CHAPTER IX.

WILL THE ARCHITECT HAVE EMPLOYMENT?

On entering the factory, Leonhard met Loretz near the door talking

with Albert Spener. When he saw Leonhard, Loretz said, "I was just

saying to Mr. Spener that I expected you, sir, and how he might

recognize you; but you shall speak for yourself. If you will spend a

little time looking about, I shall be back soon: perhaps Mr. Spener--"

"Mr. Leonhard Marten, I believe," said Mr. Albert Spener with a little

exaggeration of his natural stiffness. Perhaps he did not suspect that

all the morning he had been manifesting considerable loftiness toward

Loretz, and that he spoke in a way that made Leonhard feel that his

departure from Spenersberg would probably take place within something

less than twenty-four hours.

Yet within half an hour the young men were walking up and down the

factory, examining machinery and work, and talking as freely as if

they had known each other six months. They were not in everything

as unlike as they were in person. Spener was a tall, spare man, who

conveyed an impression of mental strength and physical activity. He

could turn his hand to anything, and _attempt_ anything that was to be

done by skillful handicraft; and whether he could use his wits well

in shaping men, let Spenersberg answer. His square-shaped head was

covered with bright brown hair, which had a reddish tinge, and his

moustache was of no stinted growth: his black eyes penetrated and

flashed, and could glow and glare in a way to make weakness and

feebleness tremble. His quick speech did not spare: right and left he

used his swords of thought and will. Fall in! or, Out of the way! were

the commands laid down by him since the foundations of Spenersberg

were laid. In the fancy-goods line he might have made of himself a

spectacle, supposing he could have remained in the trade; but set

apart here in this vale, the centre of a sphere of his own creation,

where there was something at stake vast enough to justify the exercise

of energy and authority, he had a field for the fair play of all that

was within him--the worst and the best. The worst that he could be he

was--a tyrant; and the best that he could be he was--a lover. Hitherto

his tyrannies had brought about good results only, but it was well

that the girl he loved had not only spirit and courage enough to love

him, but also faith enough to remove mountains.

If Leonhard had determined that he would make a friend of Spener

before he entered the factory, he could not have proceeded more wisely

than he did. First, he was interested in the works, and intent on

being told about the manufacture of articles of furniture from a

product ostensibly of such small account as the willow; then he was

interested in the designs and surprised at the ingenious variety, and

curious to learn their source, and amazed to hear that Mr. Spener had

himself originated more than half of them. Then presently he began to

suggest designs, and at the end of an hour he found himself at a table

in Spener's office drawing shapes for baskets and chairs and tables

and ornamental devices, and making Spener laugh so at some remark as

to be heard all over the building.

"You say you are an architect," he said after Leonhard had covered a

sheet of paper with suggestions written and outlined for him, which he

looked at with swiftly-comprehending and satisfied eyes. "What do you

say to doing a job for me?"

"With all my heart," answered Leonhard, "if it can be done at once."

These words were in the highest degree satisfactory. Here was a man

who knew the worth of a minute. He was the man for Spener. "Come with

me," he said, "and I'll show you a building-site or two worth putting

money on;" and so they walked together out of the factory, crossed a

rustic foot-bridge to the opposite side, ascended a sunny half-cleared

slope and passed across a field; and there beneath them, far below,

rolled the grand river which had among its notable ports this little

Spenersberg.

"What do you think of a house on this site, sir?" asked Spener,

looking with no small degree of satisfaction around him and down the

rocky steep.

"I think I should like to be commissioned to build a castle with

towers and gates of this very granite which you could hew out by

the thousand cord from the quarry yonder. What a perfect gray for

building!"

"I have always thought I would use the material on the ground--the

best compliment I could pay this place which I have raised my fortune

out of," said Spener.

"There's no better material on the earth," said Leonhard.

"But I don't want a castle: I want a house with room enough in

it--high ceilings, wide halls, and a piazza fifteen or twenty feet

wide all around it."

"Must I give up the castle? There isn't a better site on the Rhine

than this."

"But I'm not a baron, and I live at peace with my neighbors--at least

with outsiders." That last remark was an unfortunate one, for it

brought the speaker back consciously to confront the images which were

constantly lurking round him--only hid when he commanded them out of

sight in the manfulness of a spirit that would not be interfered

with in its work. He sat looking at Leonhard opposite to him, who had

already taken a note-book and pencil from his pocket, and, planting

his left foot firmly against one of the great rocks of the cliff, he

said, "Loretz tells me you stayed all night at his house."

"Yes, he invited me in when I inquired my way to the inn."

"Sister Benigna was there?"

"She wasn't anywhere else," said Leonhard, looking up and smiling.

"Excuse the slang. If you are where she is, you may feel very certain

about her being there."

"Not at all," said Albert, evidently nettled into argument by the

theme he had introduced. "She is one of those persons who can be in

several places at the same time. You heard them sing, I suppose. They

are preparing for the congregation festival. It is six years since

we started here, but we only built our church last year: this year

we have the first celebration in the edifice, and of course there is

great preparation."

"I have been wondering how I could go away before it takes place ever

since I heard of it."

"If you wonder less how you can stay, remain of course," said Spener

with no great cordiality: he owed this stranger nothing, after all.

"It will only be to prove that I am really music-mad, as they have

been telling me ever since I was born. If that is the case, from the

evidences I have had since I came here I think I shall recover."

"What do you mean?" asked Spener.

"I mean that I see how little I really know about the science. I

never heard anything to equal the musical knowledge and execution of

Loretz's daughter and this Sister Benigna you speak of."

"Ah! I am not a musician. I tried the trombone, but lacked the

patience. I am satisfied to admire. And so you liked the singers?

Which best?"

"Both."

"Come, come--what was the difference?"

"The difference?" repeated Leonhard reflecting.

Spener also seemed to reflect on his question, and was so absorbed

in his thinking that he seemed to be startled when Leonhard, from his

studies of the square house with the wide halls and the large rooms

with high ceilings, turned to him and said, "The difference, sir, is

between two women."

"No difference at all, do you mean? Do you mean they are alike? They

are not alike."

"Not so alike that I have seen anything like either of them."

"Ah! neither have I. For that reason I shall marry one of them, while

the other I would not marry--no, not if she were the only woman on the

continent."

"You are a fortunate man," said Leonhard.

"I intend to prove that. Nothing more is necessary than the girl's

consent--is there?--if you have made up your mind that you must have

her."

"I should think you might say that, sir."

"But you don't hazard an opinion as to which, sir."

"Not I."

"Why not?"

"It might be Miss Elise, if--"

"If what?"

"I am not accustomed to see young ladies in their homes. I have only

fancied sometimes what a pretty girl might be in her father's house."

"Well, sir?" said Spener impatiently.

"A young lady like Miss Elise would have a great deal to say, I should

suppose."

"Is she dumb? I thought she could talk. I should have said so."

"I should have guessed, too, that she would always be singing about

the house."

"And if not--what then?"

"Something must be going wrong somewhere. So you see it can't be Miss

Elise, according to my judgment."

Spener laughed when this conclusion was reached.

"Come here again within a month and see if she can talk and sing,"

said he with eyes flashing. "Perhaps you have found that it is as easy

to frighten a bugbear out of the way as to be frightened by one. I

never found, sir, that I couldn't put a stumbling-block out of my

path. We have one little man here who is going to prove himself a

nuisance, I'm afraid. He is a good little fellow, too. I always liked

him until he undertook to manage my affairs. I don't propose to give

up the reins yet a while, and until I do, you see, he has no chance.

I am sorry about it, for I considered him quite like a friend; but a

friend, sir, with a flaw in him is worse than an enemy. I know where

to find my enemies, but I can't keep track of a man who pretends to be

a friend and serves me ill. But pshaw! let me see what you are doing."

Leonhard was glad when the man ceased from discoursing on

friendship--a favorite theme among Spenersbergers, he began to

think--and glad to break away from his work, for he held his pencil

less firmly than he should have done.

Spener studied the portion completed, and seemed surprised as well as

pleased. "You know your business," said he. "Be so good as to finish

the design."

Then returning the book to Leonhard, he looked at his watch. "It is

time I went to dinner," he said. "Come with me. Loretz knows you are

with me, and will expect you to be my guest to-day." So they walked

across the field, but did not descend by the path along which they had

ascended. They went farther to the east, and Spener led the way down

the rough hillside until he came to a point whence the descent was

less steep and difficult. There he paused. A beautiful view was spread

before them. Little Spenersberg lay on the slope opposite: between ran

the stream, which widened farther toward the east and narrowed toward

the west, where it emptied into the river. Eastward the valley also

widened, and there the willows grew, and looked like a great garden,

beautiful in every shade of green.

"I should not have the river from this point," said Spener, "but I

should have a great deal more, and be nearer the people: I do not

think it would be the thing to appear even to separate myself from

them. I have done a great deal not so agreeable to me, I assure you,

in order to bring myself near to them. One must make sacrifices to

obtain his ends: it is only to count the cost and then be ready to put

down the money. Suppose you plant a house just here."

"How could it be done?"

"You an architect and ask me!"

"Things can be planted anywhere," answered Leonhard, "but whether the

cost of production will not be greater than the fruit is worth, is

the question. You can have a platform built here as broad as that the

temple stood on if you are willing to pay for the foundations."

"That is the talk!" said Spener. "Take a square look, and let me know

what you can do toward a house on the hillside. You see there is no

end of raw material for building, and it is a perfect prospect. But

come now to dinner."

CAROLINE CHESEBRO.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

COUNTRY-HOUSE LIFE IN ENGLAND.

