 “ Can you wonder ? ” he rejoined. “ Imagine what I 
 have had to think of ! It would have been selfish indeed 
 to have involved you in my troubles, and I could not have 
 helped it, if I had seen you. I have been trying to keep 
 you out of it, Sally dear.” 
 
 “And Bessie Alderson ? Oh, excuse my speaking of 
 her — it is a vulgar thing, I know — but I must. I ought 
 to have written to you months ago, but I expected every 
 day to see you — to tell you that I knew about that — I 
 thought I knew — I was not sure until the night of our 
 party ” 
 
 He burst into a forced, sarcastic laugh. 
 
 “ Well,” he said, “ I certainly never thought you were 
 so small-minded as to object to my saying a civil word to 
 another girl.” 
 
 “ I don’t think I am,” said Sarah. “ This is not a case 
 
250 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 of civil words. I don’t blame you — not at all — we can’t 
 help ourselves when we change — and I felt how it was 
 long before I knew — I was very glad to know for certain 
 
 — when I saw you with your arm round her ” 
 
 “ I never had my arm round her.” 
 
 44 Lovell, I saw you. When the boys struck the match 
 on the verandah, I was standing just behind you. I saw 
 you as plainly as I see you now — her too — though it was 
 only for two seconds.” 
 
 44 I’ll wring the necks of those boys, some day.” 
 
 44 It was very naughty of them, of course. But I never 
 was more thankful ” 
 
 44 Thankful ! Why thankful ? You never said any- 
 thing then ; it is only now that you’ve thought of being 
 thankful — six weeks afterwards ! But I see how it is — 
 oh, I see how it is — you are just like all the women ! Hit 
 a man when he’s down — throw him over as soon as he’s 
 no more credit to you — and invent a lot of plausible ex- 
 cuses so as to lay all the blame on him ! ” 
 
 He raved wildly. And Sarah waited until the parox- 
 ysm was past. Her gentle silence provoked him to say as 
 many insulting things as he could think of — until it sud- 
 denly occurred to him that the object of his present visit 
 was to propitiate her ; then he took the more-in-sorrow- 
 than-in-anger tone. 
 
 44 Here,” he said pathetically, 44 here have I been stick- 
 ing to you for all these years, when I might have had 
 my pick and choice amongst the prettiest girls in the 
 country.” 
 
 44 Exactly,” replied Sarah ; 44 so you have. And very 
 good of you too — I see that more and more. I have noth- 
 ing to reproach you with, Lovell. We both made a mis- 
 take, that’s all, and we have both found it out. I suppose 
 everybody makes a mistake the first time — perhaps several 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 251 
 
 times. Let us say no more about it. It’s of very little 
 consequence indeed, compared with this other affair.” 
 
 He seemed to be of her opinion ; for he dropped the 
 subject at once, and they began to discuss the other 
 affair. 
 
 x\nd now they quarrelled seriously. 
 
 In the first place he could not stand what he called 
 her “ cursed puritanical nonsense ” in regarding an ex- 
 cusable and unfortunate error of judgment as a criminal 
 act. It mortally offended him. It cut him to the heart. 
 
 44 I said to myself all along — it was my one comfort — 
 I said, 4 Well, my Sally, at any rate, won’t turn against 
 me, whatever the rest of the world may do.’ ” 
 
 44 You said quite wrong,” she replied, steadily. 44 If it 
 had been sinall-pox, and you had come to me full of it — 
 if it had been murder, and you had come with your hands 
 all over blood — I would not have turned against you. But 
 this — this — oh, how much it means ! And you can’t see 
 it. That’s the worst of all.” 
 
 He did not know how to contain himself when she 
 took this air with him — with him! A girl, who knew 
 nothing about business and the ways of business men ! 
 
 And then, in their views as to how the difficulty 
 should be dealt with, they were hopelessly at variance. 
 It transpired that the object of his visit was to get her to 
 intercede for him with Mr. Drewe — to -beg money and 
 clemency as a favour to herself, and for the sake of their 
 private friendship. And against any such proceeding she 
 set her face like a flint — yea, though by so doing she con- 
 signed the lover she had pretended to be so fond of, and 
 who had made so many sacrifices for her, to a felon’s cell 
 and grave. Her proposal was that he should make a clean 
 breast of everything, and put himself in the hands of the 
 firm ; and to this end she exhorted and pleaded, kindly, 
 
252 
 
 F1DELIS. 
 
 sternly, humbly, passionately, while he remained as deaf 
 to all her arguments as she was to his. 
 
 He realised at last that his mission had failed, and 
 turned upon her savagely. 
 
 K You are quite right — I did make a mistake,” he 
 snorted, “ when I imagined you were the sort of girl for 
 me. I have known it, too, for a good deal longer than 
 you have. You talk of my being dishonourable ! — if I’d 
 not been honourable I should have got rid of you years 
 ago. Oh, Bessie Alderson is worth a dozen of you ! And 
 I’ve loved her all the time ; and I did have my arm round 
 her. Dear, little Bessie ! She won’t tell me to go to 
 prison and to ruin — she won’t turn her back on me when 
 I’m in trouble ” Etc., etc., etc. 
 
 It was very gross indeed ; and yet Sarah did not mind 
 at all. In fact, she liked it. 
 
 But when he was gone — by which time the boys had 
 been fetched home from their entertainment and quietly 
 smuggled to bed — she felt rather shattered and unnerved. 
 She sat down in her room to think over the painful inter- 
 view, and cried considerably. She found it impossible 
 to rest after such excitements, and had not begun to un- 
 dress at one o’clock. At that hour she pulled up her 
 blind, and looked out upon a singularly clear and peace- 
 ful night. A horned moon silvered the placid water, and 
 the thick-set lights on the other side burned like yellow 
 stars. She raised her window gently, and sniffed the 
 dewy odours of daphne bushes and violet beds, and the 
 sweeter perfume of brine and seaweed. Their invitation 
 was irresistible, and she stepped forth. Though winter 
 yet lingered, the refreshing air was mild — or so it seemed 
 to her in her fevered state ; and out of doors she could 
 realise the extent of her new freedom better than in the 
 shut-up house. 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 253 
 
 She was not inhumanly selfish. She really thought a 
 great deal of Lovell Richardson’s terrible position, and 
 still more terrible moral state ; but under all — over all — 
 she was conscious of a sky full of hope, a bottomless sea 
 of peace. He was rid of her, as he had delicately ex- 
 pressed it, and she of him. She stretched out her arms 
 and sighed broadly, inhaling the cool air — the air of 
 liberty, that is the sweetest thing in life. 
 
 A mysterious constellation moved through the shining 
 gloom, from the river to the sea — an otherwise invisible 
 ship making a midnight departure, hooting a message to 
 Williamstown as she passed — and then all was still as still 
 could be. The girl walked to the gate and leaned upon 
 it, her strong knuckles supporting her square chin, and 
 had no fear of being seen by passers-by. 
 
 The camp at Sydney was not more secure in privacy 
 at this hour, and was less silent in its lovelier solitude. 
 There waves splashed and seethed continually ; here, in a 
 windless night, the spent tide crept up without a sound. 
 
 When she turned to re-enter the house, she saw that 
 Adam still occupied his sitting-room ; rays of light 
 streamed from the bow-window upon lawn and laurel 
 bushes. 
 
 “ He is busy with his novel,” she thought, and stood 
 to gaze at her imaginary picture of him, bending over his 
 big writing-table, under Fidelia’s eye. As she watched 
 she saw a shadow pass across the blind, and wondered, 
 with a leap of the heart, whether he was coming out for 
 a look at the night before he slept. He did it sometimes 
 when he had been working late and exciting his brain ; 
 it would be a strange thing if he did it now. 
 
 At once she resolved not to run away from such an 
 opportunity but to remain and meet him, and walk in the 
 garden with him, and tell him what had happened. Her 
 17 
 
254 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 mood of exaltation, engendered by the romantic hour and 
 her deeply-stirred emotions, held her above petty consid- 
 erations of conventional propriety ; they seemed just now 
 to belong to another world. 
 
 She heard the side window, which she could not see, 
 pushed gently up, as by one anxious not to arouse sleep- 
 ers ; and a figure dropped out of it upon the flower bed 
 beneath. As soon as it emerged into the moonlight, 
 showing its slender length and its light grey clothing, she 
 recognised not Adam, but her lately-dismissed visitor. 
 And now there was not time to withdraw from view. 
 Her heart bounded and quivered, the blood poured into 
 her face, she clenched hands and teeth. 
 
 When he saw her figure looming in the dusk, he 
 started and stopped short, as dismayed as she. He seemed 
 to cringe before her. 
 
 “ Sarah ! ” he faltered, “ were you waiting to speak to 
 me?” 
 
 she answered, fiercely ; “I thought you were 
 gone hours ago. What — what are you doing here?” 
 
 44 1 came back to see Drewe. I wanted his advice. 
 A man — a man is not like a woman — to turn his back on 
 a friend as soon as he’s unfortunate,” panted Lovell Rich- 
 ardson, with a dramatic .air. 44 Good-night again — I am 
 going to get ready for a long journey ; and good-bye — 
 for ever. It is not likely that we shall ever meet again.” 
 
 44 Where are you going? ” 
 
 44 Oh, never mind ! I shall be out of your way. And 
 that’s all you care about, I am quite sure.” 
 
 Though he tried to pose as a martyr, there was an air 
 of triumph about him, of hurry and elation, that told its 
 tale. He passed, leaving her standing where he had found 
 her, in a dumb rage. 
 
 Adam, hearing their voices, conjectured a lover’s im- 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 255 
 
 passioned interview — a second one — and as he turned his 
 gas out, heaved a sigh of pity for his misguided friend. 
 The very thought of eavesdropping was, of course, im- 
 possible, but he could not deny himself a glance into the 
 moonlit garden when his room was dark. Then he saw 
 that the lover was gone, and his friend standing on the 
 lawn almost under his window, looking up at it. He 
 raised the sash swiftlv, and leaned out. 
 
 “ It is all right,” he called, under his breath, as if an- 
 swering her look. “ Have no fear. Before they can issue 
 the warrant I will have him beyond their reach. I am 
 going to put him on board one of our ships, that will take 
 him out of the country — you won’t mind that? — till I 
 can get the matter settled. After that we will think what 
 is best to do. I’ll telegraph to Rutledge in the morning.” 
 
 She could not speak, to ask what lies had been told 
 him — on what grounds Richardson had claimed his help ; 
 shame tied her tongue. But she continued to gaze at 
 him, as he saw by the position of her head. He could 
 not read her face. 
 
 “ Go to bed, dear — go and sleep in peace,” he urged. 
 “ They shall not take him. He shall not be disgraced, if 
 I can help it. I shall be away early to get the yacht ready 
 — I may not see you before we start ; but make your mind 
 easv ” 
 
 “ Adam — Adam ” 
 
 “ Hark ! That’s your mother getting up to see what 
 all the noise is about. She thinks it’s burglars. Better 
 not take anybody into the secret, so go quickly. Good- 
 night — Good- night ; keep your heart up ! ” 
 
 A door was heard to open in the hollow-sounding 
 house, and he waved his hand impatiently. Thus she 
 was obliged, after all, to surrender the golden opportunity, 
 and leave him under all his WTong impressions. 
 
CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 The passenger was on board early, stowed away below, 
 with his luggage and provisions necessary for a voyage of 
 uncertain length. There is not much cabin space in a 
 fifteen-ton racing cutter, but what there was had been so 
 ingeniously planned out that a dozen men could find 
 sleeping accommodation at a pinch. 
 
 Richardson was quite luxurious with an apartment to 
 himself, in which a sofa berth against the side, a canvas 
 shelf — hammock or table, according to circumstances — 
 hinged to the centre-plate case, and some racks and 
 lockers, provided all that a sea- voyager could reasonably 
 require. It was, in fact, the ladies’ cabin. Mrs. French 
 and Sarah had frequently slept there, the mother on the 
 cushioned bench, the daughter on the upturned flap, side 
 by side, with the summer air pouring down upon them 
 through the hatch above their feet. 
 
 “ Oh, would that it were summer now ! ” was the 
 thought of the present tenant, as he listened (because he 
 dared not look) for the returning dinghy ; “ and would 
 that it were dark — if it were not so dangerous ! ” 
 
 He was in an agony of fright lest daylight should 
 discover him, and could not agree with Adam that a 
 night-start in winter would be giving themselves away. 
 When the skipper came aboard at nearly noon, with 
 
 256 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 257 
 
 the usual crew of three, the passenger begged for a nip of 
 whisky, on the ground that long suspense had unnerved 
 him. 
 
 “ I had no idea you would be so late,” he complained, 
 “ when time is so precious.” 
 
 “ As we don’t happen to have steam,” said Adam, “ we 
 must wait the pleasure of the wind. The KittiwaTce 
 won’t sail in a dead clam.” 
 
 “ Is it a dead calm ? Oh, Lord ! I never thought of 
 that.” 
 
 “ A breeze is coming now. Don’t be alarmed — we 
 shall have more than we want before we’ve done.” 
 
 “ Shall we ? Shall we ? I say, Drewe, isn’t it awfully 
 risky to go outside this time o’ year? I’m not afraid for 
 myself ; I’m thinking about you.” 
 
 “Well, you see, if I were afraid, I shouldn’t do it. 
 Say when.” 
 
 He held the whisky bottle poised over a glass. 
 
 “ Thanks — thanks. It’s awfully good of you, old 
 fellow ; I can’t tell you how I feel it. But I don’t want 
 you to risk your life for my sake.” 
 
 “ I shouldn’t risk it for your sake — never fear ! ” 
 
 “ You think the yacht staunch enough ?” 
 
 “ Oh, she’s staunch. She can’t capsize, anyhow. She 
 can only founder.” 
 
 “ Founder ! ” The man’s jaw dropped when it had 
 emitted the word. 
 
 “ If she’s filled, you know.” 
 
 “ But she can’t fill, can she, with a deck all over her? 
 You’d shut the hatches, wouldn’t you, if you saw squalls 
 coming ?” 
 
 “ I’ve never had to do it yet.” 
 
 “ But there’s no use in being foolhardy, is there ? I 
 should say, keep battened down altogether, when we get 
 
258 
 
 FIDE LIS. 
 
 outside— seeing that it’s the depth of winter, and this a 
 mere cockboat, so to speak.” 
 
 “You’ll see whether she’s a mere cockboat,” retorted 
 the naturally indignant owner. “ And as for being 
 battened down, you’d be the sufferer. Come now, you 
 must let me sail my ship in my own way. If you haven’t 
 confidence in both of us, you’d better go ashore. There’s 
 plenty of time.” 
 
 Mr. Richardson protested, in an unsteady voice, that 
 he had perfect confidence ; and then Adam went to help 
 the men to get sail on the yacht, which was already stir- 
 ring joyously, as if alive, in the freshening wind — like a 
 chained dog when he feels you beginning to unfasten 
 him. 
 
 Down below the fugitive sat and listened to the lap and 
 gurgle of the water under him, with his heart in his mouth. 
 “ Now or never,” he whispered, with parched lips, and 
 fancied that every sound betokened a policeman. But the 
 eye of the law was searching elsewhere ; the long arm did 
 no reach him this time. 
 
 It was a beautiful start which onlookers appeared to 
 consider natural to so fine a day, though it did not hap- 
 pen to be Saturday ; and the Kittiwake was soon airily 
 winging her way in space, with other sea-birds. At three 
 o’clock Obadiah' set the balloon jib, in a fine east wind ; 
 and they raced a steamer from Portarlington to Queens- 
 cliff, and beat her. Relieved from all fear of immediate * 
 unpleasantness, reassured by the bright sky, and soothed 
 by a good cigar, the passenger came out of the cockpit and 
 sunned himself upon the white deck, pillowed in a coil of 
 rope at the foot of the mast. 
 
 He conversed affably with the crew, who were pleased 
 to inform his ignorance of nautical affairs; and Adam, 
 attending to the tiller, was at liberty to entertain himself 
 
SiDULlS. 
 
 259 
 
 with his own thoughts, which he preferred to conversa- 
 tion. He had a good deal upon his mind this voyage. 
 
 “ Ton my word,” said Lovell Richardson to him, in 
 the calm of approaching sunset, when air and water were 
 all aglow with the hues of doves’ necks and the linings of 
 pearly seashells, “ ’pon my word, it’s well to be you, old 
 chap ! If ever I have your luck and my pockets full of 
 money, I’ll set up a yacht of my own — be hanged if I 
 won’t ! I call this just perfect. I’d no idea it could be so 
 delightful.” 
 
 Adam merely said — speaking to Obadiah — “Wind’s 
 falling to nothing. I doubt if we shall get through on the 
 ebb, after all.” 
 
 What’s that ? Through where ? ” cried the passenger 
 apprehensively ; and he sprang from his couch under the 
 boom, and joined Adam where he sat aft, with his legs 
 over the coaming of the hatch. 
 
 “Rip.” said the captain, briefly; and, calling Jim to 
 take the tiller, at once went forward to avoid the necessity 
 of further speech. 
 
 They just managed to scrape through, as they called it, 
 clearing Point Lonsdale as the first quarter flood signal 
 was hoisted ; and the delightfulness of yachting soon palled 
 upon the landsman after that. The fall of nigh t disquieted 
 him. The heavier swell, which the boat rode like a duck, 
 provoked that fear of seasickness which is its own fulfil- 
 ment, and a foolish choice of whisky and water as a sub- 
 stitute for a comfortable meal. The returning wind, so 
 welcome to the crew, and blowing now as if it meant busi- 
 ness, had an awful sound in the dark illimitable ocean 
 waste, which had, as he knew, swallowed many a fine ship, 
 compared with which the Kittiwake was no more than 
 the toy of a baby. And when he saw the process of 
 “snugging down” — reefs taken in, spars lashed to the 
 
260 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 rigging, everything on deck made fast or stowed away — 
 his forebodings were expressed in terms that made Oba- 
 diah’s wife’s nephew shriek with rude amusement. 
 
 “ What’s that for, Drewe ? Is there a gale coming? 
 Good God ! When you think of the big ships that couldn’t 
 live in these seas, to bring out a flimsy little cockleshell 
 like this ! She’ll be pooped, to a dead certainty ! She’ll 
 fill — with that open hatch — and founder, before you can 
 say Jack Robinson ! ” 
 
 “ Oh, go to bed,” said Adam, in a tired voice. 
 
 He did consent to go to bed (being very ill) at about 
 his usual hour. Split Point Light was off the beam, and 
 that was some comfort to him, as showing that the skipper 
 did really know where he was, and where the wild blast 
 was driving him ; and a small moon was shining cloudily, 
 making a phantom of the flying yacht. As soon as his 
 guest had retired — groaning, and declaring his belief 
 that he would be drowned in his berth like a rat in a hole 
 — Adam turned in on the other side of the centre-plate 
 case, thankful for the privacy that it secured to him, and 
 slept as a seaman should for just the number of hours that 
 he had allotted himself. Jim snored in the forcastle, 
 and Obadiah and his wife’s nephew kept quiet watch to- 
 gether. 
 
 By three in the morning the captain reappeared on 
 deck, as fresh as ever; and the sight of the heavy sea, 
 Brought up by the w T ind, and the behaviour of his darling 
 in it, would have been delightful to him had he been sail- 
 ing for the love of sailing. Obadiah pointed to a steam- 
 er’s light, like a star in the gloom, and bragged at having 
 kept it astern for a matter o’ two hours. 
 
 They grudged to admit the expediency of reefing down 
 again, and of heading towards Apollo Bay for shelter. 
 But for their passenger they would have carried on as 
 
F1DELIS. 
 
 261 
 
 they were, and got round the Otway before daylight. It 
 would have been a fine performance, and the worst part of 
 an ungracious business would have been over. 
 
 As it was, another day was breaking when they turned 
 the corner in a languid south-west breeze, having been be- 
 calmed in the chopping seas for about eighteen hours, in 
 pouring rain, to the great injury of all their tempers — 
 even Adam’s, which was generally so good, and even 
 Lovell Richardson’s, though he had so much objected to 
 a blow. 
 
 “ This ought to suit you,” the host sarcastically re- 
 marked, as the boat bobbed up and down like a pea in a 
 boiling pot. 
 
 “ I suppose you are trying to be funny,” replied the 
 guest, whose dirty and unshaven face, showing under the 
 dripping tarpaulin half drawn over the cockpit, was the 
 colour of tobacco ashes. And he swore, that never again, 
 as long as he lived, would he trust himself to a fifteen- 
 tonner that gave itself the airs of a man-o’-war. 
 
 “ Certainly, I shall never ask you,” said Adam. 
 
