CHAPTER VIII.

After the lapse of another three days, it was determined that there

should be no further delay of the marriage, and one morning without pomp

or parade of any kind, Mr. Ives took his bride into Wancote, and they

returned home man and wife.

The only wedding-guest was the parson's old friend Dr. Glebe, and he

returned with them to the parsonage because he had a few serious words

that he wished to say there.

He took Mr. Ives aside, and said abruptly, "Are you mad, Ives? Do you

wish to lose that peerless daughter of yours? I warn you that you will

do so, if you are not more watchful."

"I would give my life for hers," answered her father sorrowfully. "And

so would Mary, who loves her dearly, but alas! what can we do? We cannot

bring back John Johnstone."

"You must send her away at once. She must have change of air and scene.

At once, mark you, without an hour's unnecessary delay."

"You think it will do her good?"

"I think it the one chance of escaping fatal mischief. See, I have a

plan to propose. Why not send her to Newbury to her aunt? She is a

sensible woman, and the house is full of children--they will rouse her."

"I will take her myself," cried Mr. Ives.

"Nay, nay, that would defeat my object. I want absolute change for her,

change of thought, scene, companions."

"But how manage it, if I may not go myself?"

"Squire Thornton rides to Newbury tomorrow with Sir Harry Clare, and he

will willingly be her protector."

"They ride?"

"Yes, it will do Betty good to ride, and old Isaac can follow with a

valise full of clothes."

"Tomorrow did you say?"

"Tomorrow at daybreak."

"It shall be done. God grant that it may do her good."

The following morning, with many a tear and many a blessing Mr. Ives and

his wife started Betty on her way.

She made no resistance, passively assented to all they wished. When she

was once more in the saddle, her spirits rose feverishly again.

Sir Harry Clare, riding by her side, felt the old fascination stealing

over him again, the fascination that had well nigh broken Lady Rachel's

heart at Newbury last year. Squire Thornton saw her bright color, and

heard the old lively talk as of old, and thought how that time cures all

things, and that perhaps in the days to come, his son might have a

chance at last.

About half way on their journey the little party was joined by two

gentlemen who reached the highway by a cross-road; they lived far from

the Wancote neighbourhood. The one Sir James Templemore, the other Mr.

Mat Harding.

Squire Thornton was glad to meet with friends so rarely encountered;

they had secrets together mayhap. They saluted each other cordially,

their greeting of Sir Harry Clare was more cold.

It was a gloomy windy day, and after the midday halt to bait their

horses, the weather grew worse, a cold violent wind blew in their faces,

now and then a driving shower of rain.

"Are you tired, Mistress Betty?" asked the squire.

"No, no, I enjoy the free fresh air, it gives me new life."

"That is well," he said, riding on well pleased.

The two cavaliers who attended Betty on each side were the new arrivals,

both of whom appeared much struck by her exceeding beauty.

Now it seemed almost as if they entered into a cloud, so dark it became,

so blinded were they by wind and a fresh storm of cold fine rain. The

horses grew subdued, they whinnied and held down their tails tightly. It

was very cold.

They moved into a short trot, but pulled up soon, breathless.

The rain ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and now Betty became aware

of some tall dark object looming in front of her, only as yet half

visible. The wind howled past, and distinctly she heard a sort of

clanking noise, as of chains or the rattling of something hard clanking

together.

"Let us ride on, let us ride fast." cried Squire Thornton in his loud

hearty voice. As he spoke there was a whirr of loud wings, and a dark

cloud of foul birds rose into the air from off that dark thing.

Betty put out her hand and laid it on Sir James Templemore's arm.

"What is it?" she said in a ghastly whisper.

"Ah, a sad sight indeed," said he sadly. "There hangs as noble a

gentleman as ever drew sword for the king, God bless him."

"Who is it?" she asked again; the whisper came hissing forth.

"Who? God rest his soul, he had many names. He was Wild Jack Barnstaple,

alias John Johnstone of Belton, alias Daredevil Jack of the North."

"For the sake of all that is sacred, hold your tongue!" shouted the

squire, who had caught the last words.

He was too late. With a wild hoarse cry that none who heard it ever

forgot, Betty flung wide her arms, and fell back on her saddle. The

terrified horse galloped furiously forward, throwing her from side to

side, then violently to the ground at the foot of the gallows.

In horror the gentlemen surrounded her, and raised her inanimate form

between them.

But it was long and very late before they could get her home.

After long hours her body awoke to life, but her brain was gone.

Heartbroken, mind gone, in very sooth mad, what remained for sweet Betty

now.

Travellers passing by would point to the parsonage wall, and

sorrowfully tell her story. Some more curious than the rest would

perhaps stop to look through the gate.

A strange sight met their eyes.

As beautiful as ever, with a strange fearful beauty, stood Betty, her

hands hanging clasped before her, and she sang to herself softly,

dreamily:

"Call him, call him over the lea,

Aye, well and well-a-day;

Lover will never come back to thee

Who loves and gallops away."

Then she put her hands to her mouth as men do who wish that their voices

should carry far, and called over and over again slowly, "John

Johnstone! John Johnstone!"--the last syllable rising loud on a long

high note.

Then she would hold up her finger, and bend her head listening,

listening, listening, till she heard the sound of the galloping hoofs

come nearer and nearer, passing and fading away.

Those who watched with her in the dark evenings in the walled garden

swore that they also heard the sound, and their hair bristled with cold

fear.

VIRGINIA.

PART I.

"He is a very strange mixture."

"I really do not think you ought to ask him to the house. An atheist, a

man of disreputable life, a----."

"Come, come, my dear, don't give him such a character, before Virginia."

This fragment of dialogue takes place over a cheery breakfast table in a

house not very far from Park Lane.

The first speaker is a pleasant-looking man of between fifty and sixty,

and his interlocutor is a rather prim lady, who appears older, but is,

in reality, his junior by two years. They are Mr. Hamilton Hayward and

his sister, Miss Susan.

The party has a third member--the Virginia alluded to by Mr. Hayward.

She is tall, handsome, bright-looking; evidently she possesses

character, but with it the grace and charm of manner which prevent a

woman of character from falling into that disagreeable being, a

strong-minded woman.

"What are Mr. Vansittart's good points?" she says, smiling at her

uncle.

"He has the kindest heart in the world," Mr. Hayward replies, warmly,

"and he would never do a shabby thing. One of the few men who really

practice not letting their left hand know the good their right does. He

certainly is a looseish fish; but he does not parade his irregularities

before the world--the world need not know anything about them if it does

not insist on prying into his affairs. The greatest grudge women have

against him is that he is mortally opposed to marriage, and carries on a

crusade against it as though he were St. George, and matrimony the

Dragon. He says if you want to make two people hate each other who would

otherwise be disposed to love--"

"Hush! my dear Hamilton," cries Miss Susan, horrified. "Pray spare us a

repetition of Mr. Vansittart's iniquitous opinions."

"I suppose," laughs Virginia, "that women don't insist on marrying him

by force, do they?"

"A great many would be very glad to have him," rejoins Mr. Hamilton, "he

is a tremendously taking fellow."

"And have you _really_ asked him to dinner?" interposes Miss Susan.

"I have, indeed, my dear, and I had a good deal of difficulty in

persuading him to come. He persisted that he went so little into

society--into _ladies_' society."

Miss Susan gave a little snort.

"He has no right to go into it at all with the views he holds; and,

pray, whom is he to take in to dinner?"

"Mrs. Ashton, I thought," answers Mr. Hamilton. "I am afraid he would be

bored with an unmarried lady."

"When I was young," says Miss Susan, bridling, "married women were as

modest and particular in their conversation as unmarried ones."

"Ah!" observes her brother dryly.

"Uncle," cries Virginia, "let him take me. If he is original, I shall be

sure to like him; and as I don't intend to marry, he need not be afraid

of my having designs on him. I shall give him a hint whilst he is eating

his soup that I have made a vow to _coiffer Ste. Catherine_."

"Virginia!" remonstrates Miss Susan; "and you know Sir Harry Hotspur is

to take you."

"No, no," cries Virginia, "he bores me to distraction. Besides,"

laughing, "he 'goes for married women.' Let him have Mrs. Ashton, and

give me Mr. Vansittart."

Miss Susan has one virtue, which is, that she is never quite so shocked

as she pretends to be. Moreover, Virginia always gets her way with both

uncle and aunt. So when the evening of the dinner party arrives, Mr.

Hayward brings Mr. Vansittart up to his niece and introduces him. Whilst

he is uttering a few of those _banalités_ which must inevitably be the

precursors of even the most interesting conversation between two

strangers, Virginia is taking an inventory of him. He is tall, rather

dark than fair; his features are well cut, and he has particularly

expressive eyes, the color of which it takes her some time to decide

about. At the same moment he is saying to himself: "What sort of woman

is this, and what on earth shall I talk to her about? I hope to heaven

she isn't a girl of the period. She doesn't look like it--still less

like a prude. How I hate a society dinner! I suppose I shall be bored to

death, as usual."

True to her promise, Virginia apprises him, whilst he yet is

assimilating his soup, of her vow of celibacy. He turns to look at her,

being just a shade surprised at receiving such a confidence so early in

their acquaintance, and then he sees the archest smile curving the

corners of her mouth, and meets a glance from a pair of brown eyes that

he now perceives to be beautiful.

Mr. Vansittart has a quick intelligence--he understands in an instant

the object of her remark. His eyes light up with a sudden gleam, and he

murmurs quietly, "Thanks so much for putting me at my ease."

From that moment they are perfectly at home with each other, and fall to

animated talk. He does not air his theories about marriage, nor is

religion discussed between them, but there are plenty of other topics,

and they become aware of a dozen feelings and sympathies in common.

Virginia is as bright and witty as she is modest and pure-minded; there

is nothing in the world that Mr. Vansittart detests so much as a coarse

or immodest _lady_. So charmed is he with Virginia, that he remains

close to her side the whole evening, to the surprise of every one else.

No one ever saw him devote himself to a girl before. He stays until the

very last. As he walks away from the door, after lighting his cigar, he

reflects to himself: "If any earthly power could induce me to marry, it

would be a girl like that. But," resolutely, "nothing could." As

Virginia wends her way upstairs to bed, she says to herself with a heavy

sigh, "Why should he abuse marriage? How happy he might make some

woman!"

Virginia is the daughter of a clergyman. Father and mother are both

dead. She has a brother in the army, and a sister married to a country

rector. Her uncle, Mr. Hayward, has adopted her. She is clever and

accomplished. She has both passion and imagination. Some of her ideas

are original; she hates common-placeness, but she is also imbued with

the attribute possessed by every charming woman, the love of

approbation. This prevents her doing or saying anything _outre_ or

unconventional; this makes her careful of her appearance and fond of

fair apparel; this makes the evidence of admiration from the other sex

exceedingly agreeable to her; this causes her to adopt a manner towards

them that induces jealous women to call her a coquette. She has had

several offers of marriage, but she entertains peculiar ideas about the

strength of passion and the sympathy of thought a man and woman ought

to feel for each other before they decide to spend a life-time together.