The love for country life is, if possible, stronger in England now

than at any previous period in her history. There is no other country

where this taste has prevailed to the same extent. It arose originally

from causes mainly political. In France a similar condition of things

existed down to the sixteenth century, and was mainly brought to an

end by the policy of ministers, who dreaded the increasing power of

petty princes in remote provinces becoming in combination formidable

to the central power. It was specially the object of Richelieu and

Mazarin to check this sort of baronial _imperium in imperio_, and

it became in the time of Louis XIV the keystone of that monarch's

domestic policy. This tended to encourage the "hanging on" of _grands

seigneurs_ about the court, where many of the chief of them, after

having exhausted their resources in gambling or riotous living, became

dependent for place or pension on the Crown, and were in fact the

creatures of the king and his minister. Of course this did not apply

to all. Here and there in the broad area of France were to be found

magnificent châteaux--a few of which, especially in Central France,

still survive--where the marquis or count reigned over his people an

almost absolute monarch.

There is a passage in one of Horace Walpole's letters in which that

virtuoso expresses his regret, after a visit to the ancestral "hôtels"

of Paris, whose contents had afforded him such intense gratification,

that the nobility of England, like that of France, had not

concentrated their treasures of art, etc. in London houses. Had he

lived a few years longer he would probably have altered his views,

which were such as his sagacious and manly father, who dearly loved

his Norfolk home, Houghton, would never have held.

In England, from the time that anything like social life, as we

understand the phrase, became known, the power of the Crown was so

well established that no necessity for resorting to a policy such as

Richelieu's for diminishing the influence of the noblesse existed.

In fact, a course distinctly the reverse came to be adopted from

the time of Elizabeth down to even a later period than the reign of

Charles II.

In the reign of Elizabeth an act was passed, which is to this hour

probably on the statute book, restricting building in or near the

metropolis. James I appears to have been in a chronic panic on this

subject, and never lost an opportunity of dilating upon it. In one of

his proclamations he refers to those swarms of gentry "who, through

the instigation of their wives, or to new model and fashion their

daughters who, if they were unmarried, marred their reputations,

and if married, lost them--did neglect their country hospitality and

cumber the city, a general nuisance to the kingdom." He desired the

Star Chamber "to regulate the exorbitancy of the new buildings about

the city, which were but a shelter for those who, when they had spent

their estates in coaches, lacqueys and fine clothes like Frenchmen,

lived miserably in their houses like Italians; but the honor of the

English nobility and gentry is to be hospitable among their tenants.

"Gentlemen resident on their estates," said he, very sensibly,

"were like ships in port: their value and magnitude were felt

and acknowledged; but when at a distance, as their size seemed

insignificant, so their worth and importance were not duly estimated."

Charles I., with characteristic arbitrariness, carried matters with

a still higher hand. His Star Chamber caused buildings to be actually

razed, and fined truants heavily. One case which is reported displays

the grim and costly humor of the illegal tribunal which dealt with

such cases. Poor Mr. Palmer of Sussex, a gay bachelor, being called

upon to show cause why he had been residing in London, pleaded in

extenuation that he had no house, his mansion having been destroyed by

fire two years before. This, however, was held rather an aggravation

of the offence, inasmuch as he had failed to rebuild it; and Mr.

Palmer paid a penalty of one thousand pounds--equivalent to at least

twenty thousand dollars now.

A document which especially serves to show the manner of life of the

ancient noblesse is the earl of Northumberland's "Household Book"

in the early part of the sixteenth century. By this we see the great

magnificence of the old nobility, who, seated in their castles, lived

in a state of splendor scarcely inferior to that of the court. As

the king had his privy council, so the earl of Northumberland had

his council, composed of his principal officers, by whose advice and

assistance he established his code of economic laws. As the king had

his lords and grooms of the chamber, who waited in their respective

turns, so the earl was attended by the constables of his several

castles, who entered into waiting in regular succession. Among other

instances of magnificence it may be remarked that not fewer than

eleven priests were kept in the household, presided over by a doctor

or bachelor of divinity as dean of the chapel.

An account of how the earl of Worcester lived at Ragland Castle before

the civil wars which began in 1641 also exhibits his manner of life

in great detail: "At eleven o'clock the Castle Gates were shut and the

tables laid: two in the dining-room; three in the hall; one in Mrs.

Watson's appartment, where the chaplains eat; two in the housekeeper's

room for my ladie's women. The Earl came into the Dining Room attended

by his gentlemen. As soon as he was seated, Sir Ralph Blackstone,

Steward of the House, retired. The Comptroller, Mr. Holland, attended

with his staff; as did the Sewer, Mr. Blackburn, and the daily waiters

with many gentlemen's sons, from two to seven hundred pounds a year,

bred up in the Castle; my ladie's Gentleman Usher, Mr. Harcourt; my

lord's Gentlemen of the Chamber, Mr. Morgan and Mr. Fox.

"At the first table sat the noble family and such of the nobility as

came there. At the second table in the Dining-room sat Knights and

honorable gentlemen attended by footmen.

"In the hall at the first table sat Sir R. Blackstone, Steward, the

Comptroller, Secretary, Master of the Horse, Master of the Fishponds,

my Lord Herbert's Preceptor, with such gentlemen as came there under

the degree of knight, attended by footmen and plentifully served with

wine.

"At the third table in the hall sate the Clerk of the Kitchen, with

the Yeomen, officers of the House, two Grooms of the Chamber, etc.

"Other officers of the Household were the Chief Auditor, Clerk of

Accounts, Purveyor of the Castle, Usher of the Hall, Closet Keeper,

Gentleman of the Chapel, Keeper of the Records, Master of the

Wardrobe, Master of the Armoury, Master Groom of the Stable for the 12

War-horses, Master of the Hounds, Master Falconer, Porter and his men,

two Butchers, two Keepers of the Home Park, two Keepers of the Red

Deer Park, Footmen, Grooms and other Menial Servants to the number of

150. Some of the footmen were Brewers and Bakers.

"_Out offices_.--Steward of Ragland, Governor of Chepstow Castle,

Housekeeper of Worcester House in London, thirteen Bailiffs, two

Counsel for the Bailiffs--who looked after the estate--to have

recourse to, and a Solicitor."

In a delicious old volume now rarely to be met with, called _The

Olio_, published eighty years ago, Francis Grose the antiquary thus

describes certain characters typical of the country life of the

earlier half of the seventeenth century: "When I was a young man there

existed in the families of most unmarried men or widowers of the rank

of gentlemen, resident in the country, a certain antiquated female,

either maiden or widow, commonly an aunt or cousin. Her dress I have

now before me: it consisted of a stiff-starched cap and hood, a little

hoop, a rich silk damask gown with large flowers. She leant on an

ivory-headed crutch-cane, and was followed by a fat phthisicky dog

of the pug kind, who commonly reposed on a cushion, and enjoyed the

privilege of snarling at the servants, and occasionally biting their

heels, with impunity. By the side of this old lady jingled a bunch of

keys, securing in different closets and corner-cupboards all sorts

of cordial waters, cherry and raspberry brandy, washes for the

complexion, Daffy's elixir, a rich seed-cake, a number of pots of

currant jelly and raspberry jam, with a range of gallipots and phials

and purges for the use of poorer neighbors. The daily business of this

good lady was to scold the maids, collect eggs, feed the turkeys and

assist at all lyings-in that happened within the parish. Alas! this

being is no more seen, and the race is, like that of her pug dog and

the black rat, totally extinct.

"Another character, now worn out and gone, was the country squire:

I mean the little, independent country gentleman of three hundred

pounds a year, who commonly appeared in a plain drab or plush coat,

large silver buttons, a jockey cap, and rarely without boots. His travels

never exceeded the distance to the county-town, and that only at

assize-and session-time, or to attend an election. Once a week

he commonly dined at the next market-town with the attorneys and

justices. This man went to church regularly, read the weekly journal,

settled the parochial disputes between the parish officers at the vestry,

and afterward adjourned to the neighboring ale-house, where he

usually got drunk for the good of his country. He never played at cards

but at Christmas, when a family pack was produced from the mantelpiece.

He was commonly followed by a couple of greyhounds and a pointer,

and announced his arrival at a friend's house by cracking his whip or

giving the view-halloo. His drink was generally ale, except on Christmas,

the Fifth of November or some other gala-day, when he would make

a bowl of strong brandy punch, garnished with a toast and nutmeg.

A journey to London was by one of these men reckoned as great an

undertaking as is at present a voyage to the East Indies, and

undertaken with scarcely less precaution and preparation. The mansion

of one of these squires was of plaster striped with timber, not unaptly

called calimanco-work, or of red brick; large casemented bow-windows,

a porch with seats in it, and over it a study, the eaves of the house well

inhabited by swallows, and the court set round with hollyhocks. The

hall was furnished with flitches of bacon, and the mantelpiece with guns

and fishing-rods of different dimensions, accompanied by the broadsword,

partisan and dagger borne by his ancestors in the Civil Wars. The

vacant spaces were occupied by stags' horns. Against the wall was

posted King Charles's _Golden Rules_, Vincent Wing's _Almanack_

and a portrait of the duke of Marlborough: in his window lay Baker's

_Chronicle_, Fox's _Book of Martyrs_, Glanvil on _Apparitions_,

Quincey's _Dispensatory_, the _Complete Justice_ and a _Book of

Farriery_. In the corner, by the fireside, stood a large wooden

two-armed chair with a cushion; and within the chimney-corner were

a couple of seats. Here, at Christmas, he entertained his tenants

assembled round a glowing fire made of the roots of trees and other

great logs, and told and heard the traditionary tales of the village

respecting ghosts and witches till fear made them afraid to move.

In the mean time the jorum of ale was in continual circulation.

The best parlor, which was never opened but on particular occasions,

was furnished with Turk-worked chairs, and hung round with portraits

of his ancestors--the men, some in the character of shepherds with

their crooks, dressed in full suits and huge full-bottomed perukes,

and others in complete armor or buff-coats; the females, likewise

as shepherdesses with the lamb and crook, all habited in high heads

and flowing robes. Alas! these men and these houses are no more!

