CHAPTER V.

"That is all I can tell you about it," said Mr Hedger, as he handed me

the last of three indictments, with the joyful accompaniment of the

fees. "That is all I can tell you about it. If the _alibi_ will hold

water, good and well--if not, M'Closkie will be transported."

Hedger is the very best criminal agent I ever met with. There is always

a point in his cases--his precognitions are perfect, and pleading, under

such auspices, becomes a kind of realised romance.

"By the way," said he, "is there a Mr Strachan of your bar at circuit? I

have a curious communication from a prisoner who is desirous to have him

as her counsel."

"Indeed! I am glad to hear it. Mr Strachan is a particular friend of

mine, and will be here immediately. I shall be glad to introduce you. Is

it a heavy case?"

"No, but rather an odd one--a theft of money committed at the Blenheim

hotel. The woman seems a person of education, but, as she obstinately

refuses to tell me her story, I know very little more about it than is

contained in the face of the indictment."

"What is her name?"

"Why you know that is a matter not very easily ascertained. She called

herself Euphemia Saville when brought up for examination, and of course

she will be tried as such. She is well dressed, and rather pretty, but

she won't have any other counsel than Mr Strachan; and singularly

enough, she has positively forbidden me to send him a fee on the ground

that he would take it as an insult."

"I should feel particularly obliged if the whole public would take to

insulting me perpetually in that manner! But really this is an odd

history. Do you think she is acquainted with my friend?"

Hedger winked.

"I can't say," said he, "for, to tell you the truth, I know nothing

earthly about it. Only she was so extremely desirous to have him

engaged, that I thought it not a little remarkable. I hope your friend

won't take offence if I mention what the woman said?"

"Not in the least, you may be sure of that. And, _apropos_, here he

comes."

And in effect Whaup and Strachan now walked into the counsel's

apartment, demure, shaven, and well dressed--altogether two very

different-looking individuals from the tatterdemalions of yesterday.

"Good morning, Fred," cried Whaup; "Servant, Mr Hedger--lots of work

going, eh? Are the pleas nearly over yet?"

"Very nearly, I believe, Mr Whaup. Would you have the kindness to----"

"Oh, certainly," said I. "Strachan, allow me to introduce my friend Mr

Hedger, who is desirous of your professional advice."

"I say, Freddy," said Whaup, looking sulkily at the twain as they

retired to a window to consult, "what's in the wind now? Has old Hedger

got a spite at any of his clients?"

"How should I know? What do you mean?"

"Because I should rather think," said Anthony, "that in our friend

Strachan's hands the lad runs a remarkably good chance of a sea voyage

to the colonies, that's all."

"Fie for shame, Anthony! You should not bear malice."

"No more I do--but I can't forget the loss of the little Caption all

through his stupid blundering; and this morning he must needs sleep so

long that he lost the early train, and has very likely cut me out of

business for the sheer want of a pair of reputable trousers."

"Never mind--there is a good time coming."

"Which means, I suppose, that you have got the pick of the cases? Very

well: it can't be helped, so I shall even show myself in court by way of

public advertisement."

So saying, my long friend wrestled himself into his gown, adjusted his

wig knowingly upon his cranium, and rushed toward the court-room as

vehemently as though the weal of the whole criminal population of the

west depended upon his individual exertions.

"Freddy, come here, if you please," said Strachan, "this is a very

extraordinary circumstance! Do you know that this woman, Euphemia

Saville, though she wishes me to act as her counsel, has positively

refused to see me!"

"Very odd, certainly! Do you know her?"

"I never heard of the name in my life. Are you sure, Mr Hedger, that

there is no mistake?"

"Quite sure, sir. She gave me, in fact, a minute description of your

person, which perhaps I may be excused from repeating."

"Oh, I understand," said Tom, fishingly; "complimentary, I

suppose--eh?"

"Why yes, rather so," replied Hedger hesitatingly; and he cast at the

same time a glance at the limbs of my beloved friend, which convinced me

that Miss Saville's communication had, somehow or other, borne reference

to the shape of a parenthesis. "But, at all events, you may be sure she

has seen you. I really can imagine no reason for an interview. We often

have people who take the same kind of whims, and you have no idea of

their obstinacy. The best way will be to let the Crown lead its

evidence, and trust entirely to cross-examination. I shall take care, at

all events, that her appearance shall not damage her. She is well

dressed, and I don't doubt will make use of her cambric handkerchief."

"And a very useful thing that same cambric is," observed I. "Come, Tom,

my boy, pluck up courage! You have opportunity now for a grand display;

and if you can poke in something about chivalry and undefended

loveliness, you may be sure it will have an effect on the jury. There is

a strong spice of romance in the composition of the men of the Middle

Ward."

"The whole thing, however, seems to me most mysterious."

"Very; but that is surely an additional charm. We seldom find a chapter

from the Mysteries of Udolfo transferred to the records of the

Justiciary Court of Scotland."

"Well, then, I suppose it must be so. Fred, will you sit beside me at

the trial? I'm not used to this sort of thing as yet, and I possibly may

feel nervous."

"Not a bit of you. At any rate I shall be there, and of course you may

command me."

In due time the case was called. Miss Euphemia Saville ascended the trap

stair, and took her seat between a pair of policemen with exceedingly

luxuriant whiskers.

I must allow that I felt a strong curiosity about Euphemia. Her name was

peculiar; the circumstances under which she came forward were unusual;

and her predilection for Strachan was tantalising. Her appearance,

however, did little to solve the mystery. She was neatly, even elegantly

dressed in black, with a close-fitting bonnet and thick veil, which at

first effectually obscured her countenance. This, indeed, she partially

removed when called upon to plead to the indictment; but the law of no

civilised country that I know of is so savage as to prohibit the use of

a handkerchief, and the fair Saville availed herself of the privilege by

burying her countenance in cambric. I could only get a glimpse of some

beautiful black braided hair and a forehead that resembled alabaster. To

all appearance she was extremely agitated, and sobbed as she answered to

the charge.

The tender-hearted Strachan was not the sort of man to behold the

sorrows of his client without emotion. In behalf of the junior members

of the Scottish bar I will say this, that they invariably fight tooth

and nail when a pretty girl is concerned, and I have frequently heard

bursts of impassioned eloquence poured forth in defence of a pair of

bright eyes or a piquant figure, in cases where an elderly or wizened

dame would have run a strong chance of finding no Cicero by her side.

Tom accordingly approached the bar for the purpose of putting some

questions to his client, but not a word could he extract in reply.

Euphemia drew down her veil, and waved her hand with a repulsive

gesture.

"I don't know what to make of her," said Strachan; "only she seems to be

a monstrous fine woman. It is clear, however, that she has mistaken me

for somebody else. I never saw her in my life before."

"Hedger deserves great credit for the way he has got her up. Observe,

Tom, there is no finery about her; no ribbons or gaudy scarfs, which are

as unsuitable at a trial as at a funeral. Black is your only wear to

find favour in the eyes of a jury."

"True. It is a pity that so little attention is paid to the æsthetics of

criminal clothing. But here comes the first witness--Grobey, I think,

they call him--the fellow who lost the money."

Mr Grobey mounted the witness-box like a cow ascending a staircase. He

was a huge, elephantine animal of some sixteen stone, with bushy

eyebrows and a bald pate, which he ever and anon affectionately caressed

with a red and yellow bandana. Strachan started at the sound of his

voice, surveyed him wistfully for a moment, and then said to me in a

hurried whisper--

"As I live, Fred, that is the identical bagman who boned my emerald

studs at Jedburgh!"

"You don't mean to say it?"

"Fact, upon my honour! There is no mistaking his globular freetrading

nose. Would it not be possible to object to his evidence on that

ground?"

"Mercy on us! no.--Reflect--there is no conviction."

"True. But he stole them nevertheless. I'll ask him about them when I

cross."

Mr Grobey's narrative, however, as embraced in an animated dialogue with

the public prosecutor, threw some new and unexpected light upon the

matter. Grobey was a traveller in the employment of the noted house of

Barnacles, Deadeye, and Company, and perambulated the country for the

benevolent purpose of administering to deficiency of vision. In the

course of his wanderings he had arrived at the Blenheim, where, after a

light supper of fresh herrings, toasted cheese, and Edinburgh ale,

assisted, _more Bagmannorum_, by several glasses of stiff

brandy-and-water, he had retired to his apartment to sleep off the

labours of the day. Somnus, however, did not descend that night with

his usual lightness upon Grobey. On the contrary, the deity seemed

changed into a ponderous weight, which lay heavily upon the chest of the

moaning and suffocated traveller; and notwithstanding a paralysis which

appeared to have seized upon his limbs, every external object in the

apartment became visible to him as by the light of a magic lantern. He

heard his watch ticking, like a living creature, upon the dressing-table

where he had left it. His black morocco pocket-book was distinctly

visible beside the looking-glass, and two spectral boots stood up amidst

the varied shadows of the night. Grobey was very uncomfortable. He began

to entertain the horrid idea that a fiend was hovering through his

chamber.

All at once he heard the door creaking upon its hinges. There was a

slight rustling of muslin, a low sigh, and then momentary silence.

"What, in the name of John Bright, can that be?" thought the terrified

traveller; but he had not to wait long for explanation. The door opened

slowly--a female figure, arrayed from head to foot in robes of virgin

whiteness, glided in, and fixed her eyes, with an expression of deep

solemnity and menace, upon the countenance of Grobey. He lay breathless

and motionless beneath the spell. This might have lasted for about a

minute, during which time, as Grobey expressed it, his very entrails

were convulsed with fear. The apparition then moved onwards, still

keeping her eyes upon the couch. She stood for a moment near the window,

raised her arm with a monitory gesture to the sky, and then all at once

seemed to disappear as if absorbed in the watery moonshine. Grobey was

as bold a bagman as ever flanked a mare with his gig-whip, but this

awful visitation was too much. Boots, looking-glass, and table swam with

a distracting whirl before his eyes; he uttered a feeble yell, and

immediately lapsed into a swoon.

It was bright morning when he awoke. He started up, rubbed his eyes, and

endeavoured to persuade himself that it was all an illusion. To be sure

there were the boots untouched, the coat, the hat, and the portmanteau;

but where--oh where--were the watch and the plethoric pocket-book, with

its bunch of bank-notes and other minor memoranda? Gone--spirited away;

and with a shout of despair old Grobey summoned the household.

