Title: The Three Clerks
Author: Trollope, Anthony, 1815-1882
Language: English
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THE THREE CLERKS

BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE



WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY W. TEIGNMOUTH SHORE



ANTHONY TROLLOPE

Born London, April 24, 1815
Died London, December 6, 1882



INTRODUCTION

There is the proper mood and the just environment for the reading
as well as for the writing of works of fiction, and there can be
no better place for the enjoying of a novel by Anthony Trollope
than under a tree in Kensington Gardens of a summer day. Under a
tree in the avenue that reaches down from the Round Pond to the
Long Water. There, perhaps more than anywhere else, lingers the
early Victorian atmosphere. As we sit beneath our tree, we see in
the distance the dun, red-brick walls of Kensington Palace, where
one night Princess Victoria was awakened to hear that she was
Queen; there in quaint, hideously ugly Victorian rooms are to be
seen Victorian dolls and other playthings; the whole environment
is early Victorian. Here to the mind's eye how easy it is to
conjure up ghosts of men in baggy trousers and long flowing
whiskers, of prim women in crinolines, in hats with long
trailing feathers and with ridiculous little parasols, or with
Grecian-bends and chignons--church-parading to and fro beneath the
trees or by the water's edge--perchance, even the fascinating Lady
Crinoline and the elegant Mr. Macassar Jones, whose history has
been written by Clerk Charley in the pages we are introducing to
the 'gentle reader'. As a poetaster of an earlier date has
written:--

  Where Kensington high o'er the neighbouring lands
  'Midst green and sweets, a royal fabric, stands,
  And sees each spring, luxuriant in her bowers,
  A snow of blossoms, and a wild of flowers,
  The dames of Britain oft in crowds repair
  To gravel walks, and unpolluted air.
  Here, while the town in damps and darkness lies,
  They breathe in sunshine, and see azure skies;
  Each walk, with robes of various dyes bespread,
  Seems from afar a moving tulip bed,
  Where rich brocades and glossy damasks glow,
  And chintz, the rival of the showery bow.

Indeed, the historian of social manners, when dealing with the
Victorian period, will perforce have recourse to the early
volumes of Punch and to the novels of Thackeray, Dickens, and
Trollope.

There are certain authors of whom personally we know little, but
of whose works we cannot ever know enough, such a one for example
as Shakespeare; others of whose lives we know much, but for whose
works we can have but scant affection: such is Doctor Johnson;
others who are intimate friends in all their aspects, as
Goldsmith and Charles Lamb; yet others, who do not quite come
home to our bosoms, whose writings we cannot entirely approve,
but for whom and for whose works we find a soft place somewhere
in our hearts, and such a one is Anthony Trollope. His novels are
not for every-day reading, any more than are those of Marryat and
Borrow--to take two curious examples. There are times and moods
and places in which it would be quite impossible to read _The
Three Clerks_; others in which this story is almost wholly
delightful. With those who are fond of bed-reading Trollope
should ever be a favourite, and it is no small compliment to say
this, for small is the noble army of authors who have given us
books which can enchant in the witching hour between waking and
slumber. It is probable that all lovers of letters have their
favourite bed-books. Thackeray has charmingly told us of his. Of
the few novels that can really be enjoyed when the reader is
settling down for slumber almost all have been set forth by
writers who--consciously or unconsciously--have placed character
before plot; Thackeray himself, Miss Austen, Borrow, Marryat,
Sterne, Dickens, Goldsmith and--Trollope.

Books are very human in their way, as what else should they be,
children of men and women as they are? Just as with human friends
so with book friends, first impressions are often misleading;
good literary coin sometimes seems to ring untrue, but the
untruth is in the ear of the reader, not of the writer. For
instance, Trollope has many odd and irritating tricks which are
apt to scare off those who lack perseverance and who fail to
understand that there must be something admirable in that which
was once much admired by the judicious. He shares with Thackeray
the sinful habit of pulling up his readers with a wrench by
reminding them that what is set before them is after all mere
fiction and that the characters in whose fates they are becoming
interested are only marionettes. With Dickens and others he
shares the custom, so irritating to us of to-day, of ticketing
his personages with clumsy, descriptive labels, such as, in
_The Three Clerks_, Mr. Chaffanbrass, Sir Gregory Hardlines,
Sir Warwick West End, Mr. Neverbend, Mr. Whip Vigil, Mr. Nogo and
Mr. Gitemthruet. He must plead guilty, also, to some bad ways
peculiarly his own, or which he made so by the thoroughness with
which he indulged in them. He moralizes in his own person in
deplorable manner: is not this terrible:--'Poor Katie!--dear,
darling, bonnie Katie!--sweet, sweetest, dearest child! why, oh,
why, has that mother of thine, that tender-hearted loving mother,
put thee unguarded in the way of such perils as this? Has she not
sworn to herself that over thee at least she would watch as a hen
over her young, so that no unfortunate love should quench thy
young spirit, or blanch thy cheek's bloom?' Is this not
sufficient to make the gentlest reader swear to himself?

Fortunately this and some other appalling passages occur after
the story is in full swing and after the three Clerks and those
with whom they come into contact have proved themselves
thoroughly interesting companions. Despite all his old-fashioned
tricks Trollope does undoubtedly succeed in giving blood and life
to most of his characters; they are not as a rule people of
any great eccentricity or of profound emotions; but ordinary,
every-day folk, such as all of us have met, and loved or endured.
Trollope fills very adequately a space between Thackeray and
Dickens, of whom the former deals for the most part with the
upper 'ten', the latter with the lower 'ten'; Trollope with the
suburban and country-town 'ten'; the three together giving us a
very complete and detailed picture of the lives led by our
grandmothers and grandfathers, whose hearts were in the same
place as our own, but whose manners of speech, of behaviour and
of dress have now entered into the vague region known as the
'days of yore'.

_The Three Clerks_ is an excellent example of Trollope's
handiwork. The development of the plot is sufficiently skilful to
maintain the reader's interest, and the major part of the
characters is lifelike, always well observed and sometimes
depicted with singular skill and insight. Trollope himself liked
the work well:--

'The plot is not so good as that of _The Macdermots_; nor
are any characters in the book equal to those of Mrs. Proudie and
the Warden; but the work has a more continued interest, and
contains the first well-described love-scene that I ever wrote.
The passage in which Kate Woodward, thinking she will die, tries
to take leave of the lad she loves, still brings tears to my eyes
when I read it. I had not the heart to kill her. I never could do
that. And I do not doubt that they are living happily together to
this day.

'The lawyer Chaffanbrass made his first appearance in this novel,
and I do not think that I have cause to be ashamed of him. But
this novel now is chiefly noticeable to me from the fact that in
it I introduced a character under the name of Sir Gregory
Hardlines, by which I intended to lean very heavily on that much
loathed scheme of competitive examination, of which at that time
Sir Charles Trevelyan was the great apostle. Sir Gregory
Hardlines was intended for Sir Charles Trevelyan--as any one at
the time would know who had taken an interest in the Civil
Service. 'We always call him Sir Gregory,' Lady Trevelyan said to
me afterwards when I came to know her husband. I never learned to
love competitive examination; but I became, and am, very fond of
Sir Charles Trevelyan. Sir Stafford Northcote, who is now
Chancellor of the Exchequer, was then leagued with his friend Sir
Charles, and he too appears in _The Three Clerks_ under the
feebly facetious name of Sir Warwick West End. But for all that
_The Three Clerks_ was a good novel.'

Which excerpt from Trollope's _Autobiography_ serves to
throw light not only upon the novel in question, but also upon
the character of its author.

Trollope served honestly and efficiently for many a long year in
the Post Office, achieving his entrance through a farce of an
examination:--

'The story of that examination', he says, 'is given accurately in
the opening chapters of a novel written by me, called _The
Three Clerks_. If any reader of this memoir would refer to
that chapter and see how Charley Tudor was supposed to have been
admitted into the Internal Navigation Office, that reader will
learn how Anthony Trollope was actually admitted into the
Secretary's office of the General Post Office in 1834.'

Poe's description of the manner in which he wrote _The
Raven_ is incredible, being probably one of his solemn and
sombre jokes; equally incredible is Trollope's confession of his
humdrum, mechanical methods of work. Doubtless he believed he was
telling the whole truth, but only here and there in his
_Autobiography_ does he permit to peep out touches of light,
which complete the portrait of himself. It is impossible that for
the reader any character in fiction should live which has not
been alive to its creator; so is it with Trollope, who, speaking
of his characters, says,

'I have wandered alone among the rooks and woods, crying at their
grief, laughing at their absurdities, and thoroughly enjoying
their joy. I have been impregnated with my own creations till it
has been my only excitement to sit with the pen in my hand, and
drive my team before me at as quick a pace as I could make them
travel.'

There is a plain matter-of-factness about Trollope's narratives
which is convincing, making it difficult for the reader to call
himself back to fact and to remember that he has been wandering
in a world of fiction. In _The Three Clerks_, the young men
who give the tale its title are all well drawn. To accomplish
this in the cases of Alaric and Charley Tudor was easy enough for
a skilled writer, but to breathe life into Harry Norman was
difficult. At first he appears to be a lay-figure, a priggish
dummy of an immaculate hero, a failure in portraiture; but toward
the end of the book it is borne in on us that our dislike had
been aroused by the lifelike nature of the painting, dislike
toward a real man, priggish indeed in many ways, but with a very
human strain of obstinacy and obdurateness, which few writers
would have permitted to have entered into the make-up of any of
their heroes. Of the other men, Undy Scott may be named as among
the very best pieces of portraiture in Victorian fiction; touch
after touch of detail is added to the picture with really
admirable skill, and Undy lives in the reader's memory as vividly
as he must have existed in the imagination of his creator. There
are some strong and curious passages in Chapter XLIV, in which
the novelist contrasts the lives and fates of Varney, Bill Sykes
and Undy Scott; they stir the blood, proving uncontestibly that
Undy Scott was as real to Trollope as he is to us: 'The figure of
Undy swinging from a gibbet at the broad end of Lombard Street
would have an effect. Ah, my fingers itch to be at the rope.'

Trollope possessed the rare and beautiful gift of painting the
hearts and souls of young girls, and of this power he has given
an admirable example in Katie Woodward. It would be foolish and
cruel to attempt to epitomize, or rather to draw in miniature,
this portrait that Trollope has drawn at full length; were it not
for any other end, those that are fond of all that is graceful
and charming in young womanhood should read _The Three Clerks_,
so becoming the friend, nay, the lover of Katie. Her sisters are not
so attractive, simply because nature did not make them so; a very
fine, faithful woman, Gertrude; a dear thing, Linda. All three worthy
of their mother, she who, as we are told in a delicious phrase,
'though adverse to a fool' 'could sympathize with folly '.

These eight portraits are grouped in the foreground of this
'conversation' piece, the background being filled with slighter
but always live figures.

Particularly striking, as being somewhat unusual with Trollope,
is the depiction of the public-house, 'The Pig and Whistle', in
Norfolk Street, the landlady, Mrs. Davis, and the barmaid, Norah
Geraghty. We can almost smell the gin, the effluvia of stale
beer, the bad tobacco, hear the simpers and see the sidlings of
Norah, feel sick with and at Charley:--he 'got up and took her
hand; and as he did so, he saw that her nails were dirty. He put
his arms round her waist and kissed her; and as he caressed her,
his olfactory nerves perceived that the pomatum in her hair was
none of the best ... and then he felt very sick'. But, oh, why
'olfactory nerves'? Was it vulgar in early Victorian days to call
a nose a nose?

How far different would have been Dickens's treatment of such
characters and such a scene; out of Mrs. Davis and Norah he would
have extracted fun, and it would never have entered into his mind
to have brought such a man as Charley into contact with them in a
manner that must hurt that young hero's susceptibilities.
Thackeray would have followed a third way, judging by his
treatment of the Fotheringay and Captain Costigan, partly
humorous, partly satirical, partly serious.

Trollope was not endowed with any spark of wit, his satire tends
towards the obvious, and his humour is mild, almost unconscious,
as if he could depict for us what of the humorous came under his
observation without himself seeing the fun in it. Where he sets
forth with intent to be humorous he sometimes attains almost to
the tragic; there are few things so sad as a joke that misses
fire or a jester without sense of humour.

Of the genius of a writer of fiction there is scarce any other
test so sure as this of the reality of his characters. Few are
the authors that have created for us figures of fiction that are
more alive to us than the historic shadows of the past, whose
dead bones historians do not seem to be able to clothe with flesh
and blood. Trollope hovers on the border line between genius and
great talent, or rather it would be more fair to say that with
regard to him opinions may justly differ. For our own part we
hold that his was not talent streaked with genius, but rather a
jog-trot genius alloyed with mediocrity. He lacked the supreme
unconsciousness of supreme genius, for of genius as of talent
there are degrees. There are characters in _The Three Clerks_
that live; those who have read the tale must now and again when
passing Norfolk Street, Strand, regret that it would be waste of
time to turn down that rebuilt thoroughfare in search of 'The Pig
and Whistle', which was 'one of these small tranquil shrines of
Bacchus in which the god is worshipped with as constant a
devotion, though with less noisy demonstration of zeal than in
his larger and more public temples'. Alas; lovers of Victorian London
must lament that such shrines grow fewer day by day; the great
thoroughfares know them no more; they hide nervously in old-world
corners, and in them you will meet old-world characters, who not
seldom seem to have lost themselves on their way to the pages
of Charles Dickens.

Despite the advent of electric tramways, Hampton would still be
recognized by the three clerks, 'the little village of Hampton,
with its old-fashioned country inn, and its bright, quiet, grassy
river.' Hampton is now as it then was, the 'well-loved resort of
cockneydom'.

So let us alight from the tramcar at Hampton, and look about on
the outskirts of the village for 'a small old-fashioned brick
house, abutting on the road, but looking from its front windows
on to a lawn and garden, which stretched down to the river'.
Surbiton Cottage it is called. Let us peep in at that merry,
happy family party; and laugh at Captain Cuttwater, waking from
his placid sleep, rubbing his eyes in wonderment, and asking,
'What the devil is all the row about?' But it is only with our
mind's eye that we can see Surbiton Cottage--a cottage in the
air it is, but more substantial to some of us than many a real
jerry-built villa of red brick and stucco.

Old-fashioned seem to us the folk who once dwelt there,
old-fashioned in all save that their hearts were true and their
outlook on life sane and clean; they live still, though their
clothes be of a quaint fashion and their talk be of yesterday.

Who knows but that they will live long after we who love them
shall be dead and turned to dust?

W. TEIGNMOUTH SHORE.



CONTENTS

I.       THE WEIGHTS AND MEASURES
II.      THE INTERNAL NAVIGATION
III.     THE WOODWARDS
IV.      CAPTAIN CUTTWATER
V.       BUSHEY PARK
VI.      SIR GREGORY HARDLINES
VII.     MR. FIDUS NEVERBEND
VIII.    THE HON. UNDECIMUS SCOTT
IX.      MR. MANYLODES
X.       WHEAL MARY JANE
XI.      THE THREE KINGS
XII.     CONSOLATION
XIII.    A COMMUNICATION OF IMPORTANCE
XIV.     VERY SAD
XV.      NORMAN RETURNS TO TOWN
XVI.     THE FIRST WEDDING
XVII.    THE HONOURABLE MRS. VAL AND MISS GOLIGHTLY
XVIII.   A DAY WITH ONE OF THE NAVVIES.--MORNING
XIX.     A DAY WITH ONE OF THE NAVVIES.--AFTERNOON
XX.      A DAY WITH ONE OF THE NAVVIES.--EVENING
XXI.     HAMPTON COURT BRIDGE
XXII.    CRINOLINE AND MACASSAR; OR, MY AUNT'S WILL
XXIII.   SURBITON COLLOQUIES
XXIV.    MR. M'BUFFER ACCEPTS THE CHILTERN HUNDREDS
XXV.     CHISWICK GARDENS
XXVI.    KATIE'S FIRST BALL
XXVII.   EXCELSIOR
XXVIII.  OUTERMAN _v_. TUDOR
XXIX.    EASY IS THE SLOPE OF HELL
XXX.     MRS. WOODWARD'S REQUEST
XXXI.    HOW APOLLO SAVED THE NAVVY
XXXII.   THE PARLIAMENTARY COMMITTEE
XXXIII.  TO STAND, OR NOT TO STAND
XXXIV.   WESTMINSTER HALL
XXXV.    MRS. VAL'S NEW CARRIAGE
XXXVI.   TICKLISH STOCK
XXXVII.  TRIBULATION
XXXVIII. ALARIC TUDOR TAKES A WALK
XXXIX.   THE LAST BREAKFAST
XL.      MR. CHAFFANBRASS
XLI.     THE OLD BAILEY
XLII.    A PARTING INTERVIEW
XLIII.   MILLBANK
XLIV.    THE CRIMINAL POPULATION IS DISPOSED OF
XLV.     THE FATE OF THE NAVVIES
XLVI.    MR. NOGO'S LAST QUESTION
XLVII.   CONCLUSION



CHAPTER I

THE WEIGHTS AND MEASURES


All the English world knows, or knows of, that branch of the
Civil Service which is popularly called the Weights and Measures.
Every inhabitant of London, and every casual visitor there, has
admired the handsome edifice which generally goes by that name,
and which stands so conspicuously confronting the Treasury
Chambers. It must be owned that we have but a slip-slop way of
christening our public buildings. When a man tells us that he
called on a friend at the Horse Guards, or looked in at the Navy
Pay, or dropped a ticket at the Woods and Forests, we put up with
the accustomed sounds, though they are in themselves, perhaps,
indefensible. The 'Board of Commissioners for Regulating Weights
and Measures', and the 'Office of the Board of Commissioners for
Regulating Weights and Measures', are very long phrases; and as,
in the course of this tale, frequent mention will be made of the
public establishment in question, the reader's comfort will be
best consulted by maintaining its popular though improper
denomination.

It is generally admitted that the Weights and Measures is a
well-conducted public office; indeed, to such a degree of
efficiency has it been brought by its present very excellent
secretary, the two very worthy assistant-secretaries, and
especially by its late most respectable chief clerk, that it may
be said to stand quite alone as a high model for all other public
offices whatever. It is exactly antipodistic of the Circumlocution
Office, and as such is always referred to in the House of Commons
by the gentleman representing the Government when any attack on
the Civil Service, generally, is being made.

And when it is remembered how great are the interests entrusted
to the care of this board, and of these secretaries and of that
chief clerk, it must be admitted that nothing short of superlative
excellence ought to suffice the nation. All material intercourse
between man and man must be regulated, either justly or
unjustly, by weights and measures; and as we of all people
depend most on such material intercourse, our weights and
measures should to us be a source of never-ending concern. And
then that question of the decimal coinage! is it not in these
days of paramount importance? Are we not disgraced by the twelve
pennies in our shilling, by the four farthings in our penny? One
of the worthy assistant-secretaries, the worthier probably of the
two, has already grown pale beneath the weight of this question.
But he has sworn within himself, with all the heroism of a
Nelson, that he will either do or die. He will destroy the
shilling or the shilling shall destroy him. In his more ardent
moods he thinks that he hears the noise of battle booming round
him, and talks to his wife of Westminster Abbey or a peerage.
Then what statistical work of the present age has shown half the
erudition contained in that essay lately published by the
secretary on _The Market Price of Coined Metals_? What other
living man could have compiled that chronological table which is
appended to it, showing the comparative value of the metallic
currency for the last three hundred years? Compile it indeed!
What other secretary or assistant-secretary belonging to any
public office of the present day, could even read it and live? It
completely silenced Mr. Muntz for a session, and even _The
Times_ was afraid to review it.

Such a state of official excellence has not, however, been
obtained without its drawbacks, at any rate in the eyes of the
unambitious tyros and unfledged novitiates of the establishment.
It is a very fine thing to be pointed out by envying fathers as a
promising clerk in the Weights and Measures, and to receive civil
speeches from mammas with marriageable daughters. But a clerk in
the Weights and Measures is soon made to understand that it is
not for him to--

  Sport with Amaryllis in the shade.

It behoves him that his life should be grave and his pursuits
laborious, if he intends to live up to the tone of those around
him. And as, sitting there at his early desk, his eyes already
dim with figures, he sees a jaunty dandy saunter round the
opposite corner to the Council Office at eleven o'clock, he
cannot but yearn after the pleasures of idleness.

  Were it not better done, as others use?

he says or sighs. But then comes Phoebus in the guise of the
chief clerk, and touches his trembling ears--

  As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
  Of so much fame, in Downing Street--expect the meed.

And so the high tone of the office is maintained.

Such is the character of the Weights and Measures at this present
period of which we are now treating. The exoteric crowd of the
Civil Service, that is, the great body of clerks attached to
other offices, regard their brethren of the Weights as prigs and
pedants, and look on them much as a master's favourite is apt to
be regarded by other boys at school. But this judgement is an
unfair one. Prigs and pedants, and hypocrites too, there are
among them, no doubt--but there are also among them many stirred
by an honourable ambition to do well for their country and
themselves, and to two such men the reader is now requested to
permit himself to be introduced.

Henry Norman, the senior of the two, is the second son of a
gentleman of small property in the north of England. He was
educated at a public school, and thence sent to Oxford; but
before he had finished his first year at Brasenose his father was
obliged to withdraw him from it, finding himself unable to bear
the expense of a university education for his two sons. His elder
son at Cambridge was extravagant; and as, at the critical moment
when decision became necessary, a nomination in the Weights and
Measures was placed at his disposal, old Mr. Norman committed the
not uncommon injustice of preferring the interests of his elder
but faulty son to those of the younger with whom no fault had
been found, and deprived his child of the chance of combining the
glories and happiness of a double first, a fellow, a college
tutor, and a don.

Whether Harry Norman gained or lost most by the change we need
not now consider, but at the age of nineteen he left Oxford and
entered on his new duties. It must not, however, be supposed that
this was a step which he took without difficulty and without
pause. It is true that the grand modern scheme for competitive
examinations had not as yet been composed. Had this been done,
and had it been carried out, how awful must have been the
cramming necessary to get a lad into the Weights and Measures!
But, even as things were then, it was no easy matter for a young
man to convince the chief clerk that he had all the acquirements
necessary for the high position to which he aspired.

Indeed, that chief clerk was insatiable, and generally succeeded
in making every candidate conceive the very lowest opinion of
himself and his own capacities before the examination was over.
Some, of course, were sent away at once with ignominy, as
evidently incapable. Many retired in the middle of it with a
conviction that they must seek their fortunes at the bar, or in
medical pursuits, or some other comparatively easy walk of life.
Others were rejected on the fifth or sixth day as being deficient
in conic sections, or ignorant of the exact principles of
hydraulic pressure. And even those who were retained were so
retained, as it were, by an act of grace. The Weights and
Measures was, and indeed is, like heaven--no man can deserve it.
No candidate can claim as his right to be admitted to the
fruition of the appointment which has been given to him. Henry
Norman, however, was found, at the close of his examination, to
be the least undeserving of the young men then under notice, and
was duly installed in his clerkship.

It need hardly be explained, that to secure so high a level of
information as that required at the Weights and Measures, a scale
of salaries equally exalted has been found necessary. Young men
consequently enter at £100 a year. We are speaking, of course, of
that more respectable branch of the establishment called the
Secretary's Department. At none other of our public offices do
men commence with more than £90--except, of course, at those in
which political confidence is required. Political confidence is
indeed as expensive as hydraulic pressure, though generally found
to be less difficult of attainment.

Henry Norman, therefore, entered on his labours under good
auspices, having £10 per annum more for the business and
pleasures of life in London than most of his young brethren of
the Civil Service. Whether this would have sufficed of itself to
enable him to live up to that tone of society to which he had
been accustomed cannot now be surmised, as very shortly after his
appointment an aunt died, from whom he inherited some £150 or
£200 a year. He was, therefore, placed above all want, and soon
became a shining light even in that bright gallery of spiritualized
stars which formed the corps of clerks in the Secretary's Office
at the Weights and Measures.

Young Norman was a good-looking lad when he entered the public
service, and in a few years he grew up to be a handsome man. He
was tall and thin and dark, muscular in his proportions, and
athletic in his habits. From the date of his first enjoyment of
his aunt's legacy he had a wherry on the Thames, and was soon
known as a man whom it was hard for an amateur to beat. He had a
racket in a racket-court at St. John's Wood Road, and as soon as
fortune and merit increased his salary by another £100 a year, he
usually had a nag for the season. This, however, was not attained
till he was able to count five years' service in the Weights and
Measures. He was, as a boy, somewhat shy and reserved in his
manners, and as he became older he did not shake off the fault.
He showed it, however, rather among men than with women, and,
indeed, in spite of his love of exercise, he preferred the
society of ladies to any of the bachelor gaieties of his
unmarried acquaintance. He was, nevertheless, frank and confident
in those he trusted, and true in his friendships, though,
considering his age, too slow in making a friend. Such was Henry
Norman at the time at which our tale begins. What were the faults
in his character it must be the business of the tale to show.

The other young clerk in this office to whom we alluded is Alaric
Tudor. He is a year older than Henry Norman, though he began
his official career a year later, and therefore at the age of
twenty-one. How it happened that he contrived to pass the
scrutinizing instinct and deep powers of examination possessed
by the chief clerk, was a great wonder to his friends, though
apparently none at all to himself. He took the whole proceeding
very easily; while another youth alongside of him, who for a year
had been reading up for his promised nomination, was so awe-struck
by the severity of the proceedings as to lose his powers of memory
and forget the very essence of the differential calculus.

Of hydraulic pressure and the differential calculus young Tudor
knew nothing, and pretended to know nothing. He told the chief
clerk that he was utterly ignorant of all such matters, that his
only acquirements were a tolerably correct knowledge of English,
French, and German, with a smattering of Latin and Greek, and
such an intimacy with the ordinary rules of arithmetic and with
the first books of Euclid, as he had been able to pick up while
acting as a tutor, rather than a scholar, in a small German
university.

The chief clerk raised his eyebrows and said he feared it would
not do. A clerk, however, was wanting. It was very clear that the
young gentleman who had only showed that he had forgotten his
conic sections could not be supposed to have passed. The
austerity of the last few years had deterred more young men from
coming forward than the extra £10 had induced to do so. One
unfortunate, on the failure of all his hopes, had thrown himself
into the Thames from the neighbouring boat-stairs; and though he
had been hooked out uninjured by the man who always attends there
with two wooden legs, the effect on his parents' minds had been
distressing. Shortly after this occurrence the chief clerk had
been invited to attend the Board, and the Chairman of the
Commissioners, who, on the occasion, was of course prompted by
the Secretary, recommended Mr. Hardlines to be a _leetle_
more lenient. In doing so the quantity of butter which he poured
over Mr. Hardlines' head and shoulders with the view of
alleviating the misery which such a communication would be sure
to inflict, was very great. But, nevertheless, Mr. Hardlines came
out from the Board a crestfallen and unhappy man. 'The service,'
he said, 'would go to the dogs, and might do for anything he
cared, and he did not mind how soon. If the Board chose to make
the Weights and Measures a hospital for idiots, it might do so.
He had done what little lay in his power to make the office
respectable; and now, because mammas complained when their cubs
of sons were not allowed to come in there and rob the public and
destroy the office books, he was to be thwarted and reprimanded!
He had been,' he said, 'eight-and-twenty years in office, and was
still in his prime--but he should,' he thought, 'take advantage
of the advice of his medical friends, and retire. He would never
remain there to see the Weights and Measures become a hospital
for incurables!'

It was thus that Mr. Hardlines, the chief clerk, expressed
himself. He did not, however, send in a medical certificate, nor
apply for a pension; and the first apparent effect of the little
lecture which he had received from the Chairman, was the
admission into the service of Alaric Tudor. Mr. Hardlines was
soon forced to admit that the appointment was not a bad one, as
before his second year was over, young Tudor had produced a very
smart paper on the merits--or demerits--of the strike bushel.

Alaric Tudor when he entered the office was by no means so
handsome a youth as Harry Norman; but yet there was that in his
face which was more expressive, and perhaps more attractive. He
was a much slighter man, though equally tall. He could boast no
adventitious capillary graces, whereas young Norman had a pair of
black curling whiskers, which almost surrounded his face, and had
been the delight and wonder of the maidservants in his mother's
house, when he returned home for his first official holiday.
Tudor wore no whiskers, and his light-brown hair was usually cut
so short as to give him something of the appearance of a clean
Puritan. But in manners he was no Puritan; nor yet in his mode of
life. He was fond of society, and at an early period of his age
strove hard to shine in it. He was ambitious; and lived with the
steady aim of making the most of such advantages as fate and
fortune had put in his way. Tudor was perhaps not superior to
Norman in point of intellect; but he was infinitely his superior
in having early acquired a knowledge how best to use such
intellect as he had.

His education had been very miscellaneous, and disturbed by many
causes, but yet not ineffective or deficient. His father had been
an officer in a cavalry regiment, with a fair fortune, which he
had nearly squandered in early life. He had taken Alaric when
little more than an infant, and a daughter, his only other child,
to reside in Brussels. Mrs. Tudor was then dead, and the
remainder of the household had consisted of a French governess, a
_bonne_, and a man-cook. Here Alaric remained till he had
perfectly acquired the French pronunciation, and very nearly as
perfectly forgotten the English. He was then sent to a private
school in England, where he remained till he was sixteen,
returning home to Brussels but once during those years, when he
was invited to be present at his sister's marriage with a Belgian
banker. At the age of sixteen he lost his father, who, on dying,
did not leave behind him enough of the world's wealth to pay for
his own burial. His half-pay of course died with him, and young
Tudor was literally destitute.

His brother-in-law, the banker, paid for his half-year's
schooling in England, and then removed him to a German academy,
at which it was bargained that he should teach English without
remuneration, and learn German without expense. Whether he taught
much English may be doubtful, but he did learn German thoroughly;
and in that, as in most other transactions of his early life,
certainly got the best of the bargain which had been made for
him.

At the age of twenty he was taken to the Brussels bank as a
clerk; but here he soon gave visible signs of disliking the
drudgery which was exacted from him. Not that he disliked
banking. He would gladly have been a partner with ever so small a
share, and would have trusted to himself to increase his stake.
But there is a limit to the good nature of brothers-in-law, even
in Belgium; and Alaric was quite aware that no such good luck as
this could befall him, at any rate until he had gone through many
years of servile labour. His sister also, though sisterly enough
in her disposition to him, did not quite like having a brother
employed as a clerk in her husband's office. They therefore put
their heads together, and, as the Tudors had good family
connexions in England, a nomination in the Weights and Measures
was procured.

The nomination was procured; but when it was ascertained how very
short a way this went towards the attainment of the desired
object, and how much more difficult it was to obtain Mr.
Hardlines' approval than the Board's favour, young Tudor's
friends despaired, and recommended him to abandon the idea, as,
should he throw himself into the Thames, he might perhaps fall
beyond the reach of the waterman's hook. Alaric himself, however,
had no such fears. He could not bring himself to conceive that he
could fail in being fit for a clerkship in a public office, and
the result of his examination proved at any rate that he had been
right to try.

The close of his first year's life in London found him living in
lodgings with Henry Norman. At that time Norman's income was
nearly three times as good as his own. To say that Tudor selected
his companion because of his income would be to ascribe unjustly
to him vile motives and a mean instinct. He had not done so. The
two young men had been thrown, together by circumstances. They
worked at the same desk, liked each other's society, and each
being alone in the world, thereby not unnaturally came together.
But it may probably be said that had Norman been as poor as
Tudor, Tudor might probably have shrunk from rowing in the same
boat with him.

As it was they lived together and were fast allies; not the less
so that they did not agree as to many of their avocations. Tudor,
at his friend's solicitation, had occasionally attempted to pull
an oar from Searle's slip to Battersea bridge. But his failure in
this line was so complete, and he had to encounter so much of
Norman's raillery, which was endurable, and of his instruction,
which was unendurable, that he very soon gave up the pursuit. He
was not more successful with a racket; and keeping a horse was of
course out of the question.

They had a bond of union in certain common friends whom they much
loved, and with whom they much associated. At least these friends
soon became common to them. The acquaintance originally belonged
to Norman, and he had first cemented his friendship with Tudor by
introducing him at the house of Mrs. Woodward. Since he had done
so, the one young man was there nearly as much as the other.

Who and what the Woodwards were shall be told in a subsequent
chapter. As they have to play as important a part in the tale
about to be told as our two friends of the Weights and Measures,
it would not be becoming to introduce them at the end of this.

As regards Alaric Tudor it need only be further said, by way of
preface, of him as of Harry Norman, that the faults of his
character must be made to declare themselves in the course of our
narrative.



CHAPTER II

THE INTERNAL NAVIGATION


The London world, visitors as well as residents, are well
acquainted also with Somerset House; and it is moreover tolerably
well known that Somerset House is a nest of public offices, which
are held to be of less fashionable repute than those situated in
the neighbourhood of Downing Street, but are not so decidedly
plebeian as the Custom House, Excise, and Post Office.

But there is one branch of the Civil Service located in Somerset
House, which has little else to redeem it from the lowest depths
of official vulgarity than the ambiguous respectability of its
material position. This is the office of the Commissioners of
Internal Navigation. The duties to be performed have reference to
the preservation of canal banks, the tolls to be levied at locks,
and disputes with the Admiralty as to points connected with tidal
rivers. The rooms are dull and dark, and saturated with the fog
which rises from the river, and their only ornament is here and
there some dusty model of an improved barge. Bargees not
unfrequently scuffle with hobnailed shoes through the passages,
and go in and out, leaving behind them a smell of tobacco, to
which the denizens of the place are not unaccustomed.

Indeed, the whole office is apparently infected with a leaven
of bargedom. Not a few of the men are employed from time to
time in the somewhat lethargic work of inspecting the banks and
towing-paths of the canals which intersect the country. This they
generally do seated on a load of hay, or perhaps of bricks, in
one of those long, ugly, shapeless boats, which are to be seen
congregating in the neighbourhood of Brentford. So seated, they
are carried along at the rate of a mile and a half an hour, and
usually while away the time in gentle converse with the man at
the rudder, or in silent abstraction over a pipe.

But the dullness of such a life as this is fully atoned for by
the excitement of that which follows it in London. The men of the
Internal Navigation are known to be fast, nay, almost furious in
their pace of living; not that they are extravagant in any great
degree, a fault which their scale of salaries very generally
forbids; but they are one and all addicted to Coal Holes and
Cider Cellars; they dive at midnight hours into Shades, and know
all the back parlours of all the public-houses in the neighbourhood
of the Strand. Here they leave messages for one another, and call
the girl at the bar by her Christian name. They are a set of men
endowed with sallow complexions, and they wear loud clothing,
and spend more money in gin-and-water than in gloves.

The establishment is not unusually denominated the 'Infernal
Navigation', and the gentlemen employed are not altogether
displeased at having it so called. The 'Infernal Navvies',
indeed, rather glory in the name. The navvies of Somerset House
are known all over London, and there are those who believe that
their business has some connexion with the rivers or railroads of
that bourne from whence no traveller returns. Looking, however,
from their office windows into the Thames, one might be tempted
to imagine that the infernal navigation with which they are
connected is not situated so far distant from the place of their
labours.

The spirit who guards the entrance into this elysium is by no
means so difficult to deal with as Mr. Hardlines. And it was well
that it was so some few years since for young Charley Tudor, a
cousin of our friend Alaric; for Charley Tudor could never have
passed muster at the Weights and Measures. Charles Tudor, the
third of the three clerks alluded to in our title-page, is the
son of a clergyman, who has a moderate living on the Welsh
border, in Shropshire. Had he known to what sort of work he was
sending his son, he might probably have hesitated before he
accepted for him a situation in the Internal Navigation Office.
He was, however, too happy in getting it to make many inquiries
as to its nature. We none of us like to look a gift-horse in the
mouth. Old Mr. Tudor knew that a clerkship in the Civil Service
meant, or should mean, a respectable maintenance for life, and
having many young Tudors to maintain himself, he was only too
glad to find one of them provided for.

Charley Tudor was some few years younger than his cousin Alaric
when he came up to town, and Alaric had at that time some three
or four years' experience of London life. The examination at the
Internal Navigation was certainly not to be so much dreaded as
that at the Weights and Measures; but still there was an
examination; and Charley, who had not been the most diligent of
schoolboys, approached it with great dread after a preparatory
evening passed with the assistance of his cousin and Mr. Norman.

Exactly at ten in the morning he walked into the lobby of his
future workshop, and found no one yet there but two aged seedy
messengers. He was shown into a waiting-room, and there he
remained for a couple of hours, during which every clerk in the
establishment came to have a look at him. At last he was ushered
into the Secretary's room.

'Ah!' said the Secretary, 'your name is Tudor, isn't it?'

Charley confessed to the fact.

'Yea,' said the Secretary, 'I have heard about you from Sir
Gilbert de Salop.' Now Sir Gilbert de Salop was the great family
friend of this branch of the Tudors. But Charley, finding that no
remark suggested itself to him at this moment concerning Sir
Gilbert, merely said, 'Yes, sir.'

'And you wish to serve the Queen?' said the Secretary.

Charley, not quite knowing whether this was a joke or not, said
that he did.

'Quite right--it is a very fair ambition,' continued the great
official functionary--'quite right--but, mind you, Mr. Tudor, if
you come to us you must come to work. I hope you like hard work;
you should do so, if you intend to remain with us.'

Charley said that he thought he did rather like hard work.
Hereupon a senior clerk standing by, though a man not given to
much laughter, smiled slightly, probably in pity at the unceasing
labour to which the youth was about to devote himself.

'The Internal Navigation requires great steadiness, good natural
abilities, considerable education, and--and--and no end of
application. Come, Mr. Tudor, let us see what you can do.' And so
saying, Mr. Oldeschole, the Secretary, motioned him to sit down
at an office table opposite to himself.

Charley did as he was bid, and took from the hands of his future
master an old, much-worn quill pen, with which the great man had
been signing minutes.

'Now,' said the great man, 'just copy the few first sentences of
that leading article--either one will do,' and he pushed over to
him a huge newspaper.

To tell the truth, Charley did not know what a leading article
was, and so he sat abashed, staring at the paper.

'Why don't you write?' asked the Secretary.

'Where shall I begin, sir?' stammered poor Charley, looking
piteously into the examiner's face.

'God bless my soul! there; either of those leading articles,' and
leaning over the table, the Secretary pointed to a particular
spot.

Hereupon Charley began his task in a large, ugly, round hand,
neither that of a man nor of a boy, and set himself to copy the
contents of the paper. 'The name of Pacifico stinks in the
nostril of the British public. It is well known to all the world
how sincerely we admire the vers_i_tility of Lord Palmerston's
genius; how cordially we s_i_mpathize with his patriotic energies.
But the admiration which even a Palmerston inspires must have a
bound, and our s_i_mpathy may be called on too far. When we
find ourselves asked to pay--'. By this time Charley had half covered
the half-sheet of foolscap which had been put before him, and
here at the word 'pay' he unfortunately suffered a large blot of ink
to fall on the paper.

'That won't do, Mr. Tudor, that won't do--come, let us look,' and
stretching over again, the Secretary took up the copy.

'Oh dear! oh dear! this is very bad; versatility with an
'i!'--sympathy with an 'i!' sympathize with an 'i!' Why, Mr. Tudor,
you must be very fond of 'i's' down in Shropshire.'

Charley looked sheepish, but of course said nothing.

'And I never saw a viler hand in my life. Oh dear, oh dear, I
must send you back to Sir Gilbert. Look here, Snape, this will
never do--never do for the Internal Navigation, will it?'

Snape, the attendant senior clerk, said, as indeed he could not
help saying, that the writing was very bad.

'I never saw worse in my life,' said the Secretary. 'And now, Mr.
Tudor, what do you know of arithmetic?'

Charley said that he thought he knew arithmetic pretty well;--'at
least some of it,' he modestly added.

'Some of it!' said the Secretary, slightly laughing. 'Well, I'll
tell you what--this won't do at all;' and he took the unfortunate
manuscript between his thumb and forefinger. 'You had better go
home and endeavour to write something a little better than this.
Mind, if it is not very much better it won't do. And look here;
take care that you do it yourself. If you bring me the writing of
any one else, I shall be sure to detect you. I have not any more
time now; as to arithmetic, we'll examine you in 'some of it'
to-morrow.'

So Charley, with a faint heart, went back to his cousin's
lodgings and waited till the two friends had arrived from the
Weights and Measures. The men there made a point of staying up to
five o'clock, as is the case with all model officials, and it was
therefore late before he could get himself properly set to work.
But when they did arrive, preparations for calligraphy were made
on a great scale; a volume of Gibbon was taken down, new quill
pens, large and small, and steel pens by various makers were
procured; cream-laid paper was provided, and ruled lines were put
beneath it. And when this was done, Charley was especially
cautioned to copy the spelling as well as the wording.

He worked thus for an hour before dinner, and then for three
hours in the evening, and produced a very legible copy of half a
chapter of the 'Decline and Fall.'

'I didn't think they examined at all at the Navigation,' said
Norman.

'Well, I believe it's quite a new thing,' said Alaric Tudor. 'The
schoolmaster must be abroad with a vengeance, if he has got as
far as that.'

And then they carefully examined Charley's work, crossed his t's,
dotted his i's, saw that his spelling was right, and went to bed.

Again, punctually at ten o'clock, Charley presented himself at
the Internal Navigation; and again saw the two seedy old
messengers warming themselves at the lobby fire. On this occasion
he was kept three hours in the waiting-room, and some of the
younger clerks ventured to come and speak to him. At length Mr.
Snape appeared, and desired the acolyte to follow him. Charley,
supposing that he was again going to the awful Secretary, did so
with a palpitating heart. But he was led in another direction
into a large room, carrying his manuscript neatly rolled in his
hand. Here Mr. Snape introduced him to five other occupants of
the chamber; he, Mr. Snape himself, having a separate desk there,
being, in official parlance, the head of the room. Charley was
told to take a seat at a desk, and did so, still thinking that
the dread hour of his examination was soon to come. His
examination, however, was begun and over. No one ever asked for
his calligraphic manuscript, and as to his arithmetic, it may be
presumed that his assurance that he knew 'some of it,' was deemed
to be adequate evidence of sufficient capacity. And in this
manner, Charley Tudor became one of the Infernal Navvies.

He was a gay-hearted, thoughtless, rollicking young lad, when he
came up to town; and it may therefore be imagined that he easily
fell into the peculiar ways and habits of the office. A short
bargee's pilot-coat, and a pipe of tobacco, were soon familiar to
him; and he had not been six months in London before he had his
house-of-call in a cross lane running between Essex Street and
Norfolk Street. 'Mary, my dear, a screw of bird's-eye!' came
quite habitually to his lips; and before his fist year was out,
he had volunteered a song at the Buckingham Shades.

The assurance made to him on his first visit to the office by Mr.
Secretary Oldeschole, that the Internal Navigation was a place of
herculean labours, had long before this time become matter to him
of delightful ridicule. He had found himself to be one of six
young men, who habitually spent about five hours a day together
in the same room, and whose chief employment was to render the
life of the wretched Mr. Snape as unendurable as possible. There
were copies to be written, and entries to be made, and books to
be indexed. But these things were generally done by some extra
hand, as to the necessity of whose attendance for such purpose
Mr. Snape was forced to certify. But poor Snape knew that he had
no alternative. He rule six unruly young navvies! There was not
one of them who did not well know how to make him tremble in his
shoes.

Poor Mr. Snape had selected for his own peculiar walk in life a
character for evangelical piety. Whether he was a hypocrite--as
all the navvies averred--or a man sincere as far as one so weak
could accomplish sincerity, it is hardly necessary for us to
inquire. He was not by nature an ill-natured man, but he had
become by education harsh to those below him, and timid and
cringing with those above. In the former category must by no
means be included the six young men who were nominally under his
guidance. They were all but acknowledged by him as his superiors.
Ignorant as they were, they could hardly be more so than he.
Useless as they were, they did as much for the public service as
he did. He sometimes complained of them; but it was only when
their misconduct had been so loud as to make it no longer
possible that he should not do so.

Mr. Snape being thus by character and predilection a religious
man, and having on various occasions in olden days professed much
horror at having his ears wounded by conversation which was
either immoral or profane, it had of course become the habitual
practice of the navvies to give continual utterance to every
description of ribaldry and blasphemy for his especial edification.
Doubtless it may be concluded from the habits of the men, that
even without such provocation, their talk would have exceeded
the yea, yea, and nay, nay, to which young men should confine
themselves. But they especially concerted schemes of blasphemy
and dialogues of iniquity for Mr. Snape's particular advantage;
and continued daily this disinterested amusement, till at last an
idea got abroad among them that Mr. Snape liked it. Then they
changed their tactics and canted through their noses in the
manner which they imagined to be peculiar to methodist preachers.
So on the whole, Mr. Snape had an uneasy life of it at the Internal
Navigation.

Into all these malpractices Charley Tudor plunged headlong. And
how should it have been otherwise? How can any youth of nineteen
or twenty do other than consort himself with the daily companions
of his usual avocations? Once and again, in one case among ten
thousand, a lad may be found formed of such stuff, that he
receives neither the good nor the bad impulses of those around
him. But such a one is a _lapsus naturae_. He has been born
without the proper attributes of youth, or at any rate, brought
up so as to have got rid of them.

Such, a one, at any rate, Charley Tudor was not. He was a little
shocked at first by the language he heard; but that feeling soon
wore off. His kind heart, also, in the first month of his
novitiate, sympathized with the daily miseries of Mr. Snape; but
he also soon learnt to believe that Mr. Snape was a counterfeit,
and after the first half year could torture him with as much
gusto as any of his brethren. Alas! no evil tendency communicates
itself among young men more quickly than cruelty. Those infernal
navvies were very cruel to Mr. Snape.

And yet young Tudor was a lad of a kindly heart, of a free,
honest, open disposition, deficient in no proportion of mind
necessary to make an estimable man. But he was easily malleable,
and he took at once the full impression of the stamp to which he
was subjected. Had he gone into the Weights and Measures, a
hypothesis which of course presumes a total prostration of the
intellects and energy of Mr. Hardlines, he would have worked
without a groan from ten till five, and have become as good a
model as the best of them. As it was, he can be hardly said to
have worked at all, soon became _facile princeps_ in the list of
habitual idlers, and was usually threatened once a quarter with
dismissal, even from that abode of idleness, in which the very
nature of true work was unknown.

Some tidings of Charley's doings in London, and non-doings at the
Internal Navigation, of course found their way to the Shropshire
parsonage. His dissipation was not of a very costly kind; but £90
per annum will hardly suffice to afford an ample allowance of
gin-and-water and bird's-eye tobacco, over and above the other
wants of a man's life. Bills arrived there requiring payment; and
worse than this, letters also came through Sir Gilbert de Salop
from Mr. Oldeschole, the Secretary, saying that young Tudor was
disgracing the office, and lowering the high character of the
Internal Navigation; and that he must be removed, unless he could
be induced to alter his line of life, &c.

Urgent austere letters came from the father, and fond heart-rending
appeals from the mother. Charley's heart was rent. It was,
at any rate, a sign in him that he was not past hope of grace,
that he never laughed at these monitions, that he never showed
such letters to his companions, never quizzed his 'governor's'
lectures, or made merry over the grief of his mother. But if it be
hard for a young man to keep in the right path when he has not as
yet strayed out of it, how much harder is it to return to it when
he has long since lost the track! It was well for the father to
write austere letters, well for the mother to make tender appeals,
but Charley could not rid himself of his companions, nor of his
debts, nor yet even of his habits. He could not get up in the
morning and say that he would at once be as his cousin Alaric, or
as his cousin's friend, Mr. Norman. It is not by our virtues or
our vices that we are judged, even by those who know us best; but
by such credit for virtues or for vices as we may have acquired.
Now young Tudor's credit for virtue was very slight, and he did
not know how to extend it.

At last papa and mamma Tudor came up to town to make one last
effort to save their son; and also to save, on his behalf, the
valuable official appointment which he held. He had now been
three years in his office, and his salary had risen to £110 per
annum. £110 per annum was worth saving if it could be saved. The
plan adopted by Mrs. Tudor was that of beseeching their cousin
Alaric to take Charley under his especial wing.

When Charley first arrived in town, the fact of Alaric and Norman
living together had given the former a good excuse for not
offering to share his lodgings with his cousin. Alaric, with the
advantage in age of three or four years--at that period of life
the advantage lies in that direction--with his acquired
experience of London life, and also with all the wondrous éclat
of the Weights and Measures shining round him, had perhaps been a
little too unwilling to take by the hand a rustic cousin who was
about to enter life under the questionable auspices of the
Internal Navigation. He had helped Charley to transcribe the
chapter of Gibbon, and had, it must be owned, lent him from time
to time a few odd pounds in his direst necessities. But their
course in life had hitherto been apart. Of Norman, Charley had
seen less even than of his cousin.

And now it became a difficult question with Alaric how he was to
answer the direct appeal made to him by Mrs. Tudor;--'Pray, pray
let him live with you, if it be only for a year, Alaric,' the
mother had said, with the tears running down her cheeks. 'You are
so good, so discreet, so clever--you can save him.' Alaric
promised, or was ready to promise, anything else, but hesitated
as to the joint lodgings. 'How could he manage it,' said he,
'living, as he was, with another man? He feared that Mr. Norman
would not accede to such an arrangement. As for himself, he would
do anything but leave his friend Norman.' To tell the truth,
Alaric thought much, perhaps too much, of the respectability of
those with whom he consorted. He had already begun to indulge
ambitious schemes, already had ideas stretching even beyond the
limits of the Weights and Measures, and fully intended to make
the very most of himself.

Mrs. Tudor, in her deep grief, then betook herself to Mr. Norman,
though with that gentleman she had not even the slightest
acquaintance. With a sulking heart, with a consciousness of her
unreasonableness, but with the eloquence of maternal sorrow, she
made her request. Mr. Norman heard her out with all the calm
propriety of the Weights and Measures, begged to have a day to
consider, and then acceded to the request.

'I think we ought to do it,' said he to Alaric. The mother's
tears had touched his heart, and his sense of duty had prevailed.
Alaric, of course, could now make no further objection, and thus
Charley the Navvy became domesticated with his cousin Alaric and
Harry Norman.

The first great question to be settled, and it is a very great
question with a young man, was that of latch-key or no latch-key.
Mrs. Richards, the landlady, when she made ready the third
bedroom for the young gentleman, would, as was her wont in such
matters, have put a latchkey on the toilet-table as a matter of
course, had she not had some little conversation with Mamma Tudor
regarding her son. Mamma Tudor had implored and coaxed, and
probably bribed Mrs. Richards to do something more than 'take her
son in and do for him'; and Mrs. Richards, as her first
compliance with these requests, had kept the latch-key in her own
pocket. So matters went on for a week; but when Mrs. Richards
found that her maidservant was never woken by Mr. Charley's raps
after midnight, and that she herself was obliged to descend in
her dressing-gown, she changed her mind, declared to herself
that it was useless to attempt to keep a grown gentleman in
leading-strings, and put the key on the table on the second Monday
morning.

As none of the three men ever dined at home, Alaric and Norman
having clubs which they frequented, and Charley eating his dinner
at some neighbouring dining-house, it may be imagined that this
change of residence did our poor navvy but little good. It had,
however, a salutary effect on him, at any rate at first. He
became shamed into a quieter and perhaps cleaner mode of dressing
himself; he constrained himself to sit down to breakfast with his
monitors at half-past eight, and was at any rate so far regardful
of Mrs. Richards as not to smoke in his bedroom, and to come home
sober enough to walk upstairs without assistance every night for
the first month.

But perhaps the most salutary effect made by this change on young
Tudor was this, that he was taken by his cousin one Sunday to the
Woodwards. Poor Charley had had but small opportunity of learning
what are the pleasures of decent society. He had gone headlong
among the infernal navvies too quickly to allow of that slow and
gradual formation of decent alliances which is all in all to a
young man entering life. A boy is turned loose into London, and
desired to choose the good and eschew the bad. Boy as he is, he
might probably do so if the opportunity came in his way. But no
such chance is afforded him. To eschew the bad is certainly
possible for him; but as to the good, he must wait till he be
chosen. This it is, that is too much for him. He cannot live
without society, and so he falls.

Society, an ample allowance of society, this is the first requisite
which a mother should seek in sending her son to live alone in
London; balls, routs, picnics, parties; women, pretty, well-dressed,
witty, easy-mannered; good pictures, elegant drawing rooms, well
got-up books, Majolica and Dresden china--these are the truest
guards to protect a youth from dissipation and immorality.

  These are the books, the arts, the academes
  That show, contain, and nourish all the world,

if only a youth could have them at his disposal. Some of these
things, though by no means all, Charley Tudor encountered at the
Woodwards.



CHAPTER III

THE WOODWARDS


It is very difficult nowadays to say where the suburbs of London
come to an end, and where the country begins. The railways,
instead of enabling Londoners to live in the country, have turned
the country into a city. London will soon assume the shape of a
great starfish. The old town, extending from Poplar to Hammersmith,
will be the nucleus, and the various railway lines will be the projecting
rays.

There are still, however, some few nooks within reach of the
metropolis which have not been be-villaged and be-terraced out of
all look of rural charm, and the little village of Hampton, with
its old-fashioned country inn, and its bright, quiet, grassy
river, is one of them, in spite of the triple metropolitan
waterworks on the one side, and the close vicinity on the other
of Hampton Court, that well-loved resort of cockneydom.

It was here that the Woodwards lived. Just on the outskirts of
the village, on the side of it farthest from town, they inhabited
not a villa, but a small old-fashioned brick house, abutting on
to the road, but looking from its front windows on to a lawn and
garden, which stretched down to the river.

The grounds were not extensive, being included, house and all, in
an area of an acre and a half: but the most had been made of it;
it sloped prettily to the river, and was absolutely secluded from
the road. Thus Surbiton Cottage, as it was called, though it had
no pretension to the grandeur of a country-house, was a desirable
residence for a moderate family with a limited income.

Mrs. Woodward's family, for there was no Mr. Woodward in the
case, consisted of herself and three daughters. There was
afterwards added to this an old gentleman, an uncle of Mrs.
Woodward's, but he had not arrived at the time at which we would
wish first to introduce our readers to Hampton.

Mrs. Woodward was the widow of a clergyman who had held a living
in London, and had resided there. He had, however, died when two
of his children were very young, and while the third was still a
baby. From that time Mrs. Woodward had lived at the cottage at
Hampton, and had there maintained a good repute, paying her way
from month to month as widows with limited incomes should do, and
devoting herself to the amusements and education of her
daughters.

It was not, probably, from any want of opportunity to cast them
aside, that Mrs. Woodward had remained true to her weeds; for at
the time of her husband's death she was a young and a very pretty
woman; and an income of £400 a year, though moderate enough for
all the wants of a gentleman's family, would no doubt have added
sufficiently to her charms to have procured her a second
alliance, had she been so minded.

Twelve years, however, had now elapsed since Mr. Woodward had
been gathered to his fathers, and the neighbouring world of
Hampton, who had all of them declared over and over again that
the young widow would certainly marry again, were now becoming as
unanimous in their expressed opinion that the old widow knew the
value of her money too well to risk it in the keeping of the best
he that ever wore boots.

At the date at which our story commences, she was a comely little
woman, past forty, somewhat below the middle height, rather
_embonpoint_, as widows of forty should be, with pretty fat
feet, and pretty fat hands; wearing just a _soupçon_ of a
widow's cap on her head, with her hair, now slightly grey, parted
in front, and brushed very smoothly, but not too carefully, in
_bandeaux_ over her forehead.

She was a quick little body, full of good-humour, slightly given
to repartee, and perhaps rather too impatient of a fool. But
though averse to a fool, she could sympathize with folly. A great
poet has said that women are all rakes at heart; and there was
something of the rake at heart about Mrs. Woodward. She never
could be got to express adequate horror at fast young men, and
was apt to have her own sly little joke at women who prided
themselves on being punctilious. She could, perhaps, the more
safely indulge in this, as scandal had never even whispered a
word against herself.

With her daughters she lived on terms almost of equality. The two
elder were now grown up; that is, they were respectively eighteen
and seventeen years old. They were devotedly attached to their
mother, looked on her as the only perfect woman in existence, and
would willingly do nothing that could vex her; but they perhaps
were not quite so systematically obedient to her as children
should be to their only surviving parent. Mrs. Woodward, however,
found nothing amiss, and no one else therefore could well have a
right to complain.