The luxury of the times has obliged them to quit the country and

become humble dependants on great men, to solicit a place or

commission, to live in London, to rack their tenants and draw their

rents before due. The venerable mansion is in the mean time

suffered to tumble down or is partly upheld as a farm-house,

till after a few years the estate is conveyed to the steward of the

neighboring lord, or else to some nabob, contractor or limb of the law."

It is unquestionably owing to the love of country life amongst the

higher classes that England so early attained in many respects what

may be termed an even civilization. In almost all other countries the

traveler beyond the confines of a few great cities finds himself in a

region of comparative semi-barbarism. But no one familiar with English

country life can say that this is the case in the rural districts

of England, whilst it is most unquestionably so in Ireland, simply

because she has through absenteeism been deprived of those influences

which have done so much for her wealthy sister. Go where you will

in England to-day, and you will find within five miles of you a good

turnpike road, leading to an inn hard by, where you may get a clean

and comfortable though simple dinner, good bread, good butter, and

a carriage--"fly" is the term now, as in the days of Mr. Jonathan

Oldbuck--to convey you where you will. And this was the case long

before railways came into vogue.

The influence of the great house has very wide ramifications, and

extends far beyond the radius of park, village and estate. It greatly

affects the prosperity of the country and county towns. Go into Exeter

or Shrewsbury on a market-day in the autumn months, and you will find

the streets crowded with carriages. If a local herald be with you, he

will tell you all about their owners by glancing at the liveries and

panels. They belong, half of them, to the old county gentry, who have

shopped here--always at the same shops, according as their proprietors

are Whigs or Tories--for generations. It may well be imagined what

a difference the custom of twenty gentlemen spending on an average

twenty-five thousand dollars a year makes to a grocer or draper.

Besides, this class of customer demands a first-rate article, and

consequently it is worth while to keep it in stock. The fishmonger

knows that twenty great houses within ten miles require their handsome

dish of fish for dinner as regularly as their bread and butter. It

becomes worth his while therefore to secure a steady supply. In this

way smaller people profit, and country life becomes pleasant to them

too, inasmuch as the demands of the rich contribute to the comfort of

those in moderate circumstances.

Let us pass to the daily routine of an affluent country home. The

breakfast hour is from nine to eleven, except where hunting-men or

enthusiasts in shooting are concerned. The former are often in the

saddle before six, and young partridge-slayers may, during the first

fortnight of September--after that their ardor abates a bit--be found

in the stubbles at any hour after sunrise.

A country-house breakfast in the house of a gentlemen with from three

thousand a year upward, when several guests are in the house, is a

very attractive meal. Of course its degree of excellence varies, but

we will take an average case in the house of a squire living on his

paternal acres with five thousand pounds a year and knowing how to

live.

It is 10 A.M. in October: family prayers, usual in nine country-houses

out of ten, which a guest can attend or not as he pleases, are over.

The company is gradually gathering in the breakfast-room. It is an

ample apartment, paneled with oak and hung with family pictures. If

you have any appreciation for fine plate--and you are to be pitied if

you have not--you will mark the charming shape and exquisite

chasing of the antique urn and other silver vessels, which shine as

brilliantly as on the day they left the silversmiths to Her Majesty,

Queen Anne. No "Brummagem" patterns will you find here.

On the table at equidistant points stand two tiny tables or

dumb-waiters, which are made to revolve. On these are placed sugar,

cream, butter, preserves, salt, pepper, mustard, etc., so that every

one can help himself without troubling others--a great desideratum,

for many people are of the same mind on this point as a well-known

English family, of whom it was once observed that they were very nice

people, but didn't like being bored to pass the mustard.

On the sideboard are three beautiful silver dishes with spirit-lamps

beneath them. Let us look under their covers. Broiled chicken, fresh

mushrooms on toast, and stewed kidney. On a larger dish is fish, and

ranged behind these hot viands are cold ham, tongue, pheasant and

game-pie. On huge platters of wood, with knives to correspond, are

farm-house brown bread and white bread, whilst on the breakfast-table

itself you will find hot rolls, toast--of which two or three fresh

relays are brought in during breakfast--buttered toast, muffins and

the freshest of eggs. The hot dishes at breakfast are varied almost

every morning, and where there is a good cook a variety of some twenty

dishes is made.

Marmalade (Marie Malade) of oranges--said to have been originally

prepared for Mary queen of Scots when ill, and introduced by her into

Scotland--and "jams" of apricot and other fruit always form a part

of an English or Scotch breakfast. The living is just as good--often

better--among the five-thousand-pounds-a-year gentry as among the

very wealthy: the only difference lies in the number of servants and

guests.

The luncheon-hour is from one to two. At luncheon there will be a

roast leg of mutton or some such _pièce de résistance_, and a

made dish, such as minced veal--a dish, by the way, not the least

understood in this country, where it is horribly mangled--two hot

dishes of meat and several cold, and various sorts of pastry. These,

with bread, butter, fruit, cheese, sherry, port, claret and beer,

complete the meal.

Few of the men of the party are present at this meal, and those who

are eat but little, reserving their forces until dinner. All is placed

on the table at once, and not, as at dinner, in courses. The servants

leave the room when they have placed everything on the table, and

people wait on themselves. Dumb-waiters with clean plates, glasses,

etc. stand at each corner of the table, so that there is very little

need to get up for what you want.

The afternoon is usually passed by the ladies alone or with only

one or two gentlemen who don't care to shoot, etc., and is spent in

riding, driving and walking. Englishwomen are great walkers. With

their skirts conveniently looped up, and boots well adapted to defy

the mud, they brave all sorts of weather. "Oh it rains! what a bore!

We can't go out," said a young lady, standing at the breakfast-room

window at a house in Ireland; to which her host rejoined, "If you

don't go out here when it rains, you don't go out at all;" which is

pretty much the truth.

About five o'clock, as you sit over your book in the library, you

hear a rapid firing off of guns, which apprises you that the men have

returned from shooting. They linger a while in the gun-room talking

over their sport and seeing the record of the killed entered in the

game-book. Then some, doffing the shooting-gear for a free-and-easy

but scrupulously neat attire, repair to the ladies' sitting-room or

the library for "kettledrum."

On a low table is placed the tea equipage, and tea in beautiful little

cups is being dispensed by fair hands. This is a very pleasant time

in many houses, and particularly favorable to fun and flirtation. In

houses where there are children, the cousins of the house and others

very intimate adjourn to the school-room, where, when the party is

further reinforced by three or four boys home for the holidays, a

scene of fun and frolic, which it requires all the energies of the

staid governess to prevent going too far, ensues.

So time speeds on until the dressing-bell rings at seven o'clock,

summoning all to prepare for the great event of the day--dinner. Every

one dons evening-attire for this meal; and so strong a feeling obtains

on this point that if, in case of his luggage going wrong or other

accident, a man is compelled to join the party in morning-clothes, he

feels painfully "fish-out-of-waterish." We know, indeed, of a case in

which a guest absurdly sensitive would not come down to dinner until

the arrival of his things, which did not make their appearance for a

week.

Ladies' dress in country-houses depends altogether upon the occasion.

If it be a quiet party of intimate friends, their attire is of the

simplest, but in many fashionable houses the amount of dressing is

fully as great as in London. English ladies do not dress nearly as

expensively or with so much taste as Americans, but, on the other

hand, they have the subject much less in their thoughts; which is

perhaps even more desirable.

There is a degree of pomp and ceremony, which, however, is far from

being unpleasant, at dinner in a large country-house. The party is

frequently joined by the rector and his wife, a neighboring squire

or two, and a stray parson, so that it frequently reaches twenty. Of

course in this case the pleasantness of the prandial period depends

largely upon whom you have the luck to get next to; but there's this

advantage in the situation over a similar one in London--that you

have, at all events, a something of local topics in common, having

picked up a little knowledge of places and people during your stay, or

if you are quite a new-comer, you can easily set your neighbor a-going

by questions about surroundings. Generally there is some acquaintance

between most of the people staying in a house, as hosts make up their

parties with the view of accommodating persons wishing to meet others

whom they like. Young men will thus frequently get a good-natured

hostess to ask some young lady whose society they especially affect,

and thus country-houses become proverbially adapted for match-making.

There are few houses now-a-days in which the gentlemen linger in

the dining-room long after the ladies have left it. Habits of hard

drinking are now almost entirely confined to young men in the army

and the lower classes. The evenings are spent chiefly in conversation:

sometimes a rubber of whist is made up, or, if there are a number of

young people, there is dancing.

A rather surprising step which occasioned something of a scandalous

sensation in the social world was resorted to some years ago at a

country-house in Devonshire. Two or three fast young ladies, finding

the evening somewhat heavy, and lamenting a dearth of dancing men,

rang the bell, and in five minutes the lady of the house, who was

in another room, was aghast at seeing them whirling round in

their Jeames's arms. It was understood that the ringleader in this

enterprise, the daughter of an Irish earl, was not likely to be asked

to repeat her visit.

About eleven wine and water and biscuits are brought into the

drawing-room, and a few minutes later the ladies retire. The wine and

water, with the addition of other stimulants, are then transferred

to the billiard- and smoking-rooms, to which the gentlemen adjourn

so soon as they have changed their black coats for dressing-gowns or

lounging suits, in which great latitude is given to the caprice of

individual fancy.

The sittings in these apartments are protracted until any hour, as the

servants usually go to bed when they have provided every one with

his flat candle-stick--that emblem of gentility which always so

prominently recurred to the mind of Mrs. Micawber when recalling the

happy days when she "lived at home with papa and mamma." In some fast

houses pretty high play takes place at such times.

