It was nearly noon when the driver said:
I'm about as peckish as a man--especially a wagoner--can afford to be. Come up, Daisy! Do your best, Cornflower!
Thus urged, Daisy and Cornflower, regarding the smack of the whip in the air as the merriest of jokes, broke into their smartest trot, and did their best, smelling hay and water in the near distance. The bells jingled gaily, and Sally and the Duchess looked eagerly ahead. So smart was the pace that within a few moments they saw a house of accommodation for man and beast, at the door of which a number of men and women were gathered to welcome them. The driver was evidently well known, and a favourite, and when he pulled up, willing hands assisted him to take the harness from the horses.
An hour's spell here, he said to Seth Dumbrick, as he lifted the children to the ground, tossing them in the air, after the manner of a man accustomed to children. "If you're going to eat, you'd best take the little girls to the back of the house, and enjoy it regular country fashion. To think," he added, pinching Sally's happy face, "of never seeing the country till now!"
With a jug of beer and some cold meat and bread, Seth and his girls made their way to the garden at the back of the inn, where, sitting in a natural bower, upon seats built round the trunk of an apple-tree, they enjoyed the most delicious meal of their lives.
We're getting our roses again, said Seth Dumbrick, gazing with unalloyed pleasure on the beautiful face of the Duchess. "Now, what we've got to do is to wish that the minutes won't fly away."
But fly away they did, and in less than no time the old wagoner summoned them to the road.
Unless, he said jocosely, "you want to be left behind."
I'd like to be, sighed Sally.
In front of the inn, where the horses stood ready for their work, the landlady met them, with flowers and kisses and kind words for the children; and when they were lifted into the wagon, they found that a quantity of sweet hay had been thrown in by the thoughtful wagoner--kind marks of attention which met with grateful and full-hearted acknowledgments. On they went again, gazing wistfully at the inn and the pleasant people standing about it, until they were out of sight. On they went, in a state of dreamy happiness, through the new world of peace and beauty, into which surely trouble could never enter. Every turn of the road disclosed fresh wonders, and a mighty interest was attached to the smallest incidents;--every queerly-shaped tree, every garden, every cottage, every mansion, that came into view; cows drinking from a distant pool; a mother with her baby in her arms, standing at a window framed in ivy; old men and women hobbling about the grounds of a charitable institution; two truant school-boys racing and shouting with wild delight, with no thought of the terrors to come when their fault was discovered; a man asleep under a hedge, and a woman sitting patiently by his side; a lady beautifully dressed, who paused to look at the children; a group of gipsies; a groom riding towards London at full speed;--one and all formed enduring and interesting pictures, and added to the pleasures of the ride.
Where do we stop? asked Seth Dumbrick of the wagoner.
At The World's End, replied the wagoner; "we'll make it at five o'clock, I reckon."
He was a shrewd calculator. As a church clock chimed five, he pointed with his whip to an old-fashioned inn, lying off from the roadside some hundred yards away, saying that was The World's End, and that they would put up there for the night, and start again early in the morning. As he spoke, they were nearing a pair of massive iron gates, through the open work of which could be seen a curved carriage-drive, lined with great elms. Straight and tall and stately, they presented the appearance of a giant regiment drawn up in lines to do honour to those who passed between.
That's a grand place, observed Seth.
It's the finest estate for many a mile round, said the wagoner.
It has got a name.
Oh, yes. Springfield it's called.
Seth Dumbrick listened. The estate was so built round with walls and trees that the carriage-drive was the only part open to the gaze of the passer-by. A faint sound of laughter--the laughter of the young--floated to his ears.
It isn't so solemn as it looks, said Seth.
There's a lot of company at Springfield, rejoined the wagoner. "They're spending a fine time, I reckon."
The master must be a rich man. Is he a lord?
He'll be one some day they say. He's a great lawyer.
In another moment the horses stopped at The World's End, and showed by a merry jingle of their bells that they knew the day's work was done. It was still broad daylight, and Seth set so much store upon the children being as much as they could in the open air, that, after arranging for the night's accommodation at The World's End, he and Sally and the Duchess started for a walk through the country lanes. There was sufficient beauty within the immediate vicinity of The World's End to engage their attention and admiration, and Seth, fearful of over-fatiguing the Duchess, so directed his steps as to keep Springfield always in view--whereby he was sure that he was never very far from the inn in which they were to pass the night. It thus happened that they frequently skirted the immediate boundaries of the estate--here formed by a close-knit hedge through which a hare could not have made its way, here by a natural creek, with stalwart trees on the Springfield side, here by a stone wall, in lieu of a more natural defence against encroachment. It was a quiet and peaceful evening, and after a couple of hours of almost restful sauntering, so little of labour was there in their mode of going about, they came suddenly upon a narrow lane, bounded by a broken hedge. The prospect was so pretty, and the glimpse of green trees forming an archway some twenty yards distant was so inviting, that Seth, without a thought of trespass, lifted the Duchess and Sally over the hedge, and followed them. A gipsy woman, sitting within the shadow of the arch of trees, would probably have called for no special attention, had not the Duchess--upon whom the flashing eyes, the dark sunburnt face, stern and sombre in its aspect, the shining black hair but slightly covered with the usual red handkerchief, and the generally bold air which pervaded the woman, produced an effect little less than terrifying--clasped Seth's hand in fear, and strove to pull him back.
Don't be frightened, Duchess, said Seth, soothing; "it's only a gipsy."
None but the closest observer, and one, too, on the watch for signs, could have detected the slightest variation of expression on the woman's face. To all appearance, she was entirely unconscious of the presence of the holiday party; but her quick ears had caught very distinctly every word uttered by Seth, and her quick sense, sharpened from her birth to certain ends conducive to the earning of sixpences in an unlawful way, had already placed a construction upon them which might lead to profit. Without raising her eyes, she noted the composition of the party, and waited for the course of events to bring her into action. Seth's soothing tone quieted the Duchess's fears, and his words excited Sally to a most wonderful degree. She had never seen a real gipsy; she had heard of them and of their occult powers of divination, and now one was before her, endowed with the mysterious and awful power of prophecy and of seeing into the future. The opportunity was too precious to be lost. She clasped her hands, and with a beseeching look at Seth, cried:
O Daddy! ask her to tell the Duchess's fortune.
Nonsense, Sally, said Seth. "She can no more tell fortunes than you or I can. Why, one of your trances is a hundred times better than anything she can tell us. Besides, what is to be is to be."
He spoke in a low tone, and the gipsy lost not a word of his speech.
Sally was not given to dispute with her guardian. She loved and respected him too well, believing that he knew better than anybody else in the world what was good for everybody; but she had to struggle with herself for strength to bear the disappointment. The next few steps brought them to the side of the gipsy, who rose and confronted them.
Let me tell your fortune, pretty lady.
Sally's heart beat quickly as the gipsy took her hand and held it with light, firm grasp.
We have no time for fortune-telling, said Seth, adding gently, "and no money."
Sixpence won't harm you, kind gentleman, said the gipsy, sitting on a hillock, so that her face and Sally's were on a level. "You haven't come all the way from London to spoil the pleasure of these little ladies for sixpence."
Oh, oh! cried Sally, palpitating. "She knows we come from London!"
The gipsy woman knows everything, and sees everything, pretty lady.
The circumstance of being called pretty lady in so winsome a voice was honey to Sally's soul.
Seeing no way but one out of the difficulty, Seth gave the woman a sixpenny-piece, which she, suspicious of the tricks of Londoners of a common grade, placed between her teeth to test. Sally meanwhile, having an arm disengaged, clasped the Duchess's waist, and drew her close to her side. The gipsy cast a rapid glance upon the two children, noting the tenderness expressed in the action, and then fell to examining Sally's hand.
You see the usual things in it, of course, said Seth, with but small respect in his tone for the woman's art. "What usual things?" asked the gipsy.
Sickness, sorrow, sweethearts, riches.
I see no riches; here is trouble.
Not in the present, said Seth, somewhat repentant of his rashness in angering the woman, as he saw Sally turn pale.
No, not in the present. Trouble in the past, trouble in the future.
Easy to predict. Trouble comes to all of us.
Look here, master. Are you reading the signs or me?
You; and you read them in the usual way.
Is it reading them in the usual way to tell you that you are not this little lady's father?
Our faces teach you that.
Is it reading them in the usual way to tell you that this little lady's trouble in the future will come from love?
A dark or fair man? asked Seth, still bantering, for the purpose of inspiring Sally with courage.
From no man, dark or fair. From love of a woman.
Of a woman! exclaimed Seth, biting his lip.
Ay, of a woman, when this little lady herself is a woman. A curtsey from the gipsy caused Seth to turn his head, and he saw that other persons had joined the party: a gentleman of middle age and a lady richly dressed.
Come, said the gentleman, with a careless attempt to draw the lady from the group.
No, protested the lady, "no, Mr. Temple; I must positively stop. I dote on fortune-telling; I've had mine told a hundred times."
It's a bright fortune, my lady, said the gipsy, still retaining Sally's hand, "as bright as this summer's day."
It is evening now, observed the gentleman addressed as Mr. Temple. "Better not stop. The grey shadows are coming."
There are no grey shadows for my lady, quickly answered the gipsy.
Rose-coloured shall all your days be, said the gentleman, with an amused glance at his companion, "if----" and paused.
Yes--if---- prompted the lady.
If, continued the gentleman, "you cross the poor gipsy's hand with silver. Isn't that so?" addressing the gipsy.
The woman smiled deferentially, and held out her hand to receive the silver which the lady took from her purse.
And it's enough to provoke even a gentleman's curiosity, said the lady, "to hear that trouble is to come to this sweet girl through the love of a woman instead of that of a man."
All troubles through love come from love of a woman, observed the gentleman oracularly.
Does your experience teach you that? inquired the lady, peering laughingly into his eyes.
What my experience teaches me, he replied, with a shadow gathering on his face, "I reserve."
After a lawyer's fashion, said the lady, again taking up his words. "You are self-convicted, Mr. Temple."
In what way?
If you saw your face in a glass, you would receive your answer.
Psha! he exclaimed, directing his attention to the gipsy. "You have told this little girl that a woman will bring her trouble. Beyond your skill to say what woman."
A woman younger than herself; more beautiful than herself; that she loves, and loves dearly. Show yourself, my beauty.
With no unkindly hand, knowing that it would not be tolerated, she raised the Duchess's chin with her fingers, so that the lady and gentleman could see her face. At the same moment Seth Dumbrick plucked the Duchess from the gipsy, and pressed her to his side, with a steady eye upon the gentleman.
What a lovely child! cried the lady, stooping, and placing her hand on the Duchess's shoulder. "Look, Mr. Temple. Did you ever in your life see so beautiful a face?"
He paused before he replied, and then the words came slowly from his lips.
Once I saw a face as beautiful.
When? Where? eagerly asked the lady.
In a dream.
A dream! exclaimed the gipsy, tracing a line on Sally's hand. "There are dreams mixed up with this little lady's fortune."
Oh, yes, yes! cried Sally. "I have 'em! I have 'em!"
The gipsy turned to Seth.
Do I read the signs in the usual way?
You have hit enough nails on the head, said Seth, "and you have earned your money. It is time for us to go."
Not yet, oh, not yet, interposed the lady. "We want this lovely child's fortune told." She drew the Duchess from Seth; the child, fascinated by her pretty face and soft silk dress, went willingly enough, and Sally and Seth looked on with jealous, uneasy eyes. "You need not be frightened, my good man. I shall not harm your daughter."
Bless your ladyship's heart, said the gipsy, "he's not her father."
How does she know? inquired the lady. "Is it true?"
For a moment a falsehood rested on Seth's lips, but he refused to utter it. "She's not my child," he said. "I have adopted her."
Mr. Temple, said the lady excitedly, "does the law permit children to be bought and sold? I should like to buy this child."
Seth looked frowningly at the lady, but all her attention being bestowed on the Duchess, she did not observe this evidence of his displeasure. The frown, however, was met by another and a sterner from the gentleman, who thus stood forward as the lady's champion. Seth did not lower his eyes, and the assumption of superiority in the gentleman's demeanour brought an expression of contempt and defiance into his own. It was not likely, after the fixed gaze with which they regarded each other, that either would forget the other's face. Seth observed more than the face of the man who confronted him. Every detail of dress, bearing, and manner photographed itself upon his mind, and an instinctive dislike for the fine gentleman took possession of him.
Did you hear what I said? cried the lady, addressing the gentleman, and smoothing the silky hair of the Duchess. "I should like to buy this child? What has the law to say to the bargain?"
I am afraid that the law would not support you, said the gentleman.
I am sure that nature would not, said Seth sternly. "Why, my good man, you have confessed that you are not the child's father."
Confessed, did I? Well, if you will have it so. But between me and this child there is a bond of love--a strong point. And even if the law did support you, I have nine other strong points in my favour--all expressed in one small word.
Will it be troubling you too much, asked the gentleman, with irritating insolence, "to ask you to name that word?"
Not at all. As a lawyer--as I understand from this lady's remarks you are--you will appreciate its worth. Possession.
The discordant chord between these men had been struck very effectually.
You are acquainted with the law, observed the gentleman, implying what it was impossible to misunderstand--to wit, that Seth Dumbrick was acquainted with the law in a way not creditable to himself.
I know nothing of it from experience.
Yet you know something of the machinery.
From observation and general reading.
Indeed! You set up for a scholar!
I do not.
Would possession hold good, inquired the lady, with careless condescension, "against a rightful owner?"
It has, replied Seth, not unwilling to use the arrow placed in his hands, "in many instances--thanks to the law."
The lady looked at the gentleman for information.
Such things have been, he said, "but not where flesh and blood are concerned."
And here it is concerned, she exclaimed, with vivacity.
Nonsense. What whim of yours shall I have to fight against next?
Of course, when I say I would like to buy the child, I am aware I am talking nonsense; but perhaps it is not in your legal mind to make allowances. I am singularly curious to learn what I can of the pretty creature's history--if she has one.
The commonest of us has a history worth reading--but not, I doubt, until the actor begins to play a conscious part in the drama of life.
Now you are speaking in a way I like. Let me, then, have my way, and ask the gipsy to tell the child's fortune.
Come, he said to the gipsy, "earn your money. We have already lingered too long."
Seth Dumbrick, who had been listening with impatience to this dialogue, stepped between the gipsy and the Duchess.
We have had enough fooling, he said sternly. "Let the woman earn her money in some other way than this."
He would have retired with the children at once, had not the gentleman stepped quickly before him, barring his progress.
You are disposed to be insolent, he said, with a slight quivering of the lips. "Do you not know how to pay respect to a lady?"
I know what is due to myself, replied Seth quietly. "I simply wish not to be molested."
You are a stranger about here?
I am here by chance; I have no knowledge of the place.
Nor of me?
Nor of you--and, he added, his temper mastering his judgment, "I wish to have none. You are a gentleman, and I----"
Am not.
You have answered for me. I see no reason to repine at the difference in our positions.
Seth did not intend his meaning to be mistaken, and his tone added force to his words. The gentleman's manner was so overbearing, that the commoner man's independent spirit was roused.
I am the master of this place. This is a private road; you have committed a trespass.
Then the sooner I repair an error unintentionally committed, the better for myself. If I had known this road was private I should not have entered it.
The notice-board is large, and the words plain. You have been good enough to inform me that you can read.
He pointed to a board at the beginning of the road which had escaped Seth's notice, on which was painted in bold letters, "Trespassers will be prosecuted." Seth bit his lip as he saw the trap into which he had fallen.
The hedge which protects the road, continued the gentleman, "has been newly broken."
Not by me, said Seth, somewhat uneasy for the children's sake.
It is not to be expected that you would admit it. But for your insolence towards the lady and myself, I should be disposed to overlook the trespass; as it is I am in doubt. Where do you come from?
From London.
A London tramp--a vagrant.
No tramp or vagrant, said Seth indignantly; "an honest man bringing his children into the country in search of health."
I understand they are not your children.
They are mine by adoption.
Are their parents living?
This child's mother--don't be frightened, Sally--lives in the country, and is unable to offer her a home. So I take care of her.
A modern Quixote, said the gentleman, with a sneer. "And this child"--once more he looked at the Duchess, whose eyes were raised to his--"and this child----" The imploring gaze of the Duchess appeared to disconcert him, and the sentence remained unfinished.
A singular silence followed, during which they all looked at the gentleman, whose self-possession had suddenly deserted him. Aroused to the fact that general attention was fixed upon him, he broke the silence, with curious pauses between his words.
I was asking whether these children are sisters?
They are not, replied Seth.
In any way related?
Not to my knowledge.
Are her parents living?
For the second time during the interview a falsehood rested on Seth's lips, and for the second time he refused to utter it.
I do not know, he replied.
What is it you say?
I do not know whether her parents are living.
A born lady, muttered the gipsy, seeing her chance; "a born lady--fit to be a Duchess--is one, or I can't read the stars."
Seth turned a startled look upon the gipsy, saying, "You are a clever witch, wherever you have got your information." Then to the gentleman, "Have you anything more to ask me?"
Nothing, was the reply, with a contradiction almost in the same breath: "In what part of London did you say you live?" as though the question had been already asked and answered.
In the east.
And you rest to-night?
At The World's End, hard by here.
Very well; I shall call upon you to-morrow early. You can go.
But early the next morning, before ordinary folks were stirring, Seth and the children were again on the road. The wagon started at six o'clock, and Seth experienced a feeling of relief when he caught the last glimpse of Springfield.
No more ladies and gentlemen for us, he said almost gaily, with the air of a man who has escaped a great danger; "we have had enough of them."
I like ladies and gentlemen, said the Duchess--a remark which drove Seth into a moody fit for at least an hour.
The second day's journey was as delightful as the first. The weather continued fine, and Seth Dumbrick, recovering his spirits, did his best to entertain the children, to whom the ride itself would have been a sufficiently satisfying enjoyment. During the day Seth confided his plans to the good-natured wagoner, and his desire to obtain cheap lodgings for a few days for himself and the children at some modest cottage in the country.
Would near the seaside suit you? asked the wagoner.
Capitally, replied Seth; "but your place lies inland."
I have time to go a little out of my way, and will take you to a cottage near the sea belonging to a friend of mine, who'll be able to lodge you reasonable.
Nothing could be better, said Seth, thankfully.
It's obliging her and you, and won't trouble me much. Come up, Daisy! Now then, Cornflower! Four mile more for you, and plenty of time to do it in.
If Daisy and Cornflower understood that an additional task was imposed upon them they did not take it sadly, but shook their bells briskly and trotted out of their regular track with a willing spirit.
Round this bend, said the wagoner, "and a fine stretch of the sea'll be before us."
It appeared almost incredible, for the trees and hedges in the path they were riding along were so thick and the path itself so winding as to obscure the view.
The children have never seen the sea, said Seth.
You don't say so! Well, I wouldn't be a Londoner, bound to live there all my days, for the best fifty houses you could offer me. And never seen a ship sailing, I'll be bound!
Never.
It will be something for them to remember, then. Now, shut your eyes, my little lasses, and don't open them till I say 'Presto!'
Sally and the Duchess shut their eyes tight, their hearts throbbing with eager expectation.
Up then, Daisy! Up, Cornflower! Round the bend we go. Presto!
The Duchess and Sally opened their eyes and uttered exclamations of delight. The glorious sea lay before them, with large ships in the distance and fishing boats in the foreground. In one part the sun, playing on the water, transformed it into an island of flashing jewels. It was a veritable wonderland to the children--a dream of beauty never to be forgotten.
Do I see the waves creeping up, Sally? asked Seth, gaily.
Sally raised her face to his and kissed him.
It's all through that money that was sent to the Duchess, Daddy.
All through that, Sally.
Then I love money, Daddy, said Sally; "and I'd like to be a lady, so that the Duchess and me might live always by the sea. How far does it stretch? More than we can see?"
Thousands, and thousands, and thousands of miles more. Away into other countries, where it's night at the present moment while it's daylight here.
I don't understand it, said Sally, with a sigh of ecstasy, "and I don't want to. Oh, we're going away from it!"
We're going to the cottage I spoke of my little woman, said the wagoner; "it's not three hundred yards off--just down this lane."
Down the lane they drove, and drew up at a small house with a garden before and behind. The front of the cottage was covered with ivy, and the windows in their framework of glossy leaves looked wonderfully pretty.
This is nice, too, said Sally, disposed to enjoy everything.
There's beauty everywhere, Sally, said Seth, with a touch of his old philosophy, "if we'll only look out for it."
This comes without looking out for it, replied Sally; "and that's why I like it. Ain't it better than anything ever was, Duchess?"
The Duchess nodded an assent, and in another moment the whole party were in the little parlour, and Seth and the wagoner were talking to the mistress of the house. The bargain was soon struck, the terms asked for board and lodging being much less than Seth had ventured to hope they would be. They were to have the two rooms on the first floor for sleeping apartments, one looking over the front the other over the back of the house.
Daddy must have this, said Sally, as they stood in the front room; "it's the best."
That's the reason why you and the Duchess shall sleep in it. I came into the country for your sakes, children, not for my own.
Everything in the place was sweet and fresh; and the garden at the back of the house contained apple and pear trees and currant-bushes, as well as flowers.