She does not think a man who has a good income, and who is simply not

repulsive or abhorrent to her, a sufficient inducement.

The days wear on. Virginia does not forget Mr. Vansittart any more than

he forgets her, but he weighs more on her heart than she does on his,

for, happy man! he is perpetually occupied, being a barrister with a

considerable practice, whilst she is an idle woman as the well-to-do of

her sex mostly are. If she goes to balls or dances, she is always

contrasting every man, with whom she talks or dances, with him; if she

works at her embroidery, her thoughts are intent on him; if she reads, a

hero of her own ousts the hero of the novel from her brain; if she

sings, her voice is moved to strong pathos; her eyes become drowned by

that strange passion which consumes her. Days and weeks pass by; and she

does not catch a glimpse of him; does not even hear his name. She sees

it frequently in the _Times_. One Sunday afternoon, she and her uncle

strolling in the Park meet him. He lifts his hat, and is about to pass,

when something that her eyes have communicated to his heart, stops him

suddenly. He turns and joins them. It is a delicious summer afternoon:

they take chairs under the big trees which shade this cool green spot.

Presently a crony joins Mr. Hayward--soon the elder pair are deep in the

_cause célèbre_ of the day. Virginia and Mr. Vansittart have forgotten

that other people exist in the world--the topics of their conversation

are ordinary enough, but it is not from them that a subtle delight

steals through their veins. What they heed is the language of each

other's eyes. His say--"You fulfil my idea of perfect womanhood. I could

love you with all my heart, with all my soul, with all my strength. I

respect you with my purest feelings; I love you with my strongest

passions; I would to God I could shake off my doubts about marriage. But

I _know_ that if I married you, inexorable Destiny would no longer let

us love one another."

And her eyes reiterate one little sentence, "You are my lord, my master,

and I am your slave."

It was one of the very strongest cases of love at first sight. Such

cases are more common, however, than people affect to think.

"Come home and dine with us," says Mr. Hayward, as a distant clock

strikes seven.

"I'm afraid I have not time to dress," replies Philip Vansittart; "that

is if you dine at half past seven, as I have heard you say you do."

"Never mind about dress," answers Mr. Hayward. "I won't dress either."

He has no designs on his guest, but he is a good-natured gentleman, and

he sees that these two are attracted toward each other.

Miss Susan is at church. If her brother will dine at his usual hour on

Sunday, she cannot help it, but she will not countenance him by her

presence.

Philip Vansittart thinks he has never spent such a divinely happy

evening as this. Virginia sings to him; her voice thrills to his very

soul. Mr. Hamilton is asleep in the next room. As for Virginia, when she

is alone, she first smiles a happy, triumphant smile, because she knows

he loves her, and then she bursts into a passion of tears and sobs until

her whole frame is convulsed. If his mind is really set against

marriage, what will become of her! She feels as though life without him

must be one long night of despair.

Philip Vansittart paces his room until the small hours, thinking of this

charming, lovable creature, who inspires stronger, deeper sensations in

him than he has ever felt before. He tells himself, without vanity or

self-deception, that what he feels for her, with that difference which

governs the loves of men and women, she feels for him--heart has gone

out to heart, nay, they are twain halves of a perfect heart. It is but

for him to stretch out his hand to her, and she will come. Aye! but how

can he stretch out his hand? In the society in which they both move

there is but one way in which she can be his--the way sanctioned by

society, blessed by the church. Society and the church will bless and

smile upon any union: the decrepit old man with the blooming child; the

drunkard and adulterer with the pure young girl; the avaricious youth

with the doting old woman. Marriage purifies, sanctifies, hallows

sensuality, greed, any, every base motive. To love as God made you free

to love, unfettered, and with a true heart, is a crime; to live

together full of hatred, loathing, and revolt, is to perform a sacred

duty once you have tied yourself up in church. This was Vansittart's

theory. Marriage to him was only another word for satiety, weariness,

restraint, tyranny. He had never seen what he called a happy marriage,

though he had observed many which the world crowned with that adjective,

and he had sworn a thousand oaths that he would never subject himself to

that miserable awakening which inevitably follows the temporary sleep of

mind and reason, and the short dream of passion which makes a man bind

himself with shackles.

Philip paced his room for hours, fighting the hardest battle he had ever

fought. It was the first time he had ever been tempted to marry--tempted

beyond endurance. And, at last, ashen pale, in the wan morning light,

and with set teeth, he took his final oath and resolve. He would save

himself years of wretchedness by a month's anguish; he would not go near

her, nor see her again. He was not entirely selfish; he did not forget

that she might, nay, would suffer, but he said, with a sigh, "It will be

best for her as for me."

* * * * *

A month passed by: two months. Virginia grew pale, listless,

_distraite_; her step was languid, her eye haggard. She did not know how

to endure her life; she suffered torments day and night from an

agonising desire to hear the voice, to meet the eyes again which had

given light to her soul and in whose absence she felt it must needs

perish of want. It was plain enough to her why he avoided her. He had

seen that she loved him; he would not encourage false hopes in her

breast. Had she not been warned, ere ever she met him, that he abjured

marriage? She remembered, with a breaking heart, her own first playful

words to him.

Mr. Hayward saw the change in Virginia, but he put it down entirely to

the effects of a London season--to late hours and the want of fresh air.

Never mind! the end was near at hand, and then they would go and fill

their lungs with mountain air and their eyes with fair scenes, and the

roses would come back to her cheeks and lips, and the light to her eyes.

He never for an instant connected his niece's pallor with Philip

Vansittart. He would have ridiculed the idea of people being twice in

each other's company, and breaking their hearts with longing afterwards.

* * * * *

Mr. Hayward, his sister, and Virginia, were dining at a Swiss _table

d'hote_. Exactly opposite were two empty places. The fish had been

served, and two gentlemen came in and took them. One was Mr. Philip

Vansittart. At sight of him the crimson blood rushed to Virginia's

cheeks, then ebbed away, leaving her deathly pale. For a moment she

thought she must swoon or die from the intensity of her feelings. Philip

was scarcely less moved, though, being a man, he was better able to

control his agitation. When he had time to look more narrowly at

Virginia, he saw a mighty change in her. His heart smote him; and

yet--had he not suffered? Great heaven! had his been a bed of roses? Had

he not agonised after her?

Dinner over, the party went off into the garden. A mutual unspoken

desire made Vansittart and Virginia steal off together to a secluded

spot. Twilight was creeping on--the last glow of a rosy sunset was

fading away; the strains of a delicious waltz were borne towards them.

Vansittart felt his passion mastering him. He made a herculean effort

over himself. He would speak. He would tell her the truth. After that

she would forget him. They were sitting under a tree that screened them

off from the rest of the garden. He could see well enough that she was

trembling with nervousness; that delight, fear, expectation were blended

in the beautiful eyes she turned towards him; and, lest suddenly he

should yield to that mad longing to catch her to his heart, he began to

speak hurriedly--abruptly.

But Virginia scarcely hears him. Her lips are burning to ask him that

one question, and, not heeding what he is saying, she turns and in a

tremulous voice that vibrates to his very soul, she says:

"Why have you kept away from us all this time?"

Why? And Vansittart catches his breath. Then the gyves of his strong

will give way as the withes fell from Samson.

"I will tell you," he says. "I love you so horribly, that it is pain

and anguish to me to be with you, for then I feel that when I leave you

I am ready to die of longing and misery."

"Well?" she utters in a very low voice, bending her eyes on the ground.

It is only one little word, but it speaks such volumes! "Why should you

leave me?" it says. "Is it not my case, too? What need you more than

speak!"

"You have heard," he goes on, not daring to look at her, "that I have

forsworn marriage. Marriage," passionately, "kills love, and I would

rather, ten times over, suffer what I have suffered--and God knows that

is not a little!--than a day should come when, having known such divine

happiness as I _should_ know were you mine, we should grow cold and

weary; when our passions should turn to indifference, to disappointment

and heart-burnings, and end, perhaps, in our cherishing feelings of

vindictive spite and bitterness against each other, and in my thinking

every woman pleasanter and fairer than you, end in your believing me to

be the greatest brute under heaven!"

"Oh!" utters Virginia, as she raises her eyes to his face with a look of

pained wonder.

"I have seen it a thousand times," he continues vehemently. "I have

known men passionately, madly in love with women, ready to count 'the

world well lost,' to sacrifice all the future only to call that idol of

the moment theirs. I have seen them marry. I have watched the weariness

that comes from security even more than from satiety. I have seen the

links that were forged in roses become gyves of iron--tenderness and

courtesy give place to rudeness and contempt. I never saw but two people

perfectly happy, and they," lowering his voice, "were not married. I

have sworn a thousand times never to court wretchedness for myself and a

woman I loved by loading her and myself with chains. My idea has been

this. Some day I may meet with a being who, under natural circumstances,

she keeping her freedom and leaving me mine, I might love with all my

heart and be faithful to until the day of my death. I would give her all

I possessed. I would devote myself to making her happy; if she had to

sacrifice anything for my sake, I would atone to her for it by my

unwearying love. But," his voice mastered by emotion, "how dare I say

such words to you? In the sphere in which you live they would be

considered a dastardly insult--one must not dare to move one step from

the beaten track of custom. The world would scoff at the idea that my

love for you is more sacred and reverent than that of a man who,

inspired by a momentary passion for a woman and desiring her, obtains

his end by a simple and speedy means, without reflection as to the

possible misery of both in the future. And yet," his lips quivering, his

face growing deathly white, "I believe I could love you more dearly,

love you longer than husband ever loved wife."

Virginia sits rooted to the spot, a deadly anguish strangling her

heart. Then, whilst the divine strains of music still flow on, she feels

herself drawn to his heart; his lips meet hers in one long kiss that

steals her very soul away from her. He is gone--the music has

ceased--the night grows chill--she shivers. "The world well lost," she

mutters to herself, and then, with listless steps, and strange,

affrighted eyes, she drags herself up stairs to her room.

PART II.

In a charming house, surrounded by an acre of ground, turned into a

small paradise, a house not more than two miles from Hyde Park Corner,

live Philip Vansittart and Virginia Hayward. The neighbourhood knows

them as Mr. and Mrs. Vansittart, and has not the very remotest

conception that in so perfectly ordered an establishment, there is

anything which they would designate as "odd." If anything could arouse

suspicion in the breasts of the servants who wait upon them, and the

tradespeople who serve them it would be the extraordinary tenderness

subsisting between them; the excessive courtesy and consideration of Mr.

Vansittart for Mrs. Vansittart, and the entire absence of that

familiarity commonly seen between affectionate husbands and wives, which

almost invariably engenders subsequent contempt.