They were both pretty--but Gertrude, the elder, was by far the
more strikingly so. They were, nevertheless, much alike; they
both had rich brown hair, which they, like their mother, wore
simply parted over the forehead. They were both somewhat taller
than her, and were nearly of a height. But in appearance, as in
disposition, Gertrude carried by far the greater air of command.
She was the handsomer of the two, and the cleverer. She could
write French and nearly speak it, while her sister could only
read it. She could play difficult pieces from sight, which it
took her sister a morning's pains to practise. She could fill in
and finish a drawing, while her sister was still struggling, and
struggling in vain, with the first principles of the art.

But there was a softness about Linda, for such was the name of
the second Miss Woodward, which in the eyes of many men made up
both for the superior beauty and superior talent of Gertrude.
Gertrude was, perhaps, hardly so soft as so young a girl should
be. In her had been magnified that spirit of gentle raillery
which made so attractive a part of her mother's character. She
enjoyed and emulated her mother's quick sharp sayings, but she
hardly did so with her mother's grace, and sometimes attempted it
with much more than her mother's severity. She also detested
fools; but in promulgating her opinion on this subject, she was
too apt to declare who the fools were whom she detested.

It may be thought that under such circumstances there could be
but little confidence between the sisters; but, nevertheless, in
their early days, they lived together as sisters should do.
Gertrude, when she spoke of fools, never intended to include
Linda in the number; and Linda appreciated too truly, and admired
too thoroughly, her sister's beauty and talent to be jealous of
either.

Of the youngest girl, Katie, it is not necessary at present to
say much. At this time she was but thirteen years of age, and was
a happy, pretty, romping child. She gave fair promise to be at
any rate equal to her sisters in beauty, and in mind was quick
and intelligent. Her great taste was for boating, and the romance
of her life consisted in laying out ideal pleasure-grounds, and
building ideal castles in a little reedy island or ait which lay
out in the Thames, a few perches from the drawing-room windows.

Such was the family of the Woodwards. Harry Norman's father and
Mr. Woodward had been first cousins, and hence it had been quite
natural that when Norman came up to reside in London he should be
made welcome to Surbiton Cottage. He had so been made welcome,
and had thus got into a habit of spending his Saturday evenings
and Sundays at the home of his relatives. In summer he could row
up in his own wherry, and land himself and carpet-bag direct on
the Woodwards' lawn, and in the winter he came down by the
Hampton Court five p.m. train--and in each case he returned on
the Monday morning. Thus, as regards that portion of his time
which was most his own, he may be said almost to have lived at
Surbiton Cottage, and if on any Sunday he omitted to make his
appearance, the omission was ascribed by the ladies of Hampton,
in some half-serious sort of joke, to metropolitan allurements
and temptations which he ought to have withstood.

When Tudor and Norman came to live together, it was natural
enough that Tudor also should be taken down to Surbiton Cottage.
Norman could not leave him on every Saturday without telling him
much of his friends whom he went to visit, and he could hardly
say much of them without offering to introduce his companion to
them. Tudor accordingly went there, and it soon came to pass that
he also very frequently spent his Sundays at Hampton.

It must be remembered that at this time, the time, that is, of
Norman and Tudor's first entrance on their London life, the girls
at Surbiton Cottage were mere girls--that is, little more than
children; they had not, as it were, got their wings so as to be
able to fly away when the provocation to do so might come; they
were, in short, Gertrude and Linda Woodward, and not the Miss
Woodwards: their drawers came down below their frocks, instead of
their frocks below their drawers; and in lieu of studying the
French language, as is done by grown-up ladies, they did French
lessons, as is the case with ladies who are not grown-up. Under
these circumstances there was no embarrassment as to what the
young people should call each other, and they soon became very
intimate as Harry and Alaric, Gertrude and Linda.

It is not, however, to be conceived that Alaric Tudor at once
took the same footing in the house as Norman. This was far from
being the case. In the first place he never slept there, seeing
that there was no bed for him; and the most confidential
intercourse in the household took place as they sat cosy over the
last embers of the drawing-room fire, chatting about everything
and nothing, as girls always can do, after Tudor had gone away to
his bed at the inn, on the opposite side of the way. And then
Tudor did not come on every Saturday, and at first did not do so
without express invitation; and although the girls soon
habituated themselves to the familiarity of their new friend's
Christian name, it was some time before Mrs. Woodward did so.

Two--three years soon flew by, and Linda and Gertrude became the
Miss Woodwards; their frocks were prolonged, their drawers
curtailed, and the lessons abandoned. But still Alaric Tudor and
Harry Norman came to Hampton not less frequently than of yore,
and the world resident on that portion of the left bank of the
Thames found out that Harry Norman and Gertrude Woodward were to
be man and wife, and that Alaric Tudor and Linda Woodward were to
go through the same ceremony. They found this out, or said that
they had done so. But, as usual, the world was wrong; at least
in part, for at the time of which we are speaking no word of
love-making had passed, at any rate, between the last-named
couple.

And what was Mrs. Woodward about all this time? Was she match-making
or match-marring; or was she negligently omitting the duties
of a mother on so important an occasion? She was certainly
neither match-making nor match-marring; but it was from no
negligence that she was thus quiescent. She knew, or thought she
knew, that the two young men were fit to be husbands to her
daughters, and she felt that if the wish for such an alliance
should spring up between either pair, there was no reason why she
should interfere to prevent it. But she felt also that she should
not interfere to bring any such matter to pass. These young
people had by chance been thrown together. Should there be
love-passages among them, as it was natural to suppose there might
be, it would be well. Should there be none such, it would be well
also. She thoroughly trusted her own children, and did not
distrust her friends; and so as regards Mrs. Woodward the matter
was allowed to rest.

We cannot say that on this matter we quite approve of her
conduct, though we cannot but admire the feeling which engendered
it. Her daughters were very young; though they had made such
positive advances as have been above described towards the
discretion of womanhood, they were of the age when they would
have been regarded as mere boys had they belonged to the other
sex. The assertion made by Clara Van Artevelde, that women 'grow
upon the sunny side of the wall,' is doubtless true; but young
ladies, gifted as they are with such advantages, may perhaps be
thought to require some counsel, some advice, in those first
tender years in which they so often have to make or mar their
fortunes.

Not that Mrs. Woodward gave them no advice; not but that she
advised them well and often--but she did so, perhaps, too much as
an equal, too little as a parent.

But, be that as it may--and I trust my readers will not be
inclined so early in our story to lean heavily on Mrs. Woodward,
whom I at once declare to be my own chief favourite in the
tale--but, be that as it may, it so occurred that Gertrude, before
she was nineteen, had listened to vows of love from Harry Norman,
which she neither accepted nor repudiated; and that Linda had,
before she was eighteen, perhaps unfortunately, taught herself to
think it probable that she might have to listen to vows of love
from Alaric Tudor.

There had been no concealment between the young men as to their
feelings. Norman had told his friend scores of times that it was
the first wish of his heart to marry Gertrude Woodward; and had
told him, moreover, what were his grounds for hope, and what his
reasons for despair.

'She is as proud as a queen,' he had once said as he was rowing
from Hampton to Searle's Wharf, and lay on his oars as the
falling tide carried his boat softly past the green banks of
Richmond--'she is as proud as a queen, and yet as timid as a
fawn. She lets me tell her that I love her, but she will not say
a word to me in reply; as for touching her in the way of a
caress, I should as soon think of putting my arm round a
goddess.'

'And why not put your arms round a goddess?' said Alaric, who was
perhaps a little bolder than his friend, and a little less
romantic. To this Harry answered nothing, but, laying his back to
his work, swept on past the gardens of Kew, and shot among the
wooden dangers of Putney Bridge.

'I wish you could bring yourself to make up to Linda,' said he,
resting again from his labours; 'that would make the matter so
much easier.'

'Bring myself!' said Alaric; 'what you mean is, that you wish I
could bring Linda to consent to be made up to.'

'I don't think you would have much difficulty,' said Harry,
finding it much easier to answer for Linda than for her sister;
'but perhaps you don't admire her?'

'I think her by far the prettier of the two,' said Alaric.

'That's nonsense,' said Harry, getting rather red in the face,
and feeling rather angry.

'Indeed I do; and so, I am convinced, would most men. You need
not murder me, man. You want me to make up to Linda, and surely
it will be better that I should admire my own wife than yours.'

'Oh! you may admire whom you like; but to say that she is
prettier than Gertrude--why, you know, it is nonsense.'

'Very well, my dear fellow; then to oblige you, I'll fall in love
with Gertrude.'

'I know you won't do that,' said Harry, 'for you are not so very
fond of each other; but, joking apart, I do wish so you would
make up to Linda.'

'Well, I will when _my_ aunt leaves _me_ £200 a year.'

There was no answering this; so the two men changed the
conversation as they walked up together from the boat wharf to
the office of the Weights and Measures.

It was just at this time that fortune and old Mr. Tudor, of the
Shropshire parsonage, brought Charley Tudor to reside with our
two heroes. For the first month, or six weeks, Charley was
ruthlessly left by his companions to get through his Sundays as
best he could. It is to be hoped that he spent them in divine
worship; but it may, we fear, be surmised with more probability,
that he paid his devotions at the shrine of some very inferior
public-house deity in the neighbourhood of Somerset House. As a
matter of course, both Norman and Tudor spoke much of their new
companion to the ladies at Surbiton Cottage, and as by degrees
they reported somewhat favourably of his improved morals, Mrs.
Woodward, with a woman's true kindness, begged that he might be
brought down to Hampton.

'I am afraid you will find him very rough,' said his cousin
Alaric.

'At any rate you will not find him a fool,' said Norman, who was
always the more charitable of the two.

'Thank God for that!' said Mrs. Woodward,' and if he will come
next Saturday, let him by all means do so. Pray give my
compliments to him, and tell him how glad I shall be to see him.'

And thus was this wild wolf to be led into the sheep-cote; this
infernal navvy to be introduced among the angels of Surbiton
Cottage. Mrs. Woodward thought that she had a taste for
reclaiming reprobates, and was determined to try her hand on
Charley Tudor.

Charley went, and his debut was perfectly successful. We have
hitherto only looked on the worst side of his character; but bad
as his character was, it had a better side. He was good-natured
in the extreme, kind-hearted and affectionate; and, though too
apt to be noisy and even boisterous when much encouraged, was not
without a certain innate genuine modesty, which the knowledge of
his own iniquities had rather increased than blunted; and, as
Norman had said of him, he was no fool. His education had not
been good, and he had done nothing by subsequent reading to make
up for this deficiency; but he was well endowed with mother-wit,
and owed none of his deficiencies to nature's churlishness.

He came, and was well received. The girls thought he would surely
get drunk before he left the table, and Mrs. Wood ward feared the
austere precision of her parlourmaid might be offended by some
unworthy familiarity; but no accident of either kind seemed to
occur. He came to the tea-table perfectly sober, and, as far as
Mrs. Woodward could tell, was unaware of the presence of the
parlour-maiden.

On the Sunday morning, Charley went to church, just like a
Christian. Now Mrs. Woodward certainly had expected that he
would have spent those two hours in smoking and attacking the
parlour-maid. He went to church, however, and seemed in no whit
astray there; stood up when others stood up, and sat down when
others sat down. After all, the infernal navvies, bad as they
doubtless were, knew something of the recognized manners of
civilized life.

Thus Charley Tudor ingratiated himself at Surbiton Cottage, and
when he left, received a kind intimation from its mistress that
she would be glad to see him again. No day was fixed, and so
Charley could not accompany his cousin and Harry Norman on the
next Saturday; but it was not long before he got another direct
invitation, and so he also became intimate at Hampton. There
could be no danger of any one falling in love with him, for Katie
was still a child.

Things stood thus at Surbiton Cottage when Mrs. Woodward received
a proposition from a relative of her own, which surprised them
all not a little. This was from a certain Captain Cuttwater, who
was a maternal uncle to Mrs. Woodward, and consisted of nothing
less than an offer to come and live with them for the remaining
term of his natural life. Now Mrs. Woodward's girls had seen very
little of their grand-uncle, and what little they had seen had
only taught them to laugh at him. When his name was mentioned in
the family conclave, he was always made the subject of some
little feminine joke; and Mrs. Woodward, though she always took
her uncle's part, did so in a manner that made them feel that he
was fair game for their quizzing.

When the proposal was first enunciated to the girls, they one and
all, for Katie was one of the council, suggested that it should
be declined with many thanks.

'He'll take us all for midshipmen,' said Linda, 'and stop our
rations, and mast-head us whenever we displease him.'

'I am sure he is a cross old hunks, though mamma says he's not,'
said Katie, with all the impudence of spoilt fourteen.

'He'll interfere with every one of our pursuits,' said Gertrude,
more thoughtfully, 'and be sure to quarrel with the young men.'

But Mrs. Woodward, though she had consulted her daughters, had
arguments of her own in favour of Captain Cuttwater's proposition,
which she had not yet made known to them. Good-humoured and happy
as she always was, she had her cares in the world. Her income was
only £400 a year, and that, now that the Income Tax had settled
down on it, was barely sufficient for her modest wants. A moiety
of this died with her, and the remainder would be but a poor
support for her three daughters, if at the time of her death it
should so chance that she should leave them in want of support.
She had always regarded Captain Cuttwater as a probable source of
future aid. He was childless and unmarried, and had not, as far
as she was aware, another relative in the world. It would,
therefore, under any circumstances, be bad policy to offend him.
But the letter in which he had made his offer had been of a very
peculiar kind. He had begun by saying that he was to be turned out
of his present berth by a d---- Whig Government on account of his
age, he being as young a man as ever he had been; that it behoved
him to look out for a place of residence, in which he might live,
and, if it should so please God, die also. He then said that he
expected to pay £200 a year for his board and lodging, which he
thought might as well go to his niece as to some shark, who would
probably starve him. He also said that, poor as he was and always
had been, he had contrived to scrape together a few hundred pounds;
that he was well aware that if he lived among strangers he should
be done out of every shilling of it; but that if his niece would
receive him, he hoped to be able to keep it together for the
benefit of his grand-nieces, &c.

Now Mrs. Woodward knew her uncle to be an honest-minded man; she
knew also, that, in spite of his protestation as to being a very
poor man, he had saved money enough to make him of some
consequence wherever he went; and she therefore conceived that
she could not with prudence send him to seek a home among chance
strangers. She explained as much of this to the girls as she
thought proper, and ended the matter by making them understand
that Captain Cuttwater was to be received.

On the Saturday after this the three scions of the Civil Service
were all at Surbiton Cottage, and it will show how far Charley
had then made good his ground, to state that the coming of the
captain was debated in his presence.

'And when is the great man to be here?' said Norman.

'At once, I believe,' said Mrs. Woodward; 'that is, perhaps,
before the end of this week, and certainly before the end of
next.'

'And what is he like?' said Alaric.

'Why, he has a tail hanging down behind, like a cat or a dog,'
said Katie.

'Hold your tongue, miss,' said Gertrude. 'As he is to come he
must be treated with respect; but it is a great bore. To me it
will destroy all the pleasures of life.'

'Nonsense, Gertrude,' said Mrs. Woodward; 'it is almost wicked of
you to say so. Destroy all the pleasure of life to have an old
gentleman live in the same house with you!--you ought to be more
moderate, my dear, in what you say.'

'That's all very well, mamma,' said Gertrude, 'but you know you
don't like him yourself.'

'But is it true that Captain Cuttwater wears a pigtail?' asked
Norman.

'I don't care what he wears,' said Gertrude; 'he may wear three
if he likes.'

'Oh! I wish he would,' said Katie, laughing; 'that would be so
delicious. Oh, Linda, fancy Captain Cuttwater with three pigtails!'


'I am sorry to disappoint you, Katie,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'but
your uncle does not wear even one; he once did, but he cut it off
long since.'

'I am so sorry,' said Katie.

'I suppose he'll want to dine early, and go to bed early?' said
Linda.

'His going to bed early would be a great blessing,' said
Gertrude, mindful of their midnight conclaves on Saturdays and
Sundays.

'But his getting up early won't be a blessing at all,' said
Linda, who had a weakness on that subject.

'Talking of bed, Harry, you'll have the worst of it,' said Katie,
'for the captain is to have your room.'

'Yes, indeed,' said Mrs. Woodward, sighing gently, 'we shall no
longer have a bed for you, Harry; that _is_ the worst of it.'

Harry of course assured her that if that was the worst of it
there was nothing very bad in it. He could have a bed at the inn
as well as Alaric and Charley. The amount of that evil would only
be half-a-crown a night.

And thus the advent of Captain Cuttwater was discussed.



CHAPTER IV

CAPTAIN CUTTWATER


Captain Cuttwater had not seen much service afloat; that is, he
had not been personally concerned in many of those sea-engagements
which in and about the time of Nelson gave so great a halo
of glory to the British Lion; nor had it even been permitted
to him to take a prominent part in such minor affairs as have
since occurred; he had not the opportunity of distinguishing
himself either at the battle of Navarino or the bombarding of
Acre; and, unfortunately for his ambition, the period of his
retirement came before that great Baltic campaign, in which, had
he been there, he would doubtless have distinguished himself as
did so many others. His earliest years were spent in cruising
among the West Indies; he then came home and spent some
considerable portion of his life in idleness--if that time can be
said to have been idly spent which he devoted to torturing the
Admiralty with applications, remonstrances, and appeals. Then he
was rated as third lieutenant on the books of some worm-eaten old
man-of-war at Portsmouth, and gave up his time to looking after
the stowage of anchors, and counting fathoms of rope. At last he
was again sent afloat as senior lieutenant in a ten-gun brig, and
cruised for some time off the coast of Africa, hunting for
slavers; and returning after a while from this enterprising
employment, he received a sort of amphibious appointment at
Devonport. What his duties were here, the author, being in all
points a landsman, is unable to describe. Those who were inclined
to ridicule Captain Cuttwater declared that the most important of
them consisted in seeing that the midshipmen in and about the
dockyard washed their faces, and put on clean linen not less
often than three times a week. According to his own account, he
had many things of a higher nature to attend to; and, indeed,
hardly a ship sank or swam in Hamoaze except by his special
permission, for a space of twenty years, if his own view of his
own career may be accepted as correct.

He had once declared to certain naval acquaintances, over his
third glass of grog, that he regarded it as his birthright to be
an Admiral; but at the age of seventy-two he had not yet acquired
his birthright, and the probability of his ever attaining it was
becoming very small indeed. He was still bothering Lords and
Secretaries of the Admiralty for further promotion, when he was
astounded by being informed by the Port-Admiral that he was to
be made happy by half-pay and a pension. The Admiral, in
communicating the intelligence, had pretended to think that he
was giving the captain information which could not be otherwise
than grateful to him, but he was not the less aware that the old
man would be furious at being so treated. What, pension him! put
him on half-pay--shelf him for life, while he was still anxiously
expecting that promotion, that call to higher duties which had so
long been his due, and which, now that his powers were matured,
could hardly be longer denied to him! And after all that he had
done for his country--his ungrateful, thankless, ignorant
country--was he thus to be treated? Was he to be turned adrift
without any mark of honour, any special guerdon, any sign of his
Sovereign's favour to testify as to his faithful servitude of
sixty years' devotion? He, who had regarded it as his merest
right to be an Admiral, and had long indulged the hope of being
greeted in the streets of Devonport as Sir Bartholomew Cuttwater,
K.C.B., was he to be thus thrown aside in his prime, with no
other acknowledgement than the bare income to which he was
entitled!

It is hardly too much to say, that no old officers who have
lacked the means to distinguish themselves, retire from either of
our military services, free from the bitter disappointment and
sour feelings of neglected worth, which Captain Cuttwater felt so
keenly. A clergyman, or a doctor, or a lawyer, feels himself no
whit disgraced if he reaches the end of his worldly labours
without special note or honour. But to a soldier or a sailor,
such indifference to his merit is wormwood. It is the bane of the
professions. Nine men out of ten who go into it must live
discontented, and die disappointed.

Captain Cuttwater had no idea that he was an old man. He had
lived for so many years among men of his own stamp, who had grown
grey and bald, and rickety, and weak alongside of him, that he
had no opportunity of seeing that he was more grey or more
rickety than his neighbours. No children had become men and women
at his feet; no new race had gone out into the world and fought
their battles under his notice. One set of midshipmen had
succeeded to another, but his old comrades in the news-rooms and
lounging-places at Devonport had remained the same; and Captain
Cuttwater had never learnt to think that he was not doing, and
was not able to do good service for his country.

The very name of Captain Cuttwater was odious to every clerk at
the Admiralty. He, like all naval officers, hated the Admiralty,
and thought, that of all Englishmen, those five who had been
selected to sit there in high places as joint lords were the most
incapable. He pestered them with continued and almost continuous
applications on subjects of all sorts. He was always asking for
increased allowances, advanced rank, more assistance, less work,
higher privileges, immunities which could not be granted, and
advantages to which he had no claim. He never took answers, but
made every request the subject of a prolonged correspondence;
till at last some energetic Assistant-Secretary declared that it
should no longer be borne, and Captain Cuttwater was dismissed
with pension and half-pay. During his service he had contrived to
save some four or five thousand pounds, and now he was about to
retire with an assured income adequate to all his wants. The
public who had the paying of Captain Cuttwater may, perhaps,
think that he was amply remunerated for what he had done; but the
captain himself entertained a very different opinion.

Such is the view which we are obliged to take of the professional
side of Captain Cuttwater's character. But the professional side
was by far the worst. Counting fathoms of rope and looking after
unruly midshipmen on shore are not duties capable of bringing out
in high relief the better traits of a main's character. Uncle
Bat, as during the few last years of his life he was always
called at Surbiton Cottage, was a gentleman and a man of honour,
in spite of anything that might be said to the contrary at the
Admiralty. He was a man with a soft heart, though the end of his
nose was so large, so red, and so pimply; and rough as was his
usage to little midshipmen when his duty caused him to encounter
them in a body, he had befriended many a one singly with kind
words and an open hand. The young rogues would unmercifully quiz
Old Nosey, for so Captain Cuttwater was generally called in
Devonport, whenever they could safely do so; but, nevertheless,
in their young distresses they knew him for their friend, and
were not slow to come to him.

In person Captain Cuttwater was a tall, heavy man, on whose iron
constitution hogsheads of Hollands and water seemed to have had
no very powerful effect. He was much given to profane oaths; but
knowing that manners required that he should refrain before
ladies, and being unable to bring his tongue sufficiently under
command to do so, he was in the habit of 'craving the ladies'
pardon' after every slip.

All that was really remarkable in Uncle Bat's appearance was
included in his nose. It had always been a generous, weighty,
self-confident nose, inviting to itself more observation than any
of its brother features demanded. But in latter years it had
spread itself out in soft, porous, red excrescences, to such an
extent as to make it really deserving of considerable attention.
No stranger ever passed Captain Cuttwater in the streets of
Devonport without asking who he was, or, at any rate, specially
noticing him.

It must, of course, be admitted that a too strongly pronounced
partiality for alcoholic drink had produced these defects in
Captain Cuttwater's nasal organ; and yet he was a most staunch
friend of temperance. No man alive or dead had ever seen Captain
Cuttwater the worse for liquor; at least so boasted the captain
himself, and there were none, at any rate in Devonport, to give
him the lie. Woe betide the midshipman whom he should see elated
with too much wine; and even to the common sailor who should be
tipsy at the wrong time, he would show no mercy. Most eloquent
were the discourses which he preached against drunkenness, and
they always ended with a reference to his own sobriety. The truth
was, that drink would hardly make Captain Cuttwater drunk. It
left his brain untouched, but punished his nose.

Mrs. Woodward had seen her uncle but once since she had become a
widow. He had then come up to London to attack the Admiralty at
close quarters, and had sojourned for three or four days at
Surbiton Cottage. This was now some ten years since, and the
girls had forgotten even what he was like. Great preparations
were made for him. Though the summer had nearly commenced, a
large fire was kept burning in his bedroom--his bed was newly
hung with new curtains; two feather beds were piled on each
other, and everything was done which five women could think
desirable to relieve the ailings of suffering age. The fact,
however, was that Captain Cuttwater was accustomed to a small
tent bedstead in a room without a carpet, that he usually slept
on a single mattress, and that he never had a fire in his
bedroom, even in the depth of winter.

Travelling from Devonport to London is now an easy matter; and
Captain Cuttwater, old as he was, found himself able to get
through to Hampton in one day. Mrs. Woodward went to meet him at
Hampton Court in a fly, and conveyed him to his new home,
together with a carpet-bag, a cocked hat, a sword, and a very
small portmanteau. When she inquired after the remainder of his
luggage, he asked her what more lumber she supposed he wanted. No
more lumber at any rate made its appearance, then or afterwards;
and the fly proceeded with an easy load to Surbiton Cottage.

There was great anxiety on the part of the girls when the wheels
were heard to stop at the front door. Gertrude kept her place
steadily standing on the rug in the drawing-room; Linda ran to
the door and then back again; but Katie bolted out and ensconced
herself behind the parlour-maid, who stood at the open door,
looking eagerly forth to get the first view of Uncle Bat.

'So here you are, Bessie, as snug as ever,' said the captain, as
he let himself ponderously down from the fly. Katie had never
before heard her mother called Bessie, and had never seen
anything approaching in size or colour to such a nose, consequently
she ran away frightened.

'That's Gertrude--is it?' said the captain.

'Gertrude, uncle! Why Gertrude is a grown-up woman now. That's
Katie, whom you remember an infant.'

'God bless my soul!' said the captain, as though he thought that
girls must grow twice quicker at Hampton than they did at
Devonport or elsewhere, 'God bless my soul!'

He was then ushered into the drawing-room, and introduced in form
to his grand-nieces. 'This is Gertrude, uncle, and this Linda;
there is just enough difference for you to know them apart. And
this Katie. Come here, Katie, and kiss your uncle.'

Katie came up, hesitated, looked horrified, but did manage to get
her face somewhat close to the old man's without touching the
tremendous nose, and then having gone through this peril she
retreated again behind the sofa.

'Well; bless my stars, Bessie, you don't tell me those are your
children?'

'Indeed, uncle, I believe they are. It's a sad tale for me to
tell, is it not?' said the blooming mother with a laugh.

'Why, they'll be looking out for husbands next,' said Uncle Bat.

'Oh! they're doing that already, every day,' said Katie.

'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed Uncle Bat; 'I suppose so, I suppose so;--ha,
ha, ha!'

Gertrude turned away to the window, disgusted and angry, and made
up her mind to hate Uncle Bat for ever afterwards. Linda made a
little attempt to smile, and felt somewhat glad in her heart that
her uncle was a man who could indulge in a joke.

He was then taken upstairs to his bedroom, and here he greatly
frightened Katie, and much scandalized the parlour-maid by
declaring, immediately on his entering the room, that it was
'd----- hot, d---ation hot; craving your pardon, ladies!'

'We thought, uncle, you'd like a fire,' began Mrs. Woodward,
'as----'

'A fire in June, when I can hardly carry my coat on my back!'

'It's the last day of May now,' said Katie timidly, from behind
the bed-curtains.

This, however, did not satisfy the captain, and orders were
forthwith given that the fire should be taken away, the curtains
stripped off, the feather beds removed, and everything reduced to
pretty much the same state in which it had usually been left for
Harry Norman's accommodation. So much for all the feminine care
which had been thrown away upon the consideration of Uncle Bat's
infirmities.

'God bless my soul!' said he, wiping his brow with a huge
coloured handkerchief as big as a mainsail, 'one night in such a
furnace as that would have brought on the gout.'

He had dined in town, and by the time that his chamber had been
stripped of its appendages, he was nearly ready for bed. Before
he did so, he was asked to take a glass of sherry.

'Ah! sherry,' said he, taking up the bottle and putting it down
again. 'Sherry, ah! yes; very good wine, I am sure. You haven't a
drop of rum in the house, have you?'

Mrs. Woodward declared with sorrow that she had not.

'Or Hollands?' said Uncle Bat. But the ladies of Surbiton Cottage
were unsupplied also with Hollands.

'Gin?' suggested the captain, almost in despair.

Mrs. Woodward had no gin, but she could send out and get it; and
the first evening of Captain Cuttwater's visit saw Mrs. Woodward's
own parlour-maid standing at the bar of the Green Dragon, while
two gills of spirits were being measured out for her.

'Only for the respect she owed to Missus,' as she afterwards
declared, 'she never would have so demeaned herself for all the
captains in the Queen's battalions.'

The captain, however, got his grog; and having enlarged somewhat
vehemently while he drank it on the iniquities of those
scoundrels at the Admiralty, took himself off to bed; and left
his character and peculiarities to the tender mercies of his
nieces.

The following day was Friday, and on the Saturday Norman and
Tudor were to come down as a matter of course. During the long
days, they usually made their appearance after dinner; but they
had now been specially requested to appear in good orderly time,
in honour of the captain. Their advent had been of course spoken
of, and Mrs. Woodward had explained to Uncle Bat that her cousin
Harry usually spent his Sundays at Hampton, and that he usually
also brought with him a friend of his, a Mr. Tudor. To all this,
as a matter of course, Uncle Bat had as yet no objection to make.

The young men came, and were introduced with due ceremony.
Surbiton Cottage, however, during dinnertime, was very unlike
what it had been before, in the opinion of all the party there
assembled. The girls felt themselves called upon, they hardly
knew why, to be somewhat less intimate in their manner with the
young men than they customarily were; and Harry and Alaric, with
quick instinct, reciprocated the feeling. Mrs. Woodward, even,
assumed involuntarily somewhat of a company air; and Uncle Bat,
who sat at the bottom of the table, in the place usually assigned
to Norman, was awkward in doing the honours of the house to
guests who were in fact much more at home there than himself.

After dinner the young people strolled out into the garden, and
Katie, as was her wont, insisted on Harry Norman rowing her over
to her damp paradise in the middle of the river. He attempted,
vainly, to induce Gertrude to accompany them. Gertrude was either
coy with her lover, or indifferent; for very few were the
occasions on which she could be induced to gratify him with the
rapture of a _tête-à-tête_ encounter. So that, in fact, Harry
Norman's Sunday visits were generally moments of expected
bliss of which the full fruition was but seldom attained. So
while Katie went off to the island, Alaric and the two girls sat
under a spreading elm tree and watched the little boat as it shot
across the water. 'And what do you think of Uncle Bat?' said
Gertrude.

'Well, I am sure he's a good sort of fellow, and a very, gallant
officer, but--'

'But what?' said Linda.

'It's a thousand pities he should have ever been removed from
Devonport, where I am sure he was both useful and ornamental.'

Both the girls laughed cheerily; and as the sound came across the
water to Norman's ears, he repented himself of his good nature to
Katie, and determined that her sojourn in the favourite island
should, on this occasion, be very short.

'But he is to pay mamma a great deal of money,' said Linda, 'and
his coming will be a great benefit to her in that way.'

'There ought to be something to compensate for the bore,' said
Gertrude.

'We must only make the best of him,' said Alaric. 'For my part, I
am rather fond of old gentlemen with long noses; but it seemed to
me that he was not quite so fond of us. I thought he looked
rather shy at Harry and me.'

Both the girls protested against this, and declared that there
could be nothing in it.

'Well, now, I'll tell you what, Gertrude,' said Alaric, 'I am
quite sure that he looks on me, especially, as an interloper; and
yet I'll bet you a pair of gloves I am his favourite before a
month is over.'

'Oh, no; Linda is to be his favourite,' said Gertrude.

'Indeed I am not,' said Linda. 'I liked him very well till he
drank three huge glasses of gin-and-water last night, but I never
can fancy him after that. You can't conceive, Alaric, what the
drawing-room smelt like. I suppose he'll do the same every
evening.'

'Well, what can you expect?' said Gertrude; 'if mamma will have
an old sailor to live with her, of course he'll drink grog.'

While this was going on in the garden, Mrs. Woodward sat
dutifully with her uncle while he sipped his obnoxious toddy, and
answered his questions about their two friends.

'They were both in the Weights and Measures, by far the most
respectable public office in London,' as she told him, 'and both
doing extremely well there. They were, indeed, young men sure to
distinguish themselves and get on in the world. Had this not been
so, she might perhaps have hesitated to receive them so
frequently, and on such intimate terms, at Surbiton Cottage.'
This she said in a half-apologetic manner, and yet with a feeling
of anger at herself that she should condescend to apologize to
any one as to her own conduct in her own house.

'They are very-nice young men, I am sure,' said Uncle Bat.

'Indeed they are,' said Mrs. Woodward.

'And very civil to the young ladies,' said Uncle Bat.

'They have known them since they were children, uncle; and of
course that makes them more intimate than young men generally are
with young ladies;' and again Mrs. Woodward was angry with
herself for making any excuses on the subject.

'Are they well off?' asked the prudent captain.

'Harry Norman is very well off; he has a private fortune. Both of
them have excellent situations.'

'To my way of thinking that other chap is the better fellow. At
any rate he seems to have more gumption about him.'

'Why, uncle, you don't mean to tell me that you think Harry
Norman a fool?' said Mrs. Woodward. Harry Norman was Mrs.
Woodward's special friend, and she fondly indulged the hope of
seeing him in time become the husband of her elder and favourite
daughter; if, indeed, she can be fairly said to have had a
favourite child.

Captain Cuttwater poured out another glass of rum, and dropped
the subject.

Soon afterwards the whole party came in from the lawn. Katie was
all draggled and wet, for she had persisted in making her way
right across the island to look out for a site for another
palace. Norman was a little inclined to be sulky, for Katie had
got the better of him; when she had got out of the boat, he could
not get her into it again; and as he could not very well leave
her in the island, he had been obliged to remain paddling about,
while he heard the happy voices of Alaric and the two girls from
the lawn. Alaric was in high good-humour, and entered the room
intent on his threatened purpose of seducing Captain Cuttwater's
affections. The two girls were both blooming with happy glee, and
Gertrude was especially bright in spite of the somewhat sombre
demeanour of her lover.

Tea was brought in, whereupon Captain Cuttwater, having taken a
bit of toast and crammed it into his saucer, fell fast asleep in
an arm-chair.

'You'll have very little opportunity to-night,' said Linda,
almost in a whisper.

'Opportunity for what?' asked Mrs. Woodward.

'Hush,' said Gertrude, 'we'll tell you by and by, mamma. You'll
wake Uncle Bat if you talk now.'

'I am so thirsty,' said Katie, bouncing into the room with dry
shoes and stockings on. 'I am so thirsty. Oh, Linda, do give me
some tea.'

'Hush,' said Alaric, pointing to the captain, who was thoroughly
enjoying himself, and uttering sonorous snores at regular fixed
intervals.

'Sit down, Katie, and don't make a noise,' said Mrs. Woodward,
gently.

Katie slunk into a chair, opened wide her large bright eyes,
applied herself diligently to her teacup, and then, after taking
breath, said, in a very audible whisper to her sister, 'Are not
we to talk at all, Linda? That will be very dull, I think.'

'Yes, my dear, you are to talk as much as you please, and as
often as you please, and as loud as you please; that is to say,
if your mamma will let you,' said Captain Cuttwater, without any
apparent waking effort, and in a moment the snoring was going on
again as regularly as before.

Katie looked round, and again opened her eyes and laughed. Mrs.
Woodward said, 'You are very good-natured, uncle.' The girls
exchanged looks with Alaric, and Norman, who had not yet
recovered his good-humour, went on sipping his tea.

As soon as the tea-things were gone, Uncle Bat yawned and shook
himself, and asked if it was not nearly time to go to bed.

'Whenever you like, Uncle Bat,' said Mrs. Woodward, who began to
find that she agreed with Gertrude, that early habits on the part
of her uncle would be a family blessing. 'But perhaps you'll take
something before you go?'

'Well, I don't mind if I do take a thimbleful of rum-and-water.' So
the odious spirit-bottle was again brought into the drawing-room.

'Did you call at the Admiralty, sir, as you came through town?'
said Alaric.

'Call at the Admiralty, sir!' said the captain, turning sharply
round at the questioner; 'what the deuce should I call at the
Admiralty for? craving the ladies' pardon.'

'Well, indeed, I don't know,' said Alaric, not a bit abashed.
'But sailors always do call there, for the pleasure, I suppose,
of kicking their heels in the lords' waiting-room.'

'I have done with that game,' said Captain Cuttwater, now wide
awake; and in his energy he poured half a glass more rum into his
beaker. 'I've done with that game, and I'll tell you what, Mr.
Tudor, if I had a dozen sons to provide for to-morrow--'

'Oh, I do so wish you had,' said Katie; 'it would be such fun.
Fancy Uncle Bat having twelve sons, Gertrude. What would you call
them all, uncle?'

'Why, I tell you what, Miss Katie, I wouldn't call one of them a
sailor. I'd sooner make tailors of them.'

'Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, gentleman, apothecary,
ploughboy, thief,' said Katie. 'That would only be eight; what
should the other four be, uncle?'

'You're quite right, Captain Cuttwater,' said Alaric, 'at least
as far as the present moment goes; but the time is coming when
things at the Admiralty will be managed very differently.'

'Then I'm d---- if that time can come too soon--craving the
ladies' pardon!' said Uncle Bat.

'I don't know what you mean, Alaric,' said Harry Norman, who was
just at present somewhat disposed to contradict his friend, and
not ill-inclined to contradict the captain also; 'as far as I can
judge, the Admiralty is the very last office the Government will
think of touching.'

'The Government!' shouted Captain Cuttwater; 'oh! if we are to
wait for the Government, the navy may go to the deuce, sir.'

'It's the pressure from without that must do the work,' said
Alaric.

'Pressure from without!' said Norman, scornfully; 'I hate to hear
such trash.'

'We'll see, young gentleman, we'll see,' said the captain; 'it
may be trash, and it may be right that five fellows who never did
the Queen a day's service in their life, should get fifteen
hundred or two thousand a year, and have the power of robbing an
old sailor like me of the reward due to me for sixty years' hard
work. Reward! no; but the very wages that I have actually earned.
Look at me now, d---- me, look at me! Here I am, Captain
Cuttwater--with sixty years' service--and I've done more perhaps
for the Queen's navy than--than--'

'It's too true, Captain Cuttwater,' said Alaric, speaking with a
sort of mock earnestness which completely took in the captain,
but stealing a glance at the same time at the two girls, who sat
over their work at the drawing-room table, 'it's too true; and
there's no doubt the whole thing must be altered, and that soon.
In the first place, we must have a sailor at the head of the
navy.'

'Yes,' said the captain, 'and one that knows something about it
too.'

'You'll never have a sailor sitting as first lord,' said Norman,
authoritatively; 'unless it be when some party man, high in rank,
may happen to have been in the navy as a boy.'

'And why not?' said Captain Cuttwater quite angrily.

'Because the first lord must sit in the Cabinet, and to do that
he must be a thorough politician.'

'D---- politicians! craving the ladies' pardon,' said Uncle Bat.

'Amen!' said Alaric.

Uncle Bat, thinking that he had thoroughly carried his point,
finished his grog, took up his candlestick, and toddled off to
bed.

'Well, I think I have done something towards carrying my point,'
said Alaric.

'I didn't think you were half so cunning,' said Linda, laughing.

'I cannot think how you can condescend to advocate opinions
diametrically opposed to your own convictions,' said Norman,
somewhat haughtily.

'Fee, fo, fum!' said Alaric.

'What is it all about?' said Mrs. Woodward.

'Alaric wants to do all he can to ingratiate himself with Uncle
Bat,' said Gertrude; 'and I am sure he's going the right way to
work,'

'It's very good-natured on his part,' said Mrs. Woodward.

'I don't know what you are talking about,' said Katie, yawning,
'and I think you are all very stupid; so I'll go to bed.'

The rest soon followed her. They did not sit up so late chatting
over the fire this evening, as was their wont on Saturdays,
though none of them knew what cause prevented it.



CHAPTER V

BUSHEY PARK


The next day being Sunday, the whole party very properly went to
church; but during the sermon Captain Cuttwater very improperly
went to sleep, and snored ponderously the whole time. Katie was
so thoroughly shocked that she did not know which way to look;
Norman, who had recovered his good-humour, and Alaric, could not
refrain from smiling as they caught the eyes of the two girls;
and Mrs. Woodward made sundry little abortive efforts to wake her
uncle with her foot. Altogether abortive they were not, for the
captain would open his eyes and gaze at her for a moment in the
most good-natured, lack-lustre manner conceivable; but then, in a
moment, he would be again asleep and snoring, with all the
regularity of a kitchen-clock. This was at first very dreadful to
the Woodwards; but after a month or two they got used to it, and
so apparently did the pastor and the people of Hampton.

After church there was a lunch of course; and then, according to
their wont, they went out to walk. These Sunday walks in general
were matters of some difficulty. The beautiful neighbourhood of
Hampton Court, with its palace-gardens and lovely park, is so
popular with Londoners that it is generally alive on that day
with a thronged multitude of men, women, and children, and thus
becomes not an eligible resort for lovers of privacy. Captain
Cuttwater, however, on this occasion, insisted on seeing the
chestnuts and the crowd, and consequently, they all went into
Bushey Park.

Uncle Bat, who professed himself to be a philanthropist, and who
was also a bit of a democrat, declared himself delighted with what
he saw. It was a great thing for the London citizens to come down
there with their wives and children, and eat their dinners in the
open air under the spreading trees; and both Harry and Alaric
agreed with him. Mrs. Woodward, however, averred that it would
be much better if they would go to church first, and Gertrude
and Linda were of opinion that the Park was spoilt by the dirty
bits of greasy paper which were left about on all sides. Katie
thought it very hard that, as all the Londoners were allowed to
eat their dinners in the Park, she might not have hers there also.
To which Captain Cuttwater rejoined that he should give them a
picnic at Richmond before the summer was over.

All the world knows how such a party as that of our friends by
degrees separates itself into twos and threes, when sauntering
about in shady walks. It was seldom, indeed, that Norman could
induce his Dulcinea to be so complaisant in his favour; but
either accident or kindness on her part favoured him on this
occasion, and as Katie went on eliciting from Uncle Bat fresh
promises as to the picnic, Harry and Gertrude found themselves
together under one avenue of trees, while Alaric and Linda were
equally fortunate, or unfortunate, under another.

'I did so wish to speak a few words to you, Gertrude,' said
Norman; 'but it seems as though, now that this captain has come
among us, all our old habits and ways are to be upset.'

'I don't see that _you_ need say that,' said she. 'We may,
perhaps, be put out a little--that is, mamma and Linda and I; but
I do not see that you need suffer.'

'Suffer--no, not suffer--and yet it is suffering.'

'What is suffering?' said she.

'Why, to be as we were last night--not able to speak to each
other.'

'Come, Harry, you should be a little reasonable,' said she,
laughing. 'If you did not talk last night whose fault was it?'

'I suppose you will say it was my own. Perhaps it was. But I
could not feel comfortable while he was drinking gin-and-water--'

'It was rum,' said Gertrude, rather gravely.

'Well, rum-and-water in your mother's drawing-room, and cursing
and swearing before you and Linda, as though he were in the
cockpit of a man-of-war.'

'Alaric you saw was able to make himself happy, and I am sure he
is not more indifferent to us than you are.'

'Alaric seemed to me to be bent on making a fool of the old man;
and, to tell the truth, I cannot approve of his doing so.'

'It seems to me, Harry, that you do not approve of what any
of us are doing,' said she; 'I fear we are all in your black
books--Captain Cuttwater, and mamma, and Alaric, and I, and all
of us.'

'Well now, Gertrude, do you mean to say you think it right that
Katie should sit by and hear a man talk as Captain Cuttwater
talked last night? Do you mean to say that the scene which
passed, with the rum and the curses, and the absurd ridicule
which was thrown on your mother's uncle, was such as should take
place in your mother's drawing-room?'

'I mean to say, Harry, that my mother is the best and only judge
of what should, and what should not, take place there.'

Norman felt himself somewhat silenced by this, and walked on for
a time without speaking. He was a little too apt to take upon
himself the character of Mentor; and, strange to say, he was
aware of his own fault in this particular. Thus, though the
temptation to preach was very powerful, he refrained himself for
a while. His present desire was to say soft things rather than
sharp words; and though lecturing was at this moment much easier
to him than love-making, he bethought himself of his object, and
controlled the spirit of morality which was strong within him.

'But we were so happy before your uncle came,' he said, speaking
with his sweetest voice, and looking at the beautiful girl beside
him with all the love he was able to throw into his handsome
face.

'And we are happy now that he has come--or at any rate ought to
be,' said Gertrude, doing a little in the Mentor line herself,
now that the occasion came in her way.

'Ah! Gertrude, you know very well there is only one thing can
make me happy,' said Harry.

'Why, you unreasonable man! just now you said you were perfectly
happy before Captain Cuttwater came, I suppose the one thing now
necessary is to send him away again.'

'No, Gertrude, the thing necessary is to take you away.'

'What! out of the contamination of poor old Uncle Bat's bottle of
rum? But, Harry, you see it would be cowardly in me to leave
mamma and Linda to suffer the calamity alone.'

'I wonder, Gertrude, whether, in your heart of hearts, you really
care a straw about me,' said Harry, who was now very sentimental
and somewhat lachrymose.

'You know we all care very much about you, and it is very wrong
in you to express such a doubt,' said Gertrude, with a duplicity
that was almost wicked; as if she did not fully understand that
the kind of 'caring' of which Norman spoke was of a very
different nature from the general 'caring' which she, on his
behalf, shared with the rest of her family.

'All of you--yes, but I am not speaking of all of you; I am
speaking of you, Gertrude--you in particular. Can you ever love
me well enough to be my wife?'

'Well, there is no knowing what I may be able to do in three or
four years' time; but even that must depend very much on how you
behave yourself in the mean time. If you get cross because
Captain Cuttwater has come here, and snub Alaric and Linda, as
you did last night, and scold at mamma because she chooses to let
her own uncle live in her own house, why, to tell you the truth,
I don't think I ever shall.'

All persons who have a propensity to lecture others have a strong
constitutional dislike to being lectured themselves. Such was
decidedly the case with Harry Norman. In spite of his strong
love, and his anxious desire to make himself agreeable, his brow
became somewhat darkened, and his lips somewhat compressed. He
would not probably have been annoyed had he not been found fault
with for snubbing his friend Tudor. Why should Gertrude, his
Gertrude, put herself forward to defend his friend? Let her
say what she chose for her mother, or even for her profane,
dram-drinking, vulgar old uncle, but it was too much that she
should take up the cudgels for Alaric Tudor.

'Well,' said he, 'I was annoyed last night, and I must own it. It
grieved me to hear Alaric turning your uncle into ridicule, and
that before your mother's face; and it grieved me to see you and
Linda encourage him. In what Alaric said about the Admiralty he
did not speak truthfully.'

'Do you mean to say that Alaric said what was false?'

'Inasmuch as he was pretending to express his own opinion, he did
say what was false.'

'Then I must and will say that I never yet knew Alaric say a word
that was not true; and, which is more, I am quite sure that he
would not accuse you of falsehood behind your back in a fit of
jealousy.'

'Jealousy!' said Norman, looking now as black as grim death
itself.

'Yes, it is jealousy. It so turned out that Alaric got on better
last night with Captain Cuttwater than you did, and that makes
you jealous.'

'Pish!' said Norman, somewhat relieved, but still sufficiently
disgusted that his lady-love should suppose that he could be
otherwise than supremely indifferent to the opinion of Captain
Cuttwater.

The love-scene, however, was fatally interrupted; and the pair
were not long before they joined the captain, Mrs. Woodward, and
Katie.

And how fared it with the other pair under the other avenue of
chestnuts?

Alaric Tudor had certainly come out with no defined intention of
making love as Harry Norman had done; but with such a companion
it was very difficult for him to avoid it. Linda was much more
open to attacks of this nature than her sister. Not that she was
as a general rule willingly and wilfully inclined to give more
encouragement to lovers than Gertrude; but she had less power
of fence, less skill in protecting herself, and much less of
that naughty self-esteem which makes some women fancy that all
love-making to them is a liberty, and the want of which makes
others feel that all love-making is to them a compliment.

Alaric Tudor had no defined intention of making love; but he had
a sort of suspicion that he might, if he pleased, do so
successfully; and he had no defined intention of letting it
alone. He was a far-seeing, prudent man; for his age perhaps too
prudent; but he was nevertheless fully susceptible of the
pleasure of holding an affectionate, close intercourse with so
sweet a girl as Linda Woodward; and though he knew that marriage
with a girl without a dowry would for him be a death-blow to all
his high hopes, he could hardly resist the temptation of
conjugating the verb to love. Had he been able to choose from the
two sisters, he would probably have selected Gertrude in spite of
what he had said to Norman in the boat; but Gertrude was
bespoken; and it therefore seemed all but unnatural that there
should not be some love passages between him and Linda.

Ah! Mrs. Woodward, my friend, my friend, was it well that thou
shouldst leave that sweet unguarded rosebud of thine to such
perils as these?

They, also, commenced their wooing by talking over Captain
Cuttwater; but they did not quarrel over him. Linda was quite
content to be told by her friend what she ought to do, and how
she ought to think about her uncle; and Alaric had a better way
of laying down the law than Norman. He could do so without
offending his hearer's pride, and consequently was generally
better listened to than his friend, though his law was probably
not in effect so sound.

But they had soon done with Captain Cuttwater, and Alaric had to
choose another subject. Gertrude and Norman were at some distance
from them, but were in sight and somewhat in advance.

'Look at Harry,' said Alaric; 'I know from the motion of his
shoulder that he is at this moment saying something very tender.'

'It is ten times more likely that they are quarrelling,' said
Linda.

'Oh! the quarrels of lovers--we know all about that, don't we?'

'You must not call them lovers, Alaric; mamma would not like it,
nor indeed would Gertrude, I am sure.'

'I would not for the world do anything that Mrs. Woodward would
not like; but between ourselves, Linda, are they not lovers?'

'No; that is, not that I know of. I don't believe that they are a
bit,' said Linda, blushing at her own fib.

'And why should they not be? How indeed is it possible that they
should not be; that is--for I heartily beg Gertrude's pardon--how
is it possible that Harry should not be in love with her?'

'Indeed, Gertrude is very, very beautiful,' said Linda, with the
faintest possible sigh, occasioned by the remembrance of her own
inferior charms.

'Indeed she is, very, very beautiful,' repeated Alaric, speaking
with an absent air as though his mind were fully engaged in
thinking of the beauty of which he spoke.

It was not in Linda's nature to be angry because her sister was
admired, and because she was not. But yet there was something in
Alaric's warm tone of admiration which gave her a feeling of
unhappiness which she would have been quite unable to define,
even had she attempted it. She saw her sister and Harry Norman
before her, and she knew in her heart that they were lovers, in
spite of her little weak declaration to the contrary. She saw how
earnestly her sister was loved, and she in her kindly loving
nature could not but envy her fancied happiness. Envy--no--it
certainly was not envy. She would not for worlds have robbed her
sister of her admirer; but it was so natural for her to feel that
it must be delicious to be admired!

She did not begrudge Gertrude Norman's superior beauty, nor his
greater wealth; she knew that Gertrude was entitled to more, much
more, than herself. But seeing that Norman was Gertrude's lover,
was it not natural that Alaric should be hers? And then, though
Harry was the handsomer and the richer, she liked Alaric so much
the better of the two. But now that Alaric was alone with her,
the only subject he could think to talk of was Gertrude's beauty!

It must not be supposed that these thoughts in their plainly-developed
form passed through Linda's mind. It was not that she thought
all this, but that she felt it. Such feelings are quite involuntary,
whereas one's thoughts are more or less under command. Linda would
not have allowed herself to think in this way for worlds; but she
could not control her feelings.

They walked on side by side, perfectly silent for a minute or
two, and an ill-natured tear was gathering itself in the corner
of Linda's eye: she was afraid even to raise her hand to brush it
away, for fear Alaric should see her, and thus it went on
gathering till it was like to fall.

'How singular it is,' said Alaric--'how very singular, the way in
which I find myself living with you all! such a perfect stranger
as I am.'

'A perfect stranger!' said Linda, who, having remembered Alaric
since the days of her short frocks and lessons, looked on him as
a very old friend indeed.

'Yes, a perfect stranger, if you think of it. What do any of you
know about me? Your mother never saw my mother; your father knew
nothing of my father; there is no kindred blood common to us.
Harry Norman, there, is your near cousin; but what am I that I
should be thus allowed to live with you, and walk with you, and
have a common interest in all your doings?'

'Why, you are a dear friend of mamma's, are you not?'

'A dear friend of mamma's! said he, 'well, indeed, I hope I am;
for your mother is at any rate a dear friend to me. But, Linda,
one cannot be so much without longing to be more. Look at Harry,
how happy he is!'

'But, Alaric, surely you would not interfere with Harry,' said
Linda, whose humble, innocent heart thought still of nothing but
the merits of her sister; and then, remembering that it was
necessary that she should admit nothing on Gertrude's behalf, she
entered her little protest against the assumption that her sister
acknowledged Norman for her lover. 'That is, you would not do so,
if there were anything in it.'

'I interfere with Harry!' said Alaric, switching the heads off
the bits of fern with the cane he carried. 'No, indeed. I have no
wish at all to do that. It is not that of which I was thinking.
Harry is welcome to all his happiness; that is, if Gertrude can
be brought to make him happy.'

Linda, made no answer now; but the tear came running down her
face, and her eyes became dim, and her heart beat very quick, and
she didn't quite remember where she was. Up to this moment no man
had spoken a word of love to Linda Woodward, and to some girls
the first word is very trying.

'Interfere with Harry!' Alaric repeated again, and renewed his
attack on the ferns. 'Well, Linda, what an opinion you must have
of me!'

Linda was past answering; she could not protest--nor would it
have been expedient to do so--that her opinion of her companion
was not unfavourable.

'Gertrude is beautiful, very beautiful,' he continued, still
beating about the bush as modest lovers do, and should do; 'but
she is not the only beautiful girl in Surbiton Cottage, nor to my
eyes is she the most so.'

Linda was now quite beside herself. She knew that decorum
required that she should say something stiff and stately to
repress such language, but if all her future character for
propriety had depended on it, she could not bring herself to say
a word. She knew that Gertrude, when so addressed, would have
maintained her dignity, and have concealed her secret, even if
she allowed herself to have a secret to conceal. She knew that it
behoved her to be repellent and antagonistic to the first vows of
a first lover. But, alas! she had no power of antagonism, no
energy for repulse left in her. Her knees seemed to be weak
beneath her, and all she could do was to pluck to pieces the few
flowers that she carried at her waist.

Alaric saw his advantage, but was too generous to push it
closely; nor indeed did he choose to commit himself to all the
assured intentions of a positive declaration. He wished to raise
an interest in Linda's heart, and having done so, to leave the
matter to chance. Something, however, it was necessary that he
should say. He walked a while by her in silence, decapitating the
ferns, and then coming close to her, he said--

'Linda, dear Linda! you are not angry with me?' Linda, however,
answered nothing. 'Linda, dearest Linda! speak one word to me.'

'Don't!' said Linda through her tears. 'Pray don't, Alaric; pray
don't.'

'Well, Linda, I will not say another word to you now. Let us walk
gently; we shall catch them up quite in time before they leave
the park.'

And so they sauntered on, exchanging no further words. Linda by
degrees recovered her calmness, and as she did so, she found
herself to be, oh! so happy. She had never, never envied Gertrude
her lover; but it was so sweet, so very sweet, to be able to
share her sister's happiness. And Alaric, was he also happy? At
the moment he doubtless enjoyed the triumph of his success. But
still he had a feeling of sad care at his heart. How was he to
marry a girl without a shilling? Were all his high hopes, was all
his soaring ambition, to be thrown over for a dream of love?

Ah! Mrs. Woodward, my friend, my friend, thou who wouldst have
fed thy young ones, like the pelican, with blood from thine own
breast, had such feeding been of avail; thou who art the kindest
of mothers; has it been well for thee to subject to such perils
this poor weak young dove of thine?

Uncle Bat had become tired with his walk, and crawled home so
slowly that Alaric and Linda caught the party just as they
reached the small wicket which leads out of the park on the side
nearest to Hampton. Nothing was said or thought of their absence,
and they all entered the house together. Four of them, however,
were conscious that that Sunday's walk beneath the chestnuts of
Bushey Park would long be remembered.

Nothing else occurred to make the day memorable. In the evening,
after dinner, Mrs. Woodward and her daughters went to church,
leaving her younger guests to entertain the elder one. The elder
one soon took the matter in his own hand by going to sleep; and
Harry and Alaric being thus at liberty, sauntered out down the
river side. They both made a forced attempt at good-humour, each
speaking cheerily to the other; but there was no confidence
between them as there had been on that morning when Harry rowed
his friend up to London. Ah me! what had occurred between them to
break the bonds of their mutual trust--to quench the ardour of
their firm friendship? But so it was between them now. It was
fated that they never again should place full confidence in each
other.