My good man, said the mistress, "will be glad to have two such pretty children in the house for a little while. We've none of our own. It'll brighten us up a bit."
The woman was sad-looking and spoke in a sad tone; and Sally wondered how it was possible that one who lived in the fairy-house, with flowers and fruit trees and the sea within a stone's throw of them, should need brightening up. She was sure if such a paradise were hers, that there would never be a dull hour in it. While the woman was attending to the children upstairs, assisting them to wash after their long day's ride, and showing them all the wonders of the fairy house, Seth and the wagoner had a conversation in the room below. It was a friendly one, resulting from the wagoner's refusal to accept payment for the ride.
It'll be a pleasure to me, said the wagoner, "not to take the money. I don't want it, having enough and to spare, as I've already told you. I don't mean to say I do it for your sake----"
Not likely, said Seth, good-humouredly.
--But for the sake of the pretty little one you call the Duchess. And that's puzzled me. I'd take it as a favour if you'd tell me, why Duchess?
Well, it was a fancy of Sally's, said Seth, "who worships the Duchess----"
It's plain enough that she thinks a mighty deal more of her than she does of herself.
That she does. Well, the Duchess came to me in a strange way that'll take too long to explain here. The child was left in our neighbourhood in a most mysterious manner--brought in mysteriously, deserted mysteriously. She and Sally were thrown together, and Sally adopted her, if one helpless mite can be said to adopt another helpless mite. Sally's mother fell into misfortune, and the children happened to drop in my way. Sally had a name--the other one didn't--and one night we had a curious little party of children in my cellar----
In your cellar?
I live in a cellar in Rosemary Lane--and Sally, quite seriously, put the fancy in my head of calling the child the Duchess of our quarter. All the neighbours take to it kindly, and everyone that knows her loves her. Look there. Who could help being attracted to her?
The wagoner looked up at the window of the children's room, and saw the Duchess standing within a framework of dark-green ivy leaves. The light was shining full upon her beautiful face, and touched, also, the darker face of Sally, who stood at the back of the Duchess, looking over her shoulder.
It's a picture one don't often see, said the wagoner, with a thoughtful air; "but if I had my choice of the two girls for a daughter, I reckon I'd choose the dark-skinned one."
It did not displease Seth to hear this, for Sally and the Duchess really occupied an equal place in his heart. If the beauty of the Duchess awoke the tenderness of his nature, the devotion, unselfishness, and many rare qualities displayed by Sally were no less powerful in their effect upon his sympathies. Bearing in mind the scene that had occurred at Springfield on the preceding evening, he asked the wagoner, if any inquiries were made of him, not to divulge where he and the children were rusticating.
I've brought them into the country, he said, "as much for peace and quietness as for fresh air."
There was to the wagoner's mind something suspicious both in the words and the nervous manner in which Seth made the request. He showed in his countenance the impression he received, and Seth, wishing to stand well with him, gave an account of the incident which had so disturbed him.
When I heard the lady say she would like to buy my child, he said, in conclusion, "it seemed to me that she had so much faith in the power of money, and so little in the power of love, that I could not keep my temper. I spoke hotly, and with reason, I think."
It would have roused my blood, responded the wagoner; "you never saw any of the gentlefolk before?"
Never, and I never wish to see them again. I said as much to the master of Springfield, if I'm not mistaken.
From what I've heard of him, he's not a man either to forget or forgive.
You'll promise me, then, for the sake of the children, not to set any one on our track?
He spoke anxiously, his fears exaggerating a danger which, in all likelihood was wholly imaginary.
Yes, replied the wagoner, "there's no harm in promising. They've no right to worry you, as far as I can see, and they sha'n't get me to put them in the way of it. How long are you going to stop here?"
We can live here so cheaply, said Seth, with a lightened heart, "that my purse will hold out for two or three weeks; we'll stay that time, I dare say."
I'll be going up to London about then, mayhap, said the wagoner; "if so, I'll be glad to give the little lasses a lift; and mayhap I may be passing this way in a few days with the wagon. A ride through the lanes will do them no harm."
Seth expressed his thanks to the kind-hearted old fellow, and they shook hands and parted, the wagoner smiling goodbye to the children, who stood at the window watching him until he was out of sight.
Then commenced a happy time. The children were in a new world, and the little cottage, with its bit of garden back and front, was a very heaven to them. Everything was so new and bright, the air was so sweet, the trees and flowers so beautiful, that Sally could scarcely believe it was all real. On the first night, when they were abed, listening to the strange sound of the waves beating on the shore, Sally whispered to the Duchess:
Isn't it lovely, Duchess?
Yes, oh, yes, sighed the Duchess; and this precise form of words was used at least a dozen times, each time with the belief that it embodied an observation of an especially original nature. Once Sally, creeping out of bed, drew aside the snowy white curtains from the window and looked out.
Oh, come, Duchess, come! she cried, and the Duchess scrambled after her. It was full moon, and the glorious light shining on the trees and hedges was a vision of beauty to them.
That's a different moon from the one we've got in Rosemary Lane, said Sally; "I wish we could take it back with us."
Are we going back? asked the Duchess regretfully.
Sally did not reply. The prospect was too distressing. But she was happily so constituted as to be grateful for present joys and pleasures, and she dismissed Rosemary Lane from her thoughts. Her one fear was that she would wake up.
Do you like the noise the sea makes? she inquires of her idol, when they were in bed again.
It's beautiful, said the Duchess. "Are the ships there?"
Sally never hesitated to impart information on subjects of which she was ignorant.
They're there, she said, "but they don't move till daylight comes."
I'm sleepy, said the Duchess, with a yawn.
I'm frightened to go to sleep, said Sally, battling with fatigue; "I want to be like this always. I hope it ain't a dream--oh, I hope it ain't a dream!"
Before she had finished, the Duchess was asleep.
I'll pinch myself hard, thought Sally, "as hard as I can, and if there's a black-and-blue mark on my arm to-morrow morning, I shall know it's real."
Sally did pinch herself--so hard that she could not help crying out with the pain, but she obtained her reward on the following morning, when she saw the black-and-blue marks. The joy of the day, however, was so great that as she sat on the pebbly beach, watching the waves creep up and the ships and fishing-boats floating away into wonderland, she found it hard to convince herself that she was not dreaming. At the end of the week she said to Seth:
Daddy, every night I go to bed, I am frightened that I shall wake up and find myself in Rosemary Lane.
Thereupon he read her and the Duchess a lecture on contentment and gratitude, not so much needed by Sally as by the Duchess.
I know you're right, said Sally; "it will always be a pleasure to think of, but I shall be awful sorry too, that it didn't last for ever. It can't, Daddy, can it?"
No, my dear, it can't.
I wish I was rich, sighed Sally.
Supposing you had lived a hundred years ago, suggested Seth, with grave humour; and paused.
Well, Daddy. Supposing I did?
It would be all the same to you whether you had a hundred boxes full of gold or whether you had twopence-halfpenny.
Sally was shrewd enough to understand this without having to ask for an explanation.
What do you say to it all? asked Sally of the Duchess.
I don't care for a hundred years ago, said the Duchess; "I don't know what it means. I care for Now." And she echoed Sally's words, "I wish I was rich."
This set Seth pondering, and in his endeavour to extract honey out of unpromising material and to improve the occasion, it is to be feared that he soared above the understanding of his children. In this way:
Did I ever tell you, Sally--he always appealed to Sally at such times, although he addressed both her and the Duchess--"of a man I once knew called Billy Spike?"
No, Daddy.
He was a friend of mine a good many years ago. Older than me by thirty years was Billy Spike--and he was always Billy, never William, to the day of his death. Nearly everybody who knew him thought he was crazy.
Why?
Because of one thing he was never tired of saying, 'What I don't get is profit.' That's what sweetened the world for Billy Spike. 'What I don't get is profit,' was always on his lips.
Was he a rich man, Daddy?
I doubt if Billy Spike ever had twenty shillings in his pocket at one time. I doubt if ever he had a new suit of clothes to his back. I doubt if he ever had quite as much to eat as he could have taken in. He was as poor as a church-mouse.
Why is a church-mouse poor? asked practical Sally.
It's no use my trying to explain that, Sally. It's a saying, and a true one I dare say. But about Billy Spike. He was the poorest and the happiest man in the world, and all the philosophy of life was contained in his saying, 'What I don't get is profit.' 'Billy,' I said to him, 'what do you mean by it?' He looked at me with his eyes twinkling. 'Seth Dumbrick,' said he, 'you're a man of sense. Look at me. Here I am.' And he stood up straight before me, showing large holes in his coat, under his arms, and being generally a picture of rags. 'If,' said I, 'all the profit you make comes from what you've got, and not from what you haven't got, your returns must be small.' 'I've got a pair of arms, Seth Dumbrick,' said Billy. 'Thank you for nothing,' said I. 'You call that nothing!' cried Billy. 'Wait a bit. My limbs are all sound, my eyesight's good. I never had a headache or a toothache in my life, and I sleep like a top. Now, tell me who's that crossing the road?' It was a sailor we knew who hopped through life on a wooden leg. Me and Billy and the wooden-legged sailor went and had a glass together, and Billy drew the sailor out to tell us all about the miseries of having only one leg--what shootings he had in the one that was chopped off--yes, he said that, Sally, though it does sound funny--and how he couldn't walk where he wanted to walk, and couldn't do what he wanted to do, all through having a wooden leg. It was plain enough that his wooden leg made him real unhappy and miserable. When he was gone Billy Spike said to me, with a wink, 'What I don't get is profit: I don't get wooden legs.' Just then we saw a woman that we knew; her face was twice its proper size, and she had a bandage round it. 'What's the matter, mother?' asked Billy Spike. 'I'm almost dead with the pain, Billy,' she said. 'I've been and had two of my teeth out at the hospital and the doctor's almost broke my jaw. It's enough to drive a poor woman mad.' 'The toothache is,' said Billy. 'Yes, the toothache,' said she; 'I've had it on and off for the last twenty years, and I'm pretty well crazed with it.' Billy Spike winked at me again. 'What I don't get is profit. I don't get toothaches.' Then we came across a blind man, and Billy drew him out, and a pretty bad case it was. 'I'd sooner be dead than alive,' said he. He couldn't see the wink that Billy gave. What I don't get is profit,' said Billy. 'I don't get blind.' And so Billy would have gone on all the day, I don't doubt, if I hadn't already caught his meaning.
In which respect Seth had the advantage of those to whom he was relating, as a possibly useful lesson, this story of Billy Spike's philosophy. Sally's face denoted that she did not see the application, and the Duchess said again, "I wish I was rich." So Seth resolved to throw aside philosophy as not suitable for the occasion, and to devote himself entirely to pleasure. It was none the less sweet because it was taken in a modest humble way, and because it cost but little money. Country walks, rides in carts and wagons, generally given for nothing--for the beauty of the Duchess soon attracted admirers even in this out-of-the-way spot--frolics in hayfields, rambles by the seaside, fully occupied their hours, and did not afford opportunity for a moment's weariness. And one day a travelling photographer passed their road and offered to "take" the Duchess for a song, as the saying is. Being an artist he saw the value of Seth's suggestion that she should be taken standing in a framework of ivy leaves, and the prettiest of pictures was produced. The photographer, falling in love with his work, and seeing future profit in it, took negatives of the Duchess in various attitudes, she falling into them so naturally as to excite his wonder and admiration. In truth it was a task which pleased and delighted her. Seth, shrewd as he always was, and careful of his pocket as he was compelled to be, made a good bargain with the artist, and for a very small sum obtained copies of all their portraits: the Duchess in three different positions, Sally in one, Sally and the Duchess together, and lastly, himself with the children on either side of him. The day following this excitement another pleasure came. The old wagoner who had driven them from London arrived early in the morning with Daisy and Cornflower, and after giving them the most beautiful ride in their holiday, took them to his own cottage where he had lived from boyhood. There his old wife awaited them, and feasted the party to their hearts' content, and a peaceful ride back in the peaceful night was the fitting ending to the happy day. So the time passed on until one morning Seth said to Sally.
Home to-morrow, Sally.
She sighed with grateful regret.
Our little girl is better than ever she was, he continued, with a fond look at the Duchess, "and we'll endeavour to keep her so. Such roses as these"--caressing the Duchess's cheek--"will be something for the Rosemary Lane folk to stare at. They've never seen such bright ones before. We've had a happy time, haven't we?"
Yes, yes, they both replied, nestling to him.
Let us be thankful, then----
For what we haven't had? asked Sally, with a sly look.
No, he said with a laugh, "for what we have enjoyed;" adding in a graver tone, "I never thought the world was so good as it is."
On the second evening from this they returned to Rosemary Lane, and were received with smiles and hearty welcome by all.
Sally, brimming over with delightful memories of the happy days passed in the cottage by the sea, was not slow to communicate her experiences to her young friends and playmates in Rosemary Lane. The wonderful stories she had to tell, and the wonderful way in which she related them, caused the children's eyes to dilate and their breasts to throb. Sally was an artist, and, in a more effective manner than would have been adopted by a more polished narrator, she painted her pictures in exactly those colours which made them alluring to an audience not over-gifted with learning and intelligence. In all these pictures, the Duchess was the central figure. She was the princess for whom the flowers bloomed and the sea whispered musically. The happy rides, the pleasant meals, the delicious idling, the soft murmurs of woodland life, were all for the Duchess, and, but for her, would not have been. Sally's tongue was never idle when there was an opportunity to glorify her idol, and the devoted child had never been so rich in opportunity as at the present time. Among other stories related by her, was, of course, the story of the Duchess's portrait being taken surrounded by flowers, which Sally declared was "out and out the most beautiful thing as ever was seen;" and public curiosity being excited, Seth Dumbrick was besieged by applicants eager to see the pictures. These visits were the means of his ingratiating himself into the more favourable opinion of his neighbours, who said to one another that Seth Dumbrick was becoming quite an agreeable man. Even to Mrs. Preedy he was gracious, and for fully three weeks that inveterate gossip had not a word to say to his disparagement.
So, being once more settled down quietly in his stall, with sufficient work for the hours, Seth hammered and patched away from morning till night, and but for certain fears connected with the Duchess, would have been a perfectly happy man. One of these fears related to the fortune-telling incident; he was unreasonably apprehensive that by some means or other the Duchess would be tracked and spirited away by the gentleman with whom he had had high words at Springfield; he did not stop to reason upon the motive which would lead to such an act. His other fear related to the bank-note, so strangely forwarded to the Duchess, which had paid for their holiday. If he had known where to seek for a clue to the discovery of the sender of the money, it is doubtful whether he would have availed himself of it; his earnest wish was that the matter should rest where it was, and that he and the Duchess and Sally should be allowed to live their quiet, uneventful life unmolested. If he saw the postman coming along the street, he watched his progress nervously, dreading that another letter for the Duchess might arrive, and when the man passed without look or word, the cheerful hammering upon the leather, or the more vigorous plying of the awl, denoted how greatly he was relieved.
Weeks and months passing in this way brought repose to his mind, and he sometimes smiled at himself for the uneasy fancies, born of love and fear, which had so tormented him. His love for the Duchess increased with time; she was for ever in his thoughts; over his bed, in a frame and protected by a glass, hung her picture, which was to him as beautiful as the most beautiful Madonna in the eyes of a devout woman; there was not speck or flaw on her, materially or spiritually; she was the queen of his life and household. Would the Duchess like this? Would the Duchess like that? What can we do for her? How can we serve her?--everything was done by Seth and Sally that could contribute to the easy and pleasant passing of her days. Their old clothes were darned and patched, and darned and patched again and again, so that the Duchess might have pretty things to wear. They were continually buying flowers and bits of ribbons for her, and casting about for ways and means to bring new pleasures into her days. In this twelve months passed, and the summer came round again. Sitting at their midday meal, Sally remarked that this time last year they were going into the country. Seth referred to a small memorandum book, the recipient of a singular medley of notes and observations.
To-morrow morning's exactly a year, he said, "since we started."
Sally sighed, and Seth saw with pain a look of regret in the Duchess's eyes. It was not a calm regret; there was nothing of resignation in it. It expressed a struggle to be free from the thraldom of poverty, a rebellious repining at the hardship of Fate. As Seth was considering whether any ingenious twisting of Billy Spike's philosophy would afford consolation, a double knock at the stall above was heard. He mounted the steps, and confronted the postman.
A letter for the Duchess of Rosemary Lane.
Seth received it with a sinking heart, and putting it hastily into his pocket, descended to the living-room.
Who was it, Daddy? asked Sally.
Mrs. Simpson sent for the child's boot, replied Seth, with a guilty palpitation; "it ain't done yet."
He finished his dinner in silence, listening to reminiscences of last year's delightful holiday, called up by Sally and the Duchess. He did not take the letter from his pocket until late in the night, when he was alone. He gazed at it for a few moments, believing it contained a realization of his fears, and that it might be the means of parting him and the Duchess. If he had not been a just man, he would have destroyed the letter, but he was restrained by the reflection that it might be of importance to the future of the child he loved. With reluctant fingers he unfastened the envelope, and found in it a bank-note for five pounds. As with the letter received last year, it did not contain a single word that would furnish a clue. He had carefully preserved the first envelope, and comparing the writing on the two, he judged it to be from one hand.
Who is it that sends the money? he mused. "A man or a woman? That's the first point. There's a difference in handwriting, I've heard. I must find a way to make sure of that. I suppose the note's as good as the one sent last year."
Before the afternoon of the following day, he had thought over a lame little scheme, which he put into execution without delay. He walked to the shop of a tradesman, of whom he was in the habit of buying tools and leather, and having made some small purchases, he offered the note in payment. It was taken, and change given, without remark. "Is your wife at home?" then asked Seth.
Yes, replied the tradesman.
I'd like to see her, said Seth; "I want to ask her about something that a woman knows better than a man."
The tradesman called his wife, and Seth had a quiet talk with her. He commenced in a roundabout way.
It's about a friend of mine, he said, "an unmarried man like myself, but more likely to marry, being younger. He's received a letter without a signature, and he's mighty anxious to find out whether it comes from a man or a woman. It's a delicate matter you see."
The tradesman's wife did not see, but she waited patiently for further light.
The fact is, continued Seth, "there's a girl he knows and has a fancy for, that another man knows and has a fancy for."
It's a love letter, then, interrupted the tradesman's wife, with a smile.
Yes, said Seth, gladly accepting the suggestion, "and he naturally wishes to know who wrote it."
Yes.
Now the first thing to discover is whether it's a man's or a woman's writing.
How can I help you to discover that?
If you will be good enough to write just a couple of words--say, Rosemary Lane--on a bit of paper, it might assist us.
The woman wrote down the words, and wrote them without a curve; every letter had in it as many angles as it could conveniently accommodate. After this, Seth asked the woman if her daughters would write the same words on separate pieces of paper, and then he obtained a specimen of writing from the tradesman himself. He paid visits to many places that afternoon, with the same purpose in view, and by the evening he had in his pocket between twenty and thirty different specimens of calligraphy. When the children were asleep he continued his examination, and discovered that, without an exception, all the women wrote in angles and all the men in curves. Comparing the writing with that on the envelopes, he came to the conclusion that the addresses were written and the money sent by a woman.
He derived an odd kind of satisfaction from this result There was less danger to be feared from a woman than from a man, and, without difficulty, Seth invented a dozen different sets of circumstances to fit the case, in all of which the woman who was in this way kind to the Duchess was never to make herself known. The money clearly belonged to the Duchess, and the conscientious man decided that it must be spent on the Duchess, and on the Duchess alone. The child had had her ears pierced, and wore in them a pair of rough glass earrings bought by Sally for a few pence on the anniversary of her idol's birthday.
No one knew how old the Duchess exactly was, or on what day she was born; but a birthday was such a happy occasion for love-gifts, and the Duchess so fit a person to give them to, that a natal day was fixed for her. Of course a suitable one. "March winds and April showers bring forth May flowers." Sally knew the rhyme, and settled that the Duchess was born when the flowers were born, on the 1st of May. On the Duchess's last birthday Sally had presented the glass earrings, and the pleasure derived from the giving and the receiving was as great as if the bits of glass had been diamonds. The Duchess never tired of admiring herself in the little tin-framed mirror fixed by the side of the bed, and shook her head to make the crystals sparkle, and played at hide and peep with them, hiding them in her hair and shaking them free again. A fair meed of admiration was also passed upon them by her playmates, and the Duchess thought them the loveliest things in the world until one unhappy day she heard an ill-natured woman call them "bits of trumpery glass." From that moment they became less precious in the Duchess's eyes, and a secret longing crept into her mind for something more valuable to show off her pretty ears. About this time Mrs. Preedy, having occasion to go westward, invited the Duchess to accompany her, to see the carriages and fine folks in the Park. Without asking for permission from her guardian, the Duchess accepted the invitation joyfully, and as she walked along by the side of Mrs. Preedy, her quick eye took in everything of note that passed her; but most of all did she notice the gold ornaments worn by the ladies, and yearned for them in her heart of hearts.
Such heaps of rich people, Duchess, observed Mrs. Preedy. "It's like a show."
There's nothing in the world like being rich, observed the Duchess.
No, that there's not, replied the woman heartily. "Why," presently continued the Duchess, "are some people rich and other people poor?"