The police were straightway taken into his confidence. The tale of the

midnight apparition--of the Demon Lady--was told and listened to, at

first with somewhat of an incredulous smile; but when the landlord

stated that an unknown damosel had been sojourning for two days at the

hotel, that she had that morning vanished in a hackney-coach without

leaving any trace of her address, and that, moreover, certain spoons of

undeniable silver were amissing, Argus pricked up his ears, and after

some few preliminary inquiries, issued forth in quest of the fugitive.

Two days afterwards the fair Saville was discovered in a temperance

hotel; and although the pocket-book had disappeared, both the

recognisable notes and the watch were found in her possession. A number

of pawn-tickets, also, which were contained in her reticule, served to

collect from divers quarters a great mass of _bijouterie_, amongst which

were the Blenheim spoons.

Such was Mr Grobey's evidence as afterwards supplemented by the police.

Tom rose to cross-examine.

"Pray, Mr Grobey," said he, adjusting his gown upon his shoulders with a

very knowing and determined air, as though he intended to expose his

victim--"Pray, Mr Grobey, are you any judge of studs?"

"I ain't a racing man," replied Grobey, "but I knows an oss when I sees

it."

"Don't equivocate, sir, if you please. Recollect you are upon your

oath," said Strachan, irritated by a slight titter which followed upon

Grobey's answer. "I mean studs, sir--emerald studs for example?"

"I ain't. But the lady is," replied Grobey.

"How do you mean, sir?"

"'Cos there vos five pair on them taken out of pawn with her tickets."

"How do you know that, sir?"

"'Cos I see'd them."

"Were you at Jedburgh, sir, in the month of April last?"

"I was."

"Do you recollect seeing me there?"

"Perfectly."

"Do you remember what passed upon that occasion?"

"You was rather confluscated, I think."

There was a general laugh.

"Mr Strachan," said the judge mildly, "I am always sorry to interrupt a

young counsel, but I really cannot see the relevancy of these questions.

The court can have nothing to do with your communications with the

witness. I presume I need not take a note of these latter answers."

"Very well, my lord," said Tom, rather discomfited at being cut out of

his revenge on the bagman, "I shall ask him something else;" and he

commenced his examination in right earnest. Grobey, however, stood

steadfast to the letter of his previous testimony.

Another witness was called; and to my surprise the Scottish Vidocq

appeared. He spoke to the apprehension and the search, and also to the

character of the prisoner. In his eyes she had long been chronicled as

habit and repute a thief.

"You know the prisoner, then?" said Strachan rising.

"I do. Any time these three years."

"Under what name is she known to you?"

"Betsy Brown is her real name, but she has gone by twenty others."

"By twenty, do you say?"

"There, or thereabouts. She always flies at high game; and, being a

remarkably clever woman, she passes herself off for a lady."

"Have you ever seen her elsewhere than in Glasgow?"

"I have."

"Where?"

"At Jedburgh."

I cannot tell what impulse it was that made me twitch Strachan's gown at

this moment. It was not altogether a suspicion, but rather a

presentiment of coming danger. Strachan took the hint and changed his

line.

"Can you specify any of her other names?"

"I can. There are half-a-dozen of them here on the pawn-tickets. Shall I

read them?"

"If you please."

"One diamond ring, pledged in name of Lady Emily Delaroche. A garnet

brooch and chain--Miss Maria Mortimer. Three gold seals--Mrs Markham

Vere. A watch and three emerald studs--the Honourable Dorothea

Percy----"

There was a loud shriek from the bar, and a bustle--the prisoner had

fainted.

I looked at Strachan. He was absolutely as white as a corpse.

"My dear Tom," said I, "hadn't you better go out into the open air?"

"No!" was the firm reply; "I am here to do my duty, and I'll do it."

And in effect, the Spartan boy with the fox gnawing into his side did

not acquit himself more heroically than my friend. The case was a clear

one, no doubt, but Tom made a noble speech, and was highly complimented

by the Judge upon his ability. No sooner, however, had he finished it

than he left the Court.

I saw him two hours afterwards.

"Tom," said I, "about these emerald studs--I think I could get them back

from the Fiscal."

"Keep them to yourself. I'm off to India."

"Bah!--go down to the Highlands for a month."

Tom did so; purveyed himself a kilt; met an heiress at the Inverness

Meeting, and married her. He is now the happy father of half-a-dozen

children, and a good many of us would give a trifle for his practice.

But to this day he is as mad as a March hare if an allusion is made in

his presence to any kind of studs whatsoever.

MY COLLEGE FRIENDS.

No. III.

MR W. WELLINGTON HURST.

[_MAGA._ JANUARY 1846.]

It would probably puzzle Mr William Wellington Hurst, as much as any

man, to find out on what grounds I placed him on the list of my College

friends; for certainly our intimacy was hardly sufficient to warrant

such a liberty; and he was one of those happy individuals who would

never have suspected that it could be out of gratitude for much

amusement afforded me by sundry of his sayings and doings. But so it is;

and it happens, that while the images of many others of my

companions--very worthy good sort of fellows, whom I saw more or less of

nearly every day--have vanished from my memory, or only flit across

occasionally, like shadows, the full-length figure of Mr W. Wellington

Hurst, exactly as he turned out, after a satisfactory toilet, in the

patent boots and scarf of many colours, stands fixed there like a

daguerreotype--more faithful than flattering.

My first introduction to him was by running him down in a skiff, when I

was steering the College eight--not less to his astonishment than our

own gratification. It is (or used to be) perfectly allowable, by the

laws of the river, if, after due notice, these small craft fail to get

out of your way; but it is not very easy to effect. However, in this

instance, we went clean over him, very neatly indeed. The men helped him

into our boat, just as his own sunk from under him; and he accepted a

seat by my side in the stern-sheets, with many apologies for being so

wet, appearing considerably impressed with a sense of my importance, and

still more of my politeness. When we reached Sandford, I prescribed a

stiff tumbler of hot brandy and water, and advised him to run all the

way home, to warm himself, and avoid catching cold; and, from that time,

I believe he always looked upon me as a benefactor. The claim, on my

part, certainly rested on a very small foundation originally; it was

strengthened afterwards by a less questionable act of patronage. Like

many other under-graduates of every man's acquaintance in those days,

Hurst laboured under the delusion, that holding two sets of reins in a

very confused manner, and flourishing a long whip, was driving; and that

to get twenty miles out of Oxford in a "team," without an upset, or an

imposition from the proctor, was an _opus operatum_ of the highest

possible merit. To do him justice, he laboured diligently in the only

exercise which he seemed to consider strictly academical--he spent an

hour every morning, standing upon a chair, "catching flies," as he

called it, and occasionally flicking his scout, with a tandem whip; and

practised incessantly upon tin horns of all lengths, with more zeal than

melody, until he got the erysipelas in his lower lip, and a hint of

rustication from the tutors. Yet he was more ambitious than successful.

His reputation on the road grew worse and worse every day. He had a

knack of shaving turnpike gates, and cutting round corners on one wheel,

and getting his horses into every possible figure but a straight line,

which made every mile got over without an accident almost a miracle. At

last, after taking a four-in-hand over a narrow bridge, at the bottom of

a hill, pretty much in the Olympic fashion--all four abreast--men got

rather shy of any expeditions of the kind in his company. There was

little credit in it, and a good deal of danger. First, he was reduced to

soliciting the company of freshmen, who were flattered by any proposal

that sounded _fast_. But they, too, grew shy, after one or two ventures;

and poor Hurst soon found a difficulty in getting a companion at all. He

was a liberal fellow enough, and not pushed for a guinea when his

darling science was concerned: so he used to offer to "sport the team"

himself; but even when he condescended to the additional self-devotion

of "standing a dinner and champagne," he found that the closest

calculators among his sporting acquaintance had as much regard for their

necks as their pockets.

To this inglorious position was his fame as a charioteer reduced, when

Horace Leicester and myself, early in his third term, had determined

somewhat suddenly to go to see a steeple-chase about twelve miles off,

where Leicester had some attraction besides the horses, in the shape of

a pretty cousin; (_two_, he told me, and bribed me with the promise of

an introduction to "the other," but she did not answer to sample at

all.) We had engaged a very nice mare and stanhope, which we knew we

could depend upon, when, the day before the race, the chestnut was

declared lame, and not a presentable four-legged animal was to be hired

in Oxford. Hurst had engaged his favourite pair of greys (which would

really go very well with any other driver) a week beforehand, but had

been canvassing the last batch of freshmen in vain for an occupant of

the vacant seat. A huge red-headed north-country man, who had never seen

a tandem in his life, but who, as far as pluck went, would have ridden

postilion to Medea's dragons, was listening with some apparent

indecision to Hurst's eloquence upon the delights of driving, just as we

came up after a last unsuccessful search through the livery stables; and

the pair were proceeding out of college arm in arm, probably to look at

the greys, when Leicester, to my amusement, stepped up with--"Hurst,

who's going with you to B----?"

"I--why, I hardly know yet; I think Sands here will, if"----

"I'll go with you then, if you like; and if you've got a cart,[1]

Hawthorne can come too, and it will be very jolly."

[1] "_Carts_" of that day held three.

If the university had announced their intention of creating him a B.A.

by diploma, without examination, Hurst could hardly have looked more

surprised and delighted. Leicester, it should be borne in mind, was one

of the most popular men in the college--a sort of _arbiter elegantiarum_

in the best set. Hurst knew very little of him, but was no doubt highly

flattered by his proposal. From coaxing freshmen to come out by the

bribe of paying all expenses, to driving to B---- steeple-chase side by

side with Horace (my modesty forbids me to include myself), was a step

at once from the ridiculous to the sublime of tandemizing. For this

advancement in life, he always, I fancy, considered himself indebted to

me, as I had originally introduced him to Leicester's acquaintance; and

when we both accepted an invitation, which he delivered himself of with

some hesitation, to breakfast in his rooms on the morning of the

expedition, his joy and gratitude appeared to know no bounds. It is not

usual, be it remembered, for a junior man in college to ask a senior to

a party from whom he has never received an invitation himself; but

hunting and tandem-driving are apt occasionally to set ordinary

etiquette at defiance. "Don't ask a lot of men, that's all--there's a

good fellow," said Horace, whose good-natured smile, and off-hand and

really winning manner, enabled him to carry off, occasionally, a degree

of impudence which would not have been tolerated from others--"I hate a

large formal breakfast party of all things; it disgusts me to see a

score of men jostling each other over tough beefsteaks."