There was no such breach between the sisters, at least not as
yet; but even between them there was no free and full interchange
of their hopes and fears. Gertrude and Linda shared the same
room, and were accustomed--as what girls are not?--to talk half
through the night of all their wishes, thoughts, and feelings.
And Gertrude was generally prone enough to talk of Harry Norman.
Sometimes she would say she loved him a little, just a little; at
others she would declare that she loved him not at all--that is,
not as heroines love in novels, not as she thought she could
love, and would do, should it ever be her lot to be wooed by such
a lover as her young fancy pictured to her. Then she would
describe her beau idéal, and the description certainly gave no
counterpart of Harry Norman. To tell the truth, however, Gertrude
was as yet heart whole; and when she talked of love and Harry
Norman, she did not know what love was.

On this special Sunday evening she was disinclined to speak of
him at all. Not that she loved him more than usual, but that she
was beginning to think that she could not ever really love him at
all. She had taught herself to think that he might probably be
her husband, and had hitherto felt no such repugnance to her
destiny as caused her to shun the subject. But now she was
beginning to think of the matter seriously; and as she did so,
she felt that life might have for her a lot more blessed than
that of sharing the world with her cousin Harry.

When, therefore, Linda began to question her about her lover, and
to make little hints of her desire to tell what Alaric had said
of her and Norman, Gertrude gave her no encouragement. She would
speak of Captain Cuttwater, of Katie's lessons, of the new dress
they were to make for their mother, of Mr. Everscreech's long
sermon, of anything in fact but of Harry Norman.

Now this was very hard on poor Linda. Her heart was bursting
within her to tell her sister that she also was beloved; but she
could not do so without some little encouragement.

In all their conferences she took the cue of the conversation
from her sister; and though she could have talked about Alaric by
the hour, if Gertrude would have consented to talk about Harry,
she did not know how to start the subject of her own lover, while
Gertrude was so cold and uncommunicative as to hers. She
struggled very hard to obtain the privilege for which she so
anxiously longed; but in doing so she only met with a sad and
sore rebuff.

'Gertrude,' at last said Linda, when Gertrude thought that the
subject had been put to rest at any rate for that night, 'don't
you think mamma would be pleased if she knew that you had engaged
yourself to Harry Norman?'

'No,' said Gertrude, evincing her strong mind by the tone in
which she spoke; 'I do not. If mamma wished it, she would have
told me; for she never has any secrets. I should be as wrong to
engage myself with Harry as you would be with Alaric. For though
Harry has property of his own, while poor Alaric has none, he has
a very insufficient income for a married man, and I have no
fortune with which to help him. If nothing else prevented it, I
should consider it wicked in me to make myself a burden to a man
while he is yet so young and comparatively so poor.'

Prudent, sensible, high-minded, well-disciplined Gertrude! But
had her heart really felt a spark of love for the man of whom she
spoke, how much would prudent, sensible, high-minded considerations
have weighed with her? Alas! not a feather.

Having made her prudent, high-minded speech, she turned round and
slept; and poor Linda also turned round and bedewed her pillow.
She no longer panted to tell her sister of Alaric's love.

On the next morning the two young men returned to town, and the
customary dullness of the week began.



CHAPTER VI

SIR GREGORY HARDLINES


Great changes had been going on at the Weights and Measures; or
rather it might be more proper to say that great changes were now
in progress. From that moment in which it had been hinted to Mr.
Hardlines that he must relax the rigour of his examinations, he
had pondered deeply over the matter. Hitherto he had confined his
efforts to his own office, and, so far from feeling personally
anxious for the amelioration of the Civil Service generally, had
derived no inconsiderable share of his happiness from the
knowledge that there were such sinks of iniquity as the Internal
Navigation. To be widely different from others was Mr. Hardlines'
glory. He was, perhaps, something of a Civil Service Pharisee,
and wore on his forehead a broad phylactery, stamped with the
mark of Crown property. He thanked God that he was not as those
publicans at Somerset House, and took glory to himself in paying
tithes of official cumin.

But now he was driven to a wider range. Those higher Pharisees
who were above him in his own pharisaical establishment, had
interfered with the austerity of his worship. He could not turn
against them there, on their own ground. He, of all men, could
not be disobedient to official orders. But if he could promote a
movement beyond the walls of the Weights and Measures; if he
could make Pharisees of those benighted publicans in the Strand;
if he could introduce conic sections into the Custom House, and
political economy into the Post Office; if, by any effort of his,
the Foreign Office clerks could be forced to attend punctually at
ten; and that wretched saunterer, whom five days a week he saw
lounging into the Council Office--if he could be made to mend his
pace, what a wide field for his ambition would Mr. Hardlines then
have found!

Great ideas opened themselves to his mind as he walked to and
from his office daily. What if he could become the parent of a
totally different order of things! What if the Civil Service,
through his instrumentality, should become the nucleus of the
best intellectual diligence in the country, instead of being a
byword for sloth and ignorance! Mr. Hardlines meditated deeply on
this, and, as he did so, it became observed on all sides that he
was an altered man as regarded his solicitude for the Weights and
Measures. One or two lads crept in, by no means conspicuous for
their attainments in abstract science; young men, too, were
observed to leave not much after four o'clock, without calling
down on themselves Mr. Hardlines' usual sarcasm. Some said he was
growing old, others that he was broken-hearted. But Mr. Hardlines
was not old, nor broken in heart or body. He was thinking of
higher things than the Weights and Measures, and at last he
published a pamphlet.

Mr. Hardlines had many enemies, all in the Civil Service, one of
the warmest of whom was Mr. Oldeschole, of the Navigation, and at
first they rejoiced greatly that Job's wish had been accomplished
on their behalf, and that their enemy had written a book. They
were down on Mr. Hardlines with reviews, counter pamphlets,
official statements, and indignant contradiction; but Mr.
Hardlines lived through this storm of missiles, and got his book
to be fêted and made much of by some Government pundits, who were
very bigwigs indeed. And at last he was invited over to the
building on the other side, to discuss the matter with a
President, a Secretary of State, a Lord Commissioner, two joint
Secretaries, and three Chairmen.

And then, for a period of six months, the light of Mr. Hardlines'
face ceased to shine on the children of the Weights and Measures,
and they felt, one and all, that the glory had in a certain
measure departed from their house. Now and again Mr. Hardlines
would look in, but he did so rather as an enemy than as a friend.
There was always a gleam of antagonistic triumph in his eye,
which showed that he had not forgotten the day when he was called
in question for his zeal. He was felt to be in opposition to his
own Board, rather than in co-operation with it. The Secretary and
the Assistant-Secretaries would say little caustic things about
him to the senior clerks, and seemed somewhat to begrudge him his
new honours. But for all this Mr. Hardlines cared little. The
President and the Secretary of State, the joint Secretaries and
the Chairmen, all allowed themselves to be led by him in this
matter. His ambition was about to be gratified. It was his
destiny that he should remodel the Civil Service. What was it to
him whether or no one insignificant office would listen to his
charming? Let the Secretary at the Weights and Measures sneer as
he would; he would make that hero of the metallic currency know
that he, Mr. Hardlines, was his master.

At the end of six months his budding glory broke out into
splendid, full-blown, many-coloured flowers. He resigned his
situation at the Weights and Measures, and was appointed Chief
Commissioner of the Board of Civil Service Examination, with a
salary of £2,000 a year; he was made a K.C.B., and shone forth to
the world as Sir Gregory Hardlines; and he received a present of
£1,000, that happy _ne plus ultra_ of Governmental liberality.
Sir Gregory Hardlines was forced to acknowledge to himself that he
was born to a great destiny.

When Sir Gregory, as we must now call him, was first invited to
give his attendance at another office, he found it expedient to
take with him one of the young men from the Weights and Measures,
and he selected Alaric Tudor. Now this was surprising to many,
for Tudor had been brought into the office not quite in
accordance with Sir Gregory's views. But during his four years of
service Alaric had contrived to smooth down any acerbity which
had existed on this score; either the paper on the strike-bushel,
or his own general intelligence, or perhaps a certain amount of
flattery which he threw into his daily intercourse with the chief
clerk, had been efficacious, and when Sir Gregory was called upon
to select a man to take with him to his new temporary office, he
selected Alaric Tudor.

The main effect which such selection had upon our story rises
from the circumstance that it led to an introduction between
Tudor and the Honourable Undecimus Scott, and that this
introduction brought about a close alliance.

We will postpone for a short while such description of the
character and position of this gentleman as it may be indispensable
to give, and will in this place merely say that the Honourable
Undecimus Scott had been chosen to act as secretary to the
temporary commission that was now making inquiry as to the
proposed Civil Service examinations, and that in this capacity he
was necessarily thrown into communication with Tudor. He was a
man who had known much of officialities, had filled many
situations, was acquainted with nearly all the secretaries,
assistant-secretaries, and private secretaries in London, had
been in Parliament, and was still hand-and-glove with all young
members who supported Government. Tudor, therefore, thought it a
privilege to know him, and allowed himself to become, in a
certain degree, subject to his influence.

When it was declared to the world of Downing Street that Sir
Gregory Hardlines was to be a great man, to have an office of his
own, and to reign over assistant-commissioners and subject
secretaries, there was great commotion at the Weights and
Measures; and when his letter of resignation was absolutely
there, visible to the eyes of clerks, properly docketed and duly
minuted, routine business was, for a day, nearly suspended.
Gentlemen walked in and out from each other's rooms, asking this
momentous question--Who was to fill the chair which had so long
been honoured by the great Hardlines? Who was to be thought
worthy to wear that divine mantle?

But even this was not the question of the greatest moment which
at that period disturbed the peace of the office. It was well
known that the chief clerk must be chosen from one of the three
senior clerks, and that he would be so chosen by the voice of the
Commissioners. There were only three men who were deeply
interested in this question. But who would then be the new senior
clerk, and how would he be chosen? A strange rumour began to be
afloat that the new scheme of competitive examination was about
to be tried in filling up this vacancy, occasioned by the
withdrawal of Sir Gregory Hardlines. From hour to hour the rumour
gained ground, and men's minds began to be much disturbed.

It was no wonder that men's minds should be disturbed.
Competitive examinations at eighteen, twenty, and twenty-two may
be very well, and give an interesting stimulus to young men at
college. But it is a fearful thing for a married man with a
family, who has long looked forward to rise to a certain income
by the worth of his general conduct and by the value of his
seniority--it is a fearful thing for such a one to learn that he
has again to go through his school tricks, and fill up examination
papers, with all his juniors round him using their stoutest efforts to
take his promised bread from out of his mouth. _Detur digno_ is a
maxim which will make men do their best to merit rewards; every
man can find courage within his heart to be worthy; but _detur digniori_
is a fearful law for such a profession as the Civil Service. What
worth can make a man safe against the possible greater worth
which will come treading on his heels? The spirit of the age raises,
from year to year, to a higher level the standard of education. The
prodigy of 1857, who is now destroying all the hopes of the man
who was well enough in 1855, will be a dunce to the tyro of 1860.

There were three or four in the Weights and Measures who felt all
this with the keenest anxiety. The fact of their being there, and
of their having passed the scrutiny of Mr. Hardlines, was proof
enough that they were men of high attainments; but then the
question arose to them and others whether they were men exactly
of those attainments which were _now_ most required. Who is
to say what shall constitute the merits of the _dignior_? It
may one day be conic sections, another Greek iambics, and a third
German philosophy. Rumour began to say that foreign languages
were now very desirable. The three excellent married gentlemen
who stood first in succession for the coveted promotion were
great only in their vernacular.

Within a week from the secession of Sir Gregory, his immediate
successor had been chosen, and it had been officially declared
that the vacant situation in the senior class was to be thrown
open as a prize for the best man in the office. Here was a
brilliant chance for young merit! The place was worth £600
a-year, and might be gained by any one who now received no more
than £100. Each person desirous of competing was to send in his
name to the Secretary, on or before that day fortnight; and on
that day month, the candidates were to present themselves before
Sir Gregory Hardlines and his board of Commissioners.

And yet the joy of the office was by no means great. The senior
of those who might become competitors, was of course a miserable,
disgusted man. He went about fruitlessly endeavouring to
instigate rebellion against Sir Gregory, that very Sir Gregory
whom he had for many years all but worshipped. Poor Jones was, to
tell the truth, in a piteous case. He told the Secretary flatly
that he would not compete with a lot of boys fresh from school,
and his friends began to think of removing his razors. Nor were
Brown and Robinson in much better plight. They both, it is true,
hated Jones ruthlessly, and desired nothing better than an
opportunity of supplanting him. They were, moreover, fast friends
themselves; but not the less on that account had Brown a mortal
fear of Robinson, as also had Robinson a mortal fear of Brown.

Then came the bachelors. First there was Uppinall, who, when he
entered the office, was supposed to know everything which a young
man had ever known. Those who looked most to dead knowledge were
inclined to back him as first favourite. It had, however, been
remarked, that his utility as a clerk had not been equal to the
profundity of his acquirements. Of all the candidates he was the
most self-confident.

The next to him was Mr. A. Minusex, a wondrous arithmetician. He
was one who could do as many sums without pen and paper as a
learned pig; who was so given to figures that he knew the number
of stairs in every flight he had gone up and down in the
metropolis; one who, whatever the subject before him might be,
never thought but always counted. Many who knew the peculiar
propensities of Sir Gregory's earlier days thought that Mr.
Minusex was not an unlikely candidate.

The sixth in order was our friend Norman. The Secretary and the
two Assistant-Secretaries, when they first put their heads
together on the matter, declared that he was the most useful man
in the office.

There was a seventh, named Alphabet Precis. Mr. Precis' peculiar
forte was a singular happiness in official phraseology. Much that
he wrote would doubtless have been considered in the purlieus of
Paternoster Row as ungrammatical, if not unintelligible; but
according to the syntax of Downing Street, it was equal to
Macaulay, and superior to Gibbon. He had frequently said to his
intimate friends, that in official writing, style was everything;
and of his writing it certainly did form a very prominent part.
He knew well, none perhaps so well, when to beg leave to lay
before the Board--and when simply to submit to the Commissioners.
He understood exactly to whom it behoved the secretary 'to have
the honour of being a very humble servant,' and to whom the more
simple 'I am, sir,' was a sufficiently civil declaration. These
are qualifications great in official life, but were not quite so
much esteemed at the time of which we are speaking as they had
been some few years previously.

There was but one other named as likely to stand with any
probability of success, and he was Alaric Tudor. Among the very
juniors of the office he was regarded as the great star of the
office. There was a dash about him and a quick readiness for any
work that came to hand in which, perhaps, he was not equalled by
any of his compeers. Then, too, he was the special friend of Sir
Gregory.

But no one had yet heard Tudor say that he intended to compete
with his seven seniors--none yet knew whether he would put
himself forward as an adversary to his own especial friend,
Norman. That Norman would be a candidate had been prominently
stated. For some few days not a word was spoken, even between the
friends themselves, as to Tudor's intention.

On the Sunday they were as usual at Hampton, and then the subject
was mooted by no less a person than Captain Cuttwater.

So you young gentlemen up in London are all going to be examined,
are you?' said he; 'what is it to be about? Who's to be first
lieutenant of the ship, is that it?'

'Oh no,' said Alaric, 'nothing half so high as that. Boatswain's
mate would be nearer the mark.'

'And who is to be the successful man?'

'Oh, Harry Norman, here. He was far the first favourite in
yesterday's betting.'

And how do you stand yourself?' said Uncle Bat.

'Oh! I'm only an outsider,' said Alaric. 'They put my name down
just to swell the number, but I shall be scratched before the
running begins.'

'Indeed he won't,' said Harry. 'He'll run and distance us all.
There is no one who has a chance with him. Why, he is Sir
Gregory's own pet.'

There was nothing more said on the subject at Surbiton Cottage.
The ladies seemed instinctively to perceive that it was a matter
which they had better leave alone. Not only were the two young
men to be pitted against each other, but Gertrude and Linda were
as divided in their wishes on the subject as the two candidates
could be themselves.

On the following morning, however, Norman introduced the subject.
'I suppose you were only jesting yesterday,' said he, 'when you
told the captain that you were not going to be a candidate?'

'Indeed I can hardly say that I was in jest or in earnest,' said
Alaric. 'I simply meant to decline to discuss the subject with
Uncle Bat.'

'But of course you do mean to stand?' said Harry. Alaric made no
answer.

'Perhaps you would rather decline to discuss the matter with me
also?' said Harry.

'Not at all; I would much prefer discussing it openly and
honestly. My own impression is, that I had better leave it
alone.'

'And why so?' said Harry.

'Why so?' repeated Alaric. 'Well, there are so many reasons. In
the first place, there would be seven to one against me; and I
must confess that if I did stand I should not like to be beaten.'

'The same argument might keep us all back,' said Norman.

'That's true; but one man will be more sensitive, more cowardly,
if you will, than another; and then I think no one should stand
who does not believe himself to have a fair chance. His doing so
might probably mar his future prospects. How can I put myself in
competition with such men as Uppinall and Minuses?'

Harry laughed slightly, for he knew it had been asked by many how
such men as Uppinall and Minusex could think of putting
themselves in competition with Alaric Tudor.

'That is something like mock-modesty, is it not, Alaric?'

'No, by heaven, it is not! I know well what those men are made
of; and I know, or think I know, my own abilities. I will own
that I rank myself as a human creature much higher than I rank
them. But they have that which I have not, and that which they
have is that which these examiners will chiefly require.'

'If you have no other reason,' said Norman, 'I would strongly
advise you to send in your name.'

'Well, Harry, I have another reason; and, though last, it is by
no means the least. You will be a candidate, and probably the
successful one. To tell you the truth, I have no inclination to
stand against you.'

Norman turned very red, and then answered somewhat gravely: 'I
would advise you to lay aside that objection. I fairly tell you
that I consider your chance better than my own.'

'And suppose it be so, which I am sure it is not--but suppose it
be so, what then?'

'Why, you will do right to take advantage of it.'

'Yes, and so gain a step and lose a friend!' said Alaric. 'No;
there can be no heartburn to me in your being selected, for
though I am older than you, you are my senior in the office. But
were I to be put over your head, it would in the course of nature
make a division between us; and if it were possible that you
should forgive it, it would be quite impossible that Gertrude
should do so. I value your friendship and that of the Woodwards
too highly to risk it.'

Norman instantly fired up with true generous energy. 'I should be
wretched,' said he, 'if I thought that such a consideration
weighed with you; I would rather withdraw myself than allow such
a feeling to interfere with your prospects. Indeed, after what
you have said, I shall not send in my own name unless you also
send in yours.'

'I shall only be creating fuel for a feud,' said Alaric. 'To put
you out of the question, no promotion could compensate to me for
what I should lose at Hampton.'

'Nonsense, man; you would lose nothing. Faith, I don't know
whether it is not I that should lose, if I were successful at
your expense.'

'How would Gertrude receive me?' said Alaric, pushing the matter
further than he perhaps should have done.

'We won't mind Gertrude,' said Norman, with a little shade of
black upon his brow. 'You are an older man than I, and therefore
promotion is to you of more importance than to me. You are also a
poorer man. I have some means besides that drawn from my office,
which, if I marry, I can settle on my wife; you have none such. I
should consider myself to be worse than wicked if I allowed any
consideration of such a nature to stand in the way of your best
interests. Believe me, Alaric, that though I shall, as others, be
anxious for success myself, I should, in failing, be much
consoled by knowing that you had succeeded.' And as he finished
speaking he grasped his friend's hand warmly in token of the
truth of his assertion.

Alaric brushed a tear from his eye, and ended by promising to be
guided by his friend's advice. Harry Norman, as he walked into
the office, felt a glow of triumph as he reflected that he had
done his duty by his friend with true disinterested honesty. And
Alaric, he also felt a glow of triumph as he reflected that, come
what might, there would be now no necessity for him to break with
Norman or with the Woodwards. Norman must now always remember
that it was at his own instigation that he, Alaric, had consented
to be a candidate.

As regarded the real fact of the candidature, the prize was too
great to allow of his throwing away such a chance. Alaric's
present income was £200; that which he hoped to gain was £600!



CHAPTER VII

MR. FIDUS NEVERBEND

Immediately on entering the office, Tudor gave it to be understood
that he intended to give in his name as a candidate; but he had
hardly done so when his attention was called off from the coming
examinations by another circumstance, which was ultimately of great
importance to him. One of the Assistant-Secretaries sent for him,
and told him that his services having been required by Sir Gregory
Hardlines for a week or so, he was at once to go over to that
gentleman's office; and Alaric could perceive that, as Sir
Gregory's name was mentioned, the Assistant-Secretary smiled on
him with no aspect of benign solicitude.

He went over accordingly, and found that Sir Gregory, having been
desired to select a man for a special service in the country, had
named him. He was to go down to Tavistock with another gentleman
from the Woods and Forests, for the purpose of settling some
disputed point as to the boundaries and privileges of certain
mines situated there on Crown property.

'You know nothing about mining, I presume?' said Sir Gregory.

'Nothing whatever,' said Alaric.

'I thought not; that was one reason why I selected you. What is
wanted is a man of sharp intelligence and plain common sense, and
one also who can write English; for it will fall to your lot to
draw up the report on the matter. Mr. Neverbend, who is to be
your colleague, cannot put two words together.'

'Mr. Neverbend!' said Alaric.

'Yes, Fidus Neverbend, of the Woods and Forests; a very excellent
public servant, and one in whom the fullest confidence can be
placed. But between you and me, he will never set the Thames on
fire.'

'Does he understand mining?' asked Alaric.

'He understands Government properties, and will take care that
the Crown be not wronged; but, Tudor, the Government will look to
you to get the true common-sense view of the case. I trust--I
mean that I really do trust, that you will not disgrace my
choice.'

Alaric of course promised that he would do his best, expressed
the deepest gratitude to his patron, and went off to put himself
into communication with Mr. Neverbend at the Woods and Forests,
having received an assurance that the examination in his own
office should not take place till after his return from
Tavistock. He was not slow to perceive that if he could manage to
come back with all the _éclat_ of a successful mission, the
prestige of such a journey would go far to assist him on his
coming trial.

Mr. Fidus Neverbend was an absolute dragon of honesty. His
integrity was of such an all-pervading nature, that he bristled
with it as a porcupine does with its quills. He had theories and
axioms as to a man's conduct, and the conduct especially of a man
in the Queen's Civil Service, up to which no man but himself
could live. Consequently no one but himself appeared to himself
to be true and just in all his dealings.

A quarter of an hour spent over a newspaper was in his eyes a
downright robbery. If he saw a man so employed, he would divide
out the total of salary into hourly portions, and tell him to a
fraction of how much he was defrauding the public. If he ate a
biscuit in the middle of the day, he did so with his eyes firmly
fixed on some document, and he had never been known to be absent
from his office after ten or before four.

When Sir Gregory Hardlines declared that Mr. Fidus Neverbend
would never set the Thames on fire, he meant to express his
opinion that that gentleman was a fool; and that those persons
who were responsible for sending Mr. Neverbend on the mission now
about to be undertaken, were little better than fools themselves
for so sending him. But Mr. Neverbend was no fool. He was not a
disciple of Sir Gregory's school. He had never sat in that
philosopher's porch, or listened to the high doctrines prevalent
at the Weights and Measures. He could not write with all Mr.
Precis' conventional correctness, or dispose of any subject at a
moment's notice as would Mr. Uppinall; but, nevertheless, he was
no fool. Sir Gregory, like many other wise men, thought that
there were no swans but of his own hatching, and would ask, with
all the pompous conceit of Pharisees in another age, whether good
could come out of the Woods and Forests?

Sir Gregory, however, perfectly succeeded in his object of
imbuing Tudor with a very indifferent opinion of his new
colleague's abilities. It was his object that Tudor should
altogether take the upper hand in the piece of work which was to
be done between them, and that it should be clearly proved how
very incapable the Woods and Forests were of doing their own
business.

Mr. Fidus Neverbend, however, whatever others in the outer world
might think of him, had a high character in his own office, and
did not under-estimate himself. He, when he was told that a young
clerk named Tudor was to accompany him, conceived that he might
look on his companion rather in the light of a temporary private
secretary than an equal partner, and imagined that new glory was
added to him by his being so treated. The two men therefore met
each other with very different views.

But though Mr. Neverbend was no fool, he was not an equal either
in tact or ability to Alaric Tudor. Alaric had his interview with
him, and was not slow to perceive the sort of man with whom he
had to act. Of course, on this occasion, little more than
grimaces and civility passed between them; but Mr. Neverbend,
even in his grimaces and civility, managed to show that he
regarded himself as decidedly No. 1 upon the occasion.

'Well, Mr. Tudor,' said he, 'I think of starting on Tuesday.
Tuesday will not, I suppose, be inconvenient to you?'

'Sir Gregory has already told me that we are expected to be at
Tavistock on Tuesday evening.'

'Ah! I don't know about that,' said Neverbend; 'that may be all
very well for Sir Gregory, but I rather think I shall stay the
night at Plymouth.'

'It will be the same to me,' said Tudor; 'I haven't looked at the
papers yet, so I can hardly say what may be necessary.'

'No, no; of course not. As to the papers, I don't know that there
is much with which you need trouble yourself. I believe I am
pretty well up in the case. But, Mr. Tudor, there will be a good
deal of writing to do when we are there.'

'We are both used to that, I fancy,' said Tudor, 'so it won't
kill us.'

'No, of course not. I understand that there will be a good many
people for me to see, a great many conflicting interests for me
to reconcile; and probably I may find myself obliged to go down
two or three of these mines.'

'Well, that will be good fun,' said Alaric.

Neverbend drew himself up. The idea of having fun at the cost of
Government was painful to him; however, he spared the stranger
his reproaches, and merely remarked that the work he surmised
would be heavy enough both for the man who went below ground, and
for the one who remained above.

The only point settled between them was that of their starting by
an early train on the Tuesday named; and then Alaric returned to
Sir Gregory's office, there to read through and digest an immense
bulk of papers all bearing on the question at issue. There had,
it appeared, been lately opened between the Tamar and the Tavy a
new mine, which had become exceedingly prosperous--outrageously
prosperous, as shareholders and directors of neighbouring mines
taught themselves to believe. Some question had arisen as to the
limits to which the happy possessors of this new tin El Dorado
were entitled to go; squabbles, of course, had been the result,
and miners and masters had fought and bled, each side in defence
of its own rights. As a portion of these mines were on Crown
property it became necessary that the matter should be looked to,
and as the local inspector was accused of having been bribed and
bought, and of being, in fact, an absolute official Judas, it
became necessary to send some one to inspect the inspector. Hence
had come Alaric's mission. The name of the mine in question was
Wheal Mary Jane, and Alaric had read the denomination half a
score of times before he learnt that there was no real female in
the case.

The Sunday before he went was of course passed at Hampton, and
there he received the full glory of his special appointment. He
received glory, and Norman in an equal degree fell into the
background. Mrs. Woodward stuck kindly to Harry, and endeavoured,
in her gentle way, to quiz the projected trip to Devonshire. But
the other party was too strong, and her raillery failed to have
the intended effect. Gertrude especially expressed her opinion
that it was a great thing for so young a man to have been
selected for such employment by such a person; and Linda, though
she said less, could not prevent her tell-tale face from saying
more. Katie predicted that Alaric would certainly marry Mary Jane
Wheal, and bring her to Surbiton Cottage, and Captain Cuttwater
offered to the hero introductions to all the old naval officers
at Devonport.

'By jingo! I should like to go with you,' said the captain.

'I fear the pleasure would not repay the trouble,' said Alaric,
laughing.

'Upon my word I think I'll do it,' said the captain. 'It would be
of the greatest possible service to you as an officer of the
Crown. It would give you so much weight there. I could make you
known, you know----'

'I could not hear of such a thing,' said Alaric, trembling at the
idea which Uncle Bat had conjured up.

'There is Admiral Starbod, and Captain Focassel, and old
Hardaport, and Sir Jib Boom--why, d----n me, they would all do
anything for me--craving the ladies' pardon.'

Alaric, in his own defence, was obliged to declare that the rules
of the service especially required that he should hold no
friendly communication with any one during the time that he was
employed on this special service. Poor Captain Cuttwater, grieved
to have his good nature checked, was obliged to put up with this
excuse, and consoled himself with abusing the Government which
could condescend to give so absurd an order.

This was on the Saturday. On the Sunday, going to church, the
captain suggested that Alaric might, at any rate, just call upon
Sir Jib on the sly. 'It would be a great thing for you,' said
Uncle Bat. 'I'll write a note to-night, and you can take it with
you. Sir Jib is a rising man, and you'll regret it for ever if
you miss the opportunity.' Now Sir Jib Boom was between seventy
and eighty, and he and Captain Cuttwater had met each other
nearly every day for the last twenty years, and had never met
without a squabble.

After church they had their usual walk, and Linda's heart
palpitated as she thought that she might have to undergo another
_tête-à-tête_ with her lover. But it palpitated in vain. It
so turned out that Alaric either avoided, or, at any rate, did
not use the privilege, and Linda returned home with an undefined
feeling of gentle disappointment. She had fully made up her mind
to be very staid, very discreet, and very collected; to take a
leaf out of her sister's book, and give him no encouragement
whatever; she would not absolutely swear to him that she did not
now, and never could, return his passion; but she would point out
how very imprudent any engagement between two young persons,
situated as they were, must be--how foolish it would be for them
to bind themselves, for any number of years, to a marriage which
must be postponed; she would tell Alaric all this, and make him
understand that he was not to regard himself as affianced to her;
but she with a woman's faith would nevertheless remain true to
him. This was Linda's great resolve, and the strong hope, that in
a very few weeks, Alaric would be promoted to a marrying income
of £600 per annum, made the prospect of the task not so painful
as it might otherwise have been. Fate, however, robbed her of the
pleasure, if it would have been a pleasure, of sacrificing her
love to her duty; and 'dear Linda, dearest Linda,' was not again
whispered into her ear.

'And what on earth is it that you are to do down in the mines?'
asked Mrs. Woodward as they sat together in the evening.

'Nothing on the earth, Mrs. Woodward--it is to be all below the
surface, forty fathom deep,' said Alaric.

'Take care that you ever come up again,' said she.

'They say the mine is exceedingly rich--perhaps I may be tempted
to stay down there.'

'Then you'll be like the gloomy gnome, that lives in dark, cold
mines,' said Katie.

'Isn't it very dangerous, going down into those places?' asked
Linda.

'Men go down and come up again every day of their lives, and what
other men can do, I can, I suppose.'

'That doesn't follow at all,' said Captain Cuttwater, 'What sort
of a figure would you make on a yard-arm, reefing a sail in a
gale of wind?'

'Pray do take care of yourself,' said Gertrude.

Norman's brow grew black. 'I thought that it was settled that Mr.
Neverbend was to go down, and that you were to stay above
ground,' said he.

'So Mr. Neverbend settled it; but that arrangement may, perhaps,
be unsettled again,' said Alaric, with a certain feeling of
confidence in his own strong will.

'I don't at all doubt,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'that if we were to
get a sly peep at you, we should find you both sitting comfortably
at your inn all the time, and that neither of you will go a foot below
the ground.'

'Very likely. All I mean to say is, that if Neverbend goes down
I'll go too.'

'But mind, you gloomy gnome, mind you bring up a bit of gold for
me,' said Katie.

On the Monday morning he started with the often-expressed good
wishes of all the party, and with a note for Sir Jib Boom, which
the captain made him promise that he would deliver, and which
Alaric fully determined to lose long before he got to Plymouth.

That evening he and Norman passed together. As soon as their
office hours were over, they went into the London Exhibition,
which was then open; and there, walking up and down the long
centre aisle, they talked with something like mutual confidence
of their future prospects. This was a favourite resort with
Norman, who had schooled himself to feel an interest in works of
art. Alaric's mind was of a different cast; he panted rather for
the great than the beautiful; and was inclined to ridicule the
growing taste of the day for torsos, Palissy ware, and Assyrian
monsters.

There was then some mutual confidence between the two young men.
Norman, who was apt to examine himself and his own motives more
strictly than Alaric ever did, had felt that something like
suspicion as to his friend had crept over him; and he had felt
also that there was no ground for such suspicion. He had
determined to throw it off, and to be again cordial with his
companion. He had resolved so to do before his last visit at
Hampton; but it was at Hampton that the suspicion had been
engendered, and there he found himself unable to be genial,
kindly, and contented. Surbiton Cottage was becoming to him
anything but the abode of happiness that it had once been. A year
ago he had been the hero of the Hampton Sundays; he could not but
now feel that Alaric had, as it were, supplanted him with his own
friends. The arrival even of so insignificant a person as Captain
Cuttwater--and Captain Cuttwater was very insignificant in
Norman's mind--had done much to produce this state of things. He
had been turned out of his bedroom at the cottage, and had
therefore lost those last, loving, lingering words, sometimes
protracted to so late an hour, which had been customary after
Alaric's departure to his inn--those last lingering words which
had been so sweet because their sweetness had not been shared
with his friend.

He could not be genial and happy at Surbiton Cottage; but he was
by no means satisfied with himself that he should not have been
so. When he found that he had been surly with Alaric, he was much
more angry with himself than Alaric was with him. Alaric, indeed,
was indifferent about it. He had no wish to triumph over Harry,
but he had an object to pursue, and he was not the man to allow
himself to be diverted from it by any one's caprice.

'This trip is a great thing for you,' said Harry.

'Well, I really don't know. Of course I could not decline it; but
on the whole I should be just as well pleased to have been
spared. If I get through it well, why it will be well. But even
that cannot help me at this examination.'

'I don't know that.'

'Why--a week passed in the slush of a Cornish mine won't teach a
man algebra.'

'It will give you _prestige_.'

'Then you mean to say the examiners won't examine fairly; well,
perhaps so. But what will be the effect on me if I fail? I know
nothing of mines. I have a colleague with me of whom I can only
learn that he is not weak enough to be led, or wise enough to
lead; who is so self-opinionated that he thinks he is to do the
whole work himself, and yet so jealous that he fears I shall take
the very bread out of his mouth. What am I to do with such a
man?'

'You must manage him,' said Harry.

'That is much easier said than done,' replied Alaric. 'I wish you
had the task instead of me.'

'So do not I. Sir Gregory, when he chose you, knew what he was
about.'

'Upon my word, Harry, you are full of compliments to-day. I
really ought to take my hat off.'

'No, I am not; I am in no mood for compliments. I know very well
what stuff you are made of. I know your superiority to myself. I
know you will be selected to go up over all our heads. I feel all
this; and Alaric, you must not be surprised that, to a certain
degree, it is painful to me to feel it. But, by God's help I will
get over it; and if you succeed it shall go hard with me, but I
will teach myself to rejoice at it. Look at that fawn there,'
said he, turning away his face to hide the tear in his eye, 'did
you ever see more perfect motion?'

Alaric was touched; but there was more triumph than sympathy in
his heart. It was sweet, much too sweet, to him to hear his
superiority thus acknowledged. He was superior to the men who
worked round him in his office. He was made of a more plastic
clay than they, and despite the inferiority of his education, he
knew himself to be fit for higher work than they could do. As the
acknowledgement was made to him by the man whom, of those around
him, he certainly ranked second to himself, he could not but feel
that his heart's blood ran warm within him, he could not but
tread with an elastic step.

But it behoved him to answer Harry, and to answer him in other
spirit than this.

'Oh, Harry,' said he, 'you have some plot to ruin me by my own
conceit; to make me blow myself out and destroy myself, poor frog
that I am, in trying to loom as largely as that great cow, Fidus
Neverbend. You know I am fully conscious how much inferior my
education has been to yours.'

'Education is nothing,' said Harry.

Education is nothing! Alaric triumphantly re-echoed the words in
his heart--'Education is nothing--mind, mind is everything; mind
and the will.' So he expressed himself to his own inner self; but
out loud he spoke much more courteously.

'It is the innate modesty of your own heart, Harry, that makes
you think so highly of me and so meanly of yourself. But the
proof of what we each can do is yet to be seen. Years alone can
decide that. That your career will be honourable and happy, of
that I feel fully sure! I wish I were as confident of mine.'

'But, Alaric,' said Norman, going on rather with the thread of
his own thoughts, than answering or intending to answer what the
other said, 'in following up your high ambition--and I know you
have a high ambition--do not allow yourself to believe that the
end justifies the means, because you see that men around you act
as though they believed so.'

'Do I do so--do I seem to do so?' said Alaric, turning sharply
round.

'Don't be angry with me, Alaric; don't think that I want to
preach; but sometimes I fancy, not that you do so, but that your
mind is turning that way; that in your eager desire for
honourable success you won't scrutinize the steps you will have
to take.'

'That I would get to the top of the hill, in short, even though
the hillside be miry. Well, I own I wish to get to the top of the
hill.'

'But not to defile yourself in doing so.'

'When a man comes home from a successful chase, with his bag well
stuffed with game, the women do not quarrel with him because
there is mud on his gaiters.'

'Alaric, that which is evil is evil. Lies are evil--'

'And am I a liar?'

'Heaven forbid that I should say so: heaven forbid that I should
have to think so! but it is by such doctrines as that that men
become liars.'

'What! by having muddy gaiters?'

'By disregarding the means in looking to the end.'

'And I will tell you how men become mere vegetables, by filling
their minds with useless--needless scruples--by straining at
gnats--'

'Well, finish your quotation,' said Harry.

'I have finished it; in speaking to you I would not for the world
go on, and seem to insinuate that you would swallow a camel. No
insinuation could be more base or unjust. But, nevertheless, I
think you may be too over-scrupulous. What great man ever rose to
greatness,' continued Alaric, after they had walked nearly the
length of the building in silence, 'who thought it necessary to
pick his steps in the manner you have described?'

'Then I would not be great,' said Harry.

'But, surely, God intends that there shall be great men on the
earth?'

'He certainly wishes that there should be good men,' said Harry.

'And cannot a man be good and great?'

'That is the problem for a man to solve. Do you try that. Good
you certainly can be, if you look to Him for assistance. Let that
come first; and then the greatness, if that be possible.'

'It is all a quibble about a word,' said Alaric. 'What is good?
David was a man after God's own heart, and a great man too, and
yet he did things which, were I to do, I should be too base to
live. Look at Jacob--how did he achieve the tremendous rights of
patriarchal primogeniture? But, come, the policemen are trying to
get rid of us; it is time for us to go,' and so they left the
building, and passed the remainder of the evening in concord
together--in concord so soon to be dissolved, and, ah! perhaps
never to be renewed.

On the next morning Alaric and his new companion met each other
at an early hour at the Paddington station. Neverbend was rather
fussy with his dispatch-box, and a large official packet, which
an office messenger, dashing up in, a cab, brought to him at the
moment of his departure. Neverbend's enemies were wont to declare
that a messenger, a cab, and a big packet always rushed up at the
moment of his starting on any of his official trips. Then he had
his ticket to get and his _Times_ to buy, and he really had
not leisure to do more than nod at Alaric till he had folded his
rug around him, tried that the cushion was soft enough, and
completed his arrangements for the journey.

'Well, Mr. Tudor,' at last he said, as soon as the train was in
motion, 'and how are you this morning--ready for work, I hope?'

'Well, not exactly at this moment,' said Alaric. 'One has to get
up so early for these morning trains.'

'Early, Mr. Tudor! my idea is that no hour should be considered
either early or late when the Crown requires our services.'

'Just at present the Crown requires nothing else of us, I
suppose, but that we should go along at the rate of forty miles
an hour.'

'There is nothing like saving time,' said Neverbend. 'I know you
have, as yet, had no experience in these sort of cases, so I have
brought you the papers which refer to a somewhat similar matter
that occurred in the Forest of Dean. I was sent down there, and
that is the report which I then wrote. I propose to take it for
the model of that which we shall have to draw up when we return
from Tavistock;' and as he spoke he produced a voluminous
document, or treatise, in which he had contrived to render more
obscure some matter that he had been sent to clear up, on the
Crown property in the Forest of Dean.

Now Alaric had been told of this very report, and was aware that
he was going to Tavistock in order that the joint result of his
and Mr. Neverbend's labours might be communicated to the Crown
officers in intelligible language.

The monster report before him contained twenty-six pages of close
folio writing, and he felt that he really could not oblige Mr.
Neverbend by reading it.

'Forest of Dean! ah, that's coal, is it not?' said Alaric. 'Mary
Jane seems to be exclusively in the tin line. I fear there will
be no analogy.'

'The cases are in many respects similar,' said Neverbend, 'and
the method of treating them----'

'Then I really cannot concur with you as to the propriety of my
reading it. I should feel myself absolutely wrong to read a word
of such a report, for fear I might be prejudiced by your view of
the case. It would, in my mind, be positively dishonest in me to
encourage any bias in my own feelings either on one side or the
other.'

'But really, Mr. Tudor----'

'I need not say how much personal advantage it would be to me to
have the benefit of your experience, but my conscience tells me
that I should not do it--so I think I'll go to sleep.'

Mr. Neverbend did not know what to make of his companion; whether
to admire the high tone of his official honesty, or to reprobate
his idleness in refusing to make himself master of the report.
While he was settling the question in his own mind, Tudor went to
sleep, and did not wake till he was invited to partake of ten
minutes' refreshment at Swindon.

'I rather think,' said Mr. Neverbend, 'that I shall go on to
Tavistock to-night.'

'Oh! of course,' said Alaric. 'I never for a moment thought of
stopping short of it;' and, taking out a book, he showed himself
disinclined for further conversation.

'Of course, it's open to me to do as I please in such a matter,'
said Neverbend, continuing his subject as soon as they reached
the Bristol station, 'but on the whole I rather think we had
better go on to Tavistock to-night.'

'No, I will not stop at Plymouth,' he said, as he passed by
Taunton; and on reaching Exeter he declared that he had fully
made up his mind on the subject.

'We'll get a chaise at Plymouth,' said Alaric.

'I think there will be a public conveyance,' said Neverbend.

'But a chaise will be the quickest,' said the one.

'And much the dearest,' said the other.

'That won't signify much to us,' said Alaric; 'we shan't pay the
bill.'

'It will signify a great deal to me,' said Neverbend, with a look
of ferocious honesty; and so they reached Plymouth.

On getting out of the railway carriage, Alaric at once hired a
carriage with a pair of horses; the luggage was strapped on, and
Mr. Neverbend, before his time for expostulation had fairly come,
found himself posting down the road to Tavistock, followed at a
respectful distance by two coaches and an omnibus.

They were soon drinking tea together at the Bedford Hotel, and I
beg to assure any travelling readers that they might have drunk
tea in a much worse place. Mr. Neverbend, though he made a great
struggle to protect his dignity, and maintain the superiority of
his higher rank, felt the ground sinking from beneath his feet
from hour to hour. He could not at all understand how it was, but
even the servants at the hotel seemed to pay more deference to
Tudor than to him; and before the evening was over he absolutely
found himself drinking port wine negus, because his colleague had
ordered it for him.

'And now,' said Neverbend, who was tired with his long journey,
'I think I'll go to bed.'

'Do,' said Alaric, who was not at all tired, 'and I'll go through
this infernal mass of papers. I have hardly looked at them yet.
Now that I am in the neighbourhood I shall better understand the
strange names.'

So Alaric went to work, and studied the dry subject that was
before him. It will luckily not be necessary for us to do so
also. It will be sufficient for us to know that Wheal Mary Jane
was at that moment the richest of all the rich mines that had
then been opened in that district; that the, or its, or her
shares (which is the proper way of speaking of them I am
shamefully ignorant) were at an enormous premium; that these two
Commissioners would have to see and talk to some scores of loud
and angry men, deeply interested in their success or failure, and
that that success or failure might probably in part depend on the
view which these two Commissioners might take.



CHAPTER VIII

THE HON. UNDECIMUS SCOTT


The Hon. Undecimus Scott was the eleventh son of the Lord
Gaberlunzie. Lord Gaberlunzie was the representative of a very
old and very noble race, more conspicuous, however, at the
present time for its age and nobility than for its wealth. The
Hon. Undecimus, therefore, learnt, on arriving at manhood, that
he was heir only to the common lot of mortality, and that he had
to earn his own bread. This, however, could not have surprised
him much, as nine of his brethren had previously found themselves
in the same condition.

Lord Gaberlunzie certainly was not one of those wealthy peers who
are able to make two or three elder sons, and after that to
establish any others that may come with comfortable younger
children's portions. The family was somewhat accustomed to the
_res angusta domi_; but they were fully alive to the fact,
that a noble brood, such as their own, ought always to be able to
achieve comfort and splendour in the world's broad field, by due
use of those privileges which spring from a noble name. Cauldkail
Castle, in Aberdeenshire, was the family residence; but few of
the eleven young Scotts were ever to be found there after
arriving at that age at which they had been able to fly from the
paternal hall.

It is a terrible task, that of having to provide for eleven sons.
With two or three a man may hope, with some reasonable chance of
seeing his hope fulfilled, that things will go well with him, and
that he may descend to his grave without that worst of wretchedness,
that gnawing grief which comes from bad children. But who can hope
that eleven sons will all walk in the narrow path?

Had Lord Gaberlunzie, however, been himself a patriarch, and
ruled the pastoral plains of Palestine, instead of the bleak
mountains which surround Cauldkail Castle, he could not have been
more indifferent as to the number of his sons. They flew away,
each as his time came, with the early confidence of young birds,
and as seldom returned to disturb the family nest.

They were a cannie, comely, sensible brood. Their father and
mother, if they gave them nothing else, gave them strong bodies
and sharp brains. They were very like each other, though always
with a difference. Red hair, bright as burnished gold; high, but
not very high, cheek bones; and small, sharp, twinkling eyes,
were the Gaberlunzie personal characteristics. There were three
in the army, two in the navy, and one at a foreign embassy; one
was at the diggings, another was chairman of a railway company,
and our own more particular friend, Undecimus, was picking up
crumbs about the world in a manner that satisfied the paternal
mind that he was quite able to fly alone.

There is a privilege common to the sons of all noble lords, the
full value of which the young Scotts learnt very early in life--that
of making any woman with a tocher an honourable lady. 'Ye maun
be a puir chiel, gin ye'll be worth less than ten thoosand
pound in the market o' marriage; and ten thoosand pound is a
gawcey grand heritage!' Such had been the fatherly precept which
Lord Gaberlunzie had striven to instil into each of his noble
sons; and it had not been thrown away upon them. One after the
other they had gone forth into the market-place alluded to, and
had sold themselves with great ease and admirable discretion.
There had been but one Moses in the lot: the Hon. Gordon Hamilton
Scott had certainly brought home a bundle of shagreen spectacle
cases in the guise of a widow with an exceedingly doubtful
jointure; doubtful indeed at first, but very soon found to admit
of no doubt whatever. He was the one who, with true Scotch
enterprise, was prosecuting his fortunes at the Bendigo diggings,
while his wife consoled herself at home with her title.

Undecimus, with filial piety, had taken his father exactly at his
word, and swapped himself for £10,000. He had, however, found
himself imbued with much too high an ambition to rest content
with the income arising from his matrimonial speculation. He had
first contrived to turn his real £10,000 into a fabulous £50,000,
and had got himself returned to Parliament for the Tillietudlem
district burghs on the credit of his great wealth; he then set
himself studiously to work to make a second market by placing his
vote at the disposal of the Government.

Nor had he failed of success in his attempt, though he had
hitherto been able to acquire no high or permanent post. He had
soon been appointed private secretary to the First Lord of the
Stannaries, and he found that his duty in this capacity required
him to assist the Government whip in making and keeping houses.
This occupation was congenial to his spirit, and he worked hard
and well at it; but the greatest of men are open to the tainting
breath of suspicion, and the Honourable Undecimus Scott, or Undy
Scott, as he was generally now called, did not escape. Ill-natured
persons whispered that he was not on all occasions true to his
party; and once when his master, the whip-in-chief, overborne
with too much work, had been tempted to put himself to bed
comfortably in his own house, instead of on his usual uneasy
couch behind the Speaker's chair, Undy had greatly failed.
The leader of a party whose struggles for the religion of his
country had hitherto met but small success, saw at a glance the
opportunity which fortune had placed in his way; he spied with
eagle eye the nakedness of that land of promise which is
compressed in the district round the Treasury benches; the barren
field before him was all his own, and he put and carried his
motion for closing the parks on Sundays.

He became a hero; but Undy was all but undone. The highest hope
of the Sabbatarian had been to address an almost empty house for
an hour and a half on this his favourite subject. But the chance
was too good to be lost; he sacrificed his oratorical longings on
the altar of party purpose, and limited his speech to a mere
statement of his motion. Off flew on the wings of Hansom a
youthful member, more trusty than the trusted Undy, to the abode
of the now couchant Treasury Argus. Morpheus had claimed him all
for his own. He was lying in true enjoyment, with his tired limbs
stretched between the unaccustomed sheets, and snoring with free
and sonorous nose, restrained by the contiguity of no Speaker's
elbow. But even in his deepest slumber the quick wheels of the
bounding cab struck upon the tympanum of his anxious ear. He
roused himself as does a noble watch-dog when the 'suspicious
tread of theft' approaches. The hurry of the jaded horse, the
sudden stop, the maddened furious knock, all told a tale which
his well-trained ear only knew too well. He sat up for a moment,
listening in his bed, stretched himself with one involuntary
yawn, and then stood upright on the floor. It should not at any
rate be boasted by any one that he had been found in bed.

With elastic step, three stairs at a time, up rushed that young
and eager member. It was well for the nerves of Mrs. Whip Vigil
that the calls of society still held her bound in some distant
brilliant throng; for no consideration would have stopped the
patriotic energy of that sucking statesman. Mr. Vigil had already
performed the most important act of a speedy toilet, when his
door was opened, and as his young friend appeared was already
buttoning his first brace.

'Pumpkin is up!' said the eager juvenile,' and we have only five
men in the house.'

'And where the devil is Undy Scott?' said the Right Hon. Mr.
Vigil.

'The devil only knows,' said the other.

'I deserve it for trusting him,' said the conscience-stricken but
worthy public servant. By this time he had on his neckcloth and
boots; in his eager haste to serve his country he had forgotten
his stockings. 'I deserve it for trusting him--and how many men
have they?'

'Forty-one when I left.'

'Then they'll divide, of course?'

'Of course they will,' said the promising young dove of the
Treasury.

And now Mr. Whip Vigil had buttoned on that well-made frock with
which the Parliamentary world is so conversant, and as he
descended the stairs, arranged with pocket-comb his now grizzling
locks. His well-brushed hat stood ready to his touch below, and
when he entered the cab he was apparently as well dressed a
gentleman as when about three hours after noon he may be seen
with slow and easy step entering the halls of the Treasury
chambers.

But ah! alas, he was all too late. He came but to see the ruin
which Undy's defection had brought about. He might have taken his
rest, and had a quiet mind till the next morning's _Times_
revealed to him the fact of Mr. Pumpkin's grand success. When he
arrived, the numbers were being taken, and he, even he, Mr. Whip
Vigil, he the great arch-numberer, was excluded from the number
of the counted. When the doors were again open the Commons of
England had decided by a majority of forty-one to seven that the
parks of London should, one and all, be closed on Sundays; and
Mr. Pumpkin had achieved among his own set a week's immortality.

'We mustn't have this again, Vigil,' said a very great man the
next morning, with a good-humoured smile on his face, however, as
he uttered the reprimand. 'It will take us a whole night, and God
knows how much talking, to undo what those fools did yesterday.'

Mr. Vigil resolved to leave nothing again to the unassisted
industry or honesty of Undy Scott, and consequently that
gentleman's claims on his party did not stand so highly as they
might have done but for this accident. Parliament was soon
afterwards dissolved, and either through the lukewarm support of
his Government friends, or else in consequence of his great
fortune having been found to be ambiguous, the independent
electors of the Tillietudlem burghs took it into their heads to
unseat Mr. Scott. Unseated for Tillietudlem, he had no means of
putting himself forward elsewhere, and he had to repent, in the
sackcloth and ashes of private life, the fault which had cost him
the friendship of Mr. Vigil.

His life, however, was not strictly private. He had used the
Honourable before his name, and the M.P. which for a time had
followed after it, to acquire for himself a seat as director at a
bank board. He was a Vice-President of the Caledonian, English,
Irish, and General European and American Fire and Life Assurance
Society; such, at least, had been the name of the joint-stock
company in question when he joined it; but he had obtained much
credit by adding the word 'Oriental,' and inserting it after the
allusion to Europe; he had tried hard to include the fourth
quarter of the globe; but, as he explained to some of his
friends, it would have made the name too cumbrous for the
advertisements. He was a director also of one or two minor
railways, dabbled in mining shares, and, altogether, did a good
deal of business in the private stock-jobbing line.

In spite of his former delinquencies, his political friends did
not altogether throw him over. In the first place, the time might
come when he would be again useful, and then he had managed to
acquire that air and tact which make one official man agreeable
to another. He was always good-humoured; when in earnest, there
was a dash of drollery about him; in his most comic moods he ever
had some serious purpose in view; he thoroughly understood the
esoteric and exoteric bearings of modern politics, and knew well
that though he should be a model of purity before the public, it
did not behove him to be very strait-laced with his own party. He
took everything in good part, was not over-talkative, over-pushing,
or presumptuous; he felt no strong bias of his own; had at his
fingers' ends the cant phraseology of ministerial subordinates,
and knew how to make himself useful. He knew also--a knowledge
much more difficult to acquire--how to live among men so as never
to make himself disagreeable.

But then he could not be trusted! True. But how many men in his
walk of life can be trusted? And those who can--at how terribly
high a price do they rate their own fidelity! How often must a
minister be forced to confess to himself that he cannot afford to
employ good faith! Undy Scott, therefore, from time to time,
received some ministerial bone, some Civil Service scrap of
victuals thrown to him from the Government table, which, if it
did not suffice to maintain him in all the comforts of a Treasury
career, still preserved for him a connexion with the Elysium of
public life; gave him, as it were, a link by which he could hang
on round the outer corners of the State's temple, and there watch
with advantage till the doors of Paradise should be re-opened to
him. He was no Lucifer, who, having wilfully rebelled against the
high majesty of Heaven, was doomed to suffer for ever in
unavailing, but still proud misery, the penalties of his asserted
independence; but a poor Peri, who had made a lapse and thus
forfeited, for a while, celestial joys, and was now seeking for
some welcome offering, striving to perform some useful service,
by which he might regain his lost glory.

The last of the good things thus tendered to him was not yet all
consumed. When Mr. Hardlines, now Sir Gregory, was summoned to
assist at, or rather preside over, the deliberations of the
committee which was to organize a system of examination for the
Civil Service, the Hon. U. Scott had been appointed secretary to
that committee. This, to be sure, afforded but a fleeting moment
of halcyon bliss; but a man like Mr. Scott knew how to prolong
such a moment to its uttermost stretch. The committee had ceased
to sit, and the fruits of their labour were already apparent in
the establishment of a new public office, presided over by Sir
Gregory; but still the clever Undy continued to draw his salary.

Undy was one of those men who, though married and the fathers of
families, are always seen and known '_en garçon_'. No one
had a larger circle of acquaintance than Undy Scott; no one,
apparently, a smaller circle than Mrs. Undy Scott. So small,
indeed, was it, that its _locale_ was utterly unknown in the
fashionable world. At the time of which we are now speaking Undy
was the happy possessor of a bedroom in Waterloo Place, and
rejoiced in all the comforts of a first-rate club. But the sacred
spot, in which at few and happy intervals he received the
caresses of the wife of his bosom and the children of his loins,
is unknown to the author.

In age, Mr. Scott, at the time of the Tavistock mining inquiry,
was about thirty-five. Having sat in Parliament for five years,
he had now been out for four, and was anxiously looking for the
day when the universal scramble of a general election might give
him another chance. In person he was, as we have said, stalwart
and comely, hirsute with copious red locks, not only over his
head, but under his chin and round his mouth. He was well made,
six feet high, neither fat nor thin, and he looked like a
gentleman. He was careful in his dress, but not so as to betray
the care that he took; he was imperturbable in temper, though
restless in spirit; and the one strong passion of his life was
the desire of a good income at the cost of the public.

He had an easy way of getting intimate with young men when it
suited him, and as easy a way of dropping them afterwards
when that suited him. He had no idea of wasting his time or
opportunities in friendships. Not that he was indifferent as to
his companions, or did not appreciate the pleasure of living with
pleasant men; but that life was too short, and with him the race
too much up hill, to allow of his indulging in such luxuries. He
looked on friendship as one of those costly delights with which
none but the rich should presume to gratify themselves. He could
not afford to associate with his fellow-men on any other terms
than those of making capital of them. It was not for him to walk
and talk and eat and drink with a man because he liked him. How
could the eleventh son of a needy Scotch peer, who had to
maintain his rank and position by the force of his own wit, how
could such a one live, if he did not turn to some profit even the
convivialities of existence?