Oh, I don't know, said Mrs. Preedy peevishly; "it's all in the way we're born. Ladies and gentlemen ain't born in Rosemary Lane."
I wasn't born in Rosemary Lane, mused the Duchess, in a tone which was in itself an assertion of superiority over her companion.
Do you know where you was born? asked Mrs. Preedy.
No, was the reply, "but not in Rosemary Lane."
What do you remember before you came to Rosemary Lane? continued Mrs. Preedy, growing interested in the conversation.
I don't remember coming to Rosemary Lane, said the Duchess; "I had a mamma once."
Where?
I don't know; in a garden, I think.
Like anybody you see?
Like her, said the Duchess, pointing to a lady who was stepping from a carriage. In the lady's face dwelt an expression of much sadness and sweetness, which seemed to be the natural outcome of a sad and sweet nature. The Duchess's observance of the lady drew her attention to the child, and she stopped and spoke, and asked Mrs. Preedy if the pretty creature was her daughter.
No, indeed, ma'am, said Mrs. Preedy, with a curtsey; "she has no mother, poor dear, and she was just saying that you were like her mamma."
Her mamma! exclaimed the lady, with a look of surprise; "where do you come from, then?"
From Rosemary Lane, if you please, said the obsequious Mrs. Preedy, who was always deferential to those above her.
And where may that be?
In the east, if you please, with another curtsey.
The lady, with languid humour, suggested "Jerusalem?" and then asked the Duchess if she would like a cake. They were standing in front of a confectioner's shop, and the child, with as much self-possession (as Mrs. Preedy afterwards remarked when she related the adventure) as if she had been a born lady, withdrew her hand from Mrs. Preedy, and held it out to the lady, who smilingly led her into the shop, and feasted her and Mrs. Preedy to their heart's content. They had cakes and jellies, and strawberries and cream, and the lady chatted with the Duchess, and praised her beauty, in the most gracious and affable manner. Altogether, it was a very pleasant time, and formed quite an event in Mrs. Preedy's life, who for months and months gave most vivid descriptions of the entertainment, never forgetting to add that when they went into the Park later in the day they met the lady driving in her carriage there, and that she nodded and smiled in recognition of them.
Seth Dumbrick also went westwards in search of a present for the Duchess, to be paid for out of the money which was hers, and staring in the shop-windows, was greatly bewildered by the attractive articles there displayed. Silk sashes and neckerchiefs, natty kid boots and fascinating hats, distracted him with their claims. Had he been a well-to-do man, there is no knowing what extravagance he might have committed. At length he stationed himself before a jeweller's window, and gazed upon the beautiful articles exhibited in it, now deciding upon this, now upon that; and, in the end, upon a pair of gold earrings, tastefully designed to represent shells. He had no idea of the value of such articles, and it was with something of trepidation he entered the shop, where his appearance was viewed with suspicion by the salesman, who saw no fitness between the unshaven chin and grimy fingers of the workman and the graceful devices in gold and silver displayed for sale. A bargain, however, was soon concluded, and Seth became possessor of the earrings on payment of half the money he held in trust for the Duchess. Then he went to a milliner's shop, where he seemed even more out of place than in the jeweller's, and for twenty shillings bought one of the prettiest hats in all the stock. Enjoying in anticipation the delight of the Duchess, he walked home very contentedly, and artfully turned the conversation upon last year's holiday, saying in a melancholy tone:
No holiday this year, Duchess.
Sally shook her head mournfully.
Can't afford it, eh, Sally? Now, what's the next best thing to the holiday we can't afford? What do you say to a present--something pretty for--who do you think?
For the Duchess! cried Sally.
The Duchess looked up eagerly.
Yes, for the Duchess. These, for instance.
He carefully untied the little packet wrapt in silver tissue-paper, carefully opened the leather case, and pointed triumphantly to the earrings nestling softly in their blue-velvet couches. Sally clapped her hands, and jumped up; the Duchess gazed on the pretty ornaments with parted lips and eyes aglow with admiration.
For me! she exclaimed, almost under her breath. "For me!"
For you, Duchess, said Seth. "What do you think of 'em?"
She threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him, with perhaps more affection than she had ever shown towards him, and then turned hastily to the earrings, in fear lest they might have vanished from the table. The glittering ornaments fitted her nature most thoroughly and completely. They seemed to say, "We are yours. You are ours. We belong to each other. You have no business to wear bits of trumpery glass. We are what you have a right to possess." There was absolute harmony between her and the pretty things, and she experienced a new and singularly entrancing pleasure in merely gazing upon them.
Is one kiss all you will give me for them? asked Seth.
No, no, she replied; "I will give you a thousand thousand."
She smothered him with kisses, murmuring: "I love you for them, I love you for them."
They are real gold, said Seth, more than satisfied with his bargain. "What will Rosemary Lane say to that?"
With trembling fingers the Duchess lifted the earrings from the case. Had they been imbued with feeling she could not have felt more tender towards them.
May I put them in?
Surely, my dear; I bought them for you to wear.
The Duchess hastily unhooked Sally's birthday gift from her ears, and threw it on the table, replacing it with the more valuable and therefore more precious offering. A pang shot through Sally's breast as she witnessed the action. The bits of trumpery glass, albeit they cost but a few pence, had not been easily obtained by her; they were the result of many weeks' saving of farthings and halfpence, and to pay for them she had put down with a strong spirit a number of small cravings. Not that the saving and scraping was not in itself a delight to her; to deny herself in order that the Duchess might be gratified was one of her sweetest pleasures. The common glass earrings were her love-gift, and she had dreamt of them long before and after they were presented; and to see them now so carelessly thrust aside brought the tears to her eyes. She brushed them instantly away. The Duchess, with a piece of broken looking-glass in her hand, was walking up and down the cellar, gazing at the reflection of the new earrings, with eyes so sparkling that they outshone the glittering baubles. As she turned this way and that, now bending forward, now leaning back, in enchanting attitudes, holding the glass so that the ornaments were always in view, a thousand graces and charms were depicted in her of which for the time she was unconscious. Sally, despite her sorrow at the despisal of her love-gift, could not help admiring the beautiful picture, and when the Duchess came close to her, she drew her idol to her breast, and kissed her passionately.
Don't! said the Duchess, with a little struggle to be free; "you hurt me, Sally!"
Sally's arms relaxed, and she turned aside with quivering lips; for a moment, everything swam before her eyes, and she felt quite faint.
And that's not all, said Seth; "I have something else for our Duchess."
Oh, what is it, what is it? cried the Duchess, springing to his side.
See, he said, holding up the hat, "what will Rosemary Lane say to this? Sally, fit it on, and let us see how our princess looks in it."
Sally kept her sobs back with a vicious pinch of her own arm which almost made her scream, and placed the hat on the Duchess's head, to the best advantage be sure. There was no meanness in Sally's soul. She could suffer and be strong. Nothing would satisfy the Duchess that afternoon but to dress herself in her best clothes, and go out and show herself. It was done; and in her blue-merino dress, her boots made for her in the most dainty fashion by Seth's loving hands, her hat and her gold earrings, she walked about Rosemary Lane, with Sally by her side, the envy and admiration of all beholders. In the eyes of the Rosemary Lane folk Sally was a most complete foil to the beautiful Duchess. Her hands were dirty, and her clothes had many a hole in them; but there was a soft light in her eyes, and an expression of deep, almost suffering devotion in her face, which might have attracted the attention of close observers--and not entirely to Sally's disadvantage. The Duchess had an afternoon of rare enjoyment; even those who envied her paid court to her, and her train included all the young radicals in Rosemary Lane who had hitherto held aloof from her, but who now, fairly conquered by the splendour of her personal adornment, fell down and worshipped. It was the story of the golden calf over again--the old story which to-day is being enacted with so much fervour by beggar and millionaire, from Whitechapel to Belgravia. Late at night, when the Duchess was asleep with her gold earrings in her ears, and her new hat hanging by the side of her bed, so that she might see it the moment she awoke in the morning, Sally, with tears in her eyes, wrapt the bits of trumpery glass in paper, and placed them carefully away. "She'll be hunting about for 'em soon," thought Sally, "and then I'll give 'em to her." But the Duchess never sought, never asked for the common love-gift; it was worthless in her eyes, being worthless in itself; she had gold earrings now, and perhaps by-and-by--who could tell?--she would have earrings with sparkling stones in them, worth a handful of money. For in the Duchess's soul was growing a most intense hankering after fine things. She would wander by herself away from Sally and Seth and Rosemary Lane into the thoroughfares frequented by ladies and gentlemen, and watch them and their dress and ways with an eager, strange, and restless spirit. She saw children beautifully dressed riding in carriages; and, yearning to be like them, would shed rebellious tears at the fate which bound her to Rosemary Lane. It is not to be supposed that she considered this matter as clearly as it is here briefly expressed; she was not yet old enough to give it clear expression; but she felt it; the seed of discontent was implanted within her, and grew for lack of material and intellectual light. Intellectual light Seth Dumbrick certainly did give the Duchess, but it was light of a kind which dazed and confused her mental vision. The experiences of the man who mingles freely with men, who shares their pleasures and sorrows, and even their follies and foibles, are of infinitely higher value than those of a solitary liver. Such an existence narrows the sympathies, and it narrowed Seth's. The exercise of all the better feelings of his nature was confined to the small circle which included only Sally and the Duchess, and what of good he saw outside that boundary was evoked by his love for these children of his adoption. Surrounded by these influences the Duchess grew in years. Seth bestowed upon her the fullest measure of affection, and he let her go her way. He placed no restraint upon her; he demanded no sacrifice from her. He never attended a place of worship, nor did she; he had his hard-and-fast opinions upon religious matters, which, viewed in the light (or darkness) of dogmatic belief, constituted him a materialist--an accusation which, with a proper understanding of the term, he would have indignantly denied. Thus, from month to month, and year to year, Rosemary Lane passed through a routine of daily tasks and duties, so dull as to weigh sorely and heavily upon the soul of the Duchess. Colour was necessary to her existence, and she sought for it and obtained it in other places. Stronger and stronger grew her passion for wandering from the narrow to the wider spaces, where the life was more in harmony with her desires, and so frequently and for so long a time was she now absent that, on one occasion when she was missing from morning till night, Seth took her to task for her truant propensities.
Do you want me to keep always in Rosemary Lane? she inquired, with her lovely blue eyes fixed full upon him.
It would be best, was his reply.
It doesn't matter to you, she said, "whether I stop at home or not; there is nothing for me to do, and I sometimes feel that--that----"
Her eyes wandered round the cellar in dull discontent, and with something of self-reproach, also, for the feeling which she strove but could not find words to express.
Well, my dear? said Seth, patiently waiting for an explanation.
Only this, guardian, she rejoined, "that I must go away when I like, and that you mustn't stop me. If you do"--with a little laugh which might mean anything or nothing--"I might run away altogether."
Then there are other places, said Seth, after a short pause; he found it necessary very often when conversing with the Duchess to consider his words before he uttered them; "and other people that you love better than us."
Other places, not other people. I don't know any other people.
You don't love Rosemary Lane, my dear, he said wistfully.
What is there to love in it? she replied, evading the question. "I might love it less if I were not free to go from it when the fit seizes me----"
But you go always alone, my dear, he said, with a sigh, "and I am afraid you might get into mischief."
What mischief? she asked, with innocent wonder in her face. "No one would hurt me. Everybody is kind to me. But as you seem to care for it, I'll take Sally with me now and then. So here's a kiss, guardian, and we'll say no more about it."
Time ripened, but did not beautify Sally. Her figure was awkward and ungainly, and her limbs had not the roundness or the grace of those of the Duchess. Her face was at once too young and too old for her age; you saw in it both the innocence and simplicity of the child and the wary look of the woman of the world who knows that snares abound. Her skin was as brown as a berry, and her form appeared lank and thin, although she and the Duchess were of the same height. Undressing one night, they stood, with bare shoulders, side by side, looking into the glass. The contrast was very striking, and both saw and felt it, the Duchess with a joyous palpitation because of her beauty, and Sally with no repining because of her lack of it. The contrast was striking even in the quality and fashion of their linen, Sally's being coarse, and brown as the skin it covered, and the Duchess's being white and fine, with delicate edgings about it.
I don't believe, said Sally, with tender admiration, her brown arm embracing the Duchess's white shoulder, "that there's another girl in the world with such a skin, and such eyes, and altogether as pretty as you are, Duchess."
Do you really mean it, Sally? asked the Duchess, as though the observation were made for the first instead of the thousandth time.
You know I do.
I think you do, said the Duchess, showing her teeth of pearl. "But if I were to say the same of myself, you'd say I was the vainest instead of the prettiest girl that breathes."
A girl can't help knowing she's pretty, said Sally philosophically; she had imbibed much of the spirit and some of the peculiarities of Seth's utterances, "if she is pretty; and can't help being glad of it. As you are, of course, Duchess."
Yes, I am glad, Sally; I can't tell you how glad. I should be a miserable girl if I were like----
She paused suddenly, with a guilty blush, being about to say, "if I were like you, Sally."
Sally smiled. "I don't doubt I should be glad if I had a skin as white, and eyes as blue, and lips as red as yours; but for all that, I don't seem to be sorry because I am ugly. For I am very ugly!"
She gazed at the reflection of herself in the glass with eyes that were almost merry, and despite her self-depreciation there was something very attractive in her appearance. The grace of youth was hers, and the kindliness and unselfishness of her nature imparted a charm to her face which mere beauty of feature could not supply.
You are not so very ugly, observed the Duchess.
No? questioned Sally.
No. You are as good-looking as most of the girls in Rosemary Lane----
Leaving you out, interrupted Sally quickly.
Yes, said the Duchess complacently, "leaving me out. Your teeth are not white, but they are regular, and I like your mouth, Sally"--kissing it--"though it is a little bit too large. Your hair isn't as silky as mine----"
Oh, no, Duchess, how could it be?
But it is longer and stronger; and as for your eyes, you have no idea how they sparkle. They are full of fire.
If a fairy was to come to me to-night, said Sally, delighted at the Duchess's praises, "and give me wishes, I don't think I would have myself changed."
I know what I would wish for.
What?
Silk dresses and furs and kid gloves and gold watches and chains and bracelets; carriages and footmen and white dogs; flowers and fans and lace pocket-handkerchiefs and----
Oh, my! exclaimed Sally. "We shouldn't have room for them all. Goodnight. I'm so sleepy."
The Duchess dreamt that all the things she wished for were hers, and that she was a fine lady, driving in her carriage through Rosemary Lane, with all the neighbours cheering and bowing to her.
In this way, and with this kind of teaching, the Duchess grew from child to woman. And here for a time we drop the curtain. The silent years, fraught with smiles and tears, roll on; for some the buds are blossoming; for some the leaves are falling; the young look forward to the sunny land they shall never reach; the old look back with sighs upon days made happy by regret. And midst the triumph and the anguish, the hope and fear, the joy and sorrow, Time, with passionless finger, marks the record, and pushes us gently on towards the grave.
Certain pictures here present themselves in the shape of a medallion.
In the centre is the portrait of a beautiful girl-woman, as tall to many a man with an eye for beauty as Rosalind was to Orlando; with limbs perfectly moulded; with white and shapely hands; with flaxen wavy hair and blue eyes tempered by a shade of silver grey; with teeth that are almost transparent in their pearliness, and in whose fair face youth's roses are blooming. This is the Duchess of Rosemary Lane, in the springtime of her life.
Around the portrait of this girl-woman are certain others, associated with her by sympathetic links, not all of which are in active play or in harmony with her being.
The picture of one in whose cheeks, although she is but little over twenty years of age, no roses are blooming. Her cheeks are sallow, and wanting in flesh, her limbs are thin and ungraceful, her long black hair has not a wave in it, her hands are large and coarse from too much work. But her eyes are beautiful, and have in them the almost pathetic light which is frequently seen in the eyes of a faithful dog. This is Sally, grown to womanhood.
The picture of a working man, with large features, overhanging forehead, and great grey eyes, all out of harmony with one another. His hands are hard and horny, his chin is unshaven, and his hair is almost white. This is Seth Dumbrick, going down the hill of life.
The picture of a woman, working in an attic in a poor neighbourhood, within a mile of Rosemary Lane. Her fingers are long and supple, streaks of silver are in her hair, and she has "quite a genteel figure," according to the dictum of her neighbours, who are led to that opinion by the circumstance of the woman being thin and graceful. She is cunning with the needle, as the saying is, but not so cunning as to be able by its aid to butter her bread at every meal; therefore, very often she eats it dry. She is not contented; she is not resigned; but she does not openly repine. She is merely passive. The fire and enthusiasm of life are not dead within her soul, but by the exercise of a hidden force, she keeps all traces of it from the eye of man; she has dreams, but no human being shares them with her, or knows of them. She speaks in a calm even tone, and her voice is low and sweet, but if it expresses feeling or passion, the expression springs from a quality belonging to itself, and not from the revealed emotions of the speaker. She works hard from morning till night in a dull, listless fashion, performing her task conscientiously, and receiving at the end of the week, without thanks or murmurs, the pitiful payment for so many thousands of yards of stitches from the hands of a man who lives in a great house in Lancaster Gate and keeps a score of servants, and a dozen horses in his town stables. This man is a contractor, and he fattens on misery. He will undertake to clothe twenty thousand men in a month, and patient, weak-eyed women who can scarcely get shoes to their feet are working for him, upon starvation wages, through the weary watches of the night. From their poverty and misery comes the wherewithal to pay for his wine and his horses and his fine linen. He was not born to riches; in his earlier years he experienced severe hardships, and frequently had to live on a crust. Those times are gone, never to return, and, strange to say, he has, in his present high state, no feeling of compassion for his once comrades who are suffering as he suffered, and who cannot escape from their bondage. Then he was glad to eat his bread and meat, when he could get it, with the help of a pocket-knife and his fingers; now he can dine off gold plate if he chooses. There is a well-known saying that there is a tide in the affairs of man, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. It is a popular fallacy. Such a tide, with such a golden prize in its flood, comes to not one man in a thousand, but it came to the contractor for whom this woman works, and he took it at its flood. He worked his way from small contracts to large, from large to larger. Having been ground down himself when he was a young man, his sole aim in the execution of his contracts was to grind others down, so that his margin of profit would be broader. It was the truest political economy. Buy in the cheapest market. And if you can by any means in your power,--by any system of grinding-down, by any exercise of terrorism over helpless people who, being unable without your aid to obtain half a loaf in payment for their labour, snatch at the quarter of a loaf you hold out to them (being from necessity compelled to keep some life in their bodies)--if you can by any of these means cheapen still further the cheapest market, do so. Success will attend you, and the world, worshipping success, will look on and approve. An article is only worth what it will fetch in the market, and labour is worth no more than it receives. Such, for instance, as the labour of this needlewoman, who works for sixteen hours out of the twenty-four, and cannot get butter for her bread. Meantime, while she, the type of a class, labours and starves, the contractor, out of her weary stitches, shall die worth a plum, and a costly tombstone shall record his virtues. He pays regularly, to be sure, but you must not defraud him of a stitch. He gives the women constant employment, for in addition to being a Government contractor, he is a large exporter of ready-made clothing. She has worked for him for twelve years. Presenting herself one morning in answer to an advertisement for needlewomen, in company with a hundred other females who had labour to sell and no bread to eat, he happened to pass through the office when her turn came to be called. Although she had been one of the earliest arrivals among the crowd of anxious applicants, she was the last of them all. Not having the strength to push her way to the front, she had been hustled to the rear, and bore the unfair treatment without a murmur. It was the way of the world. The weakest to the wall.
Name? said the clerk.
Mrs. Lenoir.
The contractor paused at the desk by the side of his clerk, and looked at the applicant in a careless way, perhaps attracted to her because her voice was softer than he was accustomed to hear from his workpeople.
French? inquired the clerk.
Yes, it is a French name.
Yourself, I mean, said the clerk testily. "Are you French?"
I am an English lady.
Eh? cried the contractor, in a harsh tone.
I beg your pardon. I am an English woman.
O, said the contractor, somewhat mollified.
Married? pursued the clerk, glancing at Mrs. Lenoir's left hand.
My husband-- pausing, and gazing around uneasily.
Your husband-- prompted the clerk.
Is dead.
Children?
A quivering of the lips, which grew suddenly white. This, however, was not apparent to the clerk, for Mrs. Lenoir wore a veil, and did not raise it.
Children? repeated the clerk.
I have none.
References?
She paused before she replied, and then slowly said:
I was not aware that references were necessary.
To the clerk's surprise the contractor took up the burden of the inquiry.
We are very particular, he said, with a frown, "about the character of the persons we employ, and references, therefore, are necessary."
I did not know, said Mrs. Lenoir, in so low a tone that the words scarcely reached their ears; and turned to depart.
Stop a moment, said the contractor; "what did you come here for?"
For work, with a motion of the hands, deprecating the question as unnecessary.
You want it?
Else I should not be here.
It by no means displeased the contractor that this woman, suing to him for work, should unconsciously have adopted in her last reply an air of haughtiness.
You want work badly, I infer?
I want it badly.
You have applied elsewhere?
I have.
Unsuccessfully?
Unsuccessfully.
From what cause?
I do not know.
You have no other means of support?
None.
If you are unsuccessful in this application, what will you do?
