CHAPTER I.

ROSE, BLANCHE,

AND

VIOLET.

BY

G. H. LEWES, ESQ.

AUTHOR OF "RANTHORPE,"

"BIOGRAPHICAL HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY," ETC. ETC.

Il n'y a point de vertu proprement dite, sans victoire sur

nous-mêmes, et tout ce qui ne nous coûte rien, ne vaut rien.

DE MAISTRE.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 65, CORNHILL.

----

1848.

London:

Printed by STEWART and MURRAY,

Old Bailey.

CONTENTS.

----

BOOK II.--(_Continued._)

CHAPTER

XXI.--The Elopement Delayed

XXII.--How they went to London

XXIII.--Cecil's Jealousy

XXIV.--The Denouement

BOOK III.

CHAPTER

I.--Rose Vyner to Fanny Worsley

II.--The Woman with a Mission

III.--What was said of the Walton Sappho

IV.--Prophecies Fulfilled

V.--The Astute Mrs. Vyner

VI.--Faint Hearts and Fair Ladies

VII.--Bold Stroke for a Lover

VIII.--Woman's Caprice

IX.--Consequences

BOOK IV.

CHAPTER

I.--The Boarding-House

II.--Inmates of a Suburban Boarding-House

III.--Happy Labour, Happy Life

IV.--How Mrs. Vyner was Beneficent

V.--The Curse of Idleness

VI.--A Sketch of Frank Forrester

VII.--Cecil's First False Step

VIII.--The Poetess in London

IX.--Husband and Wife

BOOK V.

CHAPTER

I.--Love Feigned and Love Concealed

II.--Doubts Changed into Certainties

III.--Declaration

IV.--The Tempest Lours

V.--Vacillation

VI.--The Trial

VII.--Father And Child

VIII.--The Crisis

ROSE, BLANCHE, AND VIOLET.

BOOK II.

(_Continued._)

CHAPTER XXI.

THE ELOPEMENT DELAYED.

Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds

Towards Phœbus' mansion; such a waggoner

As phaeton would whip you to the west.

Come, gentle night; come, loving black browed night

Give me my Romeo.

_Romeo and Juliet._

Captain Heath and the postilion were not the only persons impatient

at the unexpected delay. Cecil leaning against a tree, watching with

anxious eyes the window of Blanche's bed-room for the signal, and

counting the weary minutes, as they dragged with immeasurable

tediousness through their course of sixty seconds, began at length to

suppose that she would never come.

Nor was the unhappy Blanche herself the least impatient of the four.

The whole mystery of the delay was the presence of Violet in her

room. She had repeatedly announced her intention of going to bed,

but Violet gave no signs of retiring, and their conversation

continued.

It more than once occurred to her to place Violet in her confidence,

but certain misgivings restrained her. The fact is, Blanche had been

uneasy at Cecil's attentions to Violet, during the first period of

their acquaintance with him; an uneasiness which she now understood

to have been jealousy; and naturally felt reluctant to speak of her

engagement to one who had almost been her sister's lover.

It happened that Cecil's name came up during their conversation, and

Violet turning her large eyes upon her sister's face, said,--

"Shall I tell you my suspicion, Blanche? Cecil Chamberlayne is fast

falling in love with you: you colour; you know it then? perhaps

return it? Oh, for God's sake tell me that you do not return it!"

"Why should I not?" replied Blanche, greatly hurt.

"My poor Blanche!" said Violet, tenderly kissing her, "I have hurt

you, but it is with a surgeon's knife, which inflicts pain to save

pain. If it is not too late--if you are only at the brink of the

abyss, not in it--let me implore you to draw back, and to examine

your situation calmly. Oh! do not waste your heart on such a man."

There was an earnestness in her manner which only made her language

more galling, and Blanche somewhat pettishly replied,--

"You did not _always_ think so. At one time you were near _wasting_

your heart, as you call it, upon him."

"I was," gravely replied Violet, "and a fortunate accident opened my

eyes in time. You, who seemed to have watched me so closely, may

have noticed that for some time I have ceased to encourage his

attentions."

"Since he has ceased to pay them," retorted Blanche.

Violet smiled a scornful smile.

Neither spoke for a few minutes.

"I have a great mind to ascend the ladder," said the impatient Cecil

to himself, and see if it is only womanly weakness which detains her."

"Can they have been detected?" Captain Heath asked himself for the

twentieth time.

"Blanche," said Violet at last, "you greatly misunderstand me; but

what is worse, you greatly misunderstand _him_. Listen!"

She then narrated the whole of her episode with Cecil: her first

yearnings towards him--her interest, and almost love; then the scene

at the Grange; his conduct in the affair with the bull; she recalled

to Blanche the mutual coldness which must have been observed until

after Cecil's confession respecting his cowardice, which so far

cleared him in her eyes, that she was amiable to him for the rest of

the evening; she then told her of reflections made that night when

alone, and the result to which she had arrived, and concluded by

saying:--

"I am most willing to admit his fascinating manners, his varied

accomplishments, and some good qualities; but he is weak, selfish,

and capricious. He is not a proper husband for you, the more so as

he is poor, and has not the character which will enable him to battle

with the world. Rich, he would not make you a good husband; poor, he

will be a curse to you, and throw the blame of his misery upon you."

Blanche remained perfectly quiet during this dissection of her

lover's character, and not a change in her countenance betrayed that

it had in the least affected her. Nor had it. Perfectly

incredulous, she listened to her sister, seeing only the distortion

of prejudice in her language.

"Have you finished, Violet?" she quietly asked.

"I have."

"Then give me a night to consider."

"Yes, consider it calmly; think of the man on whom you are about to

bestow your affections, and ask yourself seriously, Is he the man I

ought to choose?---- Good-night, Blanche!"

"Good-night. God bless you!" said Blanche, hugging her fervently,

which Violet attributed to the emotion excited by their conversation,

but which really was the embrace of parting.

A few minutes afterwards, Blanche was descending the ladder, a small

packet in her hand, and was received in the arms of her impatient

lover.

CHAPTER XXII.

HOW THEY WENT TO LONDON.

How the old post-chaise rattled merrily along the hard road, as if

conscious of the precious burden which it bore! There was no moon:

the sky was overcast. Lights glimmered from the windows of distant

houses at rare intervals; and the watch-dog's lonely bark was

occasionally heard--a sort of mournful sound, which told how deep the

night had gone.

With what wild passion--with what inextinguishable delight the lovers

pressed close to each other, in that rumbling chaise! The sense of

peril and of escape was mixed with the indescribable rapture of two

beings conscious that all barriers are borne down, and that they at

length belong to each other.

Away! away! from home, with its restraints, its perils, and its

doubts--far into the wide world of love and hope!--from father,

sisters, friends--from luxuries and comforts, cheaply held by those

who know not the reverse--to the protecting bosom of a husband,

dearer than all the world beside; and with him to begin the battle of

life, which love will make an everlasting triumph!

Away goes the rumbling chaise! too slowly for its inmates, whose

impatience needs wings; too swiftly for the wretched man, who sits

behind, communing with his own bitter thoughts.

What a slight partition divided the delirious lovers from the unhappy

wretch who rode behind them--a partition which divided the joys of

paradise from the pangs of purgatory. The captain had not only to

endure the misery of unhappy love, but also the, to him, horrible

torture of believing the girl he loved had given herself up to a

villain, who did not intend to marry her.

"If I _do_ force him to marry her," he said, "what happiness can she

expect from such a scoundrel? Her character will be saved; but her

heart will be broken ... If he refuses ... if I shoot him ... she

will hate me ... will not less revere his memory ... and will have

lost her name!"

And merrily the chaise rattled on.

It reached London at last. There the captain got down, and, hailing

a cab, bade the driver follow the post-chaise, at a slight distance.

It stopped at an hotel. They alighted, and went in.

The captain followed them to the hotel. His first act was to write

this letter to Meredith Vyner.

(_Don't read this aloud._)

"My DEAR VYNER,

"Before this reaches you, the flight of your daughter with

Chamberlayne will have been known to you. Make yourself as easy as

possible under the deplorable calamity; for I am in the same hotel

with them, and will see them duly married.

"You will be astonished to hear me talk of their marriage, and of my

forwarding it, instead of taking every step to prevent it. But, when

I tell you that marriage is now _imperative_--that it is, alas! what

we must all now eagerly desire--my conduct will be intelligible. Put

your perfect trust in me. You know my affection for your children,

and my regard for the honour of the family."

Great, indeed, was the consternation at the Hall, on the morning when

the flight was discovered. At first it was imagined Blanche had gone

off with Captain Heath; but when Cecil's absence was also discovered,

the real state of the case was acknowledged. But the captain's

absence still remained a mystery. That he should be implicated in

the elopement, seemed impossible. His known dislike to Cecil, and

his great regard for the whole family, contradicted such a suspicion.

Yet wherefore was he not forthcoming?

This threw such a mystery over the whole affair, they knew not what

conclusion to form; some doubts began to arise as to whether it

really was an elopement. Such matters were not usually managed by

three persons. And yet the moonlight ramble by the three on the

preceding evening did not that look as if there were some

understanding between them?

To this Rose objected, that as they had been willing to accept of her

company, it was evident there could have been nothing in it beyond a

mere ramble.

It was observable that the one who suggested and most warmly

maintained the probability of there being no elopement in the case,

but only perhaps some bit of fun, was Mrs. Meredith Vyner, who

absolutely dissuaded her husband from taking any steps towards

pursuing the fugitives by this reasoning:--

"Either they have eloped, or they are executing some joke. I incline

to the latter; but even admitting the former, you know dear,--it is

perfectly useless your following them, until you know what route they

have taken, and as yet we have got no clue whatever. While you are

hurrying to Gretna, they may be quietly housed in London, and so you

have all the bother and agitation for nothing."

Like all indolent men, Vyner was glad to have an excuse for sitting

still and doing nothing. But what was Mrs. Vyner's motive for

dissuading him? Simply this: she believed in the elopement, and was

delighted at it. Not only was there one daughter "off her

hands"--one rival the less--but by the act of setting her father's

consent at defiance, gave him the power of refusing to give any

dowry, or even a trousseau, with something like an excuse for so

doing. Mrs. Vyner had already run her husband too deeply into debt,

not to keep a sharp eye on any means of economy that did not affect

her comforts or caprices; and money spent upon "her dear girls," was

always considered worse than lost.

On the arrival of Captain Heath's letter, all the mystery was

revealed; and great was the talk it occasioned!

CHAPTER XXIII.

CECIL'S JEALOUSY.

A husband's jealousy, which cunning men would pass upon their wives

for a compliment, is the worst can be made them; for indeed it is a

compliment to their beauty, but an affront to their honour.

WYCHERLEY: _The Gentleman Dancing Master._

The captain had just sealed his letter when he saw Cecil leave the

hotel alone. He determined to profit by the opportunity, and seek

Blanche. He found her writing.

As she recognised him, she gave a low scream, and then springing up,

exclaimed:--

"Is my father with you? Oh! intercede for us. Gain his consent."

"I am alone, Blanche."

"Alone?"

"I came with you from Wytton. The same carriage brought us both; you

rode inside, and I behind."

"What! .... is .... what! are you going to....?"

"To watch over you, dear Blanche, as a brother would. To _force_ him

to marry you."

"Force! why, what do you mean? Cecil is but this instant gone for

the license."

"Are you _sure_ of that?"

"Sure? _He_ said so; and shall I doubt his word?"

"Why then did he bring you here? Why did he not take you to Gretna?"

"Because he feared we might be pursued, and they would be sure to

follow that route."

"Hm! Yes, it is possible. And _till_ you are married?"

"I am to stay with an old lady--a relation of his. He will prepare

her to receive me this morning."

He sighed. So strange is human nature, that the idea of Cecil

behaving delicately and honourably in the transaction, was at first a

disappointment and an additional grief to him! He could not bear to

think his rival less contemptible than he had held him to be, nor

could he with pleasure find that his own services were not needed.

Blanche wanted no protector. Nevertheless, partly out of a lingering

suspicion that all would not go on so smoothly as it promised, and

partly from the very want he felt to consider himself of some use to

his beloved Blanche, he refused entirely to credit her statement of

Cecil's intentions, and declared that he would remain to watch.

"At any rate, allow me to give you away," he said, "I shall then be

sure that all is right. Can you refuse me?"

She held out her hand to him by way of answer. He raised it

respectfully to his lips, gazed sorrowfully at her, and withdrew.

When Cecil returned, and learned from her that the captain was in the

same hotel, that he had seen Blanche, and that she had consented to

his giving her away, he stormed with rage.

"Heath again! Is the viper always to be in my path, and imagine I

shall not crush him at last? What is the meaning of his thrusting

himself between us?" he asked her, with great fierceness. "What the

devil is at the bottom of it? What makes him so anxious to have you

married? I am a beggar, and he knows it; yet first one thing, then

the other, he has nothing but schemes to make me marry you. Wanted

me to be a quill-driver, that I might be rich enough to marry.

Marry, marry, marry! By God! there is something in it which I will

discover."

"Cecil, dearest Cecil, you terrify me!"

He paced angrily up and down the room, without attending to her. A

horrible suspicion had taken possession of his mind: he thought that

Captain Heath had not only been her lover, but that his passion had

been returned, and that it was to conceal the consequences of their

guilty love that a marriage with any one seemed so desirable.