The house is furnished with exquisite taste. Mr. Vansittart is

continually bringing home artistic treasures to add to its

embellishment. Mrs. Vansittart has a carriage and a fine pair of horses.

She seldom, however, drives into town except to the play, or to dine. A

great many gentlemen of distinction and rank come to the house, who

treat Mrs. Vansittart like a queen, and a few ladies; clever, literary

ladies, ladies holding peculiar views--very rarely the consorts of

distinguished and well-born men.

Is Philip happy? Is Virginia happy? To this I can only reply by another

question. Is any one Happy? They love each other with unfailing

tenderness--they are all the world to each other--the thought of

separation would be death to them. And yet the heart of either is gnawed

by a secret worm. In the midst of his busy life, Philip can never forget

that he has sacrificed the woman whom he adores from the very bottom of

his soul, and the horrible suspicion will stab him, that he has

sacrificed her needlessly. They are living as husband and wife, and yet

no feeling of weariness, of satiety, comes near them--each day draws

them nearer together; makes them find fresh points in each other to love

and admire. Were she his wife, occupying her proper sphere in society,

sought after, courted, admired, he with no feeling of self-reproach, she

with no consciousness (which she must feel though she never betrays) of

cruelty and selfishness on his part; might they not be even happier? He

forgets to tell himself that they are happy because no tie binds

them--nay, he says secretly in his heart that that tie is the only thing

wanting to make their felicity perfect. Now, it is too late. The world

knows the truth--marriage can never whitewash Virginia in society's

eyes--no future can condone the crime of the past. He has settled every

farthing he has in the world upon her--no mean fortune--he loads her

with gifts--he is perpetually thinking of her pleasure and amusement,

and yet, for ever, the load of his debt to her weighs down his soul.

And Virginia? Paul is all in all to her; he is her heart, her soul, her

conscience, and yet he cannot shield her from the fate which he has

brought upon her. What must inevitably be the sufferings of a proud and

pure-minded woman, who knows herself to be an object of scorn to her

sex? How would a man, naturally honorable and high-minded, feel, if, in

some fatal moment, he had been tempted to commit a forgery, or take an

unfair advantage at cards, and was afterwards shunned by every man

friend; thrust out of every club, banned utterly from the society of his

fellows, except those with whom it would revolt him to associate? This

is the only case that can parallel that of a woman who has lost the

world for a man's sake; and men who have a difficulty in realizing how

great is the sacrifice they compel or accept from a woman, would do well

to consider this.

Virginia suffered many a bitter pang when she showed herself in public

with Philip. She quivered under the open stare, or the look askance of

members of her sex; if she showed a brave front, it was that of the

Spartan boy! Philip was particularly fond of the opera and the play; he

would not have gone without her; so she accompanied him, and made no

demur. Of course every relation and friend she had in the world shunned

her as though she were a leper, which indeed, morally, she was in their

eyes. She loved society; no woman was more calculated to shine in it,

and from this she was cut off. True, they constantly entertained

brilliant and clever men, whose conversation and company were very

agreeable to her; but, however much a woman may like, may even prefer

the society of men, it is a bitter thought to her that she cannot

command that of her own sex. And, though men treated her with even a

greater and more delicate courtesy than they would perhaps have shown

their own women, Virginia was none the less keenly conscious of the

moral ban under which she lay.

She was the daughter of a clergyman, she had been religiously brought

up, and she writhed under the terrible consciousness that her life was a

sin against her God. At first she went to church, but everything she

heard there sent the iron deeper into her soul; if there were comforting

promises to repentant Magdalens, there was nothing but wrath and

threatening for those who continued in their sin. By-and-by she left off

going to church. Philip was a sceptic, most of his friends were the

same. Virginia listened to their talk, and, in time, her faith began to

waver; she liked to think they were right, and that the Bible was a

string of fables; it lessened her sense of criminality and remorse, but

it cut her off forever from the only consolation a woman can know, when

her hour of trial comes. If man could supply the place of God and

Saviour now, whither should she fly when he was torn from her or grew

weary of her?

She was glad that she had no children--could she live to be shamed by

them, scorned by them? And yet--how sweet it would have been to feel

clinging arms about her neck; to hear little voices lisp the sweetest

word on earth to a mother's ear, if only she might have been as other

mothers--as other wives! Never, never once had she breathed or hinted a

wish that Philip should marry her; she had a superstitious dread that

once the chain was forged his love for her would cease--marriage could

not now reinstate her in the world's sight--she had ceased to remember

that her life was a crime. She had heard it said so often that marriage

was simply an institution founded upon expediency; that all systems

having been tried, the one that worked best was the union of a man to

one wife, that she herself began to doubt its being a heaven-ordained

institution, and the only state tolerated by Divine Providence. But if

she ceased to feel herself actually a guilty and sinning woman, she was

none the less sensitive to the world's scorn; to the bitterness of

holding a position that society refused to tolerate or to recognize.

But, after all, she knew happiness which is denied to nine-tenths of

women, nay, to ninety-nine out of a hundred. She enjoyed the passionate,

unfailing devotion of the man whom she adored--no harsh word ever

crossed his lips to her--she was his first care and thought--no party of

pleasure ever tempted him from her side--nothing but the claim of

business could induce him to spend an evening away from her. And so the

years passed on. It is an unalterable law of nature that passion must

succumb before habit, but it may be succeeded by a calm content, a happy

trustful confidence, that wears better, and is perhaps in the long run

more satisfactory.

Twelve years elapsed, and during that time Virginia enjoyed unbroken

health. Then, one winter, she caught a severe cold, which settled on her

lungs; her life was despaired of. No woman was ever a more tender, more

devoted nurse than Philip. But this illness left her extremely delicate;

she could no longer brave all weathers as formerly, nor be Philip's

constant companion in his walks and drives. She was forbidden to go out

at night, and they had been so in the habit of going to the play,

especially in the winter months. At first he insisted on remaining at

home with her, but she was too unselfish to allow him to sacrifice

himself. There was many an evening when she was unable to leave her

room, and when talking would bring on severe paroxysms of coughing. She

succeeded in prevailing upon him to visit the theatre without her, and

sometimes even to dine with a friend. After a time he got into the

habit of going about alone, and, although he was even more tender and

considerate than before, she felt an agonising consciousness that he

could, after all, do without her, which he had sworn ten thousand times

he never could. She began to have sleepless nights and passionate fits

of crying. Nemesis was coming upon her with gigantic strides. Philip did

not suspect that she was unhappy; he thought her illness affected her

spirits. A great change had come over her, which he deplored. She no

longer was the bright, amusing companion of yore.

Two more years went by. Virginia was almost a confirmed invalid--she

could only get out in fine summer weather--then her spirits rallied, and

she was something of her old self again. Philip often spent his evenings

away from home now; it become a habit; he did not suspect that Virginia

suffered from his absence, but thought that it was really her wish,

dear, unselfish soul that she was, that he should go out and be amused.

And she, fearful of making him fancy that he felt a chain where none

existed, was careful never to show him by word or look that she suffered

from his absence. She tormented herself with the thought that he might

meet any day with a young and beautiful woman who would inspire again in

his breast the feeling that he had once known for her. And _she_

remembered that she was free, even if he forgot it. Poor soul! she

recognised bitterly enough now, that the only safety for a woman is in

that bond which a man may so lightly affect to set at naught: in a

contract like hers and Philip's, the man has all to gain, the woman all

to lose.

It was growing dusk one November afternoon, when the door of Virginia's

drawing-room was thrown open, and Lord Harford announced. A slight blush

suffused her cheek as she rose to receive him, and she appeared slightly

embarrassed. Virginia was still beautiful, though no longer very young;

she had an extremely fragile and delicate appearance, which is

attractive to some men, notably to those who, like Lord Harford, are

big, strong and robust.

"You are not angry with me for coming, are you?" he asks almost

diffidently, as soon as the door has closed on the servant.

"No," she answers gently. Times are changed with her since the last

occasion in which she and he stood face to face in this very room. Then

she _was_ angry, but then she was in the full flush of health and

beauty, and he was her would-be lover. There had been nothing to wound

or humiliate her in his love-making; he had come loyally to offer her

his hand and all that belonged to him, which of wealth and honor was no

mean portion. But she had been deeply stung by a man daring to remember

that she was free, and there was only one husband and lover in the world

for her. Now that, as it seemed to her, beauty and love were so far

removed from her, it was almost a pleasure to remember that she had been

beloved.

"I have passed your door a hundred times," he says, "and never been

able to summon up courage enough to ask for you."

"But to-day you were braver," she utters, looking at him with something

of the old smile and manner.

"I thought perhaps you had a good many dull hours now Vansittart is so

much away."

"How do you know that he is much away?" asks Virginia, feeling vaguely

hurt at his words and tone.

"Because I so often meet him out."

"Where do you meet him?"

"Oh, at different places. Chiefly at Mrs. Devereux's."

Lord Harford looks full in Virginia's face, and she, who is so quick,

cannot fail to see that his eyes and tone are intended to convey some

meaning.

"Mrs. Devereux?" she says, inquiringly. "You mean his cousin."

"Yes."

After this there is a pause. It is as though he wanted her to question

him; as though she were fighting against the desire to know his meaning.

She conquers herself by an effort.

"I have been very ill since you saw me last. You find me much altered,

do you not?"

"You look delicate," he answers, "but in my eyes," lowering his voice,

"you are as beautiful as ever."

She half-smiles, half-sighs.

"It is very kind of you to say that," she utters, "but I cannot deceive

myself. I am an old woman now; if ever I had any good looks they are

gone."

"They are _not_!" cries Lord Harford staunchly. "What I say is gospel

truth. I think your delicacy becomes you. I hate your great buxom,

dairymaid women."

Virginia smiles at his earnestness.

"Ah, if you had been mine," he goes on, "I should never have wanted to

look at another woman, young or old."

Still that strange meaning in his tone. A chill terror creeps to

Virginia's heart--she can no longer restrain herself.

"What do you mean?" she says, fixing her eyes on him. "You are hinting

at something--you want to convey something to my mind. If you are a

man--if you pretend to be my friend, speak out honestly."

He rises, and takes one or two turns in the room, then stops abruptly in

front of her.

"Will you believe me, I wonder?" he asks, "or will you think me a mean

hound who only seeks his own interest?"

"Interest?" echoes Virginia bitterly, "what interest can it be to you?"

"This much," he answers, a red flush mounting to his brow, "that I am as

anxious this moment to make you my wife as I was four years ago."

Virginia makes an impatient movement with her hand.

"Vansittart is in love with Mrs. Devereux's eldest girl, Connie. She is

a pretty little kitten of a thing, but a mere child--a doll. I go there

rather often--they are old friends of mine. Whenever I go, he is always

there."

For a moment Virginia feels as though she were dying; then, by an

extraordinary effort, she recovers herself.

