PAGE
JILL INTRODUCES HERSELF . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
CHAPTER II.
FOREIGN TRAVEL. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
CHAPTER III.
A WIDOW'S MANŒUVRES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29
CHAPTER IV.
A TIGHT CURB. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38
CHAPTER V.
BREAKING LOOSE. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54
CHAPTER VI.
A PHOTOGRAPH. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71
CHAPTER VII.
A FEW LONDON PRICES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86
CHAPTER VIII.
A STREET INCIDENT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104
CHAPTER IX.
A NERVOUS LADY. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113
CHAPTER X.
CHANGE OF SITUATION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129
CHAPTER XI.
AN UNWELCOME ADMIRER. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147
CHAPTER XII.
THE PHOTOGRAPH AGAIN. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 166
CHAPTER XIII.
LORD CLEMENT. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 178
CHAPTER XIV.
AT AJACCIO. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 194
CHAPTER XV.
A DRIVING EXPEDITION THROUGH CORSICA. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 205
CHAPTER XVI.
ESCAPED PENITENCIERS. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 221
CHAPTER I.
JILL INTRODUCES HERSELF.
I have heard people say that men are more apt to be of an adventurous
disposition than women, but that is an opinion from which I differ. I
suppose it has arisen because timidity and sensitiveness are hostile
to the spirit of enterprise, checking its growth and development,
and not unfrequently proving altogether fatal to it; and as these
qualities are especially characteristic of the weaker sex, it follows
naturally that noted female adventurers are less common than male
ones. But that seems only to show that an unfavourable soil has
caused the plant to become blighted or smothered, and is no conclusive
proof that the seed was never sown. It is my belief that the aforesaid
spirit is distributed by nature impartially throughout the human race,
and that she implants it as freely in the breast of the female as in
that of the male. Once let it be implanted, and let it have fair
play, untrammelled by nervous, hesitating, shrinking, home-clinging
tendencies, and it will infallibly lead its possessor to some bold
departure from the everyday routine of existence that satisfies
mortals of a more hum-drum temperament. A craving for continual
change and excitement is a thing that is sure to assert itself
vigorously and insist on being gratified, provided its possessor
has also plenty of health and courage, and is unrestrained by the
fetters formed from strong domestic attachments or other affection.
Of people thus positively and negatively endowed it may be confidently
predicted--whether their gender be masculine or feminine--that
adventures will bestrew their road plentifully, meeting them at every
turn, and seeming to seek them out and be attracted to them even as
flies unto honey. I am myself an instance of this, as I can see
plainly enough in reviewing my past career. At an earlier period I
was less clear-sighted, and failed to perceive the restless spirit
that had taken possession of me and become the constraining power
of my life; but the lapse of a few years is a wonderful aid to
discerning the true motives of former actions, and reminds me in this
way of the dark blue spectacles which the man in charge of a smelting
furnace puts on when he wants to see what is going on in his furnace.
Without them he can distinguish nothing in the fiery interior; but
the spectacles have the effect of softening the fierce, blinding
glare, rendering visible what was before invisible, and enabling him
to watch the progress of the red-hot seething masses of ore and metal
undergoing fusion and transmutation under his care. And in like manner
does intervening time clear the vision towards events, so that it
is possible to estimate them far more justly some while after they
have taken place, than it was at the moment of their occurrence. A
retrospect, therefore, gives me a more correct notion of myself than
I had before. I see how often, when I imagined myself to be solely
impelled by some purely external circumstance, I was, in reality,
also obeying the dictates of a longing for adventure and impatience
of sameness, which have always had a very strong influence in
determining my conduct. I detect how love of variety manifested
itself as the principal cause of my actions, and made my course
deviate widely from that of other ladies in my rank of life, and
furnishes a reasonable explanation for behaviour which would else
seem unaccountable. To a person of this disposition, monotony,
dullness, and boredom in every shape are of course absolutely
intolerable; consequently I do not believe that any position
involving these drawbacks will ever content me for long, even
though it may, in other respects, afford every advantage that the
heart of man (or woman) can desire. And having supplied the reader
with this much clue to a comprehension of the character of the
individual whose story lies before him, I leave all further judgment
upon me to be pronounced according to what is found in the pages of
this veracious history, wherein I purpose faithfully to depict
myself exactly as I appear in my own eyes, and as my life shows
me to be.