"I see it all," he said to himself, as he strode about the room;

"they have selected me as their gull. It is a collusion. From whom,

but from her, should he have known we had taken that moonlight stroll

in the shrubbery? Why should he take upon himself the office of

sentinel? Why offer me a situation? Why follow us up to town? How

should he know we were to elope? Why should he, in God's name, be

anxious to have her married, when it is quite clear he loves her, or

has loved her, himself? He owned it last night--owned that he loved

her! I do believe, when he carried off the ladder, he knew I was in

the room, and adopted that mode of making me irretrievably commit

myself.--But it is not too late.--We are not married yet!"

How curiously passion colours facts! No one will say that Cecil had

not what is called abundant "evidence" for his suspicion, and the

evidence was coherent enough to justify to his own mind all that he

thought. It is constantly so in life. We set out with a

presumption, and all the "facts" fit in so well with the presumption,

that we forget it is after all not the _facts_, but the

_interpretation_ which is the important thing we seek and instead of

seeking this we have begun by assuming it; whereas had we assumed

some other interpretation, we should perhaps have found the facts

quite as significant, although the second interpretation would be

diametrically opposed to the former.

Had Cecil, instead of seeking for corroborative facts to pamper his

own irritable jealousy, just asked himself whether the characters of

Blanche and the captain were not quite sufficient of themselves to

throw discredit on any suspicion of the kind--whether, indeed, he

ought to entertain such an idea of such persons, unless overwhelmed

by the most clear, precise, unequivocal evidence--he would have saved

himself all the tortures of jealousy, and would not have desecrated

the worship of his love by thoughts so debasing and so odious.

Blanche, perfectly bewildered, sat silent and trembling, keeping her

eyes fixed upon the strangely altered bearing of her lover.

Stopping from his agitated walk, he suddenly stood still, folded his

arms, gazed at her with quiet fierceness, and said,--

"As Captain Heath takes so much interest in, you, perhaps he will

have no objection to escort you back to your father."

"Cecil! ... Cecil! ... In Heaven's name, what do you mean?" she said,

half rising from her chair; but afraid to trust her trembling limbs,

she sank back again, and looked at him in helpless astonishment.

"My meaning is very plain, very," he said, with intense coldness.

"You are free to return to your family, or not to return, if you

prefer remaining with Captain Heath. Perhaps," he added

sarcastically, "as he is so partial to marriage, he will marry you

himself."

She strove to speak, but a choking sensation at the throat prevented

her. She saw him leave the room without having strength to recall

him, without ever making a motion to prevent him.

In mute despair, she heard his heavy tread upon the stairs, and like

a person stunned, felt no command of her faculties, scarcely felt

anything beyond a stupid bewildering prostration of the soul.

With flushed face and heated brain, Cecil rushed into the street, and

wandered distractedly away. The fresh air somewhat cooled his

burning brow, and the exercise gradually enabled him to recover his

self-possession. He began to doubt whether he had not been rash in

his suspicions.

"It is quite true that Heath has taken a most extraordinary part in

the whole affair; but I remember now, that, during our interview in

my room, he seemed by no means anxious I should marry her; indeed I

taunted him with wishing to get me out of the way. He offered me the

secretaryship to enable me to marry, and when I refused that he set

his face against ... I have been an ass! ...

"And yet his conduct is inexplicable. He loves her, and she knows

it.... What a web entangles me! ... I will return and question her;

she cannot deceive me ... she is not altogether lost ... I will try

her."

With this purpose he returned.

Meanwhile, Captain Heath had found Blanche weeping bitterly, under

the degrading accusation of Cecil's jealousy; and having extorted

from her some incoherent sentences, which made him aware of what had

passed, he said, "My dear Blanche, I am going to bid you have courage

for an act of fortitude. You must struggle with yourself--you must

reason calmly for a moment."

"Oh, tell me, tell me what to do. How shall I eradicate his

suspicions?"

"You cannot do it. In one so weak and capricious--one who could

think so unworthily of you, and upon such ridiculous

appearances--jealousy is incurable. It will bring endless misery

upon you. It will destroy all love, all confidence. If he suspects

you already, what is to secure you from his suspicions hereafter?

Blanche, you must quit this. Return with me to your father's; he

will receive you kindly."

"No, no, no," sobbed the unhappy girl.

"Yes, Blanche. It is a hard alternative, but it is the best. You

ought to rejoice in his injustice, because it displays him in his

true colours. He tells you what you have to expect."

"I love him."

"Alas! I know it; but you see how he repays your love."

She only sobbed in answer.

"He will make you miserable for ever. Now, before the irrevocable

step is taken, release yourself from such a fate: return with me."

She wept, but could not speak.

Heath's arguments at last prevailed; and, in a tone of terrible

despair, she exclaimed, "Take me home, then."

A flash of joy passed over his sad face as he heard this heart-broken

phrase, which assured him that, however his beloved Blanche might

suffer at first, she was at least saved from the certain misery of

becoming the wife of Cecil Chamberlayne.

On reaching the hotel, Cecil ran rapidly up stairs, and on the first

landing stood aghast, at seeing Blanche coming down, leaning on the

captain's arm. She was weeping, and her face was hidden by the

handkerchief with which she wiped her eyes.

"Where are you taking her?" Cecil fiercely asked.

"Home," was the stern reply.

"Home! Whose home? yours?"

"To her father."

"And by whose authority?" he said, in a low, hoarse, almost

suffocated voice.

"Her own," was the crushing answer.

They passed on.

Cecil, amazed, bewildered, could merely utter, in a tone of sad and

reproachful inquiry, "Blanche!"

A stifled, agonizing sob burst from her; but clinging closer to her

protector, she hurried him on.

Cecil leaned against the banister for support. As Blanche reached

the bottom of the stairs, she could not resist giving a parting look;

and the anguish of the face which then met her eye so completely

changed her feelings, that, forgetting all Captain Heath had said,

she flew up the stairs and threw herself into Cecil's arms,

exclaiming, "My own beloved, you will not send me from you?"

He pressed her frantically to his heart, and carried her back to

their apartment.

Captain Heath's face was contracted by a fearful spasm as he slowly

sought his own room. Once more were his hopes crushed; once more had

he to renounce the visions of exquisite bliss which filled his soul.

On the point of for ever separating Blanche from her unworthy lover,

as he had imagined, and with the opening which that separation made

for his own future prospects, he now again saw that the struggle was

useless, and that Blanche was irretrievably lost to him.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE DENOUEMENT.

Four days afterwards, Meredith Vyner received this letter:--

"They are married at last; and are now gone to Broadstairs for the

honeymoon. It is a sad affair; but it was inevitable. May she be

happy!

"I was to have given her away; but, from some caprice on his part, it

was not permitted; and the office was performed by one of his club

friends, a certain Mr. Forrester. I was present, however; though not

invited. From one of the side pews, I witnessed the ceremony. The

last words of dear Blanche were, that I should intercede for her with

you; which, God knows, I would, did I think that a father's heart

needed the intercession! But your kind nature is quite assurance

enough to me.

"I am forced to go to Italy, to join my brother; and, as I have no

time to lose, Mrs. Vyner will, I dare say, excuse my taking formal

leave. Pray, let my trunks be packed, and forwarded to me, at

Southampton, where I shall be to-morrow.

"You shall hear further from me soon; now I am too busy to write

more."

In the calm tone of this letter there is the same stoicism which

always enabled this brave man if not to conquer, at least to conceal

his emotions. Who could have suspected the misery which really lay

concealed in those few lines?

The adroitness with which he recommended Blanche to her father's

generosity, showed how affection will sharpen the wits, and make even

the most candid people cunning, to attain their ends. He knew that

Mrs. Vyner had too much need of money, not to grudge any bestowed

upon the girls; and that Vyner himself was little likely to suffer

his regard for his child, such as it was, to withstand his wife's

persuasion. Therefore, to have pleaded in Blanche's favour, would

have been to call down certain defeat. Instead of that, he adroitly

assumed that Vyner could not need any intercession--could not, as a

father, do otherwise than pardon his daughter. To refuse the pardon,

would therefore be to act contrary to all expectation. The question

was thus not discussed, but settled.

The second point in his letter is, the journey to Italy: that needs

only a very brief comment: he hoped, in the confusion of foreign

scenes, to distract his thoughts from grief.

Farewell, then, thou brave, honest, self-sacrificing man! May travel

bring oblivion! may time bring consolation to thy sad and noble heart!

BOOK III.

CHAPTER I.

ROSE VYNER TO FANNY WORSLEY.

WYTTON HALL, 14_th Oct._ 1840.

MY DEAR FANNY,

Since poor Blanche's unfortunate marriage--and yet why should I call

it unfortunate? has she not married the man of her choice, and is not

that the great ideal we maidens all aspire to? However, as it is the

fashion here to speak of it as a "most unfortunate business," over

which mama weeps (I don't clearly see why) and papa storms, I have

caught the trick, and called it so to you.

To resume this broken sentence; or rather to begin it anew: since

Blanche's fortunate marriage, our days have passed equably enough;

but although not characterized by any "incidents," nor affording any

"news," they have not been stupid. Life has not been stagnant. The

slow growth of passions has proceeded without interruption.

Marmaduke Ashley has become the devoted slave of Violet. I call him

her Brazilian Othello. I made her very angry yesterday, by telling

her that she should be less cruelly haughty to him, "for is he not,"

said I, "_a man and a brother_?" They would make a superb couple,

for although I tease her with references to gentlemen of colour, and

with congratulatory remarks respecting the chain being "broken, and

Africa being free," you must know that his complexion is not really

darker than that of a Spaniard. And you know how lovely she is--no

you don't, you have not seen her since she shook off girlish things,

and cannot imagine how she has altered.

Poor Marmaduke, although he has made some impression on her, will

have, I fear, to languish a long while ere the haughty beauty

condescends to step down from her pedestal. Almost as long as I

shall have to wait before the modest Julius will understand, without

my being forced to tell him, that he is not absolutely indifferent to

a certain saucy girl at whom he makes sweet eyes.

You can't imagine how, every day, my admiration deepens for the

little man. I am always finding some new illustration of his

excellence; always hearing something which confirms my opinion of his

nobility of soul. Yesterday, I found that he was studying hard for

the bar, not because he was without fortune, but because he would not

consent to his mother being poorer at the death of his father than

she had been before. He was the heir to all the property, except a

jointure; but he refused to enter into possession while his mother

lived, and as every man ought, he says, to be able to gain his own

livelihood, he has determined to gain his at the bar.

He has recently been exerting himself to procure a good subscription

list to a volume of poems. Here is the title. "GLOOMS AND GLEAMS.

By One who has suffered."

I am as a weed

Torn from the rock, on ocean's foam to sail,

Where'er the wave or tempest's breath prevail.

BYRON.

The mysterious one--the one who has suffered (_what_ not specified!)

is a newly discovered wonder--the Sappho of Walton--the daughter of a

linen-draper.

According to Julius she is really a clever deserving girl, a little

wild in her notions, but with all the generosity of genius, which

redeems her affectations and her follies. She is too poor to venture

on publication herself; and I have just found that Julius, unable to

secure a sufficient sum by subscription, has undertaken to pay the

printing expenses. He stipulated that this should be a secret; but

her grateful father disclosed it to Mrs. Roberts (our housekeeper)

who disclosed it to me. Imagine the gossip there will be in Walton

over this publication! How the papas and mamas, the uncles and

maiden aunts will moralize over the corruption of the age, and the

wild audacious vanity of their townswoman! A poetess in Walton? Why

a volume of poems--(unless they were low church effusions or the

inspirations of "advanced Christians"--) is itself a rarity. You

know how slightly tainted with literature the small towns of England

usually are? I doubt if any are so colourless as Walton. Dickens

penetrates here--where does not his genial sunshine penetrate?--but

no other name of those blown from the brazenly impudent trumpet of

fame has ever found an echo in Walton. A poetess is, consequently,

looked upon as something short of a sorceress: a fearful and

Appalling Illustration of the Reckless March of Intellect which

Devastates the World!

Julius has already secured her an influential patron in Sir Chetsom

Chetsom, and his brother Tom Chetsom. The baronet is possessor of

the Dingles, a fine estate within three miles of Walton, and is

looked up to as one of the great people of the county. Such a figure

as he is! I must sketch him for your amusement.

Sir Chetsom Chetsom is not without considerable daring, for with the

weight of six or seven and sixty years upon his shoulders, he makes a

gallant dash at thirty. His whiskers are miraculously black, always

well-oiled, and stiffly curled; his eyebrows are of another black in

virtue of his inheritance from nature; and his hair is of a third

black in virtue of Truefit's well directed efforts at _wigmanity_.

This threefold darkness, unsuspicious of a gray hair, overshadows a

sallow, wrinkled brow and cheeks, upon which a hare's foot imitates

the ruddy glow of youth with a sort of

Vauxhall-by-daylight-splendour. Under the genuine eyebrows, float

two colourless eyes, between which a high and well-shaped nose rears

its haughty form. Frightfully regular teeth, without a speck,

without a gap, fill up the gash which represents his mouth. A

well-padded chest, and well-stayed waist, ending in shrunken legs and

excruciatingly tight-booted feet complete the _physique_ of this

Adonis. His dress is a perpetual book of fashions!

Of the _morale_ I know little, except that he never plays

cards--flatters himself he has not come to that _yet_--talks fluently

of valtzing (particular about sounding the _w_ as _v_, as a young

gentleman after his first German lesson), adores Fanny Elssler, calls

Grisi a _naice leetle giarl enough_, thinks himself, and wishes to be

accepted as, a remorseless Lovelace, and is always afraid of talking

too long with one woman, lest he should "compromise her."