Mrs. Lenoir did not reply to this question. Had the contractor known what was in the woman's mind, he would have been startled out of his propriety. She had been in London for nearly six months, and although she had been indefatigable in her endeavours, had not succeeded in obtaining a day's work. All her resources were exhausted, and she saw nothing but starvation before her. She was wearied and sick with trying, and she pined for rest or work. She must obtain either the one or the other. A vague fear oppressed her that if she were unsuccessful in this application she would be compelled, when the night came, to walk to the river, and gaze upon the restful waters. Then the end would come; she felt that she had not strength to resist it.
The contractor resumed his questioning; it was a kind of angling he seemed to enjoy.
Have you no friends?
No.
Relatives?
No.
Money?
No.
You are alone in the world?
I am alone in the world.
Then if I employ you, I should be your only friend?
I suppose so.
As a rule, proceeded the contractor, "we do not employ ladies in this establishment, which gives employment to----how many persons do I give employment to, Mr. Williams?" addressing the clerk.
There are eleven hundred and seventy-two names upon the books, sir.
The hard taskmaster nodded his head with exceeding satisfaction.
I provide bread for eleven hundred and seventy-two persons, and by to-morrow this number will be increased by two hundred. I have given employment to over two thousand persons at one time, I believe, Mr. Williams?
You have, sir.
And shall do so again, I have no doubt, before long. To repeat, I do not employ ladies in this establishment. Common girls and women are good enough for me--and bad enough. For there is absolutely no gratitude to be found among the poorer classes, absolutely no gratitude; not a particle.
This was said with so distinct an assertion of never having belonged to the working classes, and of their small capacity for good and their large capacity for evil, that it would have been remarkable were it not common. There is no greater autocrat than the democrat when he rises to power. There is no stronger despiser of the poor than the poor man when he rises to wealth.
I shall be grateful if you will give me employment, said Mrs. Lenoir.
You agree with me in what I say?
Certainly, sir.
It was a sure truth that her mind was a blank as to the value of his words, and that she said she agreed with him from a kind of instinct that by doing so her interest would be better served.
And you are a lady, he said pompously.
I ask your pardon, she said, faltering, "the word slipped from me."
What you may have been has nothing to do with what you are. You are not a lady now, you know.
I know, sir.
Lenoir is not an English name, and that is why Mr. Williams asked if you were French. I keep a strict record of the antecedents of all persons I employ, so far as I am able to obtain them. It is my system, and that is the reason, he said, graciously explaining, "of so many questions being asked. I have a gift in my power to bestow--employment--and only the deserving should receive it. I have been deceived frequently, but it is not the fault of the system that the poorer classes are given to falsehood. The record has proved valuable, in instances--valuable to the police, who, through my books, which are always open to them, have traced persons who were wanted for crimes, and who have imposed upon me by obtaining employment at this establishment. The last remarkable case was that of a woman who was wanted for child-murder. Correct me if I am wrong, Mr. Williams."
You are stating the exact facts, sir.
I went to the trial. The wretched woman, who was sentenced to death, had nothing to say in her defence, absolutely nothing, except that she had been betrayed and deserted, and that she had committed the act in a fit of distraction. Betrayed and deserted! he exclaimed harshly, adding still another stone to the many he had flung during the days of his prosperity at all classes of unfortunates. "My judgment teaches me that it is the woman who betrays the man, not the man who betrays the woman. This woman was traced through her handwriting in my books, for all who work for me are expected to sign their names. You have been well educated, doubtless."
Mrs. Lenoir gave a silent assent, and the contractor waved his hand with a motion, which expressed, "I will not reproach you because you have been well educated, and have come down in the world." As he waved his hand, he was struck by the circumstance that while he was airing his views to Mrs. Lenoir, she had kept her veil down, and he said stiffly.
It is usual for persons applying for employment to come unveiled.
Mrs. Lenoir raised her veil, and disclosed a face inexpressibly sad, and which in years gone by had been surpassingly beautiful. Deathly pale as she was--but this may have been produced by a recent emotion--traces of rare beauty still remained, and signs of refinement and delicacy were clearly depicted upon the face revealed to the two men in the dingy office. Even Mr. Williams, who had worked at a desk for forty years, and was not given to sentiment, was ready to admit that this was an interesting experience.
Without husband, children, friends or money, said the contractor, betraying in his slightly altered tone some newly-born feeling of deference for the applicant. "I will give you employment. Mr. Williams, I will take the responsibility of this case upon myself. Mrs. Lenoir can sign the book."
He watched the tremulous signing of the name, Louise Lenoir, and noted the whiteness of the hand that wrote it, with undisguised curiosity, and then Mrs. Lenoir, receiving her order for so many yards of material, took her departure. From that day it became in some way an understanding that whatever changes were made from time to time in the number of workpeople on the establishment, Mrs. Lenoir's services were always to be retained. For twelve years had she been employed by the firm, and had been found faithful and attentive to her duties, the performance of which provided her with the barest subsistence. The contractor, during those years, never omitted to address a few words to her if he happened to see her in Mr. Williams's dingy office. Once she was sick, and unable to work, and this coming to his ears, he sent her provisions and a small sum of money. What sympathetic chord in his nature Mrs. Lenoir had touched was a mystery which he did not, perhaps could not, reveal. It may have pleased him that she, a lady, as he was satisfied in his mind she was, should be dependent upon him for subsistence. He made use of her occasionally at his dinner-parties at Lancaster Gate--for this once common man entertained the magnates of the land--when some phase of social politics was being discussed, referring to the circumstance that among his workpeople was a lady who earned probably twelve shillings a week, and whose beauty and education would in her earlier days have fitted her for a duke's establishment.
She sits now in her poorly furnished attic, stitching steadily through the hours. It is not contractor's work upon which her fingers are busy. She is finishing a girl's dress, and appears to take more than ordinary interest in her work. It is twelve o'clock at night before the last stitches are put in. She sets aside her needle and thread and spreading the dress upon her bed, gazes upon it in silence for many minutes, standing with her thin white fingers interlaced before her. Once or twice she pats it softly as though it contained a living form, and once she kneels by the bed, and buries her face in the soft folds of the dress, kissing it, and shedding quiet tears upon it. Presently she rises with a sigh, and folding the dress over her arm, steps softly downstairs. The house is still and quiet, not a soul but herself is stirring. She pauses at a door on the second landing, and listens, hearing no sound.
May I come in? she whispers.
There is no reply, and she turns the handle of the door.
Oh, who is there? cries a frightened voice in the dark.
It is only I, Lizzie, replies Mrs. Lenoir; "I have finished your dress."
The female leaps from the bed with an exclamation of delight, and quickly lights a candle. Then it is seen that the room is but slightly better furnished than that of Mrs. Lenoir, and that its female occupant is young and fair.
I left my door unlocked, says the girl, "because you said the dress would be finished some time to-night. I thought you would bring it in. How good of you, Mrs. Lenoir!"
A graceful figure has Lizzie, and bright and full of joy are the eyes which gaze upon the dress. It is a silver-grey barege, soft and pretty, with ribbons and bits of lace and everything else about it that art and fancy can devise to render it attractive. Early to-morrow morning Lizzie starts for an excursion into the country--an excursion lasting from morning to night--and as Some One who is constantly in Lizzie's thoughts is to be there, she has a very particular desire to appear to the best advantage.
How good of you, Mrs. Lenoir, she repeats; "may I try it on?"
Yes, Lizzie, if you are not too sleepy.
Lizzie laughs blithely. Too sleepy for such a task! The idea! At her age, and with such love in her heart for Some One who is at this very moment thinking of her!
Mrs. Lenoir assists her with the dress, and pulls it out here, and smoothes it there, while Lizzie, with innocent vanity, surveys herself in the glass. The delighted girl throws her arm round Mrs. Lenoir's neck, and kisses her rapturously.
No one in the world can make a dress like you, Mrs. Lenoir!
A singular contrast are these two females, who by their ages might be mother and daughter; but there is really no kinship between them. The girl so glowing, so full of happiness the woman so sombre, so fraught with sadness. The girl, all sparkle and animation; the woman with not a smile upon her face.
It fits you perfectly, Lizzie.
It's the loveliest, loveliest dress that ever was seen! How can I thank you?
If passion found a place in Mrs. Lenoir's breast, it found none in her face.
I want no thanks, Lizzie; it was a pleasure to me to make the dress for you. Let me sit by your bedside a little--in the dark. Take off the dress; I am glad you like it--there, that will do. Now jump into bed. You have to get up early in the morning.
She arranges the dress over the back of a chair, and blowing out the light, sits by the bed in darkness.
I don't think I shall sleep any more to-night, Mrs. Lenoir.
Yes, you will, Lizzie. Sleep comes to the young and happy.
You speak so sadly--but it is your way.
Yes, Lizzie, it is my way.
You don't sleep well yourself, Mrs. Lenoir.
Not always.
It must be dreadful not to be able to sleep. One has such happy dreams. Do not you?
I dream but seldom, Lizzie; and when I do, I wake up with the prayer that I had died in my sleep. When I was as young as you, I used to have happy dreams, but they never came true.
I wish I could do something to make you feel less sorrowful, says Lizzie, overflowing with pity and gratitude.
You can do nothing, Lizzie. When you are married----
O, Mrs. Lenoir!
As I hope you will be soon, I will make you a prettier dress than this.
It's not possible--nothing could be prettier.
Charles--your lover, Lizzie--is not much older than you.
Oh, yes, he is; ever so much! I am nearly nineteen; he is twenty-three.
He truly loves you, Lizzie?
Truly, truly. I think no one ever loved as much. Am I not a fortunate girl! When I am working--you don't mind my rattling on?
Say what is in your heart, Lizzie.
When I am at work, I whisper to myself, 'Charlie! Charlie!' and I talk to him just as though he was next to me. And Charlie tells me he does the same by me--so that we're always together. The moon is shining through the window, Mrs. Lenoir. Is it a watery moon? Go and see if it is sure to be fine to morrow.
Mrs. Lenoir goes to the window and draws the curtain aside. A shudder passes over her as she sees how bright and clear and beautiful the night is.
Is it a fine night, Mrs. Lenoir?
Clear and bright, Lizzie. There is no sign of rain. To-morrow will be a lovely day.
I am so happy!
Mrs. Lenoir resumes her seat by the bedside.
Do not take any notice of me, Lizzie. I will sit here quite quietly, and when you are asleep, I will go to my room.
So long a silence follows--or it seems so long to the happy girl--that she falls into a doze, to be but partially aroused by Mrs. Lenoir's voice, calling very softly:
Lizzie!
Yes, Charlie! Thus betraying herself.
It is not Charlie; it is I, Mrs. Lenoir.
Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Lenoir. What a foolish girl you must think me--and how ungrateful!
Not at all, Lizzie; it is I who am inconsiderate in keeping you awake. I will say goodnight.
No, no, cries Lizzie, understanding instinctively the woman's need for sympathy, "don't go, or I shall think you are angry. You were going to speak to me."
The girl raises her arm, and draws Mrs. Lenoir's head to her pillow. "Remember, I have no mother." She presses her lips to Mrs. Lenoir's face, which is wet with tears. "Mrs. Lenoir, you have been crying."
It is nothing, Lizzie; I often cry when I am alone.
But you are not alone now; I am with you, and I love you.
It is kind of you to say so; you are in the mood to love, and to believe all things fair and good.
And do not you believe so, Mrs. Lenoir?
Once I did. There was a time---- What reminiscence was in the speaker's mind remained there unexpressed. "Lizzie, you lost your mother when you were a child."
Yes.
How old were you when she died?
Not quite five years.
And you remember her?
Yes.
With love?
Oh, yes.
If, says Mrs. Lenoir, with almost painful hesitation, "she had died, or you had lost her earlier, do you think you would have forgotten her?"
Oh, no, Mrs. Lenoir; I should have always remembered her, have always loved her.
She was kind to you Lizzie.
She loved me more than all the world.
You mean, says Mrs. Lenoir, with fierce eagerness, "she loved as a mother loves, as a woman loves--as only a woman loves!"
Mrs. Lenoir, asks Lizzie slowly, "do not men love as faithfully as women?"
Ask your own heart. You love Charlie and he loves you. Which do you suppose is the stronger love, the most constant, the most likely to endure?
I do not know, replies Lizzie, her sadder tone denoting that Mrs. Lenoir's sadness is contagious. "I do not want to think that Charlie's love is not as strong as mine, and yet--and yet--I do not believe he can love me as much as I love him."
It need not distress you, Lizzie, to think so; it is in the nature of things. It is impossible for a man to love with the whole soul as a woman loves--often, alas! unhappily for her.
And often, too, happily for her, remonstrates Lizzie, with sudden and tender cheerfulness. "A moment ago I felt inclined to regret the thought you put into my mind--that a woman's love is naturally stronger than a man's; but when I think of it, as I am thinking now, I would not have it altered if I could. It is far better for us that it should be so. If I loved Charlie less, I should be less happy; and it makes me glad to think that I can give him more love than he can give me."
God forbid, says Mrs. Lenoir, "that I should endeavour to shake your faith in Charlie. I was speaking out of the experience of a woman with whose sad history I am acquainted. I am tired, Lizzie. Good night. A happy day to-morrow!"
But Lizzie's fond arms cling to Mrs. Lenoir's neck; she is loth to let her go without obtaining from her a mark of affection which has been withheld.
Mrs. Lenoir, I have kissed you twenty times.
Well, Lizzie.
And will kiss you twenty times more--there, and there, there! O, Mrs. Lenoir, will you not give me one kiss?--you have not kissed me once.
Mrs. Lenoir gently extricates herself from Lizzie's affectionate embrace.
I made a vow years ago, Lizzie, never to press my lips to human face until I met with one that my eyes may never behold. Good night.
Still another picture. This one on the sea, to give variety to the group.
A fresh breeze is blowing, the white sails are full, and a noble vessel--the Blue Jacket, a famous clipper--is ploughing her way through the snow-crested waves. Holding on to the bulwarks, a lad, scarcely eighteen years of age, is gazing now into the billowy depths into which they are descending, now to the curling heights up and over which the ship is sailing. A rapture of delight dwells in his great spiritual eyes, and a flush rises to his pale and pensive face, as he gazes on the wonders of the deep. His heart is pulsing with worship of the beautiful, and with his inner sight he sees what is hidden from many. The breeze brings to him musical and thrilling whispers; the laughing, joyous waters teem with images of spiritual loveliness.
By his side, gazing also into the water's depths, and holding on to a rope with a stronger and more careless grip, stands a man whose years exceed two score. A handsome, strongly-built man, with a mole on his right temple which adds to rather than detracts from his beauty. That he is of a commoner order than the lad by whose side he stands is clearly apparent; yet he is one in whom the majority of women would instinctively take a deeper interest because of his riper development and the larger power expressed in him. His features are wanting in the refinement and delicacy which characterise his young companion, but they have boldness and fulness which, allied with good proportion, possess a special and individual attraction of their own.
The young gentleman's name is Arthur Temple; the name of his valet is Ned Chester; and the ship is ploughing her way to England's shores.
What the lad sees in the restless, laughing waters is created by his poetical nature. What the man sees is the issue of an actual experience in the past. In the lad's dreams there is no thread of connection: images of beauty appear and disappear; slowly form themselves, and fade as slowly away; and are not repeated. In the man's, one face is always present, and always visible to his fancy; the face of a beautiful child, whose eyes rival heaven's brightest blue, whose cheeks are blooming with roses, whose head is covered with clusters of golden curls.
A word of retrospect is necessary.
The lad is the only child, by his wife, Lady Temple, of Mr. Temple, a name famous in the superior Law Courts of England, a gentleman of wealth, distinction, and high position in the land. From his birth, Arthur Temple has been the object of the most anxious and devoted care of his parents--the devotion mainly springing from the mother's breast, the anxiety from the father's. Not that the father was wanting in love. On the contrary. As much love as it was in his nature to bestow, he bestowed upon his son. But it was not like the mother's love, purely unselfish; it was alloyed with personal ambition, and was consequently of a coarser grain. From a delicate babe, Arthur Temple grew into a delicate boy--so delicate that his life often hung upon a thread, as ordinary people express it, and he was not sent to a public school for his education. The best private tutors were obtained for him, and the lad showed an eager desire to acquire what they were engaged to teach. But his mental vigour ran ahead of his physical power, and the physicians ordered that his studies should be discontinued. "His brain is too wakeful," they said, "his nerves too sensitive. The difficulty will be not to make him study, but to keep him from it." So it turned out. Free from the trammels of enforced study, and left to follow his own inclination, the lad flew to the books most congenial to his nature, and learnt from them what he most desired to learn. The intellectual power apparent in the lad delighted his father as much as his lack of physical strength distressed him. Mr. Temple's ambition was various. Wealth he loved for the sake of the luxury and ease it conferred; power he coveted, and coveted the more as he rose, for its own sake, and because it placed him above his fellows, and gave him control over them; but beyond all, his chief ambition was to found a family, which should be famous in the land. To the accomplishment of this end two things were necessary: the first, that he himself should become famous, and should amass much wealth; the second, that his son--his only child--should marry, and have children. In the first, he was successful. It is not necessary to inquire by what means--whether by superior talent, by tact, by industry, or by force of patronage--he rose to power, and passed men in the race who at least were equal with himself. The fact is sufficient; he rose above them, and it was acknowledged that the highest prize in his profession might one day be his.
This is an envious world. As worshippers of the successful and powerful are everywhere to be found, so are detractors, and men who by innuendoes throw dirt at those who occupy the best seats. But whatever might be said to his detraction by the envious few, he was quoted in public as a man of rare virtues and integrity. The public prints never neglected an opportunity to point a moral by means of his example. They never tired of quoting his stainless life, his probity, his righteous conduct as an administrator of justice, and holding him forth as a practical illustration of the highest qualities of human nature. It cannot be denied that he, by his conduct, contributed to this result. There was manifest in him a distinct assertion to the possession of spotless honour and blamelessness; so pure a man was he that he had no pity for human failings; that "earthly power doth then show likest God's when mercy seasons justice," found no assenting response within his breast. Woe to the fallen wretches who appeared before him for judgment; he gave them their deservings, with no compassionate regard of the tangled, dirt-stained roads they had been compelled to travel. His stern manner said, "Look upon me. Have I fallen? Why, then, have you?" And in his addresses to criminals when passing sentence, he frequently embodied this in words--whereupon the world would rejoice that the law had such an interpreter, justice such a champion. All other things, therefore, being smooth before him, the full accomplishment of his dearest ambition hung upon the health of his only child, and he experienced the keenest anxiety in the circumstance that as the lad grew in years, he failed in strength. At the age of sixteen, Arthur Temple was a pale, dreamy stripling, full of fine fancies, and sensitive to a fault. The physicians spoke gravely of his condition.
There is but one chance of his attaining manhood, they said; "a complete change must be effected in his life. He must travel. Not on the Continent, or in cities where money can purchase the indulgences of existence. A long sea-voyage in a sailing vessel, to the other end of the world. A sojourn there of twelve or eighteen months. Then home again, with blood thickened, and bones well set."
But if he should die! exclaimed the anxious mother, distracted at the thought of parting with her darling.
He may, replied the physicians; "but there, at all events, he has a chance of living. Keep him at home, and you condemn him to certain death."
After this there was, of course, nothing to be said, and preparations were made for the lad's temporary exile. Arthur received the news with joy. It was the realisation of a cherished dream. He felt like a knight-errant going out in search of romantic adventures. The glad anticipation made his step lighter, his manner cheerier.
He is better already, said the physicians.
The difficulty was to find a companion for him. His father's professional duties would not permit of his leaving England; his mother's health was too delicate. The need was supplied by the younger member of a family of rank and distinction, who, with his family, was going out to settle in the new land across the seas. Into their care Arthur Temple was given. Before he left England, his father conversed privately and seriously with the lad, and in some part made a disclosure of his views of the future. Arthur listened with respect and attention; he had a sincere regard for his father, although between their natures existed an undefinable barrier which prevented the perfect merging of their sympathies.
You are my one only hope, said Mr. Temple to his son; "but for you, all the honours I have gained would be valueless in my eyes. Get strong, for your mother's sake and mine, and come home to take your proper position in society--a position which I have made for you, and which you will worthily sustain. You have yet to choose your career--it will be politics, I hope; it opens out the widest field to a young man of wealth and talent. Before I die, I may see my boy in office."
Arthur shook his head. He had his dreams of the path in which he would choose to walk; the pen should be the weapon by means of which he would carve his way to fame. He expressed his hope, with a boy's timidity and bashfulness, to his father, who was too wise to fan the fire by a show of opposition.'
All that is in the future, he said; "your first care is to get strong."
This conference between father and son was one of solemnity to the lad; he was going on a long voyage, and he and his father might never meet again; there was a thought in his mind to which he was impelled to give utterance.
Be sure of one thing, sir, he said, gazing steadily with his truthful eyes into his father's face, "whatever occurs, in whatever groove my life may run, I shall never do anything to disgrace the name of Temple."
My dear lad! murmured his father.
Whatever career I adopt, said the lad, with a heightened colour, "I solemnly promise always and for ever to set right and justice before me, and to be guided by their light."