"I would rather have my tongue cut out than tell you," Lord Harford

continues, half-ashamed, "only that I want you to know where your refuge

is if he breaks your heart. Oh!" imploringly, "why will you not care for

me who am ready to devote my life to you? Marry me, and let us go abroad

and win health for you and happiness for me!"

His voice is broken with emotion--he takes one of her hands in his. She

is leaning back in her chair, very white--she is hardly conscious of his

action--all the hot blood in his veins cannot warm her chill white

fingers.

"Do you think," she says at last, very slowly, "that if--if he were rid

of me, he would marry her? Does she care for him?"

"I don't think about it. Yes, it is very strange; but, child as she is,

he has perfectly infatuated her."

There is another long pause, during which he eagerly scans her face.

Suddenly her eyes light up, and she returns his glance.

"Are you _really_ willing to marry me?" she says.

"Why do you ask?" he returns, simply. "Are my eyes not honest?"

Virginia smiles. "If you mean it," she says, "go now, and write me the

same words to-night or to-morrow."

So, as she bids him, he goes.

* * * * *

Lord Harford had set down nothing in malice. What he told Virginia is

absolutely true. Philip Vansittart is in love with a gay, pretty child,

whose winsome tricks have coiled her round his heart. He has never

spoken one word of love to her, for he feels and knows himself as much

bound to Virginia as though the marriage-tie he once so utterly abhorred

linked them. He no longer, strange to say, thinks and speaks so evilly

of marriage. Were he free, would he not joyfully chain himself with all

the bonds that church and society can impose to this sweet young life

which would make him young again? He has no thought or desire to blast

this girl-life as he had done Virginia's. Perish the thought! When these

ideas come to him, he hates and loathes himself; he makes superhuman

efforts to drive them away--but the limpid blue eyes come and look at

him over his briefs; the childish voice rings in his ears in the night

watches! He grows pale and haggard. At last he makes a mighty resolve.

"Virginia," he says, two nights after Lord Harford's visit to her, "let

us be married!"

He takes her hand kindly, but his eyes do not meet hers, and the tender

inflection of yore is missing from his voice.

Virginia betrays no surprise. Poor soul! She understands too well.

"Why?" she says quietly. "I think we are very well as we are."

"No," he returns hastily, "we are not! My views have changed on the

subject--changed entirely. Marriage is the best thing. It decides your

fate. To live as we do is neither one thing nor the other."

"You forget," she says, in a tone so calm as to be almost unnatural.

"This state has great advantages. There is no tie between us. If either

of us tired of the other, there is nothing to hinder our parting,

to-morrow--to-night even." He looks at her, speechless with amazement.

Her eyes do not flinch from his. "If," she continues, with that terrible

calmness,--"if you wanted to marry Miss Constance Devereux; if I wished

to marry--let us say, Lord Harford--there is nothing to prevent it

except," slowly, "the unwritten law of a faithful heart."

Philip Vansittart leans his face between his hands. He cannot find a

word to say. He is smitten with remorse, for he knows well enough that

she is faithful. But why that allusion to Lord Harford?

"What do you mean about Harford?" he asks presently.

"He wants me to marry him," replied Virginia quietly. "He asked me four

years ago; he asked me again the day before yesterday."

She draws a letter from her pocket, and scans Philip's face as he reads

it. When he has finished, he looks at her. She understands his glance

but too well. There is an only half-suppressed eagerness--a

half-suppressed hope in it.

"What shall I do?" she says, so quietly that it deceives him.

"There is no better fellow living than Harford," he says cordially. "If

you thought you could be happy with him; if--"

He stops abruptly. There is a look of such terrible agony in Virginia's

face that he starts up and takes her hand.

"No, no," he cries. "Let it be as I said. Let us marry each other. It is

the only thing to be done."

Virginia's ears, sharpened by suffering, catch the dreary tone of the

concluding words.

* * * * *

Next morning, when Philip, according to custom, went to Virginia's room,

he found her asleep. From that sleep she never woke. One more of those

unfortunate cases of an overdose of chloral. The deceased lady had

suffered much from sleeplessness, and always kept the fatal drug by her

bedside.

The church gave its blessing, and society smiled when that heretic and

sceptic Mr. Vansittart led his charming girl-bride to the altar a few

months later. It was whispered that there had been an--entanglement, but

that was all hushed up now, and he had become a respectable member of

society.

MR. JOSIAH SMITH'S BALLOON JOURNEY.

It would be an injustice to Josiah to suppose that he limited his quest

in the field of knowledge to that particular portion indicated by his

honoured association with a distinguished society. He was proud in his

modest way, if the paradox be permitted, when he produced his card, on

which was engraved "Josiah Smith, F.R.S.A." Also it was known amongst

his friends that casual references to his great work on "Underground

England" were not displeasing to him. But, as he was wont to say, "The

surest way of finding either mental or bodily recreation is to seek it

in fresh fields of labour."

Thus it came to pass one evening in the spring of this year that Josiah,

having shut himself in all day with the determination to make up for

lost time, found he had, with the aid of cold tea and wet bandages,

added as much as half a page to his great work. Feeling the need of a

little change of thought and association, he had availed himself of an

invitation kindly sent to him to join the meeting of an aëronautic

society. Josiah had listened with profound attention to the various

speeches made, and had thought, really, when he had a little more time

he would devote it to the fascinating science of aëronautics.

Amongst the guests of the society, and indeed the hero of the evening,

was Captain Mulberry, the famous guardsman who devoted much natural

talent and a considerable portion of his life to the endeavour either to

kill or hopelessly maim himself. Evil fortune had kept his sword

stainless, as far as regular warfare went, but there was generally a

little fighting going on somewhere, and, the captain's leave of absence

coinciding, he from time to time managed to sniff the exhilarating smell

of powder, and knew the music of bullet and shell. These things were

surrounded with difficulties. It obviously would not do for a man

bearing Her Majesty's commission to lend his sword to one or other

belligerents in a conflict between nations at peace with England. In a

country like Spain, for example, things naturally run a little

irregularly and the captain being on the spot may have occasionally

lapsed into battle.

But these were mere episodes. Having tried most things, he had taken to

ballooning, as offering the largest amount of risk in the least possible

space of time. He had been up in all kinds of balloons in all possible

circumstances, and had come down in various ways. He had just now

achieved a great feat, making a voyage from the Grampian Hills to the

Orkney Islands. The society desiring to do him honour had invited him to

this meeting, and Josiah had heard him describe his perilous voyage.

"A mere nothing," he said; "perhaps a little difficult going, but

nothing at all coming back. The difficulty in going out was to drop on

the Orkneys. The place is so small that when you are up in the air it

looks as if you might as well try to drop on a pin's point. But after

all, it was a nothing--a mere nothing, gentlemen, I assure you. Any one

of you could have done the same."

Every one in the room was delighted, not less with the captain's

gallantry than with his modesty. Many moving stories of his escapes were

retailed. Josiah listened with enthralled attention to an adventure

which, it seems, the captain had had in Spain, and which Josiah's

companion (a bald-headed gentleman with spectacles) narrated with great

effect. Mulberry in one of the marches of the Carlists, to whom he had

attached himself, was surprised and taken prisoner by the enemy. They

locked him in the kitchen of a farmhouse near, mentioning incidentally

that in the morning they would shoot him. They took away his sword and

pistols; and would have taken his umbrella, but the captain pleaded hard

for its society, declaring that from early boyhood he had never been

able to sleep without an umbrella under his pillow. The Spaniards had

heard much of the eccentricity of Englishmen, and not being inclined to

refuse the request of a doomed man, they left him the umbrella.

The next morning, when they came to take him out for shooting purposes,

lo! the captain and the umbrella were both gone. There was a good deal

of soot about the place, and regarding this and other signs of hasty

flight the truth flashed upon the Spaniards. There had been a fire in

the grate. The captain had opened the umbrella inside the chimney,

waited till it had been inflated with the warm air, and then, hanging on

the handle, had been drawn up clear to the top and descending in a

neighbouring field, had shut up his umbrella and walked off.

"Dear me!" said Josiah; "how very interesting. I suppose the chimneys

are wide in Spain?"

"Very wide indeed," said the bald-headed gentleman in spectacles.

Josiah regarded the captain with fresh interest after the recital of

this remarkable ascent, and it was not diminished by further tales he

heard. One related to his reception by an Illustrious Personage. After

his journey to Orkney the I.P. had sent for him immediately on his

return to town. The captain had put on his uniform and gone cheerfully.

He had heard so much of his feat that he began to think there really was

something creditable in it, and fancied the Illustrious Personage might

be going to bestow upon him some recognition of the service he had done

in blazoning abroad the pluck of the British soldier. On the contrary,

he found the Illustrious Person almost speechless with wrath, and

stuffed with oaths like plums in a Christmas pudding.

"What--what was the meaning of this flying by night, sir?" he cried

turning a flaming visage upon the contrite captain. "You'll be going

round with a circus next, riding five horses at a time, or walking round

to show your muscle. I hope I shall hear no more of this sort of thing.

Such goings-on bring disgrace upon the army and discredit upon its

officers. Stop at home, sir, and get into what mischief you like. Go and

idle your time at playing cards or worse; but don't be playing these

pranks any more. Did you ever see _me_ in a balloon, sir? Did you ever

hear of _me_ skimming around the world in search of adventure?"

The Illustrious Personage drew himself up to full height, and swelled

visibly before the eyes of the captain, as he angrily put these

questions, garnished with many ejaculations. He knew that our army swore

terribly in Flanders, and was nothing if not a soldier.

"Your Royal Highness cannot blame us if we sometimes go out of our way

to get into danger," said the captain, saluting. "Your Royal Highness

has much to answer for by inflaming us with the memory of Inkermann. How

can we sit still or lounge about in our peaceful homes, when we think of

you on that day?"

"Tut, tut!" said the Illustrious Personage, spluttering down like a

fire on which a bucket of water had been flung, "that was a different

thing. But come and dine with me to-night: only, drive up in a hansom,

don't arrive in a balloon."

And the Illustrious Personage, what with enjoyment of the joke, and what

with muscular effort to suppress his laughter, nearly brought about a

vacancy in the highest rank of the army.

All this was doubtless as true as the story about the exit from the

Spanish farmhouse. But it pleased the company, and was only one of a

dozen stories they told about the captain, who was chiefly longing to be

out where he could smoke a cigar.

When the meeting came to an end, Josiah walked along Pall Mall

meditating on things, and on the comparative obscurity of the work he

had assigned to himself. Whilst others were soaring in high places, he

was burrowing underground. Both were in search of knowledge. Both

desired to benefit their fellow-men. But of the two Josiah felt that the

aëronauts had the advantage of the undergrounders. It was too late for

him to think of striking out a new path; but he thought that if he had

to begin life again he would soar.

Whilst pondering on these matters, he was startled by a heavy hand laid

upon his shoulder, and heard a cheery voice exclaim:

"Got a match in your pocket, old man?"

He looked up, and there, somewhere on a level with the lantern in the

neighbouring lamp-post, was the genial face of Captain Mulberry.