This ferocious lady-killer, whom you will at once place amongst that

very terrific and numerous class of men which I have christened

Murders, has a brother, whom I wonder he does not disown, so frankly

does that brother bear his age. Tom Chetsom, "jolly Tom Chetsom," as

he is called, is "a tun of a man," with a bald, shiny pate fringed

with straggling grey hair, a rubicund face, a vinous nose, and a

moist, _oystery_ eye, rolling in rheum. Yet this implacable

exhibition of age in a younger brother is tolerated by the baronet,

who is blind enough, or stupid enough, not to be aware of the comment

it is on his own resplendent juvenility!

Tom Chetsom, careless _bon vivant_ as he seems, and is, conceals

beneath that rubicund jollity an astute selfishness, and a real

knowledge of life and human nature, to which his elder brother makes

great pretension. But that which the elder _seems_ to be without

being it, the younger _is_ without seeming it, as Browning would say.

Well, these are the patrons selected for our Walton Sappho. They are

to launch her into the "great world." Sir Chetsom has permitted the

dedication of _Glooms and Gleams_ to himself. He is to introduce the

volume into the "first circles," while Tom Chetsom is to bruit its

fame in all the clubs.

I have not yet seen the poetess herself; but propose to fall in with

the general "rage," and pay a visit at the Grange some day when she

is there. I will give you a full description.

And there is an end of my budget.

CHAPTER II.

THE WOMAN WITH A MISSION.

Ein starker Geist in einem zarten Leib

Ein zwitter zwischen Mann und Weib,

Gleich ungeschickt zum Herrschen und zum Lieben,

Ein kind mit eines Riesen Waffen

Ein Mittelding von Weisen und von Affen!

SCHILLER.--_Die Berühmte Frau._

Marmaduke and Violet, "so justly formed to meet by nature," have not,

it may be supposed, remained insensible to each other's charms. The

elopement of Blanche gave him several opportunities of making

eloquent remarks on the superiority of affection--the riches of the

heart--to mere worldly wealth; and to utter several stinging sarcasms

on those who gave up the worship of a loving heart, for the trumpery

advantages of an establishment and a position.

These sarcasms were, of course, meant for Mrs. Meredith Vyner, who

accepted them in bland silence, or made vague defences, saying that

women were often misguided, because the whole of the facts were not

known.

Violet so entirely responded to his sentiments, and, without knowing

the previous connection between him and her mother, so unhesitatingly

applied those sarcasms to her, that she became more and more

attracted to him, from the fact that they alone seemed rightly to

have read her mother's character.

Mrs. Meredith Vyner saw, with strangely mingled jealousy and

pleasure, the growing attachment of these two. She did not love

Marmaduke: she had never loved him in any high or generous sense of

the term. But he had filled her girlish imagination, and he still

exercised a certain fascination over her. She admired his beauty;

she delighted in the sense of power exercised over so fiery and

impetuous a creature; it was exquisite flattery. To see her place

occupied in his heart was, therefore, singularly irritating. His

anger was an avowal of his love. His threats of vengeance, much as

she might dread them, were the threats of one who suffered in his

love. And so clearly did she perceive this, that it occasioned no

surprise to observe how, in the same measure as his attachment grew

to Violet, his anger seemed to abate, his mind no longer to run upon

its old topics of inconstancy and vengeance. No surprise, but great

jealousy!

Other feelings mingled with this. She could not but be delighted to

think that Marmaduke had ceased to harbour any schemes against her

peace: the tiger was pacified, or attracted by other prey. This was

not all. She hated Violet, and watched the development of this

passion with curious eagerness, because in it she foresaw two sources

of misery to her daughter. If they married, she thought they would

be mutually wretched, and it was in her power at any time to make

Violet horribly jealous, by informing her of Marmaduke's early

attachment. That was one source; another was, with a little coquetry

and cunning on her part, to bring him once more at her feet, which,

she doubted not, she could still effect.

Under the "still life" of what seemed the most uneventful of country

residences, under the smooth current of every-day occupations, such

were the tempests rumbling in the deeps, and ready at an instant to

burst forth! The drama was really there; it seemed to be elsewhere.

The development and collision of passions, out of which the dramas of

life are constructed, were circumscribed within the walls of the Hall

and the Grange. But it was elsewhere that the noisy bustle of

event--noisy because of its emptiness--attracted the attention of

spectators, and seemed, by the talk occasioned, to have absorbed all

the interest which could possibly lie in the elements afforded by the

neighbourhood.

But, first, a word respecting one of the principal actors. I mean

Hester Mason, the poetess. Had Rose's letter, in which, according to

promise, she doubtless gave a detailed description of the Walton

Sappho fallen into my hands, you should have been treated with her

lively account of this important personage: her womanly acuteness and

observation would have assuredly delighted you. As it is, my

matter-of-fact pen must be the substitute.

Hester Mason was five and twenty, and still wrote Miss before her

name; not because adorers were backward, but because they were

Waltonians. They had no "spirituality;" they had no "imaginings;"

they had no "mission." Life to them had no "earnestness;" they lived

without a "purpose." Cowards, they humbled themselves before

"conventionalities," and dared not tell society to its face that it

was a lie. They went to church; they called themselves Christians,

because they followed an antiquated routine, and did not comprehend

the later "developements" of Christianity necessitated by the "wants

of the age." Above all, they shuddered at the true doctrine of

social regeneration, that, namely, of the emancipation of woman, and

thought that marriage should be indissoluble. They were humdrums!

Not to one of those could she descend; her soul was too lofty, her

passions too "devouring," to waste themselves on such "clods."

Indeed, had she been less of a "priestess," she might have been

equally exclusive; since the Waltonians were utterly without taste

for literature, philosophy, or art; and were as ill looking as the

inhabitants of small towns usually are. Hester had been thrice on a

visit of a few days to London; she had seen Hyde Park and its

brilliant company; she had walked down St. James's-street and Pall

Mall, and on the doorsteps of the clubs had seen men who were gods

compared with the dandies of Walton. She had feasted upon

contemporary literature, and had written burning letters of wild

enthusiasm to Bulwer, in imitation of his "Florence Lascelles." She

had dreamed ambitious dreams, in which she held a sceptre in London

society, and awoke to find herself in Walton!

Hester was handsome, but coarse-featured. Her black hair and eyes

gave a certain _éclat_ to a face ornamented with a nose which

irredeemably betrayed her low birth, and surmounted by a forehead too

high and large for beauty. She was about the middle height, and had

a magnificent bust. Her hands were large and coarse; her legs

were--to express them in one word, I should say they were _Devonshire

legs_! In her dress, gait, and manner you saw something which,

though not positively vulgar, was distinctly not ladylike; a certain

_brusquerie_, almost pertness, and a dogmatism, which is at all times

shocking in a woman.

About the time when Julius St. John first interested himself in the

publication of her volume of poems, Hester, worn out with awaiting

her "ideal," and almost despairing of ever reigning in London

society, began so far to humble herself in her own eyes, as to admit

the attentions of the surgeon's apprentice, newly arrived at Walton.

True it is that James Stone, the foresaid apprentice, had a dash of

London about him. He was not a Waltonian, he was not a humdrum; so

far from it, that he had the character of a "rake!" He discoursed

about the ballet; had been behind the scenes at the theatres; was

well-versed in Jullien's promenade concerts (then a novelty); smoked

a meerschaum; and when in full-dress turned his shirt-sleeve cuffs

over his coat, much to the amazement of the Waltonians, who imagined

he had just washed his hands, and had forgotten to turn back his

cuffs, so little did they appreciate the dandyism!

It may appear strange, but that little trait of elegance won more of

Hester's admiration than all his personal charms, and they were not

few, could have effected in a month. It gave him a London air. It

made him so superior to the provincial bumpkins, who laughed with

coarse ridicule at an elegance they could not understand. It was in

vain Hester, bridling, told them that the "pink of fashion and the

mould of form"--the all-accomplished Count D'Orsay--wore his cuffs in

that way. They only laughed the more, and christened Stone--the

Walton _De_ Orsay.

As long as Stone held out against the ridicule which his innovation

excited, Hester accorded him her sympathy, and almost her love. But

when he yielded to public opinion, and turned back his cuffs to their

original place, she suddenly cooled towards him. It was a submission

to conventionalities. It was a truckling to society. It was

cowardice.

He purchased his pardon, however, and by a speech so adroit that in

Walton it must have appeared worthy at least of a Lauzun--had

Lauzun's name ever been heard there.

"If I do not yield this trifle to public opinion they will force me

to quit this place, and to quit the place would be quitting

_you_."--She forgave him.

But her pardon availed him little. Invited by Mrs. St. John to the

Grange, patronized by the "great people" round Walton, her volume on

the eve of being launched into the wide sea of literature, she felt

all her old ambition revive within her, and scarcely forgave herself

for having idled away an hour with such a youth as Stone--too poor

for a husband, too insignificant for a lover.

The patronage of Sir Chetsom Chetsom completed her intoxication.

That graceless old Lovelace, struck with the beauty of his protégé,

saw at once the facilities afforded him for an intrigue. He was

constantly at her father's. Her poems made the pretext of his

visits. Her charms formed the staple of his conversation; varied by

accounts of London society, and visions of the brilliant career which

awaited her if she only determined boldly to enter it.

A sorry figure, truly, was the wigged and whiskered baronet for a

girl with "bright imaginings," and at five and twenty, to choose as

her lover; and yet, if I have contrived to indicate her character

properly, the reader will not be surprised at her lending a willing

ear to the old boy's artful flatteries.

He was not young, but he was rich. He had no "imaginings," but he

could tell of the splendours of the capital. He had no "mission,"

but he wore _bottes vernies_. He was without "earnestness," but he

talked fluently of all the new works, and had met most of the

literary lions in society.

More than all, he was Sir Chetsom Chetsom, and she was Hester Mason

the linen-draper's daughter. Rank gives a lustre which dazzles even

virtue; and Hester had very few scruples of virtue to struggle

against; so that ambition found her an easy victim. She

coquetted--she was "cruel" to her adorer; not because she was afraid

to yield, but because she wished to sell her honour dearly.

CHAPTER III.

WHAT WAS SAID OF THE WALTON SAPPHO.

"Is it not shocking?" said Mrs. Ruddles, the curate's wife, to Mrs.

Spedley, the surgeon's better half, as she sipped the smoking bohea,

and commented on the ongoings of Walton, and its "muse" in

particular,--"Is it not shocking to witness such depravity? To think

of his taking up with such trumpery as Hester Mason!"

"And to think of her encouraging the wicked, old villain!" ejaculated

the indignant Mrs. Spedley.

"And her father to shut his eyes!" suggested the post-mistress of

Walton.

"What can she expect will be the end of it?"

"I'm sure, I can't say."

"He's married, too," said Stone, angrily; for Stone was now utterly

neglected: he had even turned up his shirt cuffs, with D'Orsay

magnificence, on the preceding Sunday; and still Hester had not

vouchsafed him a look.

"Married! yes; but he could get nobody to live with him; and his wife

has been separated many years," observed Mrs. Ruddles; "and no

wonder!"

"So that Hester falls with her eyes open ... she can't expect him to

marry her--the minx!" said Mrs. Spedley.

"Oh, no. Besides, she looks upon marriage as immoral."

"Ah!"

"Yes, yes: very comfortable notions those are for some people."

"Very. _This_ comes of writing poetry!" gravely and philosophically

remarked the surgeon's wife.

Her husband entered at that moment.

"Pretty poetry it is!" he said. "Hang me, if I can make head or tail

of it. Long words and inflated sentiments--nothing else!"

"Such trash!" scornfully added Mrs. Ruddles.

"So frivolous!" chimed in Mrs. Spedley.

"As if there was anything in that, to cock up one's head about,"

pursued Mrs. Ruddles.

"And, to fancy herself so superior to every one else."

"Well, give me good, common sense in a woman," fervently ejaculated

Spedley.

"And me."

"And me."

"Oh, and me."

"It was but last night," said Spedley, "that she took upon herself to

set me right about the vote by ballot; and, instead of arguing the

point, she told me that I was incapable of forming an opinion on it,

ignorant as I was of the _rapid developments of humanity_. To be

sure, I was,--how should I know what she meant by that?"

"He--he--he!" tittered Mrs. Spedley.--"Developments of humanity,

indeed!"

"That is a philosophy _she_ understands," said Stone, sarcastically;

"and will certainly give us an _illustration_ of it _herself_

shortly----"

Stone chuckled immensely at this _double entendre_; and the ladies,

forgetting their prudery in their spite, laughed too, and declared

that nothing was more likely.

That is only a sample of what was said in Walton. The whole town was

busy with the event. Envy aided tittle-tattle; and not a voice was

raised in Hester's defence. Sir Chetsom to visit her! Sir Chetsom

to drive up to her door! Sir Chetsom to send her game! Sir Chetsom

to take her drives in his curricle. It was enough to make an English

community, like that of Walton, mad. How she escaped lapidation is a

mystery.

Hester knew the scandal she occasioned, and triumphed in it. To be

the mark for jealousy, was a condition affixed to superiority.

Detraction was the tribute impotence paid to power. She was

hated--she knew it--how could it be otherwise?--was she not a genius?

At their gossip she laughed; with society and its _sophisms_ she was

at open war.

Having had this one glimpse of the state of opinion in Walton, let us

now turn our attention to the Hall. The St. Johns, Marmaduke, Tom

Wincot, and the family, are in the drawing room. Julius holds the

volume of Hester's poems in his hands, having just finished reading

it aloud:--

"Now, Mr. Vyner," said Julius, "do you rescind your harsh judgment;

will you not admit that there is at least great facility in these

poems?"

"Facility?" replied Vyner. "Yes, yes,

Nempe incomposito dixi pede currere versus.

I find too much of it: fatal facility, betraying the want of that

_labor limæ_, without which no work can have value."