Acting in accordance with his fixed and conscientious rule in
this respect, Undy Scott had struck up an acquaintance with
Alaric Tudor. He saw that Alaric was no ordinary clerk, that Sir
Gregory was likely to have the Civil Service under his thumb, and
that Alaric was a great favourite with the great man. It would
but little have availed Undy to have striven to be intimate with
Sir Gregory himself. The Knight Commander of the Bath would have
been deaf to his blandishments; but it seemed probable that the
ears of Alaric might be tickled.

And thus Alaric and Undy Scott had become fast friends; that is,
as fast as such friends generally are. Alaric was no more blind
to his own interest than was his new ally. But there was this
difference between them; Undy lived altogether in the utilitarian
world which he had formed around himself, whereas Alaric lived in
two worlds. When with Undy his pursuits and motives were much
such as those of Undy himself; but at Surbiton Cottage, and with
Harry Norman, he was still susceptible of a higher feeling. He
had been very cool to poor Linda on his last visit to Hampton;
but it was not that his heart was too hard for love. He had begun
to discern that Gertrude would never attach herself to Norman;
and if Gertrude were free, why should she not be his?

Poor Linda!

Scott had early heard--and of what official event did he not
obtain early intelligence?--that Neverbend was to go down to
Tavistock about the Mary Jane tin mine, and that a smart
colleague was required for him. He would fain, for reasons of his
own, have been that smart colleague himself; but that he knew was
impossible. He and Neverbend were the Alpha and Omega of official
virtues and vices. But he took an opportunity of mentioning
before Sir Gregory, in a passing unpremeditated way, how
excellently adapted Tudor was for the work. It so turned out that
his effort was successful, and that Tudor was sent.

The whole of their first day at Tavistock was passed by Neverbend
and Alaric in hearing interminable statements from the various
mining combatants, and when at seven o'clock Alaric shut up for
the evening he was heartily sick of the job. The next morning
before breakfast he sauntered out to air himself in front of the
hotel, and who should come whistling up the street, with a cigar
in his mouth, but his new friend Undy Scott.



CHAPTER IX

MR. MANYLODES


Alaric Tudor was very much surprised. Had he seen Sir Gregory
himself, or Captain Cuttwater, walking up the street of
Tavistock, he could not have been more startled. It first
occurred to him that Scott must have been sent down as a third
Commissioner to assist at the investigation; and he would have
been right glad to have known that this was the case, for he
found that the management of Mr. Neverbend was no pastime. But he
soon learnt that such relief was not at hand for him.

'Well, Tudor, my boy,' said he, 'and how do you like the clotted
cream and the thick ankles of the stout Devonshire lasses?'

'I have neither tasted the one, nor seen the other,' said Alaric.
'As yet I have encountered nothing but the not very civil
tongues, and not very clear brains of Cornish roughs.'

'A Boeotian crew! but, nevertheless, they know on which side
their bread is buttered--and in general it goes hard with them
but they butter it on both sides. And how does the faithful
Neverbend conduct himself? Talk of Boeotians, if any man ever was
born in a foggy air, it must have been my friend Fidus.'

Alaric merely shrugged his shoulders, and laughed slightly. 'But
what on earth brings you down to Tavistock?' said he.

'Oh! I am a denizen of the place, naturalized, and all but
settled; have vast interests here, and a future constituency. Let
the Russells look well to themselves. The time is quickly coming
when you will address me in the House with bitter sarcasm as the
honourable but inconsistent member for Tavistock; egad, who knows
but you may have to say Right Honourable?'

'Oh! I did not know the wind blew in that quarter,' said Alaric,
not ill-pleased at the suggestion that he also, on some future
day, might have a seat among the faithful Commons.

'The wind blows from all quarters with me,' said Undy; 'but in
the meantime I am looking out for shares.'

'Will you come in and breakfast?' asked the other.

'What, with friend Fidus? no, thank'ee; I am not, by many
degrees, honest enough to suit his book. He would be down on some
little public peccadillo of mine before I had swallowed my first
egg. Besides, I would not for worlds break the pleasure of your
_tête-à-tête_.'

'Will you come down after dinner?'

'No; neither after dinner, nor before breakfast; not all the
coffee, nor all the claret of the Bedford shall tempt me.
Remember, my friend, you are paid for it; I am not.'

'Well, then, good morning,' said Alaric. 'I must go in and face
my fate, like a Briton.'

Undy went on for a few steps, and then returned, as though a
sudden thought had struck him. 'But, Tudor, I have bowels of
compassion within me, though no pluck. I am willing to rescue
you from your misery, though I will not partake it. Come up to
me this evening, and I will give you a glass of brandy-punch.
Your true miners never drink less generous tipple.'

'How on earth am I to shake off this incubus of the Woods and
Works?'

'Shake him off? Why, make him drunk and put him to bed; or tell
him at once that the natural iniquity of your disposition makes
it necessary that you should spend a few hours of the day in the
company of a sinner like myself. Tell him that his virtue is too
heavy for the digestive organs of your unpractised stomach. Tell
him what you will, but come. I myself am getting sick of those
mining Vandals, though I am so used to dealing with them.'

Alaric promised that he would come, and then went in to
breakfast. Undy also returned to his breakfast, well pleased with
this first success in the little scheme which at present occupied
his mind. The innocent young Commissioner little dreamt that the
Honourable Mr. Scott had come all the way to Tavistock on purpose
to ask him to drink brandy-punch at the Blue Dragon!

Another day went wearily and slowly on with Alaric and Mr.
Neverbend. Tedious, never-ending statements had to be taken down
in writing; the same things were repeated over and over again,
and were as often contradicted; men who might have said in five
words all that they had to say, would not be constrained to say
it in less than five thousand, and each one seemed to think, or
pretended to seem to think, that all the outer world and the
Government were leagued together to defraud the interest to which
he himself was specially attached. But this was not the worst of
it. There were points which were as clear as daylight; but Tudor
could not declare them to be so, as by doing so he was sure to
elicit a different opinion from Mr. Neverbend.

'I am not quite so clear on that point, Mr. Tudor,' he would say.

Alaric, till experience made him wise, would attempt to argue it.

'That is all very well, but I am not quite so sure of it. We will
reserve the point, if you please,' and so affairs went on darkly,
no ray of light being permitted to shine in on the matter in
dispute.

It was settled, however, before dinner, that they should both go
down the Wheal Mary Jane on the following day. Neverbend had done
what he could to keep this crowning honour of the inquiry
altogether in his own hands, but he had found that in this
respect Tudor was much too much for him.

Immediately after dinner Alaric announced that he was going to
spend the evening with a friend.

'A friend!' said Neverbend, somewhat startled; 'I did not know
that you had any friends in Tavistock.'

'Not a great many; but it so happened that I did meet a man I
know, this morning, and promised to go to him in the evening. I
hope you'll excuse my leaving you?'

'Oh! I don't mind for myself,' said Neverbend, 'though, when men
are together, it's as well for them to keep together. But, Mr.
Tudor----'

'Well?' said Alaric, who felt growing within him a determination
to put down at once anything like interference with his private
hours.

'Perhaps I ought not to mention it,' said Neverbend, 'but I do
hope you'll not get among mining people. Only think what our
position here is.'

'What on earth do you mean?' said Alaric. 'Do you think I shall
be bribed over by either side because I choose to drink a glass
of wine with a friend at another hotel?'

'Bribed! No, I don't think you'll be bribed; but I think we
should both keep ourselves absolutely free from all chance of
being talked to on the subject, except before each other and
before witnesses. I would not drink brandy-and-water at the Blue
Dragon, before this report be written, even if my brother were
there.'

'Well, Mr. Neverbend, I am not so much afraid of myself. But
wherever there are two men, there will be two opinions. So good
night, if it so chance that you are in bed before my return.'

So Tudor went out, and Neverbend prepared himself to sit up for
him. He would sooner have remained up all night than have gone to
bed before his colleague came back.

Three days Alaric Tudor had now passed with Mr. Neverbend, and
not only three days but three evenings also! A man may endure to
be bored in the course of business through the day, but it
becomes dreadful when the infliction is extended to post-prandial
hours. It does not often occur that one is doomed to bear the
same bore both by day and night; any change gives some ease; but
poor Alaric for three days had had no change. He felt like a
liberated convict as he stepped freely forth into the sweet
evening air, and made his way through the town to the opposition
inn.

Here he found Undy on the door-steps with a cigar in his mouth.
'Here I am, waiting for you,' said he. 'You are fagged to death,
I know, and we'll get a mouthful of fresh air before we go
upstairs,'--and so saying he put his arm through Alaric's, and
they strolled off through the suburbs of the town.

'You don't smoke,' said Undy, with his cigar-case in his hand.
'Well--I believe you are right--cigars cost a great deal of
money, and can't well do a man any real good. God Almighty could
never have intended us to make chimneys of our mouths and noses.
Does Fidus ever indulge in a weed?'

'He never indulges in anything,' said Alaric.

'Except honesty,' said the other, 'and in that he is a beastly
glutton. He gorges himself with it till all his faculties are
overpowered and his mind becomes torpid. It's twice worse than
drinking. I wonder whether he'll do a bit of speculation before
he goes back to town.'

'Who, Neverbend?--he never speculates!'

'Why not? Ah, my fine fellow, you don't know the world yet. Those
sort of men, dull drones like Neverbend, are just the fellows who
go the deepest. I'll be bound he will not return without a few
Mary Janes in his pocket-book. He'll be a fool if he does, I
know.'

'Why, that's the very mine we are down here about.'

'And that's the very reason why he'll purchase Mary Janes. He has
an opportunity of knowing their value. Oh, let Neverbend alone.
He is not so young as you are, my dear fellow.'

'Young or old, I think you mistake his character.'

'Why, Tudor, what would you think now if he not only bought for
himself, but was commissioned to buy by the very men who sent him
down here?'

'It would be hard to make me believe it.'

'Ah! faith is a beautiful thing; what a pity that it never
survives the thirtieth year;--except with women and fools.'

'And have you no faith, Scott?'

'Yes--much in myself--some little in Lord Palmerston, that is, in
his luck; and a good deal in a bank-note. But I have none at all
in Fidus Neverbend. What! have faith in a man merely because he
tells me to have it! His method of obtaining it is far too easy.'

'I trust neither his wit nor his judgement; but I don't believe
him to be a thief.'

'Thief! I said nothing of thieves. He may, for aught I know, be
just as good as the rest of the world; all I say is, that I
believe him to be no better. But come, we must go back to the
inn; there is an ally of mine coming to me; a perfect specimen of
a sharp Cornish mining stockjobber--as vulgar a fellow as you
ever met, and as shrewd. He won't stay very long, so you need not
be afraid of him.'

Alaric began to feel uneasy, and to think that there might by
possibility be something in what Neverbend had said to him. He
did not like the idea of meeting a Cornish stock-jobber in a
familiar way over his brandy-punch, while engaged, as he
now was, on the part of Government; he felt that there might be
impropriety in it, and he would have been glad to get off if he
could. But he felt ashamed to break his engagement, and thus
followed Undy into the hotel.

'Has Mr. Manylodes been here?' said Scott, as he walked upstairs.

'He's in the bar now, sir,' said the waiter.

'Beg him to come up, then. In the bar! why, that man must have a
bar within himself--the alcohol he consumes every day would be a
tidy sale for a small public-house.'

Up they went, and Mr. Manylodes was not long in following them.
He was a small man, more like an American in appearance than an
Englishman. He had on a common black hat, a black coat, black
waistcoat, and black trousers, thick boots, a coloured shirt, and
very dirty hands. Though every article he wore was good, and most
of them such as gentlemen wear, no man alive could have mistaken
him for a gentleman. No man, conversant with the species to which
he belonged, could have taken him for anything but what he was.
As he entered the room, a faint, sickly, second-hand smell of
alcohol pervaded the atmosphere.

'Well, Manylodes,' said Scott, 'I'm glad to see you again. This
is my friend, Mr. Tudor.'

'Your servant, sir,' said Manylodes, just touching his hat,
without moving it from his head. 'And how are you, Mr. Scott? I
am glad to see you again in these parts, sir.'

'And how's trade? Come, Tudor, what will you drink? Manylodes, I
know, takes brandy; their sherry is vile, and their claret worse;
maybe they may have a fairish glass of port. And how is trade,
Manylodes?'

'We're all as brisk as bees at present. I never knew things
sharper. If you've brought a little money with you, now's your
time. But I tell you this, you'll find it sharp work for the
eyesight.'

'Quick's the word, I suppose.'

'Lord love you! Quick! Why, a fellow must shave himself before he
goes to bed if he wants to be up in time these days.'

'I suppose so.'

'Lord love you! why there was old Sam Weazle; never caught
napping yet--why at Truro, last Monday, he bought up to 450 New
Friendships, and before he was a-bed they weren't worth, not this
bottle of brandy. Well, old Sam was just bit by those Cambourne
lads.'

'And how did that happen?'

'Why, the New Friendships certainly was very good while they
lasted; just for three months they was the thing certainly. Why,
it came up, sir, as if there weren't no end of it, and just as
clean as that half-crown--but I know'd there was an end coming.'

'Water, I suppose,' said Undy, sipping his toddy.

'Them clean takes, Mr. Scott, they never lasts. There was water,
but that weren't the worst. Old Weazle knew of that; he
calculated he'd back the metal agin the water, and so he bought
all up he could lay his finger on. But the stuff was run out.
Them Cambourne boys--what did they do? Why, they let the water in
on purpose. By Monday night old Weazle knew it all, and then you
may say it was as good as a play.'

'And how did you do in the matter?'

'Oh, I sold. I did very well--bought at £7 2s. 3d. and sold at £6
19s. 10 1/2d., and got my seven per cent, for the four months.
But, Lord love you, them clean takes never lasts. I worn't going
to hang on. Here's your health, Mr. Scott. Yours, Mr.---, I
didn't just catch the gen'leman's name;' and without waiting for
further information on the point, he finished his brandy-and-water.

'So it's all up with the New Friendships, is it?' said Undy.

'Up and down, Mr. Scott; every dog has his day; these Mary Janes
will be going the same way some of them days. We're all mortal;'
and with this moral comparison between the uncertainty of human
life and the vicissitudes of the shares in which he trafficked,
Mr. Manylodes proceeded to put some more sugar and brandy into
his tumbler.

'True, true--we are all mortal--Manylodes and Mary Janes; old
friendships and New Friendships: while they last we must make the
most we can of them; buy them cheap and sell them dear; and above
all things get a good percentage.'

'That's the game, Mr. Scott; and I will say no man understands it
better than yourself--keep the ball a-running--that's your maxim.
Are you going it deep in Mary Jane, Mr. Scott?'

'Who? I! O no--she's a cut above me now, I fear. The shares are
worth any money now, I suppose.'

'Worth any money! I think they are, Mr. Scott, but I believe----'
and then bringing his chair close up to that of his aristocratic
friend, resting his hands, one on Mr. Scott's knee, and the other
on his elbow, and breathing brandy into his ear, he whispered to
him words of great significance.

'I'll leave you, Scott,' said Alaric, who did not enjoy the
society of Mr. Manylodes, and to whom the nature of the
conversation was, in his present position, extremely irksome; 'I
must be back at the Bedford early.'

'Early--why early? surely our honest friend can get himself to
bed without your interference. Come, you don't like the brandy
toddy, nor I either. We'll see what sort of a hand they are at
making a bowl of bishop.'

'Not for me, Scott.'

'Yes, for you, man; surely you are not tied to that fellow's
apron-strings,' he said, removing himself from the close
contiguity of Mr. Manylodes, and speaking under his voice; 'take
my advice; if you once let that man think you fear him, you'll
never get the better of him.'

Alaric allowed himself to be persuaded and stayed.

'I have just ten words of business to say to this fellow,'
continued Scott, 'and then we will be alone.'

It was a lovely autumn evening, early in September, and Alaric
sat himself at an open window, looking out from the back of the
hotel on to the Brentor, with its singular parish church, built
on its highest apex, while Undy held deep council with his friend
of the mines. But from time to time, some word of moment found
its way to Alaric's ears, and made him also unconsciously fix his
mind on the _irritamenta malorum_, which are dug from the
bowels of the earth in those western regions.

'Minting money, sir; it's just minting money. There's been no
chance like it in my days. £4 12s. 6d. paid up; and they'll be at
£25 in Truro before sun sets on Saturday, Lord love you, Mr.
Scott, now's your time. If, as I hear, they--' and then there was
a very low whisper, and Alaric, who could not keep his eye
altogether from Mr. Manylodes' countenance, saw plainly that that
worthy gentleman was talking of himself; and in spite of his
better instincts, a desire came over him to know more of what
they were discussing, and he could not keep from thinking that
shares bought at £4 12s. 6d., and realizing £25, must be very nice
property.

'Well, I'll manage it,' said Scott, still in a sort of whisper,
but audibly enough for Alaric to hear. 'Forty, you say? I'll take
them at £5 1s. 1d.--very well;' and he took out his pocket-book
and made a memorandum. 'Come, Tudor, here's the bishop. We have
done our business, so now we'll enjoy ourselves. What, Manylodes,
are you off?'

'Lord love you, Mr. Scott, I've a deal to do before I get to my
downy; and I don't like those doctored tipples. Good night, Mr.
Scott. I wishes you good night, sir;' and making another slight
reference to his hat, which had not been removed from his head
during the whole interview, Mr. Manylodes took himself off.

'There, now, is a specimen of a species of the _genus homo_,
class Englishman, which is, I believe, known nowhere but in
Cornwall.'

'Cornwall and Devonshire, I suppose,' said Alaric.

'No; he is out of his true element here. If you want to see him
in all the glory of his native county you should go west of
Truro. From Truro to Hayle is the land of the Manylodes. And a
singular species it is. But, Tudor, you'll be surprised, I
suppose, if I tell you that I have made a purchase for you.'

'A purchase for me!'

'Yes; I could not very well consult you before that fellow, and
yet as the chance came in my way, I did not like to lose it.
Come, the bishop ain't so bad, is it, though it is doctored
tipple?' and he refilled Alaric's glass.

'But what have you purchased for me, Scott?'

'Forty shares in the Mary Jane.'

'Then you may undo the bargain again, for I don't want them, and
shall not take them.'

'You need not be a bit uneasy, my dear fellow. I've bought them
at a little over £5, and they'll be saleable to-morrow at double
the money--or at any rate to-morrow week. But what's your
objection to them?'

'In the first place, I've got no money to buy shares.'

'That's just the reason why you should buy them; having no money,
you can't but want some; and here's your way to make it. You can
have no difficulty in raising £200.'

'And in the next place, I should not think of buying mining
shares, and more especially these, while I am engaged as I now
am.'

'Fal de ral, de ral, de ral! That's all very fine, Mr.
Commissioner; only you mistake your man; you think you are
talking to Mr. Neverbend.'

'Well, Scott, I shan't have them.'

'Just as you please, my dear fellow; there's no compulsion. Only
mark this; the ball is at your foot now, but it won't remain
there. 'There is a tide in the affairs of men'--you know the
rest; and you know also that 'tide and time wait for no man.' If
you are contented with your two or three hundred a year in the
Weights and Measures, God forbid that I should tempt you to
higher thoughts--only in that case I have mistaken my man.'

'I must be contented with it, if I can get nothing better,' said
Tudor, weakly.

'Exactly; you must be contented--or rather you must put up with
it--if you can get nothing better. That's the meaning of
contentment all the world over. You argue in a circle. You must
be a mere clerk if you cannot do better than other mere clerks.
But the fact of your having such an offer as that I now make you,
is proof that you can do better than others; proves, in fact,
that you need not be a mere clerk, unless you choose to remain
so.'

'Buying these shares might lose me all that I have got, and could
not do more than put a hundred pounds or so in my pocket.'

'Gammon--'

'Could I go back and tell Sir Gregory openly that I had bought
them?'

'Why, Tudor, you are the youngest fish I ever met, sent out to
swim alone in this wicked world of ours. Who the deuce talks
openly of his speculations? Will Sir Gregory tell you what shares
he buys? Is not every member of the House, every man in the
Government, every barrister, parson, and doctor, that can collect
a hundred pounds, are not all of them at the work? And do they
talk openly of the matter? Does the bishop put it into his
charge, or the parson into his sermon?'

'But they would not be ashamed to tell their friends.'

'Would not they? Oh! the Rev. Mr. Pickabit, of St. Judas Without,
would not be ashamed to tell his bishop! But the long and the
short of the thing is this; most men circumstanced as you are
have no chance of doing anything good till they are forty or
fifty, and then their energies are worn out. You have had tact
enough to push yourself up early, and yet it seems you have not
pluck enough to take the goods the gods provide you.'

'The gods!--you mean the devils rather,' said Alaric, who sat
listening and drinking, almost unconsciously, his doctored
tipple.

'Call them what you will for me. Fortune has generally been
esteemed a goddess, but misfortune a very devil. But, Tudor, you
don't know the world. Here is a chance in your way. Of course
that keg of brandy who went out just now understands very well
who you are. He wants to be civil to me, and he thinks it wise to
be civil to you also. He has a hat full of these shares, and he
tells me that, knowing my weakness, and presuming that you have
the same, he bought a few extra this morning, thinking we might
like them. Now, I have no hesitation in saying there is not a
single man whom the Government could send down here, from Sir
Gregory downwards, who could refuse the chance.'

'I am quite sure that Neverbend----'

'Oh! for Heaven's sake don't choke me with Neverbend; the fools
are fools, and will be so; they are used for their folly. I speak
of men with brains. How do you think that such men as Hardlines,
Vigil, and Mr. Estimate have got up in the world? Would they be
where they are now, had they been contented with their salaries?'

'They had private fortunes.'

'Very private they must have been--I never heard of them. No;
what fortunes they have they made. Two of them are in Parliament,
and the other has a Government situation of £2,000 a year, with
little or nothing to do. But they began life early, and never
lost a chance.'

'It is quite clear that that blackguard who was here just now
thinks that he can influence my opinion by inducing me to have an
interest in the matter.'

'He had no such idea--nor have I. Do you think I would persuade
you to such villany? Do you think I do not know you too well? Of
course the possession of these shares can have no possible effect
on your report, and is not expected to have any. But when men
like you and me become of any note in the world, others, such as
Manylodes, like to know that we are embarked in the same
speculation with themselves. Why are members of Parliament asked
to be directors, and vice-governors, and presidents, and
guardians, of all the joint-stock societies that are now set
agoing? Not because of their capital, for they generally have
none; not for their votes, because one vote can be but of little
use in any emergency. It is because the names of men of note are
worth money. Men of note understand this, and enjoy the fat of
the land accordingly. I want to see you among the number.'

'Twas thus the devil pleaded for the soul of Alaric Tudor; and,
alas! he did not plead in vain. Let him but have a fair hearing,
and he seldom does. 'Tis in this way that the truth of that awful
mystery, the fall of man, comes home to us; that we cannot hear
the devil plead, and resist the charm of his eloquence. To listen
is to be lost. 'Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from
evil!' Let that petition come forth from a man's heart, a true
and earnest prayer, and he will be so led that he shall not hear
the charmer, let him charm ever so wisely.

'Twas but a thin veil that the Hon. Undecimus Scott threw over
the bait with which he fished for the honesty of Alaric Tudor,
and yet it sufficed. One would say that a young man, fortified
with such aspirations as those which glowed in Alaric's breast,
should have stood a longer siege; should have been able to look
with clearer eyesight on the landmarks which divide honour from
dishonour, integrity from fraud, and truth from falsehood. But he
had never prayed to be delivered from evil. His desire had rather
been that he might be led into temptation.

He had never so prayed--yet had he daily said his prayers at
fitting intervals. On every returning Sunday had he gone through,
with all the fitting forms, the ordinary worship of a Christian.
Nor had he done this as a hypocrite. With due attention and a
full belief he had weekly knelt at God's temple, and given, if
not his mind, at least his heart, to the service of his church.
But the inner truth of the prayer which he repeated so often had
not come home to him. Alas! how many of us from week to week call
ourselves worms and dust and miserable sinners, describe
ourselves as chaff for the winds, grass for the burning, stubble
for the plough, as dirt and filth fit only to be trodden under
foot, and yet in all our doings before the world cannot bring
home to ourselves the conviction that we require other guidance
than our own!

Alaric Tudor had sighed for permission to go forth among
worldlings and there fight the world's battle. Power, station,
rank, wealth, all the good things which men earn by tact,
diligence, and fortune combined, and which were so far from him
at his outset in life, became daily more dear to his heart. And
now his honourable friend twitted him with being a mere clerk!
No, he was not, never had been, never would be such. Had he not
already, in five or six short years, distanced his competitors,
and made himself the favourite and friend of men infinitely above
him in station? Was he not now here in Tavistock on a mission
which proved that he was no mere clerk? Was not the fact of his
drinking bishop in the familiar society of a lord's son, and an
ex-M.P., a proof of it?

It would be calumny on him to say that he had allowed Scott to
make him tipsy on this occasion. He was far from being tipsy; but
yet the mixture which he had been drinking had told upon his
brain.

'But, Undy,' said he--he had never before called his honourable
friend by his Christian name--'but, Undy, if I take these shares,
where am I to get the money to pay for them?

'The chances are you may part with them before you leave
Tavistock. If so, you will not have to pay for them. You will
only have to pocket the difference.'

'Or pay the loss.'

'Or pay the loss. But there's no chance of that. I'll guarantee
you against that.'

'But I shan't like to sell them. I shan't choose to be
trafficking in shares. Buying a few as an investment may,
perhaps, be a different thing.'

'Oh, Alaric, Alaric, to what a pass had your conscience come,
when it could be so silenced!'

'Well, I suppose you can raise a couple of hundred--£205 will
cover the whole thing, commission and all; but, mind, I don't
advise you to keep them long--I shall take two months' dividends,
and then sell.'

'Two hundred and five pounds,' said Tudor, to whom the sum seemed
anything but trifling; 'and when must it be paid?'

'Well, I can give Manylodes a cheque for the whole, dated this
day week. You'll be back in town before that. We must allow him
£5 for the accommodation. I suppose you can pay the money in at
my banker's by that day?'

Alaric had some portion of the amount himself, and he knew that
Norman had money by him; he felt also a half-drunken conviction
that if Norman failed him, Captain Cuttwater would not let him
want such a sum; and so he said that he could, and the bargain
was completed.

As he went downstairs whistling with an affected ease, and a
gaiety which, he by no means felt, Undy Scott leant back in his
chair, and began to speculate whether his new purchase was worth
the purchase-money. 'He's a sharp fellow; certainly, in some
things, and may do well yet; but he's uncommonly green. That,
however, will wear off. I should not be surprised if he told
Neverbend the whole transaction before this time to-morrow.' And
then Mr. Scott finished his cigar and went to bed.

When Alaric entered the sitting-room at the Bedford, he found
Neverbend still seated at a table covered with official books and
huge bundles of official papers. An enormous report was open
before him, from which he was culling the latent sweets, and
extracting them with a pencil. He glowered at Alaric with a
severe suspicious eye, which seemed to accuse him at once of the
deed which he had done.

'You are very late,' said Neverbend, 'but I have not been sorry
to be alone. I believe I have been able to embody in a rough
draft the various points which we have hitherto discussed. I have
just been five hours and a half at it;' and Fidus looked at his
watch; 'five hours and forty minutes. To-morrow, perhaps, that
is, if you are not going to your friend again, you'll not object
to make a fair copy----'

'Copy!' shouted Alaric, in whose brain the open air had not
diminished the effect of the bishop, and who remembered, with
all the energy of pot valour, that he was not a mere clerk;
'copy--bother; I'm going to bed, old fellow; and I advise you
to do the same.'

And then, taking up a candlestick and stumbling somewhat
awkwardly against a chair, Tudor went off to his room, waiting no
further reply from his colleague.

Mr. Neverbend slowly put up his papers and followed him. 'He is
decidedly the worse for drink--decidedly so,' said he to himself,
as he pulled off his clothes. 'What a disgrace to the Woods and
Works--what a disgrace!'

And he resolved in his mind that he would be very early at the
pit's mouth. He would not be kept from his duty while a
dissipated colleague collected his senses by the aid of soda-water.



CHAPTER X

WHEAL MARY JANE


Mr. Manylodes was, at any rate, right in this, that that
beverage, which men call bishop, is a doctored tipple; and Alaric
Tudor, when he woke in the morning, owned the truth. It had been
arranged that certain denizens of the mine should meet the two
Commissioners at the pit-mouth at eight o'clock, and it had been
settled at dinner-time that breakfast should be on the table at
seven, sharp. Half an hour's quick driving would take them to the
spot.

At seven Mr. Fidus Neverbend, who had never yet been known to be
untrue to an appointment by the fraction of a second, was
standing over the breakfast-table alone. He was alone, but not on
that account unhappy. He could hardly disguise the pleasure with
which he asked the waiter whether Mr. Tudor was yet dressed, or
the triumph which he felt when he heard that his colleague was
not _quite ready_.

'Bring the tea and the eggs at once,' said Neverbend, very
briskly.

'Won't you wait for Mr. Tudor?' asked the waiter, with an air of
surprise. Now the landlord, waiter, boots, and chambermaid, the
chambermaid especially, had all, in Mr. Neverbend's estimation,
paid Tudor by far too much consideration; and he was determined
to show that he himself was first fiddle.

'Wait! no; quite out of the question--bring the hot water
immediately--and tell the ostler to have the fly at the door at
half-past seven exact.'

'Yes, sir,' said the man, and disappeared.

Neverbend waited five minutes, and then rang the bell
impetuously. 'If you don't bring me my tea immediately, I shall
send for Mr. Boteldale.' Now Mr. Boteldale was the landlord.

'Mr. Tudor will be down in ten minutes,' was the waiter's false
reply; for up to that moment poor Alaric had not yet succeeded in
lifting his throbbing head from his pillow. The boots was now
with him administering soda-water and brandy, and he was
pondering in his sickened mind whether, by a manful effort, he
could rise and dress himself; or whether he would not throw
himself backwards on his coveted bed, and allow Neverbend the
triumph of descending alone to the nether world.

Neverbend nearly threw the loaf at the waiter's head. Wait ten
minutes longer! what right had that vile Devonshire napkin-twirler
to make to him so base a proposition? 'Bring me my breakfast,
sir,' shouted Neverbend, in a voice that made the unfortunate
sinner jump out of the room, as though he had been moved by a
galvanic battery.

In five minutes, tea made with lukewarm water, and eggs that were
not half boiled were brought to the impatient Commissioner. As a
rule Mr. Neverbend, when travelling on the public service, made a
practice of enjoying his meals. It was the only solace which he
allowed himself; the only distraction from the cares of office
which he permitted either to his body or his mind. But on this
great occasion his country required that he should forget his
comforts; and he drank his tasteless tea, and ate his uncooked
eggs, threatening the waiter as he did so with sundry pains and
penalties, in the form of sixpences withheld.

'Is the fly there?' said he, as he bolted a last morsel of cold
roast beef.

'Coming, sir,' said the waiter, as he disappeared round a corner.

In the meantime Alaric sat lackadaisical on his bedside, all
undressed, leaning his head upon his hand, and feeling that his
struggle to dress himself was all but useless. The sympathetic
boots stood by with a cup of tea--well-drawn comfortable tea--in
his hand, and a small bit of dry toast lay near on an adjacent
plate.

'Try a bit o' toast, sir,' said boots.

'Ugh!' ejaculated poor Alaric.

'Have a leetle drop o' rum in the tea, sir, and it'll set you all
to rights in two minutes.'

The proposal made Alaric very sick, and nearly completed the
catastrophe. 'Ugh!' he said.

'There's the trap, sir, for Mr. Neverbend,' said the boots, whose
ears caught the well-known sound.

'The devil it is!' said Alaric, who was now stirred up to instant
action. 'Take my compliments to Mr. Neverbend, and tell him I'll
thank him to wait ten minutes.'

Boots, descending with the message, found Mr. Neverbend ready
coated and gloved, standing at the hotel door. The fly was there,
and the lame ostler holding the horse; but the provoking driver
had gone back for his coat.

'Please, sir, Mr. Tudor says as how you're not to go just at
present, but to wait ten minutes till he be ready.'

Neverbend looked at the man, but he would not trust himself to
speak. Wait ten minutes, and it now wanted five-and-twenty
minutes to eight!--no--not for all the Tudors that ever sat upon
the throne of England.

There he stood with his watch in his hand as the returning Jehu
hurried round from the stable yard. 'You are now seven minutes
late,' said he, 'and if you are not at the place by eight
o'clock, I shall not give you one farthing!'

'All right,' said Jehu. 'We'll be at Mary Jane in less than no
time;' and off they went, not at the quickest pace. But
Neverbend's heart beat high with triumph, as he reflected that he
had carried the point on which he had been so intent.

Alaric, when he heard the wheels roll off, shook from him his
lethargy. It was not only that Neverbend would boast that he
alone had gone through the perils of their subterranean duty, but
that doubtless he would explain in London how his colleague had
been deterred from following him. It was a grievous task, that of
dressing himself, as youthful sinners know but too well. Every
now and then a qualm would come over him, and make the work seem
all but impossible. Boots, however, stuck to him like a man,
poured cold water over his head, renewed his tea-cup, comforted
him with assurances of the bracing air, and put a paper full of
sandwiches in his pocket.

'For heaven's sake put them away,' said Alaric, to whom the very
idea of food was repulsive.

'You'll want 'em, sir, afore you are half way to Mary Jane; and
it a'n't no joke going down and up again. I know what's what,
sir.'

The boots stuck to him like a man. He did not only get him
sandwiches, but he procured for him also Mr. Boteldale's own
fast-trotting pony, and just as Neverbend was rolling up to the
pit's mouth fifteen minutes after his time, greatly resolving in
his own mind to button his breeches pocket firmly against the
recreant driver, Alaric started on the chase after him.

Mr. Neverbend had a presentiment that, sick as his friend might
be, nauseous as doubtless were the qualms arising from yesterday's
intemperance, he would make an attempt to recover his lost
ground. He of the Woods and Works had begun to recognize the
energy of him of the Weights and Measures, and felt that there
was in it a force that would not easily be overcome, even by the
fumes of bishop. But yet it would be a great thing for the Woods
and Works if he, Neverbend, could descend in this perilous
journey to the deep bowels of the earth, leaving the Weights and
Measures stranded in the upper air. This descent among the hidden
riches of a lower world, this visit to the provocations of evils
not yet dug out from their durable confinement, was the keystone,
as it were, of the whole mission. Let Neverbend descend alone,
alone inspect the wonders of that dirty deep, and Tudor might
then talk and write as he pleased. In such case all the world of
the two public offices in Question, and of some others cognate to
them, would adjudge that he, Neverbend, had made himself master
of the situation.

Actuated by these correct calculations, Mr. Neverbend was rather
fussy to begin an immediate descent when he found himself on the
spot. Two native gentlemen, who were to accompany the Commissioners,
or the Commissioner, as appeared likely to be the case, were already
there, as were also the men who were to attend upon them.

It was an ugly uninviting place to look at, with but few visible
signs of wealth. The earth, which had been burrowed out by these
human rabbits in their search after tin, lay around in huge
ungainly heaps; the overground buildings of the establishment
consisted of a few ill-arranged sheds, already apparently in a
state of decadence; dirt and slush, and pods of water confined by
muddy dams, abounded on every side; muddy men, with muddy carts
and muddy horses, slowly crawled hither and thither, apparently
with no object, and evidently indifferent as to whom they might
overset in their course. The inferior men seemed to show no
respect to those above them, and the superiors to exercise no
authority over those below them. There was, a sullen equality
among them all. On the ground around was no vegetation; nothing
green met the eye, some few stunted bushes appeared here and
there, nearly smothered by heaped-up mud, but they had about them
none of the attractiveness of foliage. The whole scene, though
consisting of earth alone, was unearthly, and looked as though
the devil had walked over the place with hot hoofs, and then
raked it with a huge rake.

'I am afraid I am very late,' said Neverbend, getting out of his
fly in all the haste he could muster, and looking at his watch
the moment his foot touched the ground, 'very late indeed,
gentlemen; I really must apologize, but it was the driver; I was
punctual to the minute, I was indeed. But come, gentlemen, we
won't lose another moment,' and Mr. Neverbend stepped out as
though he were ready at an instant's notice to plunge head
foremost down the deepest shaft in all that region of mines.

'Oh, sir, there a'n't no cause of hurry whatsomever,' said one of
the mining authorities; 'the day is long enough.'

'Oh, but there is cause of hurry, Mr. Undershot,' said Neverbend
angrily 'great cause of hurry; we must do this work very
thoroughly; and I positively have not time to get through all
that I have before me.

'But-a'n't the other gen'leman a-coming?' asked Mr. Undershot.

'Surely Mr. Tooder isn't a going to cry off?' said the other.
'Why, he was so hot about it yesterday.'

'Mr. Tudor is not very well this morning,' said Mr. Neverbend.
'As his going down is not necessary for the inquiry, and is
merely a matter of taste on his part, he has not joined me this
morning. Come, gentlemen, are we ready?'

It was then for the first time explained to Mr. Neverbend that he
had to go through a rather complicated adjustment of his toilet
before he would be considered fit to meet, the infernal gods. He
must, he was informed, envelop himself from head to foot in
miner's habiliments, if he wished to save every stitch he had on
him from dirt and destruction. He must also cover up his head
with a linen cap, so constituted as to carry a lump of mud with a
candle stuck in it, if he wished to save either his head from
filth or his feet from falling. Now Mr. Neverbend, like most
clerks in public offices, was somewhat particular about his
wardrobe; it behoved him, as a gentleman frequenting the West
End, to dress well, and it also behoved him to dress cheaply; he
was, moreover, careful both as to his head and feet; he could
not, therefore, reject the recommended precautions, but yet the
time!--the time thus lost might destroy all.

He hurried into the shed where his toilet was to be made, and
suffered himself to be prepared in the usual way. He took off his
own great coat, and put on a muddy course linen jacket that
covered the upper portion of his body completely; he then dragged
on a pair of equally muddy overalls; and lastly submitted to a
most uninviting cap, which came down over his ears, and nearly
over his eyes, and on the brow of which a lump of mud was then
affixed, bearing a short tallow candle.

But though dressed thus in miner's garb, Mr. Neverbend could not
be said to look the part he filled. He was a stout, reddish-faced
gentleman, with round shoulders and huge whiskers, he was nearly
bald, and wore spectacles, and in the costume in which he now
appeared he did not seem to be at his ease. Indeed, all his
air of command, all his personal dignity and dictatorial tone,
left him as soon as he found himself metamorphosed into a fat
pseudo-miner. He was like a cock whose feathers had been trailed
through the mud, and who could no longer crow aloud, or claim the
dunghill as his own. His appearance was somewhat that of a dirty
dissipated cook who, having been turned out of one of the clubs
for drunkenness, had been wandering about the streets all night.
He began to wish that he was once more in the well-known
neighbourhood of Charing Cross.

The adventure, however, must now be carried through. There was
still enough of manhood in his heart to make him feel that he
could not return to his colleague at Tavistock without visiting
the wonders which he had come so far to see. When he reached the
head of the shaft, however, the affair did appear to him to be
more terrible than he had before conceived. He was invited to get
into a rough square bucket, in which there was just room for
himself and another to stand; he was specially cautioned to keep
his head straight, and his hands and elbows from protruding, and
then the windlass began to turn, and the upper world, the
sunlight, and all humanity receded from his view.

The world receded from his view, but hardly soon enough;
for as the windlass turned and the bucket descended, his last
terrestrial glance, looking out among the heaps of mud, descried
Alaric Tudor galloping on Mr. Boteldale's pony up to the very
mouth of the mine.

'_Facilis descensus Averni_.' The bucket went down easy
enough, and all too quick. The manner in which it grounded itself
on the first landing grated discordantly on Mr. Neverbend's finer
perceptibilities. But when he learnt, after the interchange of
various hoarse and to him unintelligible bellowings, that he
was to wait in that narrow damp lobby for the coming of his
fellow-Commissioner, the grating on his feelings was even more
discordant. He had not pluck enough left to grumble: but he
grunted his displeasure. He grunted, however, in vain; for in
about a quarter of an hour Alaric was close to him, shoulder to
shoulder. He also wore a white jacket, &c., with a nightcap of
mud and candle on his head; but somehow he looked as though he
had worn them all his life. The fast gallop, and the excitement
of the masquerade, which for him had charms the sterner Neverbend
could not feel, had dissipated his sickness; and he was once more
all himself.

'So I've caught you at the first stage,' said he, good-humouredly;
for though he knew how badly he had been treated, he was much
too wise to show his knowledge. 'It shall go hard but I'll distance
you before we have done,' he said to himself. Poor Neverbend
only grunted.

And then they all went down a second stage in another bucket; and
then a third in a third bucket; and then the business commenced.
As far as this point passive courage alone had been required; to
stand upright in a wooden tub and go down, and down, and down,
was in itself easy enough, so long as the heart did not utterly
faint. Mr. Neverbend's heart had grown faintish, but still he had
persevered, and now stood on a third lobby, listening with dull,
unintelligent ears to eager questions asked, by his colleague,
and to the rapid answers of their mining guides. Tudor was
absolutely at work with paper and pencil, taking down notes in
that wretched Pandemonium.

'There now, sir,' said the guide; 'no more of them ugly buckets,
Mr. Neverbend; we can trust to our own arms and legs for the
rest of it, and so saying, he pointed out to Mr. Neverbend's
horror-stricken eyes a perpendicular iron ladder fixed firmly
against the upright side of a shaft, and leading--for aught Mr.
Neverbend could see--direct to hell itself.

'Down here, is it?' said Alaric peeping over.

'I'll go first,' said the guide; and down he went, down, down,
down, till Neverbend looking over, could barely see the glimmer
of his disappearing head light. Was it absolutely intended that
he should disappear in the same way? Had he bound himself to go
down that fiendish upright ladder? And were he to go down it,
what then? Would it be possible that a man of his weight should
ever come up again?

'Shall it be you or I next?' said Alaric very civilly. Neverbend
could only pant and grunt, and Alaric, with a courteous nod,
placed himself on the ladder, and went down, down, down, till of
him also nothing was left but the faintest glimmer. Mr. Neverbend
remained above with one of the mining authorities; one attendant
miner also remained with them.

'Now, Sir,' said the authority, 'if you are ready, the ladder is
quite free.'

Free! What would not Neverbend have given to be free also
himself! He looked down the free ladder, and the very look made
him sink. It seemed to him as though nothing but a spider could
creep down that perpendicular abyss. And then a sound, slow,
sharp, and continuous, as of drops falling through infinite space
on to deep water, came upon his ear; and he saw that the sides of
the abyss were covered with slime; and the damp air made him
cough, and the cap had got over his spectacles and nearly blinded
him; and he was perspiring with a cold, clammy sweat.

'Well, sir, shall we be going on?' said the authority. 'Mr.
Tooder'll be at the foot of the next set before this.'

Mr. Neverbend wished that Mr. Tudor's journey might still be
down, and down, and down, till he reached the globe's centre, in
which conflicting attractions might keep him for ever fixed. In
his despair he essayed to put one foot upon the ladder, and then
looked piteously up to the guide's face. Even in that dark, dingy
atmosphere the light of the farthing candle on his head revealed
the agony of his heart. His companions, though they were miners,
were still men. They saw his misery, and relented.

'Maybe thee be afeared?' said the working miner, 'and if so be
thee bee'st, thee'd better bide.'

'I am sure I should never come up again,' said Neverbend, with a
voice pleading for mercy, but with all the submission of one
prepared to suffer without resistance if mercy should not be
forthcoming.

'Thee bee'st for sartan too thick and weazy like for them
stairs,' said the miner.

'I am, I am,' said Neverbend, turning on the man a look of the
warmest affection, and shoving the horrid, heavy, encumbered cap
from off his spectacles; 'yes, I am too fat.' How would he have
answered, with what aspect would he have annihilated the sinner,
had such a man dared to call him weazy up above, on _terra
firma_, under the canopy of heaven?

His troubles, however, or at any rate his dangers, were brought
to an end. As soon as it became plainly manifest that his zeal in
the public service would carry him no lower, and would hardly
suffice to keep life throbbing in his bosom much longer, even in
his present level, preparations were made for his ascent. A bell
was rung; hoarse voices were again heard speaking and answering
in sounds quite unintelligible to a Cockney's ears; chains
rattled, the windlass whirled, and the huge bucket came tumbling
down, nearly on their heads. Poor Neverbend was all but lifted
into it. Where now was all the pride of the morn that had seen
him go forth the great dictator of the mines? Where was that
towering spirit with which he had ordered his tea and toast, and
rebuked the slowness of his charioteer? Where the ambition that
had soared so high over the pet of the Weights and Measures?
Alas, alas! how few of us there are who have within us the
courage to be great in adversity. _'Aequam memento'_--&c.,
&c.!--if thou couldst but have thought of it, O Neverbend, who
need'st must some day die.

But Neverbend did not think of it. How few of us do remember such
lessons at those moments in which they ought to be of use to us!
He was all but lifted into the tub, and then out of it, and then
again into another, till he reached the upper world, a sight
piteous to behold. His spectacles had gone from him, his cap
covered his eyes, his lamp had reversed itself, and soft globules
of grease had fallen on his nose, he was bathed in perspiration,
and was nevertheless chilled through to his very bones, his
whiskers were fringed with mud, and his black cravat had been
pulled from his neck and lost in some infernal struggle.
Nevertheless, the moment in which he seated himself on a hard
stool in that rough shed was perhaps the happiest in his life;
some Christian brought him beer; had it been nectar from the
brewery of the gods, he could not have drunk it with greater
avidity.

By slow degrees he made such toilet as circumstances allowed, and
then had himself driven back to Tavistock, being no more willing
to wait for Tudor now than he had been in the early morning. But
Jehu found him much more reasonable on his return; and as that
respectable functionary pocketed his half-crown, he fully
understood the spirit in which it was given. Poor Neverbend had
not now enough pluck left in him to combat the hostility of a
postboy.

Alaric, who of course contrived to see all that was to be seen,
and learn all that was to be learnt, in the dark passages of the
tin mine, was careful on his return to use his triumph with the
greatest moderation. His conscience was, alas, burdened with the
guilty knowledge of Undy's shares. When he came to think of the
transaction as he rode leisurely back to Tavistock, he knew how
wrong he had been, and yet he felt a kind of triumph at the spoil
which he held; for he had heard among the miners that the shares
of Mary Jane were already going up to some incredible standard of
value. In this manner, so said he to himself, had all the great
minds of the present day made their money, and kept themselves
afloat. 'Twas thus he tried to comfort himself; but not as yet
successfully.

There were no more squabbles between Mr. Neverbend and Mr. Tudor;
each knew that of himself, which made him bear and forbear; and
so the two Commissioners returned to town on good terms with each
other, and Alaric wrote a report, which delighted the heart of
Sir Gregory Hardlines, ruined the opponents of the great tin
mine, and sent the Mary Jane shares up, and up, and up, till
speculating men thought that they could not give too high a price
to secure them.

Alaric returned to town on Friday. It had been arranged that he,
and Charley, and Norman, should all go down to Hampton on the
Saturday; and then, on the following week, the competitive
examination was to take place. But Alaric's first anxiety after
his return was to procure the £206, which he had to pay for the
shares which he held in his pocket-book. He all but regretted, as
he journeyed up to town, with the now tame Fidus seated opposite
to him, that he had not disposed of them at Tavistock even at
half their present value, so that he might have saved himself the
necessity of being a borrower, and have wiped his hands of the
whole affair.

He and Norman dined together at their club in Waterloo Place, the
Pythagorean, a much humbler establishment than that patronized by
Scott, and one that was dignified by no politics. After dinner,
as they sat over their pint of sherry, Alaric made his request.

'Harry,' said he, suddenly, 'you are always full of money--I want
you to lend me £150.'

Norman was much less quick in his mode of speaking than his
friend, and at the present moment was inclined to be somewhat
slower than usual. This affair of the examination pressed upon
his spirits, and made him dull and unhappy. During the whole of
dinner he had said little or nothing, and had since been sitting
listlessly gazing at vacancy, and balancing himself on the hind-legs
of his chair.

'O yes--certainly,' said he; but he said it without the eagerness
with which Alaric thought that he should have answered his
request.

'If it's inconvenient, or if you don't like it,' said Alaric, the
blood mounting to his forehead, 'it does not signify. I can do
without it.'

'I can lend it you without any inconvenience,' said Harry. 'When
do you want it--not to-night, I suppose?'

'No--not to-night--I should like to have it early to-morrow
morning; but I see you don't like it, so I'll manage it some
other way.'

'I don't know what you mean by not liking it. I have not the
slightest objection to lending you any money I can spare. I don't
think you'll find any other of your friends who will like it
better. You can have it by eleven o'clock to-morrow.'

Intimate as the two men were, there had hitherto been very little
borrowing or lending between them; and now Alaric felt as though
he owed it to his intimacy with his friend to explain to him why
he wanted so large a sum in so short a time. He felt, moreover,
that he would not himself be so much ashamed of what he had done
if he could confess it to some one else. He could then solace
himself with the reflection that he had done nothing secret.
Norman, he supposed, would be displeased; but then Norman's
displeasure could not injure him, and with Norman there would be
no danger that the affair would go any further.

'You must think it very strange,' said he, 'that I should want
such a sum; but the truth is I have bought some shares.'

'Railway shares?' said Norman, in a tone that certainly did not
signify approval. He disliked speculation altogether, and had an
old-fashioned idea that men who do speculate, should have money
wherewith to do it.

'No--not railway shares exactly.'

'Canal?' suggested Norman.

'No--not canal.'

'Gas?'

'Mines,' said Alaric, bringing out the dread truth at last.

Harry Norman's brow grew very black. 'Not that mine that you've
been down about, I hope,' said he.

'Yes--that very identical Mary Jane that I went down, and down
about,' said Alaric, trying to joke on the subject. 'Don't look
so very black, my dear fellow. I know all that you have to say
upon the matter. I did what was very foolish, I dare say; but the
idea never occurred to me till it was too late, that I might be
suspected of making a false report on the subject, because I had
embarked a hundred pounds in it.'

'Alaric, if it were known--'

'Then it mustn't be known,' said Tudor. 'I am sorry for it; but,
as I told you, the idea didn't occur to me till it was too late.
The shares are bought now, and must be paid for to-morrow. I
shall sell them the moment I can, and you shall have the money in
three or four days.'

'I don't care one straw about the money,' said Norman, now quick
enough, but still in great displeasure; 'I would give double the
amount that you had not done this.'

'Don't be so suspicious, Harry,' said the other--'don't try to
think the worst of your friend. By others, by Sir Gregory
Hardlines, Neverbend, and such men, I might expect to be judged
harshly in such a matter. But I have a right to expect that you
will believe me. I tell you that I did this inadvertently, and am
sorry for it; surely that ought to be sufficient.'

Norman said nothing more; but he felt that Tudor had done that
which, if known, would disgrace him for ever. It might, however,
very probably never be known; and it might also be that Tudor
would never act so dishonestly again. On the following morning
the money was paid; and in the course of the next week the shares
were resold, and the money repaid, and Alaric Tudor, for the
first time in his life, found himself to be the possessor of over
three hundred pounds.

Such was the price which Scott, Manylodes, & Co., had found it
worth their while to pay him for his good report on Mary Jane.



CHAPTER XI

THE THREE KINGS


And now came the all-important week. On the Saturday the three
young men went down to Hampton. Charley had lately been leading a
very mixed sort of life. One week he would consort mainly with
the houri of the Norfolk Street beer-shop, and the next he would
be on his good behaviour, and live as respectably as circumstances
permitted him to do. His scope in this respect was not large. The
greatest respectability which his unassisted efforts could possibly
achieve was to dine at a cheap eating-house, and spend his
evenings, at a cigar divan. He belonged to no club, and his circle
of friends, except in the houri and navvy line, was very limited. Who
could expect that a young man from the Internal Navigation would
sit for hours and hours alone in a dull London lodging, over his book
and tea-cup? Who should expect that any young man will do so?
And yet mothers, and aunts, and anxious friends, do expect it--very
much in vain.

During Alaric's absence at Tavistock, Norman had taken Charley by
the hand and been with him a good deal. He had therefore spent an
uncommonly respectable week, and the Norfolk Street houri would
have been _au désespoir_, but that she had other Charleys to
her bow. When he found himself getting into a first-class
carriage at the Waterloo-bridge station with his two comrades, he
began to appreciate the comfort of decency, and almost wished
that he also had been brought up among the stern morals and hard
work of the Weights and Measures.

Nothing special occurred at Surbiton Cottage. It might have been
evident to a watchful bystander that Alaric was growing in favour
with all the party, excepting Mrs. Woodward, and that, as he did
so, Harry was more and more cherished by her.

This was specially shown in one little scene. Alaric had brought
down with him to Hampton the documents necessary to enable him to
draw out his report on Mary Jane. Indeed, it was all but
necessary that he should do so, as his coming examination would
leave him but little time for other business during the week. On
Saturday night he sat up at his inn over the papers, and on
Sunday morning, when Mrs. Woodward and the girls came down, ready
bonneted, for church, he signified his intention of remaining at
his work.

'I certainly think he might have gone to church,' said Mrs.
Woodward, when the hall-door closed behind the party, as they
started to their place of worship.

'Oh! mamma, think how much he has to do,' said Gertrude.

'Nonsense,' said Mrs. Woodward; 'it's all affectation, and he
ought to go to church. Government clerks are not worked so hard
as all that; are they, Harry?'

'Alaric is certainly very busy, but I think he should go to
church all the same,' said Harry, who himself never omitted
divine worship.

'But surely this is a work of necessity?' said Linda.

'Fiddle-de-de,' said Mrs. Woodward; 'I hate affectation, my dear.
It's very grand, I dare say, for a young man's services to be in
such request that he cannot find time to say his prayers. He'll
find plenty of time for gossiping by and by, I don't doubt.'

Linda could say nothing further, for an unbidden tear moistened
her eyelid as she heard her mother speak so harshly of her lover.
Gertrude, however, took up the cudgels for him, and so did
Captain Cuttwater.

'I think you are a little hard upon him, mamma,' said Gertrude,
'particularly when you know that, as a rule, he always goes to
church. I have heard you say yourself what an excellent churchman
he is.'

'Young men change sometimes,' said Mrs. Woodward.

'Upon my word, Bessie, I think you are very uncharitable this fine
Sunday morning,' said the captain. 'I wonder how you'll feel if
we have that chapter about the beam and the mote.'

Mrs. Woodward did not quite like being scolded by her uncle
before her daughters, but she said nothing further. Katie,
however, looked daggers at the old man from out her big bright
eyes. What right had any man, were he ever so old, ever so much
an uncle, to scold her mamma? Katie was inclined to join her
mother and take Harry Norman's side, for it was Harry Norman who
owned the boat.

They were now at the church door, and they entered without saying
anything further. Let us hope that charity, which surpasseth all
other virtues, guided their prayers while they were there, and
filled their hearts. In the meantime Alaric, unconscious how he
had been attacked and how defended, worked hard at his Tavistock
notes.

Mrs. Woodward was quite right in this, that the Commissioner of
the Mines, though he was unable to find time to go to church, did
find time to saunter about with the girls before dinner. Was it
to be expected that he should not do so? for what other purpose
was he there at Hampton?

They were all very serious this Sunday afternoon, and Katie could
make nothing of them. She and Charley, indeed, went off by
themselves to a desert island, or a place that would have been a
desert island had the water run round it, and there built
stupendous palaces and laid out glorious gardens. Charley was the
most good-natured of men, and could he have only brought a boat
with him, as Harry so often did, he would soon have been first
favourite with Katie.

'It shan't be at all like Hampton Court,' said Katie, speaking of
the new abode which Charley was to build for her.

'Not at all,' said Charley.

'Nor yet Buckingham Palace.'

'No,' said Charley, 'I think we'll have it Gothic.'

'Gothic!' said Katie, looking up at him with all her eyes. 'Will
Gothic be most grand? What's Gothic?'

Charley began to consider. 'Westminster Abbey,' said he at last.

'Oh--but Charley, I don't want a church. Is the Alhambra Gothic?'

Charley was not quite sure, but thought it probably was. They
decided, therefore, that the new palace should be built after the
model of the Alhambra.