It not unfrequently happens that the master of the house takes but

a very limited share in the recreations of his guests, being much

engrossed by the various avocations which fall to the lot of a

country proprietor. After breakfast in the morning he will make it his

business to see that each gentleman is provided with such recreation

as he likes for the day. This man will shoot, that one will fish;

Brown will like to have a horse and go over to see some London friends

who are staying ten miles off; Jones has heaps of letters which

must be written in the morning, but will ride with the ladies in the

afternoon; and when all these arrangements are completed the squire

will drive off with his old confidential groom in the dog-cart, with

that fast-trotting bay, to attend the county meeting in the nearest

cathedral town or dispense justice from the bench at Pottleton;

and when eight o'clock brings all together at dinner an agreeable

diversity is given to conversation by each man's varied experiences

during the day.

Of course some houses are desperately dull, whilst others are always

agreeable. Haddo House, during the lifetime of Lord Aberdeen, the

prime minister, had an exceptional reputation for the former quality.

It was said to be the most silent house in England; and silence in

this instance was regarded as quite the reverse of golden. The family

scarcely ever spoke, and the guest, finding that his efforts brought

no response, became alarmed at the echoes of his own voice. Lord

Aberdeen and his son, Lord Haddo--an amiable but weak and eccentric

man, father of the young earl who dropped his title and was drowned

whilst working as mate of a merchantman--did not get on well together,

and saw very little of each other for some years. At length a

reconciliation was effected, and the son was invited to Haddo. Anxious

to be pleasant and conciliatory, he faltered out admiringly, "The

place looks nice, the trees are very green." "Did you expect to see

'em blue, then?" was the encouraging paternal rejoinder.

The degree of luxury in many of these great houses is less remarkable

than its completeness. Everything is in keeping, thus presenting a

remarkable contrast to most of our rich men's attempts at the same.

The dinner, cooked by a _cordon bleu_ of the cuisine [A]--whose

resources in the way of "hot plates" and other accessories for

furnishing a superlative dinner are unrivaled--is often served on

glittering plate, or china almost equally valuable, by men six

feet high, of splendid figure, and dressed with the most scrupulous

neatness and cleanliness. Gloves are never worn by servants in

first-rate English houses, but they carry a tiny napkin in their hands

which they place between their fingers and the plates. Nearly all

country gentlemen are hospitable, and it very rarely happens that

guests are not staying in the house. A county ball or some other such

gathering fills it from garret to cellar.

[Footnote A: Frenchmen say that the best English dinners are now the

best in the world, because they combine the finest French _entrées_

and _entremets_ with _pièces de résistance_ of unrivaled excellence.]

The best guest-rooms are always reserved for the married: bachelors

are stowed away comparatively "anywhere." In winter fires are always

lit in the bedrooms about five o'clock, so that they may be warm at

dressing-time; and shortly before the dressing-bell rings the servant

deputed to attend upon a guest who does not bring a valet with him

goes to his room, lays out his evening-toilette, puts shirt, socks,

etc. to air before the fire, places a capacious pitcher of boiling

water on the washing-stand, and having lit the candles, drawn the

easy-chair to the fire, just ready on provocation to burst into a

blaze, lights the wax candles on the dressing-table and withdraws.

In winter the guest is asked whether he likes a fire to get up by,

and in that event a housemaid enters early with as little noise as

possible and lights it. On rising in the morning you find all your

clothes carefully brushed and put in order, and every appliance for

ample ablutions at hand.

A guest gives the servant who attends him a tip of from a dollar and

a quarter to five dollars, according to the length of his stay. If he

shoots, a couple of sovereigns for a week's sport is a usual fee to a

keeper. Some people give absurdly large sums, but the habit of giving

them has long been on the decline. The keeper supplies powder and

shot, and sends in an account for them. Immense expense is involved

in these shooting establishments. The late Sir Richard Sutton, a

great celebrity in the sporting world, who had the finest shooting in

England, and therefore probably in the world, used to say that every

pheasant he killed cost him a guinea. On some estates the sale of the

game is in some degree a set-off to the cost of maintaining it, just

as the sale of the fruit decreases the cost of pineries, etc. Nothing

but the fact that the possession of land becomes more and more vested

in those who regard it as luxury could have enabled this sacrifice of

farming to sport to continue so long. It is the source of continual

complaint and resentment on the part of the farmers, who are only

pacified by allowance being made to them out of their rent for damage

done by game.

The expense of keeping up large places becomes heavier every year,

owing to the constantly-increasing rates of wages, etc., and in

some cases imposes a grievous burden, eating heavily into income

and leaving men with thousands of acres very poor balances at their

bankers to meet the Christmas bills. Those who have large families

to provide for, and get seriously behindhand, usually shut up or let

their places--which latter is easily done if they be near London or

in a good shooting country--and recoup on the Continent; but of

late years prices there have risen so enormously that this plan of

restoring the equilibrium between income and expenditure is far less

satisfactory than it was forty years ago. The encumbrances on many

estates are very heavy. A nobleman who twenty years ago succeeded to

an entailed estate, with a house almost gutted, through having had

an execution put in it, and a heavy debt--some of which, though not

legally bound to liquidate, he thought it his duty to settle--acted

in a very spirited manner which few of his order have the courage to

imitate. He dropped his title, went abroad and lived for some years

on about three thousand dollars a year. He has now paid off all

his encumbrances, and has a clear income, steadily increasing, of

a hundred thousand dollars a year. In another case a gentleman

accomplished a similar feat by living in a corner of his vast mansion

and maintaining only a couple of servants.

In Ireland, owing to the lower rates of wages and far greater--in the

remoter parts--cheapness of provisions, large places can be maintained

at considerably less cost, but they are usually far less well kept,

partly owing to their being on an absurdly large scale as compared

with the means of the proprietors, and partly from the slovenly habits

of the country. And in some cases people who could afford it will not

spend the money. There are, however, notable exceptions. Powerscourt

in Wicklow, the seat of Viscount Powerscourt, and Woodstock in

Kilkenny, the beautiful demesne of Mr. Tighe, are probably in as

perfect order as any seats in England. A countryman was sent over to

the latter one day with a message from another county. "Well, Jerry,"

said the master on his return, "what did you think of Woodstock?"

"Shure, your honor," was the reply, "I niver seed such a power of

girls a-swaping up the leaves."

Country-house life in Ireland and Scotland is almost identical with

that in England, except that, in the former especially, there is

generally less money. Scotland has of late years become so much the

fashion, land has risen so enormously in value, and properties are

so very large, that some of the establishments, such as those at

Drumlanrig, Dunrobin, Gordon Castle and Floors, the seats respectively

of the dukes of Buccleuch, Sutherland, Richmond and Roxburghe, are on

a princely scale. The number of wealthy squires is far fewer than

in England. It is a curious feature in the Scottish character that

notwithstanding the radical politics of the country--for scarcely

a Conservative is returned by it--the people cling fondly to

primogeniture and their great lords, who, probably to a far greater

extent than in England, hold the soil. The duke of Sutherland

possesses nearly the whole of the county from which he derives his

title, whilst the duke of Buccleuch owns the greater part of four.

Horses are such a very expensive item that a large stable is seldom

found unless there is a very large income, for otherwise the rest

of the establishment must be cut down to a low figure. Hunting

millionaires keep from ten to twenty, or even thirty, hacks and

hunters, besides four or five carriage-horses. Three or four

riding-horses, three carriage-horses and a pony or two is about the

usual number in the stable of a country gentleman with from five to

six thousand pounds a year. The stable-staff would be coachman, groom

and two helpers. The number of servants in country-houses varies from

seven or eight to eighty, but probably there are not ten houses in the

country where it reaches so high a figure as the last: from fifteen to

twenty would be a common number.

There are many popular bachelors and old maids who live about half the

year in the country-houses of their friends. A gentleman of this sort

will have his chambers in London and his valet, whilst the lady will

have her lodgings and maid. In London they will live cheaply and

comfortably, he at his club and dining out with rich friends, she in

her snug little room and passing half her time in friends' houses.

There is not the slightest surrender of independence about these

people. They would not stay a day in a house which they did not like,

but their pleasant manners and company make them acceptable, and

friends are charmed to have them.

One of the special recommendations of a great country-house is that

you need not see too much of any one. There is no necessary meeting

except at meals--in many houses then even only at dinner--and in the

evening. Many sit a great deal in their own rooms if they have writing

or work to do; some will be in the billiard-room, others in the

library, others in the drawing-room: the host's great friend will be

with him in his own private room, whilst the hostess's will pass most

of the time in that lady's boudoir.[A]

[Footnote A: Perhaps the most charming idea of a country-house was

that conceived by Mr. Mathew of Thomastown--a huge mansion still

extant, now the property of the count de Jarnac, to whom it descended.

This gentleman, who was an ancestor of the celebrated Temperance

leader, probably had as much claret drunk in his house as any one in

his country; which is saying a good deal.

He had an income which would be equivalent to one hundred and

twenty-five thousand dollars a year in our money, and for several

years traveled abroad and spent very little. On his return with an

ample sum of ready money, he carried into execution a long-cherished

scheme of country life.

He arranged his immense mansion after the fashion of an inn. The

guests arrived, were shown to their rooms, and treated as though they

were in the most perfectly-appointed hotel. They ordered dinner when

they pleased, dined together or alone as suited them, hunted, shot,

played billiards, cards, etc. at will, and kept their own horses.

There was a regular bar, where drinks of the finest quality were

always served. The host never appeared in that character: he was just

like any other gentleman in the house.

The only difference from a hotel lay in the choice character of the

company, and the fact that not a farthing might be disbursed. The

servants were all paid extra, with the strict understanding that they

did not accept a farthing, and that any dereliction from this rule

would be punished by instant dismissal.

Unlike most Irish establishments, especially at that date (about the

middle of the last century), this was managed with the greatest order,

method and economy.

Among the notable guests was Dean Swift, whose astonishment at the

magnitude of the place, with the lights in hundreds of windows at

night, is mentioned by Dr. Sheridan.