His right hand was slightly raised as he spoke, and he looked upwards, as though he were registering a vow. The words were the outcome of his truthful nature, and were a fit utterance at such a time and under such circumstances.
If I believed, continued the lad, "that it were possible I should ever commit an act which would reflect shame upon the name we bear, I should pray to die to-night. I should not be happy if I went away without giving you this assurance. Believe me, sir, I will be worthy of the trust you repose in me."
Mr. Temple received this assurance with averted head. He was accustomed to boyish outbursts from his son, but this last bore with it, in its more earnest tones, a deeper signification than usual.
You afford me great pleasure, Arthur, he said slowly; "I am sure I shall not be disappointed in you. Yet you must not forget that, in the practical issues of life, sentiment must occasionally be set aside."
The lad pondered for a few moments, saying then:
I do not quite understand you, sir.
Mr. Temple briefly explained his meaning.
Merely, my son, that the circumstances of life frequently call for the exercise of wisdom, and that we must look carefully to the results of our actions.
Arthur Temple was always ready for an argument.
I do not know how I should act if wisdom and sentiment clashed. I have heard you say I am given to sentiment.
Yes, Arthur; but you are young.
I hope never to alter, sir. What I intended fully to say was this: that if a matter were before me in which wisdom and sentiment clashed, I do not know how I should act. But I do know how I should act in a matter where wisdom and justice pulled different ways. I may not always be wise; I should despise myself if I suspected that I should not always be just. Had I to choose between a wise and a just man, I know whose hand I should take. Why, sir, it enters into my love for you--his arm here stole around his father's shoulder--"that I know you to be a just man, incapable of a base or mean action! I will follow in your footsteps; the example you have set me shall not be thrown away."
The conversation was then continued in another strain, and shortly afterwards Arthur Temple bade his parents farewell, and started for the New World. From the moment the lad placed his foot upon the vessel which conveyed him from his native land, it seemed as though he were animated by a new life. The lassitude and languor which had weighed upon him were blown away by the fresh breezes that swept across the seas; his pulses beat more briskly, his blood flowed through his veins with fuller force. The pale, sickly lad whose feeble health had but yesterday caused his parents so much anxiety, became drunk with animal spirits, and was the life and soul of the ship. He had his quiet hours, when he would sit in happy silent communion with the spirit of beauty which touched every natural effect in air and sea with heavenly colour, which whispered to him in the silence of the night, when the stars shone peacefully on the waters, and in the storm, when fierce winds lashed the seas to fury. There was exhibited in him that combination of forces which is the special attribute of some highly-strung sensitive natures: a wild riot of animal spirits which compelled him to become the noisiest and foremost in every noisy crew, and a calm, spiritual repose which demanded perfect peacefulness of body and soul. In the New World, he passed a happy time. His name and his father's position and reputation in the home-land were sufficient to ensure him a welcome in every circle, and the rare qualities he displayed endeared him to all with whom he came into association. Wherever he travelled he heard his father spoken of with honour and respect, as a just man and a just judge; and this oft-repeated experience caused him intense pleasure. He grew prouder than ever of his father's good name, and stronger than ever in his resolve to emulate him. It was during this temporary absence from home that he met and engaged Ned Chester for his valet.
Ned's career in the Australias had been one of adventure, and it had made him a jack of all trades and master of none. He had been by turns a stone-breaker, an auctioneer, a splitter of wood, a storekeeper, a shepherd, many times a gold-digger, a newspaper runner, and Heaven knows what besides. Had he been ordinarily industrious, he would most certainly have verified his mother's prediction that he would one day achieve sudden fortune--saying nothing of honour; but his love of indolence was incurable. His slips 'twixt cup and lip were numerous. Having in a tipsy fit purchased a piece of land for a song at a government land sale, he found himself, by reason of his disinclination for work, compelled to dispose of it, and he sold it--a day too soon. Twenty-four hours after it passed from his hands, rich deposits of gold were discovered in its vicinity, and the allotment was worth thousands of pounds. He sunk a shaft on a gold-lead, and having obtained fifty ounces of gold, "went on the spree" till every shilling was spent. When he returned to his shaft he found it in possession of a party of miners, each of whom was making ten ounces a day out of it. He had by the mining laws forfeited all claim to it by his desertion. This run of misfortune, as he termed it, followed him all through his career, and he failed to see that he was in any way accountable for it. Truth compels the further admission that he made the acquaintance of the interior of some colonial prisons, and that in the entire record of his experiences there was little that redounded to his credit. Strange, however, to state that in the midst of the lawlessness that prevails in all new communities, tempting to excess those whose passions are difficult to control, Ned Chester's besetting sin of intemperance which threatened to cut short his life in the Old Country lessened instead of gained in strength. And almost as strange is the fact that, with some indefinite idea that he would one day be called upon to play a gentleman's part in life, he endeavoured to fit himself, by reading and in manners, for this shadowy framework; with so much success as to cause him occasionally to be sneered at by his equals as a "stuck-up swell," a species of abuse which afforded him infinite satisfaction. Undoubtedly, the tenderness with which he held in remembrance the beautiful child-Duchess of Rosemary Lane was the leading incentive to this partial reformation. Her face and pretty figure were constantly before him, and constituted the tenderest episode in his past life--the only tender one indeed, for any love he may have felt for his devoted mother was so alloyed with rank selfishness as to be utterly valueless. As the years rolled on, thoughts travelled apace, and with them he saw the child-Duchess growing to womanhood--to beautiful womanhood. Then began to creep upon him a thirst to see her, and to be with her--a thirst which increased in intensity the more he dwelt upon his wish. The circumstance that kept them apart was to his sense monstrous. She was his--by what right, or if by any, mattered not; she was his, and he was hers; they belonged to each other. But by this time fortune seemed to have entirely deserted him, and he had settled into a from-hand-to-mouth vagabond condition of life which was destructive of every chance of crossing the seas with a shilling in his pocket. At this point of his career chance brought him into communication with Arthur Temple. He had taken service, under an assumed name, as a shepherd, an occupation which gave full scope to his indolent habits, and he was lying on the hills on a summer day, while through an adjacent forest of iron and silver bark trees, Arthur Temple was cantering, in high spirits. The subtle invisible links which draw lives into fatal connection with one another are too strange and mysterious for human comprehension. Between these two men, unconscious of each other's existence, stretched the link which was to bind them in one mesh thousands of miles across the seas, wherefrom other links were stretching to draw them homewards. Ned Chester, lying on the hill, in gloomy abstraction hitched from his pocket a common tin whistle, and began to play his sorrows through the keys. This one accomplishment had never deserted him; the cheap and common instrument became in his hands a divine medium for sweetest melody. The music reached the ears of Arthur Temple as he rode through the silent woods, and he reined in his horse, and listened. He was alone, making his way to the home station of the rich squatter who employed Ned Chester, and the music stirred his poetic mind. He wove from it romantic fancies; it peopled the woods with beautiful images; it made the stillness eloquent. He rode on to meet it, prepared for any surprise, in the shape of delicate nymph or sprite, and came upon a shabbily-dressed man, with a fortnight's beard on him, playing with dirty coarse fingers upon the keys of a common tin whistle. Ned Chester ceased, and gazed at the newcomer. He saw that he was a gentleman, and he ground his teeth with envy; but he gave no expression to the sentiment. Arthur Temple opened the ball.
It is you who were playing?
Yes.
On that? eyeing the tin whistle with intense interest.
Yes; on this.
Will you play again for me?
I don't mind.
Ned placed the whistle to his lips, and played a simple Scotch air, improvising on the theme with rare skill; his organ of love of approbation was very large.
Beautiful! said Arthur Temple. "You have been taught in a good school."
In the slight laugh with which Ned Chester met this assertion was conveyed a suddenly-born reproach against society for having overlooked such superlative talent as he possessed.
I was taught in no school. Adding proudly, "What I know, I picked up myself."
Arthur Temple corrected himself, "In the school of nature."
May be.
What are you?
A shepherd--at present.
You have not been always a shepherd.
Oh, no; with an assumption of having seen considerably better times and of moving in a much better position.
What makes you a shepherd, then?
A man must live.
I beg your pardon, said Arthur, with a sensitive flush. "Are you in Mr. Fitzherbert's employment?"
Mr. Fitzherbert was the name of the squatter for whose home station he was bound, with letters of introduction.
Yes, replied Ned Chester.
I have come on a visit to him. Can you direct me to his place?
Over the hill yonder you will see a wagon track. It will take you straight to the house.
Thank you. Arthur, about to depart, suddenly bethought himself. The musician was poor--was a shepherd from necessity. He took his purse from his pocket; a bank-note fluttered in his fingers. He held it towards Ned. Under ordinary circumstances Ned would have had no hesitation in accepting the gratuity, but as his eyes met the earnest eyes of Arthur Temple, a happy inspiration inspired him to refuse it; it was unaccountable, but it happened so. Ned turned his head from the temptation.
I beg your pardon, said Arthur Temple, his face flushing again; "I had no intention of hurting your feelings. Good day."
Good day.
Arthur Temple rode slowly off, with many a backward glance at the recumbent form of the musical shepherd--glances of which Ned Chester was perfectly cognisant, but of which he took no apparent notice. Before he was out of earshot, Arthur heard the tin whistle at work once more.
A genius, thought he, "and a gentleman by instinct. I am sorry I offered him money."
The impression made upon him by the incident was powerful and durable, and he inwardly resolved to see the man again. This resolve being carried out, Ned Chester was not slow in turning to his own advantage the interest exhibited in him by Arthur Temple. His superior cunning enabled him very soon to obtain the particulars of the personal history of the young gentleman who he determined should become his patron. His patron Arthur Temple certainly did become; he engaged the vagabond man of the world as his valet at a liberal salary, and congratulated himself upon securing as his companion a person whose discovery and undoubted genius formed one of the most romantic episodes of his travels. It was fortunate for Ned that during his association with Arthur Temple in the colonies he met with no friend or acquaintance who might have exposed him to his young master. Nothing in his conduct betrayed him; he behaved in the most exemplary manner, and grew day by day in the goodwill of Arthur. He took pride in his personal appearance, and seizing with avidity the advantages such a connection opened out to him, dressed carefully and well, drank little, and was, to all outward appearance, a most respectable character. He became saving in his habits, also, and at the end of the nine months, which brought the visit of Arthur Temple to the colonies to an end, he was in possession of a sum of money larger than his salary; Ned had not fought with the world for nothing, and his experience was a key which fitted many locks. Arthur Temple was recalled home somewhat earlier than he anticipated.
If you are well, his father wrote, "and if your health is sufficiently established to come home, do so at once, my dear lad. Your mother and myself long for your society. I never cease to think of you, and I want the world to see and appreciate you as I do, though it can never love you as you are loved by your father,
Frederick Temple.
Arthur made immediate preparations for his departure; his nature was grateful and loving, and his duty also was here concerned. The news of the home journey troubled Ned Chester; according to the terms of his engagement, connection between him and Arthur ceased when the latter quitted Australia. Ned had saved sufficient money to pay for his passage home, but he would arrive there comparatively penniless, and in no position to obtain a livelihood. His efforts, therefore, were now directed to obtaining a permanent appointment with Arthur; and to his surprise, after much man[oe]uvring, he found that he could have succeeded much more easily by a straight than by a crooked method.
Certainly, said Arthur; "I shall be glad not to part with you; but I thought you would have no wish to leave Australia."
It has been my endeavour, said Ned, "for years past, but I have not had the means; and it has been my misfortune until now never to have met with a friend."
My father, said Arthur, "will scarcely be prepared for my bringing home a valet, but he will not object to anything I do. Have you any family in England?"
No, sir.
He endeavoured to impart a plaintive tone to this negative, to show how utterly hapless a being he was; but he failed; the joy of returning to England and of meeting the Duchess lighted up his features.
But there is some one at home, said Arthur, with a smile, "whom you will be pleased to see."
Then Ned, with guarded enthusiasm, poured out his soul into the sympathetic ears of Arthur Temple, and spoke, but not by name, of the Duchess of Rosemary Lane, as one whom he had loved for years, and to see whom would complete the happiness of his life. He extolled her beauty, too, with sufficient fervour to carry conviction with it. He knew that these utterances made his position more secure, and imparted to his service a sentiment which was far from disagreeable to Arthur Temple.
This retrospect brings us to the ship, the Blue Jacket, sailing for England, with Arthur and Ned aboard. Arthur enjoys every hour of the voyage. All is fair before him. With youth, with good health, with a pure mind stirred by noble desires, with a father awaiting him holding a high and honourable position in the land, the book of the lad's life, the first pages only of which are opened, is filled with glowing pictures, and he looks forward with calm delight to his arrival home. Ned is less calm. The ship never goes fast enough, the days are longer than they ought to be; he burns with impatience to present himself to the idol of his dreams. Hour by hour the links that bind these men, so strangely brought into association, to other lives in the old land are drawn closer and closer. At length the good ship arrives in port. Arthur is pressed to his father's breast.
Thank God! says the father, "that you are home and in good health."
And he holds Arthur's hand with such warmth as he might have felt in his young days for the woman he loved.
Ned Chester looks around, draws a free full breath, and murmurs:
At last!
Mr. Temple celebrated the return of his son by a great dinner, at which a number of distinguished persons were present; later in the evening his mother held a reception. The evening before the party Arthur was sitting with his parents looking over the list of guests, and he could not help being struck with their quality. Nearly every man invited was a man of mark in the land--politicians, lawyers, a few whose chief merit was their wealth, and some few also of the foremost workers in the ranks of art and literature. Arthur was pleased at the opportunity of becoming personally acquainted with these shining lights.
You will regard this as your first introduction into society, said Mr. Temple to his son. "I shall be glad to see you form friendships, which will bring you both pleasure and profit."
It was unfortunate that, despite his affection for his son, Mr. Temple could never avoid introducing into their conversations chance words and phrases which grated upon the sensitive mind of the younger man. The word "profit" was one of these. Arthur, however, made no comment upon this, and the rebellious expression which overcast his features for an instant was not observed by his father.
You have much to speak of, continued Mr. Temple, "that will be new and interesting to many of our friends, and I need not say that as my son you will be heartily welcomed."
That, of course, sir, said Arthur; "it will not be, I am afraid, for my own deservings."
That cannot come, Arthur, until you are personally known, and then I trust it will be for your sake as well as for mine that friends will attach themselves to you. But indeed I have no doubt that such will be the case.
You are more confident than I am, sir, said Arthur seriously. "I have my fears as to whether I shall feel at home in this new and polished atmosphere, after my experiences of the last two years."
You have no need to fear, Arthur; I am satisfied with you. I think I shall not make you vain when I tell you that your manners are fitted for any circle.
Arthur's mother gazed fondly upon him as he replied, "It is an inheritance, sir, as are honour and truth, which I owe equally to you."
I must confess that it was not with entire confidence I saw you depart for your travels, but you have returned improved, if anything. Contact with the world has already improved you, and has opened your mind to the value of the requirements of society.
Whether it be so, said Arthur, with seriousness, "has yet to be proved. In the New World, with its rougher manners, I have seen much to admire--more, indeed, than in these more civilised surroundings. It is not whether they are fitted for me--it is whether I am fitted for them."
There is plenty of romance to be found in these more sober scenes; it will come to you, Arthur, as it has come to others.
In what shape, sir? And have you met with yours?
Mr. Temple coloured slightly, and devoted himself more closely to his paper, which he was perusing in the intervals of the conversation. Mrs. Temple sighed and looked away. Arthur had inadvertently touched a chord which vibrated keenly in the breasts of his parents. He did not know, and had never heard, that his father had married for money and position, had married without love, but it was no less a fact. A fact of which his mother was not aware until after marriage. It was not a sudden discovery on her part; it was a gradual awakening, made more bitter by the womanly suspicion of another face, fairer perhaps than hers, and better loved in the past. In this she invested Mr. Temple with qualities which he did not possess, and fashioned a hero--not hers, but another woman's--out of very common clay. There had never been any bickerings between her and her husband; she had not distressed him with any outburst of jealously; and he gave her no cause for complaint that the world would have recognised and sympathised with. He was an exemplary husband, faithful and attentive, and was held up as a model by other wives. Mrs. Temple, before her marriage, had had her romance in her love for her husband; a romance carefully fed by him at that time, for he played the lover skillfully. But shortly after they became man and wife her dreams faded slowly and surely away. She saw that he had no heart for her, and it was most natural in her to be positive that, with his attractive person and the soft blandishments of speech of which she had had experience when he wooed her, he had bestowed his heart elsewhere. She kept her secret well, and he was ignorant of it. Had she led him to suspect that she believed herself to be betrayed, it would have caused him much amazement. In the early years of her married life she was not regardless of his movements, but she made no discovery to confirm her jealousy. She was in the habit of watching his expressions when he opened his letters, and of listening with agonised attention to the murmurings in his sleep; but she learnt nothing. Had there been anything to discover she would not have discovered it; she was no match for him in subtlety. Slowly she accepted her fate, with no outward repining, and they lived that calm passionless life which to some souls is worse than death, and which with some highly nervous organisations occasionally leads to violent terminations and tragic results.
You were saying, Arthur, said Mr. Temple, with a direct evasion of Arthur's light question, "that you saw much to admire in the rough manners of the men among whom you travelled."
Very much, sir. The proper assertion of a proper independence, for instance. The kingliness of manhood has no such exemplification in this city of unrest as it has in the free air of the New World, where men and women are not unhealthfully crowded together in small spaces. I see here, among the lower classes of society, no such free step, no such blithe spirits, as I have been accustomed to see among men in the same position at the other end of the world.
There are grades even there, Arthur.
Surely, sir; and human beings, wherever they cluster, must be dependent upon each other; but there, all grades express in their tone and bearing their obligation to each other, as equally from those above to those below, as from those below to those above. It is mutual, and there is no shame in it. Now, such dependence as I see here is ingrained in either real or assumed humiliation. Where it is real, it is pitiable and unnatural; where it is assumed, it is detestable. Either way it is bad and degrading.
Admitting all this--which I do not--to what do you attribute this worse condition of affairs?
If you will pardon me, replied Arthur with modesty, "I have not gone as far as that. I have my thoughts, but I must see more before I should consider myself justified in accusing. I merely record what present themselves as clear pictures to my mind."
When you see more, and are able from positive experience and observation to form just conclusions, you will admit that we must accept the world as we find it, and that the only wise course is to make use of it to our advantage.
To turn its foibles to our advantage, sir?
Most certainly.
Its shipwrecks and calamities--you know what I mean, sir--to turn even those to our advantage?
It is always a difficult thing to argue with an enthusiast, especially with an enthusiast whom one loves as I love you.
I know you love me, sir, interrupted Arthur, warmly, "but I do not like the idea you have expressed. I think you would scarcely uphold it in its fulness."
It is not difficult for a skilful disputant to turn his adversary's words against himself, and so to colour them as to make them bear a stronger and therefore different interpretation. Logic is an excellent weapon, Arthur, but it may be much abused.
Admitted, sir. But it seems to me that it would be more noble and honourable to turn the experience we gained of the world to the world's advantage instead of to our own.
The two aims may go together; but it is an absolute necessity that we should never lose sight of ourselves.
And of our own aggrandisement? interrupted Arthur.
Yes, if you put it that way, though there are pleasanter ways of expressing it.
More polished ways, sir?
Yes.
But not more truthful.
Probably not, said Mr. Temple, with no show of irritation, though he was secretly annoyed. "Remember that self-preservation is Nature's first law."
Which does not mean, said Arthur, flying off at a tangent, as is the way with most impulsive natures, "that we should be continually stabbing our comrades in the race, or grudging to others honours worthily won--such as yours, sir--or withholding from others a true meed of admiration because our own merits--which, of course in our own estimation, are very great--have not been so generally recognised."
These are common phrases, Arthur. Let me warn you to beware of platitudes. No platitudinarian ever rose in the world, or made for himself more than a mediocre reputation.
That is flying away from the argument, sir, said Arthur vivaciously.
Very well, then. I understand you to express that you should deem yourself as fortunate if you were unsuccessful in an ambition as if you had accomplished it.
Not quite that, sir, but in some small way I can imagine circumstances in which I should deem defeat a victory.
Do not imagine, Arthur--or, at all events, imagine as little as you can. Action is what the world calls for, is what the world demands of its leaders. And if you can act in such a way as not to oppose an established order of things, success is all the more sure.
There is much to admire in souls which, animated by high desires, suffer from opposing an established order of things, and are consequently not prosperous.
You have hit a nail, Arthur, said Mr. Temple, with emphasis; "'consequently not prosperous.'"
Exactly so, sir; you take my meaning. I see in these unprosperous men much more to admire than in successful time-servers. And remember, sir, said Arthur, who frequently showed much pertinaciousness in argument, "that the very carrying out in its integrity of the axiom that preservation is Nature's first law would rob history of its most noble and heroic examples. I hope you do not mind my expressing myself thus plainly and, as I perceive, antagonistically to your views."
Not at all. It is better that you should speak plainly to me what is in your mind than that you should needlessly betray yourself to strangers, who would not understand you. (Arthur was about to say here that he should not be deterred from expressing himself clearly in any society, but his father anticipated the declaration, and gave him no opportunity of expressing it.) "It does one good to be able to relieve himself in confidence of the vapours that oppress him. The air becomes clearer afterwards. Notwithstanding our seeming difference, I trust that our sympathies are in common----"
I trust so, sir.