"I asked Sands yesterday," apologised Hurst. "I thought perhaps he would

come out with me; but I daresay I can put him off, if"----

"Oh! on no account whatever; you mean the carroty freshman I saw you

with just now? Have him by all means; it will be quite refreshing to

meet any man so regularly green. So there will be just four of us; eight

o'clock, I suppose? it won't do to be much later."

And Horace walked off, having thus arranged matters to his own

satisfaction and his host's. I was an interested party in the business,

however, and had my own terms to make. "You've disposed of me rather

coolly," said I; "you don't surely imagine that at my time of life I'm

going to trust my neck to that fellow's abominable driving?"

"Make your mind easy, Frank; William Wellington sha'n't finger a

riband."

"Nonsense, Leicester; you can't treat a man in that kind of way--not to

let him drive his own team. Hurst _is_ a bit of an ass, certainly; but

you can't with any decency first ask a man for a seat, and then refuse

to give him up the reins."

"Am I in the habit, sir, of doing things in the very rude and

ungentlemanly style you insinuate?" And Horace looked at me with mock

dignity for a second or two, and then burst into a laugh. "Leave it to

me, Hawthorne, and I'll manage it to the satisfaction of all parties:

I'll promise you that Hurst shall have a capital day's fun, and your

valuable neck shall be as safe as if you were tried by a Welsh jury."

With this indefinite assurance I was obliged to be content; and

accordingly, at half-past eight the next morning, after a very correct

breakfast, we mounted the tandem-cart at the college back-gates, got the

leader hitched on, as usual, a mile out of the city, for fear of

proctors, and were bowling merrily along, in the slight frost of an

autumn morning, towards B----. Leicester took the driving first, by

Hurst's special request, after one or two polite but faint refusals, the

latter sitting by his side; while I occupied, for the present, the queer

little box which in those days was stuck on behind, (the more modern

carts, which hold four, are an improvement introduced into the

University since my driving days). With wonderful gravity and importance

did Leicester commence his lectures on the whip to his admiring

companion: I almost think he began in the approved style, with a slight

allusion to the Roman _biga_, and deduced the progress of the noble

science from Ericthonius down to "Peyton and Ward." I have a lively

recollection of a comparison between Automedon of the Homeric times, and

"Black Will" of Oxford celebrity--the latter being decided as only

likely to be less immortal, because there was no Homer among the

contemporary under-graduates. A good deal was lost to me, no doubt, from

my position behind; but Hurst seemed to suck it all in with every

disposition to be edified. From the history of his subject, Horace

proceeded, in due course, to the theory, from theory to facts, from

facts to illustrations. In the practical department, Horace, I suspect,

like many other lecturers, was on his weakest ground; for his own

driving partook of the general under-graduate character.

"You throw the lash out so--you see--and bring it back sharp, so--no,

not _so_ exactly--so--hang the thing, I can't do it now; but that's the

principle, you understand--and then you take up your double thong,

so--pshaw, I did it very well just now--to put it into the wheeler,

so--ah, I missed it then, but that's the way to do it."

He put me considerably in mind of a certain professor of chemistry,

whose lectures on light and heat I once was rash enough to attend, who,

after a long dry disquisition which had nearly put us all to sleep, used

to arouse our attention to the "beautiful effects" produced by certain

combinations, which he would proceed to illustrate, as he said, by a

"little experiment." But, somehow or other, these little experiments

always, or nearly always, failed: and after the room had been darkened,

perhaps, for five minutes or so, in order to give the exhibition full

effect, the result would be, a _fizz_ or two, a faint blue light, and a

stink, varying according to circumstances, but always abominable. "It's

very odd, John," the discomfited operator used to exclaim to his

assistant; "very odd; and we succeeded so well this morning, too: it's

most unaccountable: I'm really very sorry, gentlemen, but I can assure

you, this very same experiment we tried to-day with the most beautiful

result; didn't we, John?" "We did, sir," was John's invariably dutiful

reply; and so the audience took John's word for it, and the experiment

was considered to have been, virtually, successful.

So we rattled on to the ground: Leicester occasionally putting the reins

into his companion's hand, teaching him to perform some impossible

movement with his third finger, and directing his attention to

non-existent flies, which he professed to remove from the leader, out

of sheer compassion, with the point of the whip.

"You are sure you wouldn't like to take the reins now? Well, you'll

drive home then, of course? Hawthorne, will you try your hand now?

Hurst's going to take up the tooling when we come back."

"No, thank you," said I; "I won't interfere with either of your

performances."--"And if Hurst does drive home," was my mental

determination, expressed to Leicester as far as a nod could do it, "I'll

walk."

There was no difficulty in finding out the localities: the field in

which the winning-flag was fixed was not far from the turnpike road, and

conspicuous enough by the crowd already there collected. Of course,

pretty nearly all the sporting characters among the gownsmen were there,

the distance from the University being so trifling. Mounted on that

seedy description of animal peculiar to Oxford livery-stables, which can

never by any possibility be mistaken for anything but a hired affair,

but will generally go all day, and scramble through almost anything;

with showily mounted jockey-whips in their hands, bad cigars (at two

guineas a-pound) in their mouths, bright blue scarfs, or something

equivalent, round their necks--their neat white cords and tops (things

which they _did_ turn out well in Oxford) being the only really

sportsmanlike article about them; flattering themselves they looked

exceedingly knowing, and, in nine cases out of ten, being deceived

therein most lamentably; clustered together in groups of four or five,

discussing the merits of the horses, or listening, as to an oracle, to

the opinion of some Oxford horse-dealer, delivered with insolent

familiarity--here were the men who drank out of a fox's head, and

recounted imaginary runs with the Heythrop. Happy was he amongst them,

and a positive hero for the day, who could boast a speaking acquaintance

with any of those anomalous individuals, at present enshrouded in

great-coats, but soon to appear in all the varieties of jockey costume,

known by the style and title of "gentlemen riders;" who could point out,

confidentially, to his admiring companions, "Jack B----," and "Little

M----," and announce, from authority, how many ounces under weight one

was this morning, and how many blankets were put upon the other the

night before, to enable him to come to the scales at all. Here and

there, more plainly dressed, moving about quickly on their own

thorough-breds, or talking to some neighbouring squire who knew the

ground, were the few really sporting men belonging to the University;

who kept hunters in Oxford, simply because they were used to keep them

at home, and had been brought up to look upon fox-hunting as their

future vocation. Lolling on their saddles, probably voting it all a

bore, were two or three tufts, and their "tail;" and stuck into all

sorts of vehicles, lawful and unlawful, buggies, drags, and tandems,

were that ignoble herd, who, like myself, had come to the steeple-chase,

just because it was the most convenient idleness at hand, and because

other men were going. There were all sorts of people there besides, of

course: carriages of all grades of pretension, containing pretty bonnets

and ugly faces, in the usual proportion; "all the beauty and fashion of

the neighbourhood," nevertheless, as the county paper assured us; and as

I may venture to add, from personal observation, a very fair share of

its disreputability and blackguardism besides.

After wandering for a short time among these various groups, Leicester

halted us at last in front of one of those old-fashioned

respectable-looking barouches, which one now so seldom sees, in which

were seated a party, who turned out to consist of an uncle and aunt, and

the pair of cousins before alluded to. Hurst and I were duly introduced;

a ceremony which, for my own part, I could have very readily excused,

when I discovered that the only pair of eyes in the party worth

mentioning bestowed their glances almost exclusively on Horace, and any

attempt at cutting into the conversation in that quarter was as

hopeless, apparently, as ungracious. Our friend's taste in the article

of cousins was undeniably correct; Flora Leicester was a most desirable

person to have for a cousin; very pretty, very good-humoured, and (I am

sure she was, though I pretend to no experience of the fact) very

affectionate. If one could have put in any claim of kindred, even in the

third or fourth degree, it would have been a case in which to stickle

hard for the full privileges of relationship. As matters stood, it was

trying enough to the sensibilities of us unfortunate bystanders, whose

cousins were either ugly or at a distance; for the rest of our new

acquaintances were not interesting. The younger sister was shy and

insipid; the squire like ninety-nine squires in every hundred; and the

lady-mother in a perpetual state of real or affected nervous agitation,

to which her own family were happily insensible, but which taxed a

stranger's polite sympathies pretty heavily. Though constantly in the

habit, as she assured me, of accompanying her husband to race-courses,

and enjoying the sport, she was always on the look-out for an accident,

and was always having, as she said, narrow escapes; some indeed so very

narrow, that, according to her own account, they ought to have had, by

every rule of probability, fatal terminations. In fact, her tone might

have led one to believe that she looked upon herself as an ill-used

woman in getting off so easily--at least she was exceedingly angry when

the younger daughter ventured to remark, _en pendant_ to one of her most

thrilling adventures, that "there was no great danger of an upset when

the wheel stuck fast." Not content with putting her head out of the

carriage every five minutes, to see if her own well-trained bays were

standing quiet, as they always did, there was not a restive horse or

awkward rider on the ground but attracted the good lady's ever watchful

sense of danger. "He'll be thrown! I'm sure he will! foolish man, why

don't he get off!" "Oh, oh! there they go! they're off, those horrid

horses! they'll never stop 'em!" Such were the interjections,

accompanied with extraordinary shudderings and drawings of the breath,

with which Mrs John Leicester, her eyes fixed on some distant point,

occasionally broke in upon the general conversation, sometimes with a

vehemence that startled even her nephew and eldest daughter, though, to

do them justice, they paid very little attention to any of us.