"She will learn the difficult 'art to blot' in time," suggested

Julius; "at present she is all exuberance."

"Is not over luxuriance," said Violet, "rather the property of weeds

than of flowers?"

"Certainly," said Vyner. "The volume wants weeding sadly. You know

what 'Horace' says?--

Ut brevitate opus, ut currat sententia, neu se

Impediat verbis lassas onerantibus aures."

"Well," interrupted Rose; "but not to be so critical, do you not

think the volume shows great power?"

"Rather the _will_ to be great than the _power_," said Marmaduke.

"It is daring and extravagant, but it does not seem to me to have the

daring and extravagance of genius."

"Doesn't it stwike you as vewy stwange that a young woman should wite

in such twemendous misewy? Nothing but seductions, delusions, bwoken

hearts, pwostwated spiwits, agonies of wemorse, tewible pwedictions,

wetched wevewies, and all that sort of thing! Besides, what does she

pwopose when she wepeatedly weitewates the necessity of some better

and more weflective Chwistianity?"

"Those are the extravagances I speak of."

"I confess," said Violet, "I do not like the tricks she plays with

language: surely all those uncouth compounds, and those obtrusive

vowels which everybody else consents to drop, are useless

affectations?"

"Those are the conquests of the New School," said Marmaduke.

"I thought that our great poets had found the language harmonious and

flexible enough."

"You see, Mr. St. John," said Rose, laughing, "they are determined to

pull your poetess to pieces. Don't hear any more. I will admire her

with you, and we shall form the fit audience, though few."

The conversation did not cease here; but we have heard enough. Let

us hurry, therefore, to Belgravia, where resides Sir Chetsom Chetsom,

who has been forced to run up to town for a few days, and is now

seated opposite his brother, his hand upon the claret decanter,

listening to a brotherly remonstrance.

"I tell you, Chet, she is _une intriguante_: underneath all that

romance and extravagance, I see a very cool calculation. In the

letter you have just read me, I divine her character."

"What is there in that to make you suspicious?"

"Oh! no single passage, but the whole tone. Do but consider for a

moment. Here are you, a married man, writing love-letters to an

unmarried girl; she does not repulse you--she does not even _pretend_

to be offended--she says nothing about your wife, nothing about the

unmistakeable nature of your intentions."

"But I tell you, Tom, the giarl is decidedly fond of me."

"Humph."

"You doubt it?"

"Considerably."

"Very well, very well. I, who see her, who watch her, and who

flatter myself know _something_ of women--_I_ think so, and that is

enough."

"Do you ever look in the glass, Chet?"

"Often."

"And the result is?"

"Very different from what must occur in your case, Tom, if ever you

venture on such a piece of temerity."

"And you think yourself still capable of inspiring a passion?"

"The thing is done."

"And _you_ are done, Chet," said Tom Chetsom, placing one bulbous

finger at the side of his vinous nose, and closing one oystery eye,

by way of pantomimic comment on his words.

"You don't know women, Tom."

"Well, let us grant for a moment that you have made an impression;

don't you see the imprudence of having an intrigue so near your home,

in a little place where every action is noticed and discussed?"

"I don't care a fig what they discuss. That's the giarl's look out,

not mine, damme! If neither she nor her father object to my visits,

why should I be squeamish?"

"Why? Because you will be the laughter of the county."

"Thank ye, Tom."

"I'm serious, Chet. Your age is tolerably well known _there_, and

you may imagine the gossip and the ridicule which will attach to any

affair of yours with a young girl. It will be the talk of the whole

county."

Sir Chetsom knew that quite as well as his knowing brother; but what

his brother did not know, was that the great attraction in this

intrigue consisted in the very fact so distinctly enunciated: "It

will be the talk of the whole county!" He wished it to be so. He

anticipated the scandal, and rejoiced thereat. He heard the chorus

of virtuous matrons declaiming against his "wickedness," and the

sound was exquisitely flattering. He shook his head with an air of

knowing satisfaction as he read (in his mind's eye) the paragraphs in

the local papers upbraiding him for his villainy. The phrase "The

wretch! at _his_ age to be seducing women!" flattered his

anticipative ear more sweetly than any strain from Beethoven or

Mozart could lull the spirit of a musician.

Tom Chetsom, frank old fellow, never once attempting to conceal a

wrinkle, or to disguise a bald patch, could not comprehend his

brother's secret pride in being made a butt. He understood the

vanity of his brother's dandyism and juvenility: he saw specimens

enough of that at his club. But knowing how all men, and above all

men Sir Chetsom, shrunk from ridicule, it was a puzzle to him that

the inevitable ridicule of his intrigue with Hester should not be a

bugbear to frighten him away. He forgot that amidst all the ridicule

and reprobation, there would be a tacit acknowledgment of Sir

Chetsom's lady-killing powers; and for that acknowledgment he could

scarcely pay too dearly.

As a mere safeguard for his vanity, and not out of any illiberality,

he had from the first determined upon making no settlement on Hester,

in case she should consent to live with him. If his intrigue cost

him anything, the laugh would justly be turned against him as a dupe.

If it cost him nothing, the world would storm at his meanness, but

they would believe in his power.

CHAPTER IV.

PROPHECIES FULFILLED.

"What makes you so serious to-day, Mrs. St. John?" said Violet, about

a week afterwards.

"I am getting anxious about my protégé. It was my Julius who

introduced her to the notice of Sir Chetsom Chetsom; and I fear no

good will come of it."

"Are you, then, of the Walton party?" asked Violet. "And do you lend

an ear to all the scandal of that miserable place? Consider Sir

Chetsom's age."

"Yes," said Rose; "but consider also his pretensions. We knew Sir

Chetsom is old; but he wants to be thought young."

"I assure you," said Mrs. St. John, "it makes me very uneasy. Julius

has already taken the liberty of speaking to him on the subject, as

strongly as he could; but Sir Chetsom only laughed at what he called

virtuous scruples. My only hope is, that Hester looks upon their

difference of age and station as a sufficient warrant for an intimacy

which she would not otherwise allow. And yet I fear it is not so. I

hope I may wrong her. I do not wish to think uncharitably; but from

what I have observed of late, I think she is ambitious and

unscrupulous."

"We must remember," said Violet, "that her very opinions on the

emancipation of woman would lead her to adopt a freedom of manner,

which, though it might be very innocent, would be so unlike the

conduct of well-educated girls, that we, judging her by the ordinary

rules, should be guilty of great injustice."

Mrs. St. John shook her head.

"Mrs. St. John demurs," said Rose.

"I do, indeed. I look with suspicion on those opinions. When I see

a woman disdaining the ordinary notions of society, I expect to see

her follow out her own opinions, and disdain the ordinary practices

of society."

Meredith Vyner joined them.

"We are discussing the old subject, Hester Mason," said Mrs. St. John.

"And giving her all the virtues under the sun, poetry included," said

Vyner. "Well, you have chosen a good subject. We don't often meet

with such a paragon. Where, indeed, in this prosaic place should we

look for such another

Cui Pudor, et Justitiæ soro

Incorrupta Fides, nudaque Veritas,

Quando ullum inveniet parem?

"By the irony of your tone," said Mrs. St. John, "I suspect you have

heard something new about her."

"No, nothing new; at least nothing unexpected."

"What is it? Pray, let us hear it."

"The most natural thing in the world she last night went off with Sir

Chetsom Chetsom. _Interdum deliramus senes_, as Plautus saith."

This information was received in silence. Mrs. St. John coloured

deeply, and then turned pale. She was greatly hurt, because she

considered herself in some measure the cause of this misfortune, by

having first brought Hester into notice, and then having introduced

her to Sir Chetsom.

It was too true. Hester had gone off; and Sir Chetsom had taken good

care that it should not be a secret.

It would need a more graphic brush than mine to paint the tumult of

scandalized virtue in Walton at this outrage upon public morals. To

paint the swelling indignation of Mrs. Ruddles, the vehemence of

offended purity in Mrs. Spedley, the uplifted hands and eyes of the

mute but expressive post-mistress, the sarcasms of Stone, the brutal

jests of Spedley, the moral declamation of the Rev. Richard Ruddles,

the sneers, the epithets of abuse, the prophecies of what "her end

would be," the homilies on infidelity, poetry, and "new-fangled

notions," and the constantly-reiterated but never-too-old reflections

which each and all made upon their own sagacity in having "all along

foreseen it."

The howl of Walton reached not Hester's ears; and if it had, it would

only have sounded like the shouts of triumph in an ovation.

CHAPTER V.

THE ASTUTE MRS. VYNER.

L'epoux retint cette leçon par cœur.

Onc il ne fut une plus forte dupe

Que ce vieillard, bon homme au demeurant.

LAFONTAINE.--_Contes._

On returning to the hall, Meredith Vyner found a letter from Cecil.

He retired into his study; for he was one of those who fancy that you

cannot possibly read anything with attention elsewhere than in a

study. Having deliberately adjusted his spectacles, and taken a

liberal pinch, he began the perusal.

Its contents may easily be guessed. It was very penitent, very

clever, contained two adroit quotations from 'Horace,' and a

well-worked-up petition for pardon. Blanche signed it with him, and

added a pretty little postscript of her own.

Mrs. Meredith Vyner having learned from Rose that a letter had

arrived, the handwriting of which looked like Cecil's, hastened to

join her husband, whom she found not only in his own study, but in

what is usually termed a "brown study." He was sitting in an

easy-chair. His body slightly bent forward; the spectacles shifted

from his nose to his forehead, one arm resting on the inner part of

his thigh, the pendent hand grasping the opened letter, the other arm

resting on the table, the hand caressing his snuff-box.

"So you have had a letter from your son-in-law?" she said, as she

entered.

He handed it to her. She read it slowly. On looking into his face

as she returned it to him, she saw that he had forgiven them.

"A very clever epistle," she said; "very clever. And of course you

grant the pardon. They know that very well. They were quite sure of

that when they ran away, otherwise Cecil would not have been such a

fool; but he knew your weakness--knew how easily you were to be

managed, and was quite sure that _I_ should never oppose him."

Meredith Vyner took a pinch, angrily.

"Shall we have them to live with us? I dare say that is what they

expect--and, perhaps, it would be the best. Or do you intend making

them an allowance?"

Meredith Vyner took three pinches, rapidly.

"Do you know, dear, I think, perhaps, it would be as well not to

relent at once, because it will be such a precedent. Keep them

waiting a little. They will be all the more grateful when it does

come."

"And _who_ said it was to come at all?" asked the indignant Vyner.

"I took that for granted."

"Yes, yes, of course, for granted. Everybody seems to take things in

my house _for granted_. _I'm_ not to be considered. _My_ wishes are

not to be consulted. And yet I believe I am master here--I may be

wrong--but I fancy this house is mine."

His wife smiled inwardly, as she added, "And your children's."

"How my children's?" he sharply asked. "It is none of theirs; it

will not even be theirs at my death. Theirs, indeed!"

Mrs. Meredith Vyner knew perfectly well the effect to be produced by

her apparently careless phrases, and played upon her husband's mind

with a certainty of touch highly creditable to her skill.

"I am surprised, my dear Mary, to hear you talk so. For granted,

indeed! No; it shall not be for granted; it shall not be at all. I

will be master in my own house. I have already submitted too much to

my daughters; and they shall find I will do so no more. A pretty

thing, indeed, to brave her father, to bring a slur upon her name by

running away with a penniless adventurer: a man I don't like; a mere

superficial dabbler, who pretends to understand 'Horace,' and is

quite at sea with respect to the Horatian metres. He'll never do

anything; never be anything. And yet he expects that he has only to

write me a whining letter, and all will be forgotten. He doesn't

think it possible I can refuse. No, no; takes my pardon for granted.

But it is not granted. It shall not be."

"This will soon blow over, I'm not at all afraid for my dear Blanche.

You will not be able to hold out long."

"There is your mistake."

"We shall see, we shall see," said she, with a tone of most

expressive certainty of the truth of what she said, and left the room.

Meredith Vyner was seldom angry; but the provoking confidence of his

wife, in what he chose to consider her opinion of his weakness, made

him furious against the cause thereof--the offending Cecil.

From what impulses spring human actions! Here is a man delighted by

the opportunity afforded him of forgiving his offending child, and

ready to clasp her to his bosom. That is the natural instinct of his

heart. His wife comes; and, by pretending to urge the very act he is

about to perform, by choosing to assume it as a settled thing, and

insinuating thereby, that, from his known weakness, everybody must

also assume it, she stifles the parental feeling, awakens his

miserable vanity, and makes him exhibit his weakness by the very

action which he intends as a proof of his fortitude and decision.

Resolved to show how mistaken those were who fancied that he was to

be led by the nose, he sat down, and wrote this brief, and, as he

thought, crushing reply:--

"WYTTON HALL, 10_th Nov._ 1840.

"SIR,

"You have made an error in your calculations, I am not so easily

bamboozled as you imagine. You are very clever, I have no doubt;

but,--

Vix illigatum te triformi

Pegasus expediet chimæræ.

And with this I close all correspondence between us.

"Yours truly,

"H. S. MEREDITH VYNER."

"That quotation is rather happy," he said to himself, as he folded

the letter. Indeed, so pleased was he at its felicity, that it would

now have cost him some pangs not to send the letter; he could not

afford to lose such an effect.

Mrs. Meredith Vyner was very shortly after found sobbing in her room,

by Rose. To the anxious inquiries of the affectionate girl, at first

no other reply could be elicited than--

"Oh, my poor Blanche! poor Blanche!" accompanied by fresh sobs.