It is pleasant to add in this connection that the count and countess

de Jarnac worthily sustain the high character earned a century

since by their remarkable ancestor, who was one of the best and most

benevolent men of his day.]

In some respects railroads have had a very injurious effect on the

sociability of English country life. They have rendered people in

great houses too apt to draw their supplies of society exclusively

from town. English trains run so fast that this can even be done in

places quite remote from London. The journey from London to Rugby,

for instance, eighty miles, is almost invariably accomplished in two

hours. Leaving at five in the afternoon, a man reaches that station at

7.10: his friend's well-appointed dog-cart is there to meet him, and

that exquisitely neat young groom, with his immaculate buckskins and

boots in which you may see yourself, will make the thoroughbred do the

four miles to the hall in time to enable you to dress for dinner

by 7.45. Returning on Tuesday morning--and all the lines are most

accommodating about return tickets--the barrister, guardsman,

government clerk can easily be at his post in town by eleven o'clock.

Thus the actual "country people" get to be held rather cheap, and come

off badly, because Londoners, being more in the way of hearing,

seeing and observing what is going on in society, are naturally more

congenial to fine people in country-houses who live in the metropolis

half the year.

It is evident from the following amusing squib, which appeared in one

of the Annuals for 1832, how far more dependent the country gentleman

was upon his country neighbors in those days, when only idle men could

run down from town:

"Mr. J., having frequently witnessed with regret country gentlemen,

in their country-houses, reduced to the dullness of a domestic circle,

and nearly led to commit suicide in the month of November, or, what is

more melancholy, to invite the ancient and neighboring families of

the Tags, the Rags and the Bobtails, has opened an office in Spring

Gardens for the purpose of furnishing country gentlemen in their

country-houses with company and guests on the most moderate terms. It

will appear from the catalogue that Mr. J. has a choice and elegant

assortment of six hundred and seventeen guests, ready to start at a

moment's warning to any country gentleman at any house. Among them

will be found three Scotch peers, several ditto Irish, fifteen decayed

baronets, eight yellow admirals, forty-seven major-generals on half

pay (who narrate the whole Peninsular War), twenty-seven dowagers,

one hundred and eighty-seven old maids on small annuities, and several

unbeneficed clergymen, who play a little on the fiddle. All the above

play at cards, and usually with success if partners. No objection to

cards on Sunday evenings or rainy mornings. The country gentleman to

allow the guests four feeds a day, and to produce claret if a Scotch

or Irish peer be present."

A country village very often has no inhabitants except the parson

holding the rank of gentry. The majority of ladies in moderate or

narrow circumstances live in county-towns, such as Exeter, Salisbury,

etc., or in watering-places, which abound and are of all degrees of

fashion and expense. County-town and watering-place society is a thing

_per se_, and has very little to do with "county" society, which

means that of the landed gentry living in their country-houses.

Thus, noblemen and gentlemen within a radius of five miles of such

watering-places as Bath, Tonbridge Wells and Weymouth would not have a

dozen visiting acquaintances resident in those towns.

To get into "county" society is by no means easy to persons without

advantages of position or connection, even with ample means, and to

the wealthy manufacturer or merchant is often a business of years. The

upper class of Englishmen, and more especially women, are accustomed

to find throughout their acquaintance an almost identical style and

set of manners. Anything which differs from this they are apt to

regard as "ungentlemanlike or unladylike," and shun accordingly. The

dislike to traders and manufacturers, which is very strong in those

counties, such as Cheshire and Warwickshire, which environ great

commercial centres, arises not from the folly of thinking commerce a

low occupation, but because the county gentry have different tastes,

habits and modes of thought from men who have worked their way up from

the counting-room, and do not, as the phrase goes, "get on" with

them, any more than a Wall street broker ordinarily gets on with a

well-read, accomplished member of the Bar.

A result of this is that a large number of wealthy commercial men, in

despair of ever entering the charmed circle of county society, take up

their abode in or near the fashionable watering-places, where,

after the manner of those at our own Newport, they build palaces in

paddocks, have acres of glass, rear the most marvelous of pines and

peaches, and have model farms which cost them thousands of pounds

a year. To this class is owing in a great degree the extraordinary

increase of Leamington, Torquay, Tonbridge Wells, etc.--places which

have made the fortunes of the lucky people who chanced to own them.

English ladies, as a rule, take a great deal of interest in the poor

around them, and really know a great deal of them. The village near

the hall is almost always well attended to, but it unfortunately

happens that outlying properties sometimes come off far less well. The

classes which see nothing of each other in English rural life are the

wives and daughters of the gentry and those of the wealthier farmers

and tradesmen: between these sections a huge gulf intervenes, which

has not as yet been in the least degree bridged over. In former days

very great people used to have once or twice in the year what were

called "public days," when it was open house for all who chose to

come, with a sort of tacit understanding that none below the class

of substantial yeomen or tradesmen would make their appearance. This

custom has now fallen into disuse, but was maintained to the last by

the Hon. Doctor Vernon-Harcourt, who was for more than half a century

archbishop of York, and is yet retained by Earl Fitzwilliam at

Wentworth House, his princely seat in Yorkshire. There, once or twice

a year, a great gathering takes place. Dinner is provided for hundreds

of guests, and care is taken to place a member of the family at every

table to do his or her part toward dispensing hospitality to high and

low.

During the summer and early autumn croquet and archery offer good

excuses for bringing young people together, and reunions of this kind

palliate the miseries of those who cannot afford to partake of the

expensive gayeties of the London season. The archery meetings are

often exceedingly pretty fêtes. Somtimes they are held in grounds

specially devoted to the purpose, as is the case at St. Leonard's,

near Hastings, where the archery-ground will well repay a visit. The

shooting takes place in a deep and vast excavation covered with the

smoothest turf, and from the high ground above is a glorious view of

the old castle of Hastings and the ocean. In Devonshire these meetings

have an exceptional interest from the fact that they are held in the

park of Powderham Castle, the ancestral seat of the celebrated family

of Courtenay. All the county flocks to them, some persons coming fifty

miles for this purpose. Apropos of one of these meetings, we shall

venture to interpolate an anecdote which deserves to be recorded for

the sublimity of impudence which it displays. The railway from London

to Plymouth skirts the park of Powderham, running so close beside

it that each train sends a herd of deer scampering down the velvety

glades. One afternoon a bouncing young lady, who belonged to a family

which had lately emerged from the class of yeoman into that of gentry,

and whose "manners had not the repose which stamps the caste of Vere

de Vere," found herself in a carriage with two fashionably-attired

persons of her own sex. As the train ran by the park, one of these

latter exclaimed to her companion, "Oh look, there's Powderham! Don't

you remember that archery-party we went to there two years ago?" "To

be sure," was the rejoinder. "I'm not likely to forget it, there were

some such queer people. Who were those vulgarians whom we thought so

particularly objectionable? I can't remember." "Oh, H----: H----

of P----! That was the name." Upon this the other young lady in the

carriage bounced to her feet with the words, "Allow me to tell you,

madam, that I am Miss H---- of P----!" Neither of those she addressed

deigned to utter a word in reply to this announcement, nor did it

appear in the least to disconcert them. One slowly drew out a gold

double eye-glass, leisurely surveyed Miss H---- of P---- from head to

foot, and then proceeded to talk to her companion in French. Perhaps

the best part of the joke was that Miss H---- made a round of visits

in the course of the week, and detailed the disgusting treatment to

which she had been subjected to a numerous acquaintance, who, it

is needless to say, appeared during the narration as indignant and

sympathetic as she could have wished, but who are declared by some

ill-natured persons to have been precisely those who in secret

chuckled over the insult with the greatest glee.

English gentlemen experience an almost painful sensation as they

journey through our land and observe the utter indifference of its

wealthier classes to the charms of such a magnificent country. "Pearls

before swine," they say in their hearts. "God made the country and man

made the town." "Yes, and how obviously the American prefers the work

of man to the work of the Almighty!" These and similar reflections

no doubt fill the minds of many a thoughtful English traveler as the

train speeds over hill and dale, field and forest. What sites are

here! he thinks. What a perfect park might be made out of that wild

ground! what cover-shooting there ought to be in that woodland! what

fishing and boating on that lake! And then he groans in spirit as the

cars enter a forest where tree leans against tree, and neglect reigns

on all sides, and he thinks of the glorious oaks and beeches so

carefully cared for in his own country, where trees and flowery are

loved and petted as much as dogs and horses. And if anything can

increase the contempt he feels for those who "don't care a rap" for

country and country life, it is a visit to such resorts as Newport and

Saratoga. There he finds men whose only notion of country life is what

he would hold to be utterly destitute of all its ingredients. They

build palaces in paddocks, take actually no exercise, play at cards

for three hours in the forenoon, dine, and then drive out "just like

ladies," we heard a young Oxonian exclaim--"got up" in the style that

an Englishman adopts only in Hyde Park or Piccadilly.

When an American went to stay with Lord Palmerston at Broadlands, the

great minister ordered horses for a ride in the delicious glades of

the New Forest. When they came to the door his guest was obliged to

confess himself no horseman. The premier, with ready courtesy, said,

"Oh, then, we'll walk: it's all the same to me;" but it wasn't quite

the same. The incident was just one of those which separate the

Englishman of a certain rank from the American.

There is of course a certain class of Americans, more especially among

the _jeunesse dorée_ of New York, who greatly affect sport: they

"run" horses and shoot pigeons, but these are not persons who commend

themselves to real gentlemen, English or American. They belong to

the bad style of "fast men," and are as thoroughly distasteful to

a Devonshire or Cheshire squire as to one who merits "the grand old

name"--which they conspicuously defame--in their own country.