Just as I was meditating something desperate, in order to relieve myself

from the office of soother-general of Mrs Leicester's imaginary terrors,

and to bring Flora's sunny face once more within my line of vision (she

had been turning the back of her bonnet upon me perseveringly for the

last ten minutes), a general commotion gave us notice that the horses

were started, and the race begun. The hill on which we were stationed

was close to the winning-post, and commanded a view of pretty nearly the

whole ground from the start. The race was, I suppose, pretty nearly

like other steeple-chases, and there is the less need for me to describe

it, because a very full and particular account appeared in the _Bell's

Life_ next ensuing. The principal impressions which remain on my mind,

are of a very smart gentleman in black and crimson, mounted on a very

powerful bay, who seemed as if he had been taking it easy, who came in

first, and after having been sufficiently admired by an innocent public,

myself among the number, as the winner, turned out to have gone on the

right hand instead of the left of some flag or other, and to have lost

the race accordingly; and of a very dirty-looking person, who arrived

some minute or two afterwards without a cap, whose jacket was green and

his horse grey, so far as the mud left any colour visible, and who, to

the great disappointment of the ladies especially, turned out to be the

real hero after all.

We had made arrangements to have an independent beefsteak together after

the race, in preference to joining the sporting ordinary announced as

usual on such occasions; but the squire insisted on Leicester bringing

us both to dine with his party at five. After a few modest and

conscientious scruples on my part, at intruding on the hospitality of

comparative strangers, and a strong private remonstrance from Hurst, on

the impropriety of sitting down to dinner with ladies in a surtout and

white cords, we accepted the invitation, and betook ourselves to kill

the intervening hour or so as we best could.

"Well, Horace," said I, as Hurst went off to make his apology for a

toilette--"how are you going to settle about the driving home?"

"Oh! never fear; I'll manage it: I have just seen Miller and Fane;

they've got a drag over here, and there's lots of room inside; so

they've promised to take Hurst home with them, if we can only manage to

leave him behind: they are going to dine here, and are sure not to go

home till late; and we must be off early, you know, because I have some

men coming to supper; so we'll leave our friend behind, somehow or

other. A painful necessity, I admit; but it must be done, even if I have

to lock him up in the stable."

Leicester seemed to have more confidence in his own resources than I

had; but he was in too great a state of excitement to listen to any

demurrers of mine on the point, and hurried us off to join his friends.

Ushered into the drawing-room A.1. of the Saracen's Head, we found _la

bella_ Flora awaiting us alone, the rest of the family being not as yet

visible. There was not the slightest necessity for inquiring whether she

felt fatigued, for she was looking even more lovely than in the morning;

or whether she had been amused or not, for if the steeple-chase had not

delighted her, something else had, for there was a radiant smile on her

face which could not be mistaken. Hurst was cut short rather abruptly in

a speech which appeared tending towards a compliment, by Leicester's

inquiring--"My good fellow, have you seen the horses fed?"

"No, upon my word," said Hurst, "I"----

"Well, I have then; but I wish you would just step across the yard, and

see if that stupid ostler has rubbed them dry, as I told him. You

understand those things, I know, Hurst--the fellows won't humbug you

very easily; as to Hawthorne, I wouldn't trust him to see to anything of

the sort. Flora here knows more about a horse than he does."

Any compliment to Hurst's acuteness in the matter of horse-flesh was

sure to have its effect, and he walked off with an air of some

importance to discharge his commission.

"Now, then," said Horace eagerly, "we have got rid of him for ten

minutes, which was all I wanted; if you please, Flora dear, we must have

your cleverness to help us in a little difficulty."

"Indeed!" said Miss Leicester, colouring a little, as her cousin, in his

eagerness, seized her hand in both of his--"what scrape have you got

into now, Horace, and how can I possibly help you?"

"Oh, I want you to hit upon some plan for keeping that fellow Hurst here

after we are gone."

"Upon my word!"

"Stay; you don't know what I mean. I'll tell you why--if he drives home

to Oxford, he'll infallibly upset us; and drive he must if he goes home

with us, because, in fact, the team is his, and I drove them all the way

here, and it's his turn back, you see."

"Then why, in the multitude of absurdities which you Oxonians

perpetrate--I beg your pardon, Mr Hawthorne--but why need you have come

out in a tandem at all, with a man who can't drive?"

"Simply, Flora, because I had no other way of coming at all."

"It was very absurd in us, Miss Leicester, I allow," said I, "but you

know what an attraction a steeple-chase is, to your cousin especially;

and after having made up his mind to come--altogether, you see, it would

have been a disappointment"--(to all parties, I had a mind to add, but I

thought the balance was on my side without it.)

"After all," said Horace, "I shouldn't care a straw to run the chance,

as far as I am concerned. I dare say the horses will go home straight

enough, if he'll only let them: or if he wouldn't, I shouldn't mind

knocking him off the box at once--by accident; but Frank here is rather

particular, and I promised him I would not let Hurst drive. I thought

once, if we had dined by ourselves, of persuading him he was drunk, and

sending him home in a fly; but I am afraid, as matters stand, that plea

is hardly practicable."

"Could I persuade him to let you or Mr Hawthorne drive, do you think?"

Horace looked at her as if he thought, as I dare say he did, that his

cousin Flora could, if she were so minded, persuade a man to do

anything; so I was compelled, somewhat at the expense of my reputation

for gallantry, to assure them both, that if Ulysses of old, among his

various arts and accomplishments, had piqued himself upon his

tandem-driving, his vanity would have stopped his ears effectually, and

the Syren might have sung herself hoarse before he would have given up

the reins.

"I'll give the Boots half-a-crown to steal his hat," said Horace, "and

start while he is looking for it."

"Stay," said his cousin; "I dare say it may be managed." But I thought

she looked disappointed. "Did you know we were all going to the

B---- theatre to-night?"

"No! really! what fun!"

"No fun for you; for you must start early, as you said just now. The

owners of the horses here patronise a play, and they have made papa

promise to go, and so we must, I suppose, and"----

"Oh! we'll all go, of course," said Horace decidedly.--"You'll stay and

go, won't you, Hawthorne?"

"You forget your supper party," said I.

"Oh! hang it, they'll take care of themselves, so long as the supper's

there; they won't miss me much."

"Didn't I hear something of your being confined to college after nine?"

"Ah, yes; I believe I am--but it won't matter much for once; I'll call

on the dean to-morrow, and explain."

"No, no, Horace, that won't do; you and Mr Hawthorne must go home like

good boys," said Flora, with a smile only half as merry as usual, "and

Mary and I will persuade Mr Hurst to stay and go to the theatre with

us."

"Oh! confound it!"--Horace began.

"Hush! here comes papa; remember this is my arrangement; you ought to be

very much obliged, instead of beginning to swear in that way; I'm sure

Mr Hawthorne is very grateful to me for taking so much interest in the

question of his breaking his neck, if you are not. Oh! papa," she

continued, "do you know that we shall lose all our beaux to-night; they

have some horrid supper party to go back to, and we shall have to go to

the play by ourselves!"

Most of the Squire's sympathies were at this moment absorbed in the fact

that dinner was already four minutes late, so that he had less to spare

for his daughter's disappointment than Mrs Leicester, who on her arrival

took up the lamentation with all her heart. She attacked her nephew at

once upon the subject, whose replies were at first wavering and evasive,

till he caught Flora's eye, and then he answered with a dogged sort of

resolution, exceedingly amusing to me who understood his position, and

at last got quite cross with his aunt for persisting in her entreaties.

I declared, for my part, that I was dependent on Horace's movements;

that, if I could possibly have anticipated the delightful evening which

had awaited us, every other arrangement should have given way, &c. &c.;

when Hurst's reappearance turned the whole force of Mrs Leicester's

persuasions upon him, backed, too, as she was by both her daughters.

"Won't _you_ stay, Mr Hurst? Must you go too? Will you be so shabby as

to leave us?" How could any man stand it? William Wellington Hurst could

not, it was very plain. At first he looked astonished; wondered why on

earth we couldn't all stay; then protested he couldn't think of letting

us go home by ourselves; a piece of self-devotion which we at once

desired might not be thought of; then hesitated--he was meditating, no

doubt, on the delight of driving--how was he to get home? the inglorious

occupant of the inside of a drag; or the solitary tenant of a fly

(though I suggested he might drive that if he pleased); couldn't

Leicester go home, and I and he follow together? I put in a decided

negative; he looked from Mrs Leicester's anxious face to Flora's, and

surrendered at discretion. We were to start at eight precisely in the

tandem, and Miller and his party, who were sure to wait for the play,

were to pick up Mr Wellington Hurst as a supernumerary passenger at some

hour unknown. And so we went to dinner. Mrs Leicester marched off in

triumph with her new capture, as if fearful he might give her the slip

after all, and committed Flora to my custody. I was charitable enough,

however, in consideration of all circumstances, to give up my right of

sitting next to her to Horace, and established myself on the other side

of the table, between Mrs Leicester and her younger daughter; and a hard

post I had of it. Mary would not talk at all, and her mamma would do

nothing else; and she was one of those pertinacious talkers, too, who,

not content with running on themselves, and leaving you to put in an

occasional interjection, inflict upon you a cross-examination in its

severest form, and insist upon a definite and rational answer to every

question. However, availing myself of those legitimate qualifications of

a witness, an unlimited amount of impudence, and a determination not to

criminate myself, I got on pretty tolerably. Who did I think her

daughter Flora like? I took the opportunity of diligently examining that

young lady's features for about four minutes--not in the least to her

confusion, for she scarcely honoured me with a glance the whole

time--and then declared the resemblance to mamma quite startling. Mary?

Oh, her father's eyes decidedly; upon which the squire, whose pet she

appeared to be--I suppose it was the contrast between her quietness and

Mrs Leicester's incessant fidgetting that was so delightful--laughed,

and took wine with me. Then she took up the subject of my private tastes

and habits. Was I fond of riding? Yes. Driving? Pretty well. Reading?

Very. Then she considerately hoped that I did not read much by

candle-light--above all by an oil-lamp--it was very injurious. I assured

her that I would be cautious for the future. Then she offered me a

receipt for eye-water, in case I suffered from weakness arising from

over-exertion of those organs;--declined, with thanks. Hoped I did not

read above twelve hours a-day; some young men, she had heard, read

sixteen, which she considered as really inconsistent with a due regard

to health. I assured her that our sentiments on that point perfectly

coincided, and that I had no tendency to excesses of that kind. At last

she began to institute inquiries about certain under-graduates with

whose families she was acquainted; and the two or three names which I

recognised being hunting men, I referred her to Hurst as quite _au fait_

in the sporting circles of Oxford, and succeeded in hooking them into a

conversation which effectually relieved me.