 “ Oh, it’s beastly ungrateful, I know. But if you oply 
 knew how I felt — this awful motion ! — I say, can’t you 
 trim the sails somehow, so as to steady her a bit?” 
 
 “Not at present,” said Adam. 
 
 “ It’s sickening doAvn there — I can’t breathe ! I can’t 
 stand it, Drewe ! It’s killing me ! ” Tears were in his 
 eyes ; seeing which Adam hastily turned his own eyes from 
 him. 
 
 “ Come up here,” said the skipper, kindly. “ You’ll 
 feel all right in the air.” 
 
 “ There’s nothing to hold to,” wailed the wretched 
 man. “ It’s like sitting on a* board. I’m too weak — I 
 should be washed off.” 
 
 “We will lash you, if you like.” 
 
262 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 “ And the cold’s awful, on an empty stomach ; it cuts 
 like a knife.” 
 
 “ I can wrap you up warm, and put an oilskin over 
 vou. Here, come on ! ” 
 
 The crew were all on deck, and while Obadiah took 
 charge of the idle vessel and surveyed the proceedings of 
 his companions, his leathern countenance crumpled into 
 a fixed grin. Adam and the young men made the passen- 
 ger comfortable as they would have done a lady in like 
 circumstances; cushioned and shawled him, and tucked 
 him up, and covered him in, finally lashing him to the 
 mast, clear of the slack boom, and leaving him to swing 
 limply to the jerking rolls of the yacht, like a baby in a 
 perambulator driven by a rough nurse over a newly-met- 
 alled road. - * 
 
 “ If I was you,” said Obadiah to his chief, as the latter 
 passed him to go downstairs, “ I’d top up all with a good 
 stiff nobbier. Then he’d be real happy.” 
 
 “ I am going for it,” returned Adam, smiling ; and he 
 presently returned with a dose which, combined with the 
 fresh air and the state of his digestion, made the passen- 
 ger not only happy, but fearless, and better company than 
 he had promised to be under these sad conditions. He 
 said again that, if ever he were a rich man, he would have 
 a yacht of his own, and he proclaimed Adam “a jolly 
 good fellow ” in a song of many verses, all very much 
 alike, a chorus being demanded at the end of each, and 
 sometimes in the beginning and the middle also. Jim 
 and Obadiah’s wife’s nephew answered to the call, and 
 while they shouted the captain sat below, lest the sight of 
 his displeasure should spoil their sport. For he had not 
 meant to make Sarah’s lover of so many years tipsy and 
 ridiculous, and did not enjoy the spectacle. Alas, poor 
 Sarah ! Pity, he thought, that she did not come with 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 263 
 
 them, to see what stuff her hero was made of when his 
 society trappings were pulled off. 
 
 There were troubled waters around the Cape and for 
 the rest of the passage ; and the J onah of the company, 
 having exhausted his artificial courage, sang and laughed 
 no more. The lightness of the wind, puffing all ways at 
 once, and the weight of the running ground swell, and 
 the persistent fall of the glass from hour to hour .made 
 even Adam and Obadiah feel that they would have pre- 
 ferred to be at home ; and when, towards the third night, 
 the threatened blow came on — a real gale this time — and 
 they were besought in tones of piercing anguish to put in 
 somewhere, when it was quite impossible to do so, then 
 the good young man who is the hero of this tale was guilty 
 of language unfit for publication, even in his own plain- 
 spoken books. Obadiah abetted him. 
 
 “ I can’t think,” roared the old man, under cover of 
 the howling wind, “ why you bother yourself about such a 
 , as ain’t wuth it.” 
 
 “ I can’t think why, either,” Adam roared back ; “ un- 
 less it was to make things a bit easier for Miss French.” 
 
 “ Oh, ay,” rejoined Obadiah, satisfied. He was the 
 only one of the crew aware that they were not making the 
 trip for pleasure. 
 
 A thoroughly “ dirty night” off Cape Otway — off 
 Moonlight Head, it was now — is a thing to try the mettle 
 of the most hardened sea rover, as the ghosts of many 
 wrecks do testify; and the little Kittiwake must have 
 looked absurd indeed in a bird’s-eye view of her. But 
 fools ride safe where angels come to grief (to slightly vary 
 the proverb) ; and that ambitious morsel, with mainsail 
 balance reefed, storm staysail set and jib stowed, literally 
 turned up her little nose at the Power which had crushed 
 the Loch Ard to matchwood. She swung up the steep 
 
264 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 sides of those mighty storm billows, and swooped down 
 the backs of them into depths where she lost the wind 
 and sat as at the bottom of a well, with everything flap- 
 ping and shaking, only to swim lightly up again, and 
 poise for another dive, like a feather-breasted gull — which 
 at a little distance she might have been mistaken for. 
 When the moon, emerging from the clouds, permitted 
 them to witness these manoeuvres as well as to feel them, 
 the hearts of Adam and Obadiah sang in their breasts for 
 joy and triumph. 
 
 “ Ain’t she a daisy ? ” the old man shouted, again and 
 again. 
 
 “ I’d take her anywhere — any where ! ” the skipper 
 shouted, in reply. 
 
 But down in the cabin, rolling hither and thither, 
 listening to slap of the spray upon the deck planks — 
 “ seas breaking over ” he called it — and the yell of the 
 gale, the passenger lay and writhed in mortal terror, groan- 
 ing and crying, cursing and praying, repenting him of his 
 sins because they had brought him to this pass, and offer- 
 ing bribes to his Maker to let him off this time. Let him 
 fall into the hands of the police — let him go to prison for 
 the term of his natural life — but not, oh, not into the 
 jaws of death, the maw of the hungry sea ! 
 
 It was a happy release for all parties when he was 
 transferred to the Dunstanborough , which they picked up 
 in the dusk of a fairly quiet evening, as she came out of 
 Portland Bay. It had taken them so long to beat so far, 
 that the ship had been obliged to start without him. 
 Adam, being a business man, had given no orders for her 
 to be detained for the convenience of the Melbourne pas- 
 senger — certainly not, though he was Sarah’s lover in a 
 scrape ; and as sea and wind permitted him to board his 
 ark in the open, it was better that he should do so than be 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 265 
 
 taken into port. But he was deeply hurt by the discovery 
 that he had so narrowly missed safety — that all he had en- 
 dured would have gone for nothing in another half-hour. 
 He seemed to think that his debt of gratitude to Adam 
 was fairly cancelled by this circumstance. 
 
 “ However, all’s well that ends well,” he said, affably ; 
 when the moment of parting came ; and no sooner was he 
 over the side of the Dunstanborough , with a substantial 
 floor beneath him, than he cocked his hat, and twirled his 
 moustaches, and remembered that he was a man once 
 more. 
 
 The ship faded into the night, and Adam heaved a 
 sigh of thankfulness when he saw it go. 
 
 “ Shall you run in, sir — to telegraph to the young 
 lady — and maybe get a few hours’ sleep — or a bit of fresh 
 bread?” Obadiah questioned, wistfully. 
 
 His captain looked at the sky, and sniffed the wind, 
 and thought of his neglected business. 
 
 “ No,” said he ; “ let’s get along home while the 
 weather suits us.” 
 
 And they had a beautiful run all night — four hours 
 to Port Fairy, and five more to Port Campbell, sighting 
 Otway Light at dawn ; and by noon of that day they were 
 struggling round the Cape, hoping to make port and their 
 beds at Williamstown by the end of it. 
 
 However, at nine o’clock they were on the wrong side 
 of Point Lonsdale still, and the ebb was so strong that 
 they could make no headway against it. They had to 
 stand off and on until past one in the morning, when the 
 tide made ; and then it was too late to think of getting 
 home. They dropped anchor off Queenscliff in the small 
 hours — a lovely moonlight lay upon fort and town — and 
 Adam cast himself on a’ sofa bench and slept for half-a- 
 dozen hours like a dead man. 
 
266 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 Then, under weigh again, with whole sail and a south- 
 west breeze, the Kittiwake went skimming over her fa- 
 miliar course, a mere bay yacht once more. After clearing 
 Spit Light the big spinnaker was set, to drive against the 
 strong ebb ; and she was up to Pile Light half-an-hour 
 before noon, and moored, stripped and locked up in time 
 for her captain to get home and have a fresh- water wash 
 before dinner. 
 
 As he swung from the little dinghy to the pier, Sarah 
 leaned over to welcome him. 
 
 “ Oh, thank God ! ” she cried, with a solemn, tragic 
 face. “ I have been watching the weather telegrams— 
 hearing nothing from you ; I have been frantic with anx- 
 iety ! It wasn’t until you were gone that I realised what 
 you had undertaken, Adam ! ” 
 
 “ Same here,” he answered with a smile. 
 
 “ You never should have done it.” 
 
 “Well, I’m free to confess that I think it was an 
 
 idiotic proceeding. However ” 
 
 “ It was against your judgment, I am sure.” 
 
 “ Quite against my judgment — as far as he was con- 
 cerned. But I did not do it for him. I did it for you, 
 simply and solely ; and for your sake, Sarah, I’d do it 
 again to-morrow.” 
 
 The crew of the Kittiwake here claimed his attention, 
 so that she was unable to explain the mistake he still 
 evidently laboured under. Attending to them, he did not 
 notice how she quivered and blushed. 
 
 When they were again alone together, hurrying home- 
 ward side by side, he said to her abruptly, “ Sarah, you 
 owe me something for this.” 
 
 “ Oh,” she murmured, “ I alivays owe you — more than 
 I can ever repay.” 
 
 “ No,” he rejoined, turning the light of his spectacles 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 267 
 
 upon her red face. “You can repay me fifty thousand 
 times over, and double that, if you will.” 
 
 In the thoughtless moment it seemed that he did 
 know, after all. Another thing that seemed was indi- 
 cated by the answer that she made him — in breathless 
 jerks. 
 
 “ Here are the boys ! They are coming to meet us. 
 It must be dinner time.” 
 
 “ Shall I tell you how you can repay me, Sarah ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, Adam ” 
 
 “ By promising me to have nothing more to do with 
 that worthless scamp. If you had only seen him on 
 
 board ! Sarah, I’d give my right hand ! It is 
 
 no proper sense of honour that holds you bound ” 
 
 She broke in with a joyful cry. 
 
 “ But I am not bound ! I have broken it off — he 
 ought to have told you — everybody knows it now — we are 
 no longer engaged to each other. He is in love with 
 Bessie Alderson.” 
 
 “ How ? What ? Where ? When ? Oh, my dear ” 
 
 “ A long time ago I began to feel that — that — but I’ll 
 tell you all about it after dinner.” 
 
 For the boys had fallen upon them. Their arms were 
 round Adam’s arms, and his waist and his neck, and they 
 were crying out to him that he was a mean sneak to go 
 for such a gorgeous cruise without them. 
 
 “ We should have enjoyed it so ! ” howled Bunny. 
 
 “It zuottld have been so awfully jolly ! ” wailed Billy. 
 
 “Oh, it would — it would, indeed!” assented Adam, 
 with a laugh. “What’s for dinner, boys? I’m one ache 
 all over with hunger. Ahi, how nice it is to get back 
 again — to get back like this ! There’s no place like home, 
 is there ? ” 
 
CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 While her relations and friends were telling each 
 other how sorry they were for her, and meeting her with 
 half-averted eyes and subdued embarrassed voices — think- 
 ing that surely the disastrous ending of her long engage- 
 ment must have broken her heart — Sarah’s heart was 
 rising like a cork in water, whole and sound ; fresh life 
 was pulsing through it with every breath she drew. Many 
 a long day had come and gone since she had felt, without 
 permitting herself to acknowledge it, that her supposed 
 support had become a burden, sinking her to muddy 
 depths ; and the release that she had not asked for, and 
 that yet had been given her, made her feel like a prisoner 
 unexpectedly set free. 
 
 In the land of romance, the true woman loves her 
 worthless man, in spite of all his worthlessness, to the bit- 
 ter end ; in this common world of common people she 
 does not. She sticks to him — which is another thing — 
 for various silly but honourable reasons, and she seems to 
 love him; but that love is maternal wholly. The other 
 love implies respect. No flesh-and-blood woman, of the 
 best sort of women, gives it to a man whom she cannot 
 look up to ; if she would, she could not. And that is why 
 Sarah, who was even as ourselves, only, probably, better, 
 did not weep and lament for Lovell Richardson when he 
 turned out badly, but grieve as a disappointed mother — 
 
 268 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 269 
 
 perhaps I should say as a disappointed good stepmother — 
 for a prodigal son, who disgraces the family, and at the 
 same time removes a contaminating presence from a 
 respectable house. 
 
 She was very much upset and ashamed ; very much 
 concerned for the ultimate fate of the deserter, who could 
 be separated from the present but not from the past ; 
 still more concerned for the immediate fate of the Kitti- 
 ivake while the wintry seas had hold of her ; very uncom- 
 fortable in a great many ways ; but it was all mere froth 
 on the surface, subsiding as the excitement passed. In- 
 wardly, she felt the serenity of a redeemed soul. She told 
 her mother so, in the strict confidence between them, as- 
 cribing her evident happiness to her recovered liberty and 
 the providential rectification of a proved mistake. But 
 there was another explanation lying deep down under that 
 one. A feeling of delicacy prevented her from even own- 
 ing to herself that it was there — at present — so, of course, 
 she did not mention it. 
 
 But when she heard Adam’s step in the house, on the 
 very morning after his return from his long cruise — at the 
 absurd hour of eleven, when he should have been at his 
 town office, overtaking the work that must have accumu- 
 lated in his absence — she thought the time had already 
 come for confessing the secret of her courage under mor- 
 tifying disaster. The boys were at school, her mother in 
 Melbourne, herself alone in the sitting-room, patching 
 Billy’s ever-damaged knickerbockers after making the 
 pudding for dinner ; she knew that Adam knew this, and 
 made sure that he had come back because he knew it. 
 What else should he have come for ? 
 
 She schooled her trembling frame to a reposeful atti- 
 tude ; and, at his entrance, looked up to inquire, with an 
 air of unconcern, what the matter was. But in a moment 
 18 
 
270 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 the flying colour left her face, and she put the question in 
 her natural voice. For it was plain enough that he was in 
 no dallying mood. 
 
 “ I have had a letter,” he said, in a stern but excited 
 way. “ I found it on my office table. It was sent to the 
 care of the firm, by my publishers. I ought to have had 
 it days ago.” 
 
 “ Oh ! ” she ejaculated, sympathetically, laying down 
 her work. “ Some bad news, I fear ? ” 
 
 “ Not bad, but important — of the very last importance. 
 About her” 
 
 “ Oh ! ” cried Sarah again, less distinctly than before ; 
 and she felt the sword of Fate go through her, wondering 
 that she had not all along foreseen what was so likely — so 
 almost certain — to happen at just this particular juncture, 
 when one was daring to expect so much. 
 
 In silence he drew a letter from its envelope, and 
 handed it to her. 
 
 “ Am I to read it ? ” she asked, taking it shrinkingly. 
 
 He nodded, and turned to the fire, laying his arm 
 along the mantel-shelf and his forehead on his arm. 
 From beneath his arm he stared at the red coals and his 
 glowing imaginations, while she read the letter at the 
 table behind him. 
 
 The address that headed it was, “ Sea View Villa, 
 New Dunstanborough.” 
 
 “ I never heard of New Dunstanborough,” Sarah re- 
 marked, flutteringly. 
 
 “ It’s since my time — a sort of suburb, I suppose.” 
 
 “ And c Harry P. Bowen ’ — is that her husband ? ” 
 
 “ No, her son. Bead it.” 
 
 She did so without further words, shading her eyes 
 with her hand. 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 271 
 
 “ My dear Sir : I hope you will pardon the liberty I 
 take in writing to you ; but I have heard my mother 
 often speak of you as a friend of hers, and I thought you 
 might know of some berth that would suit me in Australia, 
 where I should like to go, for there seems to be no open- 
 ing here, there are too many applicants for everything you 
 apply for, and you are crowded out of everything. 1 am 
 told that things are bad in Australia ; but an Australian 
 friend of mine says that the worst is made of it by inter- 
 ested parties, who are jealous of your splendid country, 
 and that there is plenty of room for good men there, and 
 have always had the wish to see it. I am seventeen next 
 birthday, and have had the best of educations, bookkeep- 
 ing, &c., and could turn my hand to anything. Since my 
 father died, about six years ago, we have had a struggle 
 to make ends meet, for he was rather given to extrava- 
 gance and let his life insurance run out, so that all there 
 was for us was my mother’s little money under the mar- 
 riage settlement, which does not come to a hundred a 
 year. She used to take a few pupils to eke out with ; but 
 her sight was never good, and she is now quite blind, I 
 am sorry to say ; and I think I could do more for her if 
 I could get an opening in Australia than here, for you 
 can make money so much easier than here, — Richard 
 Delavel for instance, who went away without a penny, as 
 I have been told, and died a millionaire. An aunt of 
 mine, who is well off, would, I am sure, take her and my 
 sister to live with her till I can give them a better home, 
 and that would leave me quite free, and also keep mother 
 from feeling lonely. I may say that my mother does not 
 know that I am applying to you. I thought it better not 
 to tell her, as I am old enough now to decide for myself, 
 and I am sure you will not take it amiss from what I 
 have heard of your kindness to her when she was young. 
 
272 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 We have all your books, and admire them very much, and 
 she still likes us to read them aloud to her. As I do not 
 know your address I am sending this through your pub- 
 lishers, and hope it will reach you safely, and that you 
 will favour me with a reply at your earliest convenience. 
 Any clerkship or place on a station would do to begin 
 with. I am not at all particular, and would do my best 
 to give every satisfaction. I would start at once and 
 chance it, working my passage, only my mother would 
 not like me to go with nothing to go to ; and I would 
 rather settle it without unpleasantness than go against 
 her and leave her fretting, as she is not very strong, and 
 of course feels things more than when she was young and 
 had her sight. Trusting you will pardon the liberty I 
 am taking in addressing you, and hoping that my request 
 will meet with vour favourable consideration. 
 
 J 
 
 “ I am, dear Sir, yours faithfully, 
 
 “ Harry P. Bowex.” 
 
 Sarah read it twice over, and tried in vain to think of 
 something to sav about it. Adam wheeled round sud- 
 denly, and their eyes met. 
 
 “Xiee boy, isn’t he?” said Adam, with a sharp edge 
 to his voice. 
 
 “ I think he seems a nice boy,” faltered Sarah. 
 
 “ He is her only son, you see — for whom, as I very 
 well know, she has spent her heart’s blood — and now 
 that she is a widow, and poor, and blind, he wants to 
 desert her.” 
 
 “ Oh, no ; he wants to make her a home, Adam.” 
 
 “ He wants to see the world and have adventures — 
 that’s what he wants ; to be what he calls ‘ quite free.’ ” 
 
 “ And that is natural.” 
 
 “ Oh, quite so. And as soon as he has fulfilled his 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 273 
 
 intention of getting money and a home, it will he his 
 own home that he will get, you’ll see, not hers.” 
 
 “ Well, that’s natural too — though it might not be so.” 
 “ Perfectly natural. From the point of view of Harry 
 Bowens, father and son, it is the business of the wife 
 and mother to serve them as long as they want her, 
 and never mind what becomes of her after that.” 
 
 “ This young fellow evidently does mind. He is 
 anxious that she should not fret and be lonely.” 
 
 “ Therefore he shunts her upon the well-off aunt who 
 doesn’t seem to have done anything to save her from work- 
 ing her eyes and her health to pieces. I know those aunts. 
 They handed her to anybody who would take care of her 
 at the break-up party, only too glad to be rid of her. I 
 am not going to have her left to the tender mercies of an 
 aunt.” 
 
 He glared through his spectacles at the blank wall. 
 Sarah looked down at the tablecloth, pale and powerless, 
 well aware of what was happening. Suddenly he held 
 his hand for the letter, full of hurry ; and she gave it to 
 him. 
 
 “ How shall you answer it ? ” she asked, in a dull way. 
 “ I have answered it,” he replied. “ I telegraphed just 
 now, before leaving town.” 
 
 She drew in her breath quickly. 
 
 “ What did you say ? ” 
 
 “ I said I was returning to England immediately, and 
 would discuss the matter on my arrival.” 
 
 “ Oh, Adam ! ” 
 
 “ Why, what did you think I would do?” he returned, 
 as if surprised at her tone. But perhaps he was not so 
 surprised as he wished to believe, and something troubled 
 his mind that he would not inquire into — because it was 
 now too late, and he had no time to think of anything but 
 
274 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 Fidelia’s need of him. “ Don’t yon understand that she 
 is a widow — six years a widow, though I never knew it ! 
 — widow of a man who spent his all for himself, and left 
 her to shift as she could, grudging even a few pounds for 
 a life insurance? Don’t you hear that she is Mind? 
 Really blind at last, and with nobody to take care of her 
 — only me ! This is my chance, Sarah. This boy, though 
 he doesn’t know it, is the instrument of Fate. I shall 
 join that boat at Adelaide.” 
 