"No," said Josiah, "I'm sorry I have not."

"Don't smoke, eh? You don't look the kind of old boy to have any

pleasant vices. I saw you in the Balloon Society's rooms just now, and

rather took a fancy to you."

"You are very kind," Josiah said, blushing up to where in earlier and

happier days the roots of his hair had been. "I am sure I feel it a

great honour."

"If you don't mind me saying so, I think you're the innocentest-looking

old boy I have seen in a day's ride. I like innocence, particularly when

combined with middle age. It is the rarest thing in the world. I hope

you'll come and dine with me some night at my club."

"I shall like it very much indeed," said Josiah, "We are close at my

rooms--just here in King Street I live--and if you would step in, you

might light your cigar."

"Thanks, I will. You won't mind me making up to you in this way; but

'pon my honour, I took such a liking to your face, seeing it among that

mass of humbug where we were just now, that I was going to speak to you

then, only I could not get near you."

Josiah was in a tremor of delight, which presently subsided into a soft

glow of contentment, as the captain, stretching himself out over as much

of the couch as he could find in the little room, not only lit his

cigar, but praised Josiah's claret and told him a good deal more of his

balloon adventures than he had communicated to the eminent society in

whose rooms they had met.

"By the way," he said, "I am going to make a balloon excursion

to-morrow. I didn't mention it to the society because these fellows gab

so. There'd be a great crowd round, and I'd only have been hampered.

When you mean work, the less you say about it beforehand the better.

That is what I have always found. Ever up in a balloon?"

"No," said Josiah, "but I should very much like to go."

He had drunk a whole tumbler of claret in honour of his distinguished

company, and, being accustomed to more moderate measure, had begun to

think going up in a balloon was after all a mere ordinary performance.

"What do you ride?" asked the captain, looking him up and down, as if

either about to measure him for a suit of clothes, or considering where

he could most advantageously plant a blow from his ox-hoof-like fist.

"A pony--at least, I used to ride a pony when I was at home: but that is

a long time ago, and I have not ridden much since."

"I mean, what do you weigh," said the captain, laughing.

"A little over ten stone."

"Is it possible! why, I pull the scales at seventeen stun. I'd give

something to be your weight. Think of the ballast you might take up with

you!"

"Is that an important thing?" Josiah asked, his old instinct of gaining

knowledge manifesting itself.

"It's simply everything. That's how I managed to get over to the

Orkneys. These fellows that go up in balloons which they fit up like

first-floor rooms, and take everything with them except a feather bed,

don't know anything about it. They go fumbling around with a few pounds

of ballast, and when they get into a wrong current there they stick.

Now, between you and me, Mr. Smith, I don't mind telling you my secret

of successful ballooning. Take as much ballast as you can carry, and

when you get stuck in a calm or carried off by a wrong current, out goes

your ballast, up you shoot, get into another current, and there you are.

Ten stun!" he murmured, gazing wistfully upon the spare figure of his

host. "There ought to be a good deal done with that. Tell you what, old

chappie, you shall come with me to-morrow."

Josiah had been a few moments ago possessed with a burning desire to go

up in a balloon, but at these words the fire went out and he felt a cold

chill steal over his body. Still, he would like to go; but not

to-morrow. If it were next month or next week it would be different. But

to-morrow was so sudden.

"I rather fancy I have an engagement to-morrow," he said, producing his

pocket diary and anxiously gazing on it in the month of December.

"Nonsense!" said the captain, laying his large hand on Josiah's

shoulder, conveying to him an impression that if he pleased he could

take him up, put him in his coat-tail pocket, walk off, and think no

more about him till he landed him in a balloon. "You've no engagement,

and if you had you couldn't find it by holding your book upside down.

You come along with me. There's not the slightest danger, and it's not

every man who has crossed the Channel in a balloon."

"The Channel!" cried Josiah feebly. He had thought of some little

excursion. Perhaps in the fields ten or twenty miles off. "I don't think

I would like to start with the Channel. Suppose we begin somewhere else,

and try the Channel later on. It will be better--if anything happened,

you know--to have the water warm."

"Nonsense," said the captain cheerily; "we shall never be nearer the

water than 2,000 feet. We'll dine in Paris to-morrow night, and I'll

take you to the Closerie after dinner. It will do them good to see you

there. Now that's settled, and you'd better go to bed straight off.

We'll have to be up early in the morning to catch the mail train for

Dover. I've got my balloon there all ready, and we'll start about noon."

This was perfectly horrible. Josiah felt as if it was a hideous

nightmare, and he had a dim hope that presently he would wake up. But

there was the burly form of the captain before him, with his third cigar

sticking in the side of his mouth, and a pleased smile upon his face in

anticipation of this new adventure.

Those who have learned something of the character of Josiah by reading

earlier chapters of his history, will not need to be told how this

ended. If he had been in company of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego,

when they started on their progress through the fiery furnace, and if

they had insisted upon his accompanying them, he would have smiled

feebly, and gone--that is, if he could not by some means or other slink

away out of sight. Now, if he could have gone out of the door on some

pretence and run off, down King Street, he would have borne the

subsequent shame and humiliation. But he knew that the captain would

have been up with him in five strides. So he determined to make the best

of it, drank another tumbler of claret, and became almost hysterically

eager for the morning.

"I'll see you don't oversleep yourself," were the last words of the

captain as he went off. "I'll look you up and take you down to Victoria

in my hansom. You needn't bring any luggage, you know. A clean shirt and

a tooth-brush will see you through."

Thus faded Josiah's last and secret hope, one he had cherished even

whilst he drank his claret and talked boldly of aërial navigation. He

might, he had thought, peradventure oversleep himself and miss the

train, and all would be well. But the captain would call for him, and

there was plainly no escape. However, he had made his will, and

"Underground England" was in such an advanced stage that it might be

published as "a fragment," and would be sufficient to carry his name

down to remotest posterity. Whether it were sweeter thus to vex public

desire, to give so much and no more, or to satiate the public with the

full accomplishment, was a nice question. Josiah was inclined to think

that, other things being equal, he would just as soon live to finish his

work. But he had no choice, and after all, the voyage might end happily.

Captain Mulberry was an experienced aëronaut. He had never failed, and

why should failure be probable now?

Josiah made up his mind upon this point, that if they got safely across

in the balloon he would come back by the ordinary boat express. Having

once shown his possession of a daring spirit, he would be at liberty to

declare his preference for a more prosaic mode of locomotion.

How he got down to Dover he did not know. It all seemed a dream. He had

a dim recollection of the captain thundering at his door at six o'clock

in the morning. He remembered lighting his Etna, making his cup of

coffee, and thinking as he drank it it might be his last. Then they must

have caught the train. In fact, he remembered the sound of the rushing

carriage, the darkness of the tunnel, the glories of the dawning day,

and felt around him the bright fresh sunlit air that made all nature

glad.

They drove out to the balloon, which was down by the gas-works, and was

now in process of inflation. Josiah looked upon the monster, swerving

first to the right, then to the left, and threatening every moment to

break its bonds and go off on its own account. If it only would, what a

happy conclusion of this painful adventure! But he could see there was

no such danger. The captain was as cheerful as a lark, and looked with

kindling eye upon what Josiah regarded as his coffin.

Still, it was no use complaining. A man must die some time; and though

there is much to be said against the process being hurried on by

unnecessary attempts to cross the Channel in a balloon when there are

well-appointed packet-boats, it was no use arguing the matter.

There settled upon Josiah a certain mood of quiet despair. What must be

must, and it was better to avoid a scene and imitate as closely as

possible the cheerful indifference of the captain.

"Now, old man, in you tumble," said the captain. "Sit down in the bottom

of the car, and keep quiet till we get past this stack of chimneys. If

we run into them it's all over; but I reckon I'll take you clear."

This was a cheerful thing to start with. Josiah had pictured all kinds

of horrors, ending with the certainty of dropping into the sea. That

they should begin with a stack of chimneys was an unexpected

aggravation. Still, it might be better to get it over at once. At least,

he would fall on land, and the fragments picked up would receive

Christian burial.

He got in and sat in the bottom of the car. It was, he noticed,

something like one of the coracles of which he had made mention in the

preface to "Underground England." There was something good in that. The

Romans made long journeys In the coracle. If the worst came to the

worst, they might float.

Even in the anguish of his mind, he couldn't help wondering when Captain

Mulberry would finish coming in. He had never before noticed how tall he

was, till he found the necessity of getting out of the way of his legs

as he crept between the ropes into the car.

"Let go all!" cried the captain, and Josiah felt his last hour had come.

He held his breath and stuck to his hat, being under the impression that

the whole affair would shoot up into the air like a rocket. He expected

to be deafened by the noise of whizzing through the air, and to be half

suffocated with the rush of wind. Looking over to get a last look at the

nature of the soil on which he would presently fall, Josiah beheld a

strange sight. As far as he knew, the balloon was motionless, while the

earth was dropping rapidly from under them as if the laws of gravitation

were irrevocably broken and the world was falling through space.

"Done it!" he heard the captain cry in a voice that sounded curiously

remote.

"Done what?" said Josiah, anxiously looking up.

"Why, the chimney-stack. Just cleared it by half a foot. I didn't like

to say much about it, but it was a pretty near touch-and-go affair.

That's the worst of filling a balloon. You must do it near a gasworks,

and there's sure to be a stack of chimneys at hand."

It seemed but a moment since Josiah had heard the captain call out "Let

go all," and there they were in space a thousand feet above the level of

the land, sailing calmly along in bright warm sunlight, and with no more

motion perceptible than if they were still sitting in the room in King

Street--that cherished apartment which Josiah felt his eye would never

light on more.

"This won't do," said the captain sternly; "we've got in the wrong

current, and instead of going out to sea we are going inland. In half an

hour we'll be at Canterbury."

"I have heard Canterbury's a very nice old town," said Josiah. "It

wouldn't be a bad place to stop at; and if the wind's contrary to-day,

it might be right to-morrow."

The captain said nothing, and Josiah, looking up to see what effect his

suggestion might have, noticed for the first time that on a face usually

smiling there were possibilities of a fixed hard look which it evidently

didn't beseem him to trifle with.