Leicester, as I could overhear, had been still rather rebellious against

going home before the play was over, and was insisting that his being

in college by nine was not really material; nor did he appear

over-pleased, when, in answer to an appeal from Flora, I said plainly,

that the consequences of his "knocking in" late, when under sentence of

strict confinement to the regular hour, might not be pleasant--a fact,

however, which he himself, though with a very bad grace, was compelled

to admit.

At last the time arrived for our party to separate: Horace and I to

return to Oxford, and the others to adjourn to see _Richard the Third_

performed at the B---- theatre, under the distinguished patronage of the

members of the H---- Hunt. It was a beautiful moonlight night, and as

Hurst accompanied us to the stable-yard to "start us," as he

complacently phrased it, it was clear that he was suffering, like a

great many unfortunate individuals in public and private life, under an

overweening sense of his own importance. "You'll have an uncommon

pleasant drive of it; upon my word you will," he remarked; "it wouldn't

do for me to say I would not stay, you know, as Miss Leicester--Mrs

Leicester, that is--seemed to make such a point of it; but really"----

"Oh, come, Hurst," said I, "don't pretend to say you've made any

sacrifice in the matter; I know you are quite delighted; I'm sure I

should have liked to stay of all things, only it would have been uncivil

to our friend here to send him home by himself from his own party."

"Oh! hang it, I don't mean to call it a sacrifice; I have no doubt I

shall have a very pleasant evening; only I wish we could all have

stayed, and driven home together afterwards."

"You may keep Hawthorne with you now, if you like," said Horace, who was

not in the best of tempers; "I can take the horses home myself."

"No, no, that would be hardly fair," said I.

"Oh! no--off with you both," said Hurst; "stay, Leicester, you'll find

the grey go more pleasantly if you drive him from the cheek; I'll alter

it in a second."

"Have the goodness just to let them alone, my good fellow; as I'm to

drive, I prefer putting them my own way, if you have no objection."

"Well, as you please; good-night."

"Miller's coming to my rooms when he gets home; if you like to look in

with him, you'll find some supper, I dare say."

Horace continued rather sulky for the first few miles, and only opened

to anathematise, briefly but comprehensively, steeple-chases, tandems,

deans and tutors, and "fellows like Hurst." I thought it best to let him

cool down a little; so, after this ebullition, we rattled on in silence

as long as his first cigar lasted.

"Come," said I, as I gave him a light, "we got rid of our friend's

company pretty cleverly, thanks to your cousin."

"Ay, I told you I'd take care of that; ha, ha! poor Hurst! he little

bargained, when he ordered his team, how precious little driving he was

to get out of it; a strong instance of the vanity of human expectations.

I wish him joy of it, stuck up in an old barn, as I suppose he is by

this time, gaping at a set of strolling players; how Flora will laugh at

him! I really shouldn't wonder if she were to tell him, before the

evening is over, how nicely he has been humbugged, just for the fun of

it!"

"At all events," said I, "I think we must have a laugh at him to-night

when he comes home; though he's such a good-tempered fellow, it's rather

a shame, too."

It was very plain, however, that it was not quite such a good joke to

Master Horace himself as he was trying to make out; and that, in point

of fact, he would have considerably preferred being seated, as Hurst

probably was at that moment, by his pretty cousin's side in the B----

theatre, wherever and whatever that might chance to be (even with the

full expectation of being laughed at afterwards), to holding the reins

of the best team that ever was turned out of Oxford.

We reached Oxford just in time to hear the first stroke of "Old Tom." By

the time I joined Leicester in his rooms, supper was ready, and most of

the party assembled. The sport of the day was duly discussed; those who

knew least about such matters being proportionately the most noisy and

positive in giving their opinions. One young hero of eighteen, fresh

from Winchester, in all the importance of a probationary Fellow of New

College, explained for our benefit, by the help of the forks and

salt-cellars, the line which the horses undoubtedly ought to have taken,

and which they did not take; until one of his old schoolfellows, who was

present, was provoked to treat us to an anecdote of the young

gentleman's first appearance in the hunting-field--no longer ago than

the last term--when he mistook the little rough Scotch terrier that

always accompanied ----'s pack for the fox, and tally-ho'd him so

lustily as to draw upon himself sundry very energetic, but not very

complimentary, remarks from the well-known master of the hounds. By

degrees Leicester recovered his usual good-humour; and supper passed

over, and several songs had been sung with the usual amount of applause

(except one very sentimental one which had no chorus), and we had got

pretty deep into punch and politics, without Hurst's name having once

been mentioned by either of us. A knock at the oak, and in walked Fane.

"So you're come back at last?" said Horace. "Sit down, if you can find

room. Allow me to introduce your left-hand neighbour--Powell of

Merton,--Fane, one of our brightest ornaments; quite the _spes gregis_

we consider him; passed his little go, and started a pink only last

week; give him a glass of punch. Perhaps you are not aware we've been

drinking your health. But, by the way, Fane, where's our friend

Wellington?"

"Who?" said Fane; "what on earth are you talking about?"

"Wellington Hurst; didn't _you_ bring him home with you?"

"Certainly not; didn't you bring him home?"

"No; Miller promised me he should have a seat inside your drag, because

we could not wait for him; did you stay to the play?"

"Yes, and capital fun it was; by the way, the last time I saw your

friend Hurst was mounted up in a red baise place that was railed off for

the patrons and patronesses, as they called them; there he was in the

front row, doing the civil to a very odd-looking old dowager in bright

blue velvet, with a neck like an ostrich."

"Thank you," said Leicester, "that's my aunt."

"Well, on that ground, we'll drink her health," said Fane, whose

coolness was proverbial. "There was Hurst, however, sitting between her

and an uncommonly pretty girl, with dark hair and eyes, dressed in--let

me see"----

"Never mind; it was one of my cousins, I suppose," interposed Horace,

who was engaged in lighting a cigar at the candle, apparently with more

zeal than success.

"Well, we'll drink _her_ health for her own sake, if you have no

particular objection. I've no doubt the rest of the company will take my

word for her being the prettiest girl on the ground to-day; Hurst would

second me if he were here, for I never saw a man making love more

decidedly in my life."

"Stuff!" said Horace, pitching his cigar into the fire; "pass that

punch."

"What! jealous, Leicester?" said two or three of the party--"preserved

ground, eh?"

"Not at all, not at all," said Horace, trying with a very bad grace to

laugh off his evident annoyance; "at all events, I don't consider Hurst

a very formidable poacher; but what I want to know is, how he didn't

come home with Miller and your party?"

"Miller said he was coming up directly, so you can ask him; I really

heard nothing of it. Hark, there are steps coming up the staircase now."

It proved to be Miller himself, followed by the under-porter, a

good-tempered fellow, who was the factotum of the under-graduates at

late hours, when the ordinary staff of servants had left college for the

night.

"How are you, Leicester?" said he, as he walked straight to the little

pantry, or "scouts' room," immediately opposite the door, which forms

part of the usual suite of college apartments; "come here, Bob."

"Where's Hurst?" was Horace's impatient query.

"Wait a bit," replied Miller from inside, where he was rattling the

plates in the course of investigating the remains of the supper--he was

not the man to go to bed supperless after a twelve miles' drive. "Here,

Bob," he continued, as he emerged at last with a cold fowl--"take this

fellow down with you, and grill him in no time; here's a lump of

butter--and Harvey's sauce--and--where do you keep the pickled

mushrooms, Leicester? here they are--make a little gravy; and here,

Bob--it's a cold night--here's a glass of wine; now you'll drink Mr

Leicester's health, and vanish."

Bob drank the toast audibly, floored his tumbler of port at two gulps,

and departed.

"Now," said Horace, "do just tell me--what _is_ become of Hurst? how

didn't you bring him home?"

"Confound it!" said Miller, as he looked into all the jugs--"no whisky

punch?"

"Oh, really I forgot it; here's bishop, and that brandy punch is very

good. But how didn't he come home with you?"

"Forgot it!" soliloquised Miller pathetically.

"Forgot it? how the deuce came you to forget it? and how will he come

now?" rejoined Horace.

"How came _you_ to forget it? I was talking about the whisky punch,"

said Miller, as we all roared with laughter. "I couldn't bring Hurst,

you know, if he wouldn't come. He left the playhouse even before we did,

with some ladies--and we came away before it was over--so I sent up to

tell him we were going to start in ten minutes, and had a place for him;

and the Boots came down and said they had just had supper in, and the

gentleman could not possibly come just yet. Well, I sent up again, just

as we were ready harnessed, and then he threatened to kick Boots down

stairs."

"What a puppy!" said Horace.

"I don't quite agree with you there: I don't pretend to much sentiment

myself, as you are all aware; but with a lady _and_ a supper in the

case, I should feel perfectly justified in kicking down stairs any Boots

that ever wore shoes, if he hinted at my moving prematurely."

Miller's unusual enthusiasm amused us all except Horace. "Gad," said he,

at last, "I hope he won't be able to get home to-night at all!" In this

friendly wish he was doomed to be disappointed. It was now long past

twelve o'clock; the out-college members of the party had all taken their

leave; Miller and Fane, having finished their grilled chicken at a

little table in the corner, had now drawn round the fire with the three

or four of us who remained, and there was a debate as to the expediency

of brewing more punch, when we heard a running step in the Quadrangle,

which presently began to ascend the staircase in company with a not very

melodious voice, warbling in a style which bespoke the owner's high

state of satisfaction.

"Hush! that's Hurst to a certainty!"

"Queen of my soul, whose starlike eyes

Are all the light I seek"----

(Here came an audible stumble, as if our friend were beginning his way

down again involuntarily by half-a-dozen steps at a time.) "Hallo!

Leicester! just lend us a candle, will you? The lamp is gone out, and

it's as dark as pitch; I've dropped my hat."

"Open the door, somebody," said Horace; and Hurst was admitted. He

looked rather confused at first, certainly; for the sudden transition

from outer darkness into a small room lighted by a dozen wax candles

made him blink, and our first greeting consisting of "ha--ha's" in

different keys, was perhaps somewhat embarrassing; but he recovered

himself in a second.