 He pointed from the window, and her eyes followed 
 his across the water to where the P. & 0. steamer lay at 
 the Port Melbourne pier. She had only just come in from 
 Sydney — rather earlier than usual — Wednesday noon ; in 
 three days she would go out again ; in one w r eek she would 
 leave Adelaide. In one week at the outside — practically 
 in six days, or three — from the receipt of young Bowen’s 
 letter, Adam would be off to his old love ; and nobody 
 would have him, or any share in him, again. 
 
 “ Therefore,” groaned Sarah to herself, with pangs un- 
 speakable, “ he can never, never, never have cared as I 
 thought he cared for me ! ” 
 
 But she kept her emotions down, and her brave head 
 up. What was it to her whether he had cared or not? 
 She sternly reminded herself that it was, of course, noth- 
 ing to her. 
 
 “ I must go to Sydney to-night,” said Adam, pocket- 
 ing the letter and looking round for his hat. “ I must 
 arrange matters with Rutledge. It will take all my time. 
 Will you help me to pack up here this afternoon? I’m 
 going now to settle little scores in the town, in case I 
 should be rushed at the last. I will be back to lunch.” 
 
 Mrs. French came over by the 12 o’clock boat, fagged 
 but cheerful, and laden with little parcels. She knew, 
 she said, that Adam would give her a good scolding for 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 275 
 
 not having them sent to the office for him to bring, and 
 seemed to triumph in having disobeyed him. The boys, 
 returning from school to their dinner, had joined her in 
 Nelson Place* but had not thought of taking any of her 
 burdens from her ; they only did that when Adam made 
 them. 
 
 The consternation of all three when Sarah broke the 
 news of diis imminent departure was ludicrous. He re- 
 turned while they were still too stunned for speech ; but 
 as soon as he came amongst them the old lady fell upon 
 his shoulder weeping, and the boys howled and railed at 
 him, in the tone they used on Saturday afternoons, when 
 crying “ Shame ” on a football umpire. 
 
 He took them out into the garden to explain. 
 
 “ I have to go, Billy — I really am wanted in England, 
 Bunny — most important business. But look here — I’ll 
 leave you the Kittiwake . She shall be all your own, 
 share and share between you, when I am gone. I will 
 engage a sailing master to take you out until you are old 
 enough to manage her for yourselves. And ” — fumbling 
 — “ here’s something for your pockets. I shall write to 
 you often, and send you parcels every now and again. 
 You just think of what you’d like, and let me know.” 
 
 Thus he subdued them to a mood of comparative res- 
 ignation, and on returning to the house they managed to 
 eat a hearty meal. Of course they strenuously objected 
 to go to school in the afternoon — on Adam’s last day — 
 and were difficult to convince that they would make the 
 task of packing, with only a couple of hours to do it in, 
 impossible. They said they could “ help no end ” ; but 
 their elders knew better, and Adam found a way to get 
 rid of them peaceably. With visions of a free hand at the 
 tuck shop, they bade him an affectionate farewell, and set 
 off as usual ; and they never realised that, in all proba- 
 
276 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 bility, they would never see his ugly, but beloved, face 
 again. 
 
 When they were gone, he told their mother and sister 
 of his bequest to them, and was greatly disappointed to 
 find that they would not be allowed to accept it. Mrs. 
 French, now fairly composed, and hard at work for him, 
 pleaded their wilful ways and the risks to life involved, 
 declaring that she would never know a moment’s peace 
 when they were out of her sight if they had the yacht to 
 play with ; and Sarah, as he saw, was too proud to be be- 
 holden to him for so costly a gift. If he had had millions 
 per annum, while her family wanted bread, she would not 
 have taken, or allowed them to take, an unearned sover- 
 eign from him ; it was one of the perverse and exasper- 
 ating “ fads ” for which he loved her. 
 
 He represented that his word had been passed, and he 
 must redeem it in one way or another ; but he had to 
 leave unsatisfied, forming secret plans for compensating 
 the disinherited ones later on. The Kit tvw alee was to be 
 sold, and the proceeds, the rightful property of the boys, 
 to be given to the poor or thrown into the sea — whichever 
 she pleased ; and the same arrangements were made for 
 the things he left in the house. He could not pack them 
 — he did not want them ; and if Mrs. French was so un- 
 kind as to refuse to keep a few trifles to remember him 
 by, she could just fling them into the street. A bundle 
 of photographs and his clothes were all he could be bur- 
 dened with, and of these several suits that no thrifty 
 mother of schoolboys could bear to waste upon beggars at 
 the door were cast aside for that purpose. 
 
 By a frantic effort on the part of the three, assisted by 
 Rebecca (who wept copiously, but was comforted by a 
 parting present, equal to half a year’s good wages), he got 
 off by a train which landed him at Spencer Street about 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 277 
 
 half-an-hour before the Sydney express started. To save 
 that half-hour, Mrs. French and Sarah accompanied him 
 into town ; and they all tried to think of appropriate last 
 words, but could not in the distracting circumstances. 
 But the two dear women looked at him, as he was borne 
 away, with eyes that haunted him painfully through the 
 uncomfortable night. 
 
 On the following afternoon, having lunched at his 
 Sydney Club and “ arranged matters with Rutledge,” he 
 had another fit of heartache — Fidelia notwithstanding. 
 But Susan Rutledge, who knew nothing of Sarah French, 
 was warmly sympathising, enthusiastically convinced of 
 his unclouded happiness and complete good fortune. 
 
 “ Oh,” she exclaimed, when she had heard all about 
 it — and only then did her cheerful face grow sad — “ Oh, 
 Adam, how glad he would have been ! How I wish he 
 could have foreseen it ! He felt for you so much, always. 
 He was able to feel — because he kriew.” 
 
 “ Yes,” sighed Adam. “ I never missed him so much 
 as I do to-day.” 
 
 “ Would you,” she said, in a low voice, looking away 
 from him, “ would you like to go to the camp once 
 more ? ” 
 
 His eager murmur answered the question almost 
 before it was put, and she sent an order for the boat to 
 be brought to the landing stage, and went upstairs for 
 coat and hat. 
 
 After that they scarcely spoke to each other until the 
 camp was reached. She with the tiller ropes and he with 
 the oars, they glided through the rose-red glory of just 
 such an evening as Richard would have chosen for the 
 same journey, had he still been with them ; and they were 
 held silent by their thoughts of him — thoughts better 
 understood without words than with. 
 
278 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 It was winter in Victoria now; but here it was dawn- 
 ing spring, and the day had been fine — enough to say of 
 Sydney Harbour to those who know it. Never will Adam 
 forget his last sight of those enchanting shores, transfig- 
 ured in the low sunlight, from which their loveliest robes 
 were always woven. In the gallery of memory it hangs, a 
 masterpiece of colour ; and he realises that life is not all it 
 might have been, when he tries to describe it to Fidelia. 
 
 As the boat swept into view of the hills behind the 
 camp, the pink and gold was changing to blue and silver 
 — sun and moon were in the sky together ; and before it 
 came to moorings, the South Head Light, like a bright 
 sword, was flashing in the twilight, and the velvet shadows 
 of the night were looming near. 
 
 “ Ease her,” said Sue. 
 
 He paddled gently, and ceased rowing, without looking 
 behind him. Her gaze over his shoulder was fixed upon 
 the spot where the bo’sun’s lantern used to wink above 
 the trees, and her quiet eyes were such wells of sorrow 
 that he could not bear to picture what they saw. He 
 floated up to the landing stage, and fastened the rope to 
 its accustomed post. The bo’sun was not there to receive 
 them ; within a few weeks he had followed his master, 
 and the camp was quite deserted. Sue had made up her 
 mind that no one should live there again. “ Not in that 
 camp,” she said. 
 
 Already the tents were removed. One or two short 
 piles sticking out of the ground were all that remained of 
 Richard’s sea bedroom, his “lair,” in which he had died of 
 his heart’s wounds. The flagstaff was lying with other 
 poles under the hedge ; the old flag halliards bound them 
 together. The little garden was obliterated ; beds and 
 paths had been dug up, and levelled down, to become wild 
 bush once more. 
 
FIDEIJS. 
 
 279 
 
 “It does look dreadful,” said Sue, reading Adam’s 
 thought. “ But we are going away, and I could not leave 
 it as it was, to be jumped by strangers.” 
 
 “ No,” said Adam. 
 
 They stood silent in that utter desolation, imagining 
 the past. Then they stepped over the loose mould where 
 the marigolds use to grow, and through the gap in the 
 hedge, to the sandy shore ; and there it was all as it used 
 to be, and even more beautiful, if possible. The moon 
 hung low in the clear sky, which was still blue and lumi- 
 nous ; and the moonlight and the electric beam that trav- 
 ersed it showed them every feature of the familiar scene 
 in its most touching aspect — as the bright eyes of the dis- 
 coverer had loved it most — full of poignant suggestions of 
 his dark hours and his death, and the emptiness he had 
 left behind him. 
 
 There had been winter gales along the coast, and the 
 sound of the surf outside the Heads was like the sound of 
 a strong wind, playing bass to the singing treble of the 
 waves running at their feet ; and a real wind, a delicate 
 spring wind, made an aeolian harp of the trees behind 
 them, breathing a soft dirge for the departed days. 
 
 “ He ought to have been buried here,” said Adam. 
 
 “ Yes,” said Sue. “ He and she together.” 
 
 “ If we could have kept the place for them.” 
 
 “Which we couldn’t. And it does not matter. I only 
 wish I knew that they were together now ! ” 
 
 She looked at the pellucid sky — the revolving light 
 swept her upturned face, and showed the hopeless eyes^ 
 and remembered how he had faced that pathless Infinite 
 unbeguiled by any illusions. 
 
 “ He had three happy years, at any rate,” Adam mur- 
 mured, comfortingly ; and he added, after a pause, “ I 
 wonder if I shall have as much ? ” 
 
280 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 “ Ten times three, I trust,” she answered. 
 
 “ And if I shall be — all that — to her ? ” 
 
 “ And if she will be all that to you ? ” 
 
 “ Ah, as to that — if I know myself ” 
 
 “ You don’t know yourself,” Mrs. Eutledge broke in. 
 “ You have not the least idea of your own worth — of what 
 a fine man you are. I hope she is half as worthy to be 
 your wife as you are to be the husband of the best woman 
 ever born.” 
 
 He made an inarticulate noise, deprecating this mon- 
 strous view of him ; but proper speech failed in the swell- 
 ing of his heart, which seemed to rise into his throat and 
 choke him. Her voice was so true that he was fain to 
 trust it, and the friendly hand held out to him as she 
 spoke sent the words right home. 
 
 Overwhelmed with gratitude, not only to her, but to 
 the divine Unknown behind her, he took her hand in his, 
 and stooping low, reverently kissed it. 
 
 “ Everything I ever longed for seems to come to me 
 now,” he said, when he had swallowed down his heart, 
 which was a mere bag of tears. “ I am afraid to believe 
 in it.” 
 
 “ You may believe in this — that only the crops we have 
 sown come up,” was her quiet answer. 
 
 And then they turned to look once more upon the 
 camp — what used to be the camp — before he left it for 
 ever ; visions of the vanished figure and the vanished 
 tents, and the reality of the hills and trees that had nursed 
 and sheltered them — ghostly enough in the gleam of the 
 lighthouse ray. As that weird glare passed slowly by, 
 every little twig and flower showed itself, and Adam picked 
 one that still lingered on the site of the big tent, by a 
 stump of the old doorstep where Eichard and he used to 
 sit and talk ; and he laid it between the leaves of his 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 281 
 
 pocket-book. During five revolutions of the light he si- 
 lently photographed the scene ; then Sue whispered to 
 him that they must go. For there was still a world of 
 living interests behind them, and dinner had to be con- 
 sidered. 
 
 And that was Adam’s real good-bye to Sydney and his 
 Australian life. All the next day, until the express left 
 in the afternoon, he was too deeply immersed in counting- 
 house business to have leisure to think or feel. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 When Adam arrived at Spencer Street from Sydney, 
 he had but five and twenty minutes in which to catch the 
 mail boat, which was to leave Port Melbourne at noon. 
 He might have had a quiet Sunday and Monday at Wil- 
 liamstown, and gone overland to Adelaide and joined her 
 there ; but he could not, he thought, face the trial of 
 having to say good-bye to Sarah all over again. The 
 whole of his luggage had been sent on board, save a Glad- 
 stone bag that he carried with him ; all his Melbourne 
 affairs had been wound up, and a last explanatory letter 
 to Mrs. French had been despatched ; so he considered it 
 better to get away at once than unnecessarily to prolong a 
 painful business. Jumping upon the penny train with 
 his bag in his hand, he reached the other station just in 
 time for the 11.45 train to the Port, which allowed him 
 five minutes to run down the long pier and climb the 
 ship’s side before the hour of departure struck. 
 
 However, his design was frustrated to a certain extent. 
 As he rushed from the covered way connecting platform 
 and pier, he perceived the Gem hauling into her berth, as 
 usual ; and looking a last good-bye to her as he sped past, 
 he saw, amongst the more or less familiar figures of old 
 neighbours streaming up from her deck, the most familiar 
 one of all — Sarah, with a face so pale, so old, so hard-set, 
 that he scarcely knew it for hers. He stopped as if shot, 
 
 282 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 283 
 
 red with surprise ; and she smiled, as if suddenly galvan- 
 ised, and waved her hand towards the pier end, calling to 
 him to. go on, or he would be too late. But he waited for 
 her. 
 
 “ There’s time enough,” he said, gripping her hand so 
 that the bones ground together. 44 They are seldom punc- 
 tual to a minute. I never thought of this, dear, or I 
 would not have shaved it so fine.” 
 
 44 1 just thought I might as well come over and wave a 
 handkerchief,” she said, with affected nonchalance. 44 You 
 wouldn’t see a handkerchief from the house.” 
 
 44 Please don’t wave a handkerchief,” he returned. 
 44 Stand where I can see you as long as possible — that’s all 
 that’s necessary. Oh, my dear Sarah, this makes going 
 
 away rather miserable ” 
 
 She laughed, or sobbed — it was difficult to tell which 
 — and they hurried along between the interlacing rails 
 and shunting trucks, and were nearly run over without 
 knowing it. 
 
 44 It isn’t those that go away that are miserable — they 
 have new things to interest them — new things to do and 
 see — things to go to,” she said. 44 It’s those that stay be- 
 hind — to emptiness ” 
 
 44 Not emptiness,” he broke in. 44 Your turn will come, 
 sooner or later, as mine has.” 
 
 44 Oh, I suppose so ! What a splendid boat she is, 
 Adam ! I wonder if there’s time for me to go on board ? 
 They have not done loading yet, and I am sure that crowd 
 of people on deck are not all passengers.” 
 
 44 Come on,” said Adam. And they squeezed up the 
 gangway together, through a packed doorway, and into a 
 soft deep seat in a curved corner of what might be called 
 the outer drawing-room, separated from the room where 
 the piano was by the staircases to the saloon. The seat 
 
284 
 
 FIDEL1S. 
 
 was upholstered in beautiful raised brocade, of just the 
 right blues to go with the terra-cotta carpet and the cream- 
 white panels and gold freizes of the walls ; — a luxurious 
 seat to sit in of a fine night, listening to music in the dis- 
 tance and the sound of the sea — visible through the door- 
 way, perhaps with moonlight on it. “ But, oh, for the 
 dear Kitthvake ! ” groaned Sarah in her heart. “ Oh, for 
 the little cabin just large enough for two, and the happy 
 Saturday afternoons that would recur no more ! ” 
 
 The splendours of brass and silk, the patterns carved 
 upon the ivory wainscot, ran together in her swimming 
 eyes ; and she clenched her teeth and her hands in the 
 effort to keep the sobs struggling in her breast from burst- 
 ing out. “ What a fool I am ! ” she gasped spasmodically, 
 feigning to laugh. 
 
 Adam responded merely by blowing his nose — that 
 short, stout nose which she had long ceased to compare 
 with the classic profiles of other men. 
 
 Then— before there was time for a word of farewell — 
 the signal sounded for strangers to leave. The last truck 
 was empty, the last hatch was closed ; already people were 
 securing seats in the special, from which to view the ship’s 
 departure. 
 
 “ Well ! ” 
 
 The kiss that had so often been thought of, but never 
 yet bestowed, loomed imminent, and terrified them. Sarah 
 saw it first, and violently controlled herself — a true act of 
 heroism under the circumstances — determined that noth- 
 ing should be left behind for either of them to regret or 
 be ashamed of. She jumped to her feet, strangling the 
 sobs that were trying to strangle her, so that they lay 
 dead in a moment; and she held out her hand with a 
 smile that was almost natural. 
 
 “Well, we won’t say good-bye, Adam. You will be 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 285 
 
 coming back some day perhaps — or I might go home — 
 who knows? It is the unexpected that happens.” 
 
 “ Oh, I wish you would ! ” he cried, as he crushed her 
 fingers in spasmodic grips, and showed tears on the inch 
 of cheek between the rim of his spectacles and his mous- 
 tache. “ Oh, how I wish you would ! ” 
 
 “ Some of these fine days perhaps — when, as you say — 
 my time comes ” 
 
 “ And meanwhile you will write to me? You will 
 write to me often ? I shan’t be out of mind when I am 
 out of sight, shall I ? ” 
 
 “ Ah, it is I that shall be that — not you ! ” 
 
 “ Never ! Never ! ” 
 
 The crowd, pouring to the only gangway left down, 
 wrenched them from each other. For a moment their 
 strong hands held, at arm’s length, stemming the tide ; 
 and they tried to speak with their eyes, but their tears 
 were too thick to see through. Tears were not dangerous 
 now, and hearts were bursting for relief. 
 
 “ Good-bye ! ” 
 
 “ Good-bye ! ” 
 
 “ Take care of yourself ! ” 
 
 “ Oh, yes.” 
 
 And the strong hands unclasped and dived for pocket- 
 handkerchiefs — but not to wave farewells with. A sailor 
 put his arm round Sarah, and lowered her to another 
 sailor, who did the same; and the crowd on the pier 
 swallowed her. 
 
 Adam turned, and fought his way down the grand 
 carved staircase and some long passages, until he found 
 his cabin — a cabin that he had taken whole — in order to 
 hide the shame of his childish blubberings in the privacy 
 for which he had paid his fare twice over. 
 
 And as he opened the door of his cabin a delicious per- 
 19 
 
286 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 fume greeted him. He stopped to look and sniff, and saw 
 
 a great bunch of spring flowers lying on his bed. They 
 
 were fresh and dewy, the flowers of to-day ; and he knew 
 
 them all. Had he not dug and watered and weeded and 
 
 pruned them, since most of them were born ? Their 
 
 countenances were as familiar as if they were his own 
 
 children. The violets were from the warm border under * 
 
 the windows of his old bedroom, the daphne from the 
 
 bush at the corner of the verandah, the lovely rosebuds 
 
 from the trellis of the summer-house — Sarah’s favourite 
 
 roses, and the summer-house that he had built for her — the 
 
 precious ferns from the pots in her little greenhouse, which 
 
 she used to forbid him to gather from, even for a small 
 
 button-hole; and she had gathered them for him, the 
 
 best of everything, and brought them here ! She had been 
 
 over by an early boat and gone back, and then came 
 
 again at the last moment to see him go — doubtless not 
 
 intending to let him know of it. Dear, dear Sarah ! 
 
 Surelv she was the dearest woman in the whole world ! 
 
 %/ 
 
 Except, of course, Fidelia. 
 
 He put the flowers in a rack, in a tumbler of water, 
 preserving a choice few to wear in his coat ; which few, 
 before he pinned them in, received the kiss that, for 
 Fidelia’s sake, he had (so narrowly) withheld from the 
 giver. And if, for an hour or so, the giver was more 
 prominent in his thoughts than the beloved one whom he 
 had not seen for over twenty years — well, that is only to 
 say that he was a human being, even as ourselves. 
 