The balloon slowly rose till the aneroid marked a height of 1,500 feet

and still the current drove it steadily north-west. Looking southward,

Josiah beheld a sight which, if it were the last he was ever to look

upon, was at least a glorious glimpse of earth, and sky, and sea. There

lay the Channel gleaming in the sun, a broad belt of silver. Beyond it,

like a cloud, was France. Dover had vanished even to the crest of the

castle on the hill. But Josiah knew where it was by the mist that lay

over it and shone white in the rays of the sun. Save for this patch of

mist, which seemed to drift with the voyagers far below the car, there

was nothing to obscure the range of vision. Josiah could not at any time

make out forms of people. The white highways that ran like threads among

the fields, and the tiny openings in the towns and villages which he

guessed were streets, seemed to belong to a dead world, for nowhere was

there trace of living person. The strange stillness that brooded over

the earth was made more uncanny by cries that occasionally seemed to

float in the air around them, behind, before, to the right or to the

left, but never exactly beneath the car. They could hear people calling,

and the captain said that they were running after the balloon and

cheering. But Josiah could distinguish no moving thing. Yes; once he saw

some pheasants running across a field below and pointed them out to the

captain. The captain laughed, a strange resonant laugh it seemed in this

upper stillness, and said they were "a lot of chestnut horses capering

about in the field." A flock of sheep in another field huddled together,

looked like a heap of limestone chippings. As for the fields, stretched

out in illimitable extent, far as the eye could reach, they seemed to

form a gigantic carpet, with patterns chiefly diamond-shaped, and in

colour shaded from bright emerald to russet brown.

"This won't do," the captain said again, and seizing a bag of ballast

he emptied it. The balloon swiftly rose, and the aneroid marked 2,500

feet. The villages seemed mere spots, the pattern of the carpet grew

blurred. Nothing was distinguishable--nor horse, nor sheep, nor any

living thing.

"Hurrah!" cried the captain, "we're off now."

Nearer and nearer came the belt of silver which seemed to girdle

continent and island. They were close to Dover, and could make out the

town. Josiah, knowing well the irregular plan on which the streets are

laid out, was struck by the manner in which, as looked down upon from

this height, they formed themselves into beautifully defined curves,

straight lines, and other highly respectable geometrical shapes. They

saw the castle and the pier with what seemed to be ants crawling on it.

A little patch of colour, that to Josiah looked like a ball of scarlet

worsted, was, the captain said, a sentry on duty.

"There's Shakespeare's Cliff," said the captain. "The Earl of Gloucester

should be with us now:--

How fearful

And dizzy 'tis, to cast one's eyes so low!

The crows and choughs that wing the midway air

Show scarce so gross as beetles; half-way down

Hangs one that gathers samphire, dreadful trade!

Methinks he seems no bigger than his head:

The fishermen that walk upon the beach

Appear like mice; and yond tall anchoring bark,

Diminish'd to her cock; her cock, a buoy

Almost too small for sight."

"I'll look no more," said Josiah, who also knew his Shakespeare.

"Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight

Topple down headlong."

It was passing strange and at first dreadful, this intense silence and

this strangeness of the familiar earth. But after a while everything

like terror passed away from Josiah's mind. He began to feel the

fascination of the thing. His spirits rose as he breathed the delicious

air, and when the captain said, "We are over the water now," and Josiah

looking down discerned the sea gleaming below, he could have clapped his

hands for joy.

"This is splendid," said the captain. "We'll be across in half an hour.

We'll catch the train for Paris, and you shall dance at the Closerie

to-night."

Josiah didn't dance, and didn't know what the Closerie might be. But he

was not without susceptibility to the allurement of a quiet dinner in

Paris, and began to feel the exhilaration of having accomplished a

perilous feat, to which he would certainly drag in some reference in his

great work. It would be difficult, as he was as far as possible remote

from Underground England. But it might be worked in some antithetical

sentence.

After they had sailed for the space of ten minutes the captain, who had

been throwing out bits of paper which they left far behind, suddenly

said a bad word.

"We are becalmed," he continued, and truly the bits of paper flung out

floated idly round the balloon. "We must get out of this."

He cast out the ballast, bag after bag, and higher still they soared.

Nevertheless, whenever they flung out the bits of paper, they floated

here and there, some dropping back into the car.

"There goes our last bag of ballast," said the captain, "and may luck go

with it. We are lost men unless it takes us into another current, which

let us hope won't be coming from the East and carry us out into the

Atlantic."

Up again they mounted, how many feet Josiah didn't know, but he was

sensible of a sudden iciness in the atmosphere, a tingling of the blood

at his finger ends, and a strong disposition to bleed at the nose. The

captain threw out some more bits of paper. Still they circled round and

round, dropping into the car or falling to the distant earth now utterly

out of sight. They had passed through the cloud, and had above them a

chilly sun and an intensely blue sky. Below them were the clouds, on one

of which was clearly caught the shadow of the balloon. Josiah, when he

moved his head, could see an answering motion on the cloud, and

recognised the reflection of the captain's figure, sitting stern and

erect, with his teeth set and a look of angry determination on his brow.

This frightened Josiah a great deal more than the captain's words. He

felt that they were lost in space, and that the end must speedily come.

This terrible look on the captain's face made him sick at heart.

"Mr. Smith," said the captain, speaking scarcely above a whisper, but

his voice sounded as if he were shouting from the housetops, "you told

me you were _not_ a married man."

"Yes," said Josiah, "I have never been married."

"That is so, or I should not have asked you to come with me. And you

have not many relations?"

"No," said Josiah, "there are not many that would miss me."

"Very well," said the captain; "I have; but your life is as valuable as

mine, and I would hold you at no disadvantage. The fact is, we are

becalmed, and there is no prospect of any wind reaching us here till

night, when we shan't know which way we are drifting, and may as well

give up all hope. There is wind overhead, I know, and it is going

straight for France. If we could get up another thousand feet or so, we

should catch the current and be over land in ten minutes. But all the

ballast has gone, and there is only one thing to be done."

"What's that?" asked Josiah faintly.

"One of us must go overboard," said the captain.

Josiah felt his heart sink within him.

"I am not sure that it would be much use my going over," the captain

continued, discussing the matter as quietly as if he were arranging what

they should have for dinner. "I'm such a thundering weight, you'd shoot

up till you bumped your head against Jupiter; and besides, you would not

know what to do with the balloon if I was gone. Still, I think we should

have equal chances. Now, I'll give you the first chance. You get hold of

me and try to push me over. If I go, you will find the balloon shoot up;

but don't be frightened: you'll be all right in a bit, and can let out a

few feet of gas. If you can't get me over--well, I must try to get _you_

over. Hold on a bit till I light a cigar."

In the calm still air the captain struck a light, bending low in the car

to avoid contact of flame and gas, bit the end of a cigar, and lit it.

Josiah, shaking with terror, could see in the shadow of the balloon on

the cloud the smoke curling up from the cigar and lazily spreading

itself out.

"Now, old chappie," said the captain, "I'm ready. Heave hard, and over I

go."

What was the use of disputing with a man like this? Josiah never had

been inclined to fight with men of strong will. He was certain he could

not move the captain, but he was able to try, and try he did. He got one

foot over the car, the captain encouraging him and cheerfully smoking.

"Very well done, old man. A few more tugs, and over we go. I'll just

have time to finish my cigar before I get to the bottom."

Josiah tugged and tugged till he felt the warm blood rushing through his

veins and his breath came short But though he might move one of the

captain's colossal legs, which seemed to his disordered fancy to be the

size of the Monument, he could do no more. The captain sat passive,

encouraging him by every kindly phrase he could think of. But it was of

no use, and after ten minutes' violent struggling Josiah threw himself

back in the car.

"Very sorry, old man," said the captain, with a tone of unmistakable

sincerity. "Thought once you'd have done it; but I've got a little out

of training lately and run up half a stun. Now I must see what I can do

with you."

First of all he tore off some slips of paper and threw them out. Josiah

looked at them with hungry eyes. Round and round they spun, falling back

into the car or dropping to the world beyond the clouds. There was no

hope of movement for the balloon.

"Well, Mr. Smith, it's your turn now. I must see what I can do. It's not

nice for either of us, but it would be no nicer to stay here and be

starved to death or blown out to sea. You won't feel anything after the

first rush. Good-bye. I am sorry there will be no opportunity of my

communicating with you as to the result of this interesting experiment.

I don't suppose," the captain added, his love of scientific research

increasing his unfeigned regret for the inconvenience Josiah was about

to suffer, "that ever before ten stun was dropped out of a car in a

lump. I reckon I'll get as high as most people have been. Now, if you've

any message, just hand it over. If I can do anything for you in King

Street or anywhere else, you may depend upon me."

"No," said Josiah, gulping down a rising sob; "if you will only say I

went off bravely and didn't flinch, that will be all. Perhaps you might

write a few lines by way of preface to 'Underground England,' pointing

out that I died in the interests of science."

"Certainly, my dear fellow, it shall be done," said the captain, with

quite a glow of honest energy. "If you'd like a little monument or

anything of that sort, I'll see it's run up. Now, over you go. Time's

getting on, and I don't want to miss the Paris train. Give us a shake of

your paw, then shut your eyes, for I fancy I shan't have much difficulty

with you. Heave your watch over or take it with you!"

"If you wouldn't mind accepting it," said Josiah, pulling out his fine

old turnip-shaped time-piece, "as a memento of our friendship--which,

though brief, has I trust been sincere--it would give me great

pleasure."

"Certainly," said the captain, weighing it in his hand critically, and

thinking to himself that it might serve as ballast in a last emergency.

"I'll hang it over my bed, and will think of you whenever it ticks.

Nothing more to say?"

"No," said Josiah; "only, please to drop me feet first."

The captain took him in his arms as if he were a child, held him for a

moment over the side of the car, and with a cheery farewell dropped him.

Josiah felt his hat go, and could see the balloon shoot up with

tremendous rapidity, though, as he reckoned, the rate of velocity would

need to be divided by about half, as he was simultaneously descending

rapidly. He felt the rush of air, and shrank from the moment, coming

nearer and nearer, when he should strike the earth. He seemed an

unconscionably long time falling. Still, through the clouds he went,

and, it seemed to him at the end of five minutes, began to get glimpses

of the earth. Down he went like a shot. The rushing noise in his ears

grew more intolerable. There was a swift upgrowth of the hedgerows, a

sudden vision of cows and horses, and of people running across fields.

Then a heavy bump, and Josiah, opening his eyes, found himself lying on

the floor in the room in King Street.

On the table were an empty claret bottle and two tumblers. The room was

full of the smoke, now growing stale, of cigars. Josiah was shivering

with cold, and the room was dark save from what light flickered in from

the lamp down the street. He struck a light, and there in its accustomed

place on the mantelpiece was his watch, the hands pointing to three

o'clock. Dazed and shivering he crept into bed, where he thought the

matter over, and amid much that was bewildering groped his way to the

conclusion that Captain Mulberry really had come into his room, had

spent an hour with him, smoked cigars, drunk claret, and then gone off.

He remembered standing at the head of the stairs shaking hands with him,

and promising to dine with him at his club one day in the following

week. Then he had gone back and lain on the couch, where, overcome with

the unaccustomed tumbler of claret and dazed with the tobacco smoke, he

had fallen asleep, dreamed, and rolled off on to the floor.

HENRY W. LUCY.

NUMBER 7639.

CHAPTER I.