The English country-loving gentleman to whom we have been referring

is, for the most part, of a widely different mould--a man of

first-rate education, frequently of high attainments, and often one

whose ends and aims in life are for far higher things than pleasure,

even of the most innocent kind, but who, when he takes it, derives it

chiefly from the country. Many of this kind will instantly occur to

those acquainted with English worthies: to mention two--John Evelyn

and Sir Fowell Buxton.

REGINALD WYNFORD.

THE FOREST OF ARDEN.

A girl of seventeen--a girl with a "missish" name, with a "missish"

face as well, soft skin, bright eyes, dark hair, medium height and a

certain amount of coquetry in her attire. This completes the "visible"

of Nellie Archer. And the invisible? With an exterior such as this,

what thoughts or ideas are possible within? Surely none worth the

trouble of searching after. It is a case of the rind being the better

part of the fruit, the shell excelling the kernel; and with a slight

effort we can imagine her acquirements. Some scraps of geography,

mixed up with the topography of an embroidery pattern; some grammar,

of much use in parsing the imperfect phrases of celebrated authors,

to the neglect of her own; some romanticism, finding expression in the

arrangement of a spray of artificial flowers on a spring bonnet; some

idea of duty, resulting in the manufacture of sweet cake or "seeing

after" the dessert for dinner; and a conception of "woman's mission"

gained from Tennyson--

Oh teach the orphan-boy to read,

Or teach the orphan-girl to sew.

No! no! no! not so fast, please. In spite of Nellie's name, of her

face, of her attire, that little head is filled quite otherwise. It is

not her fault that this is so: is it her misfortune? But to give the

history of this being entire, it is necessary to begin seventeen years

back, at the very beginning of her life, for in our human nature, as

in the inanimate world, a phenomenon is better understood when we know

its producing causes.

Nellie's father was a business-man of a type common in America--one

whose affairs led him here, there and everywhere. Never quiet while

awake, and scarcely at rest during slumber, he resembled Bedreddin

Hassan in frequently going to sleep in one town, to awake in another

far distant, but without the benighted Oriental's surprise at the

transfer, the afrit who performed this prodigy being a steam-engine,

and the magician it obeyed the human mind.

In these rapid peregrinations it would not have been easy for Mr.

Archer to carry an infant with him; so, when his wife died and left

Nellie to his sole care at six months old, he speedily cast about in

his mind to rid himself of the encumbrance.

Having heard that country air is good for children, he sent the little

one to the interior, and quite admired himself for giving her such an

advantage: then, too, the house in the city could be sold.

But to whom did he entrust his child? For a while this had been the

great difficulty. In vain he thought over the years he had lived, to

find a friend: he had been too busy to make friends. For an honest

person he had traversed the world too hurriedly to perceive the

deeper, better part of mankind; he had floated on the surface with the

scum and froth, and could recall no one whom he could trust. At last,

away back in the years of his childhood, he saw a face--that of a

young but motherly Irishwoman, who had lived in his father's family as

a faithful servant, and had been a fond partisan of his in his fickle

troubles when a boy.

He sought and found her in his need. She had married, borne children

and grown old: her offspring, after much struggling and little help

from the parent birds, had learned to fly alone, and had left the

home-nest to try their own fortunes. It was not hard for Mr. Archer

to persuade Nurse Bridget and her husband to inhabit his house in the

country and take charge of the baby. In a short time the arrangements

were complete, and the three were installed in comfort, for the busy

man did not grudge money.

If in the long years that followed a thought of the neglected little

one did at times reproach him, he dismissed it with the resolution of

doing something for her when she should be grown up; but at what date

this event was to take place, or what it was that he intended to do,

he did not definitely settle.

The mansion in the country was an old rambling house, in which

there were enough deserted rooms to furnish half a dozen ghosts with

desirable lodgings, without inconvenience to the living dwellers. The

front approach was through an avenue of hemlocks, dark and untrimmed.

Under the closed windows lay a tangled garden, where flowers grew

rank, shadowed by high ash and leafy oak, outposts of the forest

behind--a forest jealous of cultivation, stealthily drawing nearer

each year, and threatening to reconquer its own.

There was an unused well in a corner that looked like the habitation

of a fairy--of a good fairy, I am sure, because the grass grew

greenest and best about the worn curb, and the tender mosses and

little plants that could not support the heat in summer found a refuge

within its cool circle and flourished there.

On the other side of the house, and dividing it from level fields,

were the kitchen-garden and orchard. In springtime you might have

imagined the latter to be a grove of singing trees, bearing song

for fruit: in autumn, had you seen it when the sun was low, glinting

through leaves and gilding apples and stem, you would have been

reminded of the garden of the Hesperides.

Below the fields lay a broad river--in summer, languid and clear;

in winter, turbid and full. The child often wondered (as soon as

she could wonder) if, when it was lying so tranquil under the summer

clouds, it was thinking of the frolic it would have with the great

blocks of ice in the winter; whether it loved best the rush and

struggle of the floods or the quiet of low water; and, above all,

whither it was going.

The homely faces and bent, ungainly forms of the old nurse and her

husband harmonized well with the mellow gloom about them; and the

infant Nellie completed the scene, like the spot of sunlight in the

foreground of a picture by Rembrandt.

Now, Nellie inherited her father's active disposition, and, left to

her own amusement, her occupations were many and various. At three

years of age she was turned loose in the orchard, with three blind

puppies in lieu of toys. Day by day she augmented her store, until she

had two kittens, one little white pig with a curly tail, half a dozen

soft piepies, one kid, and many inanimate articles, such as broken

bottles, dishes, looking-glass and gay bits of calico. When the little

thing became sleepy she would toddle through the long grass to a

corner, whence the river could be heard fretting against its banks,

and lie there: she said the water sang to her. Finding that this was

her favorite spot, the old nurse placed there a bright quilt for her

to rest on, and in case she should awake hungry there stood a tin

of milk hard by. This was all the attention she received, unless the

fairy of the well took her under her protection, but for that I cannot

vouch. Sometimes the puppies drank her milk before she awoke; then she

went contentedly and ate green apples or ripe cherries. Thus she lived

and grew.

By the time Nellie was seven she had seen whole generations of pets

pass away. It was wonderful what knowledge she gained in this golden

orchard. She knew that piepies became chickens--that they were killed

and eaten; so death came into her world. She knew that the kid grew

into a big goat, and became very wicked, for he ran at her one day,

throwing her to the ground and hurting her severely; so sin came into

her world. She saw innate depravity exemplified in the conduct of her

innocent white pig, that would take to puddles and filth in spite of

her gentle endeavors to restrain its wayward impulses. Her puppies

too bit each other, would quarrel over a bone, growl and get generally

unmanageable. None of her animals fulfilled the promise of their

youth, and her care was returned with base ingratitude. Even

the little wrens bickered with the blue-birds, and showed their

selfishness and jealousy in chasing them from the crumbs she

impartially spread for all in common.

So at seven she was a wise little woman, and said to her nurse one

day, "I do not care for pets any more: they all grow up nasty."

Was Solomon's "All is vanity" truer?

With so much experience Nellie felt old, for life is not counted by

years alone: it is the loss of hope, the mistrust of appearance, the

vanishing of illusion, that brings age. A hopeful heart is young at

seventy, and youth is past when hope is dead. But, in spite of all,

hope was not dead in the heart of the little maid, and though deceived

she was quite ready to be deceived a second time, as was Solomon, and

as we are all.

It was now that the girl began to be fond of flowers. She made

herself a bed for them in a sunny corner of the kitchen-garden, and

transplanted daisy roots and spring-beauties, with other wood- and

field-plants as they blossomed. She watched the ferns unroll their

worm-like fronds, made plays with the nodding violets, and ornamented

her head with dandelion curls. This was indeed a happy summer.

Her rambles were unlimited, and each day she was rewarded by new

discoveries and delightful secrets--how the May-apple is good to eat,

that sassafras root makes tea, that birch bark is very like candy,

though not so sweet, and slippery elm a feast.

Her new playmates were as lovely and perfect as she could desire.

_They_ did not "grow up nasty," but in the autumn, alas! they died.

One day at the end of the Indian summer, after having wandered for

hours searching for her favorites, she found them all withered. The

trees also looked forlorn, shivering in the chill air, with scarce a

leaf to cover them: the wind moaned, and the sky was gray instead

of the bright summer blue. The little one, tired and disappointed,

touched by this mighty lesson of decay, threw herself on a friendly

bank and wept.

It is true the beautiful face of Nature had grown sad each winter, and

her flowers and lovely things had yearly passed away, but Nellie had

not then loved them.

Here she was found by a boy rosy-cheeked and bright, who all his life

had been loved and caressed to the same extent that Nellie had been

neglected. He lived beyond the forest, and had come this afternoon

to look for walnuts. Seeing the girl unhappy, he essayed some of the

blandishing arts his mother had often lavished on him, speaking to her

in a kindly tone and asking her why she cried.

The child looked up at the sound of this new voice, and her

astonishment stopped her tears. After gazing at him for some time with

her eyes wide open, she remarked, wonderingly, "You are little, like

me."

"I am not very small," replied the boy, straightening himself.

"Oh, but you _are_ young and little," she insisted.

"I am young, but not little. Come stand up beside me. See! you don't

more than reach my shoulder."

"Shall you ever get bigger?"

"Of course I shall."

"Shall you grow up nasty?" she continued, trying to bring her stock of

experience to bear on this new phenomenon.

"No, I sha'n't!" he answered very decidedly.

"Shall you die?"

"No, not until I am old, old, old."

"I am very glad: I will take you for a pet, All my little animals get

nasty, and my flowers have died, but I don't care, now that you have

come: I think I shall like you best."

"But I won't be your pet," said the boy, offended.

"Why not?" she asked, looking at him beseechingly. "I should be very

good to you;" and she smoothed his sleeve with her brown hand as if it

were the fur of one of her late darlings.

"Who are you?" he demanded inquisitively.

"I am myself," she innocently replied.

"What is your name?"