 When he went on deck again, the great ship was slowly 
 drawing from the pier, and he fancied he saw Sarah’s blue 
 hat speeding over the water on one of the Customs’ 
 launches. The Gem was at Williamstown, just starting on 
 another trip ; he was glad she had not had to wait for it. 
 Lovingly he looked at the dear white paddle-boxes and 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 287 
 
 twin red funnels, and thought of the innumerable jour- 
 neys they had made on that old boat together, wet and 
 fine, winter and summer; and he almost wept again to 
 think that she would ferry them no more — that Sarah would 
 go alone in future ! And there was the little Kittiwake 
 — dearer still, and more pathetic in its suggestions ! — lying 
 over at her old anchorage ; just a sketch in two strokes, 
 one horizontal and one perpendicular, but with how much 
 unseen detail for imagination to paint in ! And this was 
 Saturday afternoon ; and Saturday week at this time he 
 and Sarah were having a cold-meat lunch, while the boys 
 hoisted sail for the weekly cruise — that cruise which they 
 had so little expected was to be the end of the series. Who 
 would own the Kittiwake now, and race her against the 
 crack yachts ? He could see the Kiwi's jib going up, and 
 the Magpie was already standing off the breakwater, with 
 everything set and full, leaning to the most beautiful sail- 
 ing wind that they had had for weeks. But the Kittiwake 
 remained a sketch in two strokes, for she had no master 
 now ; and he could imagine her feeling deserted and dis- 
 consolate, like a new-made widow, and had a pang of re- 
 morse for having abandoned her. 
 
 However, ere she was out of sight — she, and Williams- 
 town, and Sarah’s blue hat — he had begun to plan a new 
 boat in his mind, larger, handsomer, costlier, than anything 
 that Williamstown could show ; with steam perhaps, so that 
 Fidelia could be taken to warm climates and pretty places 
 without delay when she desired it. The new boat was, of 
 course, to be a passenger boat, and not a racer. His rac- 
 ing days were over. 
 
 And so he passed away into his new world ; and Sarah 
 went back to the old one which he had left so empty — so 
 unexpectedly, so irretrievably despoiled ! 
 
 The boys stood on the pier above the steps where the 
 
288 
 
 F1DELIS. 
 
 launch landed her. Their idle hands were in their pockets, f 
 their faces w T ere as long as fiddles, their tempers were 
 dreadful. They had seen the four slim spars and the two 
 fat black funnels glide solemnly out of sight, as one sees a 
 hearse going to the cemetery, bearing away the friend who 
 had made Saturday holidays so happy for them ; and now 
 they saw the Kittiwahe , in which they might have been 
 skippers both, idly rocking in the suggestive breeze, lost to 
 them and of no good to anybody else ! And it was all 
 Sarah’s fault ! They growled at her anew, in the bitter- 
 ness of their hearts, and informed her as she came up the 
 steps, that she was to hold herself answerable for any mis- 
 chief they might fall into for want of the rational amuse- 
 ment she had deprived them of. 
 
 “ Well, at least,” she answered wearily, “ I shall not be 
 responsible for you drowning yourselves.” 
 
 “ Drowning your grandmother ! ” they retorted, sav- 
 agely, and asked the Customs’ officials whether the Kitti - 
 ivake, built as she was, could capsize under any conceivable 
 mismanagement. Not that they didn’t know how to man- 
 age a yacht as well as another — it would be a pity if they 
 didn’t, after all the practice they had had. But some 
 people thought themselves so clever ! 
 
 Well, a little more or less was of no account; they 
 could not make her unhappier than she was. Merely in- 
 quiring if they had had their dinner, and thankfully find- 
 ing that such was the case, she passed on quickly and went 
 home ; and there she found her mother crying over her 
 knitting at the fireside. Mrs. French bravely tried to con- 
 ceal the fact, and her daughter to ignore it ; but their first 
 words undid them. 
 
 “ Alone, mother ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, dear ; the boys had something and have gone 
 out. I’m glad — they were rather tiresome in the house. 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 289 
 
 Somehow they seem to have got so cross since — since he 
 went.” 
 
 And here she gave a sniff, and Sarah gave another ; and 
 the next moment they were crying and sobbing in each 
 other’s arms. 
 
 “ Oh, mother ! ” 
 
 “ The h-house doesn’t seem the s-same, does it ? ” 
 
 “It never will — it never will again ! ” 
 
 “ I f-feel as if I’d lost a s-son ! ” 
 
 “ He was like a brother to me — only no real brothers 
 are so good ! ” 
 
 “ Never cross to anybody ! Never thinking of himself ! 
 Always helping at every turn ! Oh, bless his dear kind 
 heart ! He does deserve to be happy, if ever anybody ever 
 did ; and she, poor thing ” 
 
 “ She isn’t a poor thing. She would be rich with him, 
 if she was deaf and dumb as well as blind. So would any- - 
 body.” 
 
 “Well, I think so; but then I’m an old woman, and 
 when you get old you get to feel that people’s looks don’t 
 matter much. Inside is of more consequence than out- 
 side.” 
 
 “ Of course it is. Only fools think about people’s 
 looks — when they are people like him. And when they 
 grow to know better, then it’s too late. We never learn 
 the value of things till we have lost them ! ” 
 
 Mrs. French understood, but could not put her feelings 
 into words. She tightened her arms round her daughter’s 
 waist, and Sarah seized the grey head and hugged it, 
 pressing indiscriminate kisses upon face, hair, and cap ; 
 and they wept for some minutes in silence, save for little 
 moanings and croonings of the surcharged maternal heart. 
 Then the girl shook herself upright, and dashed the tears 
 from her eyes. 
 
290 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 “ She is more worthy of him than I — she must be,” 
 Sarah declared, bravely ; “ and of course he loves her best. 
 He only fancied that he cared about me — she was the real 
 one always ; it was easy to see that when he got her boy's 
 letter. It is a good thing I did not help him to make a 
 mistake. It is all right now — quite right. He belonged 
 
 to her, and she to him; and it had lasted more than 
 twenty years ! Who else would have been so faithful, 
 so true ? — for with me it was only a passing fancy, be- 
 cause we lived in the house together, and were such good 
 friends — because he thought her altogether lost and gone. 
 It was just like him to go straight off to her ; I am proud 
 of him for it. Oh, yes, he does indeed deserve to be happy ! 
 He has had a long, lonely time — while none of us seemed 
 to care for him — and she always cared — lucky woman ! 
 her blindness saved her from being such a fool as I was. 
 We won't grudge him his reward, mother. Our loss is his 
 gain.” 
 
 “ But, oh, what a husb ” 
 
 “ Don't, don't ! I can't bear to think what it would 
 have been. Xot to me onlv — to vou and thebovs as well ! 
 
 V V •/ 
 
 Oh, don’t cry ! Don’t cry over spilt milk ! You mustn’t 
 make me cry — it’s too degrading. After all, we have got 
 each other ; I am not going to leave you. I am not going 
 to inflict an inferior son-in-law on you — after him.” 
 
 “You don’t suppose I want to see you an old maid?” 
 “ It doesn’t matter how vou see me. You said vou 
 didn’t consider people’s looks. You need not mind my 
 being an old maid if I don't.” 
 
 “ But you do.” 
 
 “ Oh, I do ! I do ! But he has spoiled me for any or- 
 dinary man, and only ordinary men are left. How- 
 ever ” 
 
 She shook herself afresh. 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 291 
 
 “ However,” Mrs. French suggested, “ it may turn out, 
 after all, that she doesn’t wish to marry again.” 
 
 “ That wouldn’t alter it.” ' 
 
 a She may have loved Mr. Bowen — she may have given 
 
 up all thought of Adam — except his books ” 
 
 “ She hasn’t forgotten anything. It’s not the sort of 
 thing to be forgotten, especially by one who had not seen 
 his face.” 
 
 “ And he may find that he has been cherishing a de- 
 lusion ” 
 
 “ It is we who are cherishing delusions. Come, we 
 must respect ourselves. We must keep our imaginations 
 from running away with us. Don’t let us talk of it any 
 more, mother. Let’s have a nice cup of tea.” 
 
 They had a cup of tea — a very nice one, hot and fresh 
 — and it comforted them immensely. It enabled them to 
 discuss the domestic situation with calmness, and even 
 with interest, once more. 
 
 “ I suppose,” Sarah said, “ we shall not require to take 
 another lodger, shall we?” 
 
 “ Oh, no,” said Mrs. French. “ No more lodgers — 
 after him.” 
 
 “ Then I suppose I might — it is not so large as mine, 
 but I like the outlook better — change into his room ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, dear, of course, if you prefer it. It certainly 
 has a nicer view.” 
 
 Sarah busied herself for the rest of the day in sorting 
 drawers and moving small furniture, so that when she 
 went to bed she could lay her head upon the pillow where 
 Adam had been used to lay his. This — though it caused 
 her to weep as if it were a full cistern and she its open 
 tap — comforted her more than many cups of tea. 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 When we go “ home ” after twenty years we do not go 
 back to our old place. There is no old place ; it has been 
 washed away — grown over — obliterated. Much pathos 
 
 hangs about this fact, which is melancholy enough ; but 
 it should not be forgotten (though it mostly is) that we 
 could not take it if it were there — and if we could, we 
 wouldn’t. For we too have suffered the sea-change. The 
 old person that fitted into and filled it has also been wiped 
 out- 
 
 Adam felt this when he landed in London, and sat 
 down to consider where his investigations should begin. 
 He was at home in the abstract, breathing his native air — 
 it was late autumn, and foggy — but no “ hallowed spot ” 
 drew him, as the particular nest-hole draws the migrating 
 bird. He was his own man, in his own hands, as de- 
 tached as a ghost revisiting its grave. Under all the cir- 
 cumstances, he much preferred to be so. 
 
 Gran’pa, of course, was long since dead. Aunt Pris- 
 cilla’s husband had the shop, and an assistant lived there ; 
 Aunt Priscilla, a spectacled old dame, aged out of all 
 knowledge, was taken care of by her grandchildren, as she 
 had taken care of gran’ma, at a comfortable villa on the 
 London Road — a present from Adam. And Aunt Harriet 
 was a professional nurse, conducting a private hospital in 
 
 m 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 293 
 
 a manufacturing town ; the materials for which enterprise 
 had also been Adam’s gift. 
 
 Overjoyed would they have been to know of his ar- 
 rival, and to welcome him to their bosoms ; — but not, as 
 he knew, for pure love’s sake. Oh, no ; for the benefit of 
 the children, and the grinding of all kinds of axes. 
 
 And in Dunstanborough, he was nothing to anybody, 
 and nobody was anything to him. 
 
 His mother was dead. She was a gossiping and mis- 
 chief-making old woman, with a shrivelled skin and a 
 butter-colored wig, a grandmother several times over, 
 when the event occurred. Her husband, overwhelmed by 
 pecuniary misfortunes and acute rheumatism, incurred in 
 her service, had left his farm to end his miserable days in 
 a back street of Lyntham under Guy Vavasour’s roof 
 (which arrangement, it may be here said, was altered as 
 soon as Adam heard of it) ; and a son of John Morrison’s, 
 assisted by his cousin in Sydney, had become the squire’s 
 tenant in Holditch’s place. 
 
 And the squire now was the parson, Mr. Delavel-Pole- 
 Delavel ; and his wife, that was Miss Katherine, was the 
 only member of the old family left in the old hall. She 
 was the one thing less congenial than a parson to Adam’s 
 taste — a parson-imitator ; and they ruled the village, on a 
 strictly ecclesiastical basis between them. 
 
 Mr. Plunket, deaf, blind, and helpless as a child, still 
 lingered at lovely Thurlow ; but all his former children 
 were married and scattered ; and a big and masterful 
 second wife and somewhat numerous second family were 
 in full possession of all that had been theirs, except their 
 father’s secret heart. 
 
 Old Dunstanborough was outwardly unchanged, but 
 there was a new Dunstanborough a few miles off, where, 
 in Adam’s young days, there had been nothing but beach 
 
294 
 
 FI DELIS. 
 
 and cliffs, and fields above the cliffs, and a single ancient 
 inn, chiefly patronised by brides and bridegrooms. New 
 Dunstanborough was the late squire’s commercial enter- 
 prise, his little fashionable watering-place, wherefrom he 
 had drawn the funds to restore his house, which had been 
 so beautiful in its dilapidation in his father’s time, and 
 provided an ample revenue for the son, who did not live 
 to spend it. No sharper contrast could be found in Eng- 
 land than that between the two Dunstanboroughs, old and 
 new, — the one so mellow and the other so raw ; and the 
 late lord of the manor had been well advised to separate 
 them as far as the limits of his estate permitted. Not 
 only had he done that ; he had carefully supplemented 
 the cheap shops and stucco-fronted lodging-houses with a 
 brand new church, gay with patterns in coloured bricks 
 all over it, so as to keep his family mausoleum apart and 
 undefiled and the irreverent barbarian in his proper place, 
 if possible. ' 
 
 It was in this crude new settlement, where all but the 
 bare site was strange to him, that Adam was directed to 
 search for his only home — Fidelia. He was informed 
 that Harry Bowen’s widow had had a little school for the 
 children of the new residents, while her sight remained to 
 her ; and that since her blindness she had taken in such 
 lodgers as were content to board in a hugger-mugger 
 style, in consideration of low charges and her former con- 
 dition of life. Just at present (he was told at the hotel 
 where he put up) she had no lodgers, though it was still 
 the season and the place was fairly full. People could 
 not stand being “ done for ” by a slipshod slattern of a 
 maid-of-all-work and a girl who thought herself too fine 
 to sweep and cook. 
 
 “ No one could be more particular than Mrs. Bowen, 
 sir, as long as she could see ; it ain’t her fault that the 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 295 
 
 house is so dirty now that it isn’t fit for decent folks to 
 stay in.” 
 
 Adam shuddered, and left his informant hastily, that 
 he might hear no more. And ten minutes later he was 
 reading the numbers on the doors of a row of small white 
 houses, some of which were smart and some shabby, though 
 all were built to be exactly alike. And quite the shabbi- 
 est — because the windows were dirty and the blinds askew 
 — was number seven, the goal of all his travels. It had a 
 minute strip of neglected garden in front of it, enclosed 
 by an iron railing and gate ; and over the gate hung a 
 dirty girl in curl-papers, jesting with a butcher boy. 
 The latter took himself off on the visitor’s approach ; the 
 former remained to be accosted. 
 
 “ Can you tell me,” inquired Adam, “ whether Mrs. 
 Bowen lives here ? ” 
 
 “ She du,” the Norfolk girl replied, while her saucy 
 eyes roved over his flushing face. “ Did you want to see 
 her ? ” 
 
 “ Er — er — is Master Bowen in ? ” 
 
 “ No, he’s out.” 
 
 “ Isn’t there a Miss Bowen?” 
 
 , > 
 
 “ She’s out, too. They’ve gone for a sail.” 
 
 “ Is there any one else at home?” 
 
 “ Only missus. She’s at home. She never goes 
 out.” 
 
 “ I — er — I’m an old friend of hers,” said Adam, full 
 of internal tremblings, due to the thumping of his heart. 
 “ I should like to see her, if she is disengaged.” 
 
 “ I’ll go and inquire. What name ? ” 
 
 “ No, don’t go. If you’ll kindly show me the way, I 
 will introduce myself. I am a very old friend.” 
 
 “I don’t think she’d like that. She’s blind, you 
 know.” 
 
296 
 
 FI DELIS. 
 
 “ I know. But she won't mind me. I will take the 
 responsibility/' 
 
 k * Oh, well — there's the room," and she led him up a 
 narrow, dirty passage to a certain door, edged with a cloud 
 of her own black and greasy finger-marks. “ In there.” 
 
 “ It is not a bedroom, I suppose ? *' gasped Adam, as 
 she was passing on to her kitchen, humming a street tune. 
 “ She's — she's dressed and able to see people.” 
 
 The girl nodded and disappeared. Adam tapped on 
 the grimy door, and held his breath to listen for the re- 
 sponse within. 
 
 When he heard Fidelia's fluty voice, unchanged, he 
 thrilled as if it had been an electric shock. She did not 
 say u Come in." but u Who's there *? " And as he could 
 not explain himself with the door between them, he si- 
 lently turned the handle, and entered. 
 
 And there she sat — still so fair in her lover's eves that 
 the first thing to strike him was the unworthiness and 
 unsnitableness of her surroundings to be the frame for 
 such a figure. The room she sat in was neat in its ar- 
 rangements ; but the defects which she could not see, — 
 dirt, and stains, and vulgar colours. — degraded it, showing 
 him one of the saddest sides of her misfortune. On the 
 ink-splashed magenta table-cloth was spread a newspaper, 
 and on the newspaper lay forks and spoons that glittered 
 in the dusty light. Plate-powder and wash-leathers, lying 
 beside her, showed that she had done what she could to 
 prove her house the home of a lady ; all else indicated 
 that her helplessness had deprived her of the respect due 
 to her as such, instead of gaining a double share, as it 
 ought to have done. 
 
 Her gown was of black stuff, puritanically plain, green- 
 hued and rusty ; the tucker at the neck had come grey 
 from the wash-tub and brown from the ironing-board, 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 297 
 
 though she supposed it to be fresh and white. But out of 
 all this ugliness the fair head rose like a delicate flower — 
 the fine, pale, cool face even more touchingly sweet, to his 
 long-trained sense, than the young and flattered photo- 
 graph — crowned with bright hair that had its old colour 
 of the sun, and almost its old plentifulness. She was 
 looking at the door when he opened it, and no seeing eyes 
 could have gone through him as those did — the eyes that 
 had met his but once in his life. Blind as they were, with 
 the blankness in them, they were soft and beautiful — not 
 only no disfigurement, as so many blind eyes are, but the 
 tragical charm of a most impressive countenance. At any 
 rate, to him. His heart leaped with joy that the conceal- 
 ing bandage was gone for ever. Next moment it leaped 
 with deeper joy at the perception that she knew him. 
 
 There was no mistake about it. By faith, and not by 
 sight, she apprehended his presence before he had time to 
 speak to her. As far as a blind face could light up as if 
 it saw, hers did at the moment when he looked upon it. 
 She rose as if he had drawn her by invisible machinery 
 out of her chair, and moved to meet him with her hands 
 spread before her ; and she made a curious low murmur 
 that was like an imprisoned sigh — a note that told him in 
 one beat of the pulse what he had been puzzling to find 
 out for so many years. 
 
 “ Fidelia!” he ejaculated, without knowing that he 
 spoke. He had never called her Fidelia to her face, but 
 that was the title by which he had always thought of her. 
 
 She bounded to his cry like a dog to the call of a long- 
 lost master. She answered it as a bird answers the whistle 
 of its mate, almost in the same breath. 
 
 “ Adam Drewe ! Adam ! Oh, Adam ! ” 
 
 Bemember, she was in her thirties still. We who are 
 in our forties know how young that is ! More than that, 
 
298 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 we know how young one is even in the forties ; and Adam 
 had not been there long. All in a moment the twenty 
 odd years that had separated them — marriage, love affairs, 
 births, deaths, great matters of business that had seemed 
 in their time so all-important — were forgotten as though 
 they had never been. It was as if the railway accident 
 had occurred an hour ago, and, instead of leaving him in 
 the dark alone, Fidelia had come back to him — instead of 
 resisting her tender invitation, he had accepted it and 
 taken her, as he should have done, into his arms. 
 
 For that was where she was now. And neither he nor 
 she could understand how it happened that she got there, 
 within two seconds of the meeting of their hands. 
 
 u Oh, Fidelia ! ” Adam moaned, in aching ecstacy ; 
 “ Oh, my sweet Fidelia ! My love ! My only love ! ” 
 
 Not a thought did he give to Triffy Miggs, to fasci- 
 nating Mrs. Staines, to his good Sarah, who proposed to die 
 an old maid for his sake. They were never his loves — no, 
 indeed ; pale shades and ghosts of love — no more ! This 
 was his true mate, as he had always known from the begin- 
 ning of time. With their two heads together, in darkness 
 that was greater than the darkness of that far-past night, 
 they sobbed, and kissed, and crooned over each other. It 
 came as natural to him as waking up after he had been 
 asleep ; and her abandonment on his breast was as that of 
 one who had been nearly drowned, and only found and 
 rescued at the last moment. 
 
 He knew all about it now. She had loved him always. 
 It was because he had abandoned her that she had been 
 persuaded to marry Harry Bowen. What her life with 
 him had been was not to be thought of now — it was a page 
 turned over ; what her widowhood had been — poor, strug- 
 gling, neglected, helpless, every day in greater need of the 
 care and comfort that only one in the world could give 
 
F1DELIS. 
 
 299 
 
 her — that also was not to be thought of now. But love 
 never knows the material it works with ; and it was from 
 the blight of cruel years that the bloom of this sweet day 
 was woven. 
 