The afternoon was but dull and lugubrious to the remainder of the
party. The girls seemed to feel that there was something solemn
about the coming competition between two such dear friends, which
prevented and should prevent them all from being merry. Harry
perfectly sympathized in the feeling; and even Alaric, though
depressed himself by no melancholy forebodings, was at any rate
conscious that he should refrain from any apparent anticipation
of a triumph. They all went to church in the evening; but even
this amendment in Alaric's conduct hardly reconciled him to Mrs.
Woodward.

'I suppose we shall all be very clever before long,' said she,
after tea; 'but really I don't know that we shall be any the
better for it. Now in this office of yours, by the end of next
week, there will be three or four men with broken hearts, and
there will be one triumphant jackanapes, so conceited and proud,
that he'll never bring himself to do another good ordinary day's
work as long as he lives. Nothing will persuade me but that it is
not only very bad, but very unjust also.'

'The jackanapes must learn to put up with ordinary work,' said
Alaric, 'or he'll soon find himself reduced to his former
insignificance.'

'And the men with the broken hearts; they, I suppose, must put up
with their wretchedness too,' said Mrs. Woodward; 'and their
wives, also, and children, who have been looking forward for
years to this vacancy as the period of their lives at which they
are to begin to be comfortable. I hate such heartlessness. I hate
the very name of Sir Gregory Hardlines.'

'But, mamma, won't the general effect be to produce a much higher
class of education among the men?' said Gertrude.

'In the army and navy the best men get on the best,' said Linda.

'Do they, by jingo!' said Uncle Bat. 'It's very little you know
about the navy, Miss Linda.'

'Well, then, at any rate they ought,' said Linda.

'I would have a competitive examination in every service,' said
Gertrude. 'It would make young men ambitious. They would not be
so idle and empty as they now are, if they had to contend in this
way for every step upwards in the world.'

'The world,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'will soon be like a fishpond,
very full of fish, but with very little food for them. Every one
is scrambling for the others' prey, and they will end at last by
eating one another. If Harry gets this situation, will not that
unfortunate Jones, who for years has been waiting for it, always
regard him as a robber?'

'My maxim is this,' said Uncle Bat; 'if a youngster goes into any
service, say the navy, and does his duty by his country like a
man, why, he shouldn't be passed over. Now look at me; I was
on the books of the _Catamaran_, one of the old seventy-fours,
in '96; I did my duty then and always; was never in the black
book or laid up sick; was always rough and ready for any work
that came to hand; and when I went into the _Mudlark_ as lieutenant
in year '9, little Bobby Howard had just joined the old _Cat._ as a
young middy. And where am I now? and where is Bobby Howard?
Why, d----e, I'm on the shelf, craving the ladies' pardon; and he's
a Lord of the Admiralty, if you please, and a Member of Parliament.
Now I say Cuttwater's as good a name as Howard for going to sea
with any day; and if there'd been a competitive examination
for Admiralty Lords five years ago, Bobby Howard would never
have been where he is now, and somebody else who knows more
about his profession than all the Howards put together, might
perhaps have been in his place. And so, my lads, here's to you,
and I hope the best man will win.'

Whether Uncle Bat agreed with his niece or with his grandnieces
was not very apparent from the line of his argument; but they all
laughed at his eagerness, and nothing more was said that evening
about the matter.

Alaric, Harry, and Charley, of course returned to town on the
following day. Breakfast on Monday morning at Surbiton Cottage
was an early affair when the young men were there; so early, that
Captain Cuttwater did not make his appearance. Since his arrival
at the cottage, Mrs. Woodward had found an excuse for a later
breakfast in the necessity of taking it with her uncle; so that
the young people were generally left alone. Linda was the family
tea-maker, and was, therefore, earliest down; and Alaric being
the first on this morning to leave the hotel, found her alone in
the dining-room.

He had never renewed the disclosure of his passion; but Linda had
thought that whenever he shook hands with her since that
memorable walk, she had always felt a more than ordinary
pressure. This she had been careful not to return, but she had
not the heart to rebuke it. Now, when he bade her good morning,
he certainly held her hand in his longer than he need have done.
He looked at her too, as though his looks meant something more
than ordinary looking; at least so Linda thought; but yet he said
nothing, and so Linda, slightly trembling, went on with the
adjustment of her tea-tray.

'It will be all over, Linda, when we meet again,' said Alaric.
His mind she found was intent on his examination, not on his
love. But this was natural, was as it should be. If--and she was
certain in her heart that it would be so--if he should be
successful, then he might speak of love without having to speak
in the same breath of poverty as well. 'It will be all over when
we meet again,' he said.

'I suppose it will,' said Linda.

'I don't at all like it; it seems so unnatural having to contend
against one's friend. And yet one cannot help it; one cannot
allow one's self to go to the wall.'

'I'm sure Harry doesn't mind it,' said Linda.

'I'm sure I do,' said he. 'If I fail I shall be unhappy, and if I
succeed I shall be equally so. I shall set all the world against
me. I know what your mother meant when she talked of a jackanapes
yesterday. If I get the promotion I may wish good-bye to Surbiton
Cottage.'

'Oh, Alaric!'

'Harry would forgive me; but Harry's friends would never do so.'

'How can you say so? I am sure mamma has no such feeling, nor yet
even Gertrude; I mean that none of us have.'

'It is very natural all of you should, for he is your cousin.'

'You are just the same as our cousin. I am sure we think quite as
much of you as of Harry. Even Gertrude said she hoped that you
would get it.'

'Dear Gertrude!'

'Because, you know, Harry does not want it so much as you do. I
am sure I wish you success with all my heart. Perhaps it's wicked
to wish for either of you over the other; but you can't both get
it at once, you know.'

At this moment Katie came in, and soon afterwards Gertrude and
the two other young men, and so nothing further was said on the
subject.

Charley parted with the competitors at the corner of Waterloo
Bridge. He turned into Somerset House, being there regarded on
these Monday mornings as a prodigy of punctuality; and Alaric and
Harry walked back along the Strand, arm-in-arm, toward their own
office.

'Well, lads, I hope you'll both win,' said Charley. 'And
whichever wins most, why of course he'll stand an uncommon good
dinner.'

'Oh! that's of course,' said Alaric. 'We'll have it at the
Trafalgar.'

And so the two walked on together, arm-in-arm, to the Weights and
Measures.

The ceremony which was now about to take place at the Weights and
Measures was ordained to be the first of those examinations
which, under the auspices of Sir Gregory Hardlines, were destined
to revivify, clarify, and render perfect the Civil Service of the
country. It was a great triumph to Sir Gregory to see the darling
object of his heart thus commencing its existence in the very
cradle in which he, as an infant Hercules, had made his first
exertions in the cause. It was to be his future fortune to
superintend these intellectual contests, in a stately office of
his own, duly set apart and appointed for the purpose. But the
throne on which he was to sit had not yet been prepared for him,
and he was at present constrained to content himself with
exercising his power, now here and now there, according as his
services might be required, carrying the appurtenances of his
royalty about with him.

But Sir Gregory was not a solitary monarch. In days long gone by
there were, as we all know, three kings at Cologne, and again
three kings at Brentford. So also were there three kings at the
Civil Service Examination Board. But of these three Sir Gregory
was by far the greatest king. He sat in the middle, had two
thousand jewels to his crown, whereas the others had only twelve
hundred each, and his name ran first in all the royal warrants.
Nevertheless, Sir Gregory, could he have had it so, would, like
most other kings, have preferred an undivided sceptre.

Of his co-mates on the throne the elder in rank was a west
country baronet, who, not content with fatting beeves and
brewing beer like his sires, aspired to do something for his country.
Sir Warwick Westend was an excellent man, full of the best
intentions, and not more than decently anxious to get the good
things of Government into his hand. He was, perhaps, rather too
much inclined to think that he could see further through a
millstone than another, and had a way of looking as though he
were always making the attempt. He was a man born to grace, if
not his country, at any rate his county; and his conduct was
uniformly such as to afford the liveliest satisfaction to his
uncles, aunts, and relations in general. If as a king he had a
fault, it was this, that he allowed that other king, Sir Gregory,
to carry him in his pocket.

But Sir Gregory could not at all get the third king into his
pocket. This gentleman was a worthy clergyman from Cambridge, one
Mr. Jobbles by name. Mr. Jobbles had for many years been
examining undergraduates for little goes and great goes, and had
passed his life in putting posing questions, in detecting
ignorance by viva voce scrutiny, and eliciting learning by
printed papers. He, by a stupendous effort of his mathematical
mind, had divided the adult British male world into classes and
sub-classes, and could tell at a moment's notice how long it
would take him to examine them all. His soul panted for the work.
Every man should, he thought, be made to pass through some 'go.'
The greengrocer's boy should not carry out cabbages unless his
fitness for cabbage-carrying had been ascertained, and till it
had also been ascertained that no other boy, ambitious of the
preferment, would carry them better. Difficulty! There was no
difficulty. Could not he, Jobbles, get through 5,000 viva voces
in every five hours--that is, with due assistance? and would not
55,000 printed papers, containing 555,000 questions, be getting
themselves answered at the same time, with more or less
precision?

So now Mr. Jobbles was about to try his huge plan by a small
commencement.

On the present occasion the examination was actually to be
carried on by two of the kings in person. Sir Gregory had
declared that as so large a portion of his heart and affections
was bound up with the gentlemen of the Weights and Measures, he
could not bring himself actually to ask questions of them, and
then to listen to or read their answers. Should any of his loved
ones make some fatal _faux pas_, his tears, like those of
the recording angel, would blot out the error. His eyes would
refuse to see faults, if there should be faults, in those whom he
himself had nurtured. Therefore, though he came with his
colleagues to the Weights and Measures, he did not himself take
part in the examination.

At eleven o'clock the Board-room was opened, and the candidates
walked in and seated themselves. Fear of Sir Gregory, and other
causes, had thinned the number. Poor Jones, who by right of
seniority should have had the prize, declined to put himself in
competition with his juniors, and in lieu thereof sent up to the
Lords of the Treasury an awful memorial spread over fifteen folio
pages--very uselessly. The Lords of the Treasury referred it to the
three kings, whose secretary put a minute upon it. Sir Gregory
signed the minute, and some gentleman at the Treasury wrote a short
letter to Mr. Jones, apprising that unhappy gentleman that my Lords
had taken the matter into their fullest consideration, and that
nothing could be done to help him. Had Jones been consulted by any
other disappointed Civil Service Werter as to the expediency of
complaining to the Treasury Lords, Jones would have told him
exactly what would be the result. The disappointed one, however,
always thinks that all the Treasury Lords will give all their
ears to him, though they are deafer than Icarus to the world
beside.

Robinson stood his ground like a man; but Brown found out, a day
or two before the struggle came, that he could not bring himself
to stand against his friend. Jones, he said, he knew was
incompetent, but Robinson ought to get it; so he, for one, would
not stand in Robinson's way.

Uppinall was there, as confident as a bantam cock; and so was
Alphabet Precis, who had declared to all his friends that if the
pure well of official English undefiled was to count for
anything, he ought to be pretty safe. But poor Minusex was ill,
and sent a certificate. He had so crammed himself with unknown
quantities, that his mind--like a gourmand's stomach--had broken
down under the effort, and he was now sobbing out algebraic
positions under his counterpane.

Norman and Alaric made up the five who still had health,
strength, and pluck to face the stern justice of the new kings;
and they accordingly took their seats on five chairs, equally
distant, placing themselves in due order of seniority.

And then, first of all, Sir Gregory made a little speech,
standing up at the head of the Board-room table, with an
attendant king on either hand, and the Secretary, and two
Assistant-Secretaries, standing near him. Was not this a proud
moment for Sir Gregory?

'It had now become his duty,' he said, 'to take his position in
that room, that well-known, well-loved room, under circumstances
of which he had little dreamt when he first entered it with
awe-struck steps, in the days of his early youth. But, nevertheless,
even then ambition had warmed him. That ambition had been to
devote every energy of his mind, every muscle of his body, every
hour of his life, to the Civil Service of his country. It was not
much, perhaps, that he had been able to do; he could not boast of
those acute powers of mind, of that gigantic grasp of intellect,
of which they saw in those days so wonderful an example in a high
place.' Sir Gregory here gratefully alluded to that statesman who
had given him his present appointment. 'But still he had devoted
all his mind, such as it was, and every hour of his life, to the
service; and now he had his reward. If he might be allowed to
give advice to the gentlemen before him, gentlemen of whose
admirable qualifications for the Civil Service of the country he
himself was so well aware, his advice should be this--That they
should look on none of their energies as applicable to private
purposes, regard none of their hours as their own. They were
devoted in a peculiar way to the Civil Service, and they should
feel that such was their lot in life. They should know that their
intellects were a sacred pledge intrusted to them for the good of
that service, and should use them accordingly. This should be
their highest ambition. And what higher ambition,' asked Sir
Gregory, 'could they have? They all, alas! knew that the service
had been disgraced in other quarters by idleness, incompetency,
and, he feared he must say, dishonesty; till incompetency and
dishonesty had become, not the exception, but the rule. It was
too notorious that the Civil Service was filled by the family
fools of the aristocracy and middle classes, and that any family
who had no fool to send, sent in lieu thereof some invalid past
hope. Thus the service had become a hospital for incurables and
idiots. It was,' said Sir Gregory, 'for him and them to cure all
that. He would not,' he said, 'at that moment, say anything with
reference to salaries. It was, as they were all aware, a very
difficult subject, and did not seem to be necessarily connected
with the few remarks which the present opportunity had seemed to
him to call for.' He then told them they were all his beloved
children; that they were a credit to the establishment; that he
handed them over without a blush to his excellent colleagues, Sir
Warwick Westend and Mr. Jobbles, and that he wished in his heart
that each of them could be successful. And having so spoken, Sir
Gregory went his way.

It was beautiful then to see how Mr. Jobbles swam down the long
room and handed out his examination papers to the different
candidates as he passed them. 'Twas a pity there should have been
but five; the man did it so well, so quickly, with such a gusto!
He should have been allowed to try his hand upon five hundred
instead of five. His step was so rapid and his hand and arm moved
so dexterously, that no conceivable number would have been too
many for him. But, even with five, he showed at once that the
right man was in the right place. Mr. Jobbles was created for the
conducting of examinations.

And then the five candidates, who had hitherto been all ears, of
a sudden became all eyes, and devoted themselves in a manner
which would have been delightful to Sir Gregory, to the papers
before them. Sir Warwick, in the meantime, was seated in his
chair, hard at work looking through his millstone.

It is a dreadful task that of answering examination papers--only
to be exceeded in dreadfulness by the horrors of Mr. Jobbles'
viva voce torments. A man has before him a string of questions,
and he looks painfully down them, from question to question,
searching for some allusion to that special knowledge which he
has within him. He too often finds that no such allusion is made.
It appears that the Jobbles of the occasion has exactly known the
blank spots of his mind and fitted them all. He has perhaps
crammed himself with the winds and tides, and there is no more
reference to those stormy subjects than if Luna were extinct; but
he has, unfortunately, been loose about his botany, and question
after question would appear to him to have been dictated by Sir
Joseph Paxton or the head-gardener at Kew. And then to his own
blank face and puzzled look is opposed the fast scribbling of
some botanic candidate, fast as though reams of folio could
hardly contain all the knowledge which he is able to pour forth.

And so, with a mixture of fast-scribbling pens and blank faces,
our five friends went to work. The examination lasted for four
days, and it was arranged that on each of the four days each of
the five candidates should be called up to undergo a certain
quantum of Mr. Jobbles' viva voce. This part of his duty Mr.
Jobbles performed with a mildness of manner that was beyond all
praise. A mother training her first-born to say 'papa,' could not
do so with a softer voice, or more affectionate demeanour.

'The planet Jupiter,' said he to Mr. Precis; 'I have no doubt you
know accurately the computed distance of that planet from the
sun, and also that of our own planet. Could you tell me now, how
would you calculate the distance in inches, say from London
Bridge to the nearest portion of Jupiter's disc, at twelve
o'clock on the first of April?' Mr. Jobbles, as he put his little
question, smiled the sweetest of smiles, and spoke in a tone
conciliating and gentle, as though he were asking Mr. Precis to
dine with him and take part of a bottle of claret at half-past
six.

But, nevertheless, Mr. Precis looked very blank.

'I am not asking the distance, you know,' said Mr. Jobbles,
smiling sweeter than ever; 'I am only asking how you would
compute it.'

But still Mr. Precis looked exceedingly blank.

'Never mind,' said Mr. Jobbles, with all the encouragement which
his voice could give, 'never mind. Now, suppose that _a_ be
a milestone; _b_ a turnpike-gate--,' and so on.

But Mr. Jobbles, in spite of his smiles, so awed the hearts of
some of his candidates, that two of them retired at the end of
the second day. Poor Robinson, thinking, and not without
sufficient ground, that he had not a ghost of a chance,
determined to save himself from further annoyance; and then
Norman, put utterly out of conceit with himself by what he deemed
the insufficiency of his answers, did the same. He had become low
in spirits, unhappy in temperament, and self-diffident to a
painful degree. Alaric, to give him his due, did everything in
his power to persuade him to see the task out to the last. But
the assurance and composure of Alaric's manner did more than
anything else to provoke and increase Norman's discomfiture. He
had been schooling himself to bear a beating with a good grace,
and he began to find that he could only bear it as a disgrace. On
the morning of the third day, instead of taking his place in the
Board-room, he sent in a note to Mr. Jobbles, declaring that he
withdrew from the trial. Mr. Jobbles read the note, and smiled
with satisfaction as he put it into his pocket. It was an
acknowledgement of his own unrivalled powers as an Examiner.

Mr. Precis, still trusting to his pure well, went on to the end,
and at the end declared that so ignorant was Mr. Jobbles of his
duty that he had given them no opportunity of showing what they
could do in English composition. Why had he not put before them
the papers in some memorable official case, and desired them to
make an abstract; those, for instance, on the much-vexed question
of penny versus pound, as touching the new standard for the
decimal coinage? Mr. Jobbles an Examiner indeed! And so Mr.
Precis bethought himself that he also, if unsuccessful, would go
to the Lords of the Treasury.

And Mr. Uppinall and Alaric Tudor also went on. Those who knew
anything of the matter, when they saw how the running horses were
reduced in number, and what horses were left on the course--when
they observed also how each steed came to the post on each
succeeding morning, had no doubt whatever of the result. So that
when Alaric was declared on the Saturday morning to have gained
the prize, there was very little astonishment either felt or
expressed at the Weights and Measures.

Alaric's juniors wished him joy with some show of reality in
their manner; but the congratulations of his seniors, including
the Secretary and Assistant-Secretaries, the new Chief Clerk and
the men in the class to which he was now promoted, were very cold
indeed. But to this he was indifferent. It was the nature of
Tudor's disposition, that he never for a moment rested satisfied
with the round of the ladder on which he had contrived to place
himself. He had no sooner gained a step than he looked upwards to
see how the next step was to be achieved. His motto might well
have been 'Excelsior!' if only he could have taught himself to
look to heights that were really high. When he found that the
august Secretary received him on his promotion without much
_empressement_, he comforted himself by calculating how long
it would be before he should fill that Secretary's chair--if
indeed it should ever be worth his while to fill it.

The Secretary at the Weights and Measures had, after all, but a
dull time of it, and was precluded by the routine of his office
from parliamentary ambition and the joys of government. Alaric
was already beginning to think that this Weights and Measures
should only be a stepping-stone to him; and that when Sir
Gregory, with his stern dogma of devotion to the service, had
been of sufficient use to him, he also might with advantage be
thrown over. In the meantime an income of £600 a year brought
with it to the young bachelor some very comfortable influence.
But the warmest and the pleasantest of all the congratulations
which he received was from his dear friend Undy Scott.

'Ah, my boy,' said Undy, pressing his hand, 'you'll soon be one
of us. By the by, I want to put you up for the Downing; you
should leave that Pythagorean: there's nothing to be got by it.'

Now, the Downing was a political club, in which, however,
politics had latterly become a good deal mixed. But the
Government of the day generally found there a liberal support,
and recognized and acknowledged its claim to consideration.



CHAPTER XII

CONSOLATION


On the following Sunday neither Tudor nor Norman was at Hampton.
They had both felt that they could not comfortably meet each
other there, and each had declined to go. They had promised to
write; and now that the matter was decided, how were they or
either of them to keep the promise?

It may be thought that the bitterness of the moment was over with
Norman as soon as he gave up; but such was not the case. Let him
struggle as he would with himself he could not rally, nor bring
himself to feel happy on what had occurred. He would have been
better satisfied if Alaric would have triumphed; but Alaric
seemed to take it all as a matter of course, and never spoke of
his own promotion unless he did so in answer to some remark of
his companion; then he could speak easily enough; otherwise he
was willing to let the matter go by as one settled and at rest.
He had consulted Norman about the purchase of a horse, but he
hitherto had shown no other sign that he was a richer man than
formerly.

It was a very bitter time for Norman. He could not divest his
mind of the subject. What was he to do? Where was he to go? How
was he to get away, even for a time, from Alaric Tudor? And then,
was he right in wishing to get away from him? Had he not told
himself, over and over again, that it behoved him as a man and a
friend and a Christian to conquer the bitter feeling of envy
which preyed on his spirits? Had he not himself counselled Alaric
to stand this examination? and had he not promised that his doing
so should make no difference in their friendship? Had he not
pledged himself to rejoice in the success of his friend? and now
was he to break his word both to that friend and to himself?

Schooling himself, or trying to school himself in this way, he
made no attempt at escaping from his unhappiness. They passed the
Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday evenings together. It was now
nearly the end of September, and London was empty; that is, empty
as regards those friends and acquaintances with whom Norman might
have found some resource. On the Saturday they left their office
early; for all office routine had, during this week, been broken
through by the immense importance of the ceremony which was going
on; and then it became necessary to write to Mrs. Woodward.

'Will you write to Hampton or shall I?' said Alaric, as they
walked arm-in-arm under the windows of Whitehall.

'Oh! you, of course,' said Norman; 'you have much to tell them; I
have nothing.'

'Just as you please,' said the other. 'That is, of course, I will
if you like it. But I think it would come better from you. You
are nearer to them than I am; and it will have less a look of
triumph on my part, and less also of disappointment on yours, if
you write. If you tell them that you literally threw away your
chance, you will only tell them the truth.'

Norman assented, but he said nothing further. What business had
Alaric to utter such words as triumph and disappointment? He
could not keep his arm, on which Alaric was leaning, from
spasmodically shrinking from the touch. He had been beaten by a
man, nay worse, had yielded to a man, who had not the common
honesty to refuse a bribe; and yet he was bound to love this man.
He could not help asking himself the question which he would do.
Would he love him or hate him?

But while he was so questioning himself, he got home, and had to
sit down and write his letter--this he did at once, but not
without difficulty. It ran as follows:--

'My dear Mrs. Woodward,--

'I write a line to tell you of my discomfiture and Alaric's
success. I gave up at the end of the second day. Of course I will
tell you all about it when we meet. No one seemed to doubt that
Alaric would get it, as a matter of course. I shall be with you
on next Saturday. Alaric says he will not go down till the
Saturday after, when I shall be at Normansgrove. My best love to
the girls. Tell Katie I shan't drown either myself or the boat.

'Yours ever affectionately,

'H. N.

'Saturday, September, 185-.

'Pray write me a kind letter to comfort me.'

Mrs. Woodward did write him a very kind letter, and it did
comfort him. And she wrote also, as she was bound to do, a letter
of congratulation to Alaric. This letter, though it expressed in
the usual terms the satisfaction which one friend has in
another's welfare, was not written in the same warm affectionate
tone as that to Norman. Alaric perceived instantly that it was
not cordial. He loved Mrs. Woodward dearly, and greatly desired
her love and sympathy. But what then? He could not have
everything. He determined, therefore, not to trouble his mind. If
Mrs. Woodward did not sympathize with him, others of the family
would do so; and success would ultimately bring her round. What
woman ever yet refused to sympathize with successful ambition?

Alaric also received a letter from Captain Cuttwater, in which
that gallant veteran expressed his great joy at the result of the
examination--'Let the best man win all the world over,' said he,
'whatever his name is. And they'll have to make the same rule at
the Admiralty too. The days of the Howards are gone by; that is,
unless they can prove themselves able seamen, which very few of
them ever did yet. Let the best man win; that's what I say; and
let every man get his fair share of promotion.' Alaric did not
despise the sympathy of Captain Cuttwater. It might turn out that
even Captain Cuttwater could be made of use.

Mrs. Woodward's letter to Harry was full of the tenderest
affection. It was a flattering, soothing, loving letter, such as
no man ever could have written. It was like oil poured into his
wounds, and made him feel that the world was not all harsh to
him. He had determined not to go to Hampton that Saturday; but
Mrs. Woodward's letter almost made him rush there at once that he
might throw himself into her arms--into her arms, and at her
daughter's feet. The time had now come to him when he wanted to
be comforted by the knowledge that his love was returned. He
resolved that during his next visit he would formally propose to
Gertrude.

The determination to do this, and a strong hope that he might do
it successfully, kept him up during the interval. On the
following week he was to go to his father's place to shoot,
having obtained leave of absence for a month; and he felt that he
could still enjoy himself if he could take with him the
conviction that all was right at Surbiton Cottage. Mrs. Woodward,
in her letter, though she had spoken much of the girls, had said
nothing special about Gertrude. Nevertheless, Norman gathered
from it that she intended that he should go thither to look for
comfort, and that he would find there the comfort that he
required.

And Mrs. Woodward had intended that such should be the effect of
her letter. It was at present the dearest wish of her heart to
see Norman and Gertrude married. That Norman had often declared
his love to her eldest daughter she knew very well, and she knew
also that Gertrude had never rejected him. Having perfect
confidence in her child, she had purposely abstained from saying
anything that could bias her opinion. She had determined to leave
the matter in the hands of the young people themselves, judging
that it might be best arranged as a true love-match between them,
without interference from her; she had therefore said nothing to
Gertrude on the subject.

Mrs. Woodward, however, discovered that she was in error, when it
was too late for her to retrieve her mistake; and, indeed, had
she discovered it before that letter was written, what could she
have done? She could not have forbidden Harry to come to her
house--she could not have warned him not to throw himself at her
daughter's feet. The cup was prepared for his lips, and it was
necessary that he should drink of it. There was nothing for which
she could blame him; nothing for which she could blame herself;
nothing for which she did blame her daughter. It was sorrowful,
pitiful, to be lamented, wept for, aye, and groaned for; many
inward groans it cost her; but it was at any rate well that she
could attribute her sorrow to the spite of circumstances rather
than to the ill-conduct of those she loved.

Nor would it have been fair to blame Gertrude in the matter.
While she was yet a child, this friend of her mother's had been
thrown with her, and when she was little more than a child, she
found that this friend had become a lover. She liked him, in one
sense loved him, and was accustomed to regard him as one whom it
would be almost wrong in her not to like and love. What wonder
then that when he first spoke to her warm words of adoration, she
had not been able at once to know her own heart, and tell him
that his hopes would be in vain?

She perceived by instinct, rather than by spoken words, that her
mother was favourable to this young lover, that if she accepted
him she would please her mother, that the course of true love
might in their case run smooth. What wonder then that she should
have hesitated before she found it necessary to say that she
could not, would not, be Harry Norman's wife?

On the Saturday morning, the morning of that night which was, as
he hoped, to see him go to bed a happy lover, so happy in his
love as to be able to forget his other sorrows, she was sitting
alone with her mother. It was natural that their conversation
should turn to Alaric and Harry. Alaric, with his happy
prospects, was soon dismissed; but Mrs. Woodward continued to
sing the praises of him who, had she been potent with the magi of
the Civil Service, would now be the lion of the Weights and
Measures.

'I must say I think it was weak of him to retire,' said Gertrude.
'Alaric says in his letter to Uncle Bat, that had he persevered
he would in all probability have been successful.'

'I should rather say that it was generous,' said her mother.

'Well, I don't know, mamma; that of course depends on his
motives; but wouldn't generosity of that sort between two young
men in such a position be absurd?'

'You mean that such regard for his friend would be Quixotic.'

'Yes, mamma.'

'Perhaps it would. All true generosity, all noble feeling, is now
called Quixotic. But surely, Gertrude, you and I should not
quarrel with Harry on that account.'

'I think he got frightened, mamma, and had not nerve to go
through with it.'

Mrs. Woodward looked vexed; but she made no immediate reply, and
for some time the mother and daughter went on working without
further conversation. At last Gertrude said:--

'I think every man is bound to do the best he can for himself--that
is, honestly; there is something spoony in one man allowing another
to get before him, as long as he can manage to be first himself.'

Mrs. Woodward did not like the tone in which her daughter spoke.
She felt that it boded ill for Harry's welfare; and she tried,
but tried in vain, to elicit from her daughter the expression of
a kinder feeling.

'Well, my dear, I must say I think you are hard on him. But,
probably, just at present you have the spirit of contradiction in
you. If I were to begin to abuse him, perhaps I should get you to
praise him.'

'Oh, mamma, I did not abuse him.'

'Something like it, my dear, when you said he was spoony.'

'Oh, mamma, I would not abuse him for worlds--I know how good he
is, I know how you love him, but, but---' and Gertrude, though
very little given to sobbing moods, burst into tears.

'Come here, Gertrude; come here, my child,' said Mrs. Woodward,
now moved more for her daughter than for her favourite; 'what is
it? what makes you cry? I did not really mean that you abused
poor Harry.'

Gertrude got up from her chair, knelt at her mother's feet, and
hid her face in her mother's lap. 'Oh, mamma,' she said, with a
half-smothered voice, 'I know what you mean; I know what you
wish; but--but--but, oh, mamma, you must not--must not, must not
think of it any more.'

'Then may God help him!' said Mrs. Woodward, gently caressing her
daughter, who was still sobbing with her face buried in her
mother's lap. 'May God Almighty lighten the blow to him! But oh,
Gertrude, I had hoped, I had so hoped----'

'Oh, mamma, don't, pray don't,' and Gertrude sobbed as though she
were going into hysterics.

'No, my child, I will not say another word. Dear as he is to me,
you are and must be ten times dearer. There, Gertrude, it is over
now; over at least between us. We know each other's hearts now.
It is my fault that we did not do so sooner.' They did understand
each other at last, and the mother made no further attempt to
engage her daughter's love for the man she would have chosen as
her daughter's husband.

But still the worst was to come, as Mrs. Woodward well knew--and
as Gertrude knew also; to come, too, on this very day. Mrs.
Woodward, with a woman's keen perception, felt assured that Harry
Norman, when he found himself at the Cottage, freed from the
presence of the successful candidate, surrounded by the
affectionate faces of all her circle, would melt at once and look
to his love for consolation. She understood the feelings of his
heart as well as though she had read them in a book; and yet she
could do nothing to save him from his fresh sorrows. The cup was
prepared for him, and it was necessary that he should drink it.
She could not tell him, could not tell even him, that her
daughter had rejected him, when as yet he had made no offer.

And so Harry Norman hurried down to his fate. When he reached the
Cottage, Mrs. Woodward and Linda and Katie were in the drawing-room.

'Harry, my dear Harry,' said Mrs. Woodward, rushing to him,
throwing her arms round him, and kissing him; 'we know it all, we
understand it all--my fine, dear, good Harry.'

Harry was melted in a moment, and in the softness of his mood
kissed Katie too, and Linda also. Katie he had often kissed, but
never Linda, cousins though they were. Linda merely laughed, but
Norman blushed; for he remembered that had it so chanced that
Gertrude had been there, he would not have dared to kiss her.

'Oh, Harry,' said Katie, 'we are so sorry--that is, not sorry
about Alaric, but sorry about you. Why were there not two
prizes?'

'It's all right as it is, Katie,' said he; 'we need none of us be
sorry at all. Alaric is a clever fellow; everybody gave him
credit for it before, and now he has proved that everybody is
right.'

'He is older than you, you know, and therefore he ought to be
cleverer,' said Katie, trying to make things pleasant.

And then they went out into the garden. But where was Gertrude
all this time? She had been in the drawing-room a moment before
his arrival. They walked out into the lawn, but nothing was said
about her absence. Norman could not bring himself to ask for her,
and Mrs. Woodward could not trust herself to talk of her.

'Where is the captain?' said Harry.

'He's at Hampton Court,' said Linda; 'he has found another navy
captain there, and he goes over every day to play backgammon.' As
they were speaking, however, the captain walked through the house
on to the lawn.

'Well, Norman, how are you, how are you? sorry you couldn't all
win. But you're a man of fortune, you know, so it doesn't
signify.'

'Not a great deal of fortune,' said Harry, looking sheepish.

'Well, I only hope the best man got it. Now, at the Admiralty the
worst man gets it always.'

'The worst man didn't get it here,' said Harry.

'No, no,' said Uncle Bat, 'I'm sure he did not; nor he won't long
at the Admiralty either, I can tell them that. But where's
Gertrude?'

'She's in her bedroom, dressing for dinner,' said Katie.

'Hoity toity,' said Uncle Bat, 'she's going to make herself very
grand to-day. That's all for you, Master Norman. Well, I suppose
we may all go in and get ready; but mind, I have got no
sweetheart, and so I shan't make myself grand at all;' and so
they all went in to dress for dinner.

When Norman came down, Gertrude was in the drawing-room alone.
But he knew that they would be alone but for a minute, and that a
minute would not serve for his purpose. She said one soft gentle
word of condolence to him, some little sentence that she had been
studying to pronounce. All her study was thrown away; for Norman,
in his confusion, did not understand a word that she spoke. Her
tone, however, was kind and affectionate; and she shook hands
with him apparently with cordiality. He, however, ventured no
kiss with her. He did not even press her hand, when for a moment
he held it within his own.

Dinner was soon over, and the autumn evening still admitted of
their going out. Norman was not sorry to urge the fact that the
ladies had done so, as an excuse to Captain Cuttwater for not
sitting with him over his wine. He heard their voices in the
garden, and went out to join them, prepared to ascertain his fate
if fortune would give him an opportunity of doing so. He found
the party to consist of Mrs. Woodward, Linda, and Katie; Gertrude
was not there.

'I think the evenings get warmer as the winter gets nearer,' said
Harry.

'Yes,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'but they are so dangerous. The night
comes on all at once, and then the air is so damp and cold.'

And so they went on talking about the weather.

'Your boat is up in London, I know, Harry,' said Katie, with a
voice of reproach, but at the same time with a look of entreaty.

'Yes, it's at Searle's,' said Norman.

'But the punt is here,' said Katie.

'Not this evening, Katie,' said he.

'Katie, how can you be such a tease?' said Mrs. Woodward; 'you'll
make Harry hate the island, and you too. I wonder you can be so
selfish.'

Poor Katie's eyes became suffused with tears.

'My dear Katie, it's very bad of me, isn't it?' said Norman,
'and the fine weather so nearly over too; I ought to take you,
oughtn't I? come, we will go.'

'No, we won't,' said Katie, taking his big hand in both her
little ones, 'indeed we won't. It was very wrong of me to bother
you; and you with--with--with so much to think of. Dear Harry, I
don't want to go at all, indeed I don't,' and she turned away
from the little path which led to the place where the punt was
moored.

They sauntered on for a while together, and then Norman left
them. He said nothing, but merely stole away from the lawn
towards the drawing-room window. Mrs. Woodward well knew with
what object he went, and would have spared him from his immediate
sorrow by following him; but she judged that it would be better
both for him and for her daughter that he should learn the truth.

He went in through the open drawing-room window, and found
Gertrude alone. She was on the sofa with a book in her hand; and
had he been able to watch her closely he would have seen that the
book trembled as he entered the room. But he was unable to watch
anything closely. His own heart beat so fast, his own confusion
was so great, that he could hardly see the girl whom he now hoped
to gain as his wife. Had Alaric been coming to his wooing, he
would have had every faculty at his call. But then Alaric could
not have loved as Norman loved.

And so we will leave them. In about half an hour, when the short
twilight was becoming dusk, Mrs. Woodward returned, and found
Norman standing alone on the hearthrug before the fireplace.
Gertrude was away, and he was leaning against the mantelpiece,
with his hands behind his back, staring at vacancy; but oh! with
such an aspect of dull, speechless agony in his face.

Mrs. Woodward looked up at him, and would have burst into tears,
had she not remembered that they would not be long alone; she
therefore restrained herself, but gave one involuntary sigh; and
then, taking off her bonnet, placed herself where she might sit
without staring at him in his sorrow.

Katie came in next. 'Oh! Harry, it's so lucky we didn't start in
the punt,' said she, 'for it's going to pour, and we never should
have been back from the island in that slow thing.'

Norman looked at her and tried to smile, but the attempt was a
ghastly failure. Katie, gazing up into his face, saw that he was
unhappy, and slunk away, without further speech, to her distant
chair. There, from time to time, she would look up at him, and
her little heart melted with ruth to see the depth of his misery.
'Why, oh why,' thought she, 'should that greedy Alaric have taken
away the only prize?'

And then Linda came running in with her bonnet ribbons all moist
with the big raindrops. 'You are a nice squire of dames,' said
she, 'to leave us all out to get wet through by ourselves;' and
then she also, looking up, saw that jesting was at present
ill-timed, and so sat herself down quietly at the tea-table.

But Norman never moved. He saw them come in one after another. He
saw the pity expressed in Mrs. Woodward's face; he heard the
light-hearted voices of the two girls, and observed how, when
they saw him, their light-heartedness was abashed; but still he
neither spoke nor moved. He had been stricken with a fearful
stroke, and for a while was powerless.

Captain Cuttwater, having shaken off his dining-room nap, came
for his tea; and then, at last, Gertrude also, descending from
her own chamber, glided quietly into the room. When she did so,
Norman, with a struggle, roused himself, and took a chair next to
Mrs. Woodward, and opposite to her eldest daughter.

Who could describe the intense discomfiture of that tea-party, or
paint in fitting colours the different misery of each one there
assembled? Even Captain Cuttwater at once knew that something was
wrong, and munched his bread-and-butter and drank his tea in
silence. Linda surmised what had taken place; though she was
surprised, she was left without any doubt. Poor Katie was still
in the dark, but she also knew that there was cause for sorrow,
and crept more and more into her little self. Mrs. Woodward sat
with averted face, and ever and anon she put her handkerchief to
her eyes. Gertrude was very pale, and all but motionless, but she
had schooled herself, and managed to drink her tea with more
apparent indifference than any of the others. Norman sat as he
had before been standing, with that dreadful look of agony upon
his brow.

Immediately after tea Mrs. Woodward got up and went to her
dressing-room. Her dressing-room, though perhaps not improperly
so called, was not an exclusive closet devoted to combs,
petticoats, and soap and water. It was a comfortable snug room,
nicely furnished, with sofa and easy chairs, and often open to
others besides her handmaidens. Thither she betook herself, that
she might weep unseen; but in about twenty minutes her tears were
disturbed by a gentle knock at the door.

Very soon after she went, Gertrude also left the room, and then
Katie crept off.

'I have got a headache to-night,' said Norman, after the
remaining three had sat silent for a minute or two; 'I think I'll
go across and go to bed.'

'A headache!' said Linda. 'Oh, I am so sorry that you have got to
go to that horrid inn.'

'Oh! I shall do very well there,' said Norman, trying to smile.

'Will you have my room?' said the captain good-naturedly; 'any
sofa does for me.'

Norman assured them as well as he could that his present headache
was of such a nature that a bed at the inn would be the best
thing for him; and then, shaking hands with them, he moved to the
door.

'Stop a moment, Harry,' said Linda, 'and let me tell mamma.
She'll give you something for your head.' He made a sign to her,
however, to let him pass, and then, creeping gently upstairs, he
knocked at Mrs. Woodward's door.

'Come in,' said Mrs. Woodward, and Harry Norman, with all his
sorrows still written on his face, stood before her.

'Oh! Harry,' said she, 'come in; I am so glad that you have come
to me. Oh! Harry, dear Harry, what shall I say to comfort you?
What can I say--what can I do?'

Norman, forgetting his manhood, burst into tears, and throwing
himself on a sofa, buried his face on the arm and sobbed like a
young girl. But the tears of a man bring with them no comfort as
do those of the softer sex. He was a strong tall man, and it was
dreadful to see him thus convulsed.

Mrs. Woodward stood by him, and put her hand caressingly on his
shoulder. She saw he had striven to speak, and had found himself
unable to do so. 'I know how it is,' said she, 'you need not tell
me; I know it all. Would that she could have seen you with my
eyes; would that she could have judged you with my mind!'

'Oh, Mrs. Woodward!'

'To me, Harry, you should have been the dearest, the most welcome
son. But you are so still. No son could be dearer. Oh, that she
could have seen you as I see you!'

'There is no hope,' said he. He did not put it as a question; but
Mrs. Woodward saw that it was intended that she should take it as
such if she pleased. What could she say to him? She knew that
there was no hope. Had it been Linda, Linda might have been
moulded to her will. But with Gertrude there could now be no
hope. What could she say? She knelt down and kissed his brow, and
mingled her tears with his.

'Oh, Harry--oh, Harry! my dearest, dearest son!'

'Oh, Mrs. Woodward, I have loved her so truly.'

What could Mrs. Woodward do but cry also? what but that, and
throw such blame as she could upon her own shoulders? She was
bound to defend her daughter.

'It has been my fault, Harry,' she said; 'it is I whom you must
blame, not poor Gertrude.'

'I blame no one,' said he.

'I know you do not; but it is I whom you should blame. I should
have learnt how her heart stood, and have prevented this--but I
thought, I thought it would have been otherwise.'

Norman looked up at her, and took her hand, and pressed it. 'I
will go now,' he said, 'and don't expect me here to-morrow. I
could not come in. Say that I thought it best to go to town
because I am unwell. Good-bye, Mrs. Woodward; pray write to me. I
can't come to the Cottage now for a while, but pray write to me:
do not you forget me, Mrs. Woodward.'

Mrs. Woodward fell upon his breast and wept, and bade God bless
him, and called him her son and her dearest friend, and sobbed
till her heart was nigh to break. 'What,' she thought, 'what
could her daughter wish for, when she repulsed from her feet such
a suitor as Harry Norman?'

He then went quietly down the stairs, quietly out of the house,
and having packed up his bag at the inn, started off through the
pouring rain, and walked away through the dark stormy night,
through the dirt and mud and wet, to his London lodgings; nor was
he again seen at Surbiton Cottage for some months after this
adventure.



CHAPTER XIII

A COMMUNICATION OF IMPORTANCE


Norman's dark wet walk did him physically no harm, and morally
some good. He started on it in that frame of mind which induces a
man to look with indifference on all coming evils under the
impression that the evils already come are too heavy to admit of
any increase. But by the time that he was thoroughly wet through,
well splashed with mud, and considerably fatigued by his first
five or six miles' walk, he began to reflect that life was not
over with him, and that he must think of future things as well as
those that were past.

He got home about two o'clock, and having knocked up his
landlady, Mrs. Richards, betook himself to bed. Alaric had been
in his room for the last two hours, but of Charley and his
latch-key Mrs. Richards knew nothing. She stated her belief,
however, that two a.m. seldom saw that erratic gentleman in his
bed.

On the following morning, Alaric, when he got his hot water,
heard that Norman returned during the night from Hampton, and he
immediately guessed what had brought him back. He knew that
nothing short of some great trouble would have induced Harry to
leave the Cottage so abruptly, and that that trouble must have
been of such a nature as to make his remaining with the Woodwards
an aggravation of it. No such trouble could have come on him but
the one.

As Charley seldom made his appearance at the breakfast table on
Sunday mornings, Alaric foresaw that he must undergo a _tête-à-tête_
which would not be agreeable to himself, and which must be
much more disagreeable to his companion; but for this there
was no help. Harry had, however, prepared himself for what he had
to go through, and immediately that the two were alone, he told
his tale in a very few words.

'Alaric,' said he, 'I proposed to Gertrude last night, and she
refused me.'

Alaric Tudor was deeply grieved for his friend. There was
something in the rejected suitor's countenance--something in the
tone of voice, which would have touched any heart softer than
stone; and Alaric's heart had not as yet been so hardened by the
world as to render him callous to the sight of such grief as
this.

'Take my word for it, Harry, she'll think better of it in a month
or two,' he said.

'Never-never; I am sure of it. Not only from her own manner, but
from her mother's,' said Harry. And yet, during half his walk
home, he had been trying to console himself with the reflection
that most young ladies reject their husbands once or twice before
they accept them.

There is no offering a man comfort in such a sorrow as this;
unless, indeed, he be one to whom the worship of Bacchus may be
made a fitting substitute for that of the Paphian goddess.

There is a sort of disgrace often felt, if never acknowledged,
which attaches itself to a man for having put himself into
Norman's present position, and this generally prevents him from
confessing his defeat in such matters. The misfortune in question
is one which doubtless occurs not unfrequently to mankind; but as
mankind generally bear their special disappointments in silence,
and as the vanity of women is generally exceeded by their
good-nature, the secret, we believe, in most cases remains a
secret.

  Shall I, wasting in despair,
  Die because a woman's fair?
  If she be not fair for me,
  What care I how fair she be?

This was the upshot of the consideration which Withers, the poet,
gave to the matter, and Withers was doubtless right. 'Tis thus
that rejected lovers should think, thus that they should demean
themselves; but they seldom come to this philosophy till a few
days have passed by, and talking of their grievance does not
assist them in doing so.

When, therefore, Harry had declared what had happened to him, and
had declared also that he had no further hope, he did not at
first find himself much the better for what he had confessed. He
was lackadaisical and piteous, and Alaric, though he had
endeavoured to be friendly, soon found that he had no power of
imparting any comfort. Early in the day they parted, and did not
see each other again till the following morning.

'I was going down to Normansgrove on Thursday,' said Harry.

'Yes, I know,' said Alaric.

'I think I shall ask leave to go to-day. It can't make much
difference, and the sooner I get away the better.'

And so it was settled. Norman left town the same afternoon, and
Alaric, with his blushing honours thick upon him, was left alone.

London was now very empty, and he was constrained to enjoy his
glory very much by himself. He had never associated much with the
Minusexes and Uppinalls, nor yet with the Joneses and Robinsons
of his own office, and it could not be expected that there should
be any specially confidential intercourse between them just at
the present moment. Undy was of course out of town with the rest
of the fashionable world, and Alaric, during the next week, was
left very much on his own hands.

'And so,' said he to himself, as he walked solitary along the
lone paths of Rotten Row, and across the huge desert to the
Marble Arch, 'and so poor Harry's hopes have been all in vain; he
has lost his promotion, and now he has lost his bride--poor
Harry!'--and then it occurred to him that as he had acquired the
promotion it might be his destiny to win the bride also. He had
never told himself that he loved Gertrude; he had looked on her
as Norman's own, and he, at any rate, was not the man to sigh in
despair after anything that was out of his reach. But now, now
that Harry's chance was over, and that no bond of friendship
could interfere with such a passion, why should he not tell
himself that he loved Gertrude? 'If, as Harry had himself said,
there was no longer any hope for him, why,' said Alaric to
himself, 'why should not I try my chance?' Of Linda, of 'dear,
dearest Linda,' at this moment he thought very little, or,
perhaps, not at all. Of what Mrs. Woodward might say, of that he
did think a good deal.

The week was melancholy and dull, and it passed very slowly at
Hampton. On the Sunday morning it became known to them all that
Norman was gone, but the subject, by tacit consent, was allowed
to pass all but unnoticed. Even Katie, even Uncle Bat, were aware
that something had occurred which ought to prevent them from
inquiring too particularly why Harry had started back to town in
so sudden a manner; and so they said nothing. To Linda, Gertrude
had told what had happened; and Linda, as she heard it, asked
herself whether she was prepared to be equally obdurate with her
lover. He had now the means of supporting a wife, and why should
she be obdurate?

Nothing was said on the subject between Gertrude and her mother.
What more could Mrs. Woodward say? It would have been totally
opposed to the whole principle of her life to endeavour, by any
means, to persuade her daughter to the match, or to have used her
maternal influence in Norman's favour. And she was well aware
that it would have been impossible to do so successfully.
Gertrude was not a girl to be talked into a marriage by any
parent, and certainly not by such a parent as her mother. There
was, therefore, nothing further to be said about it.

On. Saturday Alaric went down, but his arrival hardly made things
more pleasant. Mrs. Woodward could not bring herself to be
cordial with him, and the girls were restrained by a certain
feeling that it would not be right to show too much outward joy
at Alaric's success. Linda said one little word of affectionate
encouragement, but it produced no apparent return from Alaric.
His immediate object was to recover Mrs. Woodward's good graces;
and he thought before he went that he had reason to hope that he
might do so.

Of all the household, Captain Cuttwater was the most emphatic in
his congratulations. 'He had no doubt,' he said, 'that the best
man had won. He had always hoped that the best man might win. He
had not had the same luck when he was young, but he was very glad
to see such an excellent rule brought into the service. It would
soon work great changes, he was quite sure, at the Board of
Admiralty.'

On the Sunday afternoon Captain Cuttwater asked him into his own
bedroom, and told him with a solemn, serious manner that he had a
communication of importance to make to him. Alaric followed the
captain into the well-known room in which Norman used to sleep,
wondering what could be the nature of Uncle Bat's important
communication. It might, probably, be some tidings of Sir Jib
Boom.

'Mr. Alaric,' said the old man, as soon as they were both seated
on opposite sides of a little Pembroke table that stood in the
middle of the room, 'I was heartily glad to hear of your success
at the Weights and Measures; not that I ever doubted it if they
made a fair sailing match of it.'

'I am sure I am much obliged to you, Captain Cuttwater.'

'That is as may be, by and by. But the fact is, I have taken a
fancy to you. I like fellows that know how to push themselves.'

Alaric had nothing for it but to repeat again that he felt
himself grateful for Captain Cuttwater's good opinion.

'Not that I have anything to say against Mr. Norman--a very nice
young man, indeed, he is, very nice, though perhaps not quite so
cheerful in his manners as he might be.'

Alaric began to take his friend's part, and declared what a very
worthy fellow Harry was.

'I am sure of it--I am sure of it,' said Uncle Bat; 'but
everybody can't be A1; and a man can't make everybody his heir.'

Alaric pricked up his ears. So after all Captain Cuttwater was
right in calling his communication important. But what business
had Captain Cuttwater to talk of making new heirs?--had he not
declared that the Woodwards were his heirs?

'I have got a little money, Mr. Alaric,' he went on saying in a
low modest tone, very different from that he ordinarily used; 'I
have got a little money--not much--and it will of course go to my
niece here.'

'Of course,' said Alaric.

'That is to say--it will go to her children, which is all the
same thing.'

'Quite the same thing,' said Alaric.

'But my idea is this: if a man has saved a few pounds himself, I
think he has a right to give it to those he loves best. Now I
have no children of my own.'

Alaric declared himself aware of the fact.

'And I suppose I shan't have any now.'

'Not if you don't marry,' said Alaric, who felt rather at a loss
for a proper answer. He could not, however, have made a better
one.

'No; that's what I mean; but I don't think I shall marry. I am
very well contented here, and I like Surbiton Cottage amazingly.'

'It's a charming place,' said Alaric.

'No, I don't suppose I shall ever have any children of my own,'--and
then Uncle Bat sighed gently--'and so I have been considering whom
I should like to adopt.'

'Quite right, Captain Cuttwater.'

'Whom I should like to adopt. I should like to have one whom I
could call in a special manner my own. Now, Mr. Alaric, I have
made up my mind, and who do you think it is?'

'Oh! Captain Cuttwater, I couldn't guess on such a matter. I
shouldn't like to guess wrong.'

'Perhaps not--no; that's right;--well then, I'll tell you; it's
Gertrude.'

Alaric was well aware that it was Gertrude before her name had
been pronounced.

'Yes, it's Gertrude; of course I couldn't go out of Bessie's
family--of course it must be either Gertrude, or Linda, or Katie.
Now Linda and Katie are very well, but they haven't half the
gumption that Gertrude has.'

'No, they have not,' said Alaric.

'I like gumption,' said Captain Cuttwater. 'You've a great deal
of gumption--that's why I like you.'

Alaric laughed, and muttered something.

'Now I have been thinking of something;' and Uncle Bat looked
strangely mysterious--'I wonder what you think of Gertrude?'

'Who--I?' said Alaric.

'I can see through a millstone as well as another,' said the
captain; 'and I used to think that Norman and Gertrude meant to
hit it off together.'

Alaric said nothing. He did not feel inclined to tell Norman's
secret, and yet he could not belie Gertrude by contradicting the
justice of Captain Cuttwater's opinion.

'I used to think so--but now I find there's nothing in it. I am
sure Gertrude wouldn't have him, and I think she's right. He
hasn't gumption enough.'

'Harry Norman is no fool.'

'I dare say not,' said the captain; 'but take my word, she'll
never have him--Lord bless you, Norman knows that as well as I
do.'

Alaric knew it very well himself also; but he did not say so.

'Now, the long and the short of it is this--why don't you make up
to her? If you'll make up to her and carry the day, all I can say
is, I will do all I can to keep the pot a-boiling; and if you
think it will help you, you may tell Gertrude that I say so.'

This was certainly an important communication, and one to which
Alaric found it very difficult to give any immediate answer. He
said a great deal about his affection for Mrs. Woodward, of his
admiration for Miss Woodward, of his strong sense of Captain
Cuttwater's kindness, and of his own unworthiness; but he left
the captain with an impression that he was not prepared at the
present moment to put himself forward as a candidate for
Gertrude's hand.

'I don't know what the deuce he would have,' said the captain to
himself. 'She's as fine a girl as he's likely to find; and two or
three thousand pounds isn't so easily got every day by a fellow
that hasn't a shilling of his own.'

When Alaric took his departure the next morning, he thought he
perceived, from Mrs. Woodward's manner, that there was less than
her usual cordiality in the tone in which she said that of course
he would return at the end of the week.

'I will if possible,' he said, 'and I need not say that I hope to
do so; but I fear I may be kept in town--at any rate I'll write.'
When the end of the week came he wrote to say that unfortunately
he was kept in town. He thoroughly understood that people are
most valued when they make themselves scarce. He got in reply a
note from Gertrude, saying that her mother begged that on the
following Saturday he would come and bring Charley with him.

On his return to town, Alaric, by appointment, called on Sir
Gregory. He had not seen his patron yet since his great report on
Wheal Mary Jane had been sent in. That report had been written
exclusively by himself, and poor Neverbend had been obliged to
content himself with putting all his voluminous notes into
Tudor's hands. He afterwards obediently signed the report, and
received his reward for doing so. Alaric never divulged to
official ears how Neverbend had halted in the course of his
descent to the infernal gods.

'I thoroughly congratulate you,' said Sir Gregory. 'You have
justified my choice, and done your duty with credit to yourself
and benefit to the public. I hope you may go on and prosper. As
long as you remember that your own interests should always be
kept in subservience to those of the public service, you will not
fail to receive the praise which such conduct deserves.'

Alaric thanked Sir Gregory for his good opinion, and as he did
so, he thought of his new banker's account, and of the £300 which
was lying there. After all, which of them was right, Sir Gregory
Hardlines or Undy Scott? Or was it that Sir Gregory's opinions
were such as should control the outward conduct, and Undy's those
which should rule the inner man?



CHAPTER XIV

VERY SAD


Norman prolonged his visit to his father considerably beyond the
month. At first he applied for and received permission to stay
away another fortnight, and at the end of that fortnight he sent
up a medical certificate in which the doctor alleged that he
would be unable to attend to business for some considerable
additional period. It was not till after Christmas Day that he
reappeared at the Weights and Measures.

Alaric kept his appointment at Hampton, and took Charley with
him. And on the two following Saturdays he also went there, and
on both occasions Charley accompanied him. During these visits,
he devoted himself, as closely as he could, to Mrs. Woodward. He
talked to her of Norman, and of Norman's prospects in the office;
he told her how he had intended to abstain from offering himself
as a competitor, till he had, as it were, been forced by Norman
to do so; he declared over and over again that Norman would have
been victorious had he stood his ground to the end, and assured
her that such was the general opinion through the whole
establishment. And this he did without talking much about
himself, or praising himself in any way when he did so. His
speech was wholly of his friend, and of the sorrow that he felt
that his friend should have been disappointed in his hopes.

All this had its effects. Of Norman's rejected love they neither
of them spoke. Each knew that the other must be aware of it, but
the subject was far too tender to be touched, at any rate as yet.
And so matters went on, and Alaric regained the footing of favour
which he had for a while lost with the mistress of the house.