"I am Nellie. Have you a name?" she eagerly went on. "If you haven't,

I'll give you a pretty one. Let me see: I will call you--"

"You need not trouble yourself, thank you: I have a name of my own,

Miss Nellie. I am Danby Overbeck."

"Dan--by--o--ver--beck!" she repeated slowly. "Why, you have an awful

long name, Beck, for such a little fellow."

"I am not little, and I will not have you call me Beck: that is no

name."

"I forgot all but the last. Don't get nasty, please;" and she patted

his arm soothingly. "What does your nurse call you?"

"I am no baby to have a nurse," he said disdainfully.

"You have no nurse? Poor thing! What do you do? who feeds you?"

"I feed myself."

"Where do you live," she asked, looking about curiously, as if she

thought he had some kind of a nest near at hand.

"Oh, far away--at the other side of the woods."

"Won't you come and live with me? Do!"

"No indeed, gypsy: I must go home. See, the sun is almost down. You

had better go too: your mother will be anxious."

"I have no mother, and my flowers are all dead. I wish you would be my

pet--I wish you would come with me;" and her lip trembled.

"My gracious, child! what would the old lady at home say? Why, there

would be an awful row."

"Never mind, come," she answered coaxingly, rubbing her head against

his sleeve like a kitten. "Come, I will love you so much."

"You go home," he said, patting her head, "and I will come again some

day, and will bring you flowers."

"The flowers are all dead," she replied, shaking her head.

"I can make some grow. Go now, run away: let me see you off."

She looked for a moment at this superior being, who could make flowers

grow and could live without the care of a nurse, and then, obeying the

stronger intelligence, she trotted off toward home.

And now life contained new pleasure for Nellie, for the boy was

large-hearted and kind, coming almost daily to take her with him on

his excursions. Indeed, he was as lonely as the child, companions

being difficult to find in that out-of-the-way neighborhood, and the

odd little thing amused him. She would trudge bravely by his side

when he went to fish, or carry his bag when he went gunning; and his

promise of flowers was redeemed with gifts from the conservatory,

which enhanced her opinion of this divinity, seeing that they were

even more beautiful than those of her own fields. Often, when tired of

sport, Danby would read to her, sitting in the shade of forest trees,

stories of pirates and robbers or of wonderful adventures: these were

the afternoons she enjoyed the most.

One day, seeing her lips grow bright and her eyes dark from her

intense interest in the story, he offered her the book as he was

preparing to go, saying, "Take it home, Nellie, and read it."

She took the volume in her hand eagerly, looked at the page a little

while, a puzzled expression gradually passing over her face, until

finally she turned to him open-eyed and disappointed, saying simply,

"I can't."

"Oh try!"

"How shall I try?"

"It begins _there_: now go on, it is easy. _There_" he repeated,

pointing to the word, "go on," he added impatiently.

"Where shall I go?"

"Why read, Stupid! Look at it."

She bent over and gazed earnestly where the end of his finger touched

the book. "I look and look," she said, shaking her head, "but I do

not see the pretty stories that you do. They seem quite gone away, and

nothing is left but little crooked marks."

"I do believe you can't read."

"I do believe it too," said Nellie.

"But you must try; such a big girl as you are getting to be!"

"I try and I look, but it don't come to me."

"You must learn."

"Yes."

"Do you intend to do it?"

"Why should I? You can read to me."

"You will never know anything," exclaimed the boy severely. "How do

you spend your time in the morning, when I am not here?"

"I do nothing."

"Nothing?"

"That is, I wait until you come," in an explanatory tone.

"What do you do while you are waiting?"

"I think about you, and wonder how soon you will be here; and I walk

about, or lie on the grass and look at the clouds."

"Well, did I ever hear of such an idle girl? I shall not come again

if you don't learn to read." Nellie was not much given to laughter

or tears. She had lived too much alone for such outward appeals for

sympathy. Why laugh when there is no one near to smile in return? Why

weep when there is no one to give comfort? She only regarded him with

a world of reproach in her large eyes.

"Nellie," he said, in reply to her eyes, "you ought to learn to read,

and you _must_. Did no one ever try to teach you?"

She shook her head.

"Have you no books?"

Again a negative shake.

"Just come along with me to the house. I'll see about this thing: it

must be stopped." And Danby rose and walked off with a determined air,

while the girl, abashed and wondering, followed him. When they arrived

he plunged into the subject at once: "Nurse Bridget, can you read?"

"An' I raly don't know, as I niver tried."

"Fiddlesticks! Of course Maurice is too blind, and very likely he

never tried either. Are there no books in the house?"

"An' there is, then--a whole room full of them, Master Danby. We are

not people of no larnin' here, I can tell you. There is big books,

an' little books, an' some awful purty books, an' some," she added

doubtfully, "as is not so purty."

"You know a great deal about books!" said the boy sarcastically.

"An' sure I do. Haven't I dusted them once ivery year since I came to

this blessed place? And tired enough they made me, too. I ain't likely

to forgit them."

"Well, let us see them."

"Sure they're locked."

"Open them," said the impatient boy.

"Do open them," added Nellie timidly.

But it required much coaxing to accomplish their design, and after

nurse did consent time was lost in looking for the keys, which were at

last found under a china bowl in the cupboard. Then the old woman led

the way with much importance, opening door after door of the unused

part of the house, until she came to the library. It was a large,

sober-looking room, with worn furniture and carpet, but rich in

literature, and even art, for several fine pictures hung on the

walls. The ancestor from whom the house had descended must have been

a learned man in his day, and a wise, for he had gathered about him

treasures. Danby shouted with delight, and Nellie's eyes sparkled as

she saw his pleasure.

"Open all the windows, nurse, please, and then leave us. Why, Nellie,

there is enough learning here to make you the most wonderful woman in

the world! Do you think you can get all these books into your head?"

he asked mischievously, "because that is what I expect of you. We will

take a big one to begin with." The girl looked on while he, with mock

ceremony, took down the largest volume within reach and laid it open

on a reading-desk near. "Now sit;" and he drew a chair for her before

the open book, and another for himself. "It is nice big print. Do you

see this word?" and he pointed to one of the first at the top of the

page.

She nodded her head gravely.

"It is _love_: say it."

She repeated the word after him.

"Now find it all over the page whereever it occurs."

With some mistakes she finally succeeded in recognizing the word

again.

"Don't you forget it."

"Yes."

"No, you must _not_."

"I mean I won't."

"All right! Here is another: it is called _the_. Now find it."

Many times she went through the same process. In his pride of teaching

Danby did not let his pupil flag. When he was going she asked timidly,

"Shall you come again?"

"Of course I shall, Ignoramus, but don't you forget your lesson."

"No, no," she answered brightening. "I will think of it all the time I

am asleep."

"That is a good girl," he said patronizingly, and bade her good-bye.

It was thus she learned to read, not remarkably well, but well enough

to content Danby, which was sufficient to content Nellie also; and the

ambitious boy was not satisfied until she could write as well.

An end came to this peaceful life when the youth left home for

college. The girl's eyes seemed to grow larger from intense gazing at

him during the last few weeks that preceded his departure, but that

was her only expression of feeling. The morning after he left, the

nurse, not finding her appear at her usual time, went to her chamber

to look for her. She lay on the bed, as she had been lying all the

night, sleepless, with pale face and red lips. Nurse asked her what

was the matter.

"Nothing," was the reply.

"Come get up, Beauty," coaxed the nurse.

But Nellie turned her face to the wall and did not answer. She lay

thus for a week, scarcely eating or sleeping, sick in mind and body,

struggling with a grief that she hardly knew was grief. At the end

of that time she tottered from the bed, and, clothing herself with

difficulty, crept to the library.

The instinct that sends a sick animal to the plant that will cure

it seemed to teach Nellie where to find comfort. Danby was gone, but

memory remained, and the place where he had been was to her made

holy and possessed healing power, as does the shrine of a saint for a

believer. Her shrine was the reading-desk, and the chair on which he

had sat during those happy lessons. To make all complete, she lifted

the heavy book from the shelf and opened it at the page from which she

had first learned. She put herself in his chair and caressed the words

with her thin hand, her fingers trembling over the place that his had

touched, then dropping her head on the desk where his arm had lain,

she smiling slept.

She awoke with the nurse looking down on her, saying, "Beauty, you are

better."

And so she was: she drank the broth and ate the bread and grapes that

had been brought her, and from that day grew stronger. But the shadow

in her eyes was deeper now, and the veins in her temples were bluer,

as if the blood had throbbed and pained there. Every morning found

her at her post: she had no need to roam the woods and fields now--her

world lay within her. It was sad for one so young to live on memory.

For many days her page and these few words were sufficient to content

her, and to recall them one after another, as Danby had taught, was

her only occupation. But by and by the words themselves began to

interest her, then the context, and finally the sense dawned upon

her--dawned not less surely that it came slowly, and that she was now

and then compelled to stop and think out a word.

And what did she learn? Near the top of the large page the first

word, "love." It ended a sentence and stood conspicuous, which was the

reason it had caught the eye of the eager boy when he began to teach.

What did it mean? What went before? What after? It was a long time

before she asked herself these questions, for her understanding had

not formed the habit of being curious. Previously her eyes alone had

sight, now her intellect commenced seeing. What was the web of which

this word was the woof, knitting together, underlying, now appearing,

now hidden, but always there? She turned the leaves and counted where

it recurred again and again, like a bird repeating one sweet note, of

which it never tires. Then the larger type in the middle of each page

drew her attention: she read, _As You Like It_. "What do I like? This

story is perhaps as I like it. I wonder what it is about? I don't care

now for pirates and robbers: I liked them when _he_ read to me, but

not now." Her thoughts then wandered off to Danby, and she read no

more that day.