A person's identity is materially affected (as regards both himself
and others) by that of the immediate ancestors without whom he or
she would not have existed at all; so the first step towards my
self-introduction must obviously be to state my parentage.
My father, Sir Anthony Trecastle, a gentleman of small fortune
serving in the Life Guards, was employed in London discharging the
not very onerous duties expected from an officer of Heavies in time
of peace, when he became acquainted and enamoured with a daughter of
Lord Gilbert's. Sir Anthony's means were not sufficiently large for
him to be reckoned anything of a matrimonial catch in that set of
society to which both he and the young lady he admired belonged. He
had enough to live upon, however, besides being a tenth baronet,
rather good-looking, and the representative of a family whose name
was to be found in the Domesday Book; therefore her relations and
friends considered him to be a respectable though not brilliant
match, made no attempt to interfere either for or against his suit,
and left her perfectly free to please herself as to the answer it
should receive. It was long before she could make up her mind in the
matter; but, after considering it for more than a year, she at last
determined to accept him. What may have moved her to do this of
course I cannot say; but all I know of her character makes me think
it more likely for the decision to have resulted from a reasonable
and deliberate consideration of matrimonial pros and cons than from
any love for her husband. Those who knew her well believed her to be
so singularly cold and indifferent as never to have warmed into real
love for any living creature during her whole life. And not only do
my own recollections of her corroborate this opinion, but also I may
say that I myself am a living argument to prove it true, inasmuch as
I, too, am unusually exempt from the affectionate, tender emotions
to which most men and women are liable; and it seems reasonable to
suppose that this extraordinary cold-heartedness of mine must have
been inherited from her.
I am sure it is an inheritance for which I have had much reason to be
thankful; for I have no doubt it has saved me from many a folly that
I should otherwise have committed. A warm-hearted, soft, affectionate
disposition is a possession which I have never coveted. It has
generally seemed to me to be a cause of weakness rather than of
strength to its owner; and besides, it is very apt to hinder and
stunt the development of that source of delight--the spirit of
enterprise.
This, however, is somewhat of a digression, as the extent to which
my mother may have cared for my father does not much concern this
narrative; at any rate she liked him sufficiently well to marry him,
and that is all with which we need trouble ourselves here. He sold
out of the army soon afterwards, and took his bride to reside at
Castle Manor, as his country place was called; there I, their only
child, was born. Had I been a boy it was intended to call me Gilbert,
in honour of my maternal grandfather's title; as, however, I was a
girl, and as my parents still wished to adhere as far as possible
to their original intention of naming their first-born after the
Gilbert peerage, the name was adapted to my sex by the addition of
three letters, and thus I received at my christening the somewhat
uncouth appellation of Gilbertina. As this was obviously too much of
a mouthful to be convenient for common domestic use, an abbreviation
was inevitable, and the first one bestowed upon me was Jill. But this
did not find favour with my mother. She declared it was ugly, and
objectionably suggestive of low, republican ideas, such as carrying
pails of water, rough tumbles, and cracked crowns; therefore Jill was
condemned and Ina substituted, as a more graceful and aristocratic
manner of shortening my name.
Though I allude to this small matter, because Jill was the name to
which I afterwards returned, yet I do not purpose to dwell long upon
the history of my life up to the age of eighteen, at which period I
launched out boldly upon an independent career. Still, however, the
earlier stages cannot be left altogether unnoticed, as the events
which took place then naturally have a bearing upon subsequent ones,
and also may be thought interesting for the part they probably played
in the moulding of my character.