 They recovered very slowly from the shock that had 
 so suddenly overtaken them, sitting upon a little green rep 
 sofa, side by side; and Adam rallied those reasoning 
 powers which hitherto had not had time to act. With 
 her head on his shoulder and his sturdy arm round her 
 slender body, Adam inquired of Fidelia how it was that 
 she had known him before he had given any indication 
 that it was he. 
 
 “ My boy showed me the telegram you sent from Mel- 
 bourne, telling him you were returning immediately,” she 
 replied. “ T was not aware till then that he had written 
 to you. That was wholly his own doing.” 
 
 “ I owe that boy — well, I will try my best to repay 
 him,” said Adam. “ Were you angry with me, Fidelia?” 
 “ What for ? I was angry with him — at first. He 
 should have consulted his mother.” 
 
 “ He should. But I thank God he did not.” 
 
 “ So do I. I could not have told you what he did. 
 At first I felt very badly about it. I even thought of 
 trying to stop you. But I could not afford a telegram. 
 And in any case I could not have stopped you — could I ? ” 
 “No.” 
 
 “ So I counted the weeks and the days till you could 
 get here. I had given you another fortnight. I did not 
 think it possible for you to be so quick as this. But still 
 I felt that you would not lose any time, and the moment 
 I heard your step I seemed to know it must be you. I 
 don’t have many visitors, and nobody would come into the 
 room in just that way — would open the door so gently. I 
 knew at once.” 
 
300 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 “ After all these years ! And when you have never 
 heard me open a door, Fidelia.” 
 
 The wonder of it thrilled him, awed him, stirred him 
 to the soul. But an even greater mystery confronted him, 
 clamouring for an explanation. 
 
 “ Fidelia!” 
 
 “Yes?” 
 
 “ What I cannot understand is — how does it happen 
 that we meet like this ? I never expected it. Did you ? 
 But of course you did — you must have known. But how 
 did you know? How did we both know? We are not 
 like everybody else, I am well aware ; but still we are not 
 divine, to read the secrets of all hearts — to know what 
 people are thinking and feeling who live on the other side 
 of the world, and with whom we hold no communication 
 for twenty years at a stretch.” 
 
 “ No communication ! ” she ejaculated, with a tender 
 laugh.. “ Have you not been writing books all the time? 
 And have I not been reading them ? I learned all I know 
 out of those books, Adam. You were in every one of 
 them — and so, I think, was I. It has seemed like your 
 voice always in my ears, teaching me all about it, ex- 
 plaining everything. I could put my finger on passages — 
 I will do it again, so that you can prove it — and say to 
 myself, c This is meant for me. It is not the hero talking 
 to the heroine, it is Adam talking to Fidelia. And they 
 are beginning to understand each other, now that it is too 
 late ! ’ I used to think that it was too late, Adam. I 
 thought so up to half-an-hour ago.” 
 
 As he did not speak for a minute, she added, in a 
 quick, frightened way, “ I was not wrong, was I ? You 
 did talk to me in your books? ” 
 
 “ I suppose I did. Naturally I did. But— but I can 
 never have made you quite understand, Fidelia. You 
 
F1DELIS. 
 
 301 
 
 couldn’t. Do you remember how I kissed you in the 
 church ? Oh, my love ! — and I went away after that — and 
 still you have trusted me ” 
 
 He clasped her to him, unable to say more, over- 
 whelmed by the thought of their costly sacrifice, and the 
 thing that had made it necessary. She turned quickly to 
 his embrace, and her hand went up to his bent neck. 
 
 “ I do understand,” she murmured deeply. “ I under- 
 stand it all.” 
 
 Mechanically he caught her straying fingers and im- 
 prisoned them, holding them down upon his breast. 
 Under that hard grip she could feel the thumping of his 
 heart, and knew what it meant as well as he did — that, 
 finding it impossible to deceive her, he was nerving him- 
 self to the confession that had been delayed so long. She 
 waited, groping for his lips with her blind face, to sup- 
 port him through it. 
 
 “ Fidelia, did you know — did any one ever tell you 
 — that — that — Fidelia, you have never seen me, have 
 you ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, dear. I think I saw you once.” 
 
 “ When ? How ? I don’t believe it.” 
 
 “ On the platform — that last day ” 
 
 “ Oh ! — when you looked at me as if I were a leper ! 
 You knew it was I? ” 
 
 “ Of course I did not. But I was told — a long time 
 afterwards, I remembered — it struck me one day when I 
 was reading your book, The Inivard Sight , about the 
 soldier who came home a cripple from the Crimea, and 
 found that his sweetheart shrank from him. All at once 
 I got the key to the puzzle, and after that everything you 
 wrote convinced me more and more that it was the right 
 one. Oh, Adam, to go away for that — for nothing more 
 than that ! ” 
 
 20 
 
302 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 “ Put your hand over my face,” he whispered. “ I 
 don’t believe you saw me after all.” 
 
 “ I am not afraid of your face ” — and like a butterfly’s 
 wing her finger tips touched it all over. “ Do you sup- 
 pose I have no eyes but those that have gone blind ? The 
 Inward Sight , Adam — what a beautiful title ! What a 
 sweet, true story ! It was our story exactly. You ought 
 to have known that when you were writing it. Even if I 
 had been silly for a moment — for a day or a year — I 
 should not have been silly always. And now ” — she 
 sighed as she laid her head down and let her hand drop 
 — “ now, of course, it is a matter of no concern what- 
 ever.” 
 
 “You are sure of that?” he questioned in broken 
 tones. “ Or do you say it only to cajole and comfort 
 me ? ” 
 
 “ Adam,” she returned, “ you are making me remem- 
 ber that I am old and blind and unattractive ” 
 
 “ You ! You were never lovelier in all your life. 
 
 “Oh, I know better! But I didn’t expect you were 
 going to make such a point of looks. I should have been 
 afraid to receive you, and to act as I have done. Am I 
 not very shabby, Adam? I have worn this poor gown 
 for years. Is not my complexion gone? I am sure my 
 eyes look dreadful, and that wrinkles are coming round 
 them. But I can’t see myself in the looking glass any 
 more.” 
 
 For answer, Adam laid his spectacles aside, and let his 
 tears fall upon her face. 
 
 “ It is better for you than for me,” she murmured. 
 “ The sound of your voice, all your thoughts and ways, 
 your strength, your gentleness, your goodness — that is 
 you, and the effect is all beautiful — an atmosphere of 
 beauty; you cannot speak without making me feel it. 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 303 
 
 But I — oh, I did not realise how absurd it was for me to 
 behave as if I had any charm, any use, like I used to have ! 
 I feel defenceless in the light of your seeing eyes. A 
 faded, worn-out, blind woman! For me to presume 
 to ” 
 
 “ There, there ! ” broke in Adam, with a laugh and a 
 sob. “That’s enough. We’ll dismiss the subject now. 
 Two poor objects, let us say, but sufficient for each other. 
 At any rate, I am satisfied. To go any further in the 
 way of satisfaction — if one could go any further — would 
 be to over-wind the instrument, and the strings would 
 snap. It might produce inflammation of the brain, or 
 some fatal catastrophe of that sort. That’s how I feel. I 
 don’t know how it is with you.” 
 
 “ You know well enough. I told you — how could I 
 have done it? — even before you asked. Adam, there 
 hasn’t been a day, for years and years, that I haven’t 
 thought what it would have been to have you to take care 
 
 of me, as you did at the party where I met you first ” 
 
 “ As I ought to have done all the time, Fidelia — from 
 then till now. It was what I was born for — I alwavs felt 
 
 4 / 
 
 it was, and now I know it beyond a doubt. If I had only 
 known sooner! Why didn’t you write to me? But of 
 course you couldn’t. And I hadn’t the sense — I hadn’t 
 the cheek — to imagine the truth, or anything like the 
 truth. Of course, I talked to you in my books, but I 
 never supposed you heard me. I seemed to be talking to 
 your ghost — to my memory of you — to your photograph, 
 which has been under my eyes all the time, standing on 
 
 my writing table — a little faded now, Fidelia ” 
 
 “ Like me.” 
 
 “You are not faded. The pure is just a little more 
 purified — that’s all.” 
 
 “ Stupid ! ” she ejaculated, like a happy girl, and 
 
304 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 kissed him — kissed him as if he were the Fairy Prince 
 and she the Sleeping Beauty just wakened to life, with no 
 sense of physical incongruities whatever, — such a kiss as 
 he had never dreamed of knowing in this world. 
 
 “ Stupid I may have been,” he retorted, “ though there 
 is still an uncertainty about that, whatever you may say ; 
 but I am not stupid now, and I shall not be stupid any more. 
 I know exactly what to do for the best now, Fidelia.” 
 
 “ Do you, Adam ? ” 
 
 “ Don’t you ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, I don’t know ” 
 
 “ Well, leave it to me. There’s one thing I can see 
 plain enough — if I can’t take proper care of you, nobody 
 can.” 
 
 “ They have done their best,” she said, in a voice of 
 apology, reading his thought. “ Only people with sight 
 don’t understand what it is to be blind — young people 
 especially.” She lifted her head, as if suddenly remem- 
 bering something. “ I wonder where the children are ? 
 Have you seen them, Adam?” 
 
 “ Never mind about the children now. They will be 
 all right. Leave them to me. I think I can persuade 
 them that I shall be a good father — appearances notwith- 
 standing.” 
 
 Fidelia’s delicate face flushed pink, as if she were still 
 a girl of eighteen, and Adam’s swarthier visage reddened 
 sympathetically. 
 
 “ Am I taking too much for granted?” he whispered. 
 
 “ Not,” she whispered back, “if you are sure that it is 
 for yourself as well as for me.” 
 
 “You know I am sure.” 
 
 “ Oh, Adam ! ” — her breast began to heave hysterically 
 —“Oh, Adam ! — to have you to take care of me — to stay 
 with me always — after all ! ” 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 305 
 
 Suddenly she broke down, weeping wildly, and for 
 several minutes his hushing croons and caresses entirely 
 failed to soothe her. When she had grown quiet, her look 
 of pale exhaustion brought him his first misgiving, a fear 
 that effectually sobered his happy heart. 
 
 “I’m afraid you’re not strong, my precious one. 
 What is the matter with you ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, nothing, nothing,” she replied. “Nothing is 
 the matter with me now that I’ve got you. Only I have 
 been so lonely, Adam — so overburdened — so tired out.” 
 She turned to him again like a child to its father, rather 
 than as a lover to her mate. “ But I shall rest now,” she 
 sighed. 
 
 “ That you shall,” he responded, setting his teeth. 
 “ That you shall — from this moment — here and now. 
 Give me carte llanche , Fidelia. There is no time to 
 waste.” 
 
CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 Within an hour Adam was arranging the programme 
 with the children. He treated them exactly as if they 
 were grown-up and the legal guardians of their mother, 
 who, being blind, had become a ward once more. The 
 boy was a handsome fellow, the image of his father at the 
 same age ; the girl wore her fair hair hanging down and 
 her skirts still at some distance from the ground. She 
 was very animated and pretty, and had a look of Fidelia, 
 Adam fancied ; but not Fidelia’s gentle air. He led them 
 out to a bench upon the beach, and there talked to them 
 with all the magical tact and charm that had tamed Bun- 
 ny and Billy and won every child of his acquaintance to 
 love him. 
 
 It was rather hard work at first. The old bar was 
 there. When he announced himself as Adam Drewe — 
 the famous author and their mother’s revered old friend 
 — it was at once apparent that their mental picture of the 
 great man had been drawn entirely from imagination. 
 “ You Mr. Drewe ! ” they ejaculated, with the colour ris- 
 ing in their cheeks ; and then they made that painful ef- 
 fort not to stare rudely which was so much worse than 
 doing it. The girl supposed herself successfully dissimu- 
 lating, but the thought in the boy’s mind was obvious 
 enough. 
 
 And it w^as not the custom in these days for our poor 
 
 306 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 307 
 
 hero to be thus regarded, as far as he could judge. The 
 dear friends in Australia, and the men of business with 
 whom he had been associated, and the clerks and servants 
 and sailors who knew him, had ceased to consider the 
 shape of his features, which indeed were not what they 
 once had been. It is the privilege of plain young men to 
 grow better looking — often positively good looking — as 
 they grow grey of head and portly of figure ; and this ex- 
 ceptionally plain young man had never been so comely in 
 his life as he was now. Perfect health and moral upright- 
 ness are, after all, the valuable elements of physical beauty, 
 and the one as much so as the other. He showed the 
 good blood of his father’s race in his tough stout frame, 
 and his wholesome brown skin; and from the modest dig- 
 nity of his bearing one inferred the sterling character 
 without which surface graces are of slight effect. Since 
 he had come to manhood his instinct for right dressing 
 had been always faultless, and his beard was the admira- 
 tion and envy of many handsome people. Nevertheless, 
 in the presence of Harry Bowen’s boy — one of those curly- 
 headed, graceful angelic-looking young scamps who break 
 the hearts of so many doting mothers — Adam had a pe- 
 culiarly bitter consciousness of his unusual face. Harry 
 the second looked at it with Harry the first’s insolent blue 
 eyes, though without meaning to be disrespectful. 
 
 “ You are wondering,” said Adam, abruptly, with a 
 hand on the lad’s shoulder, “ how your mother came to 
 make a friend of such an ugly old fellow as I am. You 
 are both thinking that.” 
 
 The children blushed and protested, stealing guilty 
 glances at each other. Dora, with great presence of mind, 
 declared that such an idea had never for a moment oc- 
 curred to her. For Dora was going to be a woman soon. 
 
 “ It is certainly nice to be handsome,” he remarked, 
 
308 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 pleasantly conversational. “ But it is more useful to be 
 rich. Don’t you think so ? ” 
 
 Even while he said it, he felt ashamed of himself for 
 tryiug to secure their goodwill in this way. We all have 
 onr weak moments, and he had not been a novelist from 
 his youth up for nothing. A few general questions satis- 
 fied him not only that they were sharp and bright young 
 creatures, who could be made to understand reason if 
 properly approached ; bat that both had a tendency to 
 shallowness and selfishness, like their father before them. 
 He may be forgiven for availing himself of this discovery 
 to make a difficult task easier. 
 
 “ Money, after all, is a power beyond beauty — in some 
 ways,” said he, though in his heart he did not believe it. 
 “ Eh, Harry ? ” 
 
 Plainly Harry thought so. Already the expression of 
 his eyes changed. 
 
 “ I suppose,” he said wistfully, “ it’s your books that 
 have made you rich ? ” 
 
 “ Your beautiful books ! ” Dora ejaculated. 
 
 “ Yot altogether,” said Adam. “ It takes very, very 
 beautiful books indeed to make authors rich. I get a few 
 hundreds a year from them. But my other businesses — 
 ships, mines, wool-broking, and so on — bring me in a 
 good many thousands.” 
 
 “ A year , sir ? ” cried the boy gaping. 
 
 “ A year,” said Adam, with a smile. “ I suppose about 
 fourteen thousand, roughly. Sometimes more and some- 
 times less, of course, according to seasons and markets ; 
 but about that.” 
 
 “ Oh — h — h ! ” sighed the children, as with one breath. 
 And they looked at their strange visitor with an odd re- 
 spectfulness that hurt him more than their young inso- 
 lence had done. He wanted to see the mother as well as 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 309 
 
 the father in Fidelia’s children, even though it was the 
 father element which furthered his designs. 
 
 “ And I want,” said he, 44 to use it for the benefit of 
 my friends, since I have no family of my own. I want, 
 Harry — I want, Dora ” — he laid a hand on each — “ to 
 make your mother comfortable, first of all, if you will let 
 me.” 
 
 Dora smiled a ready welcome to the proposition, but 
 Harry looked confused. 
 
 44 I don’t see,” he stammered — and Adam blessed him 
 for the words, worthy of Fidelia’s son — 44 I don’t see how 
 she can take your money, sir, when you are not a relation. 
 Though certainly ” 
 
 But Adam would not let him unsay what he had 
 said. 
 
 44 You are right, my boy. I understand you. I know 
 she cannot. But now, look here— Harry, you are nearly 
 a man, and I am going to confide in you — I am going to 
 speak to you as one man to another ” 
 
 Harry, straightening himself, interrupted to ask 
 whether his sister had not better walk on a few paees, 
 and come back presently. 
 
 44 No,” said Adam ; 44 it concerns you both alike, what 
 I am going to say. The fact is — the fact is ” — he cleared 
 his throat and took his courage in both hands — 44 1 have 
 loved your mother ever since we were boy and girl to- 
 gether, and I have come from Australia now, to ask her 
 to marry me.” 
 
 Harry again played the part of a proper son. On 
 the spur of the moment, he ejaculated, 44 Oh, I say ! ” in 
 an aggrieved and resentful manner. 
 
 Dora flung a perplexed glance, first at Adam’s stumpy 
 nose, then at her handsome brother, undecided how to 
 act. 
 
310 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 “ Only in that way,” urged Adam, rapidly, “ can I do 
 for her what I want to do — give her a large comfortable 
 house, and good servants, and rest and ease — a carriage, 
 you know, and all that sort of thing — and take every 
 worry from her, and take care of her as she ought to be 
 taken care of. And you two, both of you — you could 
 have lessons in everything — be trained for any profession 
 you like to choose, Harry — and get shooting and hunting, 
 and all that sort of thing. I always keep a good yacht — 
 and we’d buy a house in London — and Dora could go into 
 society, if she fancied it — her aunts would bring her out 
 — all the pretty frocks and things you wished for, Dora — 
 
 whatever your mother liked you to have ” 
 
 “ Oh,” interrupted Dora, bursting with eagerness to 
 express what was now her fixed opinion, “ I’m sure, I’m 
 sure she cares for you, Mr. Drewe. She has so often 
 talked about you — hasn’t she, Harry ? — and she just 
 adores your books. She likes us to read them to her, 
 now she can’t read them for herself. She called me 
 Dorothea, after a character in one of them.” 
 
 Adam laid a caressing palm on Dora’s shoulder, but 
 he looked to Harry for the decision, which he made them 
 both believe was left to them. 
 
 The boy took a few minutes to think, then he said, 
 slowly — “ Well, after all, she is blind. That does seem to 
 make it about fair.” 
 
 “ Thank you,” said Adam, grimly. He turned his 
 spectacles seawards, and stared silently. 
 
 Dora moved closer to him, and slipped a hand into his 
 — a hand which he grasped eagerly, valuing the token at 
 fifty times its worth. It seemed to him at the moment 
 that Dora was her mother’s child all over. 
 
 “ I had a stepfather myself,” he said to her, “ and I 
 hated it — I can’t tell you how I hated it. But if ever I 
 
F1DELIS. 
 
 311 
 
 am so lucky as to be stepfather to you, you sha’n’t hate it. 
 Neither of you.” 
 
 “ I know we sha’n’t,” she murmured, and snuggled 
 closer still. “ Oh, I do hope you will be.” 
 
 They rose, hand in hand ; Harry sat dreaming, his 
 mind full of boats and guns. 
 
 “ Well,” said Adam, looking at him, “ is it a bargain, 
 Harry ? ” 
 
 “ What, sir ? I beg your pardon — I wasn’t listening.” 
 “ If I try all I can to make you happy, my boy, you’ll 
 do the same by me ? ” 
 
 “ I will, sir,” said Harry ; “ I really will. Did you — 
 did you say that the yacht was in England ? ” 
 
 “No ; I left it in Australia to be sold. But we will 
 have a new one built, with all the latest improvements ; 
 we will see her fitted up under our own eyes if your 
 mother likes to go to Scotland or Cowes, or some of the 
 places where the big yards are. We will have her made 
 comfortable for a family cruise when she wants a change 
 of climate. Oh, we’ll do all sorts of things.” 
 
 “ Ah,” responded the boy, his eyes shining, “ it will be 
 better even than going to Australia.” 
 
 “ I hope so. I hope so, indeed. Now, dears, do you 
 mind going for a little walk for half an hour, while I re- 
 turn to speak to your mother ? ” 
 
 They assured him they did not in the least. And 
 they charged him to tell their mother that they hoped 
 she would favourably consider his proposals, because they 
 did not mind that either. 
 
 “Very well,” said Adam, with a submissive air, “go 
 for a little walk, and come back in half an hour.” 
 
 “ Half an hour ? ” they exclaimed ; “ is that enough ? ” 
 “ Plenty. Then you must all come and dine with me 
 at the hotel, to celebrate the — the occasion.” 
 