However, Nellie had plenty of time before her, and when her thinking

was ended she would return to her text. I do not know how long a time

it required for her to connect the sentence that followed the word

"love;" but it became clear to her finally, just as a difficult puzzle

will sometimes resolve itself as you are idly regarding it. And this

is what she saw: "Love! But it cannot be sounded: my affection hath an

unknown bottom, like the bay of Portugal." The phrase struck her as

if it was her own, and for the first time in her life she blushed.

She did not know much about the bay of Portugal, it is true, but she

understood the rest. From that time forth the book possessed a strange

interest for her. Much that she did not comprehend she passed by.

Often for several days she would not find a passage that pleased her,

but when such a one was discovered her slow perusal of it and long

dwelling on it gave a beauty and power to the sentiment that more

expert students might have lost. I cannot describe the almost feverish

effect upon her of that poetical quartette beginning with--

Good shepherd, tell this youth what 'tis to love.

How she hung over it, smiled at it, brightening into delight at the

echo of her own feelings! In the raillery of Rosalind her heart found

words to speak; and her sense and wit were awakened by the sarcasm of

the same character. "Pray you, no more of this: 'tis like the howling

of Irish wolves against the moon," came like a healthy tonic after a

week of ecstasy spent over the preceding lines.

Her mind grew in such companionship. She lived no more alone: she

had found friends who sympathized with her. Smiles and tears became

frequent on her face, making it more beautiful. _As You Like It_ was

just as she liked it. The forest of Arden was her forest. Rosalind's

banished father was her father: that busy man she had never seen. With

the book for interpreter she fell in love with her world over again.

Sunset and dawn possessed new charms; the little flowers seemed

dignified; moonlight and fairy-land unveiled their mysteries; nothing

was forgotten. It appeared as if all the knowledge of the world was

contained in those magic pages, and the master-key to this treasure,

the dominant of this harmony, was _love_--the word that Danby

had taught her. The word? The feeling as well, and with the

feeling--_all_.

Circling from this passion as from a pole-star, all those great

constellations of thought revolved. With Lear's madness was Cordelia's

affection; with the inhumanity of Shylock was Jessica's trust; with

the Moor's jealousy was Desdemona's devotion. The sweet and bitter

of life, religion, poetry and philosophy, ambition, revenge and

superstition, controlled, created or destroyed by that little word.

And _how_ they loved--Perdita, Juliet, Miranda--quickly and entirely,

without shame, as she had loved Danby--as buds bloom and birds warble.

Oh it was sweet, sweet, sweet! Amid friends like these she became gay,

moved briskly, grew rosy and sang. This was her favorite song, to a

melody she had caught from the river:

Under the greenwood tree

Who loves to lie with me,

And turn his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hither:

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

Four years passed by--not all spent with one book, however. Nellie's

desire for study grew with what it fed on. This book opened the way

for many. Reading led to reflection; reflection, to observation;

observation, to Nature; and thus in an endless round.

About this time her busy father remembered he possessed a "baby," laid

away somewhere, like an old parchment, and he concluded he would "look

her up." His surprise was great when he saw the child a woman--still

greater when he observed her self-possession, her intelligence, and a

certain quaint way she had of expressing herself that was charming in

connection with her fresh young face. She was neither diffident nor

awkward, knowing too little of the world to fear, and having naturally

that simplicity of manner which touches nearly upon high breeding.

But Mr. Archer being one of those men who think that "beauty should

go beautifully," her toilette shocked him. Under the influence of her

presence he felt that he had neglected her. The whole house reproached

him: the few rooms that had been furnished were dilapidated and worn.

"I did not know things looked so badly down here," he said

apologetically. "I am sure I must have had everything properly

arranged when Nurse Bridget came. Your cradle was comfortable, was it

not?"

"I scarcely remember," answered his daughter demurely.

"Oh! ah! yes! It is some time ago, I believe?"

"Seventeen years."

"Y-e-s: I had forgotten."

He had an idea, this man of a hundred schemes, that his "baby"

was laughing at him, and, singularly enough, it raised her in his

estimation. He even asked her to come and live with him in the city,

but she refused, and he did not insist.

Then he set about making a change, which was soon accomplished. He

sent for furniture and carpets, and cleared the rubbish from without

and within. Under his decided orders a complete outfit "suitable for

his daughter" soon arrived, and with it a maid. Nellie, whose ideas

of maids were taken from Lucetta, was much disappointed in the actual

being, and the modern Lucetta was also disappointed when she saw

the "howling wilderness" to which she had been inveigled; so the two

parted speedily. But Mr. Archer remained: he was one of those men

who do things thoroughly which they have once undertaken. When he

was satisfied with Nellie's appearance he took her to call on all the

neighboring families within reach.

Among others, they went to see Mrs. Overbeck, Danby's mother, whom

Mr. Archer had known in his youth. Nellie wore her brave trappings

bravely, and acted her part nicely until Mrs. Overbeck gave her a

motherly kiss at parting, when she grew pale and trembled. Why should

she? Her hostess thought it was from the heat, and insisted on her

taking a glass of wine.

In the autumn of this year Danby graduated and returned home. Nellie

had not seen him during all this interval: he had spent his vacations

abroad, and had become quite a traveled man. While she retained her

affection for him unchanged, he scarcely remembered the funny little

girl who had been so devoted to him in the years gone by. A few days

after he arrived, his mother, in giving him the local news, mentioned

the charming acquaintance she had made of a young lady who lived in

the neighborhood. On hearing her name the young man exclaimed, "Why,

that must be Nellie!"

"Do you know her?" asked his mother in surprise.

"Of course I do, and many a jolly time I have had with her. Odd little

thing, ain't she?"

"I should not call her odd," remarked his mother.

"You do not know her as I do."

"Perhaps not. I suppose you will go with me when I return her visit."

"Certainly I will--just in for that sort of thing. A man feels the

need of some relaxation after a four years' bore, and there is nothing

like the society of the weaker sex to give the mind repose."

"Shocking boy!" said the fond mother with a smile.

In a short time the projected call was made.

"You will frighten her with all that finery, my handsome mother,"

remarked Danby as they walked to the carriage.

"I think she will survive it, but I shall not answer for the effect of

those brilliant kids of yours."

"The feminine eye is caught by display," said her son sententiously.

They chatted as they drove rapidly through the forest to the old

house, entered the front gate and rolled up the broad avenue.

"I had no idea the place looked so well," remarked Danby, _en

connaisseur_, as they approached. "I always entered by the back way;"

and he gave his moustache a final twirl.

After a loud knock from a vigorous hand the door was opened by a small

servant, much resembling Nellie some four years before. Danby was

going to speak to her, but recalling the time that had elapsed, he

knew it could not be she. All within was altered. Three rooms

_en suite_, the last of which was the library, had been carefully

refurnished. He looked about him. Could this be the place in which he

had passed so many days? But he forgot all in the figure that advanced

to receive them. With a pretty grace she gave her hand to his mother

and welcomed "Mr. Overbeck." How she talked--talked like a babbling

brook! It was now his turn to open big eyes and be silent. He tried

to recall the girl he had left. Vain endeavor! This bright creature,

grave and gay, silent but ready, respectful yet confident, how could

he follow her? The visit came to an end, but was repeated again and

again by Danby, and each time with new astonishment, new delight. She

had the coquetry of a dozen women, yet her eyes looked so true. She

was a perfect elf for pranks and jokes, yet demure as a nun. When he

tried to awe her with his learning, she was saucy; if he was serious,

she was gay; if he wished to teach, she rebelled. She was self-willed

as a changeling, refractory yet gentle, seditious but just,--only

waiting to strike her colors and proclaim him conqueror; but this he

did not know, for she kept well hid in her heart what "woman's fear"

she had. She was all her favorite heroines in turn, with herself added

to the galaxy.

One day he penetrated into the library, notwithstanding some very

serious efforts on her part to prevent him: by this time he would

occasionally assert himself. The furniture there was not much altered.

A few worn things had been replaced, but the room looked so much the

same that the scene of that first reading-lesson came vividly to his

mind. He turned to the side where the desk had stood. It was still

there, with the two chairs before it, and on it was the book. She

would not for the world have had it moved, but it was, as it were,

glorified. Mr. Archer had wished "these old things cleared away," but

Nellie had besought him so earnestly that he allowed them to stay,

stipulating, however, that they should be upholstered anew. To this

she assented, saying, "Send me the best of everything and _I_ will

cover them--the very best, mind;" and her father, willing to please

her, did as she desired.

So the old desk became smart in brocade and gold-lace, the book

received a cushion all bullion and embroidery, and the chairs emulated

the splendor. It required a poet or a girl in love to clothe a fancy

so beautifully, and Nellie was both. It was her shrine: why should she

not adorn it?

I cannot follow the process of thought in Danby's mind as he looked

at this and at Nellie--Nellie blushing with the sudden guiltiness that

even the discovery of a harmless action will bring when we wish to

conceal it. Sometimes a moment reveals much.

"Nellie"--it was the first time he had called her so since his

return--"I must give you a reading-lesson: come, sit here."

Mechanically she obeyed him, all the rebel fading away: she looked

like the Nellie of other days. She felt she had laid bare her soul,

but in proportion as her confusion overcame her did he become decided.

It is the slaves that make tyrants, it is said.

Under the impulse of his hand the book opened at the well-worn page.

"Read!"

For a little while she sat with downcast eyes. Well she knew the

passage to which he was pointing: "Love! But it cannot be sounded: my

affection hath an unknown bottom, like the bay of Portugal."

The sentence seemed to dance and grow till it covered the page--grow

till in her sight it assumed the size of a placard, and then it took

life and became her accuser--told in big letters the story of her

devotion to the mocking boy beside her.

"There is good advice on the preceding page," he whispered smiling.

"Orlando says he would kiss before he spoke: may I?"

She started up and looked at his triumphant face a moment, her mouth

quivering, her eyes full of tears. "How can you--" she began.