A poor garret on the sixth floor of one of the poorest houses in the

poorest quarters of Paris, does not give much opportunity for a detailed

description. There is little to be said about the furniture, which in

this case consisted of a rickety old table, a wooden stool, and a small

charcoal stove, all of the commonest kind, but all clean, and the room

was not quite without adornment. The window, to be sure, was in the

roof, but pinned to the wall were a few newspaper prints in strong

blacks and whites, and--most remarkable of all--there was an alcove for

the bed, which was carefully shut off from the room by a gaily

variegated chintz. In spite of its poverty and bareness, there was

nothing squalid or unwholesome about the place.

The house itself was a tall narrow slip. People of different callings,

and different degrees of respectability, lived in it; on the whole it

had not a bad character. The landlord was an immensely fat man, called

Plon--a name which, irresistibly converted into Plon-Plon, seemed to

give an aristocratic air to the house--and he lived and made shoes in a

small room at the foot of the lowest flight of stairs, so that he acted

as his own _concierge_, and boasted that no one came in or out without

his knowledge. Probably some of his lodgers contrived to elude his

vigilance, but he was as obstinate in his belief as an old Norman has a

right to be, and was a kind-hearted old fellow in the main, though with

the reputation of a _grognard_, and a ridiculous fear of being

discovered in a good action. Perhaps with this fear, the more credit was

due to him for occasionally running the risk, as when he saw young

Monnier, the artist, coming down the stairs one evening with a look in

his eyes, which Plon told himself gave him an immediate shuddering

back-sensation, as of cold water and marble slabs. Plon did something

for him, perhaps knocked off the rent, but he implored Monnier to show

his gratitude by saying nothing, and he never gave him more of a

greeting than the sidelong twist he vouchsafed to the other lodgers. For

the rest, his benevolence depended in a great measure upon his temper,

and he prided himself upon being very terrible at times.

With five floors we have nothing to do, and need waste no time over

them. The inmates mostly went out early and came in late, but the house

kept better hours than its neighbours, for the simple reason that those

who arrived after a certain time found themselves shut into the street

for the night. They might hammer and appeal in the strongest language

of their vocabulary, but Plon snored unmoved, and nothing short of a

fire in the house would have turned him out of his bed. Gradually this

became so well understood, that his lodgers accommodated themselves to

it as to any other of the inexorable laws of fate.

On the sixth and highest floor the crowded house resolved itself into

comparative quiet. Besides the garret of which we have spoken, there

were two other rooms, but for some years past these had been used merely

as store-rooms for furniture. No one knew to whom the furniture

belonged, some curious speculators avowing that Plon had a child--a

girl--at school in Normandy, and had collected it as part of her dowry;

others that some mysterious tie of gratitude bound him to the owner.

Whoever was right or wrong, the rooms remained closed and unlet.

The garret itself was inhabited by a young widow, whose story was

sufficiently sad. She was the daughter of a farmer in the north of

France, and married to a glazier, Jean Didier by name, with whom she had

come to Paris in search of work. If there had been no war, and, above

all, no Commune, things might have gone well with the young couple, but,

unhappily, one followed the other, and there was an end of peace. Jean

was no fool, but he was too certain that he was extremely wise not to

make mistakes, and he possessed enough of the French nature to be easily

influenced by the brag and fine promises which filled the air at that

time. It is always satisfactory to reflect on changes which assure us

the highest step of a ladder, which ordinarily takes a life-time for a

step. Jean talked a great deal about it, not only to Marie, who would

have been safe, but to others who agreed with him more thoroughly, and

were dangerous. Nevertheless, when the Commune, in March, 1871, broke

into actual life, and Jean began to see what it all meant, he was

terrified by the outburst and held back. Things which look seductive in

theory, have a way of losing their gloss when they appear as hard

realities, with accompaniments which do not belong to the ideals; and

the rabble rout of half-drunk citizens who marched, shouting, through

the streets of the 19th _arrondissement_, frightened Marie out of her

senses. She clung to Jean, and implored him not to join them on pain of

breaking her heart. To do him justice, common sense, perhaps aided by a

desire to keep out of the way of rifle-balls, was proving stronger than

bombast; and, to do him justice again, he was desirous to keep others

than himself from danger.

It was this which brought about the catastrophe. May came, and with it

the conquering troops from Versailles poured into the city. It was

sufficiently clear what the end would be; Jean, who never distrusted his

own reasoning powers, insisted, in spite of his wife's prayers and

Plon's expostulations, in going out into the streets, and trying to

dissuade some of his comrades from fighting. He promised to return

immediately, but he did not come, Marie became almost frenzied with

terror. She would have rushed out to seek him, but that she knew not

where to turn, and if he came, wanting help, and she was not there to

give it, matters might go hardly with him. The din of battle drew

nearer, shells were falling, bullets were whizzing, it seemed hardly

possible that any one could escape, and yet, men went by shouting and

singing, mad with either drink or excitement. Plon, after entreating

Madame Didier to come farther into shelter, shut himself into his little

room with a white face, and was seen no more. Everything seemed to grow

more horrid as the night drew on.

At about ten o'clock, Plon, hearing voices in the passage, peeped out.

There still stood Madame Didier, wan as a ghost, but with the restless

excitement gone. A man was speaking to her, an elderly, grimy,

frightened-looking man, with a bald head. He was telling a story in a

dull, hopeless kind of way, as if at such a time no one story was

particularly distinguished from another, and pity had to wait for

quieter seasons.

"He was shot in the next street; Jean says he never wished to go with

them, but they forced him along. After that he got into a doorway, where

he might have hidden himself, but Fort saw him, and denounced him. Fort

might have left him alone, as it was he your husband was trying to

persuade, but at such a time men look after their own skins. They

dragged him out and set him up with some others against a wall, and

that was the end of him, and of a good many others."

His listener flung up her hands with a gesture of wild despair, and

turned her face to the wall, speechless. The man, who was by trade a

_trieur_ or chief _chiffonnier_, seeing Plon's head appear,

turned round and addressed himself to him.

"Fort is a traitor, he has denounced others. They will be here presently

searching for arms. It is short work I can tell you."

"And my--my _locataire_ is shot!" murmured Plon, panic-struck. But the

man whose mission was ended, turned round without another word and went

out into the lurid darkness.

The landlord made a trembling effort to stagger across the passage, and

to pluck at Marie's gown. When he spoke, his voice quavered with fright.

"Come, come, Madame Didier, go upstairs, and--and--cry there like a good

woman. Here it isn't safe. Besides, if they know who you are, I might be

compromised. Poor Jean! Heavens!--"

For a volley of rifle shot poured down the street, a rush of feet

followed; and Plon fled precipitously to his den, double-bolted his

door, and rolled his mattress round him for protection. Marie Didier

slowly turned her head, and, as if recognising the wisdom of his advice,

felt her way along the wall and groped up the dark staircase. No one had

lit the small oil lamp on the _premier_, but light from burning houses

flashed in at windows; a child had been killed by the fragment of a

shell, and the mother was loudly wailing; some were peering out of

their doorways; they stared at Marie, who crept up like a ghost. In this

rookery the young couple had kept themselves apart, and had no friends.

But it was instinctively known that something had happened to Jean, and

only one woman was bold enough to question the wife. She answered

steadily in a strange strained voice:

"They are searching the houses. We shall have them soon."

It was, however, an hour before a party of soldiers made a rough

visitation. They dragged Plon out of his mattress, and made him climb

the stairs, panting and protesting. When they reached the top garret,

Marie was sitting in the darkness, with her arms on the poor table; she

did not move as they entered.

"Bring in the lantern!" shouted the sergeant. "Now, good woman, who have

you got hiding here?"

She turned a white face upon him, speechless. Plon, who was recovering

his pomposity, pressed forward, and laid a hand on the soldier's arm.

"Don't worry her, sergeant," he said, "her husband has just been shot."

"Serve him right," said the man brutally. "Are there more of the brood

about?"

"Not a soul. They lived here alone, these two."

"Well, we'll see."

"No cupboards here," said a soldier, whose face was bleeding from a

bayonet scratch.

"There's a trap door, though," said the sergeant, holding the lantern

up to the ceiling. He glanced sharply at Marie, but she remained

immovable. "Humph," he grumbled, "if he is shot he is out of the way.

Now, friend Porpoise, the other rooms if you please."

They searched these thoroughly with no better success. But when they had

satisfied themselves and were out again, the sergeant, whose suspicions

seemed to have been aroused, flung open the door of the Didiers' garret,

and turned the lantern full upon Marie once more. She had not moved hand

or foot.

"What is that blood?" said the sergeant, pointing to a trail of red

drops on the floor.

For answer she silently rolled back her sleeve, and unbandaging her arm,

showed a deep cut, from which the blood still oozed.

"Good. She has no one," said the man, withdrawing the light.

This, as all the world knows, was in 1871. Four years afterwards, at the

time my story begins, Marie Didier still occupied that attic. She lived

by taking in needlework, and it was sometimes a wonder to the few who

knew her, that working so hard as she did, she should remain so poor.

The furniture of her attic I have described, the sole addition she had

made to it was the gay chintz which curtained off the alcove with the

bed. She was always ready to do a kindness, but made no acquaintances,

and the only persons who ever climbed to her attic were Plon, who made

occasional weighty visitations, often discoursed upon his prowess at the

time of the Commune; and an idiot girl called Périne, whom Marie one day

found crying in the street; she had no father or mother, and the old

rag-picker she lived with beat her. Once or twice Marie gave her food,

and the poor creature attached herself to her like a dog, followed her

upstairs and lay across her door. After a while Madame Didier admitted

her into her room at times, and let her share her poor meals, and sleep

on a heap of sacking outside the door. Périne, in such prosperity, was

as happy as a queen. It is true that Plon at first objected, but Marie

could persuade him into anything, and he only grumbled.

On one winter day, Marie was stooping over the stove stirring something

in an earthen pipkin; Périne, seated on the wooden stool, leaned forward

and watched her operations with excessive interest. Perhaps for want of

an intelligent companion, Madame Didier was in the habit of

soliloquising aloud, and at this moment she was saying cheerfully:

"Not much, to be sure, but something! I should have liked a carrot or

two, but in these hard times that would have been extravagant. And,

after all, there is some credit in making good soup out of nothing at

all. If one could run here and there in the market--'A pound of your

best veal, monsieur'--'A bunch of those fine turnips, and a stick of

celery, madame'--well, truth obliges me to admit that it is possible

the soup would have a finer flavour, but there would not be the

satisfaction of seeing it grow out of a few onions a crust of bread, and

a pinch of salt. And that is a satisfaction which I am favoured with

tolerably often. Well, Périne, my child, it interests you--this

occupation--does it not? Do you think you will ever learn to make soup?"

The girl nodded many times.

"Périne eat it," she said.

"Listen to her!" Marie exclaimed, patting her cheek approvingly. "And

that any one should say she has no sense! She knows as well as any of

us, that the great thing in soup is to eat it with an appetite, and so

she puts together two and two--"

She was interrupted by the girl.