312 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 Dora smiled seraphically, and kissed him — kissed him 
 boldly, without wincing. She was a little artful minx, 
 but she made him feel like a real father, and not a step- 
 father. Tears were in his eyes as he kissed her back 
 again, and in broken whispers blessed her for being so 
 sweet. Then they parted for a while. Adam went to the 
 post office to send telegrams, and to his hotel to order the 
 best rooms and dinner it could supply, and found the 
 balance of the half-hour sufficient for his private business 
 with Fidelia. Meanwhile the children walked on the 
 
 Marine Parade, and were lost in gorgeous air-castles. 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 One of the telegrams was to Fidelia’s sister in London, 
 Mrs. Pelham-White. She was the prosperous mother of 
 many children, much occupied with them and with social 
 strategies on their behalf ; and she had not seen or heard 
 of her poor relations at Xew Dunstanborough for years. 
 Down she came, mystified, remorseful (believing Fidelia 
 to be at death’s door), and quite excited by the prospect 
 of meeting the well-known author, who had so unac- 
 countably signed the message. He received her on her 
 arrival, and showed her into the shabby drawing-room, 
 and shut the door upon them both, as if Fidelia’s house 
 belonged to him, and as if Mrs. Pelham-White were not a 
 fashionable lady of whom a humble-minded person of his 
 appearance should stand in awe. 
 
 “ Madam,” said he, calmly — for he was not afraid of 
 fashionable ladies now — “ forgive me for putting you to 
 this trouble. I should have gone to you myself, but I 
 could not leave Mrs. Bowen.” 
 
 “ Is she ill ? ” cried the sister, sincerely alarmed. “ Is 
 she dying ? My poor girl ! and I have been neglecting 
 her so ! But I didn’t know ” 
 
 “ She won’t be neglected any more,” interrupted Adam. 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 313 
 
 “ She is going to be married to me as soon as I can make 
 arrangements for the children to go somewhere for a few 
 weeks or months. I sent for you to ask if you would take 
 them — perhaps until our return from abroad. Though 
 Fidelia is not ill, she is in delicate health, and will be 
 better out of England during the winter.” 
 
 Mrs. Pelham- White simply stared at him, bristling 
 like an insulted porcupine. 
 
 Adam gazed at her benignly through his spectacles. 
 “ Of course,” he said, quietly, “ I don’t expect you to be 
 at any trouble or expense on their account. I should 
 wish to make any terms you thought proper. I have 
 about fourteen thousand a year, and nobody to think of 
 but my future family ” — he smiled at her changing face — 
 “ so that money is no object happily. I thought if you 
 would accept a sum for their board— temporarily, of 
 course — and if I put a few hundreds into your hands for 
 their education and personal expenses, that would be the 
 best arrangement. I could easily make others, but not 
 any so satisfactory to Fidelia. Strangers, you see, are not 
 like one’s own. I have already given a few orders in 
 London with regard to outfit. In fact, the dressmaker 
 has just arrived ; she must have come down in the same 
 train with you. Dora is consulting with her now. But 
 Dora is rather inexperienced, and I, of course, am worse, 
 and we should be very grateful for your advice. We were 
 talking of grey velvet — Fidelia seems fond of grey, and 
 the weather is getting chilly — for the wedding dress, and 
 a cloak with a good quantity of chinchilla fur about it. 
 Chinchilla fur is soft, and I want her to have nothing but 
 what is soft in future. Life has been altogether too hard 
 for her in the past, especially of late years.” 
 
 “ Oh, it has — I can see it has ! ” Mrs. Pelham-White 
 assented, looking about her with shocked eyes and deeply- 
 
3U 
 
 F1DELIS. 
 
 crimsoned cheeks. “ She should have told me — she was 
 always so reticent — and somehow, when you have a large 
 family of your own, you forget about other people’s affairs 
 if they don’t remind you. I had no idea of this. Besides, 
 I knew that her husband’s relatives were close by, and her 
 father in the same parish. Poor father is old, and a good 
 deal hampered these days ; but still ” 
 
 “ Well, it doesn’t matter now,” said Adam. 
 
 “ It does matter. It matters a great deal — when it 
 comes to you proposing to buy my sister her clothes to be 
 married in. What sort of people do you take us for, Mr. 
 Drewe ? ” 
 
 “ I haven’t thought about her people,” returned Adam, 
 with a smile. “ Only of her. And she is not too proud 
 to take her wedding gown from me.” 
 
 “ Poor girl, she must have lost all pride, all common 
 self-respect in such surroundings as these ! I must speak 
 to her. I must see my father about it. After marriage, 
 of course, you can do wdiat you please, but before — that is 
 our business. We cannot allow even you to take too 
 many liberties, Mr. Drewe.” 
 
 But she smiled deferentially at the privileged and 
 powerful rich man, and was soon persuaded to submit to 
 him. She was an intelligently worldly woman, with the 
 breeding of a lady ; and her affection for her blind sister, 
 always existing, and sincere as far as it went, now sprang 
 into new life — Fidelia’s offence of poverty being done 
 away, and the reproach to her family wiped out. Indeed, 
 Adam was inclined to jealousy when he saw how they 
 rushed into each other’s arms, the one all contrition, the 
 other all sweet forgiveness ; and how it pleased the little 
 household to have Aunt Fanny to consult with and to 
 look up to — as if she had the first right to control the 
 situation. Her way of permitting him to have his will 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 315 
 
 was a woman’s way, and when he found himself taking 
 the children’s attitude and saying to her, “ Please, Mrs. 
 Pelham-White, let us be married here, quietly and at 
 once,” she answered him, gently but firmly, “ No, dear 
 Mr. Drewe, certainly not. You must all come to London 
 with me. Fidelia must be under proper protection, and 
 her own people must be round her at such a time.” 
 
 Strange to say, though no one had invited them, a 
 stream of relations and friends poured into the narrow 
 house, all full of the notion that Fidelia must be pro- 
 tected, and that he or she was by nature designed for the 
 duty. 
 
 Aunt Fanny was closely followed by Aunt Florence, a 
 Manchester manufacturer’s wife, who, having sent fre- 
 quent bundles of cast-off clothing to her younger sister, 
 claimed the right of a benefactor to supersede the elder. 
 She demanded that Fidelia should be relinquished by 
 those who had done nothing for her, and given up to her 
 who had done all. Then Mr. Plunket, junior, Q. C., 
 leaving his gun and partridges and all the delights of a 
 hard-earned holiday, came down to New Dunstanborough 
 to assert his prerogative as the (acting) nearest male rela- 
 tive ; and, last but not least, Mr. Plunket, senior, white 
 and wizened, drove over from Thurlow Hall — or, rather, 
 was driven over by his monstrous, purple-faced w 7 ife, who 
 made her first effort to be amiable to a justly hostile step- 
 family. And while they were all crowding about the be- 
 wildered bride-elect, and crowding the bridegroom from 
 her, the great squire appeared upon the scene, and the 
 squire’s great lady — Miss Katherine that was. Mrs. 
 Delavel-Pole-Delavel was in mourning for her two dead 
 brothers, and distracted Adam from his bridal thoughts 
 with her sad face and wistful questionings. 
 
 “ Adam,” she said — “ forgive me for calling you Adam, 
 
316 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 but seeing you is like going back to the old times when 
 we were children together — I hear from my niece that 
 you were much with our poor Dicky in his last years, and 
 can tell me about him. When will you be able to spare 
 me an hour ? 55 
 
 “ I have been thinking, Drewe,” said her stately con- 
 sort, “ that it is not very comfortable for you here. Sup- 
 pose you come to us until the wedding-day ? 55 
 
 No wonder that Adam had no words for the moment 
 wherewith to suitably acknowledge this vast condescen- 
 sion, — the crowning honour of his successful life. He 
 gazed at the urbane speaker through his glasses as if 
 wondering whether he could possibly have heard aright. 
 Recovering from the shock, he declined the invitation 
 with becoming modesty, on the plea of distance. He de- 
 sired to stay as near as might be to Mrs. Bowen for the 
 very short time that, he hoped, remained before their 
 marriage ; and the hotel, which he only used to sleep in, 
 was very comfortable. 
 
 As the squire, Mr. Delavel-Pole-Delavel begged Adam 
 to please himself ; as the rector, he insisted that the bride- 
 groom-elect should please him. 
 
 “With regard to your marriage,” he said, in his offi- 
 cial voice, “ I hear Mrs. Bowen’s relatives have made vari- 
 ous suggestions ; but, of course, It will take place in her 
 parish church — hers and yours, and her father’s also — the 
 church where you were baptized, Drewe, and — not con- 
 firmed, I think? — baptized in infancy, and where your 
 good father worshipped, and his father before him, and 
 where they now sleep, ‘ the rude forefathers of the ham- 
 let’, so to speak — ahem ! — Nature’s true gentlemen, ac- 
 cording to all I’ve heard. The old registers are full of 
 their names. You will add vours to the list?” 
 
 “ I should like to,” said Adam, with a sudden vision 
 
FIDELIS. 317 
 
 of the place where he kissed Fidelia. “ I should like to 
 very much. I will speak to Mrs. Bowen about it.” 
 
 “ Do so, and let me know. I shall be very happy to 
 perform the ceremony for you myself,” said the rector- 
 squire, who was no common working parson in these 
 days. 
 
 Adam consulted Fidelia as soon as he could get her 
 alone, and she agreed with him that Old Dunstanborough 
 was the place, and not London, nor Manchester— Old 
 Dunstanborough Church, which had seen the beginning 
 of this long end. “ I know my way there,” she said. “ I 
 know what is around me. Not that it matters where I 
 am, if I have you to lead me and take care of me. What 
 I dread is going amongst strangers without you.” 
 
 Then Adam put his foot down ; and the family, pro- 
 testing in vain that he was the stranger who would not 
 know her needs and ways, found themselves deprived of 
 all authority and power in the matter, except as concerned 
 the temporary care of the children and the winding-up 
 of Fidelia’s poor little affairs. He said to Mrs. Pelham- 
 White, “ Wrap her up well ; I am going to take her for a 
 drive.” 
 
 And on their return from that expedition he an- 
 nounced that he had made arrangements with Mr. Delavel- 
 Pole-Delavel to have the marriage celebrated on the 
 following day. 
 
 “ On the whole,” he said, cheerfully, “ that seems the 
 best plan.” 
 
 21 
 
CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 TVeddistg dresses and such things were being dis- 
 cussed in the Plunket family. Patterns had been sent for 
 and described to Pidelia, and she had been directed to 
 choose a brocaded satin thick with silver threads — since 
 she was so fond of grey. Her sensitive finger tips were 
 examining the glistening morsel, shrinking from the 
 scratchy feel of it, when Adam called to her sisters to get 
 her ready for the momentous drive. But the box with 
 Ms wedding dress in it was already at the station. It was 
 a large and heavy box, accompanied by numerous other 
 boxes, all being in charge of the staid, kind, clever, elderly 
 woman who was to be Mrs. Drewe’s maid. She had been 
 recommended by the squire’s wife, who called her Petti- 
 grew ; in the old, old days she had been the pretty Alice 
 kissed by Richard Delavel behind the schoolroom door. 
 She had known Eidelia from childhood, and when Adam 
 brought her to the carriage to introduce them in their 
 new relations to each other, the blind bride all but wept 
 for joy. 
 
 “ Oh,” she said, when maid and boxes had been 
 handed over to the landlord of Adam’s hotel, “ I had been 
 wondering how I should manage in strange places about 
 the things you couldn’t attend to — the little things a man 
 can’t do — though you seem able to do everything ! And 
 yet I couldn’t bear the thought of a stranger always going 
 
 318 
 
 o 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 319 
 
 about with us, blocking up the way, so to speak, between 
 me and you. And I did not like to speak of it.” 
 
 “ There ought to be nothing you don’t like to speak 
 of,” said Adam, “ to me. But it wasn’t necessary to speak. 
 Of course I knew.” 
 
 “You know everything,” she sighed, in voluptuous 
 content. “You think of everything.” 
 
 “ And now,” said he, “ now that the things are here, 
 and Alice to get all ready for us, the sooner we put an end 
 to the present state of fuss the better. They are all quar- 
 relling as to who shall carry you off — and you don’t want 
 to be carried off — and have all set their hearts on a grand 
 wedding, with lots of people to stare at us, which wouldn’t 
 suit us a bit. Let us drive on now to the Hall, and ar- 
 range with Mr. Delavel-Pole — I have already seen him, 
 and I know he will be at home — to marry us quietly, say 
 to-morrow morning?” 
 
 They were already bowling along the road to Old Dun- 
 stanborough. 
 
 “ Oh ! ” sighed Fidelia, and coloured to her toes. But 
 she was merely startled for the moment, not alarmed. A 
 second marriage is not like a first ; if less happy in one 
 way, it is more so in a dozen ways, though orthodox senti- 
 ment will not admit the fact ; and there are bridegrooms 
 and bridegrooms — the incalculable and the sure. No 
 woman, loving and understanding Adam Drewe, could 
 fear for a moment to give herself into his power, though 
 blind and helpless, and with a bitter experience of selfish 
 strength behind her. His hand, gentle as it was strong, 
 sought that of his true mate, and she gave it without hes- 
 itation or misgiving, knowing herself in safety. 
 
 “ But won’t they be vexed and disappointed, Adam ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, no, I don’t think so. Perhaps for a moment. 
 It will save them endless bother, as well as ourselves. I 
 
320 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 can easily make it right with them. Alice will get things 
 packed — I have already told her — and bring what you 
 want over to the house in the morning. We can get 
 away to Lvntham during the afternoon — we’ll drive, shall 
 we ? — and then to London next day, or anywhere you like. 
 I’ve got a splendid man, I think, to travel with us — to go 
 on forward, and get rooms, and attend to luggage, and so 
 on. He will have dinner ready for us at Lvntham to- 
 morrow, and fires nice and warm' for you after your drive. 
 Your sisters will be glad enough to get back to their fam- 
 ilies. Mrs. Pelham- White will take good care of our chil- 
 dren — I’ve arranged all that — and we’ll see them again in 
 a few days. Your brother is dying to be rid of us all, and 
 after the pheasants. And I want to have you out of Eng- 
 land before winter sets in, and not to have you hustled 
 and hurried. Will you be satisfied to leave it all to me, 
 Fidelia ? ” 
 
 She said she would. And so they went straight to the 
 Hall — the great Hall, that should have been Richard’s 
 now, but had passed out of the direct line with the death 
 of the seventeenth lord and his brothers ; and Adam made 
 business arrangements with the squire, while Fidelia was 
 kindly entertained by Miss Katherine that was. At the 
 close of the interview Mr. Delavel-Pole-Delavel gave his 
 arm to the blind lady, and himself led her through the 
 galleried hall and down the steps to the courtyard where 
 the hired carriage waited ; and his wife, sauntering behind 
 with Adam, talked to him familiarly, as Dicky used to do, 
 reminding him of that beloved friend, and of dear Lady 
 Susan, the mother of both. 
 
 “ I am so sorry you are not able to dine and spend the 
 night with us,” she said, in a sincere voice. “ Perhaps 
 you will come together and spend a few days with us, on 
 your return from abroad ? ” 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 321 
 
 He bowed deeply over her gracious hand, for the spirit 
 of the place was still strong upon him. Had the Queen 
 asked him to dine and sleep at Windsor, he would not 
 have felt so honoured. 
 
 All the way home, through the beautiful autumnal 
 woods and along the shore, he talked to Fidelia about 
 Miss Katherine when she was a child, and Richard when 
 he was a boy ; about Lyntbam Mart, and the Earl’s medal, 
 and the countess’s grey sausage curls, and the moat when 
 it had water and duckweed in it, and the old times gen- 
 erally ; while she lay back in ease and peace, wrapped in 
 Florences’s sealskin jacket and Fanny’s fur boa, listening 
 sweetly to all he said, but thinking only that she was to 
 be married to him to-morrow. 
 
 The news that she was to be married to him to-mor- 
 row made a commotion at Sea View Villa. But it passed. 
 His voice and his arguments prevailed over the natural 
 annoyance and resentment of the family at having had, as 
 they thought, a trick played on them ; and they soon 
 flung themselves into his scheme, which was so remark- 
 ably complete. Alice came over from the hotel, with a 
 porter’s barrow behind her ; Fidelia was sent to bed ; the 
 aunts and Dora worked till midnight to prepare a festive 
 house and a wedding breakfast, and to fit out Harry for 
 the office he had volunteered for and was most anxious to 
 fill — that of best man to his stepfather. 
 
 By this time Harry was calling “ Adam ” — the title 
 preferred by the stepfather — all over the place, follow- 
 ing him and hanging about him, just as Bunny and 
 Billy used to do. Adam took him over to the hotel 
 with him for the night, to have him out of the women’s 
 way ; and the pair sat over their little supper, and in 
 armchairs by the fire, and had a delightfully confiden- 
 tial talk — “ as one man to another ” — a method of treat- 
 
322 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 ment to enchant a boy of seventeen, and win his ever- 
 lasting gratitude. 
 
 In the morning they set forth to Old Dunstanborough 
 together, and passed the Hall carriage going to New Dun- 
 stanborough, by the squire’s orders, for the service of the 
 bridal party ; horses and servants wearing satin favours, 
 and a basket of flowers reposing on the cushions within. 
 And when they reached the old church — for this quietest 
 of quiet weddings — lo ! the church was full. Nobody had 
 been told, and yet everybody knew ! And such eager 
 faces were those that met the bridegroom’s astonished 
 eyes when he entered gate and porch and pillared aisle ! 
 And such a multitude of hard old hands were held out to 
 greet him as he passed ! All had known him as a boy, or 
 their fathers and mothers had known him ; they had been 
 to school with him at Dame Dunford’s ; they had done 
 this, that and the other for or with him, which Adam was 
 bidden to remember, and could not, for the distraction of 
 his mind. There w r as toothless Sar’ Ann, bustled about 
 by tyrannous grandchildren ; and old Andy Toogood lean- 
 ing on his stick ; and fat Mrs. John Morrison, with gaudy, 
 black-eyed daughters, and a host of friends, whom he had 
 never known for friends, — all anxious to recall themselves 
 to his recollection and to wish him joy. Oh, well they 
 knew that funny face of his — or had heard tell of it — and 
 how badly his mother had treated him ! And lawk-a 
 mussy, to think what that boy was now ! A lady’s maid 
 and a vally, and fi’-pun-notes as plentiful as blackberries, 
 and the squire’s own carriage to fetch the bride to church ! 
 
 “ Didn’t I say so ? ” yelled Sar’ Ann, in a witchlike 
 falsetto. “ Didn’t I say, from the fust, as my boy’d beat 
 ’em all ? ” 
 
 “ Hold your tongue ! ” commanded Sar’ Ann’s grand- 
 daughter. “ Don’t you know you mustn’t talk in church ? ” 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 323 
 
 Then the bride arrived in the squire’s carriage, and 
 was led into view by Mr. Plunket, Q.C., her daughter and 
 sisters in attendance upon her. And the young best man 
 cried, “ By George, ain’t she stunning ! ” in a voice almost 
 as loud as Sar’ Ann’s, though he was much more in church 
 than she was. Mouths dropped open and round eyes 
 stared at the lovely woman in her velvet robes, so trans- 
 figured and transformed. What velvet it was ! What folds 
 for light to fall on ! And the great lengths and breadths 
 of delicate fur upon the long grey cloak — and the gleams 
 of silvery silk lining — and the little velvet bonnet, throw- 
 ing up the gold tints in her hair and the fine purity of 
 her face — these things were wonderful to the spectators 
 of them, who had never seen the like. Even Mrs. Delavel- 
 Pole-Delavel, with her head on one side, gazed at the 
 delicious costume, fascinated, wondering what it had cost. 
 Adam, it is needless to say, never considered what it cost. 
 
 He stood in the rosy glow of the east window, amongst 
 the tombs of Dicky’s ancestors, to watch the approach of 
 the slender grey figure; his heart thumping, his brain 
 whirling, his blood tingling with life and passion in every 
 nerve of his strong frame. Fidelia seemed conscious of 
 the many eyes upon her ; but he saw only hers, pathetic- 
 ally fixed on the blank ahead of her where she felt he was. 
 Sightless as they were, they had a peering, seeking, anx- 
 ious expression that he could not withstand ; and in de- 
 fiance of signs and frowns from her brother and sisters, 
 who desired him to adhere to the etiquette prescribed, he 
 marched down the nave and met her in the middle, in- 
 stead of awaiting her at the chancel rails. The moment 
 she felt him near, the nervous look went out of her face, 
 and such a smile came into it as caused a murmur of emo- 
 tion to breathe through the congregation, touched to its 
 simple heart. Lack-a-daisy, what that boy had come to 
 
324 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 indeed, when a beautiful woman could turn to him like 
 that ! 
 