We speak and judge from different standpoints; I from a long and varied experience of human nature, you from the threshold of life. When you are my age, you will think exactly as I do, and will be perhaps endeavouring, as I am endeavouring now, to check in your own children the enthusiasm which blinds one with excess of light, and which almost invariably leads to false and unpractical conclusions.
Arthur pondered over these words in silence, as he sat and glanced at a newspaper, as his father was doing. The calm judicial air which Mr. Temple assumed in these arguments enabled him generally to obtain an apparent victory, but it was seldom that either of the disputants was satisfied with the result. Purposely cultivating the intimacy between himself and Arthur, so that he might counteract the enthusiasm which he feared might step in the worldly way of his son, Mr. Temple was conscious that he effected but little good, and he could not but acknowledge to himself with inward trepidation that Arthur never failed to advocate the nobler side. This acknowledgment brought to his soul a sense of deep reproach--reproach which had he not loved his son, and based all his hopes upon him, might have caused an estrangement between them. For it was Arthur's words which awoke, not exactly his conscience, but his intellectual judgment, which compelled him to admit within the recesses of his own heart that he always played the meaner and the baser part in their arguments. Sometimes he asked himself if the lad was sincere; he subjected his own life as a young man to a critical analysis, to discover whether he had been led away in his estimate of men and things as he feared Arthur was being led away. It was characteristic of the man that at this period of his life--whatever he may have done in his more youthful days--he did not juggle with himself. In his solitary musings and communings with his inner nature he admitted the truth--but the glowing and delicate promptings never passed his lips, never found utterance. So now, on looking back, he saw at a single mental glance the wide barrier which divided his passions and his enthusiasms from those of his son. This barrier may be expressed in one word: selfishness. It was this sentiment that had ruled his life, that had made him blind to the consequences he might inflict upon others by his acts. Whether it were a voluntary or involuntary guiding, by this sentiment had he been led step by step up the ladder, casting no look at the despair which lay behind him. It was otherwise with Arthur; his father recognised that his son's promptings were generous and noble, and that there was no atom of selfishness in his judgment of this and that. And when he came to this point a smile played about his lips, and a world of meaning found expression in his unuttered thought: "Arthur has not yet begun to live."
The lad thought also; he did not pause to ask himself whether his convictions were right or wrong--to those he was fixed by an unerring instinct. But he tried, with little success, to bring his views into harmony with his father's worldly wisdom. The only consolation he derived was in the reflection that there was more than one fair road to a goal. As to throwing a doubt upon his father's rectitude and honour, no shadow of such a thought crossed his mind. He felt, as his father did, that there was a barrier between them, and he mentally resolved to endeavour to break it down. He glanced at his father's immovable face and tightly-closed lips, and saw that he was occupied by musings that distressed him. "It is I," thought Arthur, "who have given him pain. He is disappointed in me. Surely it is only because we cannot arrive at an understanding." How to commence to break down this barrier? The first means were in his hands--a newspaper, the epitome of life in all its large and small aspects, from the deposing of an emperor to the celebration of a new style in bonnets, from the horrible massacre of thousands of human beings in the East of Europe to the mild kicking of his wife by a costermonger in the East of London.
He commenced in a trembling voice--for the lad was the soul of ingenuousness, and could not play a part, however small, without betraying himself--by an introductory comment on a political question of the day. Mr. Temple instantly aroused himself, and replied, without observing Arthur's agitation. Gaining confidence, Arthur proceeded, and an animated conversation ensued. Their views were again antagonistic, but there was nothing personally painful in their dissent. With the skill of long experience Mr. Temple drew Arthur out upon the theme, and the lad became eloquent, as earnestness generally is--but this eloquence, combined with this earnestness, was of a standard so high, and the language and periods in which Arthur illustrated his points were at once so powerful and polished, that Mr. Temple thrilled with exultation, and he thought, "All is well." His face cleared, his manner was almost joyous, and when the subject was exhausted he said:
Arthur, you have afforded me great delight. I cannot express my pride and pleasure. You are an orator.
Arthur blushed and stammered; the praise unnerved him, and brought him back to sober earth.
Yes, continued Mr. Temple, "you are an orator, and you will fall into your proper groove in life---- Nay, do not interrupt me; you will verify my prediction. When a great, a noble gift is given to a man, and he knows that it is his, and when opportunity is given to him as it will be given to you, it is impossible for him to neglect it. God has given you the gift of eloquence, and you will fail in your duty if you do not properly use it. You are far in advance of me; I am accounted a good speaker, but I confess to you that I never lose myself in my words; if I did, I should become incoherent. I know beforehand what I am about to say; your words are unstudied, and are conveyed with a fire which cannot but stir your listeners to enthusiasm. That your political views differ from mine hurts me but little." Arthur raised his face to his father's in quick, affectionate response. "I am a Conservative; if your views do not undergo change, you will become a Liberal; and in this you will but march with the times. The fields are equally honourable. You will become a champion, a leader of your party. My dear boy, my fondest hopes will be realised in you."
From politics they passed to other themes, drawn from the columns of the newspaper, and then silence reigned for a little while. Mrs. Temple had left the room, and Arthur was now engaged in a column which appeared to interest him more than politics, foreign complications or the state of the money market, all of which matters had formed subject of conversation.
Presently he spoke.
It is a great pleasure to me to be able to speak openly to you, sir, and to feel that, though you do not always agree with me, I can say exactly what is in my mind.
Unhappily, Arthur, this kind of confidence is too rarely cultivated. It needs no cultivation in us. It already exists.
As he spoke his arm stole about Arthur's shoulder, and fondly rested there.
You have so directed my thoughts to myself and the career before me that as I read I find myself almost unconsciously examining the relative impressions produced upon me by current events.
An intellectual sign, Arthur.
Pray, sir, do not flatter me too much, said Arthur, seriously; "it produces in me a sensation which is not entirely agreeable."
You must make allowance, Arthur, for a father's pride in his son.
Forgive me for my remark; I forgot myself for a moment. I doubt whether I deserve the love you bestow upon me.
You more than deserve it, my dear boy, by returning it.
Which I do sir, heartily, sincerely. Well then, I was about to say that I find myself much more affected by the domestic and social incidents in the newspapers than by the larger historical records. For instance, neither the political crisis nor the war produces within me so strong an impression as the sad history comprised in this short paragraph.
Mr. Temple turned his head towards the paper, and glanced at the paragraph pointed out by Arthur, making no attempt to read it.
Concerning any public person, Arthur?
No, sir. Concerning one whose name might never have been known but for her misfortunes.
Her misfortunes! A woman, then?
A poor girl, found drowned in the river.
Murdered?
She met her death by her own hands. On the river bank she had placed her child, a mere infant three or four months old. The poor girl--scarcely my age, and well-looking, the account says--must have drowned herself in the night when it was dark. First she stripped herself of her warm underclothing, and wrapped her baby in it to protect it from the cold, hoping, no doubt, that it would fall into humane hands soon after she walked to her doom. But the night passed, and the child was not discovered. By a strange fatality, within a few hours after the girl-mother was drowned, the waves washed her body on to the river's bank near to the form of her child, and when the sun shone, its light fell upon the dead mother and her living child lying side by side. There was nothing about her to prove her identity; even the initials on her clothes had been carefully removed. But a paper was found, on which was written, evidently by one of fair education: 'By my sinful act I remove myself and my shame from the eyes of a cruel world. I die in despair, unconsoled by the belief that retribution will fall upon the head of him who betrayed and deserted me.' On the head of him who betrayed her! Is it possible that such a man, after reading this record of his guilt--as perhaps he may be doing at this very moment--can enjoy a moment's happiness? Is it possible that he can sleep? Though by this dead girl's generosity his secret is safe, retribution will fall upon him--as surely as there is a heaven above us! If I discovered that ever in my life I had clasped the hand of such a man, I should be tempted to cut mine from its wrist to rid myself of the shameful contamination of his touch! What is the matter, sir? You are ill!
A sudden faintness, Arthur--nothing more. I have been working hard lately, and I need rest. Goodnight.
As Mr. Temple rose to leave the room, he turned from Arthur's anxious gaze a face that was like the face of a ghost.
In more than one respect Mrs. Lenoir was an object of interest to her neighbours, and in some sense a mystery, which they solved after a fashion not uncommon among poor people. That she was a woman of superior breeding to themselves, and that she did not associate freely with them, would certainly, but for one consideration, have stirred their resentment against her. Mrs. Lenoir did not, to adopt their own vernacular, give herself airs. "At all events," said they, "there's nothing stuck up about her." Moving among them, with her silent ways, she exhibited no consciousness of superiority, as other women in a similar position might have done; instead of holding her head above them, she walked the streets with a demeanour so uniformly sad and humble, that the feeling she evoked was one more of pity than of resentment. There is in some humilities a pride which hurts by contact. Had this been apparent in Mrs. Lenoir, her neighbours' tongues would have wagged remorselessly in her disfavour; but the contrary was the case. There was expressed in her bearing a mute appeal to them to be merciful to her; instead of placing herself above them, she seemed to place herself below them, and she conveyed the impression of living through the sad days weighed down by a grief too deep for utterance, and either too sacred or too terrible for human communion. When circumstances brought her into communication with her neighbours, her gentleness won respect and consideration; and what was known of her life outside the boundary of the lonely room she occupied, and which no person was allowed to enter, touched their hearts in her favour. Thus, as far as her means allowed her--and indeed, although they were not aware of it, far beyond her means--she was kind to the sick and to those who were poorer than herself, and she frequently went hungry to bed because of the sacrifices she made for them. Such small help as she could give was invariably proffered unobtrusively, almost secretly; but it became known, and it did her no harm in the estimation of her neighbours.
But what excited the greatest curiosity and the most frequent comment was the strange fancy which possessed her of seeking out young girls who were sweethearting, and voluntarily rendering them just that kind of service which they were likely most to value--ministering to their innocent vanities in a manner which they regarded as noble and generous. Mrs. Lenoir was a cunning needlewoman, and in the cutting out of a dress had no equal in the neighbourhood. She possessed, also, the art rare among Englishwomen, of knowing precisely the style, colours, and material which would best become the girl she desired to serve. To many such Mrs. Lenoir would introduce herself, and offer her services as dressmaker, stipulating beforehand that she should be allowed to work for love, and not for money. The exercise of this singular fancy made her almost a public character; and many a girl who was indebted to her, and whose wooing was brought to a happy conclusion, endeavoured gratefully to requite her services by pressing an intimacy upon her. Mrs. Lenoir steadily repelled every advance made in this direction. She gave them most willingly the work of her hands, but she would not admit them to her heart, nor would she confide her sorrows to them. She received their confidences, and sympathised with and advised them; but she gave no confidence in return.
Had they been cognisant of the life that was hidden from them, they might have declared her to be mad. This silent, reserved, and strangely-kind woman was subject to emotions and passions which no human eye witnessed, which no human breast shared. In the solitude of her poorly-furnished attic, she would stand motionless for hours, looking out upon the darkness of the night. At these times, not a sound, not a movement escaped her; she was as one in a trance, incapable of motion. And not unlikely, as is recorded of those who lie in that death-like sleep, there was in her mind a chaos of thought, terrible and overwhelming. It was always in the night that these moods took possession of her. It was a peculiar phase of her condition that darkness had no terrors for her. When dark shadows only were visible, she was outwardly calm and peaceful; but moonlight stirred her to startling extravagances. She trembled, she shuddered, her white lips moved convulsively, she sank upon her knees, and strove, with wildly-waving hands, to beat away the light. But she was dominated by a resistless force which compelled her to face the light, and draw from it memories which agonised her. The brighter and more beautiful was the night, the keener was her pain, and she had no power to fly from it. If she awoke from sleep, and saw the moon shining through the window, she would hide her eyes in the bedclothes, with tears and sobs that came from a broken heart, and the next moment her feeble hands would pluck the clothes aside, so that she might gaze upon the peaceful light which stabbed her like a knife. She was ruled by other influences, scarcely less powerful. Moonlight shining on still waters; certain flowers; falling snow--all these terribly disturbed her, and aroused in full force the memories which tortured her. Had her neighbours witnessed her paroxysms on on these occasions, they would have had the fairest reason for declaring that Mrs. Lenoir was mad.
She lived entirely out of the world; read no newspapers; played a part in no scandals; and the throbs of great ambitions which shook thrones and nations never reached the heart, never touched the soul of this lonely woman, who might have been supposed to be waiting for death to put an end to her sorrows.
A few weeks after she had made Lizzie's dress, Mrs. Lenoir was sitting as usual alone in her room. She was not at work; with her hand supporting her face, she was gazing with tearful eyes upon three pictures, which she had taken from a desk which stood open on the table. This desk was in itself a remarkable possession for a woman in her position in life. It was inlaid with many kinds of curious woods, and slender devices in silver; it was old, and had seen service, but it had been carefully used. The three pictures represented sketches of a beautiful face, the first of a child a year old, the second the child grown to girlhood, the third the girl grown to womanhood. The pictures were painted in water-colours, and the third had been but recently sketched. Over the mantelshelf hung a copy of this last picture, which--as was the case with all of them--though the hand of the amateur was apparent, evidenced a loving care in its execution. Long and with yearning eyes did Mrs. Lenoir gaze upon the beautiful face; had it been warm and living by her side, a more intense and worshipping love could not have been expressed by the lonely woman. The striking of eight o'clock from an adjacent church roused her; with a sigh that was like a sob, she placed the pictures in her desk, and setting it aside, resumed the needlework which she had allowed to fall into her lap.
Winter had come somewhat suddenly upon the city, and snow had fallen earlier than usual. One candle supplied the room with light, and a very small fire with warmth. For an hour Mrs. Lenoir worked with the monotony of a machine, and then she was disturbed by a knock at the door. She turned her head, but did not speak. The knock was repeated, and a voice from without called to her.
Are you at home, Mrs. Lenoir?
Yes, Lizzie.
Let me in.
I will come to you.
Mrs. Lenoir went to the door, which was locked, and, turning the key, stepped into the passage.
Well, Lizzie?
But you must let me in, Mrs. Lenoir. I want to tell you something, and I can't speak in the dark.
Lizzie, you must bear with my strange moods. You know I never receive visitors.
To call me a visitor! And I've run to tell you the very first! Mrs. Lenoir, I have no mother.
Lizzie's pleading conquered. She glided by Mrs. Lenoir, and entered the room. Mrs. Lenoir slowly followed. Lizzie's face was bright, her manner joyous. "Guess what has happened, Mrs. Lenoir!"
Mrs. Lenoir cast a glance at Lizzie's happy face.
You will soon be married, Lizzie.
Yes, said Lizzie, with sparkling eyes, "it was all settled this evening. And do you know, Mrs. Lenoir, that though I've been thinking of it and thinking of it ever since me and Charlie have known each other, it seems as if something wonderful has happened which I never could have hoped would come true. But it is true, Mrs. Lenoir. In three weeks from this very day. It's like a dream."
Mrs. Lenoir had resumed her work while Lizzie was speaking, and now steadily pursued it as the girl continued to prattle of her hopes and dreams.
You will make my dress, Mrs. Lenoir?
Yes, Lizzie.
And you'll let Charlie pay for the making?
You must find another dressmaker, then. What I do for you I do for----
Love!
If you like to call it so, Lizzie. At all events I will not take money for it.
You are too good to me, Mrs. Lenoir. I can't help myself; you must make my dress, because no one else could do it a hundredth part as well, and because, for Charlie's sake, I want to look as nice as possible. And that's what I mean to do all my life. I'll make myself always look as nice as I can, so that Charlie shall never get tired of me. But one thing you must promise me, Mrs. Lenoir.
What is that, Lizzie?
You'll come to the wedding.
Mrs. Lenoir shook her head.
I go nowhere, as you know, Lizzie. You must not expect me.
But I have set my heart upon it, and Charlie has too! I am always talking to him of you, and he sent me up now especially to bring you, or to ask if he may come and see you. 'Perhaps she'll take a bit of a walk with us,' said Charlie. It has left off snowing----
Mrs. Lenoir shuddered.
Has it been snowing?
Oh, for a couple of hours! The ground looks beautiful; but everything is beautiful now. Lizzie looked towards the window. "Ah, you didn't see the snow because the blind was down. Do come, Mrs. Lenoir."
No, Lizzie, you must not try to persuade me; it is useless.
But you are so much alone--you never go anywhere! And this is the first time you have allowed me to come into your room. You are unhappy, I know, and you don't deserve to be. Let me love you, Mrs. Lenoir.
Lizzie, I must live as I have always lived. It is my fate.
Has it been so all your life? When you were my age, were you the same as you are now? Ah, no; I can read faces, and yours has answered me. I wish I could comfort you.
It is not in your power. Life for me contains only one possible comfort, only one possible joy; but so remote, so unlikely ever to come, that I fear I shall die without meeting it. Leave me now; I have a great deal of work to get through to-night.
Lizzie, perceiving that further persuasion would be useless, turned to leave the room. As she did so, her eyes fell upon the picture of the girl-woman hanging over the mantelshelf. With a cry of delight she stepped close to it.
How beautiful! Is it your portrait, Mrs. Lenoir, when you were a girl? Ah, yes, it is like you.
It is not my portrait, Lizzie.
Whose then? Do you know her? But of course you do. What lovely eyes and hair! It is a face I could never forget if I had once seen it. Who is she?
The expression of hopeless love in Mrs. Lenoir's eyes as she gazed upon the picture was pitiful to see.
It is a portrait painted from a heart's memory, Lizzie.
Painted by you?
Yes.
How beautifully it is done! I always knew you were a lady. And I've been told you can speak languages. I was a little girl when I heard the story of a poor foreigner dying in this street, who gave you, in a foreign language, his dying message to his friends abroad. That is true, is it not, Mrs. Lenoir?
It is quite true. It would have been better for me had I been poor and ignorant, and had I not been what you suppose me to have been--a lady. Lizzie, if you love me, leave me!
Mrs. Lenoir, is there no hope of happiness for you?
Have I not already told you? I have a hope, a wild, unreasoning hope, springing from the bitterest sorrow that ever fell to woman's lot. Apart from that, my only desire is to live and die in peace. And now, Lizzie, goodnight.
Constrained to leave, Lizzie took her departure, saddened by the sadness of this woman of sorrow; but the impress of another's grief soon fades from the heart in which happiness reigns, and, within a few minutes, the girl, in the company of her lover, was again rapt in the contemplation of her own bright dreams.
The moment Lizzie quitted the room, Mrs. Lenoir turned the key in the door, so that no other person should enter. The interview had affected her powerfully, and the endeavour she made to resume her work was futile; her fingers refused to fulfil their office. Rising from her seat, she paced the room with uneven steps, with her hands tightly clasped before her. To and fro, to and fro she walked, casting her eyes fearsomely towards the window every time she turned to face it. The curtains were thick, and the night was hidden from her, but she seemed to see it through the dark folds; it possessed a terrible fascination for her, against which she vainly struggled. It had been snowing, Lizzie had said. She had not known it; was it snowing still? She would not, she dared not look; she clasped her fingers so tightly that the blood deserted them; she was fearful that if she relaxed her grasp, they would tear the curtains aside, and reveal what she dreaded to see. For on this night, when she had been gazing on the face which was present to her through her dreaming and waking hours, when her heart had been cruelly stirred by the words which had passed between Lizzie and herself, the thought of the white and pitiless snow was more than ever terrifying to her. It brought back to her with terrible force memories the creation of which had been productive of fatal results to the peace and happiness of her life. They never recurred to her without bringing with them visions of snow falling, or of lying still as death on hill and plain. The familiar faces in these scenes were few--a man she had loved; a man who loved her; a child--and at this point, all actual knowledge stopped. What followed was blurred and indistinct. She had ridden or had walked through the snow for months, as it seemed; there was no day--it was always night; the white plains were alive with light; the moon shone in the heavens; the white sprays flew from the horse's hoofs; through narrow lanes and trackless fields she rode and rode until a break occurred in the oppressive monotony. They are in a cottage, she and the man who loved her, and a sudden faintness comes upon her. Is it a creation of her fancy that she hears a woman's soft voice singing to her child, or is the sound really in the cottage? Another thing. Is she looking upon a baby lying in a cradle, and does she press her lips upon the sleeping infant's face? Fact and fancy are so strangely commingled--the glare of the white snow has so dazed her--the air is so thick with shadowy forms and faces--that she cannot separate the real from the ideal. But it is true that she is on the road again, and that the horse is plodding along, throwing the white sprays from his hoofs as before, until another change comes upon the scene. She and the man are toiling wearily through the snow, which she now looks upon as her enemy, toiling wearily, wearily onward, until they reach the gate of a church, when she feels her senses deserting her. Earth and sky are merging into one another, and all things are fading from her sight--all things but the quaint old church with its hooded porch, which bends compassionately towards her, and offers her a peaceful sanctuary. This church and the tombstones around it, the very form and shape of which she sees clearly in the midst of her agony, she has ever clearly remembered. Even in the death-like trance that falls upon her, she sees the outline of the church and its approaches. Friendly hands assist her into the sanctuary of rest. How long does she lie in peace? How many hours, or days, or weeks pass by, before she sees strange faces bending over her, before she hears strange voices about her? What has occurred between the agony of the time that has gone, and the ineffable rapture that fills her veins as she presses a baby to her breast? What follows after this? She cannot tell. During the sad and lonely years that have brought silver streaks into her hair, she has striven hundreds of times to recall the sequence of events that culminated with the loss of her treasure. But she strives in vain. Time and her own weakness have destroyed the record. Long intervals of illness, during which the snow is always falling and the moonlight always gleaming; glimpses of heaven in the bright-blue laughing eyes of a lovely babe--her own child, who lies upon her breast, pure and beautiful as an angel; then, a terrible darkness; and loneliness for evermore.