After about five minutes of this irritating and inexplicit grief,

Rose managed to ascertain that Blanche was not to be forgiven.

"Impossible!" she exclaimed. "Oh, I will go this instant, and

intercede for her!"

"Do, my dear--do--lose no time! And, Rose, don't mention that you

have seen me. Pretend to know nothing, except that Cecil has

written; and ask your papa when we are to see them, just as if it

were a matter of course that he would forgive them."

"I will."

She went. Her success may be imagined; Vyner stormed at her; said,

she was just like her sister, and had been so long accustomed to

regard him as a cipher, that she could not even suppose him capable

of punishing such an act of wretched disobedience.

On going to bed that night, Meredith Vyner seemed to have become

greatly pacified by the day's reflections.

"It is rather a good letter that, of Cecil's," he said. "Well

expressed."

"Very," answered his wife. "Perhaps rather too well expressed for

sincerity. But he's a clever fellow. I always liked him. He is so

gay and rattling."

"Better qualities in a guest than a son-in-law!"

"Humph! That depends----"

"His first quotation from Horace, too, is very well chosen--pat and

pointed. Not so good, though, as mine to him! Egad! that was a

stinger. Still, his deserves praise."

"I rather suspect, dear, that he made Horace a go-between. He

pretended to be very interested in the poet, in order that he might

woo the editor's daughter."

"No, indeed, there you wrong him. He came to me at first purely out

of love for Horace. He took great interest in my commentary--I must

do myself the justice to say that it is a little out of the

common--and he seemed to think so. He was never tired of it, till

his head got stuffed full of foolish love nonsense. When he began

hankering after Blanche, he left off reading my commentary. Still I

cannot deny that the great attraction first was the study of my notes

and emendations."

She saw that he was getting on dangerous ground, and therefore threw

out this lasso:

"Well, well, he knows your weak point, and by that he will gain the

day. You won't long be able to disown a son-in-law who can quote

Horace _àpropos_. So that if your natural goodness doesn't make you

relent, Horace will!"

"You think so; but you are greatly mistaken."

In this way she from time to time restored his faltering resolution.

Whenever symptoms of relenting exhibited themselves, she contrived to

banish them by irritating his vanity. Shakspeare, that great master

of the human heart, has, in the third act of _Othello_, anticipated

the scenes which are perpetually recurring between a cool,

calculating scoundrel and his writhing, unsuspecting victim. With

consummate art, Iago always manages to keep before Othello's mind,

the very idea he pretends to banish or to palliate; and directly he

sees his victim relenting, as thoughts of tenderness for Desdemona

arise, Iago contrives that the very tenderness shall add intensity to

his sense of wrong. For instance, Othello says:--

I do not think but Desdemona's honest.

Whereupon Iago, with brutal-seeming frankness, says:--

Long live she so! and long live you to think so!

_Oth._ And yet how nature erring from itself.

_Iago._ Ay, there's the point--As--to be bold with you--

Not to affect many proposed matches, &c.

With somewhat of the diabolical art Iago used, did the sylph-like

humpback play upon her husband. And when she began to fear that,

after all, she might lose the game, she adroitly changed her tactics

and said:--

"It has occurred to me that there is a way of settling this

difficulty. Do not countenance Blanche's disobedience--do not see

her husband--but we can from time to time assist them secretly. I

can give them money, as if from my own funds. You will not appear in

the matter at all, and yet you will have the satisfaction of knowing

they are not in want."

This seemed so admirably calculated to save his dignity, and yet to

preserve Blanche from the more serious consequences of his refusal,

that he gladly adopted the suggestion.

Having gained this point, Mrs. Meredith Vyner sallied forth to pay

some visits to her poor.

The devil is not so black as he is painted. Mrs. Vyner had her good

qualities: and she was worshipped in her village. No one was so

liberal to the poor; no one looked after the schools with greater or

more judicious care; no one was more active in benevolence. She not

only did kind things, she said them also; and that is an element in

benevolence many charitable people omit. She attended upon the sick;

she comforted the sorrowing; she listened to their long stories; she

gave them advice; she interested herself in their joys and sorrows.

From what we know of her, we shall not be altogether dupes of this

benevolence: we shall not suppose it pure, unmixed kindness. But it

would perhaps be grossly wronging her to believe that it was

hypocrisy, that it had not some real good feeling at the bottom.

Although we may, and not uncharitably, suppose there was some

selfishness and ostentation in this care for the poor; we may also

believe that she felt some of the real glow of generosity and delight

in doing good. In the ordinary sense of the word, she had no

"interest" in her conduct. She might have done her duty to the poor

without going so far as she did. Their good opinion was of no "use"

to her. Examine it how you will, you can discover none of the

"interested motives" usually supposed to influence the benevolence of

selfish people.

Such a character is a paradox; but only a paradox, because we are so

prone to regard human nature as very simple and _all of a piece_,

when, in truth, it is, as I have remarked before, marvellously

complex. Mrs. Meredith Vyner was wicked, cruel, unloving, and

selfish; it would be a contradiction in terms, to add that she was

also kind, generous, and benevolent; but it is perfectly true that

she would occasionally perform kind, generous, and benevolent actions

perfectly disinterested. The secret I take to be this. Her cruelty

was not wanton: it always had reference to some selfish object. But

on occasions completely alien to her interest or her vanity, she

could be kind; and being an impulsive, imaginative woman where she

_was_ kind, she was strikingly so, thereby turning it into a thing of

_éclat_, and so gratifying her vanity.

It was said of himself, by Benjamin Constant, "_Je puis faire de

bonnes et fortes actions; je ne puis avoir de bons precédés._" This

is a revelation of the profound depths of certain minds; and Mrs.

Vyner belonged to that class. In a moment of enthusiasm she might

even have forgotten her selfishness--or rather have staked all the

gratification of her selfishness on the triumph of one moment; but

she could not have completed her sacrifice, she could not have gone

through with any line of conduct after it had lost its _éclat_; above

all, she could not, in the ordinary transactions of life, have been

generous, thoughtful, kind--she could not go through "the little

nameless unremembered acts of kindness and of love" which constitute

real goodness.

Her conduct towards the poor seems to be thus explained: they did not

stand in her light; nothing she could do, or omit to do for them

could influence her interests. But they were picturesque objects

which struck her imagination, and appealed to her protection. A

little trouble and a little money made her their benefactress. The

pleasure of doing good was a pleasure she could appreciate, and it

could be purchased for so little.

If any one supposes from the foregoing remarks, that I have what is

called _explained away_ her benevolence, he is mistaken. There are

hundreds quite as selfish, who cannot appreciate the pleasure of

doing good; and she is so far their superior.

CHAPTER VI.

FAINT HEARTS AND FAIR LADIES.

On this old beach

For hours she sat; and evermore her eye

Was busy in the distance, shaping things

That made her heart beat quick.

WORDSWORTH.--_Excursion._

Autumn was deepening fast. The green tints were rapidly

disappearing, and the advancing year "breathed a browner horror o'er

the woods." Wytton still looked lovely; the great variety of tints,

from the dark brown of the copper beech, to the delicate yellow of

the cut-leaved hornbeam, made the grounds as splendid as a setting

sun. The paths strewed with fallen leaves, spoke feelingly of the

approaching change, when the huge trees would be stretching their

melancholy branches out into the air, in gaunt loneliness.

Preparations were being made to quit Wytton for town, and both

Marmaduke and Julius looked with regret upon the approaching

separation. Town would never replace the country for them. They

would see their idols there, it is true; but they would no longer see

them in the charming ease and _abandon_ of Wytton Hall, or the Grange.

The country is the place for a nascent love! It affords endless

opportunities of _tête-à-têtes_, and the scenery gives a tone to the

whole mind. London is very well for a flirtation, or when you cannot

have the country. But its riot and bustle, its endless dissipation

of your time and distraction of your thoughts, would alone make it

greatly inferior to the country. Shut up in a country-house you have

nothing to prevent an eternal brooding over your own thoughts; and

those thoughts, can they be more sweetly employed than in hovering

round the image of the beloved?

One bright, sunny, brisk, autumnal afternoon, six horses stood

saddled at the door of the hall. A ride to the sea-shore, about

eight miles distant, had been determined on, Rose having expressed a

desire for a good childish ramble on the sands to pick up shells, and

crack the seaweed pops.

Meredith Vyner, Mrs. St. John, Marmaduke and Violet, Julius and Rose,

formed the party. Mrs. Vyner stayed at home. All the visitors had

left the Hall, so that the present party was as large as could be

mustered. They formed three pleasant couples.

"I think the young people behind understand each other," said

Meredith Vyner to Mrs. St. John, as they rode ahead.

"I wish they did," she replied.

"Do you then doubt it? I fancy Mr. Ashley's attentions are

unmistakeable, and Violet does not seem to look coldly on them. She

is less haughty to him than to most people. Don't you think she's

improved? Ah! I forgot, you did not know her then. She used to be a

devil: such a temper! My poor little Mary, who, you know, is the

timidest, mildest creature alive, used to be frightened out of her

wits at her. She never dared to suggest anything that was not

perfectly agreeable, for Violet would burst out upon her--it was

quite fearful! I never saw any of it myself. Violet was always well

behaved enough before me. But I used constantly to find Mary in

hysterics, or in tears; and although she always wished to spare

Violet, and refused to specify what had been said and done, yet she

could not conceal from me that my daughter's conduct was the cause of

her emotion. However, thank God! sending her away from home seems to

have tamed her. She is not very violent now, is she?"

"Violent! I think she is entirely charming. I know no girl

possessing so much dignity and directness of mind. I quite love her."

"And what do you think of Mr. Ashley?"

"That he would make her an excellent husband. Julius, whose judgment

is so good, has the highest opinion of him."

"And I," said Vyner,--"not to flatter you--have the highest opinion

of your son Julius. Upon my word, madam, you have a son to be proud

of, as Horace says--

Micat inter omnes

_Julium_ sidus, velut inter ignes

Luna minores.

A rare fellow; and one who, as a son-in-law---- Do you think there

_is_ anything there?"

"With Rose? I am puzzled. Julius is somewhat secret on such

matters, and although he admires Rose, I do not feel certain how far

his admiration goes."

"Well, you may tell him that he has not only my consent, but that

nothing would please me more than to call him my son. Rose is a good

girl; somewhat saucy in her wit, which does not even respect her

mother at all times, but there is no malice in her. Mary, who doats

upon all my children as if they were her own, says she cannot wonder

that such girls should exercise such empire over me; for you must

know, Mary fancies I am led by the nose by my affection for the

girls, and that they have the whip hand, which is by no means the

case. I may have indulged them, perhaps, too much when they were

younger; but I flatter myself no one ever was able to _lead_ me."

It may be supposed, that during this ride, neither Marmaduke and

Violet, nor Julius and Rose, were very silent; but their talk was

made up of those delicious nothings to which time, place, and

circumstance give significance, and tones and looks give eloquence:

what George Sand finely calls _tous les riens immenses d'un amour

naissant_. Haughty and impetuous as Violet was, she had great

playfulness, and could unbend with bewitching ease. Marmaduke was

also lively, and his animal spirits were stimulated by his desire to

please. He was charming.

Chamfort--who has written some of the wittiest and profoundest

aphorisms in the French language--has said--"Un homme amoureux est un

homme qui veut être plus aimable qu'il ne pent, et voilà pourquoi

presque tous les amoureux sont ridicules."

True enough: lovers do appear ridiculous to lookers-on; but that

desire to please which prompts their words and actions, makes them

loveable in the eyes of their mistresses. After all, the great

secret of being pleasant is the wish to be so. It needs no grace of

manner, no splendour of beauty or talent, to make all around you

pleased at your approach. It only needs the honest wish to please.

Marmaduke was therefore charming in the eyes of Violet, although he

said nothing during the whole of the ride, which could possibly be

read with interest. His conversation was frivolous or commonplace

enough, but it had the particular seal of amiability.

So also Rose, the witty, sparkling Rose, laughed and made them laugh,

without having uttered a single joke fit to be repeated; because if

its wit happened to be undeniable, it would, nevertheless, ill bear

transplanting.

This is the dilemma into which a novelist is forced if he chance to

select a lively girl for a heroine: either he must consent to

suppress her conversation, or else to give the impression of a

vulgar, personal, flippant, disagreeable creature. In real life,

vivacity gives point to a poor joke, and carries off the coarseness

from a personal witticism. A laughing girl, with roguish eyes, and

unmistakeable hilarity of manner, may utter almost

anything--commonplace or personality--not only with impunity, but

with positive applause. But I am certain that if the conversation of

lively young ladies were printed, it would be scouted as the coarse

daubing of one who knew not what ladies were. Simply because a

narrator can only give the words; he cannot give tone and manner.

Be good enough to understand, therefore, that Rose was provokingly

witty, though I cannot repeat what she said. Take my word for it.

Repose upon the "easier-to-be-imagined-than-described" belief.

Represent to yourself a young and lively girl during a delightful

canter, with her lover by her side, whom she likes to tease, and then

"imagine" what conversation must have passed: there _can_ be no

difficulty about the wit, as you have to draw from your own stores.

A happy day they passed. The ride to the sea-shore was through

pleasant lanes, strewed with fallen leaves; and the sea-shore itself

presented a magnificent view. The tide was very low, and the distant

sands and sea had the appearance of the early dawn of a summer's day.

The sails of a fishing-smack or two dotted the horizon. A fresh,

salt sea-weed fragrance saluted their nostrils; the _scrunch_

(beautiful word!) of small shells and pebbles followed their

footsteps; small stranded crabs, with incoherent efforts, were

hurrying here and there; huge entangled masses of weed offered their

pops to Rose's delicate fingers; and a basketful of beautiful shells

was soon the result of their search.