But there was one inmate of Surbiton Cottage who saw that though
Alaric spent so much of his tune with Mrs. Woodward, he found
opportunity also for other private conversation; and this was
Linda. Why was it that in the moments before they dressed for
dinner Alaric was whispering with Gertrude, and not with her? Why
was it that Alaric had felt it necessary to stay from church that
Sunday evening when Gertrude also had been prevented from going
by a headache? He had remained, he said, in order that Captain
Cuttwater might have company; but Linda was not slow to learn
that Uncle Bat had been left to doze away the time by himself.
Why, on the following Monday, had Gertrude been down so early,
and why had Alaric been over from the inn full half an hour
before his usual time? Linda saw and knew all this, and was
disgusted. But even then she did not, could not think that Alaric
could be untrue to her; that her own sister would rob her of her
lover. It could not be that there should be such baseness in
human nature!

Poor Linda!

And yet, though she did not believe that such falseness could
exist in this world of hers at Surbiton Cottage, she could not
restrain herself from complaining rather petulantly to her
sister, as they were going to bed on that Sunday evening.

'I hope your headache is better,' she said, in a tone of voice as
near to irony as her soft nature could produce.

'Yes, it is quite well now,' said Gertrude, disdaining to notice
the irony.

'I dare say Alaric had a headache too. I suppose one was about as
bad as the other.'

'Linda,' said Gertrude, answering rather with dignity than with
anger, 'you ought to know by this time that it is not likely that
I should plead false excuses. Alaric never said he had a
headache.'

'He said he stayed from church to be with Uncle Bat; but when we
came back we found him with you.'

'Uncle Bat went to sleep, and then he came into the drawing-room.'

The two girls said nothing more about it. Linda should have
remembered that she had never breathed a word to her sister of
Alaric's passion for herself. Gertrude's solemn propriety had
deterred her, just as she was about to do so. How very little of
that passion had Alaric breathed himself! and yet, alas! enough
to fill the fond girl's heart with dreams of love, which occupied
all her waking, all her sleeping thoughts. Oh! ye ruthless
swains, from whose unhallowed lips fall words full of poisoned
honey, do ye never think of the bitter agony of many months, of
the dull misery of many years, of the cold monotony of an
uncheered life, which follow so often as the consequence of your
short hour of pastime?

On the Monday morning, as soon as Alaric and Charley had started
for town--it was the morning on which Linda had been provoked to
find that both Gertrude and Alaric had been up half an hour
before they should have been--Gertrude followed her mother to her
dressing-room, and with palpitating heart closed the door behind
her.

Linda remained downstairs, putting away her tea and sugar, not in
the best of humours; but Katie, according to her wont, ran up
after her mother.

'Katie,' said Gertrude, as Katie bounced into the room, 'dearest
Katie, I want to speak a word to mamma--alone. Will you mind
going down just for a few minutes?' and she put her arm round her
sister, and kissed her with almost unwonted tenderness.

'Go, Katie, dear,' said Mrs. Woodward; and Katie, speechless,
retired.

'Gertrude has got something particular to tell mamma; something
that I may not hear. I wonder what it is about,' said Katie to
her second sister.

Linda's heart sank within her. 'Could it be? No, it could not,
could not be, that the sweet voice which had whispered in her
ears those well-remembered words, could have again whispered the
same into other ears--that the very Gertrude who had warned her
not to listen to such words from such lips, should have listened
to them herself, and have adopted them and made them her own! It
could not, could not be!' and yet Linda's heart sank low within
her.


       *       *       *       *       *


'If you really love him,' said the mother, again caressing her
eldest daughter as she acknowledged her love, but hardly with
such tenderness as when that daughter had repudiated that other
love--'if you really love him, dearest, of course I do not, of
course I cannot, object.'

'I do, mamma; I do.'

'Well, then, Gertrude, so be it. I have not a word to say against
your choice. Had I not believed him to be an excellent young man,
I should not have allowed him to be here with you so much as he
has been. We cannot all see with the same eyes, dearest, can we?'

'No, mamma; but pray don't think I dislike poor Harry; and, oh!
mamma, pray don't set him against Alaric because of this----'

'Set him against Alaric! No, Gertrude. I certainly shall not do
that. But whether I can reconcile Harry to it, that is another
thing.'

'At any rate he has no right to be angry at it,' said Gertrude,
assuming her air of dignity.

'Certainly not with you, Gertrude.'

'No, nor with Alaric,' said she, almost with indignation.

'That depends on what has passed between them. It is very hard to
say how men so situated regard each other.'

'I know everything that has passed between them,' said Gertrude.
'I never gave Harry any encouragement. As soon as I understood my
own feelings I endeavoured to make him understand them also.'

'But, my dearest, no one is blaming you.'

'But you are blaming Alaric.'

'Indeed I am not, Gertrude.'

'No man could have behaved more honourably to his friend,' said
Gertrude; 'no man more nobly; and if Harry does not feel it so,
he has not the good heart for which I always gave him credit.'

'Poor fellow! his friendship for Alaric will be greatly tried.'

'And, mamma, has not Alaric's friendship been tried? and has it
not borne the trial nobly? Harry told him of--of--of his
intentions; Harry told him long, long, long ago----'

'Ah me!--poor Harry!' sighed Mrs. Woodward.

'But you think nothing of Alaric!'

'Alaric is successful, my dear, and can----' Think sufficiently
of himself, Mrs. Woodward was going to say, but she stopped
herself.

'Harry told him all,' continued Gertrude, 'and Alaric--Alaric
said nothing of his own feelings. Alaric never said a word to me
that he might not have said before his friend--till--till--You
must own, mamma, that no one can have behaved more nobly than
Alaric has done.'

Mrs. Woodward, nevertheless, had her own sentiments on the
matter, which were not quite in unison with those of her
daughter. But then she was not in love with Alaric, and her
daughter was. She thought that Alaric's love was a passion that
had but lately come to the birth, and that had he been true to
his friend--nobly true as Gertrude had described him--it would
never have been born at all, or at any rate not till Harry had
had a more prolonged chance of being successful with his suit.
Mrs. Woodward understood human nature better than her daughter,
or, at least, flattered herself that she did so, and she felt
well assured that Alaric had not been dying for love during the
period of Harry's unsuccessful courtship. He might, she thought,
have waited a little longer before he chose for his wife the girl
whom his friend had loved, seeing that he had been made the
confidant of that love.

Such were the feelings which Mrs. Woodward felt herself unable to
repress; but she could not refuse her consent to the marriage.
After all, she had some slight twinge of conscience, some inward
conviction that she was prejudiced in Harry's favour, as her
daughter was in Alaric's. Then she had lost all right to object
to Alaric, by allowing him to be so constantly at the Cottage;
and then again, there was nothing to which in reason she could
object. In point of immediate income, Alaric was now the better
match of the two. She kissed her daughter, therefore, and
promised that she would do her best to take Alaric to her heart
as her son-in-law.

'You will tell Uncle Bat, mamma?' said Gertrude.

'O yes--certainly, my dear; of course he'll be told. But I
suppose it does not make much matter, immediately?'

'I think he should be told, mamma; I should not like him to think
that he was treated with anything like disrespect.'

'Very well, my dear, I'll tell him,' said Mrs. Woodward, who was
somewhat surprised at her daughter's punctilious feelings about
Uncle Bat. However, it was all very proper; and she was glad to
think that her children were inclined to treat their grand-uncle
with respect, in spite of his long nose.

And then Gertrude was preparing to leave the room, but her mother
stopped her. 'Gertrude, dear,' said she.

'Yes, mamma.'

'Come here, dearest; shut the door. Gertrude, have you told Linda
yet?'

'No, mamma, not yet.'

As Mrs. Woodward asked the question, there was an indescribable
look of painful emotion on her brow. It did not escape Gertrude's
eye, and was not to her perfectly unintelligible. She had
conceived an idea--why, she did not know--that these recent
tidings of hers would not be altogether agreeable to her sister.

'No, mamma, I have not told her; of course I told you first. But
now I shall do so immediately.'

'Let me tell her,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'will you, Gertrude?'

'Oh! certainly, mamma, if you wish it.'

Things were going wrong with Mrs. Woodward. She had perceived,
with a mother's anxious eye, that her second daughter was not
indifferent to Alaric Tudor. While she yet thought that Norman
and Gertrude would have suited each other, this had caused her no
disquietude. She herself had entertained none of those grand
ideas to which Gertrude had given utterance with so much
sententiousness, when she silenced Linda's tale of love before
the telling of it had been commenced. Mrs. Woodward had always
felt sufficiently confident that Alaric would push himself in the
world, and she would have made no objection to him as a son-in-law
had he been contented to take the second instead of the first
of her flock.

She had never spoken to Linda on the matter, and Linda had
offered to her no confidence; but she felt all but sure that her
second child would not have entertained the affection which she
had been unable altogether to conceal, had no lover's plea been
poured into her ears. Mrs. Woodward questioned her daughters but
little, but she understood well the nature of each, and could
nearly read their thoughts. Linda's thoughts it was not difficult
to read.

'Linda, pet,' she said, as soon as she could get Linda into her
room without absolutely sending for her, 'you have not yet heard
Gertrude's news?'

'No,' said Linda, turning very pale, and feeling that her heart
was like to burst.

'I would let no one tell you but myself, Linda. Come here,
dearest; don't stand there away from me. Can you guess what it
is?'

Linda, for a moment, could not speak. 'No, mamma,' she said at
last, 'I don't know what it is.'

Mrs. Woodward twined her arm round her daughter's waist, as they
sat on the sofa close to each other. Linda tried to compose
herself, but she felt that she was trembling in her mother's
arms. She would have given anything to be calm; anything to hide
her secret. She little guessed then how well her mother knew it.
Her eyes were turned down, and she found that she could not raise
them to her mother's face.

'No, mamma,' she said. 'I don't know--what is it?'

'Gertrude is to be married, Linda. She is engaged.'

'I thought she refused Harry,' said Linda, through whose mind a
faint idea was passing of the cruelty of nature's arrangements,
which gave all the lovers to her sister.

'Yes, dearest, she did; and now another has made an offer--she
has accepted him.' Mrs. Woodward could hardly bring herself to
speak out that which she had to say, and yet she felt that she
was only prolonging the torture for which she was so anxious to
find a remedy.

'Has she?' said Linda, on whom the full certainty of her misery
had now all but come.

'She has accepted our dear Alaric.'

Our dear Alaric! what words for Linda's ears! They did reach her
ears, but they did not dwell there--her soft gentle nature sank
beneath the sound. Her mother, when she looked to her for a
reply, found that she was sinking through her arms. Linda had
fainted.

Mrs. Woodward neither screamed, nor rang for assistance, nor
emptied the water-jug over her daughter, nor did anything else
which would have the effect of revealing to the whole household
the fact that Linda had fainted. She had seen girls faint before,
and was not frightened. But how, when Linda recovered, was she to
be comforted?

Mrs. Woodward laid her gently on the sofa, undid her dress,
loosened her stays, and then sat by her chafing her hands, and
moistening her lips and temples, till gradually the poor girl's
eyes reopened. The recovery from a fainting fit, a real fainting
fit I beg young ladies to understand, brings with it a most
unpleasant sensation, and for some minutes Linda's sorrow was
quelled by her sufferings; but as she recovered her strength she
remembered where she was and what had happened, and sobbing
violently she burst into an hysterical storm of tears.

Her most poignant feeling now was one of fear lest her mother
should have guessed her secret; and this Mrs. Woodward well
understood. She could do nothing towards comforting her child
till there was perfect confidence between them. It was easy to
arrive at this with Linda, nor would it afterwards be difficult
to persuade her as to the course she ought to take. The two girls
were so essentially different; the one so eager to stand alone
and guide herself, the other so prone to lean on the nearest
support that came to her hand.

It was not long before Linda had told her mother everything.
Either by words, or tears, or little signs of mute confession,
she made her mother understand, with all but exactness, what had
passed between Alaric and herself, and quite exactly what had
been the state of her own heart. She sobbed, and wept, and looked
up to her mother for forgiveness as though she had been guilty of
a great sin; and when her mother caressed her with all a mother's
tenderness, and told her that she was absolved from all fault,
free of all blame, she was to a certain degree comforted.
Whatever might now happen, her mother would be on her side. But
Mrs. Woodward, when she looked into the matter, found that it was
she that should have demanded pardon of her daughter, not her
daughter of her! Why had this tender lamb been allowed to wander
out of the fold, while a wolf in sheep's clothing was invited
into the pasture-ground?

Gertrude, with her talent, her beauty, and dignity of demeanour,
had hitherto been, perhaps, the closest to the mother's heart--had
been, if not the most cherished, yet the most valued; Gertrude
had been the apple of her eye. This should be altered now. If
a mother's love could atone for a mother's negligence, Mrs.
Woodward would atone to her child for this hour of misery!
And Katie--her sweet bonny Katie--she, at least, should be
protected from the wolves. Those were the thoughts that passed
through Mrs. Woodward's heart as she sat there caressing Linda.
But how were things to be managed now at the present moment? It
was quite clear that the wolf in sheep's clothing must be
admitted into the pastoral family; either that, or the fairest
lamb of the flock must be turned out altogether, to take upon
herself lupine nature, and roam the woods a beast of prey. As
matters stood it behoved them to make such a sheep of Alaric as
might be found practicable.

And so Mrs. Woodward set to work to teach her daughter how best
she might conduct herself in her present state of wretchedness.
She had to bear with her sister's success, to listen to her
sister's joy, to enter into all her future plans, to assist at
her toilet, to prepare her wedding garments, to hear the
congratulations of friends, and take a sister's share in a
sister's triumph, and to do this without once giving vent to a
reproach. And she had worse than this to do; she had to encounter
Alaric, and to wish him joy of his bride; she had to protect her
female pride from the disgrace which a hopeless but acknowledged
love would throw on it; she had to live in the house with Alaric
as though he were her brother, and as though she had never
thought to live with him in any nearer tie. She would have to
stand at the altar as her sister's bridesmaid, and see them
married, and she would have to smile and be cheerful as she did
so.

This was the lesson which Mrs. Woodward had now to teach
her daughter; and she so taught it that Linda did all that
circumstances and her mother required of her. Late on that
afternoon she went to Gertrude, and, kissing her, wished her joy.
At that moment Gertrude was the more embarrassed of the two.

'Linda, dear Linda,' she said, embracing her sister convulsively.

'I hope you will be happy, Gertrude, with all my heart,' said
Linda; and so she relinquished her lover.

We talk about the weakness of women--and Linda Woodward was, in
many a way, weak enough--but what man, what giant, has strength
equal to this? It was not that her love was feeble. Her heart was
capable of truest love, and she had loved Alaric truly. But she
had that within her which enabled her to overcome herself, and
put her own heart, and hopes, and happiness--all but her maiden
pride--into the background, when the hopes and happiness of
another required it.

She still shared the same room with her sister; and those who
know how completely absorbed a girl is by her first acknowledged
love, may imagine how many questions she had to answer, to how
many propositions she was called to assent, for how many schemes
she had to vouchsafe a sister's interest, while her heart was
telling her that she should have been the questioner, she should
have been the proposer, that the schemes should all have been her
own.

But she bore it bravely. When Alaric first came down, which he
did in the middle of the week, she was, as she told her mother,
too weak to stand in his presence. Her mother strongly advised
her not to absent herself; so she sat gently by, while he kissed
Mrs. Woodward and Katie. She sat and trembled, for her turn she
knew must come. It did come; Alaric, with an assurance which told
more for his courage than for his heart, came up to her, and with
a smiling face offered her his hand. She rose up and muttered
some words which she had prepared for the occasion, and he, still
holding her by the hand, stooped down and kissed her cheek. Mrs.
Woodward looked on with an angry flush on her brow, and hated him
for his cold-hearted propriety of demeanour.

Linda went up to her mother's room, and, sitting on her mother's
bed, sobbed herself into tranquillity.

It was very grievous to Mrs. Woodward to have to welcome Alaric
to her house. For Alaric's own sake she would no longer have
troubled herself to do so; but Gertrude was still her daughter,
her dear child. Gertrude had done nothing to disentitle her to a
child's part, and a child's protection; and even had she done so,
Mrs. Woodward was not a woman to be unforgiving to her child. For
Gertrude's sake she had to make Alaric welcome; she forced
herself to smile on him and call him her son; to make him more at
home in her house even than Harry had ever been; to give him
privileges which he, wolf as he was, had so little deserved.

But Captain Cuttwater made up by the warmth of his
congratulations for any involuntary coolness which Alaric might
have detected in those of Mrs. Woodward. It had become a strong
wish of the old man's heart that he might make Alaric, at any
rate in part, his heir, without doing an injustice to his niece
or her family. He had soon seen and appreciated what he had
called the 'gumption' both of Gertrude and Alaric. Had Harry
married Gertrude, and Alaric Linda, he would have regarded
either of those matches with disfavour. But now he was quite
satisfied--now he could look on Alaric as his son and Gertrude
as his daughter, and use his money according to his fancy,
without incurring the reproaches of his conscience.

'Quite right, my boy, 'he said to Alaric, slapping him on the
back at the same time with pretty nearly all his power--'quite
right. Didn't I know you were the winning horse?--didn't I tell
you how it would be? Do you think I don't know what gumption
means? If I had not had my own weather-eye open, aye, and
d---- wide open, the most of my time, I shouldn't have two or
three thousand pounds to give away now to any young fellow that
I take a fancy to.'

Alaric was, of course, all smiles and good humour, and Gertrude
not less so. The day after he heard of the engagement Uncle Bat
went to town, and, on his return, he gave Gertrude £100 to buy
her wedding-clothes, and half that sum to her mother, in order
that the thing might go off, as he expressed himself, 'slip-slap,
and no mistake.' To Linda he gave nothing, but promised her that
he would not forget her when her time came.

All this time Norman was at Normansgrove; but there were three of
the party who felt that it behoved them to let him know what was
going on. Mrs. Woodward wrote first, and on the following day
both Gertrude and Alaric wrote to him, the former from Hampton,
and the latter from his office in London.

All these letters were much laboured, but, with all this labour,
not one of them contained within it a grain of comfort. That from
Mrs. Woodward came first and told the tale. Strange to say,
though Harry had studiously rejected from his mind all idea of
hope as regarded Gertrude, nevertheless the first tidings of her
betrothal with Alaric struck him as though he had still fancied
himself a favoured lover. He felt as though, in his absence, he
had been robbed of a prize which was all his own, as though a
chattel had been taken from him to which he had a full right; as
though all the Hampton party, Mrs. Woodward included, were in a
conspiracy to defraud him the moment his back was turned.

The blow was so severe that it laid him prostrate at once. He
could not sob away his sorrow on his mother's bosom; no one could
teach him how to bear his grief with meek resignation. He had
never spoken of his love to his friends at Normansgrove. They had
all been witnesses to his deep disappointment, but that had been
attributed to his failure at his office. He was not a man to seek
for sympathy in the sorrows of his heart. He had told Alaric of
his rejection, because he had already told him of his love, but
he had whispered no word of it to anyone besides. On the day on
which he received Mrs. Woodward's letter, he appeared at dinner
ghastly pale, and evidently so ill as to be all but unable to sit
at table; but he would say nothing to anybody; he sat brooding
over his grief till he was unable to sit any longer.

And yet Mrs. Woodward had written with all her skill, with all
her heart striving to pluck the sting away from the tidings which
she had to communicate. She had felt, however, that she owed as
much, at least, to her daughter as she did to him, and she failed
to call Alaric perjured, false, dishonoured, unjust, disgraced,
and treacherous. Nothing short of her doing so would have been
deemed by Norman fitting mention of Tudor's sin; nothing else
would have satisfied the fury of his wrath.

On the next morning he received Gertrude's letter and Alaric's.
The latter he never read--he opened it, saw that it began as
usual, 'My dear Harry,' and then crammed it into his pocket. By
return of post it went back under a blank cover, addressed to
Alaric at the Weights and Measures. The days of duelling were
gone by--unfortunately, as Norman now thought, but nothing, he
determined, should ever induce him again to hold friendly
intercourse with the traitor. He abstained from making any such
oath as to the Woodwards; but determined that his conduct in that
respect should be governed by the manner in which Alaric was
received by them.

But Gertrude's letter he read over and over again, and each time
he did so he indulged in a fresh burst of hatred against the man
who had deceived him. 'A dishonest villain!' he said to himself
over and over again; 'what right had I to suppose he would be
true to me when I found that he had been so false to others?'

'Dearest Harry,' the letter began. Dearest Harry!--Why should she
begin with a lie? He was not dearest! 'You must not, must not,
must not be angry with Alaric,' she went on to say, as soon as
she had told her tale. Oh, must he not? Not be angry with Alaric!
Not angry with the man who had forgotten every law of honour,
every principle of honesty, every tie of friendship! Not angry
with the man whom he had trusted with the key of his treasure,
and who had then robbed him; who had stolen from him all his
contentment, all his joy, his very heart's blood; not angry with
him!

'Our happiness will never be perfect unless you will consent to
share it.' Thus simply, in the affection of her heart, had
Gertrude concluded the letter by which she intended to pour balm
into the wounds of her rejected lover, and pave the way for the
smoothing of such difficulties as might still lie in the way of
her love.

'Their happiness would not be perfect unless he would consent to
share it.' Every word in the sentence was gall to him. It must
have been written with the object of lacerating his wounds, and
torturing his spirit; so at least said Norman to himself. He read
the letter over and over again. At one time he resolved to keep
it till he could thrust it back into her hand, and prove to her
of what cruelty she had been guilty. Then he thought of sending
it to Mrs. Woodward, and asking her how, after that, could she
think that he should ever again enter her doors at Hampton.
Finally he tore it into a thousand bits, and threw them behind
the fire.

'Share their happiness!' and as he repeated the words he gave the
last tear to the fragments of paper which he still held in his
hand. Could he at that moment as easily have torn to shreds all
hope of earthly joys for those two lovers, he would then have
done it, and cast the ruins to the flames.

Oh! what a lesson he might have learnt from Linda! And yet what
were his injuries to hers? He in fact had not been injured, at
least not by him against whom the strength of his wrath most
fiercely raged. The two men had both admired Gertrude, but Norman
had started on the race first. Before Alaric had had time to know
his own mind, he had learnt that Norman claimed the beauty as his
own. He had acknowledged to himself that Norman had a right to do
so, and had scrupulously abstained from interfering with him. Why
should Norman, like a dog in the manger, begrudge to his friend
the fodder which he himself could not enjoy? To him, at any rate,
Alaric had in this been no traitor. 'Twas thus at least that
Gertrude argued in her heart, and 'twas thus that Mrs. Woodward
tried to argue also.

But who could excuse Alaric's falseness to Linda? And yet Linda
had forgiven him.



CHAPTER XV

NORMAN RETURNS TO TOWN


Harry Norman made no answer to either of his three letters beyond
that of sending Alaric's back unread; but this, without other
reply, was sufficient to let them all guess, nearly with
accuracy, what was the state of his mind. Alaric told Gertrude
how his missive had been treated, and Gertrude, of course, told
her mother.

There was very little of that joy at Surbiton Cottage which
should have been the forerunner of a wedding. None of the
Woodward circle were content thus to lose their friend. And then
their unhappiness on this score was augmented by hearing that
Harry had sent up a medical certificate, instead of returning to
his duties when his prolonged leave of absence was expired.

To Alaric this, at the moment, was a relief. He had dreaded the
return of Norman to London. There were so many things to cause
infinite pain to them both. All Norman's things, his books and
clothes, his desks and papers and pictures, his whips and sticks,
and all those sundry belongings which even a bachelor collects
around him--were strewing the rooms in which Alaric still lived.
He had of course felt that it was impossible that they should
ever again reside together. Not only must they quarrel, but all
the men at their office must know that they had quarrelled. And
yet some intercourse must be maintained between them; they must
daily meet in the rooms at the Weights and Measures; and it would
now in their altered position become necessary that in some
things Norman should receive instructions from Alaric as his
superior officer. But if Alaric thought of this often, so did
Norman; and before the last fortnight had expired, the thinking
of it had made him so ill that his immediate return to London was
out of the question.

Mrs. Woodward's heart melted within her when she heard that Harry
was really ill. She had gone on waiting day after day for an
answer to her letter, but no answer came. No answer came, but in
lieu thereof she heard that Harry was laid up at Normansgrove.
She heard it, and Gertrude heard it, and in spite of the coming
wedding there was very little joy at Surbiton Cottage.

And then Mrs. Woodward wrote again; and a man must have had a
heart of stone not to be moved by such a letter. She had 'heard,'
she said, 'that he was ill, and the tidings had made her
wretched--the more so inasmuch as he had sent no answer to her
last letter. Was he very ill? was he dangerously ill? She hoped,
she would fain hope, that his illness had not arisen from any
mental grief. If he did not reply to this, or get some of his
family to do so, there would be nothing for her but to go,
herself, to Normansgrove. She could not remain quiet while she
was left in such painful doubt about her dearest, well-loved
Harry Norman.' How to speak of Gertrude, or how not to speak of
her, Mrs. Woodward knew not--at last she added: 'The three girls
send their kindest love; they are all as wretchedly anxious as I
am. I know you are too good to wish that poor Gertrude should
suffer, but, if you did, you might have your wish. The tidings of
your illness, together with your silence, have robbed her of all
her happiness;' and it ended thus:--'Dearest Harry! do not be
cruel to us; our hearts are all with you.'

This was too much for Norman's sternness; and he relented, at
least as far as Mrs. Woodward was concerned. He wrote to say that
though he was still weak, he was not dangerously ill; and that he
intended, if nothing occurred amiss, to be in town about the end
of the year. He hoped he might then see her to thank her for all
her kindness. She would understand that he could not go down to
Surbiton Cottage; but as she would doubtless have some occasion
for coming up to town, they might thus contrive to meet. He then
sent his love to Linda and Katie, and ended by saying that he had
written to Charley Tudor to take lodgings for him. Not the
slightest allusion was made either to Gertrude or Alaric, except
that which might seem to be conveyed in the intimation that he
could make no more visits to Hampton.

This letter was very cold. It just permitted Mrs. Woodward to
know that Norman did not regard them all as strangers; and that
was all. Linda said it was very sad; and Gertrude said, not to
her mother but to Alaric, that it was heartless. Captain
Cuttwater predicted that he would soon come round, and be as
sound as a roach again in six months' time. Alaric said nothing;
but he went on with his wooing, and this he did so successfully,
as to make Gertrude painfully alive to what would have been, in
her eyes, the inferiority of her lot, had she unfortunately
allowed herself to become the victim of Norman's love.

Alaric went on with his wooing, and he also went on with his
share-buying. Undy Scott had returned to town for a week or two
to wind up the affairs of his expiring secretaryship, and he made
Alaric understand that a nice thing might yet be done in Mary
Janes. Alaric had been very foolish to sell so quickly; so at
least said Undy. To this Alaric replied that he had bought the
shares thoughtlessly, and had felt a desire to get rid of them as
quickly as he could. Those were scruples at which Undy laughed
pleasantly, and Alaric soon laughed with him.

'At any rate,' said Undy, 'your report is written, and off your
hands now: so you may do what you please in the matter, like a
free man, with a safe conscience.'

Alaric supposed that he might.

'I am as fond of the Civil Service as any man,' said Undy; 'just
as fond of it as Sir Gregory himself. I have been in it, and may
be in it again. If I do, I shall do my duty. But I have no idea
of having my hands tied. My purse is my own, to do what I like
with it. Whether I buy beef or mutton, or shares in Cornwall, is
nothing to anyone. I give the Crown what it pays for, my five or
six hours a day, and nothing more. When I was appointed private
secretary to the First Lord of the Stannaries, I told my friend
Whip Vigil that those were the terms on which I accepted office;
and Vigil agreed with me.' Alaric, pupil as he was to the great
Sir Gregory, declared that he also agreed with him. 'That is not
Sir Gregory's doctrine, but it's mine,' said Undy; 'and though
it's my own, I think it by far the honester doctrine of the two.'

Alaric did not sift the matter very deeply, nor did he ask Undy,
or himself either, whether in using the contents of his purse in
the purchase of shares he would be justified in turning to his
own purpose any information which he might obtain in his official
career. Nor did he again offer to put that broad test to himself
which he had before proposed, and ask himself whether he would
dare to talk of what he was doing in the face of day, in his own
office, before Sir Gregory, or before the Neverbends of the
Service. He had already learnt the absurdity of such tests. Did
other men talk of such doings? Was it not notorious that the
world speculated, and that the world was generally silent in the
matter? Why should he attempt to be wiser than those around him?
Was it not sufficient for him to be wise in his generation? What
man had ever become great, who allowed himself to be impeded by
small scruples? If the sportsman returned from the field laden
with game, who would scrutinize the mud on his gaiters?
'Excelsior!' said Alaric to himself with a proud ambition; and so
he attempted to rise by the purchase and sale of mining shares.

When he was fairly engaged in the sport, his style of play so
fascinated Undy that they embarked in a sort of partnership,
_pro hoc vice_, good to the last during the ups and downs of
Wheal Mary Jane. Mary Jane, no doubt, would soon run dry, or else
be drowned, as had happened to New Friendship. But in the
meantime something might be done.

'Of course you'll be consulted about those other papers,' said
Undy. 'It might be as well they should be kept back for a week or
two.'

'Well, I'll see,' said Alaric; and as he said it, he felt that
his face was tinged with a blush of shame. But what then? Who
would look at the dirt on his gaiters, if he filled his bag with
game?

Mrs. Woodward was no whit angered by the coldness of Norman's
letter. She wished that he could have brought himself to write in
a different style, but she remembered his grief, and knew that as
time should work its cure upon it, he would come round and again
be gentle and affectionate, at any rate with her.

She misdoubted Charley's judgement in the choice of lodgings, and
therefore she talked over the matter with Alaric. It was at last
decided that he, Alaric, should move instead of driving Norman
away. His final movement would soon take place; that movement
which would rob him of the freedom of lodginghood, and invest him
with all the ponderous responsibility and close restraint of a
householder. He and Gertrude were to be married in February, and
after spending a cold honeymoon in Paris and Brussels, were to
begin their married life amidst the sharp winds of a London
March. But love, gratified love, will, we believe, keep out even
an English east wind. If so, it is certainly the only thing that
will.

Charley, therefore, wrote to Norman, telling him that he could
remain in his old home, and humbly asking permission to remain
there with him. To this request he received a kind rejoinder in
the affirmative. Though Charley was related to Alaric, there had
always apparently been a closer friendship between him and Norman
than between the two cousins; and now, in his fierce unbridled
quarrel with Alaric, and in his present coolness with the
Woodwards, he seemed to turn to Charley with more than ordinary
affection.

Norman made his appearance at the office on the first Monday of
the new year. He had hitherto sat at the same desk with Alaric,
each of them occupying one side of it; on his return he found
himself opposite to a stranger. Alaric had, of course, been
promoted to a room of his own.

The Weights and Measures had never been a noisy office; but now
it became more silent than ever. Men there talked but little at
any time, and now they seemed to cease from talking altogether.
It was known to all that the Damon and Pythias of the establishment
were Damon and Pythias no longer; that war waged between them,
and that if all accounts were true, they were ready to fly each at
the other's throat. Some attributed this to the competitive examination;
others said it was love; others declared that it was money, the root
of evil; and one rash young gentleman stated his positive knowledge
that it was all three. At any rate something dreadful was expected;
and men sat anxious at their desks, fearing the coming evil.

On the Monday the two men did not meet, nor on the Tuesday. On
the next morning, Alaric, having acknowledged to himself the
necessity of breaking the ice, walked into the room where Norman
sat with three or four others. It was absolutely necessary that
he should make some arrangement with him as to a certain branch
of office-work; and though it was competent for him, as the
superior, to have sent for Norman as the inferior, he thought it
best to abstain from doing so, even though he were thereby
obliged to face his enemy, for the first time, in the presence of
others.

'Well, Mr. Embryo,' said he, speaking to the new junior, and
standing with his back to the fire in an easy way, as though
there was nothing wrong under the sun, or at least nothing at the
Weights and Measures, 'well, Mr. Embryo, how do you get on with
those calculations?'

'Pretty well, I believe, sir; I think I begin to understand them
now,' said the tyro, producing for Alaric's gratification five or
six folio sheets covered with intricate masses of figures.

'Ah! yes; that will do very well,' said Alaric, taking up one of
the sheets, and looking at it with an assumed air of great
interest. Though he acted his part pretty well, his mind was very
far removed from Mr. Embryo's efforts.

Norman sat at his desk, as black as a thunder-cloud, with his
eyes turned intently at the paper before him; but so agitated
that he could not even pretend to write.

'By the by, Norman,' said Alaric, 'when will it suit you to look
through those Scotch papers with me?'

'My name, sir, is Mr. Norman,' said Harry, getting up and
standing by his chair with all the firmness of a Paladin of old.

'With all my heart,' said Alaric. 'In speaking to you I can have
but one wish, and that is to do so in any way that may best
please you.'

'Any instructions you may have to give I will attend to, as far
as my duty goes,' said Norman.

And then Alaric, pushing Mr. Embryo from his chair without much
ceremony, sat down opposite to his former friend, and said and
did what he had to say and do with an easy unaffected air, in
which there was, at any rate, none of the usual superciliousness
of a neophyte's authority. Norman was too agitated to speak
reasonably, or to listen calmly, but Alaric knew that though he
might not do so to-day, he would to-morrow, or if not to-morrow,
then the next day; and so from day to day he came into Norman's
room and transacted his business. Mr. Embryo got accustomed to
looking through the window at the Council Office for the ten
minutes that he remained there, and Norman also became reconciled
to the custom. And thus, though they never met in any other way,
they daily had a kind of intercourse with each other, which, at
last, contrived to get itself arranged into a certain amount of
civility on both sides.

Immediately that Norman's arrival was heard of at Surbiton
Cottage, Mrs. Woodward hastened up to town to see him. She wrote
to him to say that she would be at his lodgings at a certain
hour, and begged him to come thither to her. Of course he did not
refuse, and so they met. Mrs. Woodward had much doubted whether
or no she would take Linda or Katie with her, but at last she
resolved to go alone. Harry, she thought, would be more willing
to speak freely to her, to open his heart to her, if there were
nobody by but herself.

Their meeting was very touching, and characteristic of the two
persons. Mrs. Woodward was sad enough, but her sadness was
accompanied by a strength of affection that carried before it
every obstacle. Norman was also sad; but he was at first stern
and cold, and would have remained so to the last, had not his
manly anger been overpowered by her feminine tenderness.

It was singular, but not the less true, that at this period
Norman appeared to have forgotten altogether that he had ever
proposed to Gertrude, and been rejected by her. All that he said
and all that he thought was exactly what he might have said and
thought had Alaric taken from him his affianced bride. No suitor
had ever felt his suit to be more hopeless than he had done; and
yet he now regarded himself as one whose high hopes of happy love
had all been destroyed by the treachery of a friend and the
fickleness of a woman.

This made the task of appeasing him very difficult to Mrs.
Woodward. She could not in plain language remind him that he had
been plainly rejected; nor could she, on the other hand, permit
her daughter to be branded with a fault of which she had never
been guilty.

Mrs. Woodward had wished, though she had hardly hoped, so to
mollify Norman as to induce him to promise to be at the wedding;
but she soon found that this was out of the question. There was
no mitigating his anger against Alaric.

'Mrs. Woodward,' said he, standing very upright, and looking very
stiff, 'I will never again willingly put myself in any position
where I must meet him.'

'Oh! Harry, don't say so--think of your close friendship, think
of your long friendship.'

'Why did he not think of it?'

'But, Harry--if not for his sake, if not for your own, at any
rate do so for ours; for my sake, for Katie's and Linda's, for
Gertrude's sake.'

'I had rather not speak of Gertrude, Mrs. Woodward.'

'Ah! Harry, Gertrude has done you no injury; why should you thus
turn your heart against her? You should not blame her; if you
have anyone to blame, it is me.'

'No; you have been true to me.'

'And has she been false? Oh! Harry, think how we have loved you!
You should be more just to us.'

'Tush!' he said. 'I do not believe in justice; there is no
justice left. I would have given everything I had for him. I
would have made any sacrifice. His happiness was as much my
thought as my own. And now--and yet you talk to me of justice.'

'And if he had injured you, Harry, would you not forgive him? Do
you repeat your prayers without thinking of them? Do you not wish
to forgive them that trespass against you?' Norman groaned
inwardly in the spirit. 'Do you not think of this when you kneel
every night before your God?'

'There are injuries which a man cannot forgive, is not expected
to forgive.'

'Are there, Harry? Oh! that is a dangerous doctrine. In that way
every man might nurse his own wrath till anger would make devils
of us all. Our Saviour has made no exceptions.'

'In one sense, I do forgive him, Mrs. Woodward. I wish him no
evil. But it is impossible that I should call a man who has so
injured me my friend. I look upon him as disgraced for ever.'

She then endeavoured to persuade him to see Gertrude, or at any
rate to send his love to her. But in this also he was obdurate.
'It could,' he said, 'do no good.' He could not answer for
himself that his feelings would not betray him. A message would
be of no use; if true, it would not be gracious; if false, it had
better be avoided. He was quite sure Gertrude would be indifferent
as to any message from him. The best thing for them both would
be that they should forget each other.

He promised, however, that he would go down to Hampton
immediately after the marriage, and he sent his kindest love to
Linda and Katie. 'And, dear Mrs. Woodward,' said he, 'I know you
think me very harsh, I know you think me vindictive--but pray,
pray believe that I understand all your love, and acknowledge all
your goodness. The time will, perhaps, come when we shall be as
happy together as we once were.'

Mrs. Woodward, trying to smile through her tears, could only say
that she would pray that that time might soon come; and so,
bidding God bless him, as a mother might bless her child, she
left him and returned to Hampton, not with a light heart.



CHAPTER XVI

THE FIRST WEDDING


In spite, however, of Norman and his anger, on a cold snowy
morning in the month of February, Gertrude stood at the altar in
Hampton Church, a happy trusting bride, and Linda stood smiling
behind her, the lovely leader of the nuptial train. Nor were
Linda's smiles false or forced, much less treacherous. She had
taught herself to look on Alaric as her sister's husband, and
though in doing so she had suffered, and did still suffer, she
now thought of her own lost lover in no other guise.

A housemaid, not long since, who was known in the family in which
she lived to be affianced to a neighbouring gardener, came
weeping to her mistress.

'Oh, ma'am!'

'Why, Susan, what ails you?'

'Oh, ma'am!'

'Well, Susan--what is it?--why are you crying?'

'Oh, ma'am--John!'

'Well--what of John? I hope he is not misbehaving.'

'Indeed, ma'am, he is then; the worst of misbehaviour; for he's
gone and got hisself married.' And poor Susan gave vent to a
flood of tears.

Her mistress tried to comfort her, and not in vain. She told her
that probably she might be better as she was; that John, seeing
what he had done, must be a false creature, who would undoubtedly
have used her ill; and she ended her good counsel by trying to
make Susan understand that there were still as good fish in the
sea as had ever yet been caught out of it.

'And that's true too, ma'am,' said Susan, with her apron to her
eyes.

'Then you should not be downhearted, you know.'

'Nor I han't down'arted, ma'am, for thank God I could love any
man, but it's the looks on it, ma'am; it's that I mind.'

How many of us are there, women and men too, who think most of
the 'looks of it' under such circumstances; and who, were we as
honest as poor Susan, ought to thank God, as she did, that we can
love anyone; anyone, that is, of the other sex. We are not all of
us susceptible of being torn to tatters by an unhappy passion;
not even all those of us who may be susceptible of a true and
honest love. And it is well that it is so. It is one of God's
mercies; and if we were as wise as Susan, we should thank God for
it.

Linda was, perhaps, one of those. She was good, affectionate,
tender, and true. But she was made of that stuff which can bend
to the north wind. The world was not all over with her because a
man had been untrue to her. She had had her grief, and had been
told to meet it like a Christian; she had been obedient to
the telling, and now felt the good result. So when Gertrude
was married she stood smiling behind her; and when her new
brother-in-law kissed her in the vestry-room she smiled again,
and honestly wished them happiness.

And Katie was there, very pretty and bonny, still childish, with
her short dress and long trousers, but looking as though she,
too, would soon feel the strength of her own wings, and be able
to fly away from her mother's nest. Dear Katie! Her story has yet
to be told. To her belongs neither the soft easiness of her
sister Linda nor the sterner dignity of Gertrude. But she has a
character of her own, which contains, perhaps, higher qualities
than those given to either of her sisters.

And there were other bridesmaids there; how many it boots not now
to say. We must have the spaces round our altars greatly widened
if this passion for bevies of attendant nymphs be allowed to go
on increasing--and if crinolines increase also. If every bride is
to have twelve maidens, and each maiden to stand on no less than
a twelve-yard circle, what modest temple will ever suffice for a
sacrifice to Hymen?

And Mrs. Woodward was there, of course; as pretty to my thinking
as either of her daughters, or any of the bridesmaids. She was
very pretty and smiling and quiet. But when Gertrude said 'I
will,' she was thinking of Harry Norman, and grieving that he was
not there.

And Captain Cuttwater was there, radiant in a new blue coat, made
specially for the occasion, and elastic with true joy. He had
been very generous. He had given £1,000 to Alaric, and settled
£150 a year on Gertrude, payable, of course, after his death.
This, indeed, was the bulk of what he had to give, and Mrs.
Woodward had seen with regret his exuberant munificence to one of
her children. But Gertrude was her child, and of course she could
not complain.

And Charley was there, acting as best man. It was just the place
and just the work for Charley. He forgot all his difficulties,
all his duns, and also all his town delights. Without a sigh he
left his lady in Norfolk Street to mix gin-sling for other
admirers, and felt no regret though four brother navvies were
going to make a stunning night of it at the 'Salon de Seville
dansant,' at the bottom of Holborn Hill. However, he had his
hopes that he might be back in time for some of that fun.

And Undy Scott was there. He and Alaric had fraternized so
greatly of late that the latter had, as a matter of course, asked
him to his wedding, and Mrs. Woodward had of course expressed
her delight at receiving Alaric's friend. Undy also was a pleasant
fellow for a wedding party; he was full of talk, fond of ladies,
being no whit abashed in his attendance on them by the remembrance
of his bosom's mistress, whom he had left, let us hope, happy in
her far domestic retirement. Undy Scott was a good man at a
wedding, and made himself specially agreeable on this occasion.

But the great glory of the day was the presence of Sir Gregory
Hardlines. It was a high honour, considering all that rested on
Sir Gregory's shoulders, for so great a man to come all the way
down to Hampton to see a clerk in the Weights and Measures
married.

  Cum tot sustineas, et tanta negotia solus,

--for we may call it 'solus,' Sir Warwick and Mr. Jobbles being
sources of more plague than profit in carrying out your noble
schemes--while so many things are on your shoulders, Sir Gregory;
while you are defending the Civil Service by your pen[?],
adorning it by your conduct, perfecting it by new rules, how
could any man have had the face to ask you to a wedding?

Nevertheless Sir Gregory was there, and did not lose the
excellent opportunity which a speech at the breakfast-table
afforded him for expressing his opinion on the Civil Service of
his country.

And so Gertrude Woodward became Gertrude Tudor, and she and
Alaric were whirled away by a post-chaise and post-boy, done out
with white bows, to the Hampton Court station; from thence they
whisked up to London, and then down to Dover; and there we will
leave them.

They were whisked away, having first duly gone through the amount
of badgering which the bride and bridegroom have to suffer at the
wedding breakfast-table. They drank their own health in
champagne. Alaric made a speech, in which he said he was quite
unworthy of his present happiness, and Gertrude picked up all the
bijoux, gold pencil-cases, and silver cream-jugs, which were
thrown at her from all sides. All the men made speeches, and all
the women laughed, but the speech of the day was that celebrated
one made by Sir Gregory, in which he gave a sketch of Alaric
Tudor as the beau idéal of a clerk in the Civil Service. 'His
heart,' said he, energetically, 'is at the Weights and Measures;'
but Gertrude looked at him as though she did not believe a word
of it.

And so Alaric and Gertrude were whisked away, and the wedding
guests were left to look sheepish at each other, and take
themselves off as best they might. Sir Gregory, of course, had
important public business which precluded him from having the
gratification of prolonging his stay at Hampton. Charley got away
in perfect time to enjoy whatever there might be to be enjoyed at
the dancing saloon of Seville, and Undy Scott returned to his
club.

Then all was again quiet at Surbiton Cottage. Captain Cuttwater,
who had perhaps drunk the bride's health once too often, went to
sleep; Katie, having taken off her fine clothes, roamed about the
house disconsolate, and Mrs. Woodward and Linda betook themselves
to their needles.

The Tudors went to Brussels, and were made welcome by the Belgian
banker, whose counters he had deserted so much to his own
benefit, and from thence to Paris, and, having been there long
enough to buy a French bonnet and wonder at the enormity of
French prices, they returned to a small but comfortable house
they had prepared for themselves in the neighbourhood of
Westbourne Terrace.

Previous to this Norman had been once, and but once, at Hampton,
and, when there, he had failed in being comfortable himself, or
in making the Woodwards so; he could not revert to his old
habits, or sit, or move, or walk, as though nothing special had
happened since he had been last there. He could not talk about
Gertrude, and he could not help talking of her. By some closer
packing among the ladies a room had now been prepared for him in
the house; even this upset him, and brought to his mind all those
unpleasant thoughts which he should have endeavoured to avoid.

He did not repeat his visit before the Tudors returned; and then
for some time he was prevented from doing so by the movements of
the Woodwards themselves. Mrs. Woodward paid a visit to her
married daughter, and, when she returned, Linda did the same. And
so for a while Norman was, as it were, divided from his old
friends, whereas Tudor, as a matter of course, was one of
themselves.

It was only natural that Mrs. Woodward should forgive Alaric and
receive him to her bosom, now that he was her son-in-law. After
all, such ties as these avail more than any predilections, more
than any effort of judgement in the choice of the objects of our
affections. We associate with those with whom the tenor of life
has thrown us, and from habit we learn to love those with whom we
are brought to associate.



CHAPTER XVII

THE HONOURABLE MRS. VAL AND MISS GOLIGHTLY


The first eighteen months of Gertrude's married life were not
unhappy, though, like all persons entering on the realities of
the world, she found much to disappoint her. At first her
husband's society was sufficient for her; and to give him his
due, he was not at first an inattentive husband. Then came the
baby, bringing with him, as first babies always should do, a sort
of second honeymoon of love, and a renewal of those services
which women so delight to receive from their bosoms' lord.

She had of course made acquaintances since she had settled
herself in London, and had, in her modest way, done her little
part in adding to the gaiety of the great metropolis. In this
respect indeed Alaric's commencement of life had somewhat
frightened Mrs. Woodward, and the more prudent of his friends.
Grand as his official promotion had been, his official income at
the time of his marriage did not exceed £600 a year, and though
this was to be augmented occasionally till it reached £800, yet
even with this advantage it could hardly suffice for a man and
his wife and a coming family to live in an expensive part of
London, and enable him to 'see his friends' occasionally, as the
act of feeding one's acquaintance is now generally called.

Gertrude, like most English girls of her age, was at first so
ignorant about money that she hardly knew whether £600 was or was
not a sufficient income to justify their present mode of living;
but she soon found reason to suspect that her husband at any rate
endeavoured to increase it by other means. We say to suspect,
because he never spoke to her on the subject; he never told her
of Mary Janes and New Friendships; or hinted that he had
extensive money dealings in connexion with Undy Scott.

But it can be taken for granted that no husband can carry on such
dealings long without some sort of cognizance on his wife's part
as to what he is doing; a woman who is not trusted by her lord
may choose to remain in apparent darkness, may abstain from
questions, and may consider it either her duty or her interest to
assume an ignorance as to her husband's affairs; but the partner
of one's bed and board, the minister who soothes one's headaches,
and makes one's tea, and looks after one's linen, can't but have
the means of guessing the thoughts which occupy her companion's
mind and occasionally darken his brow.

Much of Gertrude's society had consisted of that into which
Alaric was thrown by his friendship with Undy Scott. There was a
brother of Undy's living in town, one Valentine Scott--a captain
in a cavalry regiment, and whose wife was by no means of that
delightfully retiring disposition evinced by Undy's better half.
The Hon. Mrs. Valentine, or Mrs. Val Scott as she was commonly
called, was a very pushing woman, and pushed herself into a
prominent place among Gertrude's friends. She had been the widow
of Jonathan Golightly, Esq., umquhile sheriff of the city of
London, and stockbroker, and when she gave herself and her
jointure up to Captain Val, she also brought with her, to enliven
the house, a daughter Clementina, the only remaining pledge of
her love for the stockbroker.

When Val Scott entered the world, his father's precepts as to the
purposes of matrimony were deeply graven on his heart. He was the
best looking of the family, and, except Undy, the youngest. He
had not Undy's sharpness, his talent for public matters, or his
aptitude for the higher branches of the Civil Service; but he had
wit to wear his sash and epaulets with an easy grace, and to
captivate the heart, person, and some portion of the purse, of
the Widow Golightly. The lady was ten years older than the
gentleman; but then she had a thousand a year, and, to make
matters more pleasant, the beauteous Clementina had a fortune of
her own.

Under these circumstances the marriage had been contracted
without any deceit, or attempt at deceit, by either party. Val
wanted an income, and the sheriff's widow wanted the utmost
amount of social consideration which her not very extensive means
would purchase for her. On the whole, the two parties to the
transaction were contented with their bargain. Mrs. Val, it is
true, kept her income very much in her own hands; but still she
consented to pay Val's tailors' bills, and it is something for a
man to have bed and board found him for nothing. It is true,
again, the lady did not find that the noble blood of her husband
gave her an immediate right of entry into the best houses in
London; but it did bring her into some sort of contact with some
few people of rank and fame; and being a sensible woman, she had
not been unreasonable in her expectations.

When she had got what she could from her husband in this
particular, she did not trouble him much further. He delighted in
the Rag, and there spent the most of his time; happily, she
delighted in what she called the charms of society, and as
society expanded itself before her, she was also, we must
suppose, happy. She soon perceived that more in her immediate
line was to be obtained from Undy than from her own member of the
Gaberlunzie family, and hence had sprung up her intimacy with
Mrs. Tudor.

It cannot be said that Gertrude was very fond of the Honourable
Mrs. Val, nor even of her daughter, Clementina Golightly, who was
more of her own age. These people had become her friends from the
force of circumstances, and not from predilection. To tell the
truth, Mrs. Val, who had in her day encountered, with much
patience, a good deal of snubbing, and who had had to be thankful
when she was patronized, now felt that her day for being a great
lady had come, and that it behoved her to patronize others. She
tried her hand upon Gertrude, and found the practice so congenial
to her spirits, so pleasantly stimulating, so well adapted to
afford a gratifying compensation for her former humility, that
she continued to give up a good deal of her time to No. 5, Albany
Row, Westbourne Terrace, at which house the Tudors resided.

The young bride was not exactly the woman to submit quietly to
patronage from any Mrs. Val, however honourable she might be; but
for a while Gertrude hardly knew what it meant; and at her first
outset the natural modesty of youth, and her inexperience in her
new position, made her unwilling to take offence and unequal to
rebellion. By degrees, however, this feeling of humility wore
off; she began to be aware of the assumed superiority of Mrs.
Val's friendship, and by the time that their mutual affection was
of a year's standing, Gertrude had determined, in a quiet way,
without saying anything to anybody, to put herself on a footing
of more perfect equality with the Honourable Mrs. Val.

Clementina Golightly was, in the common parlance of a large
portion of mankind, a 'doosed fine gal.' She stood five feet six,
and stood very well, on very good legs, but with rather large
feet. She was as straight as a grenadier, and had it been her
fate to carry a milk-pail, she would have carried it to
perfection. Instead of this, however, she was permitted to expend
an equal amount of energy in every variation of waltz and polka
that the ingenuity of the dancing professors of the age has been
able to produce. Waltzes and polkas suited her admirably; for she
was gifted with excellent lungs and perfect powers of breathing,
and she had not much delight in prolonged conversation. Her
fault, if she had one, was a predilection for flirting; but she
did her flirtations in a silent sort of way, much as we may
suppose the fishes do theirs, whose amours we may presume to
consist in swimming through their cool element in close
contiguity with each other. 'A feast of reason and a flow of
soul' were not the charms by which Clementina Golightly essayed
to keep her admirers spell-bound at her feet. To whirl rapidly
round a room at the rate of ten miles an hour, with her right
hand outstretched in the grasp of her partner's, and to know that
she was tightly buoyed up, like a horse by a bearing-rein, by his
other hand behind her back, was for her sufficient. To do this,
as she did do it, without ever crying for mercy, with no
slackness of breath, and apparently without distress, must have
taken as much training as a horse gets for a race. But the
training had in nowise injured her; and now, having gone through
her gallops and run all her heats for three successive seasons,
she was still sound of wind and limb, and fit to run at any
moment when called upon.

We have said nothing about the face of the beauteous Clementina,
and indeed nothing can be said about it. There was no feature in
it with which a man could have any right to find fault; that she
was a 'doosed fine girl' was a fact generally admitted; but
nevertheless you might look at her for four hours consecutively
on a Monday evening, and yet on Tuesday you would not know her.
She had hair which was brownish and sufficiently silky--and which
she wore, as all other such girls do, propped out on each side of
her face by thick round velvet pads, which, when the waltzing
pace became exhilarating, occasionally showed themselves, looking
greasy. She had a pair of eyes set straight in her head,
faultless in form, and perfectly inexpressive. She had a nose
equally straight, but perhaps a little too coarse in dimensions.
She had a mouth not over large, with two thin lips and small
whitish teeth; and she had a chin equal in contour to the rest of
her face, but on which Venus had not deigned to set a dimple.
Nature might have defied a French passport officer to give a
description of her, by which even her own mother or a detective
policeman might have recognized her.

When to the above list of attractions it is added that Clementina
Golightly had £20,000 of her own, and a reversionary interest in
her mother's jointure, it may be imagined that she did not want
for good-winded cavaliers to bear her up behind, and whirl around
with her with outstretched hands.

'I am not going to stay a moment, my dear,' said Mrs. Val,
seating herself on Gertrude's sofa, having rushed up almost
unannounced into the drawing-room, followed by Clementina;
'indeed, Lady Howlaway is waiting for me this moment; but I must
settle with you about the June flower-show.'

'Oh! thank you, Mrs. Scott, don't trouble yourself about me,'
said Gertrude; 'I don't think I shall go.'

'Oh! nonsense, my dear; of course you'll go; it's the show of the
year, and the Grand duke is to be there--baby is all right now,
you know; I must not hear of your not going.'

'All the same--I fear I must decline,' said Gertrude; 'I think I
shall be at Hampton.'

'Oh! nonsense, my dear; of course you must show yourself. People
will say all manner of things else. Clementina has promised to
meet Victoire Jaquêtanápes there and a party of French people,
people of the very highest ton. You'll be delighted, my dear.'

'M. Jaquêtanápes is the most delicious polkist you ever met,'
said Clementina. 'He has got a new back step that will quite
amaze you.' As Gertrude in her present condition was not much
given to polkas, this temptation did not have great effect.

'Oh, you must come, of course, my dear--and pray let me recommend
you to go to Madame Bosconi for your bonnet; she has such darling
little ducks, and as cheap as dirt. But I want you to arrange
about the carriage; you can do that with Mr. Tudor, and I can
settle with you afterwards. Captain Scott won't go, of course;
but I have no doubt Undecimus and Mr. Tudor will come later and
bring us home; we can manage very well with the one carriage.'

In spite of her thousand a year the Honourable Mrs. Val was not
ashamed to look after the pounds, shillings, and pence. And
so, having made her arrangements, Mrs. Val took herself off,
hurrying to appease the anger of Lady Howlaway, and followed by
Clementina, who since her little outburst as to the new back step
of M. Jaquêtanápes had not taken much part in the conversation.

Flower-shows are a great resource for the Mrs. Scotts of London
life. They are open to ladies who cannot quite penetrate the
inner sancta of fashionable life, and yet they are frequented by
those to whom those sancta are everyday household walks. There at
least the Mrs. Scotts of the outer world can show themselves in
close contiguity, and on equal terms, with the Mrs. Scotts of the
inner world. And then, who is to know the difference? If also one
is an Honourable Mrs. Scott, and can contrive to appear as such
in the next day's _Morning Post_, may not one fairly boast
that the ends of society have been attained? Where is the
citadel? How is one to know when one has taken it?

Gertrude could not be quite so defiant with her friends as she
would have wished to have been, as they were borne with and
encouraged by her husband. Of Undy's wife Alaric saw nothing and
heard little, but it suited Undy to make use of his sister-in-law's
house, and it suited Alaric to be intimate with Undy's sister-in-law.
Moreover, had not Clementina Golightly £20,000, and was she not a
'doosed fine girl?' This was nothing to Alaric now, and might not
be considered to be much to Undy. But that far-seeing, acute
financier knew that there were other means of handling a lady's
money than that of marrying her. He could not at present acquire
a second fortune in that way; but he might perhaps acquire the
management of this £20,000 if he could provide the lady with a
husband of the proper temperament. Undy Scott did not want to
appropriate Miss Golightly's fortune, he only wanted to have the
management of it.