"Well," said he, "how are you all? glad you got home safe, Hawthorne;

hope I didn't keep you waiting, Miller? you got the start of me, all of

you, coming home; but really I spent an uncommon jolly evening."

"Glad to hear it," said Leicester, with a wink to us.

"Yes;--'pon my life; I don't know when I ever spent so pleasant a one;"

and, with a sort of chuckle to himself, Hurst filled a glass of punch.

"What did you think of _Richard the Third_?" said I.

"Oh! hang the play! there might have been six Richards in the field for

all I can say: I was better engaged."

"Ay," said Fane, "I rather fancy you were."

"We had a very pleasant drive home," said I, willing to effect a

diversion in favour of Leicester, who was puffing desperately at his

cigar in a savage kind of silence;--"and a capital supper afterwards; I

wish you had been with us."

"And I had a very jolly drive too: I got a gig, and galloped nearly all

the way; and a very good supper, too, before I started; but I won't

return your compliment; we were a very snug party without you. Upon my

word, Leicester, your eldest cousin is one of the very nicest girls I

ever met: the sort of person you get acquainted with at once, and so

very lively and good-humoured--no nonsense about her."

"I'll make a point of letting her know your good opinion," replied

Horace, in a tone conveying pretty plainly a rebuke of such presumption.

But it was lost upon Hurst.

"Probably you need not trouble yourself," said Fane: "I dare say he has

let her know it himself already."

"No--really no"--said Hurst, as if deprecating anything so decided; "but

Miss Leicester is a _very_ nice girl; clever, I should say, decidedly;

there's a shade of--one can hardly call it rusticity--about her manner;

but I like it, myself--I like it."

"Do you?"--said Horace, very drily.

"Oh! a season in London would take all that off." And Hurst began to

quaver again--

"Queen of my soul, whose"--

"I'll tell you what," said Horace, rising, and standing with his back to

the fire, with his hands under his coat-tails--"You may not be aware of

it, but you're rather drunk, Hurst."

"Drunk!" said Hurst; "no, that's quite a mistake; three glasses, I think

it was, of champagne at supper; and you men have sat here drinking punch

all the evening; if anybody's drunk, it's not me."

Hurst's usually modest demeanour was certainly so very much altered as

to justify, in some measure, Leicester's supposition; but I really

believe Flora Leicester's bright eyes had more to answer for in that

matter than the champagne, whether the said three glasses were more or

less.

However, as Horace's temper was evidently not improving, Miller, Fane,

and myself wished him good night, and Hurst came with us. We got him

into Fane's rooms, and then extracted from him a full history of the

adventures of that delightful evening, to our infinite amusement, and

apparently to his own immense satisfaction. It was evident that Miss

Flora Leicester had made an impression, of which I do not give that

young lady credit for being in the least unconscious.

The impression, however, like many others of its kind, soon wore off, I

fancy; for the next time I saw Mr Wellington Hurst, he had returned to

his usual frame of mind, and appeared quite modest and deferential; but

it will not perhaps surprise my readers any more than it did myself,

that Horace was never fond of referring to our drive to the

steeple-chase at B----, and did not appear to appreciate, as keenly as

before, the trick we had played Hurst in leaving him behind; while all

the after-reminiscences of the latter bore reference, whenever it was

possible, to his favourite date--"That day when you and I and Leicester

had that team to B---- together."

CHRISTINE

A DUTCH STORY.

FROM THE FRENCH OF MADAME D'ARBOUVILLE

BY FREDERICK HARDMAN, ESQ.

[_MAGA._ DECEMBER 1847.]

It was the hour of sunrise. Not the gorgeous sunrise of Spain or Italy,

when the horizon's ruddy blaze suddenly revives all that breathes, when

golden rays mingle with the deep azure of a southern sky, and nature

bursts into vitality and vigour, as if light gave life. The sun rose

upon the chilly shores of Holland. The clouds opened to afford passage

to a pale light, without heat or brilliancy. Nature passed insensibly

from sleep to waking, but continued torpid when ceasing to slumber. No

cry or joyous song, no flight of birds, or bleating of flocks, hail the

advent of a new day. On the summit of the dykes, the reed-hedges bend

before the breeze, and the sea-sand, whirled over the slight obstacle,

falls upon the meadows, covering their verdure with a moving veil. A

river, yellow with the slime of its banks, flows peaceably and patiently

towards the expectant ocean. Seen from afar, its waters and its shore

appear of one colour, resembling a sandy plain; save where a ray of

light, breaking upon the surface, reveals by silvery flashes the passage

of the stream. Ponderous boats descend it, drawn by teams of horses,

whose large feet sink into the sand as they advance leisurely and

without distress to the goal of their journey. Behind them strides a

peasant, whip on shoulder; he hurries not his cattle, he looks neither

at the stream that flows, nor at the beasts that draw, nor at the boat

that follows; he plods steadily onwards, trusting to perseverance to

attain his end.

Such is a corner of the picture presented to the traveller in Holland,

the country charged, it would seem, more than any other, to enforce

God's command to the waters, _Thou shalt go no farther!_ This silent

repose of creatures and things, this mild light, these neutral tints and

vast motionless plains, are not without a certain poetry of their own.

Wherever space and silence are united, poetry finds place; she loves all

things more or less, whether smiling landscape or dreary desert; light

of wing, a trifle will detain and support her--a blade of grass often

suffices. And Holland, which Butler has called a large ship always at

anchor, has its beauties for the thoughtful observer. Gradually one

learns to admire this land at war with ocean and struggling daily for

existence; those cities which compel the waters to flow at their

ramparts' foot to follow the given track, and abide in the allotted bed;

then those days of revolt, when the waves would fain reconquer their

independence, when they overflow, and inundate, and destroy, and at

last, constrained by the hand of man, subside and again obey.

As the sun rose, a small boat glided rapidly down the stream. It had a

single occupant, a tall young man, lithe, skilful, and strong, who,

although apparently in haste, kept near the shore, following the

windings of the bank, and avoiding the centre of the current, which

would have accelerated his progress. At that early hour the fields were

deserted; the birds alone had risen earlier than the boatman, whose

large hat of grey felt lay beside him, whilst his brown locks, tossed

backward by the wind, disclosed regular features, a broad open forehead,

and eyes somewhat thoughtful, like those of the men of the north. His

costume denoted a student from a German university. One gathered from

his extreme youth that his life had hitherto passed on academic benches,

and that it was still a new and lively pleasure to him to feel the

freshness of morning bathe his brow, the breeze play with his hair, the

stream bear along his bark. He hastened, for there are times when we

count the hours ill; when we outstrip and tax them with delay. Then, if

we cannot hurry the pace of time, we prefer at least to wait at the

appointed spot. It calms impatience, and seems a commencement of

happiness.

When the skiff had rounded a promontory of the bank, its speed

increased, as if the eye directing it had gained sight of the goal. At a

short distance the landscape changed its character. A meadow sloped down

to the stream, fringed by a thick hedge of willows, half uprooted and

bending over the water. The boat reached the shadow of the trees, and

stopping there, rocked gently on the river, secured by a chain cast

round a branch. The young man stood up and looked anxiously through the

foliage; then he sang, in a low tone, the burthen of a ballad, a

love-plaint, the national poetry of all countries. His voice, at first

subdued, as if not to break too suddenly the surrounding silence,

gradually rose as the song drew to a close. The clear mellow notes

escaped from the bower of drooping leaves, and expired without echo or

reply upon the surface of the pasture. Then he sat down and contemplated

the peaceful picture presented to his view. The grey sky had that

melancholy look so depressing to the joyless and hopeless; the cold dull

water rolled noiselessly onward; to the left, the plain extended afar

without variety of surface. A few windmills reared their gaunt arms,

waiting for wind; and the wind, too weak to stir them, passed on and

left them motionless. To the right, at the extremity of the little

meadow, stood a square house of red bricks and regular construction,

isolated, silent, and melancholy. The thick greenish glass of the

windows refused to reflect the sunbeams; the roof supported gilded vanes

of fantastical form; the garden was laid out in formal parterres. A few

tulips, drooping their heavy heads, and dahlias, propped with white

sticks, were the sole flowers growing there, and these were hemmed in

and stifled by hedges of box. Trees, stunted and shabby, and with

dust-covered leaves, were cut into walls and into various eccentric

shapes. At the corners of the formal alleys, whose complicated windings

were limited to a narrow space, stood a few plaster figures. One of

these alleys led to the willow hedge. There nature resumed her rights;

the willows grew free and unrestrained, stretching out from the land and

drooping into the water; their inclined trunks forming flying-bridges,

supported but at one end. The bank was high enough for a certain space

to intervene between the stream and the horizontal stems. A few

branches, longer than the rest, swept the surface of the river, and were

kept in constant motion by its current.

Beneath this dome of verdure the boat was moored, and there the young

man mused, gazing at the sky--melancholy as his heart--and at the

stream, in its course uncertain as his destiny. A few willow leaves

fluttered against his brow, one of his hands hung in the water, a gentle

breeze stirred his hair; nameless flowerets, blooming in the shelter of

the trees, gave out a faint perfume, detectable at intervals, at the

wind's caprice. A bird, hidden in the foliage, piped an amorous note,

and the student, cradled in his skiff, awaited his love. Ungrateful that

he was! he called time a laggard, and bid him speed; he was insensible

to the charm of the present hour. Ah! if he grows old, how well will he

understand that fortune then lavished on him the richest treasures of

life--hope and youth!

Suddenly the student started, stood up, and, with outstretched neck, and

eyes riveted on the trees, he listened, scarce daring to breathe. The

foliage opened, and the face of a young girl was revealed to his gaze.

"Christine!" he exclaimed.

Christine stepped upon the trunk of the lowest tree, and seated herself

with address on this pliant bench, which her weight, slight as it was,

caused to yield and rock. One of her hands, extended through the

branches that drooped towards the water, reached that of her lover, who

tenderly clasped it. Then she drew herself up again, and the tree, less

loaded, seemed to obey her will by imitating her movement. The young man

sat in his boat, with eyes uplifted towards the willow on which his love

reposed.