In this extremely primitive occupation, the time fled on. Meredith

Vyner had wandered a long way down the shore, talking to Mrs. St.

John respecting the virtues and accomplishments of his wife, and the

manner in which his girls repaid her affection; which was followed up

by a circumstantial history of his commentary on Horace: how the idea

first came to him in reading a variorum edition: how the more he

learned to know the commentators, the more he had learned to despise

them, and to feel that a new edition was imperatively called for: how

he had worked for years at this edition, and how, in short, he had

finally got together the materials from which his monument would be

built.

The tide was fast returning, and a rolling sea poured its restless

waters, like the plunging of a powerful steed. Violet, seated on a

rock, was contemplating it in silence; in silence Marmaduke dropped

little pebbles into a tiny pool of water left in the rock. Both were

sad, but with the sadness which is sweeter than joy. Both were

silent, but with the silence which is more eloquent than speech. The

breeze was playing with their hair, the music of "old ocean's roar"

was sounding in their ears; the declining rays of an autumnal sun

gave a poetic splendour to the scene, which was disturbed by no sound

save the ceaseless wash of the advancing tide as it rolled upon the

shingle.

It was one of those exquisite moments when the soul seems to tremble

with delight at every thought which crosses it, when the

susceptibility to external influences is so keen that the veriest

trifles are robed in the splendour of imagination, and a scene which

at other times would attract, perhaps, but little attention, has the

enchantment of Armida's gardens. There are moments when the soul,

with a vague but irresistible yearning, seems anxious to burst its

earthly bonds, and to identify itself with the great spirit of beauty

which hovers over the world--moments when the desire to love is so

imperious, when the soul so eagerly seeks communion with some other

soul, that the being, whom at other times we have perhaps regarded as

indifferent, suddenly becomes the idol to whom a heart is offered as

a sacrifice. The halo of mysterious feelings is around that being's

head, and we mistake it for the luminous glory which encircles the

Chosen. Just as the feeling of the moment sheds its lustre over a

common-place scene, will it make an idol out of a common-place person.

How many fatal mistakes in love are attributable to such illusions?

Marmaduke and Violet were both under the spell of such a feeling.

Yet neither spoke; words were too imperfect to express what passed

within them. He rolled his pebbles one after the other into the

pool, with mechanical precision; she watched the broad advancing sea,

and listened to its music.

Had he declared his passion at that moment, he would assuredly have

been accepted; and the whole course of their lives would have been

altered. But he paused; he "dallied with the faint surmise;" he

played with his own heart, and waited for her to break the silence.

But she kept her eyes upon the advancing sea, and a sigh, a gentle

sigh heaved her bosom, for by some accidental association the current

of her thoughts had become changed: she ceased to think of Marmaduke,

and was communing in spirit with her departed mother. Perhaps it was

the dash of the waters on the shore which brought back to her

recollection those days of her unhappy childhood, when having lost

her mother, she was wont to sit upon a rock, and hear the ocean speak

to her wild words of comfort. There were voices in the waves then;

and those voices faintly sounding through the past, spoke to her

mysteriously now. The image of her dear, kind, much-loved mother,

stood before her. A tear rolled over her cheek; and Marmaduke, whose

attention had been attracted by her sigh, looked up and saw it. His

heart was proud, for he thought that sigh and that tear were for him.

"What are you thinking of?" he tenderly asked.

She turned her full large eyes, glistening with grief, upon him, and

said gently,--

"My poor mother!"

And again her eyes were fixed upon the sea.

Marmaduke was hurt; and with a movement of impatience resumed his

pebble rolling. His self-love shrank, offended at this unexpected

avowal, and he mentally reproached Violet with her coldness.

"She loves me not," he said. "Will she ever love me? Am I wasting

my affections here as I wasted them before? Well, she shall see that

I can be as cold and proud as herself."

In this frame of mind he remained seated by her side, making no

attempt to withdraw her from the reverie in which she was indulging,

and with the sullen bitterness of a lover, refusing to enter upon a

conversation which would have dissipated all his doubts, and made him

the happiest of men.

Julius and Rose having finished their collection of shells, and

having immensely enjoyed each other's society, though not a word of

love had crossed their lips, came up to the rock and found the silent

lovers not unwilling to prepare for the ride home. As they all four

walked to the spot where the servants were with the horses, Marmaduke

took Julius by the arm, and falling a few paces in the rear, said

hurriedly,--

"Julius, laugh and joke as much as you please, but if the warning

does not come too late, take care of your heart!"

"Explain, explain."

"Do not trust yourself--do not believe that you can read a woman's

heart from her behaviour--do not make the mistake I have made."

He refused to be more explicit, but Julius fancied he comprehended

his meaning. With a truly human _naïveté_, Marmaduke imagined that

as _he_ had been deceived, his friend would likewise be so; and in

perfect sincerity he counselled Julius not to believe in Rose's

manner, because Violet's manner, as he supposed, had been deceptive

to him.

To another the advice would have been idle; to Julius it was

agitating, and confirmed him in his natural backwardness to believe a

woman could fancy him: a backwardness which Rose's manner had of late

so far overcome, that he had been several times on the point of

declaring himself, and would I dare say have done so during their

ride home, had not Marmaduke's earnest warning held him back.

Violet, pensive and sad, rode home occupied with her own thoughts:

Marmaduke at her side scarcely making an observation. Rose, as gay

and fascinating as before, noticed a change in Julius, but said

nothing to him about it, as she suspected love was at the bottom.

"I have finished my third reading of Leopardi's poems," she said

presently, "and like them more and more. Their constant sadness is a

great charm to me--I suppose, because having no sorrows of my own, I

love to indulge in imaginary woes."

"Yes," he replied, "tears were given to man to purify him. So

natural is sorrow to us, that if we have it not, we invent it; the

heart would dry up and wither, if it were not watered by the blessed

fountain of pity. But Leopardi's sorrows were in excess, and became

a mental disease. Smitten as he was in body, heart, and mind, by

disease, slighted love, and scepticism, no wonder that his poems are

melancholy."

"Was he then slighted in love?"

"He loved--loved twice--but each time the offering of his heart was

rejected. What else could the poor hunchbacked, crippled poet,

expect?"

"If he was a cripple, was he not a great poet? If his back was

ill-shaped, was not his mind noble?"

"His _mind_!" replied Julius, with a tinge of bitterness.

"Yes," she said, "his mind: could not a woman appreciate that?"

"Women can appreciate a mind, but they cannot love it. Love springs

from sympathy, not from intelligence: its seat is in the heart, not

in the reason. A woman might therefore have admired Leopardi; but

she could not love the cripple."

"Yet, did not Mademoiselle d'Aubigny marry the cripple Scarron?"

"To become Madame de Maintenon," replied Julius.

"I would cite a dozen other instances. Do you know, Mr. St. John,

you are very ungallant in your opinion of our sex--which sex you can

know very little about, to judge from your exaggerated notion of our

regard for beauty. We like to keep the beauty to ourselves. As for

me, I would as soon marry a hunchback as a guardsman, as far as the

mere beauty is concerned."

A strange joy filled his heart as she said this, and he was about to

declare himself, when Meredith Vyner called to him to ride forward

and admire a little valley which lay to their left. Rose fell back

and joined her sister. The rest of the ride was performed in threes,

instead of in couples. As they reached home, Vyner made his

favourite quotation:--

Heu! heu! quantus equis, quantus adest viris

Sudor!

And conducted Mrs. St. John into the drawing-room. Marmaduke,

Violet, and Rose, followed them. Julius went into the study to write

a note.

CHAPTER VII.

BOLD STROKE FOR A LOVER.

Ah, cruel! tu m'as trop entendue!

Je t'en ai dit assez pour te tirer d'erreur.

Eh bien! connois donc Phèdre en toute sa fureur

Je t'aime!

RACINE.--_Phèdre._

"Do you never sing, Mrs. Vyner?" asked Mrs. St. John, as she saw her

beating time with her head (and curious time it was!) to Violet's

singing.

"No; I have so little voice."

"That surprises me; I should have thought you must sing well, your

speaking voice is so soft."

Mrs. Meredith Vyner smiled her acknowledgments, and redoubled the

energy of her impossible time-beating. Marmaduke, charmed by the

magic of Violet's singing, was gradually overcoming his anger, and

was slowly admitting to himself what a divine creature she was.

She ceased, and Marmaduke prayed so earnestly for her to continue,

that she again sat down, and while her rich contralto notes were

making every chord in his heart vibrate, he suddenly encountered the

savage gaze of his former "tiger-eyed" mistress. She rapidly closed

and then opened her eyes, with that manner peculiar to her, and which

I have mentioned before, and a smile dethroned the look of hate which

the previous instant had usurped her face; but he marked the change,

and smiled scornfully.

"What a beautiful voice she has!" said Mrs. St. John.

"Yes," replied Mrs. Vyner; "but we prefer Blanche's singing--she has

so much _feeling_. Violet, you know, has more of the professional

mechanism; but Blanche has a soul in her singing."

As Blanche was a rival out of the way, it was safe to cry up her

attraction, especially at the expense of one of the other girls.

Violet was perfectly aware of what her mother meant, but she was not

the less nettled. As she was about to commence another song, Mrs.

Vyner said,

"There, my dear, that will do; you have displayed your

accomplishments quite enough, and it is unnecessary for Mr. Ashley to

listen to any more songs sung out of tune, however curious the

ornaments may be."

Mrs. Vyner must have been very irritated, to have made a remark so

plainly and directly disparaging and unkind!

"Did you notice that I sang out of tune, Mr. Ashley?" Violet quietly

asked.

"Not at all. In fact, as far as I may be allowed an opinion, I

should say your intonation is remarkably perfect."

"Well, I am glad you are not so severe a critic as mama," replied

Violet, with a calmness which was horribly exasperating, "because, as

she cannot distinguish one tune from another, her ears are so

delicate that it is difficult to keep in tune to them."

This sarcasm, in answer to the petty spiteful remark which called it

forth, produced an uncomfortable silence, which Violet broke by

beginning Paisiello's magnificent _Ho perduto il bel sembiante_,

which she sang with triumphant energy and steadiness, showing how

little the ignoble squabble had disturbed her.

Mrs. Meredith Vyner was pale with hate, but the twilight covered her

paleness. In her rage at Violet's haughty sarcasm, and jealousy at

seeing Marmaduke so enraptured with her, she resolved upon a

diabolical resolve: she would regain Marmaduke's love, and break

Violet's heart!

Meanwhile Julius was in the study writing this epistle:--

"Dearest Rose, I can no longer restrain myself, I can no longer

hesitate and live in doubt. I love you. You must know it; and what

you said not an hour ago makes me bold. Do you remember your words,

'As for me, I would as soon marry a hunchback as a guardsman, so far

as beauty is concerned.' They were sincerely spoken, were they not?

At any rate 'upon that hint I speak,' and conscious of my own

unattractiveness dare to hope my ugliness will not be a barrier to

your affection. Do not ridicule my presumption, I entreat; look on

it as an unhappy passion, which your own confession has urged me to

declare. Even now I dare not tell you to your face I love you;

partly because I still fear the avowal might distress you, and partly

because the courage I shall need to bear with a refusal, would desert

me.

"Examine your own heart calmly, and if it tells you that you could be

happy with me--if it tells you that the devotion of my life would

make up for all the superior attractions, mental and physical, in

which I am deficient--then, as you come down to dinner to-day, bring

in your hand the volume of Leopardi, and place it on the table. By

that token, which can have no significance to others, I shall learn

that I am not scorned. If your heart does not speak in my favour,

the mere omission of this will tell me too plainly, but in the least

cruel manner, that I have made a sad mistake."

This was folded up into a tiny note, and with it Julius marched into

the drawing-room to seek some means of delivering it. He found Rose

playing with Shot, and stooping down to join her in that play, he

easily contrived to slip it into her hand, just as the lamp was

brought in. She blushed deeply, and her little bosom panted with

hurrying feelings; but making an effort she ran out of the room,

declaring it was time to dress for dinner.

She read the letter with intense eagerness, and finished it twice

before she could make out distinctly anything beyond the delightful

fact that Julius had at last declared himself. On calming her

agitation a little, and deliberately reading the letter once more,

she felt a certain impatience at that passage which attributed the

declaration to what she had said during their ride. For the first

time, it then struck her that she had given him too broad a hint.

Aware of his backwardness, and of his exaggerated notion of woman's

desire for beauty, she was anxious to undeceive him on that point,

and now saw that she had, perhaps, overstepped the bounds of maidenly

reserve.

Now Rose, though a darling little girl, was not without her

imperfections; and wilfulness was among them. She would do and say

strange things, because she chose to do and say them; but you were

not to draw any absolute conclusions from them, you were not to hold

her to her words unless she also chose to be held to them; she called

that taking an advantage of her. In the present case she was very

anxious to tell Julius that she loved him; she had gone so far as to

tell him that his want of beauty would be no disqualification; yet

when he availed himself of her words, and "spake upon that hint," she

rebelled, and was impatient at such an advantage being taken of her

"unguarded language."

Meanwhile, the dressing-bell had rung, and no one was in the

drawing-room except Marmaduke and Mrs. Meredith Vyner, who were in

the midst of a somewhat bitter and mutually reproachful conversation

respecting the honesty and constancy of the two sexes.

"Men are so brutal," she said; "they always demand undying constancy

from us--"

"And never get it----"

"And even when perhaps jealousy, anger, or despair have driven us

into seeking elsewhere for relief from our outraged affections, they

sneer and talk of our frivolity and incapacity for an enduring

passion."