"Four!" she said abruptly.

Madame Didier, instead of showing astonishment, began to laugh.

"There she is with her numbers again! How strange it is that she should

never forget a number or make a mistake in a sum! In taking away or

adding together one can't puzzle her. I don't mean that I can't," she

continued, apparently addressing no one in particular, "because I am a

poor ignorant woman; but wiser people than I. Now, Périne, you shall

have your lesson. See here, I shall stand near my bed, and you over

there with your face to the wall. Do you understand?"

The girl nodded, and stumbling along towards the place indicated,

contrived on her way to knock down and break into atoms a white dish.

"Oh, the unfortunate child!" cried Marie, darting forward. "Another! and

it was my last! How many more things will you destroy!"

At this reproach the guilt-stricken Périne covered her face and howled

aloud, and Madame Didier's momentary anger passed.

"There, don't cry!" she said, "crying does no good, and it was an

accident. You'll be more careful another time, won't you? Try to move

gently, and look where you go, or some day you will hurt yourself. At

present let me see you stand well against the wall, so! I put on the

soup--and we are ready."

As she said these words she went back to the alcove. And then a strange

thing happened. For from behind the gaily-figured chintz, there issued a

strange hoarse whisper, which caused so little astonishment to Madame

Didier, that she merely echoed the words aloud. Apparently this was

Périne's lesson.

"Seven six nine, and eight five four," repeated Madame Didier.

The answer from the girl came instantaneously:

"Sixteen hundred and twenty-three."

Her teacher paused for a moment, perhaps to allow the whisperer time for

objection, if there were one to make, but as nothing came she said

cheerfully:

"Good! Now let me think of another."

"Nine ought three, and fifteen nine seven," prompted the hidden voice.

"Ah, here is a fine one! Nine ought--" she hesitated, "fifteen--"

The voice corrected her impatiently: "Nine ought three, and fifteen nine

seven."

In the same whisper she answered "Hush!" warningly, before repeating the

figures aloud and correctly. The girl, on her part, returned rapidly and

indifferently:

"Twenty-five hundred."

"She seems a different creature when she is doing it!" Marie exclaimed

admiringly. "Now one more, and then I must run down and see in what sort

of a temper Monsieur Plon finds himself. If it is good, he will lend me

his journal. At any rate, I shall only be gone a moment. _Allons!_

Something difficult, something to take away, shall it be?"

As before the whisper responded:

"From thirteen thousand nine hundred and fifty-nine, take eight thousand

five hundred and four."

Madame Didier began in a puzzled voice, "From eight thousand five

hundred and four, take thirteen--" but, seeing Périne shake her head,

caught herself up. "No, no, not that, of course not that!"

"The other way, stupid woman!" said the whisper.

Slowly she started again, "From thirteen thousand," and, interprompted

by the mysterious voice, arrived at the end of her sum, "nine hundred

and--fifty--nine--take--eight--thousand--five hundred--and--four."

Quick as thought came the answer:

"Five thousand four hundred and fifty-five."

"All those fives! You are really a wonder, Périne!" said Marie happily.

"I never could do anything like that, decidedly I am only fit to make

soup. Well, every one to his trade--we can't dine upon figures. If we

could you would provide us with plenty, eh, my child? But now I have

something for you to do while I am away. Here is the stool; I am going

to put it before the fire, so, and you shall sit upon it and watch the

pot for me. Don't move, and don't look behind you, and then, by-and-by,

you shall have a basin of the soup. If only I had something to put into

it, something good, for bread and onions are not too fattening. However,

there is plenty to be thankful for. Remember, Périne, you must not take

your eyes off the soup."

The girl, who seemed to have the faculty of obedience, sat down where

she was directed, and fastened her stolid gaze upon the pot. For a time

there was absolute silence in the garret, a ray of cold winter sunshine,

cold but bright (for this was Paris), streamed in through the little

window in the roof, and fell on Périne's slouching figure and coarse

hair. Less than five minutes, however, had passed, when the chintz

curtains of the alcove shook, parted, and from between them looked out

a pale and haggard man's face.

It will be guessed that this third inhabitant of the sixth floor attic

was no other than Jean Didier, whose name had been entered in the

_bureau_ of police--when they tried to get some imperfect statistics of

missing men--as "Jean Didier, glazier; fought with the insurgents,

wounded at the barricade of the Rue Soleil d'Or, May 28th, 1871;

denounced as Communist by André Fort; executed on the spot."

Nevertheless, for once the police were wrong. Jean was not shot, though

it was true he was shot at. Fear, or loss of blood, or an instinctive

effort at self-preservation, caused him to reel and fall just a second

before a couple of bullets which should have found a home in his body,

spent themselves in the blood-stained wall over his head. The tide of

slaughter ebbed away, leaving ghastly heaps of dead men. From one of

these a shadow by-and-by detached itself, and drifted homewards, to the

spot where Marie was waiting in terrible anguish.

Her courage came back with the need for it; it took very little to add

to the disguise which fire and a wound had brought upon him; the people

in the house were at that moment much occupied with dragging down the

papers they had pasted over their windows. He crawled upstairs, and when

she had hastily bound up his wound, and given him some food, he managed

to get out on the roof through the trap-door. There he spent three days,

coming down at night, till she was able to put up her new chintz

curtains, and here in the garret he had remained ever since, sometimes

fairly patient, sometimes finding his lot insupportable, and railing at

fate, at Marie, and at Providence. He had had a few narrow escapes, but

his wife was as cunning as a fox when he was concerned, and fortune had

favoured him.

Périne's presence had a double aspect. The loneliness of the position

was so difficult for a man of his temperament to support, that he

welcomed it at times as a distraction, and these exercises of the

strange ingenuity of brain which she possessed, at the cost, as it

seemed, of all other intelligences, would very often interest and amuse

him. On the other hand she was quite as valuable as a grievance. If he

had no other fault to find with his wife, he could always blame her for

suffering the idiot girl to hang about the place, and the relief of this

was enormous. On the present occasion he contemplated her broad back

with displeasure.

"Wretched creature! There she sits, and will sit till Marie comes back;

I wonder what she thinks would happen to her if she were to look round?

Lucky for me if she pictures some terrible fate. What sort of confused

nonsense is running through her head now? Soup and Marie take a

prominent place, I wager. So precious hard up does one become in this

rat's hole, that I make her my problem as she makes the soup hers, poor

wretch! Yet, my excellent friend, Jean Didier, I would counsel you to

keep your compassion for yourself, for, believe me, you want it at least

as much. As much? Rather, a hundred times more! For she--she knows

nothing of the blessings she has missed, while I--Heavens, I know too

well! To be cooped up here, to see no one but Marie and this idiot; to

be aware that at any moment any thing, the merest trifle, might betray

me to death, or at least transportation to New California,--was ever man

so unhappy in this world!"

Jean, who had a turn for the melodramatic, tugged despairingly with both

hands at his hair, Périne, meanwhile, intent upon the soup, bent forward

and stirred it.

"Soup for mother and Périne," she muttered.

"What red hands she has!" continued Jean with a grimace, "and I hate to

hear her call Marie, mother. But it's just Marie all over. She never

could see a poor wretch, were it only a hunted rat, but she must take it

up, and give herself all the trouble in the world, when she might have

left it alone. She was just the same as a little girl, I see her now, in

her little round cap and woollen frock, scattering food for the

frozen-out birds in the hard winters. Such a pretty, rosy-faced little

thing as she was, and they all so fond of her! I recollect taking her to

school in my wooden sledge, and she--What's the girl about now?

Why--what dog has bitten her! She has taken my tobacco from the

shelf--she--not--! Yes, by heaven, she has poured it all into the soup!"

"Périne heard mother say she wanted something to make the soup good,"

laughed the girl, nodding her head, and quite unconscious that behind

her the enraged Jean was violently shaking his fist.

"Horror! To see tobacco, dinner, everything ruined by that creature

without being able to say a word! It is simply atrocious of Marie to go

away, leave her to do all this mischief, and then expect me to put up

with it! My pipe, my one comfort! Ah-h-h-h! if only I could box her ears

and stop her from grinning away as if she had done a clever thing!"

It was at this moment that Marie returned, carrying in her arms a

cabbage. At the door, seeing the angry and distracted gesture of her

husband, she paused in consternation.

"But what then? Has anything gone wrong? The soup--Périne, you

unfortunate child, have you touched the soup?"

The girl pointed with triumph to where the tobacco had been.

"Good stuff, mother," she said, nodding.

"The tobacco! You have it put in!--Oh, my poor friend, no wonder you are

angry!" said Madame Didier in an undertone.

"Out with her!" cried her husband in a fierce whisper.

"Périne, Périne, and I have warned you so often to touch nothing without

leave! Now you have spoilt the soup, and we can have no dinner."

There was this inconvenience in the quick remorse which seized the girl

when Marie reproved her, however gently, that she broke at once into

sobs, which were as clumsy and unmanageable as her hands and feet. Jean

disliked them intensely, and he now made frantic signs to his wife that

she was to be sent away. "But she is as hungry as we are," pleaded

Marie, "and see, M. Plon has given me a cabbage, I can manage

something."

He was, however, inexorable; and his wife, always afraid of his

committing some imprudence, though on the whole Jean might be trusted to

take care of himself, said sorrowfully:

"Périne, my poor child, you must go; there is no dinner for you today.

Don't cry, don't cry; you meant no harm--you did not know, and Heaven is

witness how sorely we sometimes suffer for that!"

Between her sobs the girl jerked out piteously:

"Périne come back?"

Marie looked imploringly at her husband, but he shook his head.

"Not tonight, not to-night, my child. As you go out beg for a bit of

bread from M. Plon, he is in a splendid temper, and will not refuse it.

There make haste, go!"

She took her by the shoulders and pushed her towards the door, but when

she left her outside, kissed her.

PART II.

Périne had no sooner gone than Jean came out and flung himself angrily

on a chair.

"I shall stand this no longer. I give you notice of my determination,

Marie. You have her here, I believe, solely to torment me. Figure to

yourself having to stand by helpless, and see the creature put an end to

both one's dinner and one's pipe! She is not to come here any more,

those are my orders. Do you hear?"

"Yes, I hear," said Marie quietly, "but I beg of you to change your

mind. We are badly off, I allow, yet somehow or other we can always rub

along, and this poor child is in worse plight than we are."

"Worse? Nonsense. No one can be worse off than I am. Denounced,

executed, for I assure you I felt that bullet go through my brain, saved

just by the hair of my head--"

"Such a mercy!" breathed the wife.

"A mercy, yes--but you who can go and come and amuse yourself, never

think what this life must be to me, cooped up like a rat in his hole.

There are times when I believe I should do better to give myself up."

"For the sake of Heaven, Jean--!"

"At any rate," said Jean, descending from his heights, "I will not have

that _imbécile_ here. You understand?"

Marie looked at him indulgently. "Yes, my friend, I understand."