For evermore? Is this truly to be her fate? Can Heaven be so cruel as to allow her to die without gazing again upon the face of her child? For a blind faith possesses her that her darling still lives. Against all reason--in the face of all circumstance. Can she not believe that, during an illness which almost proved fatal, her child was taken from her, and died before she recovered? When this was told her, in a careless way, as though it were a matter so ordinary as to be scarcely worthy of comment, and when to this were added sharp and bitter words to the effect that she ought to fall upon her knees, and thank God that her child was not living to share her shame and disgrace, she looked with a pitiful smile into the face of her informant, and, rising without a word, went her way into the world. Into the lonely world, which henceforth contained no hand that she could clasp in love or friendship.
Her shame! Yes, truly hers. It held an abiding place in her heart. It caused her to shrink from the gaze of man, and from the words, more surely bitter, which she saw trembling on the lips of those who would address her. Eyes flashed contempt upon her; tongues reviled her; fingers were pointed at her in scorn and abhorrence. What was there before her but to fly from these stings and nettles, and hide herself from the sight of all who chanced to know her? She accepted her lot. Heart-broken she wandered into the great depths of the city, and lived her life of silence.
As now she paced the attic, the walls of which had witnessed her long agony, her thoughts, as at such periods they always did, travelled to the fatal time which had wrecked her peace and almost destroyed her reason. She had hitherto suffered without repining, but her spirit began to rebel against the injustice of the fate which had stripped her life of joy. Until now there had been nothing of sullenness in her resignation; she had accepted her hard lot with passive unreasoning submission; and had flung back no stones, even in thought, in return for those that were cast at her. But she seemed on this night to have reached the supreme point of resignation, and some sense of the heartless wrong which had been inflicted upon her stole into her soul. But this new feeling did not debar her from the contemplation of the night outside her room. It was snowing, Lizzie had said. She could not resist the fascination of the words; they drew her to the window; they compelled her to pluck the curtain aside. The snow was falling.
With feverish haste, scarce knowing what she was doing, she fastened her bonnet, flung her shawl over her shoulders, and walked into the streets. There were but few persons stirring in her neighbourhood; the public-houses, of course, were full, and the street-vendors were stamping their feet upon the pavement, more from habit, being in the presence of snow, than from necessity, for the weather was a long way from freezing-point; but Mrs. Lenoir paid no heed to the signs about her. Her thoughts were her companions, to divert her attention from which would need something more powerful than ordinary sights and sounds. She did not appear to be conscious of the road she was taking, nor to care whither she directed her steps. Now and then, a passer-by paused to gaze after the excited woman, who speeded onwards as though an enemy were on her track. So fast did she walk that she was soon out of the narrow labyrinths, and treading the wider thoroughfares, past the Royal Exchange and Mansion House, through Cheapside and St. Paul's Churchyard, into the busier life of Fleet Street--to avoid which, or from some unseen motive, she turned mechanically to the left, and came on to the Embankment, by the side of the river. Then, for the first time, she paused, but not for long. The moon was shining, and a long rippling line of light stretched to the edge of the water, at some distance from the spot on which she stood, where it lapped with a dismal sound the stone steps of a landing-place. The waves washed the rippling light on to the dark slimy stones, and, to her fevered fancy, the light crept up the stones to the level surface of the pavement, along which it slowly unwound itself, like a coil, until it touched her feet. With a shudder, she stepped into this imaginary line of light, not hurriedly now, but softly on and on, down the steps, until her shoes were in the water. A man rose like a black shadow from a tomb, and, with an oath, clutched her arm. She wrenched it from him with an affrighted cry and fled--so swiftly, that though he who had saved her hurried after her, he could not reach her side. She ran along the Embankment till she came to Westminster Bridge, when she turned her back upon the river, and mingled with the people that were going towards the Strand.
She had walked at least five miles, but she felt no fatigue. There are occasions when the weakest bodies are capable of strains that would break down the strongest organisations, and this frail woman was upheld by mental forces which supplied her with power to bear. In the Strand she found her progress impeded. It was eleven o'clock, and the theatres were pouring out their animated crowds. In one of these crowds she became ingulfed, and formed a passive unit in the excited throng, being hustled this way and that, and pushed mercilessly about by those who were struggling to disentangle themselves. This rough treatment produced no effect upon her; she submitted in patience, and in time reached the edge of the crowd. When she arrived at a certain point, where the people had room to move more freely, two persons, a man and a woman, passed her, and the voice of the woman fell upon her ears.
An exclamation of bewildered amazement hung upon Mrs. Lenoir's lips. It was her own voice she had heard, and she had not spoken. Not the sad voice which those who knew her were accustomed to hear, but the glad blithe voice which was hers in her youth, and which she had been told was sweet as music.
She paused and listened; but only the accustomed Babel of sound reached her now. She had distinguished but one word--"Love," and she knew she had not uttered it. Although her nerves were quivering under the influence of the mystery, she had no choice but to pursue her way, and she continued walking in the direction of Temple Bar.
Gradually the human throng lessened in numbers. It was spreading itself towards the home lights through all the windings of the city; and when Mrs. Lenoir had passed the arch of the time-honoured obstruction she had room enough and to spare. Now and then she was overlapped by persons whose gait was more hurried than her own; more frequently she passed others who were walking at a more reasonable pace. Approaching a couple who, arm-in-arm, were stepping onwards as though it were noon instead of near midnight, she heard again the voice that had startled her.
Her first impulse was to run forward and look upon the face of the speaker; but she restrained herself, or rather was restrained by the conflicting passions which agitated her breast; and without removing her eyes from the forms of the two persons before her, she followed them with feeble uncertain steps. For the woman's strength was going from her; she was wearied and exhausted, and she had to struggle now with nature. It was fortunate for her that the man and the woman she was following were walking slowly, or she must inevitably have lost them. And even as it was, she dragged her weary feet after them, as one in a dream might have done.
The woman was young; joyous health and spirits proclaimed themselves in the light springy step; and the musical laugh that rang frequently in the air was like the sound of silver bells. That she was beautiful could not be doubted: it was the theme of their conversation at the present moment.
And you think me very beautiful?
You are more than beautiful. You are the most lovely girl in the world. But if I continue to tell you the same story, I shall make you the vainest as well as the loveliest.
Oh, no; I like to hear you. Go on.
Then there's another danger. Though you know I love you----
Yes.
And though you have told me you love me----
Yes.
You do, you little witch?
Oh, yes.
Well, there's the danger of losing you.
In what way? How?
Some one else might see you, and fall in love with you.
"Suppose some one else couldn't help it? This with a delicious silvery laugh. By heavens, you're enough to drive a saint out of his senses!""
"Me?
Well, your cool way of saying things.
But go on about the danger of losing me.
And you might fall in love with some one else.
I don't think so, said the girl, with the air of one who was considering a problem which did not affect her. "I couldn't fall in love with any man that wasn't a gentleman. And you are one?"
I hope so.
That is why I like you. You are a gentleman, you are good-looking and rich; while I----
You! It was scarcely an interruption, for the girl paused, as in curious contemplation of what might follow.
You! You are fit to be a queen.
I am a duchess, remember, said the girl, with an arch smile, which became graver with the words--"I wonder why they called me so?"
Because they saw you were above them, and better than they.
Why should they have seen that? What made them see it? I could hardly speak at the time, and I don't even remember it.
Nor anything about yourself before you were brought to Rosemary Lane? inquired the man anxiously.
No; nothing that does not seem like a dream.
One can remember dreams.
I can't remember mine. But sometimes I have a curious impression upon me.
May I hear it?
Why not? It is upon me now. It is this: that when I dreamt--before I remember anything, you know----
Yes.
That it was always snowing, as it is now.
What subtle vapour affected the fair and beautiful girl--surely subject to no distempered fancies, glowing as she was with health, and with pulses beating joyously--that she should suddenly pause and gaze upon the snow with a troubled air? What subtle vapour affected the wan and exhausted woman behind her that at the same moment she also should pause and hold her thin, transparent hand to her eyes, to shut out the white glare of the snow that troubled her soul? There was a curious resemblance in their attitudes as they thus stood in silence--the girl in the light, the woman in the shade.
A gust of wind, if it did not dispel the vapour, stirred the actors in this scene into motion, and the girl and her lover--for there could be no doubt of the relation they bore to each other--resumed their walk, Mrs. Lenoir still following them with steps that grew more feeble every moment.
Of the conversation between the lovers not a word had reached her. Now and again she heard the sound of the girl's voice when it was raised higher than usual, but the words that accompanied it were lost upon her. She had formed a distinct purpose during the journey, if in her weak condition of mind and body any purpose she wished to carry out can be called distinct. She would keep them in sight until the man had taken his departure, and the girl was alone. Then she would accost the girl, and look into her face. That was the end of her thought; the hopes and fears which enthralled and supported her were too wild and whirring for clear interpretation. And yet it appeared as though she herself feared to be seen; for once or twice when the man or the girl looked back, Mrs. Lenoir shrank tremblingly and in pitiable haste into the obscurity of the deeper shadows of the night.
They were now in the east of London, near Rosemary Lane, and the girl paused and stopped her companion, with the remark:
You must not come any further.
This was so far fortunate for Mrs. Lenoir, inasmuch as otherwise she would have lost sight of those she had followed. Nature had conquered, and a faintness like the faintness of death was stealing upon her.
The man and the girl were long in bidding each other goodnight. It was said half-a-dozen times, and still he lingered, loth to leave her.
Remember, he said, as he stood with his arm around her, "you have promised not to mention my name to your people."
Yes, I have promised. But why won't you come and see them? I should like you to.
It can't be done, my little bird. You are sensible enough to understand why a gentleman in my position can't run the danger of forming intimacies with common persons.
But I am a common person, said the girl, archly challenging a contradiction.
You are a lady, and if you are not, I'll make you one. When you are away from them, I want you to be well away. You wouldn't like to be dragged down again.
No--you are right, I dare say. Poor Sally!
Not a word to her, mind. I'll have to bribe you, I see. What do you say to this?
He took from his pocket a gold bracelet, shining with bright stones, and held it up to the light. The girl uttered a cry of pleasure, but as she clasped the trinket she looked round in affright. Her glad exclamation was followed by a moan from Mrs. Lenoir, who staggered forward a few steps and sank, insensible to the ground.
It's only a drunken woman, said the man. "Good night, my bird."
The girl eluded his embrace and ran to the fainting woman, and knelt beside her.
She is not drunk, said the girl; "she looks worn out and tired. See how white she is. Poor creature! Perhaps she is starving."
Mrs. Lenoir, opening her eyes, saw as in a vision, the face of the beautiful girl bending over her, and a smile of ineffable sweetness played about her lips. But the words she strove to utter were breathed, unspoken, into the air, and she relapsed into insensibility.
Leave her to me, said the man; "I will take care of her. You musn't get into trouble: it's past the time you were expected home."
He raised the woman in his arms as he spoke.
You don't know her? he said.
No; I never saw her before, replied the girl "You must promise me now: you'll not leave her in the streets; you'll see her safely home."
I'll do more; if she's in want, I'll assist her. Now, go; I don't want to be seen by your--what do you call him?--Mr. Dumbrick, or by your friend Sally. Good night. She is recovering already. Run away--and don't forget; to-morrow night, at the same place.
He threw his disengaged arm round the girl and kissed her. The next moment he and Mrs. Lenoir were alone.
Seth Dumbrick, sitting in the old cellar in which it seemed likely he would end his days, was the subject of Sally's anxious observance, as she sat opposite to him, busy with her needle. Sally, in addition to the performance of her household duties, played no unimportant part in providing for the domestic necessities of the establishment, and the seven or eight shillings a week she contrived by hard labour to earn was an important item to Seth, whose trade had fallen off considerably during the past few years.
Sally was a full-grown woman now, looking older than her years; but her nature was unchanged, and her devotion to the Duchess was as perfect as on the day when the girl was brought, almost an infant, to her mother's house. That was a happy time in her remembrance of it, far different from the present, which was full of trouble.
Seth Dumbrick's thoughts, to judge from his manner, were harassing and perplexing, and the cloud in his face was reflected on Sally's, as now and again she raised her eyes from her work to observe him. She knew the groove in which his thoughts were running; it was a familiar one to both of them, and they could not see a clear way through it. Any time during the last five or six years it would have been a safe venture to guess, when they were sitting together, as they were sitting now, that their thoughts were fixed upon the theme which now occupied their minds.
Silence had reigned in the cellar for fully half-an-hour, and even then it was not broken until Seth, rising from his seat, stood for a few moments before the fire, with his hands clasped at the back of his neck.
There is but one way out of it, Sally, said Seth.
Sally instantly gave him her whole attention, and by a sharp glance indicated that all her wits were at his service.
There is but one way out of it, he repeated, "and there's danger in that way. But it's a matter of duty, and it's got to be done. Supposing there was no duty in it, and no love, it's the only course, as it seems to me, left open to us."
He spoke slowly and with deliberation, as though, after long inward communing, he had settled upon a plan, and was determined to carry it out.
It's now--ah, how many years ago is it, Sally, since you came into my cellar and fell into a trance?
I can't count 'em, Daddy. It seems a lifetime.
Sixteen years it is. You were a little brown berry, then, with not an ounce of flesh on your bones, sharp as a needle, and with a mind ten times as old as your body. He bent over and kissed her, and tears glistened in her eyes. "And our Duchess was as like a bright angel in a dream as man's imagination can compass. I was a strong man then, a strong lonely man, with nothing much to look forward to, and with nothing outside my grisly self to love. Sixteen years ago it was. It seems a lifetime to you, you say, Sally. And it was only yesterday that I was a boy!"
He brushed the sentiment away with a light wave of his hand.
As we grow older, Sally, things that were far apart come nearer; that is, when we get to a certain age--my age. Then the young days, that appeared so far away, begin to creep towards us, nearer and nearer, until the man of seventy and the boy of ten are very close together. With some old men, I don't doubt, it might be said that they die in their cradles. Is that beyond you, Sally?
A little, Daddy. I can't understand it; but you're right, of course,
Not to wander too far away, continued Seth, with a faint laugh, "it is sixteen years since you and the Duchess came to me, and that I undertook a responsibility. Keep a tight hold of that word, Sally; I'm coming back to it presently. You haven't much more flesh on your bones now than you had then, but you're grown pretty considerable, and you're a woman. Sally, if I had a son, I shouldn't mind your marrying him."
Thank you, Daddy.
But you can't marry a shadow; it wouldn't be satisfactory. Well, you're a woman grown up. I'm a man, growing down; my hair's nearly white, and that's the last colour, my girl. It seems to me that I'm pretty well as strong as I was; but I know that's a delusion. Nature has set lines, and the man that snaps his fingers at 'em, or disregards 'em, is a fool. And I'm not one, eh, Sally?
He laughed faintly again; but there was a notable lack of heartiness in the small flashes of humour which occasionally lighted up his speech. It would have been more in accordance with his serious mood had they not been introduced; but habit is a master, not a servant.
So much for you and me, Sally. There's another of more consequence than both of us--our Duchess. When I first set my eyes on her, I thought I'd never in all my life seen so beautiful a picture. We had plenty of happy days then; and we must never forget how much we owe her. We should have been a dull couple, you and me, without her. She was like light in our dark little room, and when I had troublesome thoughts about me, the sight of her was like the sun breaking through dark clouds. Do you remember, Sally, when she was ill, and you watched over her day and night?
You too, Daddy.
I could do nothing; I had the bread to earn. Dr. Lyon said your nursing, not his medicine, pulled her through; and he was right. Do you remember our holiday in the country--the rides in the wagon, and the rambles by the sea-shore? What pleasure and happiness we enjoyed, Sally, was all through her. I can hardly think of her as anything but a child; but, as I've said, Nature has set her lines; and our Duchess is a woman--the brightest and most beautiful the world contains; and whether that beauty and brightness is going to be a curse or a blessing to her, time alone can tell.
Not a curse, Daddy! cried Sally, dropping her face in her hands. "No, no; not a curse!"
God knows, said Seth, with his hand resting lightly on Sally's shoulder. "If you or me could do anything to make it a blessing we'd do it, if it brought upon us the hardest sacrifice that ever fell upon human beings. I say that of myself, and I know it of you. But I'm a man, with a wider experience than yours, and I can see further. Feeling is one thing, fact is another. To put feeling aside when we talk of our Duchess is out of the question; but let us see how far fact goes, and what it will lead us to." He looked down upon his garments with a curious smile; they were old and patched and patched again. Sally, with apprehension in her glance, followed his observance of himself. Then, with an expression of pity and reverence, he turned to Sally, and touched her frock, which was worn and faded. "Your only frock, Sally," he said.
What of that? she exclaimed, with a rebellious ring in her voice. "It's good enough for me."
We've got to see this through, he returned, taking her hand in his, and patting it so gently that her head drooped before him. "You wouldn't fetch much at Rag Fair, my girl. All that belongs to you, on and off, would fetch, perhaps--three farthings. Now let us look at something else."
Daddy, Daddy! she cried, as she walked to the dark end of the cellar; "what are you going to do?"
He replied by dragging forward a trunk, which he placed between Sally and himself. It was locked, and he could not raise the lid. Taking from his pocket a large bunch of keys, he tried them until he found one that fitted the lock.
I borrowed these keys of the locksmith round the corner, said Seth, as he opened the trunk; "I told him what sort of a trunk it was, and he said I'd be sure to find a key in this lot to fit it."
The trunk was filled with clothes. Before laying his hand upon them, Seth, with a steady look at Sally, said:
I doubt, Sally, whether there's anybody in the world you know better than you know me.
There is no one, Daddy.
It has been a pleasure to me to believe that you love me.
"There's only one I love better than you, Daddy.' Our Duchess.""
"Yes.
But in addition to love, you have some other feeling with respect to me. Shall I try to put it in words?
If you please, Daddy.
From what you know of me, you know I would not be guilty of a mean or dirty action. You know that I would sooner have my hands cut off than give anyone the power to say, 'Seth Dumbrick, you are a scoundrel and a sneak.'
I am certain of it, Daddy.
Well, then. Don't you think anything like that of me because of what I'm doing now. Sally, I'm doing my duty. I'm doing what will perhaps save our Duchess from what both you and me are frightened to speak of to each other. If this man that she's keeping company with--this gentleman, as she's spoken of at odd times, when I've tried to coax her to confide in me--this gentleman that meets her secretly, and is ashamed or afraid to show his face to me that stands in the light of a father to the girl he's following--if this gentleman is a gentleman (though his conduct don't say that much for him), and means fairly and honourably by our girl, then all's well. But I've got to satisfy myself of that. I should deserve the hardest things that could be said of me if I let our child walk blindly into a pit--if I, by holding back, assisted to make her beauty a curse instead of a blessing to her. Do you understand me?
I think I do.
If, said Seth, with a tender animation in his voice, "this gentleman wants to marry her, and sets it down as a hard and fast consideration, that she should tear herself away from those who love her, and who have cared for her all these years--if he says to her, 'I am a gentleman, and when we are married you will be a lady; and as such you must never speak another word to the low people you've lived and associated with from a child;' if he says this to our Duchess, and we happen to know it, and that it's for her good it should be so, neither you nor me would step in her way. However sorry we should be, and lonely without her, we should say, 'Goodbye, Duchess, and God bless you! We'll never trouble you or your husband with a sight of our faces again.' Would that be in your mind as well as in mine, my girl?"
Yes, replied Sally, with a sob.
But we've got to make sure of that--and there's only one way to come to it, as our girl keeps her tongue still, and her thoughts shut from us. When I accepted the charge of her, I accepted a responsibility, and I'm not going to run away from it like a coward, because the proper carrying of it out will bring a sorrow to my heart that will remain there to my dying day. Do you think now I may look over what's in this trunk?
I am certain you'll do what's right, Daddy.
He gave her another tender glance, and proceeded to examine the trunk. It was filled with a girl's finery, of a better quality than that which belonged to a person in the Duchess's position of life. Lace collars and cuffs, feathers for hats, gloves, and underclothing of a fine texture. Sally's face grew paler as the articles were carefully lifted from the trunk by Seth, and placed upon the table.
There are things here you've never seen before, Sally?
Sally nodded, with lips compressed.
Seth took from the trunk a long soft package, containing a piece of bright blue silk, sufficient for a dress.
Did she ever show you this? asked Seth.
No, said Sally, with trembling fingers on the silk. "How beautiful she will look in it!"
In a corner of the trunk was a small box made of cedar wood. Opening it, Seth took out various articles of jewelry, and gazed at them with sad eyes.