Christine Van Amberg had none of the distinguishing features of the

country of her birth. Hair black as the raven's wing formed a frame to a

face full of energy and expression. Her large eyes were dark and

penetrating; her eyebrows, strongly marked and almost straight, would

perhaps have imparted too decided a character to her young head, if a

charming expression of candour and _naïveté_ had not given her the

countenance of a child rather than of a woman. Christine was fifteen

years of age. A slender silver circlet bound her brow and jet-black

tresses--a holiday ornament, according to her country's custom: but her

greatest festival was the sight of her lover. She wore a simple muslin

dress of a pale blue colour; a black silk mantle, intended to envelop

her figure, was placed upon her hair, and fell back upon her shoulders,

as if the better to screen her from the gaze of the curious. Seated on a

tree trunk, surrounded by branches and beside the water, like

Shakespeare's Ophelia, Christine was charming. But although young,

beautiful, and beloved, deep melancholy was the characteristic of her

features. Her companion, too, gazed mournfully at her, with eyes to

which the tears seemed about to start.

"Herbert," said the young girl, stooping towards her lover, "Herbert, be

not so sad! we are both too young to despair of life. Herbert! better

times will come."

"Christine! they have refused me your hand, expelled me your dwelling;

they would separate us entirely: they will succeed, to-morrow

perhaps!..."

"Never!" exclaimed the young girl, with a glance like the lightning's

flash. But, like that flash, the expression of energy was momentary, and

gave way to one of calm melancholy.

"If you would, Christine, if you would! ... how easy were it to fly

together, to unite our destinies on a foreign shore, and to live for

each other, happy and forgotten!... I will lead you to those glorious

lands where the sun shines as you see it in your dreams--to the summit

of lofty mountains whence the eye discovers a boundless horizon--to

noble forests with their thousand tints of green, where the fresh breeze

shall quicken your cheek, and sweep from your memory these fogs, this

humid clime, these monotonous plains. Our days shall pass blissfully in

a country worthy of our loves."

As Herbert spoke, the young girl grew animated; she seemed to see what

he described, her eager eye sought the horizon as though she would

over-leap it, her lips parted as to inhale the mountain breeze. Then she

passed her hand hastily across her eyes, and sighed deeply. "No!" she

exclaimed; "no, I must remain here!... Herbert, it is my country: why

does it make me suffer? I remember another sky, another land,--but no,

it is a dream! I was born here, and have scarcely passed the boundary of

this meadow. My mother sang too often beside my cradle the ballads and

boleros of her native Seville; she told me too much of Spain, and I love

that unknown land as one pines after an absent friend!"

The young girl glanced at the river, over which a dense fog was

spreading. A few rain-drops pattered amongst the leaves; she crossed her

mantle on her breast, and her whole frame shivered with sudden chill.

"Leave me, Christine, you suffer!--return home, and, since you reject my

roof and hearth, abide with those who can shelter and warm you."

A sweet smile played upon Christine's lips. "My beloved," she said,

"near you I prefer the chilling rain, this rough branch, and the biting

wind, to my seat in the house, far from you, beside the blazing chimney.

Ah! with what joy and confidence would I start on foot for the farthest

corner of the earth, your arm my sole support, your love my only wealth.

But...."

"What retains you, Christine? your father's affection, your sisters'

tenderness, your happy home?"

The young girl grew pale. "Herbert, it is cruel to speak thus. Well do I

know that my father loves me not, that my sisters are often unkind, that

my home is unhappy; I know it, indeed I know it, and I will follow

you.... If my mother consents!"

Herbert looked at his mistress with astonishment. "Child!" he exclaimed,

"such consent will never leave your mother's lips. There are cases where

strength and resolution must be found in one's own heart. Your mother

will never say yes."

"Perhaps!" replied Christine, slowly and gravely. "My mother loves me; I

resemble her in most things, and her heart understands mine. She knows

that Scripture says a woman shall leave her father and mother to follow

her husband; she is in the secret of our attachment, and, since our door

has been closed against you, I have not shed a tear that she has not

detected and replied to by another. You misjudge my mother, Herbert!

Something tells me she has suffered, and knows that a little happiness

is essential to life as the air we breathe. Nor would it surprise me, if

one day, when embracing me, as she does each night when we are alone,

she were to whisper: Begone, my poor child!"

"I cannot think it, Christine. She will bid you obey, be comforted,

forget!"

"Forget! Herbert, my mother forgets nothing. To forget is the resource

of cowardly hearts. No,--none will bid me forget."

And once more a gloomy fire flashed in Christine's eyes, like the rapid

passage of a flame which illumines and instantly expires. It was a

revelation of the future rather than the expression of the present. An

ardent soul dwelt within her, but had not yet cast off all the

encumbrances of childhood. It struggled to make its way, and at times,

succeeding for a moment, a word or cry revealed its presence.

"No--I shall not forget," added Christine; "I love you, and you love me,

who am so little loved! You find me neither foolish, nor fantastical,

nor capricious; you understand my reveries and the thousand strange

thoughts that invade my heart. I am very young, Herbert; and yet, here,

with my hand in yours, I answer for the future. I shall always love

you! ... and see, I do not weep. I have faith in the happiness of our

love; how? when? I know not,--it is the secret of my Creator, who would

not have sent me upon earth only to suffer. Happiness will come when He

deems right, but come it will! Yes,--I am young, full of life, I have

need of air and space; I shall not live enclosed and smothered here. The

world is large, and I will know it; my heart is full of love, and will

love for ever. No tears, dearest! obstacles shall be overcome, they must

give way, for I will be happy!"

"But why delay, Christine? My love! my wife! an opportunity lost may

never be regained. A minute often decides the fate of a lifetime.

Perhaps, at this very moment, happiness is near us! A leap into my boat,

a few strokes of the oar, and we are united for ever!... Perhaps, if

you again return to land, we are for ever separated. Christine, come!

The wind rises: beneath my feet is a sail that will quickly swell and

bear us away rapidly as the wings of yon bird."

Tears flowed fast over Christine's burning cheeks. She shuddered, looked

at her lover, at the horizon, thought of liberty; she hesitated, and a

violent struggle agitated her soul. At last, hiding her face amongst the

leafage of the willow, she clasped her arms round its stem, as if to

withhold herself from entering the boat, and in a stifled voice muttered

the words,--"My mother!" A few seconds afterwards, she raised her pallid

countenance.

"If I fled," said she gently, "to whom would my mother speak of her dear

country? Who would weep with her when she weeps, if I were gone? She has

other children, but they are gay and happy, and do not resemble her.

Only my mother and myself are sad in our house. My mother would die of

my absence. I must receive her farewell blessing or remain by her side,

chilled like her by this inclement climate, imprisoned in yonder walls,

ill-treated by those who love me not. Herbert, I will not fly, I will

wait!" And she made a movement to regain the strand.

"One instant,--yet one second,--Christine! I know not what chilling

presentiment oppresses my heart. Dearest,--if we were to meet no more!

If this little corner of earth were our last trysting-place--these

melancholy willows the witnesses of our eternal separation! Is it--can

it be--the last happy hour of my life that has just slipped by?"

He covered his face with his hands, to conceal his tears. Christine's

heart beat violently--but she had courage.

Letting herself drop from the tree, she stood upon the bank, separated

from the boat, which could not come nearer to shore.

"Adieu, Herbert!" said she, "one day I will be your wife, faithful and

loving. It shall be, for I will have it so. Let us both pray God to

hasten that happy day. Adieu, I love you! Adieu, and till our next

meeting, for I love you!"

The barrier of reeds and willows opened before the young girl. A few

small branches crackled beneath her tread; there was a slight noise in

the grass and bushes, as when a bird takes flight; then all was silence.

Herbert wept.

* * * * *

The clock in the red brick house struck eight, and the family of Van

Amberg the merchant were mustered in the breakfast-room. Christine was

the only absentee. Near the fire stood the head of the family--Karl Van

Amberg--and beside him his brother, who, older than himself, yielded the

prerogative of seniority, and left him master of the community. Madame

Van Amberg was working near a window, and her two elder daughters,

fair-haired, white-skinned Dutchwomen, prepared the breakfast.

Karl Van Amberg, the dreaded chief of this family, was of lofty stature;

his gait was stiff; his physiognomy passionless. His face, whose

features at first appeared insignificant, denoted a domineering temper.

His manners were cold. He spoke little; never to praise, but often in

terms of dry and imperious censure. His glance preceded his words and

rendered them nearly superfluous, so energetically could that small

sunken grey eye make itself understood. With the sole aid of his own

patience and ambition, Karl Van Amberg had made a large fortune. His

ships covered the seas. Never loved, always respected, his credit was

everywhere excellent. Absolute monarch in his own house, none dreamed of

opposing his will. All were mute and awed in his presence. At this

moment, he was leaning against the chimney-piece. His black garments

were very plain, but not devoid of a certain austere elegance.

William Van Amberg, Karl's brother, was quite of an opposite character.

He would have passed his life in poverty, subsisting on the scanty

income left him by his parents, had not Karl desired wealth. He placed

his modest fortune in his brother's hands, saying, "Act as for

yourself!" Attached to his native nook of land, he lived in peace,

smoking and smiling, and learning from time to time that he was a richer

man by a few hundred thousand francs. One day, he was told that he

possessed a million; in reply, he merely wrote, "Thanks, Karl; it will

be for your children." Then he forgot his riches, and changed nothing in

his manner of life, even adhering in his dress to the coarse materials

and graceless fashion of a peasant dreading the vicinity of cities. His

youthful studies had consisted of a course of theology. His father, a

fervent Catholic, destined him for the church; but it came to pass, as a

consequence of his indecision of character, that William neither took

orders nor married, but lived quietly in his brother's family. The

habitual perusal of religious books sometimes gave his language a

mystical tone, contrasting with the rustic simplicity of his exterior.

This was his only peculiarity; otherwise he had nothing remarkable but

his warm heart and strong good sense. He was the primitive type of his

family: his brother was an example of the change caused by

newly-acquired wealth.

Madame Van Amberg, seated at the window, sewed in silence. Her

countenance had the remains of great beauty, but she was weak and

suffering. A single glance sufficed to fix her birthplace far from

Holland. Her black hair and olive tint betrayed a southern origin.