Looking round among his acquaintance for a fitting _parti_
for the sweet Clementina, his mind, after much consideration,
settled upon Charley Tudor. There were many young men much nearer
and dearer to Undy than Charley, who might be equally desirous of
so great a prize; but he could think of none over whom he might
probably exercise so direct a control. Charley was a handsome gay
fellow, and waltzed _au ravir_; he might, therefore, without
difficulty, make his way with the fair Clementina. He was
distressingly poor, and would therefore certainly jump at an
heiress--he was delightfully thoughtless and easy of leading, and
therefore the money, when in his hands, might probably be
manageable. He was also Alaric's cousin, and therefore acceptable.

Undy did not exactly open his mind to Alaric Tudor in this
matter. Alaric's education was going on rapidly; but his mind had
not yet received with sufficient tenacity those principles of
philosophy which would enable him to look at this scheme in its
proper light. He had already learnt the great utility, one may
almost say the necessity, of having a command of money; he was
beginning also to perceive that money was a thing not to be
judged of by the ordinary rules which govern a man's conduct. In
other matters it behoves a gentleman to be open, above-board,
liberal, and true; good-natured, generous, confiding, self-denying,
doing unto others as he would wish that others should do unto
him; but in the acquirement and use of money--that is, its
use with the object of acquiring more, its use in the usurer's
sense--his practice should be exactly the reverse; he should be
close, secret, exacting, given to concealment, not over troubled
by scruples; suspicious, without sympathies, self-devoted, and
always doing unto others exactly that which he is on his guard to
prevent others from doing unto him--viz., making money by them.
So much Alaric had learnt, and had been no inapt scholar. But he
had not yet appreciated the full value of the latitude allowed by
the genius of the present age to men who deal successfully in
money. He had, as we have seen, acknowledged to himself that a
sportsman may return from the field with his legs and feet a
little muddy; but he did not yet know how deep a man may wallow
in the mire, how thoroughly he may besmear himself from head to
foot in the blackest, foulest mud, and yet be received an
honoured guest by ladies gay and noble lords, if only his bag be
sufficiently full.

  Rem..., quocunque modo rem!

The remainder of the passage was doubtless applicable to former
times, but now is hardly worth repeating.

As Alaric's stomach was not yet quite suited for strong food,
Undy fitted this matter to his friend's still juvenile capacities.
There was an heiress, a 'doosed fine girl' as Undy insisted,
laying peculiar strength on the word of emphasis, with £20,000,
and there was Charley Tudor, a devilish decent fellow, without
a rap. Why not bring them together? This would only be a
mark of true friendship on the part of Undy; and on Alaric's
part, it would be no more than one cousin would be bound to do
for another. Looking at it in this light, Alaric saw nothing in
the matter which could interfere with his quiet conscience.

'I'll do what I can,' said Undy. 'Mrs. Val is inclined to have a
way of her own in most things; but if anybody can lead her, I
can. Charley must take care that Val himself doesn't take his
part, that's all. If he interferes, it would be all up with us.'

And thus Alaric, intent mainly on the interest of his cousin, and
actuated perhaps a little by the feeling that a rich cousin would
be more serviceable than a poor one, set himself to work, in
connexion with Undy Scott, to make prey of Clementina Golightly's
£20,000.

But if Undy had no difficulty in securing the co-operation of
Alaric in this matter, Alaric by no means found it equally easy
to secure the co-operation of Charley. Charley Tudor had not yet
learnt to look upon himself as a marketable animal, worth a
certain sum of money, in consequence of such property in good
appearance, address, &c., as God had been good enough to endow
him withal.

He daily felt the depth and disagreeable results of his own
poverty, and not unfrequently, when specially short of the
Queen's medium, sighed for some of those thousands and tens of
thousands with which men's mouths are so glibly full. He had
often tried to calculate what would be his feelings if some
eccentric, good-natured old stranger should leave him, say, five
thousand a year; he had often walked about the street, with his
hands in his empty pockets, building delicious castles in the
air, and doing the most munificent actions imaginable with his
newly-acquired wealth, as all men in such circumstances do;
relieving distress, rewarding virtue, and making handsome
presents to all his friends, and especially to Mrs. Woodward. So
far Charley was not guiltless of coveting wealth; but he had
never for a moment thought of realizing his dreams by means of
his personal attractions. It had never occurred to him that any
girl having money could think it worth her while to marry him.
He, navvy as he was, with his infernal friends and pot-house
love, with his debts and idleness and low associations, with his
saloons of Seville, his Elysium in Fleet Street, and his Paradise
near the Surrey Gardens, had hitherto thought little enough of
his own attractions. No kind father had taught him that he was
worth £10,000 in any market in the world. When he had dreamt of
money, he had never dreamt of it as accruing to him in return for
any value or worth which he had inherent in himself. Even in his
lighter moments he had no such conceit; and at those periods, few
and far between, in which he did think seriously Of the world at
large, this special method of escaping from his difficulties--never
once presented itself to his mind.

When, therefore, Alaric first spoke to him of marrying £20,000
and Clementina Golightly, his surprise was unbounded.

'£20,000!' said Alaric, 'and a doosed fine girl, you know;' and
he also laid great stress on the latter part of the offer,
knowing how inflammable was Charley's heart, and at the same time
how little mercenary was his mind.

But Charley was not only surprised at the proposed arrangement,
but apparently also unwilling to enter into, it. He argued that
in the first place no girl in her senses would accept him. To
this Alaric replied that as Clementina had not much sense to
speak of, that objection might fall to the ground. Then Charley
expressed an idea that Miss Golightly's friends might probably
object when they learnt what were the exact pecuniary resources
of the expectant husband; to which Alaric argued that the
circumstances of the case were very lucky, inasmuch as some of
Clementina's natural friends were already prepossessed in favour
of such an arrangement.

Driven thus from two of his strongholds, Charley, in the most
modest of voices, in a voice one may say quite shamefaced and
conscious of its master's weakness--suggested that he was not
quite sure that at the present moment he was very much in love
with the lady in question.

Alaric had married for love, and was not two years married, yet
had his education so far progressed in that short period as to
enable him to laugh at such an objection.

'Then, my dear fellow, what the deuce do you mean to do with
yourself? You'll certainly go to the dogs.

Charley had an idea that he certainly should; and also had an
idea that Miss Clementina and her £20,000 might not improbably go
in the same direction, if he had anything to do with them.

'And as for loving her,' continued Alaric, 'that's all my eye.
Love is a luxury which none but the rich or the poor can afford.
We middle-class paupers, who are born with good coats on our
backs, but empty purses, can have nothing to do with it.'

'But you married for love, Alaric?'

'My marriage was not a very prudent one, and should not be taken
as an example. And then I did get some fortune with my wife; and
what is more, I was not so fearfully in want of it as you are.'

Charley acknowledged the truth of this, said that he would think
of the matrimonial project, and promised, at any rate, to call on
Clementina on an early occasion. He had already made her
acquaintance, had already danced with her, and certainly could
not take upon himself to deny that she was a 'doosed fine girl.'

But Charley had reasons of his own, reasons which he could not
make known to Alaric, for not thinking much of, or trusting much
to, Miss Golightly's fortune. In the first place, he regarded
marriage on such a grand scale as that now suggested, as a
ceremony which must take a long time to adjust; the wooing of a
lady with so many charms could not be carried on as might be the
wooing of a chambermaid or a farmer's daughter. It must take
months at least to conciliate the friends of so rich an heiress,
and months at the end of them to prepare the wedding gala. But
Charley could not wait for months; before one month was over he
would probably be laid up in some vile limbo, an unfortunate poor
prisoner at the suit of an iron-hearted tailor.

At this very moment of Alaric's proposition, at this instant when
he found himself talking with so much coolness of the expedience
or inexpedience of appropriating to his own purpose a slight
trifle of £20,000, he was in dire strait as to money difficulties.

He had lately, that is, within the last twelve months, made
acquaintance with an interesting gentleman named Jabesh M'Ruen.
Mr. Jabesh M'Ruen was in the habit of relieving the distresses of
such impoverished young gentlemen as Charley Tudor; and though he
did this with every assurance of philanthropic regard, though in
doing so he only made one stipulation, 'Pray be punctual, Mr.
Tudor, now pray do be punctual, sir, and you may always count on
me,' nevertheless, in spite of all his goodness, Mr. M'Ruen's
young friends seldom continued to hold their heads well up over
the world's waters.

On the morning after this conversation with Alaric, Charley
intended to call on his esteemed old friend. Many were the
morning calls he did make; many were the weary, useless, aimless
walks which he took to that little street at the back of
Mecklenburg Square, with the fond hope of getting some relief
from Mr. M'Ruen; and many also were the calls, the return visits,
as it were, which Mr. M'Ruen made at the Internal Navigation, and
numerous were the whispers which he would there whisper into the
ears of the young clerk, Mr. Snape the while sitting by, with a
sweet unconscious look, as though he firmly believed Mr. M'Ruen
to be Charley's maternal uncle.

And then, too, Charley had other difficulties, which in his mind
presented great obstacles to the Golightly scheme, though Alaric
would have thought little of them, and Undy nothing. What was he
to do with his Norfolk Street lady, his barmaid houri, his Norah
Geraghty, to whom he had sworn all manner of undying love, and
for whom in some sort of fashion he really had an affection? And
Norah was not a light-of-love whom it was as easy to lay down as
to pick up. Charley had sworn to love her, and she had sworn to
love Charley; and to give her her due, she had kept her word to
him. Though her life rendered necessary a sort of daily or rather
nightly flirtation with various male comers--as indeed, for the
matter of that, did also the life of Miss Clementina Golightly--yet
she had in her way been true to her lover. She had been true
to him, and Charley did not doubt her, and in a sort of low way
respected her; though it was but a dissipated and debauched
respect. There had even been talk between them of marriage, and
who can say what in his softer moments, when his brain had been
too weak or the toddy too strong, Charley may not have promised?

And there was yet another objection to Miss Golightly; one even
more difficult of mention, one on which Charley felt himself more
absolutely constrained to silence than even either of the other
two. He was sufficiently disinclined to speak to his cousin
Alaric as to the merits either of Mr. Jabesh M'Ruen or of Miss
Geraghty, but he could have been eloquent on either rather than
whisper a word as to the third person who stood between him and
the £20,000.

The school in which Charley now lived, that of the infernal
navvies, had taught him to laugh at romance; but it had not been
so successful in quelling the early feelings of his youth, in
drying up the fountains of poetry within him, as had been the
case with his cousin, in that other school in which he had been a
scholar. Charley was a dissipated, dissolute rake, and in some
sense had degraded himself; but he had still this chance of
safety on his side, that he himself reprobated his own sins. He
dreamt of other things and a better life. He made visions to
himself of a sweet home, and a sweeter, sweetest, lovely wife; a
love whose hair should not be redolent of smoke, nor her hands
reeking with gin, nor her services at the demand of every
libertine who wanted a screw of tobacco, or a glass of 'cold
without.'

He had made such a vision to himself, and the angel with which he
had filled it was not a creature of his imagination. She who was
to reign in this ethereal paradise, this happy home, far as the
poles away from Norfolk Street, was a living being in the
sublunar globe, present sometimes to Charley's eyes, and now so
often present to his thoughts; and yet she was but a child, and
as ignorant that she had ever touched a lover's heart by her
childish charms as though she had been a baby.

After all, even on Charley's part, it was but a vision. He never
really thought that his young inamorata would or could be to him
a real true heart's companion, returning his love with the double
love of a woman, watching his health, curing his vices, and
making the sweet things of the world a living reality around him.
This love of his was but a vision, but not the less on that
account did it interfere with his cousin Alaric's proposition, in
reference to Miss Clementina Golightly.

That other love also, that squalid love of his, was in truth no
vision--was a stern, palpable reality, very difficult to get rid
of, and one which he often thought to himself would very probably
swallow up that other love, and drive his sweet dream far away
into utter darkness and dim chaotic space.

But at any rate it was clear that there was no room in his heart
for the beauteous Clementina, 'doosed fine girl' as she
undoubtedly was, and serviceable as the £20,000 most certainly
would have been.



CHAPTER XVIII

A DAY WITH ONE OF THE NAVVIES.--MORNING


On the morning after this conversation with Alaric, Charley left
his lodgings with a heavy heart, and wended his way towards
Mecklenburg Square. At the corner of Davies Street he got an
omnibus, which for fourpence took him to one of the little alleys
near Gray's Inn, and there he got down, and threading the well-known
locality, through Bedford Place and across Theobald's Road, soon
found himself at the door of his generous patron. Oh! how he
hated the house; how he hated the blear-eyed, cross-grained,
dirty, impudent fish-fag of an old woman who opened the door for
him; how he hated Mr. Jabesh M'Ruen, to whom he now came a
supplicant for assistance, and how, above all, he hated himself
for being there.

He was shown into Mr. M'Ruen's little front parlour, where he had
to wait for fifteen minutes, while his patron made such a
breakfast as generally falls to the lot of such men. We can
imagine the rancid butter, the stale befingered bread, the
ha'porth of sky-blue milk, the tea innocent of China's wrongs,
and the soiled cloth. Mr. M'Ruen always did keep Charley waiting
fifteen minutes, and so he was no whit surprised; the doing so
was a part of the tremendous interest which the wretched old
usurer received for his driblets of money.

There was not a bit of furniture in the room on which Charley had
not speculated till speculation could go no further; the old
escritoire or secrétaire which Mr. M'Ruen always opened the moment
he came into the room; the rickety Pembroke table, covered with
dirty papers which stood in the middle of it; the horsehair-bottomed
chairs, on which Charley declined to sit down, unless he had
on his thickest winter trousers, so perpendicular had become
some atoms on the surface, which, when new, had no doubt been
horizontal; the ornaments (!) on the chimney, broken bits of
filthy crockery, full of wisps of paper, with a china duck
without a tail, and a dog to correspond without a head; the
pictures against the wall, with their tarnished dingy frames and
cracked glasses, representing three of the Seasons; how the
fourth had gone before its time to its final bourne by an
unhappy chance, Mr. M'Ruen had once explained to Charley, while
endeavouring to make his young customer take the other three as a
good value for £7 10s. in arranging a little transaction, the
total amount of which did not exceed £15.

In that instance, however, Charley, who had already dabbled
somewhat deeply in dressing-cases, utterly refused to trade in
the articles produced.

Charley stood with his back to the dog and duck, facing Winter,
with Spring on his right and Autumn on his left; it was well that
Summer was gone, no summer could have shed light on that
miserable chamber. He knew that he would have to wait, and was
not therefore impatient, and at the end of fifteen minutes Mr.
M'Ruen shuffled into the room in his slippers.

He was a little man, with thin grey hair, which stood upright
from his narrow head--what his age might have been it was
impossible to guess; he was wizened, and dry, and grey, but still
active enough on his legs when he had exchanged his slippers for
his shoes; and as keen in all his senses as though years could
never tell upon him.

He always wore round his neck a stiff-starched deep white
handkerchief, not fastened with a bow in front, the ends being
tucked in so as to be invisible. This cravat not only covered his
throat but his chin also, so that his head seemed to grow forth
from it without the aid of any neck; and he had a trick of
turning his face round within it, an inch or two to the right or
to the left, in a manner which seemed to indicate that his
cranium was loose and might be removed at pleasure.

He shuffled into the room where Charley was standing with little
short quick steps, and putting out his hand, just touched that of
his customer, by way of going through the usual process of
greeting.

Some short statement must be made of Charley's money dealings
with Mr. M'Ruen up to this period. About two years back a tailor
had an over-due bill of his for £20, of which he was unable to
obtain payment, and being unwilling to go to law, or perhaps
being himself in Mr. M'Ruen's power, he passed this bill to that
worthy gentleman--what amount of consideration he got for it, it
matters not now to inquire; Mr. M'Ruen very shortly afterwards
presented himself at the Internal Navigation, and introduced
himself to our hero. He did this with none of the overbearing
harshness of the ordinary dun, or the short caustic decision of a
creditor determined to resort to the utmost severity of the law.
He turned his head about and smiled, and just showed the end of
the bill peeping out from among a parcel of others, begged Mr.
Tudor to be punctual, he would only ask him to be punctual, and
would in such case do anything for him, and ended his visit by
making an appointment to meet Charley in the little street behind
Mecklenburg Square. Charley kept his appointment, and came away
from Mr. M'Ruen's with a well-contented mind. He had, it is true,
left £5 behind him, and had also left the bill, still entire;
but he had obtained a promise of unlimited assistance from the
good-natured gentleman, and had also received instructions how he
was to get a brother clerk to draw a bill, how he was to accept
it himself, and how his patron was to discount it for him, paying
him real gold out of the Bank of England in exchange for his
worthless signature.

Charley stepped lighter on the ground as he left Mr. M'Ruen's
house on that eventful morning than he had done for many a day.
There was something delightful in the feeling that he could make
money of his name in this way, as great bankers do of theirs, by
putting it at the bottom of a scrap of paper. He experienced a
sort of pride too in having achieved so respectable a position in
the race of ruin which he was running, as to have dealings with a
bill-discounter. He felt that he was putting himself on a par
with great men, and rising above the low level of the infernal
navvies. Mr. M'Ruen had pulled the bill out of a heap of bills
which he always carried in his huge pocket-book, and showed to
Charley the name of an impoverished Irish peer on the back of it;
and the sight of that name had made Charley quite in love with
rum. He already felt that he was almost hand-and-glove with Lord
Mount-Coffeehouse; for it was a descendant of the nobleman so
celebrated in song. 'Only be punctual, Mr. Tudor; only be
punctual, and I will do anything for you,' Mr. M'Ruen had said,
as Charley left the house. Charley, however, never had been
punctual, and yet his dealings with Mr. M'Ruen had gone on from
that day to this. What absolute money he had ever received into
his hand he could not now have said, but it was very little,
probably not amounting in all to £50. Yet he had already paid
during the two years more than double that sum to this sharp-clawed
vulture, and still owed him the amounts of more bills than he
could number. Indeed he had kept no account of these double-fanged
little documents; he had signed them whenever told to do so,
and had even been so preposterously foolish as to sign them
in blank. All he knew was that at the beginning of every quarter
Mr. M'Ruen got nearly the half of his little modicum of salary,
and that towards the middle of it he usually contrived to obtain
an advance of some small, some very small sum, and that when
doing so he always put his hand to a fresh bit of paper.

He was beginning to be heartily sick of the bill-discounter. His
intimacy with the lord had not yet commenced, nor had he
experienced any of the delights which he had expected to accrue
to him from the higher tone of extravagance in which he entered
when he made Mr. M'Ruen's acquaintance. And then the horrid fatal
waste of time which he incurred in pursuit of the few pounds
which he occasionally obtained, filled even his heart with a sort
of despair. Morning after morning he would wait in that hated
room; and then day after day, at two o'clock, he would attend the
usurer's city haunt--and generally all in vain. The patience of
Mr. Snape was giving way, and the discipline even of the Internal
Navigation felt itself outraged.

And now Charley stood once more in that dingy little front
parlour in which he had never yet seen a fire, and once more Mr.
Jabesh M'Ruen shuffled into the room in his big cravat and dirty
loose slippers.

'How d'ye do, Mr. Tudor, how d'ye do? I hope you have brought a
little of this with you;' and Jabesh opened out his left hand,
and tapped the palm of it with the middle finger of his right, by
way of showing that he expected some money: not that he did
expect any, cormorant that he was; this was not the period of the
quarter in which he ever got money from his customer.

'Indeed I have not, Mr. M'Ruen; but I positively must get some.'

'Oh--oh--oh--oh--Mr. Tudor--Mr. Tudor! How can we go on if you
are so unpunctual? Now I would do anything for you if you would
only be punctual.'

'Oh! bother about that--you know your own game well enough.'

'Be punctual, Mr. Tudor, only be punctual, and we shall be all
right--and so you have not got any of this?' and Jabesh went
through the tapping again.

'Not a doit,' said Charley; 'but I shall be up the spout
altogether if you don't do something to help me.'

'But you are so unpunctual, Mr. Tudor.'

'Oh, d---- it; you'll make me sick if you say that again. What
else do you live by but that? But I positively must have some
money from you to-day. If not I am done for.'

'I don't think I can, Mr. Tudor; not to-day, Mr. Tudor--some
other day, say this day month; that is, if you'll be punctual.'

'This day month! no, but this very day, Mr. M'Ruen--why, you got
£18 from me when I received my last salary, and I have not had a
shilling back since.'

'But you are so unpunctual, Mr. Tudor,' and Jabesh twisted his
head backwards and forwards within his cravat, rubbing his chin
with the interior starch.

'Well, then, I'll tell you what it is,' said Charley, 'I'll be
shot if you get a shilling from me on the 1st of October, and you
may sell me up as quick as you please. If I don't give a history
of your business that will surprise some people, my name isn't
Tudor.'

'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed Mr. M'Ruen, with a soft quiet laugh.

'Well, really, Mr. Tudor, I would do more for you than any other
young man that I know, if you were only a little more punctual.
How much is it you want now?'

'£15--or £10--£10 will do.'

'Ten pounds!' said Jabesh, as though Charley had asked for ten
thousand--'ten pounds!--if two or three would do--'

'But two or three won't do.'

'And whose name will you bring?'

'Whose name! why Scatterall's, to be sure.' Now Scatterall was
one of the navvies; and from him Mr. M'Ruen had not yet succeeded
in extracting one farthing, though he had his name on a volume of
Charley's bills.

'Scatterall--I don't like Mr. Scatterall,' said Jabesh; 'he is
very dissipated, and the most unpunctual young man I ever met--you
really must get some one else, Mr. Tudor; you really must.'

'Oh, that's nonsense--Scatterall is as good as anybody--I
couldn't ask any of the other fellows--they are such a low set.'

'But Mr. Scatterall is so unpunctual. There's your cousin, Mr.
Alaric Tudor.'

'My cousin Alaric! Oh, nonsense! you don't suppose I'd ask him to
do such a thing? You might as well tell me to go to my father.'

'Or that other gentleman you live with; Mr. Norman. He is a most
punctual gentleman. Bring me his name, and I'll let you have £10
or £8--I'll let you have £8 at once.'

'I dare say you will, Mr. M'Ruen, or £80; and be only too happy
to give it me. But you know that is out of the question. Now I
won't wait any longer; just give me an answer to this: if I come
to you in the city will you let me have some money to-day? If you
won't, why I must go elsewhere--that's all.'

The interview ended by an appointment being made for another
meeting to come off at two p.m. that day, at the 'Banks of
Jordan,' a public-house in Sweeting's Alley, as well known to
Charley as the little front parlour of Mr. M'Ruen's house. 'Bring
the bill-stamp with you, Mr. Tudor,' said Jabesh, by way of a
last parting word of counsel; 'and let Mr. Scatterall sign it--that
is, if it must be Mr. Scatterall; but I wish you would bring
your cousin's name.'

'Nonsense!'

'Well, then, bring it signed--but I'll fill it; you young fellows
understand nothing of filling in a bill properly.'

And then taking his leave the infernal navvy hurried off, and
reached his office in Somerset House at a quarter past eleven
o'clock. As he walked along he bought the bit of stamped paper on
which his friend Scatterall was to write his name.

When he reached the office he found that a great commotion was
going on. Mr. Snape was standing up at his desk, and the first
word which greeted Charley's ears was an intimation from that
gentleman that Mr. Oldeschole had desired that Mr. Tudor, when he
arrived, should be instructed to attend in the board-room.

'Very well,' said Charley, in a tone of great indifference, 'with
all my heart; I rather like seeing Oldeschole now and then. But
he mustn't keep me long, for I have to meet my grandmother at
Islington at two o'clock;' and Charley, having hung up his hat,
prepared to walk off to the Secretary's room.

'You'll be good enough to wait a few minutes, Mr. Tudor,' said
Snape. 'Another gentleman is with Mr. Oldeschole at present. You
will be good enough to sit down and go on with the Kennett and
Avon lock entries, till Mr. Oldeschole is ready to see you.'

Charley sat down at his desk opposite to his friend Scatterall.
'I hope, Mr. Snape, you had a pleasant meeting at evening prayers
yesterday,' said he, with a tone of extreme interest.

'You had better mind the lock entries at present, Mr. Tudor; they
are greatly in arrear.'

'And the evening meetings are docketed up as close as wax, I
suppose. What the deuce is in the wind, Dick?' Mr. Scatterall's
Christian name was Richard. 'Where's Corkscrew?' Mr. Corkscrew
was also a navvy, and was one of those to whom Charley had
specially alluded when he spoke of the low set.

'Oh, here's a regular go,' said Scatterall. 'It's all up with
Corkscrew, I believe.'

'Why, what's the cheese now?'

'Oh! it's all about some pork chops, which Screwy had for supper
last night.' Screwy was a name of love which among his brother
navvies was given to Mr. Corkscrew. 'Mr. Snape seems to think
they did not agree with him.'

'Pork chops in July!' exclaimed Charley.

'Poor Screwy forgot the time of year,' said another navvy; 'he
ought to have called it lamb and grass.'

And then the story was told. On the preceding afternoon, Mr.
Corkscrew had been subjected to the dire temptation of a boating
party to the Eel-pie Island for the following day, and a dinner
thereon. There were to be at the feast no less than four-and-twenty
jolly souls, and it was intimated to Mr. Corkscrew that as no
soul was esteemed to be more jolly than his own, the party
would be considered as very imperfect unless he could join it.
Asking for a day's leave Mr. Corkscrew knew to be out of the
question; he had already taken too many without asking. He was
therefore driven to take another in the same way, and had to look
about for some excuse which might support him in his difficulty.
An excuse it must be, not only new, but very valid; one so strong
that it could not be overset; one so well avouched that it could
not be doubted. Accordingly, after mature consideration, he sat
down after leaving his office, and wrote the following letter,
before he started on an evening cruising expedition with some
others of the party to prepare for the next day's festivities.

'Thursday morning,--July, 185-.

'MY DEAR SIR,

'I write from my bed where I am suffering a most tremendous
indiggestion, last night I eat a stunning supper off pork chopps
and never remembered that pork chopps always does disagree with
me, but I was very indiscrete and am now teetotally unable to
rise my throbing head from off my pillar, I have took four blu
pills and some salts and sena, plenty of that, and shall be the
thing to-morrow morning no doubt, just at present I feel just as
if I had a mill stone inside my stomac--Pray be so kind as to
make it all right with Mr. Oldeschole and believe me to remain,

'Your faithful and obedient servant,

'VERAX CORKSCREW.

'Thomas Snape, Esq., &c.,

'Internal Navigation Office, Somerset House.'

Having composed this letter of excuse, and not intending to
return to his lodgings that evening, he had to make provision for
its safely reaching the hands of Mr. Snape in due time on the
following morning. This he did, by giving it to the boy who came
to clean the lodging-house boots, with sundry injunctions that if
he did not deliver it at the office by ten o'clock on the
following morning, the sixpence accruing to him would never be
paid. Mr. Corkscrew, however, said nothing as to the letter not
being delivered before ten the next morning, and as other
business took the boy along the Strand the same evening, he saw
no reason why he should not then execute his commission. He
accordingly did so, and duly delivered the letter into the hands
of a servant girl, who was cleaning the passages of the office.

Fortune on this occasion was blind to the merits of Mr.
Corkscrew, and threw him over most unmercifully. It so happened
that Mr. Snape had been summoned to an evening conference with
Mr. Oldeschole and the other pundits of the office, to discuss
with them, or rather to hear discussed, some measure which they
began to think it necessary to introduce, for amending the
discipline of the department.

'We are getting a bad name, whether we deserve it or not,' said
Mr. Oldeschole. 'That fellow Hardlines has put us into his
blue-book, and now there's an article in the _Times_!'

Just at this moment, a messenger brought in to Mr. Snape the
unfortunate letter of which we have given a copy.

'What's that?' said Mr. Oldeschole.

'A note from Mr. Corkscrew, sir,' said Snape.

'He's the worst of the whole lot,' said Mr. Oldeschole.

'He is very bad,' said Snape; 'but I rather think that perhaps,
sir, Mr. Tudor is the worst of all.'

'Well, I don't know,' said the Secretary, muttering _sotto
voce_ to the Under-Secretary, while Mr. Snape read the letter
--'Tudor, at any rate, is a gentleman.'

Mr. Snape read the letter, and his face grew very long. There was
a sort of sneaking civility about Corkscrew, not prevalent indeed
at all times, but which chiefly showed itself when he and Mr.
Snape were alone together, which somewhat endeared him to the
elder clerk. He would have screened the sinner had he had either
the necessary presence of mind or the necessary pluck. But he had
neither. He did not know how to account for the letter but by the
truth, and he feared to conceal so flagrant a breach of
discipline at the moment of the present discussion.

Things at any rate so turned out that Mr. Corkscrew's letter was
read in full conclave in the board-room of the office, just as he
was describing the excellence of his manoeuvre with great glee to
four or five other jolly souls at the 'Magpie and Stump.'

At first it was impossible to prevent a fit of laughter, in which
even Mr. Snape joined; but very shortly the laughter gave way to
the serious considerations to which such an epistle was sure to
give rise at such a moment. What if Sir Gregory Hardlines should
get hold of it and put it into his blue-book! What if the
_Times_ should print it and send it over the whole world,
accompanied by a few of its most venomous touches, to the eternal
disgrace of the Internal Navigation, and probably utter
annihilation of Mr. Oldeschole's official career! An example must
be made!

Yes, an example must be made. Messengers were sent off scouring
the town for Mr. Corkscrew, and about midnight he was found,
still true to the 'Magpie and Stump,' but hardly in condition to
understand the misfortune which had befallen him. So much as
this, however, did make itself manifest to him, that he must by
no means join his jolly-souled brethren at the Eel-pie Island,
and that he must be at his office punctually at ten o'clock the
next morning if he had any intention of saving himself from
dismissal. When Charley arrived at his office, Mr. Corkscrew was
still with the authorities, and Charley's turn was to come next.

Charley was rather a favourite with Mr. Oldeschole, having been
appointed by himself at the instance of Mr. Oldeschole's great
friend, Sir Gilbert de Salop; and he was, moreover, the best-looking
of the whole lot of navvies; but he was no favourite with Mr. Snape.

'Poor Screwy--it will be all up with him,' said Charley. 'He
might just as well have gone on with his party and had his fun
out.'

'It will, I imagine, be necessary to make more than one example,
Mr. Tudor,' said Mr. Snape, with a voice of utmost severity.

'A-a-a-men,' said Charley. 'If everything else fails, I think
I'll go into the green line. You couldn't give me a helping hand,
could you, Mr. Snape?' There was a rumour afloat in the office
that Mr. Snape's wife held some little interest in a small
greengrocer's establishment.

'Mr. Tudor to attend in the board-room, immediately,' said a fat
messenger, who opened the door wide with a start, and then stood
with it in his hand while he delivered the message.

'All right,' said Charley; 'I'll tumble up and be with them in
ten seconds;' and then collecting together a large bundle of the
arrears of the Kennett and Avon lock entries, being just as much
as he could carry, he took the disordered papers and placed them
on Mr. Snape's desk, exactly over the paper on which he was
writing, and immediately under his nose.

'Mr. Tudor--Mr. Tudor!' said Snape.

'As I am to tear myself away from you, Mr. Snape, it is better
that I should hand over these valuable documents to your safe
keeping. There they are, Mr. Snape; pray see that you have got
them all;' and so saying, he left the room to attend to the high
behests of Mr. Oldeschole.

As he went along the passages he met Verax Corkscrew returning
from his interview. 'Well, Screwy,' said he, 'and how fares it
with you? Pork chops are bad things in summer, ain't they?'

'It's all U-P,' said Corkscrew, almost crying. 'I'm to go down to
the bottom, and I'm to stay at the office till seven o'clock
every day for a month; and old Foolscap says he'll ship me the
next time I'm absent half-an-hour without leave.'

'Oh! is that all?' said Charley. 'If that's all you get for pork
chops and senna, I'm all right. I shouldn't wonder if I did not
get promoted;' and so he went in to his interview.

What was the nature of the advice given him, what amount of
caution he was called on to endure, need not here be exactly
specified. We all know with how light a rod a father chastises
the son he loves, let Solomon have given what counsel he may to
the contrary. Charley, in spite of his manifold sins, was a
favourite, and he came forth from the board-room an unscathed
man. In fact, he had been promoted as he had surmised, seeing
that Corkscrew who had been his senior was now his junior. He
came forth unscathed, and walking with an easy air into his room,
put his hat on his head and told his brother clerks that he
should be there to-morrow morning at ten, or at any rate soon
after.

'And where are you going now, Mr. Tudor?' said Snape.

'To meet my grandmother at Islington, if you please, sir,' said
Charley. 'I have permission from Mr. Oldeschole to attend upon
her for the rest of the day--perhaps you would like to ask him.'
And so saying he went off to his appointment with Mr. M'Ruen at
the 'Banks of Jordan.'



CHAPTER XIX

A DAY WITH ONE OF THE NAVVIES.--AFTERNOON


The 'Banks of Jordan' was a public-house in the city, which from
its appearance did not seem to do a very thriving trade; but as
it was carried on from year to year in the same dull, monotonous,
dead-alive sort of fashion, it must be surmised that some one
found an interest in keeping it open.

Charley, when he entered the door punctually at two o'clock, saw
that it was as usual nearly deserted. One long, lanky, middle-aged
man, seedy as to his outward vestments, and melancholy in
countenance, sat at one of the tables. But he was doing very
little good for the establishment: he had no refreshment of any
kind before him, and was intent only on a dingy pocket-book in
which he was making entries with a pencil.

You enter the 'Banks of Jordan' by two folding doors in a corner
of a very narrow alley behind the Exchange. As you go in,
you observe on your left a little glass partition, something
like a large cage, inside which, in a bar, are four or five
untempting-looking bottles; and also inside the cage, on a chair,
is to be seen a quiet-looking female, who is invariably engaged in
the manufacture of some white article of inward clothing. Anything
less like the flashy-dressed bar-maidens of the western gin
palaces it would be difficult to imagine. To this encaged
sempstress no one ever speaks unless it be to give a rare order
for a mutton chop or pint of stout. And even for this she hardly
stays her sewing for a moment, but touches a small bell, and the
ancient waiter, who never shows himself but when called for, and
who is the only other inhabitant of the place ever visible,
receives the order from her through an open pane in the cage as
quietly as she received it from her customer.

The floor of the single square room of the establishment is
sanded, and the tables are ranged round the walls, each table
being fixed to the floor, and placed within wooden partitions, by
which the occupier is screened from any inquiring eyes on either
side.

Such was Mr. Jabesh M'Ruen's house-of-call in the city, and of
many a mutton chop and many a pint of stout had Charley partaken
there while waiting for the man of money. To him it seemed to be
inexcusable to sit down in a public inn and call for nothing; he
perceived, however, that the large majority of the frequenters of
the 'Banks of Jordan' so conducted themselves.

He was sufficiently accustomed to the place to know how to give
his orders without troubling that diligent barmaid, and had done
so about ten minutes when Jabesh, more punctual than usual,
entered the place. This Charley regarded as a promising sign of
forthcoming cash. It very frequently happened that he waited
there an hour, and that after all Jabesh would not come; and then
the morning visit to Mecklenburg Square had to be made again; and
so poor Charley's time, or rather the time of his poor office,
was cut up, wasted, and destroyed.

'A mutton chop!' said Mr. M'Ruen, looking at Charley's banquet.
'A very nice thing indeed in the middle of the day. I don't mind
if I have one myself,' and so Charley had to order another chop
and more stout.

'They have very nice sherry here, excellent sherry,' said M'Ruen.
'The best, I think, in the city--that's why I come here.'

'Upon my honour, Mr. M'Ruen, I shan't have money to pay for it
until I get some from you,' said Charley, as he called for a pint
of sherry.

'Never mind, John, never mind the sherry to-day,' said M'Ruen.
'Mr. Tudor is very kind, but I'll take beer;' and the little man
gave a laugh and twisted his head, and ate his chop and drank his
stout, as though he found that both were very good indeed. When
he had finished, Charley paid the bill and discovered that he was
left with ninepence in his pocket.

And then he produced the bill stamp. 'Waiter,' said he, 'pen and
ink,' and the waiter brought pen and ink.

'Not to-day,' said Jabesh, wiping his mouth with the table-cloth.
'Not to-day, Mr. Tudor--I really haven't time to go into it
to-day--and I haven't brought the other bills with me; I quite
forgot to bring the other bills with me, and I can do nothing
without them,' and Mr. M'Ruen got up to go.

But this was too much for Charley. He had often before bought
bill stamps in vain, and in vain had paid for mutton chops and
beer for Mr. M'Ruen's dinner; but he had never before, when doing
so, been so hard pushed for money as he was now. He was
determined to make a great attempt to gain his object.

'Nonsense,' said he, getting up and standing so as to prevent
M'Ruen from leaving the box; 'that's d---- nonsense.'

'Oh! don't swear,' said M'Ruen--'pray don't take God's name in
vain; I don't like it.'

'I shall swear, and to some purpose too, if that's your game. Now
look here----'

'Let me get up, and we'll talk of it as we go to the bank--you
are so unpunctual, you know.'

'D---- your punctuality.'

'Oh! don't swear, Mr. Tudor.'

'Look here--if you don't let me have this money to-day, by all
that is holy I will never pay you a farthing again--not one
farthing; I'll go into the court, and you may get your money as
you can.'

'But, Mr. Tudor, let me get up, and we'll talk about it in the
street, as we go along.'

'There's the stamp,' said Charley. 'Fill it up, and then I'll go
with you to the bank.'

M'Ruen took the bit of paper, and twisted it over and over again
in his hand, considering the while whether he had yet squeezed
out of the young man all that could be squeezed with safety, or
whether by an additional turn, by giving him another small
advancement, he might yet get something more. He knew that Tudor
was in a very bad state, that he was tottering on the outside
edge of the precipice; but he also knew that he had friends.
Would his friends when they came forward to assist their young
Pickle out of the mire, would they pay such bills as these or
would they leave poor Jabesh to get his remedy at law? That was
the question which Mr. M'Ruen had to ask and to answer. He was
not one of those noble vultures who fly at large game, and who
are willing to run considerable risk in pursuit of their prey.
Mr. M'Ruen avoided courts of law as much as he could, and
preferred a small safe trade; one in which the fall of a single
customer could never be ruinous to him; in which he need run no
risk of being transported for forgery, incarcerated for perjury,
or even, if possibly it might be avoided, gibbeted by some lawyer
or judge for his malpractices.

'But you are so unpunctual,' he said, having at last made up his
mind that he had made a very good thing of Charley, and that
probably he might go a _little_ further without much danger.
'I wish to oblige you, Mr. Tudor; but pray do be punctual;' and
so saying he slowly spread the little document before him, across
which Scatterall had already scrawled his name, and slowly began
to write in the date. Slowly, with his head low down over the
table, and continually twisting it inside his cravat, he filled
up the paper, and then looking at it with the air of a connoisseur
in such matters, he gave it to Charley to sign.

'But you haven't put in the amount,' said Charley.

Mr. M'Ruen twisted his head and laughed. He delighted in playing
with his game as a fisherman does with a salmon. 'Well--no--I
haven't put in the amount yet. Do you sign it, and I'll do that
at once.'

'I'll do it,' said Charley; 'I'll say £15, and you'll give me £10
on that.'

'No, no, no!' said Jabesh, covering the paper over with his
hands; 'you young men know nothing of filling bills; just sign
it, Mr. Tudor, and I'll do the rest.' And so Charley signed it,
and then M'Ruen, again taking the pen, wrote in 'fifteen pounds'
as the recognized amount of the value of the document. He also
took out his pocket-book and filled a cheque, but he was very
careful that Charley should not see the amount there written.
'And now,' said he, 'we will go to the bank.'

As they made their way to the house in Lombard Street which Mr.
M'Ruen honoured by his account, Charley insisted on knowing how
much he was to have for the bill. Jabesh suggested £3 10s.;
Charley swore he would take nothing less than £8; but by the time
they had arrived at the bank, it had been settled that £5 was to
be paid in cash, and that Charley was to have the three Seasons
for the balance whenever he chose to send for them. When Charley,
as he did at first, positively refused to accede to these terms,
Mr. M'Ruen tendered him back the bill, and reminded him with a
plaintive voice that he was so unpunctual, so extremely
unpunctual.

Having reached the bank, which the money-lender insisted on
Charley entering with him, Mr. M'Ruen gave the cheque across the
counter, and wrote on the back of it the form in which he would
take the money, whereupon a note and five sovereigns were handed
to him. The cheque was for £15, and was payable to C. Tudor,
Esq., so that proof might be forthcoming at a future time, if
necessary, that he had given to his customer full value for the
bill. Then in the outer hall of the bank, unseen by the clerks,
he put, one after another, slowly and unwillingly, four
sovereigns into Charley's hand.

'The other--where's the other?' said Charley.

Jabesh smiled sweetly and twisted his head.

'Come, give me the other,' said Charley roughly.

'Four is quite enough, quite enough for what you want; and
remember my time, Mr. Tudor; you should remember my time.'

'Give me the other sovereign,' said Charley, taking hold of the
front of his coat.

'Well, well, you shall have ten shillings; but I want the rest
for a purpose.'

'Give me the sovereign,' said Charley, 'or I'll drag you in
before them all in the bank and expose you; give me the other
sovereign, I say.'

'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed Mr. M'Ruen; 'I thought you liked a joke,
Mr. Tudor. Well, here it is. And now do be punctual, pray do be
punctual, and I'll do anything I can for you.'

And then they parted, Charley going westward towards his own
haunts, and M'Ruen following his daily pursuits in the city.

Charley had engaged to pull up to Avis's at Putney with Harry
Norman, to dine there, take a country walk, and row back in the
cool of the evening; and he had promised to call at the Weights
and Measures with that object punctually at five.

'You can get away in time for that, I suppose,' said Harry.

'Well, I'll try and manage it,' said Charley, laughing.

Nothing could be kinder, nay, more affectionate, than Norman had
been to his fellow-lodger during the last year and a half. It
seemed as though he had transferred to Alaric's cousin all the
friendship which he had once felt for Alaric; and the deeper were
Charley's sins of idleness and extravagance, the wider grew
Norman's forgiveness, and the more sincere his efforts to
befriend him. As one result of this, Charley was already deep in
his debt. Not that Norman had lent him money, or even paid bills
for him; but the lodgings in which they lived had been taken by
Norman, and when the end of the quarter came he punctually paid
his landlady.

Charley had once, a few weeks before the period of which we are
now writing, told Norman that he had no money to pay his long
arrear, and that he would leave the lodgings and shift for
himself as best he could. He had said the same thing to Mrs.
Richards, the landlady, and had gone so far as to pack up all his
clothes; but his back was no sooner turned than Mrs. Richards,
under Norman's orders, unpacked them all, and hid away the
portmanteau. It was well for him that this was done. He had
bespoken for himself a bedroom at the public-house in Norfolk
Street, and had he once taken up his residence there he would
have been ruined for ever.

He was still living with Norman, and ever increasing his debt. In
his misery at this state of affairs, he had talked over with
Harry all manner of schemes for increasing his income, but he had
never told him a word about Mr. M'Ruen. Why his salary, which was
now £150 per annum, should not be able to support him, Norman
never asked. Charley the while was very miserable, and the more
miserable he was, the less he found himself able to rescue
himself from his dissipation. What moments of ease he had were
nearly all spent in Norfolk Street; and such being the case how
could he abstain from going there?

'Well, Charley, and how do 'Crinoline and Macassar' go on?' said
Norman, as they sauntered away together up the towing-path above
Putney. Now there were those who had found out that Charley
Tudor, in spite of his wretched, idle, vagabond mode of life, was
no fool; indeed, that there was that talent within him which, if
turned to good account, might perhaps redeem him from ruin and set
him on his legs again; at least so thought some of his friends,
among whom Mrs. Woodward was the most prominent. She insisted that
if he would make use of his genius he might employ his spare time
to great profit by writing for magazines or periodicals; and,
inspirited by so flattering a proposition, Charley had got himself
introduced to the editor of a newly-projected publication. At his
instance he was to write a tale for approval, and 'Crinoline and
Macassar' was the name selected for his first attempt.

The affair had been fully talked over at Hampton, and it had been
arranged that the young author should submit his story, when
completed, to the friendly criticism of the party assembled at
Surbiton Cottage, before he sent it to the editor. He had
undertaken to have 'Crinoline and Macassar' ready for perusal on
the next Saturday, and in spite of Mr. M'Ruen and Norah Geraghty,
he had really been at work.

'Will it be finished by Saturday, Charley?' said Norman.

'Yes--at least I hope so; but if that's not done, I have another
all complete.'

'Another! and what is that called?'

'Oh, that's a very short one,' said Charley, modestly.

'But, short as it is, it must have a name, I suppose. What's the
name of the short one?'

'Why, the name is long enough; it's the longest part about it.
The editor gave me the name, you know, and then I had to write
the story. It's to be called "Sir Anthony Allan-a-dale and the
Baron of Ballyporeen."'

'Oh! two rival knights in love with the same lady, of course,'
and Harry gave a gentle sigh as he thought of his own still
unhealed grief. 'The scene is laid in Ireland, I presume?'

'No, not in Ireland; at least not exactly. I don't think the
scene is laid anywhere in particular; it's up in a mountain, near
a castle. There isn't any lady in it--at least, not alive.'

'Heavens, Charley! I hope you are not dealing with dead women.'

'No--that is, I have to bring them to life again. I'll tell you
how it is. In the first paragraph, Sir Anthony Allan-a-dale is
lying dead, and the Baron of Ballyporeen is standing over him
with a bloody sword. You must always begin with an incident now,
and then hark back for your explanation and description; that's
what the editor says is the great secret of the present day, and
where we beat all the old fellows that wrote twenty years ago.'

'Oh!--yes--I see. They used to begin at the beginning; that was
very humdrum.'

'A devilish bore, you know, for a fellow who takes up a novel
because he's dull. Of course he wants his fun at once. If you
begin with a long history of who's who and all that, why he won't
read three pages; but if you touch him up with a startling
incident or two at the first go off, then give him a chapter of
horrors, then another of fun, then a little love or a little
slang, or something of that sort, why, you know, about the end of
the first volume, you may describe as much as you like, and tell
everything about everybody's father and mother for just as many
pages as you want to fill. At least that's what the editor says.'

'_Meleager ab ovo_ may be introduced with safety when you
get as far as that,' suggested Norman.

'Yes, you may bring him in too, if you like,' said Charley, who
was somewhat oblivious of his classicalities. 'Well, Sir Anthony
is lying dead and the Baron is standing over him, when out come
Sir Anthony's retainers----'

'Out--out of what?'

'Out of the castle: that's all explained afterwards. Out come the
retainers, and pitch into the Baron till they make mincemeat of
him.'

'They don't kill him, too?'

'Don't they though? I rather think they do, and no mistake.'

'And so both your heroes are dead in the first chapter.'

'First chapter! why that's only the second paragraph. I'm only to
be allowed ten paragraphs for each number, and I am expected to
have an incident for every other paragraph for the first four
days.'

'That's twenty incidents.'

'Yes--it's a great bother finding so many.--I'm obliged to make
the retainers come by all manner of accidents; and I should never
have finished the job if I hadn't thought of setting the castle
on fire. 'And now forked tongues of liquid fire, and greedy
lambent flames burst forth from every window of the devoted
edifice. The devouring element----.' That's the best passage in
the whole affair.'

'This is for the _Daily Delight_, isn't it?'

'Yes, for the _Daily Delight_. It is to begin on the 1st of
September with the partridges. We expect a most tremendous sale.
It will be the first halfpenny publication in the market, and as
the retailers will get them for sixpence a score--twenty-four to
the score--they'll go off like wildfire.'

'Well, Charley, and what do you do with the dead bodies of your
two heroes?'

'Of course I needn't tell you that it was not the Baron who
killed Sir Anthony at all.'

'Oh! wasn't it? O dear--that was a dreadful mistake on the part
of the retainers.'

'But as natural as life. You see these two grandees were
next-door neighbours, and there had been a feud between the families
for seven centuries--a sort of Capulet and Montague affair. One
Adelgitha, the daughter of the Thane of Allan-a-dale--there were
Thanes in those days, you know--was betrothed to the eldest son
of Sir Waldemar de Ballyporeen. This gives me an opportunity of
bringing in a succinct little account of the Conquest, which will
be beneficial to the lower classes. The editor peremptorily
insists upon that kind of thing.'

'_Omne tulit punctum_,' said Norman.

'Yes, I dare say,' said Charley, who was now too intent on his
own new profession to attend much to his friend's quotation.
'Well, where was I?--Oh! the eldest son of Sir Waldemar went off
with another lady and so the feud began. There is a very pretty
scene between Adelgitha and her lady's-maid.'

'What, seven centuries before the story begins?'

'Why not? The editor says that the unities are altogether thrown
over now, and that they are regular bosh--our game is to stick in
a good bit whenever we can get it--I got to be so fond of
Adelgitha that I rather think she's the heroine.'

'But doesn't that take off the interest from your dead grandees?'

'Not a bit; I take it chapter and chapter about. Well, you see,
the retainers had no sooner made mincemeat of the Baron--a very
elegant young man was the Baron, just returned from the
Continent, where he had learnt to throw aside all prejudices
about family feuds and everything eke, and he had just come over
in a friendly way, to say as much to Sir Anthony, when, as he
crossed the drawbridge, he stumbled over the corpse of his
ancient enemy--well, the retainers had no sooner made mincemeat
of him, than they perceived that Sir Anthony was lying with an
open bottle in his hand, and that he had taken poison.'

'Having committed suicide?' asked Norman.

'No, not at all. The editor says that we must always have a slap
at some of the iniquities of the times. He gave me three or four
to choose from; there was the adulteration of food, and the want
of education for the poor, and street music, and the miscellaneous
sale of poisons.'

'And so you chose poisons and killed the knight?'

'Exactly; at least I didn't kill him, for he comes all right
again after a bit. He had gone out to get something to do him
good after a hard night, a Seidlitz powder, or something of that
sort, and an apothecary's apprentice had given him prussic acid
in mistake.'

'And how is it possible he should have come to life after taking
prussic acid?'

'Why, there I have a double rap at the trade. The prussic acid is
so bad of its kind, that it only puts him into a kind of torpor
for a week. Then we have the trial of the apothecary's boy; that
is an excellent episode, and gives me a grand hit at the
absurdity of our criminal code.'

'Why, Charley, it seems to me that you are hitting at
everything.'

'Oh! ah! right and left, that's the game for us authors. The
press is the only _censor morum_ going now--and who so fit?
Set a thief to catch a thief, you know. Well, I have my hit at
the criminal code, and then Sir Anthony comes out of his torpor.'

'But how did it come to pass that the Baron's sword was all
bloody?'

'Ah, there was the difficulty; I saw that at once. It was
necessary to bring in something to be killed, you know. I thought
of a stray tiger out of Wombwell's menagerie; but the editor says
that we must not trespass against the probabilities; so I have
introduced a big dog. The Baron had come across a big dog, and
seeing that the brute had a wooden log tied to his throat,
thought he must be mad, and so he killed him.'

'And what's the end of it, Charley?'

'Why, the end is rather melancholy. Sir Anthony reforms, leaves
off drinking, and takes to going to church everyday. He becomes a
Puseyite, puts up a memorial window to the Baron, and reads the
Tracts. At last he goes over to the Pope, walks about in nasty
dirty clothes all full of vermin, and gives over his estate to
Cardinal Wiseman. Then there are the retainers; they all come to
grief, some one way and some another. I do that for the sake of
the Nemesis.'

'I would not have condescended to notice them, I think,' said
Norman.

'Oh! I must; there must be a Nemesis. The editor specially
insists on a Nemesis.'

The conclusion of Charley's novel brought them back to the boat.
Norman, when he started, had intended to employ the evening in
giving good counsel to his friend, and in endeavouring to arrange
some scheme by which he might rescue the brand from the burning;
but he had not the heart to be severe and sententious while
Charley was full of his fun. It was so much pleasanter to talk to
him on the easy terms of equal friendship than turn Mentor and
preach a sermon.

'Well, Charley,' said he, as they were walking up from the boat
wharf--Norman to his club, and Charley towards his lodgings--from
which route, however, he meant to deviate as soon as ever he
might be left alone--'well, Charley, I wish you success with all
my heart; I wish you could do something--I won't say to keep you
out of mischief.'

'I wish I could, Harry,' said Charley, thoroughly abashed; 'I
wish I could--indeed I wish I could--but it is so hard to go
right when one has begun to go wrong.'

'It is hard; I know it is.'

'But you never can know how hard, Harry, for you have never
tried,' and then they went on walking for a while in silence,
side by side.

'You don't know the sort of place that office of mine is,'
continued Charley. 'You don't know the sort of fellows the men
are. I hate the place; I hate the men I live with. It is all so
dirty, so disreputable, so false. I cannot conceive that any
fellow put in there as young as I was should ever do well
afterwards.'

'But at any rate you might try your best, Charley.'

'Yes, I might do that still; and I know I don't; and where should
I have been now, if it hadn't been for you?'

'Never mind about that; I sometimes think we might have done more
for each other if we had been more together. But remember the
motto you said you'd choose, Charley--Excelsior! We can none of
us mount the hill without hard labour. Remember that word,
Charley--Excelsior! Remember it now--now, to-night; remember how
you dream of higher things, and begin to think of them in your
waking moments also;' and so they parted.



CHAPTER XX

A DAY WITH ONE OF THE NAVVIES.--EVENING

 'Excelsior!' said Charley to himself, as he walked on a few
steps towards his lodgings, having left Norman at the door of his
club. 'Remember it now--now, to-night.'

Yes--now is the time to remember it, if it is ever to be
remembered to any advantage. He went on with stoic resolution to
the end of the street, determined to press home and put the last
touch to 'Crinoline and Macassar;' but as he went he thought of
his interview with Mr. M'Ruen and of the five sovereigns still in
his pocket, and altered his course.

Charley had not been so resolute with the usurer, so determined
to get £5 from him on this special day, without a special object
in view. His credit was at stake in a more than ordinary manner;
he had about a week since borrowed money from the woman who kept
the public-house in Norfolk Street, and having borrowed it for a
week only, felt that this was a debt of honour which it was
incumbent on him to pay. Therefore, when he had walked the length
of one street on his road towards his lodgings, he retraced his
steps and made his way back to his old haunts.

The house which he frequented was hardly more like a modern
London gin-palace than was that other house in the city which Mr.
M'Ruen honoured with his custom. It was one of those small
tranquil shrines of Bacchus in which the god is worshipped
perhaps with as constant a devotion, though with less noisy
demonstrations of zeal than in his larger and more public
temples. None absolutely of the lower orders were encouraged to
come thither for oblivion. It had about it nothing inviting to
the general eye. No gas illuminations proclaimed its midnight
grandeur. No huge folding doors, one set here and another there,
gave ingress and egress to a wretched crowd of poverty-stricken
midnight revellers. No reiterated assertions in gaudy letters,
each a foot long, as to the peculiar merits of the old tom or
Hodge's cream of the valley, seduced the thirsty traveller. The
panelling over the window bore the simple announcement, in modest
letters, of the name of the landlady, Mrs. Davis; and the same
name appeared with equal modesty on the one gas lamp opposite the
door.

Mrs. Davis was a widow, and her customers were chiefly people who
knew her and frequented her house regularly. Lawyers' clerks, who
were either unmarried, or whose married homes were perhaps not so
comfortable as the widow's front parlour; tradesmen, not of the
best sort, glad to get away from the noise of their children;
young men who had begun the cares of life in ambiguous positions,
just on the confines of respectability, and who, finding
themselves too weak in flesh to cling on to the round of the
ladder above them, were sinking from year to year to lower steps,
and depths even below the level of Mrs. Davis's public-house. To
these might be added some few of a somewhat higher rank in life,
though perhaps of a lower rank of respectability; young men
who, like Charley Tudor and his comrades, liked their ease and
self-indulgence, and were too indifferent as to the class of
companions against whom they might rub their shoulders while
seeking it.

The 'Cat and Whistle,' for such was the name of Mrs. Davis's
establishment, had been a house of call for the young men of the
Internal Navigation long before Charley's time. What first gave
rise to the connexion it is not now easy to say; but Charley had
found it, and had fostered it into a close alliance, which
greatly exceeded any amount of intimacy which existed previously
to his day.