Was I born destitute of the ordinary instincts of filial affection--in
which case, be it observed, that it would be most unjust to blame me
for what was simply a natural deficiency? Or is the fault of my
defect in that way to be charged to my parents for having done
nothing to develop the above-mentioned instinct? Anyhow, whatever
the cause may have been, certain it is that they and I were mutually
indifferent, and never saw more of one another than we could possibly
help. They went their way, and I went mine, and the less we came in
contact the better was I pleased. I regarded my mother as a sort of
stranger whom the accident of inhabiting the same house caused me to
see oftener than any other stranger, and who had an authority over me
and my affairs which was decidedly irksome, because our opinions as
to what it was right and fitting that I should do or not do were
always at variance with one another. She disliked untidiness,
whereas I revelled in being in a mess. Consequently she aggravated
me continually by insisting on my going off to wash my face and hands
or have my clothes put tidy, when I thought they did very well as
they were, and would have preferred staying where I was. Again,
mud-larking, and many other of my favourite occupations which
brought about a torn and dirty state of garments, were strictly
forbidden by her, to my great annoyance. Imagining the restriction
to be imposed solely in the interests of my clothes, I well remember
how rejoiced I was one day when I thought I had hit upon a plan for
enjoying myself after my own fashion without offending against her
code, and how disappointed I was when my scheme proved a failure. I
was about ten years old at the time, and was standing at the edge of
a small stream, longing with my whole heart to go and paddle about in
it, when it suddenly struck me that, as the edict against mud-larking
and similar amusements was grounded upon the harm they did to my
apparel, there could certainly be no objection to them provided
nothing suffered except my own skin--that being an article which
was surely of no consequence to any one but myself. Inspired by
this brilliant idea, I immediately took off my shoes, stockings,
gloves, and drawers, turned my sleeves back to the shoulder, wound
my petticoats round my waist, and plunged into the stream; there I
waded about with the utmost satisfaction, constructing mud-docks and
sailing bark-boats without in the least minding the cuts and bruises
inflicted on my bare feet by stones, or the numerous scratches which
my unprotected arms and legs received from overhanging bushes and
brambles. What did that matter when I was having such a glorious
mud-lark? And I enjoyed the fun all the more because I believed
fondly that I had a prospect of plenty more of the same kind in the
future, now that I had so cleverly discovered the way to get over the
objection that had hitherto interfered with it. It must be clearly
impossible for any one to find fault with a proceeding which exposed
nothing but my own flesh to risks of rents and dirt.
Alas! however, I was destined speedily to be undeceived. My mother,
hearing how I had been engaged, gave me a tremendous scolding,
declaring that she was quite shocked at me, and that if ever I
did such a thing again I should be punished. For my part, I was
perfectly amazed at this indignation, which seemed to me totally
unreasonable, as I could not imagine what harm I had done. And the
incident, like all others connected with her, strengthened the sulky
injured feeling I had of being always wrong in her eyes. No matter
what I might wish to do, she would forbid it, I thought.
I do not know that she was wilfully unkind to me, perhaps; but she
certainly never was actively kind; and she stands out in my memory as
a cold hard figure with which I could not come in contact without
finding myself thwarted in some way or other, and being deprived of
some pleasure. "Don't do that!" is a sentence odious in childish
ears; and as that was the sentence that I heard oftener than any
other from her lips, I naturally got into the habit of avoiding her
company as much as possible--which was all the easier to manage
because she had as little wish for my society as I had for hers, and
only endured me with her at all, I think, out of regard to the
_convenances_ of English life. Never once do I remember her to have
taken the trouble to supply me with any pleasures which she approved
of to replace those which she prohibited; nor did she ever bestow
upon me presents, indulgences, or marks of affection. Though she
never attempted to teach me anything herself, yet she had me do
lessons, and insisted on my learning needlework, which was my
especial aversion; and I knew she was the source for the tasks I
hated, even though she did not personally impose them on me.
Such being the terms on which she and I stood to one another, is it
to be wondered at that I should have feared and disliked her?