"Well, well, it is easy to talk of jealousy driving a woman to

extremity, but there must be shown some cause for that jealousy.

Mere _absence_, mere inferiority in position, is sometimes enough to

suggest ample cause for jealousy. An absent lover thinks incessantly

of his mistress; a rich old lover makes his appearance; whereupon the

engaged lady suddenly becomes jealous of her absent swain, and,

_driven to desperation_, marries the rich old lover!"

Nothing could better please Mrs. Vyner than the turn taken by the

conversation, which, in its generality of expression and covert

significance, best answered her purpose of justification, without

seeming to justify herself.

"I agree with you. There must be ampler cause shown. But if the

absent lover suddenly ceases to write, and reports arise that he is

very assiduous in his attentions elsewhere, if to this silence,

confirmed by these reports--if to the jealous rage, which those who

love ardently must feel when they are betrayed, be added the

temptation of vengeance in the shape of a brilliant match, then, I

think, we should not blame a woman's inconstancy, so much as we

should pity her fate. Were she to marry a young and handsome man,

she might be supposed to love him; but if, as in the case supposed by

you, the new lover be old, then it is a proof that whatever wild

motives may have prompted her wild act, inconstancy in her affections

had nothing to do with it."

Marmaduke was a good deal shaken by this artful speech, but he rather

felt than saw its falsehood. A shrug of the shoulders, and a slight

incredulous laugh was all the answer he vouchsafed.

"There is this further difference," she pursued, "between the sexes.

When a man has quarrelled with a woman--when he has deserted her or

been deserted by her, he tramples down in his heart all former love,

and replaces adoration with hate, or, at the least, with

indifference."

"Very right too."

"Yes, you men think so. But how differently a woman feels! Under

the same circumstances, whatever may have been prompted by her rage

or her despair, the act upon which she had resolved once performed,

her love returns with all its former force--returns and lives in her

heart throughout the rest of her life. This is what I mean by our

superiority in constancy. When once we love, it is for ever. No

neglect, no ill-usage, no inconstancy can kill it. Weak and wayward,

reckless and passionate as we are, we rush into wretched extremes, we

do rash things when blinded by our tears, but do what we will, we

cannot stifle the love that is in our hearts."

The little creature had risen and thrown back her golden locks with

the graceful fury of a Pythoness, her eyes sparkled with an unwonted

light, her nostrils were dilated, her whole frame seemed animated

with passion, as she declaimed, rather than spoke, that vindication

of herself in her sex.

I have said before that she had the nature of an actress. The

present scene, therefore, was not only adapted to her histrionic

display, but gave her such keen delight, that she could have pursued

it for a long while, quite independent of any ulterior purpose, had

not Marmaduke suddenly arrested her eloquence, by asking in a tone of

subdued irony,--

"And am I expected to believe all this?"

She paused to fix a passionate look at him. Then, slowly drawing

from her bosom a small locket, held it up to him, and said

scornfully,--

"Do you recognise _this_?"

Before he had recovered from his astonishment, she had left the room.

"Good God!" he exclaimed. "It is my hair!"

_It was her father's._

CHAPTER VIII.

WOMAN'S CAPRICE.

Quelque raison qu'on trouve à l'amour qui nous dompte,

On trouve à 1'avouer toujours un peu de honte.

On s'en defend d'abord; mais de l'air qu'on s'y prend

On fait connoitre assez que notre cœur se rend.

MOLIERE.--_Tartuffe._

We left Rose pondering over her lover's letter, and her own

uneasiness at having by her hints called forth a delightful

declaration. We return to her after the lapse of half an hour, and

find her in the same state. At length the dinner-bell rings.

The volume of Leopardi lies on the table: will she take it down with

her?

There is a fact in human nature which will be familiar to many, but

which I am unable to explain, and that is the occasional impulse

which forces us to act diametrically opposite to our wishes. It is a

sudden spasm of wilfulness, wholly irrational, but wholly

irresistible. I know that, in my own case, I have refused

advantageous offers--declined invitations to pleasant

excursions--entirely in obedience to this impulse of

wilfulness--which I have regretted the instant afterwards, when

either circumstances or my pride made the regret unavailing. No

reason, no gratification of any vanity, indolence, or temper has been

at the bottom of this. The impulse has been purely wilful and

irrational--motiveless, were not the motive enveloped in the very

impulse.

I call attention to this fact, as a fact, because it helps me to

explain Rose's sudden resolution not to take down the volume of

Leopardi. Perhaps, in her case, there may have been some

acknowledged influence derived from her annoyance at that passage in

Julius's letter, which threw the onus of the situation upon her.

Perhaps she might have been secretly anxious to show him that she was

not so ready to throw herself into his arms as he might suppose. I

know not how it may be; all I know is, that with a sudden effort she

walked down stairs, came into the drawing-room, saw the death-like

paleness of her miserable lover, whose hopes had been thus scattered

by a blow, seated herself upon a _vis-à-vis_, and joined in the

conversation as if nothing had occurred.

It is easy to say that Julius was prepared for this, that his own

diffidence had perpetually taught him to expect it; he had thought

so, too, and yet he was not prepared. We sophisticate with ourselves

quite as much as with others. We say we are prepared for an event

which, if it occurs, takes us with the suddenness of a blow to a

blind man. And Julius, when he saw Rose enter without the token,

felt as if a grave had suddenly yawned at his feet. "Marmaduke was

right!" he said, and instantly turned over the leaves of the "Book of

Beauty," which was on the table.

Marmaduke, whom we left bewildered at the discovery of Mrs. Meredith

Vyner's long-cherished affection, had not yet recovered from the

agitation into which it had thrown him. The announcement that Mrs.

Vyner was too unwell to descend to dinner--having been seized with

one of her singular hysterical fits--added to the tumult of his

thoughts; for he readily divined the cause of that fit, and her wish

also not again to meet him that evening.

It is needless to say, how gratified he was. In his own eyes he had

been rehabilitated. From the position of a jilted lover, he was

raised to that of one loved, "not wisely, but too well;" and the keen

delight it gave to his self-love was something quite indescribable.

From a sort of instinctive feeling of delicacy, he kept away from

Violet's side. Rose occupied him entirely.

Julius was, therefore, enabled to hand Violet to dinner without any

embarrassment. He was cold, grave, and dignified; speaking little,

but that little without bitterness, without covert allusions. You

only noticed that he was grave--not that he was hurt.

Rose was somewhat piqued. She knew that she had done wrong, was

sorry that she had done it, but yet could not without impatience see

the dignified reproof which there was in Julius's manner. Willing

enough to repair by a word the error she had committed, she expected,

indeed required, that he at least should show sufficient concern to

induce her to repair it.

This is not very amiable, perhaps, but it is human nature. In a

moment of capriciousness, she had rejected his proffered love; not

that she meant to reject it, but simply because she chose to indulge

her wilfulness. She intended to release him from despair, as soon as

her rejection had produced it; she had never thought of his leaving

the house that evening, without a full assurance of her love. But

now all her plans were overthrown. He exhibited no despair. His

cold, grave manner was more like a stern reproof of her

capriciousness, than the despair of a lover. Her rejection had been

accepted; and she was angry with him for taking her at a word.

Violet was puzzled at the little attention Marmaduke paid her, and

more puzzled at his eyes never meeting hers as they were wont, to

mingle their lustre with each other; and observing also the change in

Julius, she began to speculate on the probable cause. Was Marmaduke

suddenly smitten with Rose, and was Julius jealous of him?

It was a solemn, tedious dinner. Fortunately, Meredith Vyner had

begun upon the inexhaustible subject of English etymologies, and

talked enough not to observe the silence of the others. When the

ladies withdrew, he entered into a discussion with Marmaduke, on the

comparative merits of ancient and modern poetry, while Julius

carefully cut some apple peel into minute slips.

They remained much longer than usual over their wine; and when they

returned to the drawing-room, Julius missed the sweet glad smile of

welcome with which Rose greeted him, by studiously looking another

way.

The change of feeling in a loving heart is very rapid from anger to

sorrow, and Rose had long since lost all sense of pique, for one of

sorrowful alarm. During the time the gentlemen had remained over

their wine, she had reflected on the whole affair, and penitently

avowed her folly. Her only course was to undo what she had done; and

the smile with which she greeted him was meant as the first

intimation of her changed opinion.

But Julius neither saw that smile, nor afforded her the slightest

opportunity of speaking to him; and--strange contradiction in human

impulses!--the more he wrapped himself in his reserve, the more

abject was her humility in endeavouring to draw him out of it.

At length she fled to her own room, resolved to bring down the

Leopardi, and hand it to him, saying,--

"There is the book you ought to have had before dinner."

But when she reached her room, she was forced to vent her pent-up

feelings in a flood of tears--and bitter-sweet those tears were:

bitter in remembrance of the past, sweet in anticipation of the

future. Having calmed herself by "a good cry," she had then to wash

her face and eyes, to remove all traces of her grief. This took some

little time.

When perfectly satisfied with her appearance, she took up the volume,

kissed it fervently, and tripped down stairs. She found Violet alone

leaning her magnificent arm upon the table in an attitude of profound

meditation.

"Where... where are .... they?" Rose faltered out.

"The St. Johns? Gone this quarter of an hour."

"Gone!" exclaimed Rose in an agonized voice, and sank into a chair,

with a terrible presentiment of some tragic results from her absurd

caprice.

CHAPTER IX.

CONSEQUENCES.

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean--

Tears from the depth of some divine despair

Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,

In looking on the happy autumn fields,

And thinking of the days that are no more.

TENNYSON.--_The Princess._

A restless, agitated night was it for the four lovers. Julius sat up

packing. He had informed his mother of his rejection; and she,

doating as she did on her son, was highly indignant at Rose's

"unfeeling coquetry, which she never could have believed her guilty

of." Espousing his cause with a vehemence which somewhat hurt him,

she readily agreed to his proposal of their both leaving the Grange

forthwith, and spending the winter in Italy.

Marmaduke also packed up that night. He had quarrelled with Julius,

and was determined to quit the Grange early in the morning. The

subject of their quarrel had been the two girls, whom Marmaduke

accused of being heartless coquettes, which Julius angrily denied.

High words passed; for both were in a state of extraordinary

agitation, from the events of the night.

Having completed his arrangements, he threw himself upon his bed, but

not to sleep. Strange visions came to him--phantasmagoria, in which

the image of the imperial Violet was ever and anon floating before

the passionate figure of the sylph-like Mrs. Vyner, as she last

appeared to him, proclaiming woman's undying love. Gradually his

thoughts settled more and more upon the latter. He began to consider

the various parts of her story, and to compare it with the facts.

Then a new light broke in upon him. It is one of the effects of

oratory, that your ears are charmed, your mind borne away along the

stream of eloquence or argument, without having time to pause and

examine; but subsequent reflection often suffices to break the spell,

and the enthusiastic applauder votes against the very sentiments he

has applauded. So Marmaduke had been carried away by the skilfully

constructed tale which Mrs. Vyner had improvised; and the

plausibility of the non-receipt of letters, and reports of his

attentions to another, had been so great as really to have made him

doubt the justness of his old convictions. But, on reflection, that

plausibility vanished. He remembered that his letters had been

received and acknowledged until within a very short time of the

announcement of her marriage. He also remembered that he had been so

occupied with affairs as to have had no time even for ordinary

society in Brazil; so that no innocent flirtation with any girl there

could at that time, by any possibility, have given rise to the

reports by which she pretended to have been made jealous.

It was evident, therefore, that she was deceiving him again. For

some purpose or other, she was playing with him.

"I will get to the bottom of this mystery," he said. "One of two

things it must be: either she really loves me, in spite of all--and,

in that case, I will profit by it,--or else she is again coquetting

with me for some purpose, or out of mere love of coquetry; and, in

that case, I will avenge the past. She is as cunning as the devil!

To dupe her, I must feign the dupe."

He turned upon his pillow with a chuckle of triumph.

Mrs. Meredith Vyner slept soundly that night. A smile was on her

lips as she sank asleep--a smile of gratulation at the success of her

experiment on Marmaduke. She was sure that he was in her power.

Rose could only stay her grief by the recollection that to-morrow

would explain away all that was now doubt and misgiving. She

intended to call early at the Grange, and frankly tell Julius that

she loved him. Nevertheless, in spite of this resolution, a dark

presentiment overshadowed her soul, and drove away the thoughts of

happiness. She wept abundantly; sometimes at her own folly,

sometimes in anger at Julius, for having so brutally taken her at her

word, as if a woman's negative was ever to be taken, when looks and

words had so often affirmed what was then denied. He ought to have

known she was only teazing him; that it was only a spurt of caprice.

He must have known it. But he did not choose to see it. He wanted

to make her unhappy! A fresh flood of tears closed this tirade. And

so on, throughout the long and weary night.

Violet having heard from Rose the real state of the case, was

relieved from jealousy only to be plunged into fresh doubt. What

could be the meaning of Marmaduke's conduct? They had not

quarrelled. She had said nothing to offend him; nor did he seem

offended; and yet....

For the first time, Violet now became distinctly conscious that she

loved Marmaduke. His fearlessness, manliness, and frankness had

early captivated her,--to say nothing of his handsome person.

Increased intimacy had shown her, as she thought, a heart and mind

every way worthy of her love. But a certain mistrust--perhaps a

recollection of her inclination towards Cecil, perhaps a vague sense

of imperfect sympathy with Marmaduke--had kept her more reserved than

was her wont; and this reserve was attributed to haughtiness. The

chance of losing him, however, awakened her to a conviction of what

the loss would be.