 She took his hand, while still holding the arm of her 
 proper escort, and held up her fair head, and walked with 
 the assured step of one who could see her way before her, 
 to where the great squire stood — the rector now, in full 
 panoply of state, with his book open, and a deferential 
 cross-embroidered curate on either side of him. Gently 
 checked by her lover at a row of cushions, she paused for 
 a moment at his side, turning a questioning confiding 
 face towards him ; then with one impulse they sank on 
 their knees, and both faces were buried in hollowed palms. 
 
 Why, they did not know. It was instinct that 
 prompted them to it. 
 
 “ What a relief that is to me ! ” whispered the sister 
 from London to the sister from Manchester. “ I was so 
 afraid there would be something scandalous. For he’s a 
 thorough-going atheist, my dear, and she is nothing but 
 his shadow.” 
 
 Both Florence and Fanny were good churchwomen 
 themselves ; but they condoned atheism in a brother-in- 
 law worth fourteen thousand a year, so long as he did 
 nothing scandalous. 
 
 As a matter of fact, however, Adam was not an atheist. 
 
 So the life-long dream came true. The kiss given in 
 that place so many years ago was ratified. Adam took 
 Fidelia to be his wedded wife, and remembered no more 
 the heart-thrills and heart aches that other women had 
 caused him. When the ceremony was over, and the sign- 
 ings in the vestry, and the congratulations of family and 
 guests, and of all those new old friends who wished to 
 shake the hand of the bride of their early pal and school- 
 mate — when curates and clerks and bell-ringers, and doz- 
 ens and dozens of honorary officials, had had gold poured 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 325 
 
 into their hands and pockets, and everybody was happy 
 and satisfied — then the squire’s carriage dashed up to the 
 gate again ; and the hero of the village was borne away, 
 like Elijah in the fiery chariot, to the great world whence 
 he had come and whither none could follow his return, 
 leaving the aroma of a good name and of unlimited roast 
 beef behind him. 
 
 “ Adam,” whispered Fidelia, as the sound of clanging . 
 bells fainted on the autumn air, drowned in the thud of 
 trotting hoofs, “ Adam, how did I look ? ” 
 
 She was in her thirties still, and the precious toilet 
 mirror was denied her. 
 
 “ Look! ” he echoed, and paused to take a long breath. 
 
 “ The only person I can compare you to is my Dorothea 
 in In Spite of All. I wish you could see yourself, my 
 princess, without seeing what a poor figure I cut beside 
 you.” 
 
 “ Ah,” she rejoined, “ you must not say that ! I shall 
 not be satisfied that we are perfectly married until I know 
 that you wish me to see you too.” 
 
 He kissed her within the drawn blinds, silently. 
 
 They had the wedding breakfast, which was a family 
 luncheon with an iced cake and champagne, at Sea 
 View Villa; and then Fidelia parted for a time with her 
 two children — a prolonged and touching business. She 
 had so much to say about practising regularly, and wrap- 
 ping up in cold weather, and writing often, and so forth, 
 that Mrs. Pelham-White declared her feelings hurt and 
 her character as a guardian of young people discredited ; 
 while sister Florence tried to hint that Adam’s position 
 w 7 as being made uncomfortable. 
 
 Doubtless another bridegroom might have felt a little 
 injured by such maternal clingings and preoccupations 
 at such a moment, but Adam was not made that way. 
 
 v 
 
326 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 Had she been less motherly, she would not have been 
 Fidelia and his ideal woman. 
 
 She kept on her velvet dress and bonnet, and early in 
 the afternoon resumed the magnificent cloak, because 
 nothing was to be. “ saved ” now, and she was never again 
 to dress in anything but the best. And from the hotel 
 came a brougham, with Alice on the driver’s box, and 
 no impediment of cumbrous luggage — all of which had 
 been sent forward by train ; and she who had known so 
 little of physical comfort was deposited in a billow of 
 down cushion and opossum rug, her feet cuddled in a 
 foot-muff, wrapped about with warmth and softness like 
 a new-born infant. No monthly nurse ever tucked a 
 babe into its cradle with more deftness and tenderness 
 than Adam tucked his wife into this silky and furry nest 
 before they started on their wedding journey. 
 
 “ Oh, how you will spoil me ! ” she cried, sinking 
 down and sinking back, for once happy in her helpless- 
 ness. “ Oh, what perfect rest ! ” 
 
 Adam laughed for joy and triumph. “ Now,” said he, 
 “ now I know what it means to be rich. I never did 
 before.” 
 
 At last they escaped from the too numerous eyes, the 
 too pressing attentions of the world which doats on wed- 
 ding ceremonies, and were away upon the high road, 
 alone and free. 
 
 Adam knew every inch of that old road ; it seemed 
 lined with ghosts of his unhappy childhood, bidding him 
 farewell. Changes had come to the villages and fields ; 
 “ improvements” had taken place ; some dear old hedges 
 were gone, and the steam plough engine hummed through 
 the golden silence ; but the main features were as dis- 
 tinct as ever, and he painted them to Fidelia, one by one, 
 with their memories around them — mostly memories of 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 327 
 
 her. It was just at this time of year, on just such a mel- 
 low, tranquil day, that he had driven from Lyntham to 
 Dunstanborough to meet and kiss her — ah, me ! more 
 than twenty years ago. The same faint perfume of burn- 
 ing couch was in the air — air so still that, listening, one 
 could hear the dead leaves drop. 
 
 “ It seems like yesterday, Fidelia ! ” 
 
 “ Does it, Adam ? To me it has always seemed like 
 something that happened in another world.” 
 
 Half way to Lyntham they changed horses ; and she 
 was put out of the down cushions into an armchair, to 
 have a good cup of tea and a few shavings of bread and 
 butter. And she had a little stroll on her husband’s arm, 
 to see the sunset through his eyes, and get the stiffness of 
 long sitting out of her knees. Then on again, refreshed 
 and gay — on through the gathering dusk, and the deep- 
 ening twilight, and the thick darkness of night, with the 
 lamps flashing into the trees as they passed by ; with a 
 gradual silence of the tongue, and evergrowing eloquence 
 of clasped hands and heads laid together. And then the 
 lights of the old town, and the rattle of the streets, and 
 the clang of the archway under which they drove into the 
 hotel yard ; and Cutlibert, Adam’s new man, so quick 
 and quiet, waiting at the foot of the stairs to salute his 
 blind mistress and escort the party to their rooms — the 
 rooms that Lady Susan used to have when she visited 
 Lyntham — where Adam had been patted on the head 
 by the old countess, and nursed in beloved Richard’s 
 arms. 
 
 The same rooms, but more luxurious now than they 
 had ever been made for those great folks. So warm, so 
 soft, so sweet with flowers, so filled with every comfort 
 that love and money could command, all ready for instant 
 *use, all inviting to ease and rest — “ like a dream ! ” Fi- 
 
328 
 
 F1DELIS. 
 
 delia said, as she moved about amongst them on her hus- 
 band’s arm, feeling and touching, making a chart for 
 herself ; “ like a fairy dream, Adam ! ” 
 
 “ We’ll regard the other as a dream now,” said Adam, 
 as he gently lowered her upon a sofa, unclasped her cloak 
 and untied her bonnet strings. 
 
 She breathed deeply, turning her head from side to 
 side. 
 
 “ There’s a nice warm bath for you,” he murmured. 
 “ It will refresh and revive you after all your fatigues. 
 And you must put on this loose gown ” — leading her 
 hand to a light mass of cream-white chuddah airing at the 
 fire beside her — “ and these slippers ’’—touching her 
 cheek with an edge of fur ; “ and then dinner will be 
 ready for us. I will go and change, while Alice attends 
 to you, and you can call me when you are dressed.” 
 
 She clung to him as he was about to rise and ring for 
 Alice, and suddenly burst into a storm of tears. 
 
 “ Oh, Adam, if I could see ! If I could only see ! ” 
 
 “ Ah ! ” he groaned, gathering her passionately into 
 his arms. When all had been done that love could do, 
 there was yet the something wanting. The attainable 
 was unattainable. The dream of perfect happiness was 
 still a dream. 
 
CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 But they had an enchanting honeymoon. Fidelia’s 
 journey ings were like a royal progress from place to 
 place ; many a princess might have envied her. Her 
 chief subject was a man of genius, as all the world knew 
 by this time, but he never showed how clever he could be 
 until he undertook to be eyes to a blind woman. He 
 filled her life full of happy interest and occupation, giving 
 the whole of his own to the task. Nothing was allowed 
 to pass her by as an outsider. Not a landscape, nor a 
 notable object in it, not a striking face, nor a fine picture ? 
 nor anything that was funny or novel in any way, did he 
 enjoy without making her enjoy it with him, describing 
 it with all the force of his desire for their complete com- 
 panionship and with the literary art of which he was a 
 master. He read to her for hours daily — and to be read 
 to by him, in that deep-toned, cultivated, sympathetic 
 voice, was far more delightful than reading to one’s self ; 
 and he gave her the pleasure of playing for hours to him 
 on what she declared to be the most perfect piano ever 
 turned out by any maker. 
 
 Pleasure of that kind is not to be described in human 
 language, when it is a case of souls like theirs — music 
 lovers by the grace of God, with the divine sense to under- 
 stand it. Flowers, birds, dogs, perfumes, textures, ex- 
 
 329 
 
 
330 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 k 
 
 quisite cookery, downy chairs and carriages hung as if in 
 air, everything that could feed and nourish the senses that 
 were awake, were provided for her, and everything of the 
 best. 
 
 While as for the sense that was asleep, she never com- 
 plained of loss, never after that first moment, when, with- 
 out meaning it, she so cut him to the heart. 
 
 She would say sometimes, “Are you tired, Adam? 
 Are you doing too much for me, while you pretend to be 
 doing nothing ? I wish I could satisfy myself that you 
 are not pale with a headache for want of active exercise.” 
 Or she would say — turning her head this way and that — 
 “ Are we alone, Adam ? I wish I could always know 
 when we are alone together.” That was all. 
 
 But he — living with her night and day, his whole 
 being incorporated with hers, and hers with his — he came 
 to understand what it means to be blind, as no mere out- 
 sider can understand it. The secret loneliness, the secret 
 fears of unseen surroundings, the secret consciousness of 
 ignorance, of degradation, of captivity — she tried hard to 
 keep them secret ; but he divined them all. And it 
 seemed to him that he could not bear it — though she 
 could. 
 
 Once upon a time he had had the appalling cruelty to 
 feel that it was rather fortunate than otherwise that she 
 could not see ; now, if he could have bought her sight 
 back with his life he would have done it, and thought the 
 bargain dirt-cheap — but that she valued her precious lost 
 sense less than she valued him. Suppose she became the 
 mother of a child she could never look upon, from first to 
 last ! — the tragic possibility made his blood run cold. As 
 for any terror of consequences to himself from being 
 looked upon — that was all gone by. As husband and wife 
 they were above such pettiness. It was — and he well knew 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 331 
 
 it was — by the eyes of her true soul that she judged and 
 loved him. 
 
 And so it was not long before the suggestion was 
 made that money, which could do so much, might do a 
 little more ; and the wane of the honeymoon found them 
 in Germany, surrounded by famous oculists. They came 
 from three countries to consult together, and made their 
 delicate experiments, leisurely and elaborately, with every 
 aid and incentive to success about them ; and they took 
 several months about it. The result they announced to 
 Adam when it came to the time of paying their pro- 
 digious fees, answered their wildest hopes as well as their 
 reasonable expectations. The verdict of such doctors as 
 Mr. Plunket had been able to consult was entirely re- 
 versed. With care and the strict observance of certain 
 rules, Mrs. Drewe should be able to see sufficiently for all 
 ordinary purposes for the rest of her life. 
 
 It was the noblest of all her husband’s gifts to her, 
 and she proved herself worthy of it. The first thing she 
 wanted to look at was her own face in the glass; the 
 second, the faces of her children who were but little ones 
 when she had last seen them, and were now tall and 
 changed. (Adam telegraphed for them before the final 
 bandage was removed.) Whether she remembered to look 
 at her husband’s face or not, he did not know, and did not 
 care to ask. It seemed a matter of no importance. Lying 
 in his arms that night, she told him she had all along so 
 well known what he was like that it wasn’t the least bit 
 necessary. 
 
 So then they had another honeymoon, better than the 
 first. To recruit her health after the ordeal she had gone 
 through and take her from temptations to use her eyes too 
 constantly, they all went for a cruise in the new yacht — 
 children, servants, tutor, governess, doctor, nurse, girl and 
 
332 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 boy cousins, a companion for everybody who might other- 
 wise feel bored or become troublesome — and saw more 
 beautiful places than they had imagined the world could 
 hold. Such a yacht, moreover ! Steel screw, steam, elec- 
 tric installation, triple expansion engines, cold chamber, 
 hot pipes, naphtha launch, &c., &c., with kitchen and 
 cabin accommodation calculated to make a crowned head 
 hide diminished ! 
 
 It was splendid, indeed. Which is not to say that it 
 was absolute perfection. Alas ! You can’t have every- 
 thing in this world, as has been before remarked. It was 
 not true sailoring. As Clark Eussell happily puts it, a 
 steamboat is no more a ship than a railway locomotive is a 
 stage-coach. It was glorious to be able to go whither one 
 desired, straight away, without asking permission of the 
 weather; it was delightful to have all the comforts of 
 home around one ; it was delicious, in any case, to be 
 upon the sea ; but there was no inspiration in it as in the 
 wings of the little KittiwaTce — nothing to remind the 
 owner of that gallant dash to Portland through the night 
 and the storm a few months back. How grand that was 
 in the retrospect ! How much more so than at the time ! 
 He was in danger of getting soft at the muscles, and liver- 
 ish, and podgy. 
 
 When the unexpected happened, as usual. The crisis 
 in Australia arrived, and, like many another in his com- 
 mercial situation, he ceased to be rich — with far greater 
 rapidity than he had become so. All the rewards of virtue 
 — as they are understood in the realms of fiction — were 
 snatched from him in quick succession ; until he was re- 
 duced to the modest competence and comparative ob- 
 scurity of a successful literary man. He can no longer 
 indulge his family with fine carriages, and steam yachts, 
 and court dresses, and things of that kind. In fact, we 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 333 
 
 have to leave them in quite humble circumstances — a 
 little house in Kensington, and a cottage in the country, 
 and only two servants under Alice and Cuthbert — three, 
 including the baby’s nurse, recently added to the estab- 
 lishment. 
 
 A very good thing, too, for all parties. When the skill 
 of the oculists had been bought and paid for, there was not 
 much advantage or enjoyment to be got out of their 
 wealth. Dora would probably have been ruined in the 
 fashionable society to which her aunt would have intro- 
 duced her, and to which her rather vulgar tastes naturally 
 inclined ; now she is safe at home, learning housewifery 
 from her mother, and how to read and think from her 
 stepfather — being wholesomely educated for a useful 
 woman’s life. Harry’s energies are not withered at the 
 root by the knowledge that he is provided for and there- 
 fore need not work ; being responsible for the success or 
 failure of his career, he devotes himself to his profession 
 as a young man should, with a young man’s proper ambi- 
 tions ; whereby he develops himself healthily, instead of 
 sinking into fat impotence, as those do who have no pur- 
 suit but pleasure — sport, and wine, and perpetual dan- 
 glings at the apron-strings of women — a pursuit to which he 
 would have taken like a duck to water had not beneficent 
 “ misfortune ” intervened. 
 
 Fidelia, it is needless to say, has no regrets for the 
 magnificence of the past, which rather oppressed her than 
 otherwise ; while Adam never valued wealth, save as a 
 means to make her happy. Enough, to them, is better 
 than a feast, both being without gross appetites. While 
 they possess each other in health, and in a home of quiet 
 comfort — while he can feel and use his powers in the mak- 
 ing of books that are a delight to the literary and 
 thoughtful, and while she can see to read his proofs 
 22 
 
334 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 and the faces of his admiring friends — they are richer 
 than the millionaires, who rarely taste these refined satis- 
 factions. 
 
 Not to speak of the baby. It is the j oiliest baby that 
 ever was — so sweet that even Harry and Dora cannot he 
 jealous of it, but quarrel with each other for its favour 
 and attentions. It has Adam’s health and strength and 
 fine intelligence, Adam’s eyes — but well set under the 
 broad, straight brows — and is generally, according to its 
 nurse, a Dunstanborough woman, “ Drewe all over.” And 
 yet he is beautiful. Many a qualm of fear had his father 
 suffered before his birth, anticipating a reproduction of 
 the paternal cast of face ; but Nature knew better than to 
 commit such a gross injustice. She made this child to be 
 one of his best-deserved compensations. 
 
 In the character of a father Adam is truly ridiculous. 
 He loses all sense of dignity as a man, and demeans himself 
 to the level of an under-nurse. He would like to bath and 
 dress his boy in the morning, and dandle and feed and take 
 him out a-walking all day, and put him to bed at night — 
 only Fidelia will not let him ; and besides it is necessary 
 that he should write novels instead, in order to support 
 the household. If you meet him rushing homeward like a 
 man distraught, do not imagine that anything terrible has 
 happened. He is merely in a fever of impatience to see 
 that the baby is all right. 
 
 But there is something even sweeter to see when he 
 goes home than that handsome little face — Fidelia looking 
 for him — looking for her husband, with those new eyes 
 that he need not hide from any more. He may be ugly 
 and odd — no doubt he is — but if he were a god incarnate 
 they could not shine upon his coming with diviner wel- 
 come. 
 
FIDELIS. 
 
 335 
 
 “ So they were married, and lived happy ever after.” 
 The dear old formula seems very applicable to this case. 
 But it is never really applicable to any case. They are 
 still not quite happy, just because there is no “ ever after ” 
 to be happy in, so far as they can see. There is always a 
 something. And the trouble now is that they are growing 
 old too fast. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 the majority are much above the average fiction of the day. Any person who likes 
 a good story well told can buy any issue in the Town and Country Library with 
 the utmost confidence of finding something well worth while .”— Boston Beacon. 
 
 Each, 12mo, paper cover, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers ; or will be sent by mail on receipt of price by the 
 publishers. 
 
 New York: D. APPLETON & CO M 72 Fifth Avenue. 
 
D. APPLETON & CO.’S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 ADA CAMBRIDGE’S NOVELS. 
 
 Y GUARDIAN. 
 
 $1.00. 
 
 i2mo. Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, 
 
 “ A story which will, from first to last, enlist the sympathies of the reader by its 
 simplicity of style and fresh, genuine feeling. . . . The author is au fait at the delinea- 
 tion of character.” — Boston Transcript . 
 
 “ The dinoiiment is all that the most ardent romance-reader could desire.” — Chi- 
 cago Evening Journal. 
 
 HE THREE MISS KINGS. 
 
 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 
 
 1 2 mo. Paper, 50 
 
 “ An exceedingly strong novel. It is an Australian story, teeming with a certain 
 calmness of emotional power that finds expression in a continual outflow of living 
 thought and feeling.” —Boston Times. 
 
 “ The story is told with great brilliancy, the character and society sketching is very 
 charming, while delightful incidents and happy surprises abound. It is a triple love- 
 story, pure in tone, and of very high literary merit.” — Chicago Herald. 
 
 OT ALL IN VAIN. 
 
 cloth, $1.00. 
 
 i2mo. Paper, 50 cents ; 
 
 “ A worthy companion to the best of the author’s former efforts, and in some re- 
 spects superior to any of them.” — Detroit Free Press. 
 
 “ Its surprises are as unexpected as Frank Stockton’s, but they are the surprises 
 that are met with so constantly in human experience. ... A better story has not been 
 published in many moons.” — Philadelphia Inquirer. 
 
 MARRIAGE CEREMONY. 
 
 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 
 
 i2mo. Paper, 50 
 
 “‘A Marriage Ceremony’ is highly original in conception, its action graceful 
 though rapid, and its characters sparkling with that life and sprightliness that have 
 made their author rank as a peer of delineators.” — Baltimore American. 
 
 “This story by Ada Cambridge is one of her best, and to say that is to at once 
 award it high praise.” — Boston Advertiser. 
 
 “It is a pleasure to read this novel.” — London Athenceum. 
 
 LITTLE MINX. 
 
 $1.00. 
 
 i2mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, 
 
 “A thoroughly charming new novel, which is just the finest bit of work its author 
 has yet accomplished ” — Baltimore American. 
 
 “The character of the versatile, resilient heroine is especially cleverly drawn.” — 
 Hew York Commercial Advertiser. 
 
 The English Press on Ada Cambridge’s Books. 
 
 “Many of the types of character introduced would not have disgraced George 
 Eliot.” — Vanity Fair. 
 
 “Ada Cambridge’s book is rendered attractive by the kindly spirit and fine feeling 
 which it evinces, by the wide and generous sympathies of its author, and no less by 
 her remarkable literary ability.” — The Speaker. 
 