These should be the belongings of a lady, Sally. Our girl is being prepared for the change. Is it to be one of joy or sorrow?
At the bottom of the cedar-wood box was a small packet of letters addressed to the Duchess. Seth hesitated. The receipt of these letters had been hidden from him. They were addressed to the Duchess at a post-office a mile distant from Rosemary Lane. He debated within himself whether he had a right to read them. "If I were her father," he thought, "the right would be clearly mine. As it is, the right is mine. I am her guardian and protector."
He read them in silence; they were love letters, expressing the most passionate adoration for the Duchess, and filled with vows and promises enough to distract the mind of any girl in her position. Apart from the expressions of love they contained, there were other disturbing elements--such as the circumstance of the letters being written on paper bearing a crest with Latin words around it. Sally followed Seth's movements with wistful eagerness, but he did not enlighten her as to the contents of the letters. He returned them and the trinkets to the scented box, and replaced in the trunk with studied care all the articles he had taken from it. Then he locked and carried the trunk to the corner of the cellar again.
It may be, he said, after a short contemplative pause, "that our Duchess has really attracted the love of a gentleman. Such things have occurred, produced by faces and figures less beautiful than those of our Duchess."
Then the change will be one of joy! cried Sally, with a brighter look.
You know what that means, Sally. It means separation from us. You have a good memory, my girl?
Oh, yes.
Carry your mind back to the holiday we had in the country. Do you think you can recall all that occurred in those few happy days?
Shall I try?
Yes--just run them over.
Our packing up the night before; getting up early in the morning and meeting the wagon; trotting out of the dull streets into the beautiful country--I can hear the jingle of the bells on the horses' necks--the gardens, the lanes, the lovely flowers, and the waving corn; the names of the horses, Daisy and Cornflower--is that right, Daddy?
Go on, Sally. You have a capital memory.
Our stopping at the public-house, and having dinner in the garden; our getting into the wagon again, with a lot of fresh hay to sit on; our trotting on and on till we came to another public-house, called The World's End--I thought it a strange name, and that we were really getting to the end of the world----
One moment, Sally. Before we came to The World's End, we saw a great park with splendid iron gates at the entrance. I asked what place it was----
And the wagoner said it was called Springfield.
That's right, Sally; go on. What a memory you've got.
Getting down at The World's End, and of its being quite early. Then you took us for a walk, and on the way we met a gipsy woman----
Sally paused. She remembered perfectly well that the gipsy had predicted that a great trouble would fall upon her through her love for a woman younger than herself, more beautiful than herself, that she loved, and loved dearly; and that then the gipsy had said to the Duchess, "Show yourself, my beauty." Sally did not wish--for the reason that it might be of disadvantage to the Duchess--to recall these details to Seth, who might have forgotten them; as indeed he had, his mind being fixed on a particular point which Sally's memory had not yet reached; but not the less startling to her was the conviction that the gipsy's words were coming true. Coming true! Had they not been already verified by the altered relations between herself and the Duchess? It smote her keenly to reflect that for a long, long time past the Duchess had hidden from her knowledge the secret of a love which might tear them asunder for ever. But Sally was not prone to selfish musings; her generous nature was always ready to find excuses for the girl-friend to whom she had been sister and mother; and although her heart was aching sorely, and yearning for confidence and sympathy, she laid no blame on the cause of her sorrow. What more could she desire than that the Duchess should become a lady, and enjoy the life she sighed for? "I dare say," thought Sally, "that she will let me see her now and again, when no one is near to make her ashamed of me." To her own future Sally gave no thought; love of another kind had not yet stirred her soul with its enthralling influence.
And while we were talking to the gipsy, said Seth, "a lady and gentleman came up to us."
Yes, yes; I remember.
Do you remember what kind of a gentleman?
I didn't like him, Daddy.
Nor I. Now as to his name.
Sally pondered, but could not call it to mind.
If I mention it, you will know, perhaps. Was it Temple?
Yes, oh, yes; I remember now.
Sally, would you like to know who has written all those letters to our girl, and who is her gentleman lover?
Of course I should, Daddy.
His name is Arthur Temple.
Not the Mr. Temple we met in the country! exclaimed Sally, clasping her hands in a kind of despair. "He must be an old man by this time."
Seth could not help smiling sympathetically. This dismay at the thought of an old lover for their Duchess was very intelligible to him.
No, it cannot certainly be that Mr. Temple. But it would be a strange thing if Arthur Temple should turn out to be his son. However, that has to be discovered. Sally, I have made up my mind what to do; and you may depend that it will be for the good of the Duchess.
You mustn't interfere with her, Daddy. She won't put up with it.
She will not know what I am about; what I do shall be done secretly. It is my duty not to allow this to go on any further without an understanding of some sort. To arrive at this I must set a watch upon her.
Oh, Daddy if she should see you!
She shall not see me; I will take care of that. Sally, another thing has to be done; we're to enter into a compact. Not a word of all this to the Duchess.
I'll be as mum as a mouse.
And if things turn out right for the Duchess, we must twist our minds into thinking that they have turned out right for us. It will be dull here without her, but if the love of an old man can make it brighter for you, Sally----
A little choking in his voice compelled him to pause, and turn his head. The contemplation of this change in his life, now that he was an old man and worse off in a worldly way than he ever remembered himself to be, brought deep sadness upon him. All the dreams he had indulged in of a bright future for the Duchess, some warmth from which would shine upon herself, had faded quite away. But warmth and light came to him from another quarter. A thin arm stole around his neck, and a dark, loving face was pressed close to his. He drew the grateful woman on his knee, and the few minutes of silence which ensued were not the unhappiest that had been passed in the dingy old cellar.
And now, Sally, he said, kissing her, "what we've got to do is our duty--straight, my girl, as we can do it--and to hope for the best."
The evening following this conversation, Seth Dumbrick, going out while the Duchess was still at home, watched for her at the corner of a convenient street, and when she appeared, followed her so as not to be observed. It was a fine dry evening, and the Duchess walked swiftly towards the west of London. At the Mansion House she entered an omnibus, and Seth climbed to the top. She alighted at Charing Cross, and tripped over to Trafalgar Square, where she was immediately greeted by a man whose face Seth, being compelled to keep at a safe distance, could not distinguish. There was no difficulty in following the pair; and it needed only ordinary caution to prevent being detected. The Duchess and her companion walked onwards through the Haymarket to Regent Street, pausing frequently at shop-windows, and once they entered a café, Seth waiting for them in the street. Resuming their walk they strolled to Oxford Street, and then turned back towards the Strand. It was half-past seven by the time they reached that wonderful thoroughfare, down which they strolled, until they came to the door of the Strand Theatre. This they entered, and were lost to Seth's sight. Noticing which way they turned, he followed, and asked the price of admission. A gentleman in a white tie, who was standing by the small window where the money was taken, loftily informed Seth that the pit and gallery were round the corner.
But, said Seth, "I want to go where the lady and gentleman who have just passed through have gone."
To the stalls? inquired the gentleman in the white tie, in a tone of surprise.
Yes, to the stalls, replied Seth.
Can't admit you, was the rejoinder.
Why?
Not dressed.
Seth glanced at his common clothes, and with a slight shrug and a little ironical smile, pardonable under the circumstances, took the indicated direction to the pit and gallery. He paid for admission to the pit, and, soon after he entered, succeeded in discovering where the Duchess was seated. She was in the stalls with her companion, and their backs were towards him. When Seth entered the pit, he found it very full, and he could only obtain standing room; necessarily, therefore, his discovery of the Duchess was made with some difficulty, and from where he stood it was impossible for him to observe her closely. Indeed, from the surging of the audience, and the goings to and fro, she was often not visible to him. He had no heart for the performance, which caused a running fire of laughter and merriment in all parts of the theatre, and before its termination he left the place, afraid lest in the last crush he should miss the Duchess. He lingered patiently in the Strand, near the box entrance of the theatre, until the people came out, and was successful in catching sight of the Duchess and her companion, whose evening dress was covered by a light overcoat. When they had disengaged themselves from the throng, they paused, and from the opposite side of the street Seth noted that a discussion was taking place between them, the man persuading, the Duchess refusing. At length the Duchess cut short the disputed point by running away from her companion with a light laugh. He hastened immediately after her, and arm-in-arm they wended their way to Rosemary Lane, followed warily by Seth. There they parted, after more than one kiss, which caused Seth to knit his brows ominously. When he was alone, the man took from his pocket a cigar case, which, notwithstanding the distance that separated them, Seth observed was made of silver. Lighting a cigar, the Duchess's lover strolled leisurely along until he came to a cab-rank, whence he hailed a cab. This was what Seth feared. Quickly hailing another, he gave the driver instructions to follow, without laying himself open to observation, promising extra payment if this were done. His cab pulled up in one of the most fashionable quarters of the west of London. As he was paying the fare, he asked the driver the name of the street, and saw his girl's lover walk on a few yards, and pause at a great house, which he presently entered. Then Seth walked up the steps, and noted the number.
His labours for that night were almost at an end; there was still a small matter to be attended to. He waited until he heard the policeman's measured footfall, and falling in by his side in a natural manner, struck up a conversation. He did not find it difficult, being in some respects a shrewd actor in the busy world, to ingratiate himself into the good graces of the official It was a cold night, and he proposed a friendly glass, The policeman, who knew an honest man when he came across one, and who was generally luckier than Diogenes, affably entertained the proposition. Over the friendly glass the conversation was continued, and sufficiently mellowed, the policeman took possession of his beat again, accompanied by Seth. They passed the house which the Duchess's lover had entered. Seth had artfully directed the conversation into the desired channel, and as they passed the house, he asked:
Who lives there? A great man, I should say.
You'd say right, replied the policeman. "That's Mr. Temple's house."
Hasn't he an estate in the country, called Springfield? I was in that quarter some time since, and I heard it belonged to the great Mr. Temple.
I've heard as much myself. Yes, Springfield's the name of his country seat, now you mention it. I wish I was as well off as him.
I wish so, too, said Seth Dumbrick, as he walked away. "Goodnight."
It happened that, during the week in which these occurrences took place, Mr. Temple was absent from London. On the night of his return he was more than usually elated. Everything was prospering with him. Arthur's ingenuous manner found favour wherever he appeared, and his introduction into society promised the most favourable results. In addition to this cause for satisfaction, Mr. Temple had reason to believe that his public services were likely, nay, almost certain, to be rewarded with a title, which his son would bear after him.
There is practically no limit to our fortunes, my boy, he said to Arthur; "the current will carry us on."
To which Arthur replied:
I trust I shall not disappoint you, sir.
I am satisfied as to that, said Mr. Temple. "My chief desire now is that you should choose a definite career. I do not wish to press you, but the sooner you enter public life the wider will be your experience and the greater your chances. Our name shall be a famous one in the country."
On his return to his town house, Mr. Temple, after a few minutes' conversation with his wife, proceeded to the library. He had been expected home the previous evening, and his correspondence for two days lay upon his writing-table. He looked over the letters hurriedly, and paused at one which seemed to give him uneasiness. It was brief and to the point.
The writer of these lines, Seth Dumbrick by name, wishes for a personal interview with Mr. Temple, on a matter of vital importance to himself and the gentleman he addresses. He will call on Mr. Temple at eight o'clock this evening, and hopes not to be denied.
Mr. Temple glanced at the clock. It was a quarter-past eight. He struck a bell, and a servant entered.
Is any person waiting to see me?
Yes, sir; he is in the hall.
Giving any name?
Dumbrick, sir.
Did he come yesterday?
Yes, sir, and was informed you would not return till to-night.
What sort of a person?
A common person, sir--a very common person.
Show him in.
The next moment Seth Dumbrick entered, hat in hand, and stood near the door. From his seat at the table, Mr. Temple desired him to come near. Seth Dumbrick obeyed, and the men faced each other.
You are the writer of this note, said Mr. Temple haughtily.
I am, sir.
Explain it, and briefly. Stay--have I not seen your face somewhere?
Seth Dumbrick made no immediate reply. He had no desire to recall to Mr. Temple's memory the circumstances of the unpleasant interview that had taken place between them many years ago. He himself had recognised Mr. Temple the moment he entered the room, his cause for remembrance being the stronger of the two. Mr. Temple had an unerring memory for faces, but his meeting with Seth Dumbrick lay so far in the past, and his life was so varied and full of colour, that he could not for the moment connect the face with the circumstance.
Answer me, he said peremptorily. "Have I not seen you before?"
You have, sir.
Where?
Years ago--at Springfield--when I, with two children, was taking a holiday in the country.
Ah, I remember perfectly. Our meeting was not a pleasant one.
It was not my fault that it was not so.
I remember also that you gave me the address of an inn at which you were stopping, and that I informed you I should call there. I did call, and you had gone. You ran away, I presume.
I followed my course, being a free man, and not bound to wait for strangers.
It is a matter of no importance. Two children! Yes; I should know them again, I think. One, a child, with a very beautiful face. Is she living?
She is, sir; as a woman, though she is scarcely yet out of her girlhood, she is more beautiful than she was as a child. I am here on her behalf.
On her behalf! exclaimed Mr. Temple, taking the note from the table. "You use the words 'vital importance.'"
They are correctly used, as you will perhaps admit when you hear me.
I will hear you. Of vital importance to yourself and to me?
That is so, sir.
Mr. Temple considered for a moment. His career had been one which necessitated rapid conclusions.
Write your name, trade, and address on this paper.
Seth Dumbrick did as he was desired. His manner was closely watched by Mr. Temple, who expected to detect a reluctance to give the information. But Seth Dumbrick wrote unhesitatingly, and with decision.
This is your true name and address?
I have no other. I am here to speak the truth.
Say what you have to say.
I must trespass upon your patience, but I will be as brief as it is possible for me to be. It is very many years ago--I cannot recall how many; the age of the child, if it can be ascertained, will verify that--that a little girl was strangely and mysteriously brought into my neighbourhood by a man whom I never saw, and who remained in Rosemary Lane for probably not longer than a couple of hours. This stranger took a room in the house of acquaintances of mine----
Write on the paper, beneath your own name, the name of these acquaintances.
Seth Dumbrick wrote the name of Chester, which Mr. Temple did not glance at. He was more engaged in observing the manner in which the man before him submitted to the tests he demanded. Seth continued:
The stranger took a room that was to let in the house, and paid, I believe, two weeks' rent in advance. The night that he took the room he disappeared from the neighbourhood, and was never more seen in it.
Leaving the child?
Leaving the child. Not long after the occurrence the persons who occupied the house fell into misfortune, and the woman into whose care the child had been strangely thrown was compelled by circumstances to give up her house, and take a situation in the country.
All this bears upon your errand to me?
Every word of it. The woman had a little girl of her own, a few years older than the foundling, who contracted an absorbing love for the deserted stranger. It is not necessary to relate how I, upon the breaking up of the woman's home, took upon myself the care of her child and the child whom the villain--that is the correct word, in my opinion--deserted. These children have lived with me ever since, and under my care have grown to womanhood.
The talent Seth Dumbrick exhibited for condensation and clearness had its effect upon Mr. Temple, who knew how to appreciate the rare faculty.
The child you have referred to for her beauty is the child who was deserted. Nothing is known of her parentage or belongings. She has grown up amongst us, and is loved by all. To me, a childless man, she is as my own daughter, and I could not feel more deeply for her were she of my own blood. But it was a matter of remark from the first, and has continued so, that, from all appearance, she is superior in certain ways to those whom a strange fate has condemned her to herd with. You see, sir, that I do not rate myself and those of my order too highly. I have given her what education it was in my power to bestow. She is in all respects a lady, and as beautiful a girl as this city contains. As is natural, so bright a being has attracted the attention of those in my station of life--I do not say in hers--who desire matrimony. But she has consistently declined to entertain their proposals, and has, so to speak, set her head above them--as she has done from the first, in every possible way. Whether this comes from her parents, who, for the credit of human nature, I hope are dead, it is beyond me to say. There are mysteries which we weak mortals are powerless to probe. I come now, sir, to that part of my story which most nearly touches the object of my visit to you.
Before you proceed, favour me with the name of this child.
I must ask you to receive it in all seriousness, sir. I am afraid that I am principally to blame for it, but it sprung out of a whimsical fancy, and in one of those moments of extravagance for which we are scarcely accountable. The child had no name; the villain who brought her into the neighbourhood, and deserted her, left none behind him; and in such a moment as I have spoken of, the name--if it can be called so--of the Duchess of Rosemary Lane was given her. It was undoubtedly wrong, but it has clung to her, and she bears no other.
Go on now to the immediate purport of your note to me.
As I have said, she has attracted the attention of many suitors in my station of life, but she has turned a deaf ear to all. She has attracted other attention--the attention of a gentleman moving presumably, nay certainly, in a higher position in society than that she occupies. Have you no suspicion of the point I am coming to?
None.
The person I speak of, proceeded Seth, with a heavy sigh, "meets my child regularly, and has given her such gifts as only a gentleman could afford to give."
An old story, interrupted Mr. Temple.
Continue to hear me patiently, sir. I have but little more to say. This gentleman writes constantly to her, but not to the home in which she has lived from childhood. I am here to ask you whether it is possible that such an intimacy will result in a manner honourable to the girl whom I, an old and childless man, love with all the earnestness and devotion of which I am capable--for whose happiness I would lay down my life as surely as every word I have spoken to you is the honest and straightforward truth.
And it is to this point you must come at once, said Mr. Temple, whose tone would have been arrogant but for the effect which the genuine pathos of his visitor produced upon him against his will. "What interest can I have in the name of this gentleman, who, seeing a pretty girl who is flattered by his attentions, follows her, and falls into the trap she lays for him----"
But if his speech had not trailed off here, it would have been arrested by Seth's indignant protest.
Stop! he cried, in a ringing voice. "Hear first the name of the man who is wooing my child, and who from your own sentiments--for nature transmits good and evil qualities from father to son--is seeking to entrap an innocent girl!"
At this moment these two men--the one so high in the world, the other so low--changed positions. It was Mr. Temple who cowered, and Seth Dumbrick who raised his head to the light.
Speak the name then, said Mr. Temple.
Your son--Arthur Temple!
A cold smile served at once to hide Mr. Temple's agitation and to outwardly denote the value he wished Seth Dumbrick to believe he placed upon his statement.
And you, he said, with contemptuous emphasis, "have connived at this intimacy, and have come to me to place a price upon----"
Again he was interrupted indignantly by Seth.
You mistake. I have never, so that I could recognise it, seen the face of your son; I have had no conversation with my child upon the subject, and she does not know of my visit to you. She has not confided in me.
How then do you happen to be aware of the particulars you have narrated so fluently? How have you gained the knowledge of the letters and the gifts?
Having only the good of my child at heart, and being better versed in the villainies----
Be careful of your words.
If your son has no honourable intention towards my girl, the word is in its proper place. Being better versed in the ways of the world than she, a young and inexperienced child, can possibly be, I exercised my rightful authority, and searched her trunk, to discover what she was concealing from me. I found the tokens there. The letters are written on paper stamped with a crest, surrounded by Latin words which I do not understand.
Mr. Temple, in silence, handed Seth a sheet of notepaper.
The crest and words, said Seth, putting on his spectacles to examine them, "are the same as these."
Is that all you have to say?
All--with the exception that three nights ago I witnessed the meeting between your son and my child.
How did you discover where he lives?
I followed him to this house, and learnt that it was yours.
You would have made a good detective, my man.
What I have done, said Seth simply, "has been prompted and guided by love."
Mr. Temple, shading his face with his hand, was silent a little. He could not doubt the truth of Seth's statement, and his desire was to save his san from awkward consequences which might result from his imprudence. He raised his eyes, and said, in a hard tone:
Your price?
Seth Dumbrick stared at Mr. Temple, and his frame shook with agitation.
Your price, repeated Mr. Temple, "for those letters?"
Are you asking me, said Seth, resting his hand heavily on the table to obtain some control over his words, "to put a price upon my child's honour?"
I will have no insolent construction placed upon my question. You have heard it. Answer it.
It should have blistered your tongue, said Seth, with bitter emphasis, "to utter it. Is that answer sufficient?"
Quite, replied Mr. Temple, striking the bell with a fierceness he would have shown had it been human and his enemy. A servant entered.
Turn this person from the house, he said sternly.
The servant stood before Seth Dumbrick, who knew that there was no appeal. But before he took his departure, he said sternly:
If Divine justice be not a delusion, you will live to repent this night. Into your home may come the desolation you would assist in bringing into mine.
He had time to say no more' for at a peremptory gesture from Mr. Temple, the servant forced him from the room.
Mr. Temple instantly touched the bell again, and another servant entered.
Is Richards in?
Yes, sir.
Send him to me immediately.
Almost on the instant, Richards made his appearance. A man of the same age as his master, tall and spare, with a manner so habitually watchful that, although he seldom looked a person in the face, not a movement or expression escaped his notice.
A man is now being shown out of the house, said Mr. Temple hurriedly, "whom you will follow to his home. Lose not a moment. Ascertain every particular relating to himself, his life, and his domestic history. You understand?"
Richards nodded. He was a man not given to the wasting of speech.
This is a secret and confidential service, said Mr. Temple. "Breathe not a word concerning it to a soul but myself--understand, not to a soul but myself--not even to my son. Hasten now, or you may miss him."