I was about twelve years old when she died. As I had by that time
read with great interest a large number of juvenile story-books of
the exaggerated sentimental and goody kind, I was thoroughly well
up in the behaviour to be expected from any girl-heroine on the
occurrence of such an event. I knew that her father would at once
become the great object of her life, and that she would devote
herself utterly to the task of comforting him and endeavouring to
replace Her (with a capital H) who was gone. Though the girl would
of course be herself well-nigh crushed with grief, and indulge in
paroxysms of sobs and tears whenever she was alone, yet she would
heroically repress any public manifestation of distress, lest the
knowledge and sight of it should increase that of her surviving
parent. Her zeal on his behalf would know no bounds, and lead her
to neglect the most ordinary precautions against illness for
herself. This would appear in some absurd and wholly uncalled for
act of self-devotion--such as sitting motionless for hours in a
thorough draught and wet through, lest the sound of her moving
might awake him as he slept in the next room, or something equally
ridiculous; and by a few insane performances of the same kind the way
would easily be paved for the invariably thrilling climax. A pillow
bedewed nightly with tears; knife-like stabs of pain returning with
increasing frequency; blood-spitting neglected and kept secret; pangs
mental and bodily, concealed under a cheerful exterior; there could
be but one conclusion to such symptoms as these. The overtaxed
strength would collapse suddenly; consumption, decline, heart
disease, or some other alarming illness, would ensue; and then there
would be either a few harrowing deathbed scenes, or else a miraculous
recovery and happy marriage of the heroine; in this last case her
spouse would of course be some paragon young man, who should be in
every respect ideally perfect, and thoroughly able to appreciate and
do justice to the treasure whom he had been so fortunate as to win
for a wife.
So invariably did this style of thing take place whenever the heroine
lost her mother in the books which I had devoured greedily without
perceiving how morbid and exaggerated they were, and without doubting
their being faithful representations of human nature, that I had a
sort of hazy impression of its being the inevitable accompaniment
of that loss, whatever might have been the terms hitherto existing
between the parties concerned. The folly of supposing that I could
feel deep regret for a person whom I had always avoided as much as
possible never occurred to me, and I was disposed to believe that
what was described in the stories was an indispensable sequence of
events that came after one another as naturally as spring follows
winter, and summer follows spring. In that case, I too, must expect
to undergo the regular course of emotions like every one else. It
would be a decidedly novel and mysterious experience, and one that
I was by no means sure would be pleasant, and I looked out anxiously
for the first indications of its approach as though it had been
some kind of sickness with which I was threatened. A gush of poignant
grief for my mother, an intense yearning over and pity for my father,
sleepless nights and untasted meals, were, I knew, the correct
preliminaries to the state of affairs that I was anticipating. Two
or three days passed, however, and I found to my surprise that I had
still no inability to sleep and eat as usual; no alteration in my
former feelings about my parents, either living or deceased; nor any
other reason to think I was about to behave in the same manner as
those sentimental young ladies about whom I had read. Then I became
perplexed as to the cause of this difference between me and them.
I had taken it for granted that the stories showed exactly how
human beings in general thought, felt, and acted; but how came it
then that I, who was unquestionably a human being, should find my
own experience of a great occasion of this kind so different from
what the books depicted? The only way of accounting for it was by
supposing either that they were not as true to nature as I
had believed, or else that I must be unlike the rest of my
fellow-creatures; and as it did not at all please me to consider
myself an abnormal variety of the human species, I adopted the former
theory as the probable explanation of what puzzled me. No one,
thought I, ever dreams of judging fairy-tales by the standard of
real life; and no doubt those stories that I fancied were true are
in reality only fairy-tales in disguise. The characters are not real
men and women, but only make-believe ones; and they are really just
as impossible as if they were called ogres, gnomes, elves, magicians,
or something of that kind.
It was a relief to me to arrive at this conclusion, and realise that
there was no likelihood of my following in the steps of the
afore-mentioned fictitious damsels, for, however attractive their
experiences might be to read about, I had had very considerable
misgivings as to whether I should find them equally pleasant to
undergo in my own person. I may add that I am sure my incapacity
for imitating them was a most fortunate circumstance for my father;
he would, I am convinced, have been at his wits ends to know what
to do with a daughter of the story-book stamp, and would have been
unutterably taken aback and annoyed at any hysterical demonstrations
of devotion or attachment on my part.