 New York : D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue. 
 
D. APPLETON & CO.’S PUBLICATIONS 
 
 HE MANXMAN. By Hall Caine, author of 
 
 “The Deemster,” “ Capt’n Davy’s Honeymoon,” “ The Scape- 
 goat,” etc. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 “ Within the last few years there have come to the front in England, as writers of 
 fiction, Barrie, Stevenson, Crockett, Weyman, and Hall Caine — the last, if we may 
 judge by his latest work, the greatest.” — Boston Advertiser. 
 
 “ The most powerful story that has been written in the present generation.” — 
 Edinburgh Scotsman. 
 
 “ It is difficult not to speak with what may seem indiscriminate praise of Mr. Hall 
 Caine’s new work.” — London Daily News. 
 
 “ The book, as a whole, is on a rare level of excellence — a level which we venture 
 to predict will always be rare.” — London Chronicle. 
 
 “A story of marvelously dramatic intensity, and in its ethical meaning has a force 
 comparable only to Hawthorne’s ‘ Scarlet Letter.’ ” — Boston Beacon. 
 
 “We agree with those who hold ‘The Manxman’ to be the best of Mr. Hall 
 Caine’s stories, and one of the best stories of the year.” — The Critic. 
 
 “A singularly powerful and picturesque piece of work, extraordinarily dramatic. 
 
 . . . Taken altogether, ‘ The Manxman ’ can not fail to enhance Mr. Hall Caine’s 
 reputation. It is a most powerful book.” — London Standard. 
 
 “ The story will assuredly rank with Mr. Caine’s best work, and will obtain imme- 
 diate favor with the lovers of strong and pure romance.” — London Globe. 
 
 “ The story that will absorb thousands of readers, and add rare laurels to the reputa- 
 tion of its author. ... A work such as only a great story-teller could imagine. . . . 
 A really great novel.” — Liverpool Post. 
 
 “ A book the construction and execution of which very few living European novel- 
 ists could excel. The fullness of the texture in this last novel, the brilliancy of the suc- 
 cessive episodes, the gravity and intensity of the sentiment, the art with which the ever- 
 deepening central tragedy is relieved by what is picturesque and what is comic — all 
 this has only to be seriously considered to be highly appreciated. ‘ The Manxman ' 
 is a contribution to literature, and the most fastidious critic would give in exchange 
 for it a wilderness of that deciduous trash which our publishers call fiction.” — Edmund 
 Gosse, in St. James's Gazette. 
 
 “ A work of rare merit and striking originality. . . . Indubitably the finest book 
 that Mr. Hall Caine has yet produced. It is a noble contribution to the enrichment of 
 English fiction and the advancement of its author’s fame.” — London Academy. 
 
 “ It will be read and reread, and take its place in the literary inheritance of the 
 English-speaking nations, like George Eliot’s great books.” — The Queen. 
 
 “ ‘ The Manxman,’ we may say at once, confirms the author’s claim to rank 
 among the first novelists of the day. . . . The story is constructed and worked out 
 with consummate skill, and, though intensely tragic, it is lightened by some charming 
 descriptions of scenery and local customs. The characters, even the minor ones, are 
 closely studied and finely executed, and show a deep experience and knowledge of 
 human nature, in its lighter as well as darker aspects, such as only a master hand 
 could faithfully have drawn.” — London Literary JVorld. 
 
 “ In truth it is Mr. Caine’s masterpiece, and congratulations are pouring in upon 
 him from right and left. . . . The story had only been issued a few hours when Mr. 
 Gladstone wrote to the Isle of Man to express his admiration for the new success.” — 
 London correspondence of the New York Critic. 
 
 New York : D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue. 
 
D. APPLETON & CO.’S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 BEATRICE WHITBY’S NOVELS. 
 
 HE AWAKENING OF MARY FENWICK. 
 
 l2mo. Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 
 
 “Miss Whitby is far above the average novelist. . . . This story is original without 
 seeming ingenious, and powerful without being overdrawn.*’ — New York Commercial 
 A dvertiser. 
 
 ART OF THE PROPERTY. i2mo. Paper, 50 
 
 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 
 
 “ The book is a thoroughly good one. The theme is the rebellion of a spirited girl 
 against a match which has been arranged for her without her knowledge or consent. 
 
 . . . It is refreshing to read a novel in which there is not a trace of slipshod work.*' — 
 London Spectator. 
 
 MATTER OF SKILL. i2mo. Paper, 50 cents ; 
 
 cloth, $1.00. 
 
 “ A very charming love-story, whose heroine is drawn wdth original skill and beauty, 
 and w’hom everybody will love for her splendid if very independent character.” — Boston 
 Home Journal. 
 
 NE REASON WHY i2mo. Paper, 50 cents ; 
 
 cloth, $1.00. 
 
 “ A remarkably well- written story. . . . The author makes her people speak the 
 language of every-day life, and a vigorous and attractive realism pervades the book.” 
 — Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. 
 
 N THE SUN TIME OF HER YOUTH. i 2 mo. 
 
 Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 
 
 “ The story has a refreshing air of novelty, and the people that figure in it are 
 depicted with a vivacity and subtlety that are very attractive.” — Boston Beacon. 
 
 ARY FENWICK’S DAUGHTER. i2mo. Pa- 
 
 per, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 
 
 “A novel which will rank high among these of the present season.” — Boston Ad- 
 vertiser. 
 
 N THE LAKE OF LUCERNE, and other Stories. 
 
 i6mo. Boards, with specially designed cover, 50 cents. 
 
 “ Six short stories carefully and conscientiously finished, and told with the graceful 
 ease of the practiced raconteur .” — Literary Digest. 
 
 “Very dainty, not only in mechanical workmanship but in matter and manner.”^- 
 B os ton Advertiser. 
 
 New York : D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue. 
 
D. APPLETON & CO.’S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 ENEFITS FORGOT \ By Wolcott Balestier, 
 
 author of “ Reffey,” “ A Common Story/' etc. i2mo. Cloth, 
 
 $1.50. 
 
 “ A credit to American literature and a monument to the memory of the author/' 
 — Boston Beacon. 
 
 “ The author places his reader at the very pulse of the human machine when that 
 machine is throbbing most tumultuously.” — London Chronicle. 
 
 “ The author manages a difficult scene in a masterly way, and his style is brilliant 
 and finished.” — Buffalo Courier. 
 
 “ An ambitious work. . . . The author’s style is clear and graceful.”— New York 
 Times. 
 
 “ Mr. Balestier has done some excellent literary work, but we have no hesitation in 
 pronouncing this, his latest work, by far his best.” — Boston Advertiser . 
 
 UFFELS. By Edward Eggleston, author of “ The 
 Faith Doctor/' “ Roxy," “ The Hoosier Schoolmaster," etc. 
 i2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 
 
 “ A collection of stories each of which is thoroughly characteristic of Dr. Eggles- 
 ton at his best.” — Baltimore American. 
 
 “ Destined to become very popular. The stories are of infinite variety. All are 
 pleasing, even fascinating, studies of the character, lives, and manners of the periods 
 with which they deal.” — Philadelphia Item. 
 
 " i^HE FAITH DOCTOR . By Edward Eggleston, 
 
 author of “The Hoosier Schoolmaster," “ The Circuit Rider,” 
 etc. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 “One of the novels of the decade.” — Rochester Union and Advertiser. 
 
 “ The author of ‘ The Hoosier Schoolmaster ’ has enhanced his reputation by this 
 beautiful and touching study of the character of a girl to love whom proved a liberal 
 education to both of her admirers.” — London Athenceum. 
 
 “ ‘ The Faith Doctor ’ is worth reading for its style, its wit, and its humor, and not 
 less, we may add, for its pathos.” — London Spectator. 
 
 “ Much skill is shown by the author in making these ‘fads’ the basis of a novel of 
 great interest. . . . One who tries to keep in the current of good novel-reading must 
 certainly find time to read ‘ The Faith Doctor.' ” — Buffalo Commercial. 
 
 “ T A BELLA ” AND OTHERS. By Egerton Cas- 
 
 tle , author of “ Consequences.” Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 
 
 “ The stories will be welcomed with a sense of refreshing pungency by readers 
 v/ho have been cloyed by a too long succession of insipid sweetness and familiar 
 incident.” — London Athenceum. 
 
 “ The author is gifted with a lively fancy, and the clever plots he has devised gain 
 greatly in interest, thanks to the unfamiliar surroundings in which the action for the 
 most part takes place.” — London Literary World. 
 
 “ Eight stories, all exhibiting notable originality in conception and mastery of art, 
 the first two illustrating them best. They add a dramatic power that makes them 
 masterpieces. Both belong to the period when fencing was most skillful, and illustrate 
 its practice.” — Boston Globe. 
 
 New York: D. APPLETON & CO.. 72 Fifth Avenue, 
 
D. APPLETON & CO.’S PUBLICATIONS 
 
 NOVELS BY HALL CAINE. 
 
 HE MANXMAN . 
 
 Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 By Hall Caine. 
 
 i2mo. 
 
 “A story of marvelous dramatic intensity, and in its ethical meaning has a force 
 comparable only to Hawthorne’s ‘ Scarlet Letter.’ ” — Boston Beacon. 
 
 “ A work of power which is another stone added to the foundation of enduring fame 
 to which Mr. Caine is yearly adding.” — Public Opinion. 
 
 “ A wonderfully strong study of character; a powerful analysis of those elements 
 which go to make up the strength and weakness of a man, which are at fierce warfare 
 within the same breast : contending against each other, as it were, the one to raise him 
 to fame and power, the other to drag him down to degradation and shame. Never in 
 the whole range of literature have we seen the struggle between these forces for 
 supremacy over the man more powerfully, more realistically delineated, than Mr. Caine 
 pictures it.” — Boston Home Journal. 
 
 “ ‘ The Manxman ’ is one of the most notable novels of the year, and is unquestion- 
 ably destined to perpetuate the fame of Hall Caine for many a year to come.” — Phila- 
 delphia Telegraph. 
 
 “ The author exhibits a mastery of the elemental passions of life that places him 
 high among thtf foremost of present writers of fiction.” — Philadelphia Inquirer. 
 
 HE DEEMSTER. 
 
 Man. By Hall Caine. 
 
 A Romance of the Isle of 
 
 i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 “ Hall Caine has already given us some very strong and fine work, and * The 
 Deemster’ is a story of unusual power. . . . Certain passages and chapters have an 
 intensely dramatic grasp, and hold the fascinated reader with a force rarely excited 
 nowadays in literature.” — The Critic. 
 
 “ One of the strongest novels which has appeared for many a day.” — San Fran- 
 cisco Chronicle. 
 
 “ Fascinates the mind like the gathering and bursting of a storm.” — Illustrated 
 London News. 
 
 “ Deserves to be ranked among the remarkable novels of the day. — ” Chicago 
 Times. 
 
 “Remarkably powerful, and is undoubtedly one of the strongest works of fiction of 
 our time. Its conception and execution are both very fine.” — Philadelphia Inquirer. 
 
 f'APT’N DAVY’S HONEYMOON. ' A Manx 
 
 Yarn. By Hall Caine. i2mo. Paper, 50 cts. ; cloth, $1.00. 
 
 “A new departure by this author. Unlike his previous works, this little tale is 
 almost wholly humorous, with, however, a current of pathos underneath. It is not 
 always that an author can succeed equally well in tragedy and in comedy, but it looks 
 as though Mr. Hall Caine would be one of the exceptions.” — London Literary 
 World. 
 
 “It is pleasant to meet the author of ‘The Deemster’ in a brightly humorous little 
 story like this. . . . It shows the same observation of Manx character, and much of 
 the same artistic skill.” — Philadelphia Times. 
 
 New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue. 
 
D. APPLETON & CO.’S PUBLICATIONS 
 
 NOVELS BY MAARTEN MAARTENS. 
 
 'T'HE GREA TER GLOR Y. A Story of High Life. 
 
 1 By Maarten Maartens, author of “God’s Fool,” “Joost 
 Avelingh,” etc. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 “Until the Appletons discovered the merits of Maarten Maartens, the foremost of 
 Dutch novelists, it is doubtful if many American readers knew that there were Dutch 
 novelists. His ‘ God’s Fool’ and ‘Joost Avelingh’ made for him an American reputa- 
 tion. To our mind this just published work of his is his best. . . . He is a master of 
 epigram, an artist in description, a prophet in insight.” — Boston Advertiser . 
 
 “ It would take several columns to give any adequate idea of the superb way in 
 which the Dutch novelist has developed his theme and wrought out one of the most 
 impressive stories of the period. ... It belongs to the small class of novels which 
 one can not afford to neglect.” — San Francisco Chronicle . 
 
 “ Maarten Maartens stands head and shoulders above the average novelist of the 
 day in intellectual subtlety and imaginative power.” — Boston Beacon . 
 
 OD'S FOOL. 
 
 Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 By Maarten Maartens. 
 
 i2mo. 
 
 “ Throughout there is an epigrammatic force which would make palatable a less 
 interesting story of human lives or one less deftly told.”— London Saturday Review. 
 
 “ Perfectly easy, graceful, humorous. . . . The author’s skill in character-drawing 
 is undeniable.” — London Chronicle . 
 
 “A remarkable work.” — New York Times. 
 
 “ Maarten Maartens has secured a firm footing in the eddies of current literature. 
 . . . Pathos deepens into tragedy in the thrilling story of ‘ God’s Fool.’” — Philadel- 
 phia Ledger. 
 
 “ Its preface alone stamps the author as one of the leading English novelists of 
 to-day.” — Boston Daily Advertiser. 
 
 “ The story is wonderfully brilliant. . . . The interest never lags ; the style is 
 realistic and intense; and there is a constantly underlying current of subtle humor. 
 . . . It is, in short, a book which no student of modern literature should fail to read.” 
 — Boston Times. 
 
 “ A story of remarkable interest and point.” — New York Observer. 
 
 7 
 
 00 ST AVELINGH. 
 
 i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 By Maarten Maartens. 
 
 “So unmistakably good as to induce the hope that an acquaintance with the Dutch 
 literature of fiction may soon become more general among us.” — London Morning 
 Post. 
 
 “ In scarcely any of the sensational novels of the day will the reader find more 
 nature or more human nature.” — London Standard. 
 
 “ A novel of a very high type. At once strongly realistic and powerfully ideal- 
 istic.” — London Literary World. 
 
 “Full of local color and rich in quaint phraseology and suggestion.” — London 
 Telegraph. 
 
 “ Maarten Maartens is a capital story-teller.” — Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 “ Our English writers of fiction will have to look to their laurels.” — Birmingham 
 Daily Post. 
 
 New York : D. APPLETON & CO« 72 Fifth Avenue 
 
D. APPLETON & CO.’S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 R 
 
 0 UND THE RED 
 
 author of “The White 
 
 LAMP . By A. Conan Doyle, 
 
 Company,” “ The Adventures of Sher- 
 
 lock Holmes,” “The Refugees,” etc. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 The “ Red Lamp,” the trade-mark, as it were, of the English country practitioner’s 
 office, is the central point of these dramatic stories of professional life. There are no 
 secrets for the surgeon, and, a surgeon himself as well as a novelist, the author has 
 made a most artistic use of the motives and springs of action revealed to him in a field 
 of which he is the master. 
 
 “ A volume of bright, clever sketches, ... an array of facts and fancies of medical 
 life, and contains some of the gifted author’s best work .” — London Daily News. 
 
 A FLASH OF SUMMER. By Mrs. W. K. Clif- 
 
 FORD, author of “ Love Letters of a Worldly Woman,” “ Aunt 
 Anne,” etc. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 “The story is well written and interesting, the style is limpid and pure as fresh 
 water, and is so artistically done that it is only a second thought that notices it .” — San 
 Francisco Call. 
 
 HE LILAC SUNBONNET. A Love Story. 
 S. R. Crockett, author of “ The Stickit Minister,” 
 Raiders,” etc. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 << 
 
 By 
 
 The 
 
 “A love story pure and simple, one of the old-fashioned, wholesome, sunshiny kind, 
 with a pure-minded, sound-hearted hero, and a heroine who is merely a good and beauti- 
 ful woman ; and if any other love story half so sweet has been written this year it has 
 escaped us .” — New York Times. 
 
 l\/[ AELCHO . By the Hon. Emily Lawless, author 
 
 ‘LvJ- of “ Grania,” “ Hurrish,” etc. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 “A paradox of literary genius. It is not a history, and yet has more of the stuff 
 of history in it, more of the true national character and fate, than any historical mono- 
 graph we know. It is not a novel, and yet fascinates us more than any novel.” — 
 London Spectator. 
 
 HE LAND OF THE SUN. Vis fas Mexicanas. 
 
 By Christian Reid, author of “The Land of the Sky,” “A 
 Comedy of Elopement,” etc. Illustrated. i2mo. Cloth, $1. 75 - 
 
 In this picturesque travel romance the author of “The Land of the Sky ” 
 takes her characters from New Orleans to fascinating Mexican cities like 
 Guanajuato, Zacatecas, Aguas Calientes, Guadalajara, and of course the City 
 of Mexico. What they see and what they do are described in a vivacious 
 style which renders the book most valuable to those who wish an interesting 
 Mexican travel-book unencumbered with details, while the story as a story 
 sustains the high reputation of this talented author. 
 
 New York : D. APPLETON & CO., 7 2 Fifth Avenue. 
 
D. APPLETON & CO.’S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 HE THREE MUSKETEERS. By Alexandre 
 
 Dumas. An Edition de luxe (limited to 750 copies), with 250 
 Illustrations by Maurice Leloir. In two volumes. Royal 8vo. 
 Buckram, with specially designed cover. $12.00. 
 
 By arrangement with the French 
 publishers, Messrs. D. Appleton 
 & Company have secured the 
 American rights for this, the 
 finest edition of Dumas’s im- 
 mortal romance which has 
 been published. The illus- 
 trations are carefully printed 
 from the original blocks, and 
 this edition therefore has an 
 unapproachable distinction 
 in point of pictorial quality. 
 
 The translation has been scrupu- 
 lously revised, and every effort has 
 been made to present a perfect edition 
 of Dumas’s masterpiece. 
 
 “ Such a book lends itself to the draughtsman’s art, and both requires 
 and rewards decoration. But it must be decoration of the best ; and it has 
 waited long. At length, however — I have it before me now — an edition has 
 been prepared which should satisfy both the lovers of black and white and 
 the lovers of picturesque fiction. ... It is scarcely too much to say that 
 were Alexandre Dumas alive to-day, to see this latest form of his greatest 
 work — first published exactly fifty years ago — he who loved the sumptuous 
 with an almost tropical fervor, and built a grand theater for the production 
 of his own dramas, would weep tears of joy over his offspring.” — Stanley 
 J. Weyman, in The Book Buyer . 
 
 New York : D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue. 
 
D. APPLETON & CO.’S PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 OUISA MUHLBACH'S HISTORICAL 
 
 NOVELS. New edition, 18 vols. Illustrated. i2mo. Cloth, 
 per volume, $1.00. Set. in box, $18.00. 
 
 In offering to the public our new and illustrated \2rn0 edition of 
 Louisa Mtihlbach’s celebrated historical romances we wish to call 
 attention to the continued and increasing popularity of these books for 
 over thirty years. These romances are as well known in England 
 and America as in the author’s native country, Germany, and it has 
 been the unanimous verdict that no other romances reproduce so 
 vividly the spirit and social life of the times which are described. In 
 the vividness of style, abundance of dramatic incidents, and the dis- 
 tinctness of the characters portrayed, these books offer exceptional 
 entertainment, while at the same time they familiarize the reader with 
 the events and personages of great historical epochs. 
 
 The titles are as follows : 
 
 Napoleon and the Queen of Prussia. 
 
 The Empress Josephine. 
 
 Napoleon and Blucher. 
 
 Queen Hortense. 
 
 Marie Antoinette and her Son. 
 
 Prince Eugene and his Times. 
 
 The Daughter of an Empress. 
 
 Joseph II and his Court. 
 
 Frederick the Great and his Court. 
 
 Frederick the Great and his Family. 
 
 Berlin and Sans-Souci. 
 
 \ 
 
 Goethe and Schiller. 
 
 The Merchant of Berlin, and Maria Theresa and 
 her Fireman. 
 
 Louisa of Prussia and her Times. 
 
 Old Fritz and the New Era. 
 
 Andreas Hofer. 
 
 Mohammed Ali and his House. 
 
 Henry VIII and Catherine Parr. 
 
 New York : D. APPLETON & CO., 72 Fifth Avenue. 
 

 
 
 
 
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