Day dawned; and with the dawn Julius set out for London. Marmaduke

followed, at about nine o'clock. At eleven, Rose and Violet called

in the carriage at the Grange.

"Mrs. St. John is gone to Walton," said the butler.

"Is Mr. Julius at home?"

"Mr. Julius is gone to London."

"To London?"

"Yes, miss; he went early this morning."

Rose sank back in the carriage, too overcome to weep.

"Is Mr. Ashley within?" asked Violet.

"He's also gone to London, miss."

It was evident that they were both deserted by their lovers. They

drove back in horrible silence.

After luncheon, they again called at the Grange--Mrs. St. John had

gone out for the day. The next day they called--Mrs. St. John had

gone to London.

It would be painful to dwell on the sufferings of these two girls.

Wounded pride, wounded love, baffled hope, and wearing doubt were the

vultures consuming their hearts.

The next morning's post relieved some of Violet's fears, by bringing

her father a letter from Marmaduke, apologizing for not having called

to take leave of a family from whom he had received so much kindness,

and with whom he had spent such happy hours; but being forced, by his

quarrel with Julius, to quit the house at the very earliest, he

trusted the omission of a farewell visit would be excused; the more

so, as the Vyners were themselves very shortly to come to London,

when he hoped to do himself the pleasure of paying them his respects

in person, and in person to thank them for their hospitable kindness.

This proved that he at least had not departed in anger. Mrs. Vyner

secretly rejoiced at the event, attributing his flight to a sudden

resolution to quit her dangerous presence, and attributing the letter

to an uncontrollable desire to be with her again.

To Rose this brought no consolation. She had none, except that she

must see or meet Mrs. St. John in London, and that she could then

explain to her the whole affair.

How eagerly these three women longed to be in London, and with what

feverish impatience they set out, when the day at length arrived.

BOOK IV.

CHAPTER I.

THE BOARDING-HOUSE.

_Mathew_. Now trust me you have an exceeding fine lodging here, very

neat and private.

_Boladil_. Ay, sir: sit down, I pray you. Master Mathew, in any

case possess no gentlemen of our acquaintance with notice of my

lodging. Not that I need to care who know it, for the cabin is

convenient; but in regard I would not be too popular and generally

visited as some are.

BEN JONSON.--_Every Man in his Humour._

Returned from their honeymoon, Blanche and Cecil began to look about

them, and examine the state of their prospects. Her father had

refused, as we have seen, to countenance the match; so that from him

neither patronage nor money could be expected. Cecil called upon

several of his influential friends, to see if any "gentlemanly

situation" was open to his acceptance. I need not say how fruitless

were those applications.

Yet "something must be done," he constantly observed. A wife was a

responsibility which made him serious; and despairing of--for the

present at least--obtaining any consul-ship or government office

suitable to his pretensions, he determined to make a name in

literature or art. That name would either be the means of enriching

him, as an admiring public enriches a favourite, or else would give

him a greater "claim" on patrons.

Cecil was vain and ambitious, and from his boyhood upwards had been

desirous of creating for himself a reputation equal if not surpassing

those whose names he heard sounded in every society. But, although

he was very clever and unusually accomplished, he had as yet taken no

serious steps towards that lofty object. He wanted that energetic

will which must nerve every man who attempts to do great things; "to

scorn delights and live laborious days." He was unequal to the

perpetually-renewing sacrifice which lies at the bottom of all great

achievements in art, literature, or science; the sacrifice, not of

one temptation, not of one advantage, but of constant temptations.

The artist is as one who, spending day after day in a luxuriant

garden, must resist the temptation of culling the flowers that grow

to his hand, of fruits that glisten before his eyes, and subduing the

natural desire of man for instant fruition, consent to pass by these

temptations, and, with spade and hoe, proceed to that work which,

after much stedfast labour, much watchful care, will in due season

produce fruits and flowers equal to those around him. The delight of

seeing his labour crowned with such results; of watching the nursling

of his care thus growing up into matchless beauty, is a delight more

rapturous than the enjoyment of all the other fruit could have given

him. But, nevertheless, that delight is purchased by a sacrifice of

present small enjoyments for future pleasures of a higher kind; and

the sacrifice of the present to the future is that which ordinary men

are perhaps least able to accomplish.

Cecil wanted the animal energy and resolution necessary for empire

over himself. Much as he wished for reputation, he could not nerve

himself to the labour of creating it. He was conscious of a certain

power, and flattered himself that he could at any time succeed,

whenever he chose to make an effort. But he could not make the

effort. Parties of pleasure could not be refused; pleasant books

could not be left unread; concerts and musical societies could not be

declined. In short, one way and another, he "never found time" to

devote himself to any work. There were so many "calls upon his

time;" he had so many engagements; his days were so broken in upon.

Thus had he gone on idling and dreaming; coveting reputation, but

shrinking from the means; dissipating his talent in album sketches,

fancy portraits, album verses, and drawing-room ballads. His

sketches were greatly admired; his verses were in request; his music

was sung; and everybody said, "How amazingly clever he is! What he

might do, if he chose!"

But now poverty came as a stimulus to exertion. It was now a matter

of necessity that he should work; and with cheerful confidence he

sketched out the plan of his career.

His first step was to advertise in the _Times_ for board and lodging

on moderate terms, as their income was too small for an establishment

of their own; and Blanche had never been initiated into the mysteries

of housekeeping. To judge from the number of answers he received,

one would imagine that a certain class of the English people were

bitten with a singular mania--that of taking houses "too large for

them," and the consequent desire "to part with the upper portion" to

a genteel married couple, or a quiet bachelor. Why will people thus

shirk the truth? Why not say at once that they are poor, and want

their rent and taxes paid?

Well, among these answers there was one which particularly struck

Cecil. It was from a widow living at Notting Hill. Omnibuses

passing the door every ten minutes; the quiet, unpretending comforts

of a home; strictest attention to the respectability of the inmates,

and sixty pounds a year for a married couple's board and lodging,

were the inestimable advantages offered to the advertiser. The

situation and the terms so well suited Cecil's present position, that

he determined to look at the place.

The boarding-houses of London are of every possible description; from

splendour to pinching, almost squalid poverty. That kept by Mrs.

Tring was a type of its class, and merits a fuller description than I

shall be able to give of it. The first aspect of it produced a chill

upon Cecil. He had taken Blanche with him; and on arriving they were

shown into the front parlour, with the information that Mrs. Tring

would be "down directly."

It must be a beautiful room, indeed, which can be agreeable in such

moments. I know few things more unsatisfactory than that of waiting

for a stranger in a strange house. But the cold, cheerless, rigid,

poverty-stricken appearance of Mrs. Tring's parlour, would at all

times have made Cecil uncomfortable: how much more so now that he was

contemplating living there! The drab who officiated as maid, with

flaunting cap-ribands, slip-shod feet, and fiery hands,--a synthesis

of rags and dirt,--came in to light the fire; a proceeding which only

made the room colder and more uncomfortable than before, besides the

addition of smoke.

The parlour had a desolate appearance. All the chairs were ranged in

order against the wainscot, as if no one had sat in them for months.

Not a book, not a bit of needlework, not even a cat betrayed

habitation. The settled gloom seemed to have driven away all

animated beings from its prosaic solitude. The furniture was old,

dingy, scrupulously clean, invalided, melancholy; it did not seem as

if it had been worn to its present dinginess, but as if it had

darkened under years of silence and neglect.

The Kidderminster carpet was of a plain, dark pattern, selected for

its non-betrayal of stains and dirt; it was faded indeed, but in

nowise worn. The hearth rug was rolled up before the fender. In the

centre of the room was a square table, covered with a dark-green

cloth, on which some ancient ink spots told of days when it had been

used. Six black horse-hair chairs with mahogany backs, and one

footstool retiring into a corner--a portrait of a gentleman, executed

in a style of stern art, dark red curtains, and two large shells upon

the mantelpiece, complete the inventory of this parlour, which in

Mrs. Tring's establishment was set apart for the reception of

visitors, and those who came to treat with her for board and lodging.

The want of comfort of this room did not arise from its appearance of

poverty so much as from its cold pinched look. It was a poverty

which had no poetry in it--nothing picturesque, nor careless and

hearty. Between it and the parlour of poor people in general, there

was just the difference between a woman dressed in a silk dress which

has been dyed, then has faded, and is now worn with a bonnet which

was once new, and a woman dressed in plain, common, but fresh

wholesome-looking gingham, which she wears with as much ease as if it

were of the costliest material. It had the musty smell of an

uninhabited room, and the melancholy aspect of a room that was

uninhabitable. A sordid meanness was plainly marked upon it,

together with an attempt at "appearances," which showed that it was

as ostentatious as the means allowed. It was genteel and desolate.

Cecil looked at Blanche to see what impression it had made upon her;

but the mild eyes of his beloved seemed to have noticed nothing but

his presence, which was sufficient for her happiness. It suddenly

occurred to him, that the more wretched the appearance of his home,

the more likely would Vyner be to relent when he heard of it; and

this thought dissipated his objections to the place.

Mrs. Tring shortly entered, with very evident marks of having just

attired herself to receive them. Her presence was necessary to

complete the picture; or rather, the room formed a fitting frame for

the portrait of the mistress.

Mrs. Tring was the widow of a curate, who, astounding and paradoxical

as the fact may appear, had not left her with an indefinite number of

destitute children. No: for the benefit of the Statistical Society

the fact shall be recorded. Mrs. Tring, though a curate's wife, had

never borne a child; she had been left penniless but childless. When

I say penniless, I use, of course, merely a well-sounding word. The

literal truth is, that although he left her no money, he had left her

the means of earning a subsistence, by opening her house as one in

which single ladies, single gentlemen, and married people could be

lodged and boarded at a very moderate sum. The furniture was her

own. Her boarders paid her rent, taxes, dress, and little expenses;

and thus Mrs. Tring contrived to live, but not without a hard

struggle! It was barely a subsistence, and even that was precarious.

Her personal appearance was not pleasantly prepossessing. She was

horribly thin: with a yellow withered face, which seemed to have been

sharpened by constant struggles to gain farthings, and constant

sorrows at disbursing pence. She wore a black net cap, and a black

silk dress, white at the seams from age, the shape of which had

outlived a thousand fashions, and taxed the most retentive memory to

specify when it had been the mode. It was a low dress, and a piece

of net fastened by a large brooch served to conceal her yellow

shoulders.

In manner she was stiff, uneasy, and yet servile. She spoke with a

sort of retention of her breath, and an intensity of mildness, as if

she feared, that unless a strong restraint were exercised, she should

burst forth into vehemence; she agreed, unreservedly, to everything

said, as if, had she ventured to contradict a word, it would have

infallibly betrayed her temper.

To her visitors she displayed all her amiability, and acceded to

every proposition with such good-humoured alacrity, that terms were

soon agreed upon. For the sum of sixty pounds per annum, payable

monthly in advance, they were to have the back bed-room on the second

floor, unfurnished, and their meals with the family: these meals to

consist of a breakfast at nine, luncheon at one, dinner at five, and

tea at eight.

"We live plainly," said Mrs. Tring, "but wholesomely; luxuries are,

of course, out of the question, yet my inmates have always been

satisfied."

"As I have not the slightest doubt we shall be," replied Cecil; "I

like simple food. What other inmates are there, pray?"

"The front bed-room on the second floor is occupied by an old

gentleman who was in a government office, and is now living on his

pension: a charming person, though a little deaf. The room next to

his belongs to an Irish widow, a Mrs. Merryweather--I don't know

whether you are acquainted with her, sir?"

Cecil smilingly replied, that he had not that honour.

"I thought you might, sir; she has seen a great deal of society, and

is a very lively lady. In the room above hers, we have a Miss

Bachelor, a maiden lady--very gifted, sir. She teaches music in some

of the best families. The third back is let to a Mr. Roberts, a

young gentleman in the city, who only breakfasts with us."

Cecil bowed on receiving this information, which promised him that

the fellow-boarders would, at least, afford some amusement to make up

for the dreariness of the house. He announced his intention of

taking up his abode there on the morrow. Accordingly, having moved

what furniture he possessed, with some necessary additions, into the

room he was now to call his own, and having hired in town a

painting-room, which he fitted up for writing as well as painting,

and moved his piano into it, he took his young bride to Mrs. Tring's

house, and there they installed themselves, with some merriment at

the shifts to which the want of space forced them.

It was late in the evening when they took possession, and they

preferred not presenting themselves to their fellow boarders until

the morning.

"This is a sorry home to bring you to, dearest," he said, as the

servant, having lighted his candles and asked if he had any orders to

give, left the room.

Blanche twined her arms round his neck, and said tenderly to him:

"Can that be a sorry home where love resides?"

"No, Blanche, no," he replied, kissing her forehead, "I was wrong.

Love creates its own palaces; and we shall be as happy here, as if we

had a splendid seat. We are starting anew in the world--it is well

to start from low ground, because the smallest ascent has then its

proper value. Here will I build myself a name that shall make you an

envied wife."

"I am already enviable--ought I to wish for more?"

What a delightful evening they spent, arranging their property in the

most convenient places, and then sitting over the fire discussing

future plans radiant in the far-off sunshine of Hope. That little

room--what a world it was! In the corner stood their bed,--in the

centre a round table,--in another corner a small bookcase--by the

window a toilet table. Nothing could be more cozy, they said.

O, 'tis a paradise the heaven of earth;

Didst thou but know the comfort of two hearts

In one delicious harmony united,

As to joy one joy, and think both one thought,

Live both one life, and therein double life;

To see their souls meet at an interview

In their bright eyes, at parley in their lips,

Their language kisses.*

* Chapman.--_All Fools._