Silently submissive to her husband, his iron character had pressed

heavily upon this delicate creature. She had never murmured; now she was

dying, but without complaint. Her look was one of deep melancholy.

Christine, her third daughter, resembled her. Of dark complexion, like

her mother, she contrasted strongly with her rosy-cheeked sisters. M.

Van Amberg did not love Christine. Rough and cold, even to those he

secretly cherished, he was severe and cruel to those he disliked. He had

never been known to kiss Christine. Her mother's were the only caresses

she knew, and even those were stealthily and tearfully bestowed. The two

poor women hid themselves to love each other.

At intervals, Madame Van Amberg coughed painfully. The damp climate of

Holland was slowly conducting to her grave the daughter of Spain's

ardent land. Her large melancholy eyes mechanically sought the

monotonous horizon, which had bounded her view for twenty years. Fog and

rain surrounded the house. She gazed, shivered as if seized with deadly

cold, then resumed her work.

Eight o'clock had just struck, and the two young Dutchwomen, who,

although rich heiresses, waited upon their father, had just placed the

tea and smoked beef upon the table, when Karl Van Amberg turned abruptly

to his wife.

"Where is your daughter, madam?"

He spoke of Christine, whom the restless gaze of Madame Van Amberg

vainly sought through the fog veiling the garden. At her husband's

question, the lady rose, opened the door, and, leaning on the banister,

twice uttered her daughter's name. There was no reply; she grew pale,

and again looked out anxiously through the fog.

"Go in, Madame," was the surly injunction of Gothon, the old servant

woman, who knelt on the hall flags, which she had flooded with soap and

water, and was now vigorously scrubbing,--"Go, in, Madame; the damp

increases your cough, and Mademoiselle Christine is far enough away! The

bird flew before daybreak."

Madame Van Amberg cast a mournful glance across the meadow, where

nothing moved, and into the parlour, where her stern husband awaited

her; then she went in and sat down at the table, around which the

remainder of the family had already placed themselves. No one spoke. All

could read displeasure upon M. Van Amberg's countenance, and none dared

attempt to change the course of his ideas. His wife kept her eyes fixed

upon the window, hoping her daughter's return. Her lips scarcely tasted

the milk that filled her cup; visible anguish increased the paleness of

her sweet, sad countenance.

"Annunciata, my dear, take some tea," said her brother-in-law. "The day

is chill and damp, and you seem to suffer."

Annunciata smiled sadly at William. For sole answer she raised to her

lips the tea he offered her, but the effort was too painful, and she

replaced the cup upon the table. M. Van Amberg looked at nobody; he ate,

his eyes fixed upon his plate.

"Sister," resumed William, "it is a duty to care for one's health, and

you, who fulfil all your duties, should not neglect that one."

A slight flush tinged the brow of Annunciata. Her eyes encountered those

of her husband, which he slowly turned towards her. Trembling, almost

weeping, she ceased her attempts to eat. And the silence was again

unbroken, as at the commencement of the meal. At last steps were heard

in the passage, the old servant grumbled something which did not reach

the parlour, then the door opened, and Christine entered; her muslin

dress damp with fog, her graceful curls disordered by the wind, her

black mantle glittering with a thousand little rain-drops. She was

crimson with embarrassment and fear. Her empty chair was beside her

mother; she sat down, and hung her head; none offered aught to the

truant child, and the silence continued. Yielding to maternal anxiety,

Madame Van Amberg took a handkerchief and wiped the moisture from

Christine's forehead and hair; then she took her hands to warm them in

her own. For the second time M. Van Amberg looked at his wife. She let

Christine's hands fall, and remained downcast and motionless as her

daughter. M. Van Amberg rose from table. A tear glistened in the

mother's eyes on seeing that her daughter had not eaten. But she said

nothing, and returning to the window, resumed her sewing. Christine

remained at table, preserving her frightened and abashed attitude. The

two eldest girls hastened to remove the breakfast things.

"Do you not see what Wilhelmina and Maria are about? Can you not help

them?"

At her father's voice, Christine hastily rose, seized the cups and

teapot, and hurried to and fro from parlour to pantry.

"Gently! You will break something!" cried M. Van Amberg. "Begin in time,

to finish without hurry."

Christine stood still in the middle of the room. Her two sisters smiled

as they passed her, and one of them muttered--for nobody spoke aloud in

M. Van Amberg's presence--"Christine will hardly learn housekeeping by

looking at the stars and watching the river flow!"

"Now, then, Mademoiselle, you are spoiling everything here!" said the

old servant, who had just come in; "go and change that wet gown, which

ruins all my furniture."

Christine remained where she was, not daring to stir without the

master's order.

"Go," said M. Van Amberg.

The young girl darted from the room and up the stairs, reached her

chamber, threw herself upon the bed and burst into tears. Below, Madame

Van Amberg continued to sew, her head bent over her work. When the cloth

was removed, Wilhelmina and Maria placed a large jug of beer, glasses,

long pipes, and a store of tobacco, upon the mahogany table, and pushed

forward two arm-chairs, in which Karl and William installed themselves.

"Retire to your apartment, madam," said M. Van Amberg, in the imperious

tone habitual to him when he addressed his wife,--"I have to discuss

matters which do not concern you. Do not leave the house; I will call

you by-and-by; I wish to speak with you."

Annunciata bowed in token of obedience, and left the room. Wilhelmina

and Maria approached their father, who silently kissed their pretty

cheeks. The two brothers lit their pipes, and remained alone. William

was the first to speak.

"Brother Karl!" said he, resting his arms upon the table, and looking M.

Van Amberg in the face, "before proceeding to business, and at risk of

offending you, I must relieve my heart. Here, all fear you, and counsel,

the salutary support of man, is denied you."

"Speak, William," coldly replied M. Van Amberg.

"Karl, you treat Annunciata very harshly. God commands you to protect

her, and you allow her to suffer, perhaps to die, before your eyes,

without caring for her fate. The strong should sustain the weak. In our

native land, we owe kindness to the stranger who cometh from afar. The

husband owes protection to her he has chosen for his wife. For all these

reasons, brother, I say you treat Annunciata ill."

"Does she complain?" said M. Van Amberg, filling his glass.

"No, brother; only the strong resist and complain. A tree falls with a

crash, the reed bends noiselessly to the ground. No, she does not

complain, save by silence and suffering, by constant and passive

obedience, like that of a soulless automaton. You have deprived her of

life, the poor woman! One day she will cease to move and breathe; she

has long ceased to live!"

"Brother, there are words that should not be inconsiderately spoken,

judgments that should not be hastily passed, for fear of injustice."

"Do I not know your whole life, Karl, as well as my own, and can I not

therefore speak confidently, as one well informed?"

M. Van Amberg inhaled the smoke of his pipe, threw himself back in his

arm-chair, and made no reply.

"I know you as I know myself," resumed William, gently, "although our

hearts were made to love and not to resemble each other. When you found

our father's humble dwelling too small, I said nothing; you were

ambitious; when a man is born with that misfortune or blessing, he must

do like the birds, who have wings to soar; he must strive to rise. You

departed; I pressed your hand, and reproached you not; it is right that

each man should be happy his own way. You gained much gold, and gave me

more than I needed. You returned married, and I did not approve your

marriage. It is wiser to seek a companion in the land where one's days

are to end; it is something to love the same places and things, and then

it is only generous to leave one's wife a family, friends, well-known

objects to gaze upon. It is counting greatly on one's-self to take sole

charge of her happiness. Happiness sometimes consists of so many things!

Often an imperceptible atom serves as base to its vast structure: for my

part I do not like presumptuous experiments on the hearts of others. In

short, you married a foreigner, who perishes with cold in this country,

and sighs, amidst our fogs, for the sun of Spain. You committed a still

greater fault--Forgive me, brother; I speak plainly, in order not to

return to this subject."

"I am attending to you, William; you are my elder brother."

"Thanks for your patience, Karl. No longer young, you married a very

young woman. Your affairs took you to Spain. There you met a needy

Spanish noble, to whom you rendered a weighty service. You were always

generous, and increasing wealth did not close your hand. This noble had

a daughter, a child of fifteen. In spite of your apparent coldness, you

were smitten by her beauty, and you asked her of her father. Only one

thing struck you--that she was poor and would be enriched by the

marriage. A refusal of your offer would have been ingratitude to a

benefactor. They gave you Annunciata, and you took her, brother, without

looking whether joy was in her eyes, without asking the child whether

she willingly followed you, without interrogating her heart. In that

country the heart is precocious in its awakening ... perhaps she left

behind her some youthful dream ... some early love.... Forgive me, Karl;

the subject is difficult to discuss."

"Change it, William," said M. Van Amberg, coldly.

"Be it so. You returned hither, and when your business again took you

forth upon the ocean, you left Annunciata to my care. She lived many

years with me in this house. Karl, her youth was joyless and sad.

Isolated and silent, she wore out her days without pleasure or variety.

Your two eldest daughters, now the life of our dwelling, were then in

the cradle. They were no society to their mother; I was a very grave

companion for that young and beautiful creature. I have little reading

and knowledge, no imagination; I like my quiet arm-chair, my old books,

and my pipe. I at first allowed myself to believe--because I loved to

believe it--that Annunciata resembled me--that tranquillity and a

comfortable dwelling would suffice for her happiness, as they sufficed

for mine. But at last I understood--what you, brother, I fear, have

never comprehended--that she was not born to be a Dutch housewife. In

the first place, the climate tortured her. She constantly asked me if

finer summers would not come,--if the winters were always so

rigorous,--the fogs so frequent. I told her no, that the year was a bad

one; but I told her a falsehood, for the winters were always the same.

At first she tried to sing her Sevillian romances and boleros, but soon

her song died away and she wept, for it reminded her too much of her own

native land. Silent and motionless she sat, desiring, as I have read in

the Bible,--'The wings of the dove to fly away and be at rest.' Brother,

it was a melancholy sight. You know not how slowly the winter evenings

passed in this parlour. It was dark at four, and she worked by

lamp-light till bed-time. I endeavoured to converse, but she knew

nothing of the things I knew, and I was ignorant of those that

interested her. I saw at last that the greatest kindness was to leave

her to herself. She worked or was idle, wept or was calm, and I averted

my eyes to give her the only consolation in my power,--a little liberty.

But it was very sad, brother!"