It must not be presumed that he, in an ordinary way, took his
place among the lawyers' clerks, and general run of customers in
the front parlour; occasionally he condescended to preside there
over the quiet revels, to sing a song for the guests, which was
sure to be applauded to the echo, and to engage in a little
skirmish of politics with a retired lamp-maker and a silversmith's
foreman from the Strand, who always called him 'Sir,' and received
what he said with the greatest respect; but, as a rule, he quaffed
his Falernian in a little secluded parlour behind the bar, in which
sat the widow Davis, auditing her accounts in the morning, and
giving out orders in the evening to Norah Geraghty, her barmaid,
and to an attendant sylph, who ministered to the front parlour,
taking in goes of gin and screws of tobacco, and bringing out
the price thereof with praiseworthy punctuality.

Latterly, indeed, Charley had utterly deserted the front parlour;
for there had come there a pestilent fellow, highly connected
with the Press, as the lamp-maker declared, but employed as an
assistant shorthand-writer somewhere about the Houses of
Parliament, according to the silversmith, who greatly interfered
with our navvy's authority. He would not at all allow that what
Charley said was law, entertained fearfully democratic principles
of his own, and was not at all the gentleman. So Charley drew
himself up, declined to converse any further on politics with a
man who seemed to know more about them than himself, and confined
himself exclusively to the inner room.

On arriving at this elysium, on the night in question, he found
Mrs. Davis usefully engaged in darning a stocking, while
Scatterall sat opposite with a cigar in his mouth, his hat over
his nose, and a glass of gin and water before him.

'I began to think you weren't coming,' said Scatterall, 'and I
was getting so deuced dull that I was positively thinking of
going home.'

'That's very civil of you, Mr. Scatterall,' said the widow.

'Well, you've been sitting there for the last half-hour without
saying a word to me; and it is dull. Looking at a woman mending
stockings is dull, ain't it, Charley?'

'That depends,' said Charley, 'partly on whom the woman may be,
and partly on whom the man may be. Where's Norah, Mrs. Davis?'

'She's not very well to-night; she has got a headache; there
ain't many of them here to-night, so she's lying down.'

'A little seedy, I suppose,' said Scatterall.

Charley felt rather angry with his friend for applying such an
epithet to his lady-love; however, he did not resent it, but
sitting down, lighted his pipe and sipped his gin and water.

And so they sat for the next quarter of an hour, saying very
little to each other. What was the nature of the attraction which
induced two such men as Charley Tudor and Dick Scatterall to give
Mrs. Davis the benefit of their society, while she was mending
her stockings, it might be difficult to explain. They could have
smoked in their own rooms as well, and have drunk gin and water
there, if they had any real predilection for that mixture. Mrs.
Davis was neither young nor beautiful, nor more than ordinarily
witty. Charley, it is true, had an allurement to entice him
thither, but this could not be said of Scatterall, to whom the
lovely Norah was never more than decently civil. Had they been
desired, in their own paternal halls, to sit and see their
mother's housekeeper darn the family stockings, they would,
probably, both of them have rebelled, even though the supply of
tobacco and gin and water should be gratuitous and unlimited.

It must be presumed that the only charm of the pursuit was in its
acknowledged impropriety. They both understood that there was
something fast in frequenting Mrs. Davis's inner parlour,
something slow in remaining at home; and so they both sat there,
and Mrs. Davis went on with her darning-needle, nothing abashed.

'Well, I think I shall go,' said Scatterall, shaking off the last
ash from the end of his third cigar.

'Do,' said Charley; 'you should be careful, you know; late hours
will hurt your complexion.'

'It's so deuced dull,' said Scatterall.

'Why don't you go into the parlour, and have a chat with the
gentlemen?' suggested Mrs. Davis; 'there's Mr. Peppermint there
now, lecturing about the war; upon my word he talks very well.'

'He's so deuced low,' said Scatterall.

'He's a bumptious noisy blackguard too,' said Charley; 'he
doesn't know how to speak to a gentleman, when he meets one.'

Scatterall gave a great yawn. 'I suppose you're not going,
Charley?' said he.

'Oh yes, I am,' said Charley, 'in about two hours.'

'Two hours! well, good night, old fellow, for I'm off. Three
cigars, Mrs. Davis, and two goes of gin and water, the last
cold.' Then, having made this little commercial communication to
the landlady, he gave another yawn, and took himself away. Mrs.
Davis opened her little book, jotted down the items, and then,
having folded up her stockings, and put them into a basket,
prepared herself for conversation.

But, though Mrs. Davis prepared herself for conversation, she did
not immediately commence it. Having something special to say, she
probably thought that she might improve her opportunity of saying
it by allowing Charley to begin. She got up and pottered about
the room, went to a cupboard, and wiped a couple of glasses, and
then out into the bar and arranged the jugs and pots. This done,
she returned to the little room, and again sat herself down in
her chair.

'Here's your five pounds, Mrs. Davis,' said Charley; 'I wish you
knew the trouble I have had to get it for you.'

To give Mrs. Davis her due, this was not the subject on which she
was anxious to speak. She would have been at present well
inclined that Charley should remain her debtor. 'Indeed, Mr.
Tudor, I am very sorry you should have taken any trouble on such
a trifle. If you're short of money, it will do for me just as
well in October.'

Charley looked at the sovereigns, and bethought himself how very
short of cash he was. Then he thought of the fight he had had to
get them, in order that he might pay the money which he had felt
so ashamed of having borrowed, and he determined to resist the
temptation.

'Did you ever know me flush of cash? You had better take them
while you can get them,' and as he pushed them across the table
with his stick, he remembered that all he had left was ninepence.

'I don't want the money at present, Mr. Tudor,' said the widow.
'We're such old friends that there ought not to be a word between
us about such a trifle--now don't leave yourself bare; take what
you want and settle with me at quarter-day.'

'Well, I'll take a sovereign,' said he, 'for to tell you the
truth, I have only the ghost of a shilling in my pocket.' And so
it was settled; Mrs. Davis reluctantly pocketed four of Mr.
M'Ruen's sovereigns, and Charley kept in his own possession the
fifth, as to which he had had so hard a combat in the lobby of
the bank.

He then sat silent for a while and smoked, and Mrs. Davis again
waited for him to begin the subject on which she wished to speak.
'And what's the matter with Norah all this time?' he said at
last.

'What's the matter with her?' repeated Mrs. Davis. 'Well, I think
you might know what's the matter with her. You don't suppose
she's made of stone, do you?'

Charley saw that he was in for it. It was in vain that Norman's
last word was still ringing in his ears. 'Excelsior!' What had he
to do with 'Excelsior?' What miserable reptile on God's earth was
more prone to crawl downwards than he had shown himself to be?
And then again a vision floated across his mind's eye of a young
sweet angel face with large bright eyes, with soft delicate skin,
and all the exquisite charms of gentle birth and gentle nurture.
A single soft touch seemed to press his arm, a touch that he had
so often felt, and had never felt without acknowledging to
himself that there was something in it almost divine. All this
passed rapidly through his mind, as he was preparing to answer
Mrs. Davis's question touching Norah Geraghty.

'You don't think she's made of stone, do you?' said the widow,
repeating her words.

'Indeed I don't think she's made of anything but what's suitable
to a very nice young woman,' said Charley.

'A nice young woman! Is that all you can say for her? I call her
a very fine girl.' Miss Golightly's friends could not say
anything more, even for that young lady. 'I don't know where
you'll pick up a handsomer, or a better-conducted one either, for
the matter of that.'

'Indeed she is,' said Charley.

'Oh! for the matter of that, no one knows it better than
yourself, Mr. Tudor; and she's as well able to keep a man's house
over his head as some others that take a deal of pride in
themselves.'

'I'm quite sure of it,' said Charley.

'Well, the long and the short of it is this, Mr. Tudor.' And as
she spoke the widow got a little red in the face: she had, as
Charley thought, an unpleasant look of resolution about her--a
roundness about her mouth, and a sort of fierceness in her eyes.
'The long and the short of it is this, Mr. Tudor, what do you
mean to do about the girl?'

'Do about her?' said Charley, almost bewildered in his misery.

'Yes, do about her. Do you mean to make her your wife? That's
plain English. Because I'll tell you what: I'll not see her put
upon any longer. It must be one thing or the other; and that at
once. And if you've a grain of honour in you, Mr. Tudor--and I
think you are honourable--you won't back from your word with the
girl now.'

'Back from my word?' said Charley.

'Yes, back from your word,' said Mrs. Davis, the flood-gates of
whose eloquence were now fairly opened. 'I'm sure you're too much
of the gentleman to deny your own words, and them repeated more
than once in my presence--Cheroots--yes, are there none there,
child?--Oh, they are in the cupboard.' These last words were not
part of her address to Charley, but were given in reply to a
requisition from the attendant nymph outside. 'You're too much of
a gentleman to do that, I know. And so, as I'm her natural
friend--and indeed she's my cousin, not that far off--I think
it's right that we should all understand one another.'

'Oh, quite right,' said Charley.

'You can't expect that she should go and sacrifice herself for
you, you know,' said Mrs. Davis, who now that she had begun
hardly knew how to stop herself. 'A girl's time is her money.
She's at her best now, and a girl like her must make her hay
while the sun shines. She can't go on fal-lalling with you, and
then nothing to come of it. You mustn't suppose she's to lose her
market that way.'

'God knows I should be sorry to injure her, Mrs. Davis.'

'I believe you would, because I take you for an honourable
gentleman as will be as good as your word. Now, there's
Peppermint there.'

'What! that fellow in the parlour?'

'And an honourable gentleman he is. Not that I mean to compare
him to you, Mr. Tudor, nor yet doesn't Norah; not by no means.
But there he is. Well, he comes with the most honourablest
proposals, and will make her Mrs. Peppermint to-morrow, if so be
that she'll have it.'

'You don't mean to say that there has been anything between
them?' said Charley, who in spite of the intense desire which he
had felt a few minutes since to get the lovely Norah altogether
off his hands, now felt an acute pang of jealousy.' You don't
mean to say that there has been anything between them?'

'Nothing as you have any right to object to, Mr. Tudor. You may
be sure I wouldn't allow of that, nor yet wouldn't Norah demean
herself to it.'

'Then how did she get talking to him?'

'She didn't get talking to him. But he has eyes in his head, and
you don't suppose but what he can see with them. If a girl is in
the public line, of course any man is free to speak to her. If
you don't like it, it is for you to take her out of it. Not but
what, for a girl that is in the public line, Norah Geraghty keeps
herself to herself as much as any girl you ever set eyes on.'

'What the d---- has she to do with this fellow then?'

'Why, he's a widower, and has three young children; and he's
looking out for a mother for them; and he thinks Norah will suit.
There, now you have the truth, and the whole truth.'

'D---- his impudence!' said Charley.

'Well, I don't see that there's any impudence. He has a house of
his own and the means to keep it. Now I'll tell you what it is.
Norah can't abide him--'

Charley looked a little better satisfied when he heard this
declaration.

'Norah can't abide the sight of him; nor won't of any man as long
as you are hanging after her. She's as true as steel, and proud
you ought to be of her.' Proud, thought Charley, as he again
muttered to himself, 'Excelsior!'--'But, Mr. Tudor, I won't see
her put upon; that's the long and the short of it. If you like to
take her, there she is. I don't say she's just your equal as to
breeding, though she's come of decent people too; but she's good
as gold. She'll make a shilling go as far as any young woman I
know; and if £100 or £150 are wanting for furniture or the like
of that, why, I've that regard for her, that that shan't stand in
the way. Now, Mr. Tudor, I've spoke honest; and if you're the
gentleman as I takes you to be, you'll do the same.'

To do Mrs. Davis justice, it must be acknowledged that in her way
she had spoken honestly. Of course she knew that such a marriage
would be a dreadful misalliance for young Tudor; of course she
knew that all his friends would be heart-broken when they heard
of it. But what had she to do with his friends? Her sympathies,
her good wishes, were for her friend. Had Norah fallen a victim
to Charley's admiration, and then been cast off to eat the
bitterest bread to which any human being is ever doomed, what
then would Charley's friends have cared for her? There was a fair
fight between them. If Norah Geraghty, as a reward for her
prudence, could get a husband in a rank of life above her,
instead of falling into utter destruction as might so easily have
been the case, who could do other than praise her--praise her and
her clever friend who had so assisted her in her struggle?

  Dolus an virtus--

Had Mrs. Davis ever studied the classics she would have thus
expressed herself.

Poor Charley was altogether thrown on his beam-ends. He had
altogether played Mrs. Davis's game in evincing jealousy at Mr.
Peppermint's attentions. He knew this, and yet for the life of
him he could not help being jealous. He wanted to get rid of Miss
Geraghty, and yet he could not endure that anyone else should lay
claim to her favour. He was very weak. He knew how much depended
on the way in which he might answer this woman at the present
moment; he knew that he ought now to make it plain to her, that
however foolish he might have been, however false he might have
been, it was quite out of the question that he should marry her
barmaid. But he did not do so. He was worse than weak. It was not
only the disinclination to give pain, or even the dread of the
storm that would ensue, which deterred him; but an absurd dislike
to think that Mr. Peppermint should be graciously received there
as the barmaid's acknowledged admirer.

'Is she really ill now?' said he.

'She's not so ill but what she shall make herself well enough to
welcome you, if you'll say the word that you ought to say. The
most that ails her is fretting at the long delay.--Bolt the door,
child, and go to bed; there will be no one else here now. Go up,
and tell Miss Geraghty to come down; she hasn't got her clothes
off yet, I know.'

Mrs. Davis was too good a general to press Charley for an
absolute, immediate, fixed answer to her question. She knew that
she had already gained much, by talking thus of the proposed
marriage, by setting it thus plainly before Charley, without
rebuke or denial from him. He had not objected to receiving a
visit from Norah, on the implied understanding that she was to
come down to him as his affianced bride. He had not agreed to
this in words; but silence gives consent, and Mrs. Davis felt
that should it ever hereafter become necessary to prove anything,
what had passed would enable her to prove a good deal.

Charley puffed at his cigar and sipped his gin and water. It was
now twelve o'clock, and he thoroughly wished himself at home and
in bed. The longer he thought of it the more impossible it
appeared that he should get out of the house without the scene
which he dreaded. The girl had bolted the door, put away her cups
and mugs, and her step upstairs had struck heavily on his ears.
The house was not large or high, and he fancied that he heard
mutterings on the landing-place. Indeed he did not doubt but that
Miss Geraghty had listened to most of the conversation which had
taken place.

'Excuse me a minute, Mr. Tudor,' said Mrs. Davis, who was now
smiling and civil enough; 'I will go upstairs myself; the silly
girl is shamefaced, and does not like to come down'; and up went
Mrs. Davis to see that her barmaid's curls and dress were nice
and jaunty. It would not do now, at this moment, for Norah to
offend her lover by any untidiness. Charley for a moment thought
of the front door. The enemy had allowed him an opportunity for
retreating. He might slip out before either of the women came
down, and then never more be heard of in Norfolk Street again. He
had his hand in his waistcoat pocket, with the intent of leaving
the sovereign on the table; but when the moment came he felt
ashamed of the pusillanimity of such an escape, and therefore
stood, or rather sat his ground, with a courage worthy of a
better purpose.

Down the two women came, and Charley felt his heart beating
against his ribs. As the steps came nearer the door, he began to
wish that Mr. Peppermint had been successful. The widow entered
the room first, and at her heels the expectant beauty. We can
hardly say that she was blushing; but she did look rather
shamefaced, and hung back a little at the door, as though she
still had half a mind to think better of it, and go off to her
bed.

'Come in, you little fool,' said Mrs. Davis. 'You needn't be
ashamed of coming down to see him; you have done that often
enough before now.'

Norah simpered and sidled. 'Well, I'm sure now!' said she.
'Here's a start, Mr. Tudor; to be brought downstairs at this time
of night; and I'm sure I don't know what it's about'; and then
she shook her curls, and twitched her dress, and made as though
she were going to pass through the room to her accustomed place
at the bar.

Norah Geraghty was a fine girl. Putting her in comparison with
Miss Golightly, we are inclined to say that she was the finer
girl of the two; and that, barring position, money, and fashion,
she was qualified to make the better wife. In point of education,
that is, the effects of education, there was not perhaps much to
choose between them. Norah could make an excellent pudding, and
was willing enough to exercise her industry and art in doing so;
Miss Golightly could copy music, but she did not like the
trouble; and could play a waltz badly. Neither of them had ever
read anything beyond a few novels. In this respect, as to the
amount of labour done, Miss Golightly had certainly far surpassed
her rival competitor for Charley's affections.

Charley got up and took her hand; and as he did so, he saw that
her nails were dirty. He put his arms round her waist and kissed
her; and as he caressed her, his olfactory nerves perceived that
the pomatum in her hair was none of the best. He thought of those
young lustrous eyes that would look up so wondrously into his
face; he thought of the gentle touch, which would send a thrill
through all his nerves; and then he felt very sick.

'Well, upon my word, Mr. Tudor,' said Miss Geraghty, 'you're
making very free to-night.' She did not, however, refuse to sit
down on his knee, though while sitting there she struggled and
tossed herself, and shook her long ringlets in Charley's face,
till he wished her--safe at home in Mr. Peppermint's nursery.

'And is that what you brought me down for, Mrs. Davis?' said
Norah. 'Well, upon my word, I hope the door's locked; we shall
have all the world in here else.'

'If you hadn't come down to him, he'd have come up to you,' said
Mrs. Davis.

'Would he though?' said Norah; 'I think he knows a trick worth
two of that;' and she looked as though she knew well how to
defend herself, if any over-zeal on the part of her lover should
ever induce him to violate the sanctum of her feminine retirement.

There was no over-zeal now about Charley. He ought to have been
happy enough, for he had his charmer in his arms; but he showed
very little of the ecstatic joy of a favoured lover. There he sat
with Norah in his arms, and as we have said, Norah was a handsome
girl; but he would much sooner have been copying the Kennett and
Avon canal lock entries in Mr. Snape's room at the Internal
Navigation.

'Lawks, Mr. Tudor, you needn't hold me so tight,' said Norah.

'He means to hold you tight enough now,' said Mrs. Davis. 'He's
very angry because I mentioned another gentleman's name.'

'Well, now you didn't?' said Norah, pretending to look very
angry.

'Well, I just did; and if you'd only seen him! You must be very
careful what you say to that gentleman, or there'll be a row in
the house.'

'I!' said Norah. 'What I say to him! It's very little I have to
say to the man. But I shall tell him this; he'd better take
himself somewhere else, if he's going to make himself troublesome.'

All this time Charley had said nothing, but was sitting with his
hat on his head, and his cigar in his mouth. The latter appendage
he had laid down for a moment when he saluted Miss Geraghty; but
he had resumed it, having at the moment no intention of repeating
the compliment.

'And so you were jealous, were you?' said she, turning round and
looking at him. 'Well now, some people might have more respect
for other people than to mix up their names that way, with the
names of any men that choose to put themselves forward. What
would you say if I was to talk to you about Miss----'

Charley stopped her mouth. It was not to be borne that she should
be allowed to pronounce the name that was about to fall from her
lips.

'So you were jealous, were you?' said she, when she was again
able to speak. 'Well, my!'

'Mrs. Davis told me flatly that you were going to marry the man,'
said Charley; 'so what was I to think?'

'It doesn't matter what you think now,' said Mrs. Davis; 'for you
must be off from this. Do you know what o'clock it is? Do you
want the house to get a bad name? Come, you two understand each
other now, so you may as well give over billing and cooing for
this time. It's all settled now, isn't it, Mr. Tudor?'

'Oh yes, I suppose so,' said Charley.

'Well, and what do you say, Norah?'

'Oh, I'm sure I'm agreeable if he is. Ha! ha! ha! I only hope he
won't think me too forward--he! he! he!'

And then with another kiss, and very few more words of any sort,
Charley took himself off.

'I'll have nothing more to do with him,' said Norah, bursting
into tears, as soon as the door was well bolted after Charley's
exit. 'I'm only losing myself with him. He don't mean anything,
and I said he didn't all along. He'd have pitched me to Old
Scratch, while I was sitting there on his knee, if he'd have had
his own way--so he would;' and poor Norah cried heartily, as she
went to her work in her usual way among the bottles and taps.

'Why, you fool you, what do you expect? You don't think he's to
jump down your throat, do you? You can but try it on; and then if
it don't do, why there's the other one to fall back on; only, if
I had the choice, I'd rather have young Tudor, too.'

'So would I,' said Norah; 'I can't abide that other fellow.'

'Well, there, that's how it is, you know--beggars can't be
choosers. But come, make us a drop of something hot; a little
drop will do yourself good; but it's better not to take it before
him, unless when he presses you.'

So the two ladies sat down to console themselves, as best they
might, for the reverses which trade and love so often bring with
them.

Charley walked off a miserable man. He was thoroughly ashamed of
himself, thoroughly acknowledged his own weakness; and yet as he
went out from the 'Cat and Whistle,' he felt sure that he should
return there again to renew the degradation from which he had
suffered this night. Indeed, what else could he do now? He had,
as it were, solemnly plighted his troth to the girl before a
third person who had brought them together, with the acknowledged
purpose of witnessing that ceremony. He had, before Mrs. Davis,
and before the girl herself, heard her spoken of as his wife, and
had agreed to the understanding that such an arrangement was a
settled thing. What else had he to do now but to return and
complete his part of the bargain? What else but that, and be a
wretched, miserable, degraded man for the rest of his days;
lower, viler, more contemptible, infinitely lower, even than his
brother clerics at the office, whom in his pride he had so much
despised?

He walked from Norfolk Street into the Strand, and there the
world was still alive, though it was now nearly one o'clock. The
debauched misery, the wretched outdoor midnight revelry of the
world was there, streaming in and out from gin-palaces, and
bawling itself hoarse with horrid, discordant, screech-owl slang.
But he went his way unheeding and uncontaminated. Now, now that
it was useless, he was thinking of the better things of the
world; nothing now seemed worth his grasp, nothing now seemed
pleasurable, nothing capable of giving joy, but what was decent,
good, reputable, cleanly, and polished. How he hated now
that lower world with which he had for the last three years
condescended to pass so much of his time! how he hated himself
for his own vileness! He thought of what Alaric was, of what
Norman was, of what he himself might have been--he that was
praised by Mrs. Woodward for his talent, he that was encouraged
to place himself among the authors of the day! He thought of all
this, and then he thought of what he was--the affianced husband
of Norah Geraghty!

He went along the Strand, over the crossing under the statue of
Charles on horseback, and up Pall Mall East till he came to the
opening into the park under the Duke of York's column. The London
night world was all alive as he made his way. From the Opera
Colonnade shrill voices shrieked out at him as he passed, and
drunken men coming down from the night supper-houses in the
Haymarket saluted him with affectionate cordiality. The hoarse
waterman from the cabstand, whose voice had perished in the night
air, croaked out at him the offer of a vehicle; and one of the
night beggar-women who cling like burrs to those who roam the
street a these unhallowed hours still stuck to him, as she had
done ever since he had entered the Strand.

'Get away with you,' said Charley, turning at the wretched
creature in his fierce anger; 'get away, or I'll give you in
charge.'

'That you may never know what it is to be in misery yourself!'
said the miserable Irishwoman.

'If you follow me a step farther I'll have you locked up,' said
Charley.

'Oh, then, it's you that have the hard heart,' said she; 'and
it's you that will suffer yet.'

Charley looked round, threw her the odd halfpence which he had in
his pocket, and then turned down towards the column. The woman
picked up her prize, and, with a speedy blessing, took herself
off in search of other prey.

His way home would have taken him up Waterloo Place, but the
space round the column was now deserted and quiet, and sauntering
there, without thinking of what he did, he paced up and down
between the Clubs and the steps leading into the park. There,
walking to and fro slowly, he thought of his past career, of all
the circumstances of his life since his life had been left to his
own control, and of the absence of all hope for the future.

What was he to do? He was deeply, inextricably in debt. That
wretch, M'Ruen, had his name on bills which it was impossible
that he should ever pay. Tradesmen held other bills of his which
were either now over-due, or would very shortly become so. He was
threatened with numerous writs, any one of which would suffice to
put him into gaol. From his poor father, burdened as he was with
other children, he knew that he had no right to expect further
assistance. He was in debt to Norman, his best, he would have
said his only friend, had it not been that in all his misery he
could not help still thinking of Mrs. Woodward as his friend.

And yet how could his venture to think longer of her,
contaminated as he now was with the horrid degradation of his
acknowledged love at the 'Cat and Whistle!' No; he must think no
more of the Woodwards; he must dream no more of those angel eyes
which in his waking moments had so often peered at him out of
heaven, teaching him to think of higher things, giving him higher
hopes than those which had come to him from the working of his
own unaided spirit. Ah! lessons taught in vain! vain hopes!
lessons that had come all too late! hopes that had been cherished
only to be deceived! It was all over now! He had made his bed,
and he must lie on it; he had sown his seed, and he must reap his
produce; there was now no 'Excelsior' left for him within the
bounds of human probability.

He had promised to go to Hampton with Harry Norman on Saturday,
and he would go there for the last time. He would go there and
tell Mrs. Woodward so much of the truth as he could bring himself
to utter; he would say farewell to that blest abode; he would
take Linda's soft hand in his for the last time; for the last
time he would hear the young, silver-ringing, happy voice of his
darling Katie; for the last time look into her bright face; for
the last time play with her as with a child of heaven--and then
he would return to the 'Cat and Whistle.'

And having made this resolve he went home to his lodgings. It was
singular that in all his misery the idea hardly once occurred to
him of setting himself right in the world by accepting his
cousin's offer of Miss Golightly's hand and fortune.



CHAPTER XXI

HAMPTON COURT BRIDGE


Before the following Saturday afternoon Charley's spirits had
somewhat recovered their natural tone. Not that he was in a happy
frame of mind; the united energies of Mr. M'Ruen and Mrs. Davis
had been too powerful to allow of that; not that he had given
over his projected plan of saying a long farewell to Mrs.
Woodward, or at any rate of telling her something of his
position; he still felt that he could not continue to live on
terms of close intimacy both with her daughters and with Norah
Geraghty. But the spirits of youth are ever buoyant, and the
spirits of no one could be endowed, with more natural buoyancy
than those of the young navvy. Charley, therefore, in spite of
his misfortunes, was ready with his manuscript when Saturday
afternoon arrived, and, according to agreement, met Norman at the
railway station.

Only one evening had intervened since the night in which he had
ratified his matrimonial engagement, and in spite of the delicate
nature of his position he had for that evening allowed Mr.
Peppermint to exercise his eloquence on the heart of the fair
Norah without interruption. He the while had been engaged in
completing the memoirs of 'Crinoline and Macassar.'

'Well, Charley,' they asked, one and all, as soon as he reached
the Cottage, 'have you got the story? Have you brought the
manuscript? Is it all finished and ready for that dreadful
editor?'

Charley produced a roll, and Linda and Katie instantly pounced
upon it.

'Oh! it begins with poetry,' said Linda.

'I am so glad,' said Katie. 'Is there much poetry in it, Charley?
I do so hope there is.'

'Not a word of it,' said Charley; 'that which Linda sees is a
song that the heroine is singing, and it isn't supposed to be
written by the author at all.'

'I'm so sorry that there's no poetry,' said Katie. 'Can't you
write poetry, Charley?'

'At any rate there's lots of love in it,' said Linda, who was
turning over the pages.

'Is there?' said Katie. 'Well, that's next best; but they should
go together. You should have put all your love into verse,
Charley, and then your prose would have done for the funny
parts.'

'Perhaps it's all fun,' said Mrs. Woodward. 'But come, girls,
this is not fair; I won't let you look at the story till it's
read in full committee.' And so saying, Mrs. Woodward took the
papers from her daughters, and tying them up, deposited them safe
in custody. 'We'll have it out when the tea-things are gone.'

But before the tea-things had come, an accident happened, which
had been like to dismiss 'Crinoline and Macassar' altogether from
the minds of the whole of the Woodward family. The young men had,
as usual, dined in town, and therefore they were all able to
spend the long summer evening out of doors. Norman's boat was
down at Hampton, and it was therefore determined that they should
row down as far as Hampton Court Park and back. Charley and
Norman were to row; and Mrs. Woodward agreed to accompany her
daughters. Uncle Bat was left at home, to his nap and rum and
water.

Norman was so expert a Thames waterman, that he was quite able to
manage the boat without a steersman, and Charley was nearly his
equal. But there is some amusement in steering, and Katie was
allowed to sit between the tiller-ropes.

'I can steer very well, mamma: can't I, Harry? I always steer
when we go to the island, and we run the boat straight into the
little creek, only just broad enough to hold it.' Katie's visits
to the island, however, were not so frequent as they had
heretofore been, for she was approaching to sixteen years of age,
and wet feet and draggled petticoats had lost some of their
charms. Mrs. Woodward, trusting more to the experience of her two
knights than to the skill of the lady at the helm, took her seat,
and they went off merrily down the stream.

All the world knows that it is but a very little distance from
Hampton Church to Hampton Court Bridge, especially when one has
the stream with one. They were very soon near to the bridge, and
as they approached it, they had to pass a huge barge, that was
lazily making its way down to Brentford.

'There's lots of tune for the big arch,' said Charley.

'Pull away then,' said Harry.

They both pulled hard, and shot alongside and past the barge. But
the stream was strong, and the great ugly mass of black timber
moved behind them quicker than it seemed to do.

'It will be safer to take the one to the left,' said Harry.

'Oh! there's lots of tune,' said Charley.

'No,' said Harry,' do as I tell you and go to the left.--Pull
your left hand a little, Katie.'

Charley did as he was bid, and Katie intended to do the same; but
unfortunately she pulled the wrong hand. They were now very near
the bridge, and the barge was so close to them as to show that
there might have been danger in attempting to get through the
same arch with her.

'Your left hand, Katie, your left,' shouted Norman; 'your left
string.' Katie was confused, and gave first a pull with her
right, and then a pull with her left, and then a strong pull with
her right. The two men backed water as hard as they could, but
the effect of Katie's steering was to drive the nose of the boat
right into one of the wooden piers of the bridge.

The barge went on its way, and luckily made its entry under the
arch before the little craft had swung round into the stream
before it; as it was, the boat, still clinging by its nose, came
round with its stern against the side of the barge, and as the
latter went on, the timbers of Norman's wherry cracked and
crumpled in the rude encounter.

The ladies should all have kept their seats. Mrs. Woodward did do
so. Linda jumped up, and being next to the barge, was pulled up
into it by one of the men. Katie stood bolt upright, with the
tiller-ropes still in her hand, awe-struck at the misfortune she
had caused; but while she was so standing, the stern of the boat
was lifted nearly out of the water by the weight of the barge,
and Katie was pitched, behind her mother's back, head foremost
into the water.

Norman, at the moment, was endeavouring to steady the boat, and
shove it off from the barge, and had also lent a hand to assist
Linda in her escape. Charley was on the other side, standing up
and holding on by the piers of the bridge, keeping his eyes on
the ladies, so as to be of assistance to them when assistance
might be needed.

And now assistance was sorely needed, and luckily had not to be
long waited for. Charley, with a light and quick step, passed
over the thwarts, and, disregarding Mrs. Woodward's scream, let
himself down, over the gun-wale behind her seat into the water.
Katie can hardly be said to have sunk at all. She had, at least,
never been so much under the water as to be out of sight. Her
clothes kept up her light body; and when Charley got close to
her, she had been carried up to the piers of the bridge, and was
panting with her head above water, and beating the stream with
her little hands.

She was soon again in comparative safety. Charley had her by one
arm as he held on with the other to the boat, and kept himself
afloat with his legs. Mrs. Woodward leaned over and caught her
daughter's clothes; while Linda, who had seen what had happened,
stood shrieking on the barge, as it made its way on, heedless of
the ruin it left behind.

Another boat soon came to their assistance from the shore, and
Mrs. Woodward and Katie were got safely into it. Charley returned
to the battered wherry, and assisted Norman in extricating it
from its position; and a third boat went to Linda's rescue, who
would otherwise have found herself in rather an uncomfortable
position the next morning at Brentford.

The hugging and kissing to which Katie was subjected when she was
carried up to the inn, near the boat-slip on the Surrey side of
the river, may be imagined; as may also the faces she made at the
wineglassful of stiff brandy and water which she was desired to
drink. She was carried home in a fly, and by the time she arrived
there, had so completely recovered her life and spirits as to put
a vehement negative on her mother's proposition that she should
at once go to bed.

'And not hear dear Charley's story?' said she, with tears in her
eyes. 'And, mamma, I can't and won't go to bed without seeing
Charley. I didn't say one word yet to thank him for jumping into
the water after me.'

It was in vain that her mother told her that Charley's story
would amuse her twice as much when she should read it printed; it
was in vain that Mrs. Woodward assured her that Charley should
come up to her room door; and hear her thanks as he stood in the
passage, with the door ajar. Katie was determined to hear the
story read. It must be read, if read at all, that Saturday night,
as it was to be sent to the editor in the course of the week; and
reading 'Crinoline and Macassar' out loud on a Sunday was not to
be thought of at Surbiton Cottage. Katie was determined to hear
the story read, and to sit very near the author too during the
reading; to sit near him, and to give him such praise as even in
her young mind she felt that an author would like to hear.
Charley had pulled her out of the river, and no one, as far as
her efforts could prevent it, should be allowed to throw cold
water on him.

Norman and Charley, wet as the latter was, contrived to bring the
shattered boat back to Hampton. When they reached the lawn at
Surbiton Cottage they were both in high spirits. An accident, if
it does no material harm, is always an inspiriting thing, unless
one feels that it has been attributable to one's own fault.
Neither of them could in this instance attach any blame to
himself, and each felt that he had done what in him lay to
prevent the possible ill effect of the mischance. As for the
boat, Harry was too happy to think that none of his friends were
hurt to care much about that.

As they walked across the lawn Mrs. Woodward ran out to them. 'My
dear, dear Charley,' she said, 'what am I to say to thank you?'
It was the first time Mrs. Woodward had ever called him by his
Christian name. It had hitherto made him in a certain degree
unhappy that she never did so, and now the sound was very
pleasant to him.

'Oh, Mrs. Woodward,' said he, laughing, 'you mustn't touch me,
for I'm all mud.'

'My dear, dear Charley, what can I say to you? and dear Harry, I
fear we've spoilt your beautiful new boat.'

'I fear we've spoilt Katie's beautiful new hat,' said Norman.

Mrs. Woodward had taken and pressed a hand of each of them, in
spite of Charley's protestations about the mud.

'Oh! you're in a dreadful state,' said she; 'you had better take
something at once; you'll catch your death of cold.'

'I'd better take myself off to the inn,' said Charley, 'and get
some clean clothes; that's all I want. But how is Katie--and how
is Linda?'

And so, after a multitude of such inquiries on both sides, and of
all manner of affectionate greetings, Charley went off to make
himself dry, preparatory to the reading of the manuscript.

During his absence, Linda and Katie came down to the drawing-room.
Linda was full of fun as to her journey with the bargeman; but
Katie was a little paler than usual, and somewhat more serious
and quiet than she was wont to be.

Norman was the first in the drawing-room, and received the thanks
of the ladies for his prowess in assisting them; and Charley was
not slow to follow him, for he was never very long at his toilet.
He came in with a jaunty laughing air, as though nothing
particular had happened, and as if he had not a care in the
world. And yet while he had been dressing he had been thinking
almost more than ever of Norah Geraghty. O that she, and Mrs.
Davis with her, and Jabesh M'Ruen with both of them, could be
buried ten fathom deep out of his sight, and out of his mind!

When he entered the room, Katie felt her heart beat so strongly
that she hardly knew how to thank him for saving her life. A year
ago she would have got up and kissed him innocently; but a year
makes a great difference. She could not do that now, so she gave
him her little hand, and held his till he came and sat down at
his place at the table.

'Oh, Charley, I don't know what to say to you,' said she; and he
could see and feel that her whole body was shaking with emotion.

'Then I'll tell you what to say: 'Charley, here is your tea, and
some bread, and some butter, and some jam, and some muffin,' for
I'll tell you what, my evening bath has made me as hungry as a
hunter. I hope it has done the same to you.'

Katie, still holding his hand, looked up into his face, and he
saw that her eyes were suffused with tears. She then left his
side, and, running round the room, filled a plate with all the
things he had asked for, and, bringing them to him, again took
her place beside him. 'I wish I knew how to do more than that,'
said she.

'I suppose, Charley, you'll have to make an entry about that
barge on Monday morning, won't you?' said Linda. 'Mind you put in
it how beautiful I looked sailing through the arch.'

 'Yes, and how very gallant the bargeman was,' said Norman.

'Yes, and how much you enjoyed the idea of going down the river
with him, while, we came back to the Cottage,' said Charley.
'We'll put it all down at the Navigation, and old Snape shall
make a special minute about it.'

Katie drank her tea in silence, and tried to eat, though without
much success. When chatting voices and jokes were to be heard at
the Cottage, the sound of her voice was usually the foremost; but
now she sat demure and quiet. She was realizing the danger from
which she had escaped, and, as is so often the case, was
beginning to fear it now that it was over.

'Ah, Katie, my bonny bird,' said her mother, seeing that she was
not herself, and knowing that the excitement and overpowering
feelings of gratitude were too much for her-come here; you should
be in bed, my foolish little puss, should you not?'

'Indeed, she should,' said Uncle Bat, who was somewhat hard-hearted
about the affair of the accident, and had been cruel enough, after
hearing an account of it, to declare that it was all Katie's fault.

'Indeed, she should; and if she had gone to bed a little earlier
in the evening it would have been all the better for Master
Norman's boat.'

'Oh! mamma, don't send me to bed,' said she, with tears in her
eyes. 'Pray don't send me to bed now; I'm quite well, only I
can't talk because I'm thinking of what Charley did for me;' and
so saying she got up, and, hiding her face on her mother's
shoulder, burst into tears.

'My dearest child,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'I'm afraid you'll make
yourself ill. We'll put off the reading, won't we, Charley? We
have done enough for one evening.'

'Of course we will,' said he. 'Reading a stupid story will be
very slow work after all we've gone through today.'

'No, no, no,' said Katie; 'it shan't be put off; there won't be
any other time for hearing it. And, mamma it must be read; and I
know it won't be stupid. Oh; mamma, dear mamma, do let us hear it
read; I'm quite well now.'

Mrs. Woodward found herself obliged to give way. She had not the
heart to bid her daughter go away to bed, nor, had she done so,
would it have been of any avail. Katie would only have lain and
sobbed in her own room, and very probably have gone into
hysterics. The best thing for her was to try to turn the current
of her thoughts, and thus by degrees tame down her excited
feelings.

'Well, darling, then we will have the story, if Charley will let
us. Go and fetch it, dearest.' Katie raised herself from her
mother's bosom, and, going across the room, fetched the roll of
papers to Charley. As he prepared to take it she took his hand in
hers, and, bending her head over it, tenderly kissed it. 'You
mustn't think,' said she, 'that because I say nothing, I don't
know what it is that you've done for me; but I don't know how to
say it.'

Charley was at any rate as ignorant what he ought to say as Katie
was. He felt the pressure of her warm lips on his hand, and
hardly knew where he was. He felt that he blushed and looked
abashed, and dreaded, fearfully dreaded, lest Mrs. Woodward
should surmise that he estimated at other than its intended
worth, her daughter's show of affection for him.

'I shouldn't mind doing it every night,' said he, 'in such
weather as this. I think it rather good fun going into the water
with my clothes on.' Katie looked up at him through her tears, as
though she would say that she well understood what that meant.

Mrs. Woodward saw that if the story was to be read, the sooner
they began it the better.

'Come, Charley,' said she, 'now for the romance. Katie, come and
sit by me.' But Katie had already taken her seat, a little behind
Charley, quite in the shade, and she was not to be moved.

'But I won't read it myself,' said Charley; 'you must read it,
Mrs. Woodward.'

'O yes, Mrs. Woodward, you are to read it,' said Norman.

'O yes, do read it, manna,' said Linda.

Katie said nothing, but she would have preferred that Charley
should have read it himself.

'Well, if I can,' said Mrs. Woodward.

'Snape says I write the worst hand in all Somerset House,' said
Charley; 'but still I think you'll be able to manage it.'

'I hate that Mr. Snape,' said Katie, _sotto voce_. And then
Mrs. Woodward unrolled the manuscript and began her task.



CHAPTER XXII

CRINOLINE AND MACASSAR; OR, MY AUNT'S WILL


'Well, Linda was right,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'it does begin with
poetry.'

'It's only a song,' said Charley, apologetically--'and after all
there is only one verse of that'--and then Mrs. Woodward began

"CRINOLINE AND MACASSAR."

'Ladies and gentlemen, that is the name of Mr. Charles Tudor's
new novel.'

'Crinoline and Macassar!' said Uncle Bat. 'Are they intended for
human beings' names?'

'They are the heroine and the hero, as I take it,' said Mrs.
Woodward, 'and I presume them to be human, unless they turn out
to be celestial.'

'I never heard such names in my life,' said the captain.

'At any rate, uncle, they are as good as Sir Jib Boom and Captain
Hardaport,' said Katie, pertly.

'We won't mind about that,' said Mrs. Woodward; 'I'm going to
begin, and I beg I may not be interrupted.'

"CRINOLINE AND MACASSAR."

"The lovely Crinoline was sitting alone at a lattice window on a
summer morning, and as she sat she sang with melancholy cadence
the first part of the now celebrated song which had then lately
appeared, from the distinguished pen of Sir G-- H--,"

'Who is Sir G-- H--, Charley?'

'Oh, it wouldn't do for me to tell that,' said Charley. 'That
must be left to the tact and intelligence of my readers.'

'Oh, very well,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'we will abstain from all
impertinent questions'--'from the distinguished pen of Sir G-- H--.
The ditty which she sang ran as follows:--

  My heart's at my office, my heart is always there--
  My heart's at my office, docketing with care;
  Docketing the papers, and copying all day,
  My heart's at my office, though I be far away.

"'Ah me!' said the Lady Crinoline--"

'What--is she a peer's daughter?' said Uncle Bat.

'Not exactly,' said Charley, 'it's only a sort of semi-poetic way
one has of speaking of one's heroine.'

"'Ah me!' said the Lady Crinoline--'his heart! his heart!--I
wonder whether he has got a heart;' and then she sang again in
low plaintive voice the first line of the song, suiting the
cadence to her own case:--

  His heart is at his office, his heart is _always_ there.

"'It was evident that the Lady Crinoline did not repeat the words
in the feeling of their great author, who when he wrote them had
intended to excite to high deeds of exalted merit that portion of
the British youth which is employed in the Civil Service of the
country.

"Crinoline laid down her lute--it was in fact an accordion--and
gazing listlessly over the rails of the balcony, looked out at
the green foliage which adorned the enclosure of the square
below.

"It was Tavistock Square. The winds of March and the showers of
April had been successful in producing the buds of May."

'Ah, Charley, that's taken from the old song,' said Katie, 'only
you've put buds instead of flowers.'

'That's quite allowable,' said Mrs. Woodward--"successful in
producing the buds of May. The sparrows chirped sweetly on the
house-top, and the coming summer gladdened the hearts of all--of
all except poor Crinoline.

"'I wonder whether he has a heart, said she; 'and if he has, I
wonder whether it is at his office.'

"As she thus soliloquized, the door was opened by a youthful
page, on whose well-formed breast, buttons seemed to grow like
mushrooms in the meadows in August.

"'Mr. Macassar Jones,' said the page; and having so said, he
discreetly disappeared. He was in his line of life a valuable
member of society. He had brought from his last place a
twelvemonth's character that was creditable alike to his head and
heart; he was now found to be a trustworthy assistant in the
household of the Lady Crinoline's mother, and was the delight of
his aged parents, to whom he regularly remitted no inconsiderable
portion of his wages. Let it always be remembered that the life
even of a page may be glorious. All honour to the true and
brave!"

'Goodness, Charley--how very moral you are!' said Linda.

'Yes,' said he; 'that's indispensable. It's the intention of the
_Daily Delight_ always to hold up a career of virtue to the
lower orders as the thing that pays. Honesty, high wages, and hot
dinners. Those are our principles.'

'You'll have a deal to do before you'll bring the lower orders to
agree with you,' said Uncle Bat.

'We have a deal to do,' said Charley, 'and we'll do it. The power
of the cheap press is unbounded.'

"As the page closed the door, a light, low, melancholy step was
heard to make its way across the drawing-room. Crinoline's heart
had given one start when she had heard the announcement of the
well-known name. She had once glanced with eager inquiring eye
towards the door. But not in vain to her had an excellent mother
taught the proprieties of elegant life. Long before Macassar
Jones was present in the chamber she had snatched up the
tambour-frame that lay beside her, and when he entered she was
zealously engaged on the fox's head that was to ornament the toe
of a left-foot slipper. Who shall dare to say that those slippers
were intended to grace the feet of Macassar Jones?"

'But I suppose they were,' said Katie.

'You must wait and see,' said her mother; 'for my part I am not
at all so sure of that.'

'Oh, but I know they must be; for she's in love with him,' said
Katie.

"'Oh, Mr. Macassar,' said the Lady Crinoline, when he had drawn
nigh to her, 'and how are you to-day?' This mention of his
Christian name betrayed no undue familiarity, as the two families
were intimate, and Macassar had four elder brothers. 'I am so
sorry mamma is not at home; she will regret not seeing you
amazingly.'

"Macassar had his hat in his hand, and he stood a while gazing at
the fox in the pattern. 'Won't you sit down?' said Crinoline.

"'Is it very dusty in the street to-day?' asked Crinoline; and as
she spoke she turned upon him a face wreathed in the sweetest
smiles, radiant with elegant courtesy, and altogether expressive
of extreme gentility, unsullied propriety, and a very high tone
of female education. 'Is it very dusty in the street to-day?'

"Charmed by the involuntary grace of her action, Macassar essayed
to turn his head towards her as he replied; he could not turn it
much, for he wore an all-rounder; but still he was enabled by a
side glance to see more of that finished elegance than was
perhaps good for his peace of mind.

"'Yes,' said he, 'it is dusty;--it certainly is dusty, rather;--but
not very--and then in most streets they've got the water-carts.'

"'Ah, I love those water-carts!' said Crinoline; 'the dust, you
know, is so trying.'

"'To the complexion?' suggested Macassar, again looking round as
best he might over the bulwark of his collar.

"Crinoline laughed slightly; it was perhaps hardly more than a
simper, and turning her lovely eyes from her work, she said,
'Well, to the complexion, if you will. What would you gentlemen
say if we ladies were to be careless of our complexions?'

"Macassar merely sighed gently--perhaps he had no fitting answer;
perhaps his heart was too full for him to answer. He sat with his
eye fixed on his hat, which still dangled in his hand; but his
mind's eye was far away.

"'Is it in his office?' thought Crinoline to herself; 'or is it
here? Is it anywhere?'

"'Have you learnt the song I sent you? said he at last, waking,
as it were, from a trance.

"'Not yet,' said she--'that is, not quite; that is, I could not
sing it before strangers yet.'

"'Strangers!' said Macassar; and he looked at her again with an
energy that produced results not beneficial either to his neck or
his collar.

"Crinoline was delighted at this expression of feeling. 'At any
rate it is somewhere,' said she to herself; 'and it can hardly be
all at his office.'

"'Well, I will not say strangers,' she said out loud; 'it sounds
--it sounds--I don't know how it sounds. But what I mean is, that
as yet I've only sung it before mamma!'"

'I declare I don't know which is the biggest fool of the two,'
said Uncle Bat, very rudely.' As for him, if I had him on the
forecastle of a man-of-war for a day or two, I'd soon teach him
to speak out.'

'You forget, sir,' said Charley,' he's not a sailor, he's only
in the Civil Service; we're all very bashful in the Civil
Service.'

'I think he is rather spooney, I must say,' said Katie; whereupon
Mrs. Woodward went on reading.

"'It's a sweet thing, isn't it?' said Macassar.

"'Oh, very!' said Crinoline, with a rapturous expression which
pervaded her whole head and shoulders as well as her face and
bust--'very sweet, and so new.'

"'It quite comes home to me,' said Macassar, and he sighed
deeply.

"'Then it is at his office,' said Crinoline to herself; and she
sighed also.

"They both sat silent for a while, looking into the square--Crinoline
was at one window, and Macassar at the other: 'I must go now,' said
he: 'I promised to be back at three.'

"'Back where?' said she.

"'At my office,' said he.

"Crinoline sighed. After all, it was at his office; it was too
evident that it was there, and nowhere else. Well, and why should
it not be there? why should not Macassar Jones be true to his
duty and to his country? What had she to do with his heart? Why
should she wish it elsewhere? 'Twas thus she tried to console
herself, but in vain. Had she had an office of her own it might
perhaps have been different; but Crinoline was only a woman; and
often she sighed over the degradation of her lot.

"'Good morning, Miss Crinoline,' said he.

"'Good morning, Mr. Macassar,' said she; 'mamma will so regret
that she has lost the pleasure of seeing you.'

"And then she rung the bell. Macassar went downstairs perhaps
somewhat slower, with perhaps more of melancholy than when he
entered. The page opened the hall-door with alacrity, and shut it
behind him with a slam.

"All honour to the true and brave!

"Crinoline again took up the note of her sorrow, and with her
lute in her hand, she warbled forth the line which stuck like a
thorn in her sweet bosom:--

His heart is in his office--his heart IS ALWAYS _there_."

'There,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'that's the end of the first
chapter.'

'Well, I like the page the best,' said Linda, 'because he seems
to know what he is about.'

'Oh, so does the lady,' said Charley; 'but it wouldn't at all do
if we made the hero and heroine go about their work like humdrum
people. You'll see that the Lady Crinoline knows very well what's
what.'

'Oh, Charley, pray don't tell us,' said Katie; 'I do so like Mr.
Macassar, he is so spooney; pray go on, mamma.'

'I'm ready,' said Mrs. Woodward, again taking up the manuscript.

"CHAPTER II

"The lovely Crinoline was the only daughter of fond parents; and
though they were not what might be called extremely wealthy,
considering the vast incomes of some residents in the metropolis,
and were not perhaps wont to mix in the highest circles of the
Belgravian aristocracy, yet she was enabled to dress in all the
elegance of fashion, and contrived to see a good deal of that
society which moves in the highly respectable neighbourhood of
Russell Square and Gower Street.

"Her dresses were made at the distinguished establishment of
Madame Mantalini, in Hanover Square; at least she was in the
habit of getting one dress there every other season, and this was
quite sufficient among her friends to give her a reputation for
dealing in the proper quarter. Once she had got a bonnet direct
from Paris, which gave her ample opportunity of expressing a
frequent opinion not favourable to the fabricators of a British
article. She always took care that her shoes had within them the
name of a French cordonnier; and her gloves were made to order in
the Rue Du Bac, though usually bought and paid for in Tottenham
Court Road."

'What a false creature!' said Linda.

'False!' said Charley; 'and how is a girl to get along if she be
not false? What girl could live for a moment before the world if
she were to tell the whole truth about the get-up of her
wardrobe--the patchings and make-believes, the chipped ribbons
and turned silks, the little bills here, and the little bills
there? How else is an allowance of £20 a year to be made
compatible with an appearance of unlimited income? How else are
young men to be taught to think that in an affair of dress money
is a matter of no moment whatsoever?'

'Oh, Charley, Charley, don't be slanderous,' said Mrs. Woodward.

'I only repeat what the editor says to me--I know nothing about
it myself. Only we are requested 'to hold the mirror up to
nature,'--and to art too, I believe. We are to set these things
right, you know.'

'We--who are we?' said Katie.

'Why, the _Daily Delight_,' said Charley.

'But I hope there's nothing false in patching and turning,' said
Mrs. Woodward; 'for if there be, I'm the falsest woman alive.

  To gar the auld claes look amaist as weel's the new

is, I thought, one of the most legitimate objects of a woman's
diligence.'

'It all depends on the spirit of the stitches,' said Charley the
censor.

'Well, I must say I don't like mending up old clothes a bit
better than Charley does,' said Katie; 'but pray go on, mamma;'
so Mrs. Woodward continued to read.

"On the day of Macassar's visit in Tavistock Square, Crinoline
was dressed in a most elegant morning costume. It was a very
light barege muslin, extremely full; and which, as she had
assured her friend, Miss Manasseh, of Keppel Street, had been
sent home from the establishment in Hanover Square only the day
before. I am aware that Miss Manasseh instantly propagated an
ill-natured report that she had seen the identical dress in a
milliner's room up two pairs back in Store Street; but then Miss
Manasseh was known to be envious; and had moreover seen twelve
seasons out in those localities, whereas the fair Crinoline,
young thing, had graced Tavistock Square only for two years; and
her mother was ready to swear that she had never passed the
nursery door till she came there. The ground of the dress was a
light pea-green, and the pattern was ivy wreaths entwined with
pansies and tulips--each flounce showed a separate wreath--and
there were nine flounces, the highest of which fairy circles was
about three inches below the smallest waist that ever was tightly
girded in steel and whalebone.

"Macassar had once declared, in a moment of ecstatic energy, that
a small waist was the chiefest grace in woman. How often had the
Lady Crinoline's maid, when in the extreme agony of her labour,
put a malediction on his name on account of this speech!

"It is unnecessary to speak of the drapery of the arms, which
showed the elaborate lace of the sleeve beneath, and sometimes
also the pearly whiteness of that rounded arm. This was a sight
which would almost drive Macassar to distraction. At such moments
as that the hopes of the patriotic poet for the good of the Civil
Service were not strictly fulfilled in the heart of Macassar
Jones. Oh, if the Lady Crinoline could but have known!

"It is unnecessary also to describe the strange and hidden
mechanism of that mysterious petticoat which gave such full
dimensions, such ample sweeping proportions to the _tout
ensemble_ of the lady's appearance. It is unnecessary, and
would perhaps be improper, and as far as I am concerned, is
certainly impossible."

Here Charley blushed, as Mrs. Woodward looked at him from over
the top of the paper.

"Let it suffice to say that she could envelop a sofa without the
slightest effort, throw her draperies a yard and a half from her
on either side without any appearance of stretching, completely
fill a carriage; or, which was more frequently her fate, entangle
herself all but inextricably in a cab.

"A word, however, must be said of those little feet that peeped
out now and again so beautifully from beneath the artistic
constructions above alluded to-of the feet, or perhaps rather of
the shoes. But yet, what can be said of them successfully? That
French name so correctly spelt, so elaborately accented, so
beautifully finished in gold letters, which from their form,
however, one would say that the _cordonnier_ must have imported
from England, was only visible to those favoured knights who were
occasionally permitted to carry the shoes home in their pockets.

"But a word must be said about the hair dressed _à
l'imperatrice_, redolent of the sweetest patchouli, disclosing
all the glories of that ingenuous, but perhaps too open brow. A
word must be said; but, alas! how inefficacious to do justice to
the ingenuity so wonderfully displayed! The hair of the Lady
Crinoline was perhaps more lovely than abundant: to produce that
glorious effect, that effect which has now symbolized among
English lasses the head-dress _à l'imperatrice_ as the one
idea of feminine beauty, every hair was called on to give its
separate aid. As is the case with so many of us who are anxious
to put our best foot foremost, everything was abstracted from the
rear in order to create a show in the front. Then to complete the
garniture of the head, to make all perfect, to leave no point of
escape for the susceptible admirer of modern beauty, some dorsal
appendage was necessary of mornings as well as in the more fully
bedizened period of evening society.

"Everything about the sweet Crinoline was wont to be green. It is
the sweetest and most innocent of colours; but, alas! a colour
dangerous for the heart's ease of youthful beauty. Hanging from
the back of her head were to be seen moss and fennel, and various
grasses--rye grass and timothy, trefoil and cinquefoil, vetches,
and clover, and here and there young fern. A story was told, but
doubtless false, as it was traced to the mouth of Miss Manasseh,
that once while Crinoline was reclining in a paddock at Richmond,
having escaped with the young Macassar from the heat of a
neighbouring drawing-room, a cow had attempted to feed from her
head."

'Oh, Charley, a cow!' said Katie.

'Well, but you see I don't give it as true,' said Charley.

'I shall never get it done if Katie won't hold her tongue,' said
Mrs. Woodward.

"But perhaps it was when at the seaside in September, at
Broadstairs, Herne Bay, or Dover, Crinoline and her mamma
invigorated themselves with the sea-breezes of the ocean--perhaps
it was there that she was enabled to assume that covering for her
head in which her soul most delighted. It was a Tom and Jerry hat
turned up at the sides, with a short but knowing feather, velvet
trimmings, and a steel buckle blinking brightly in the noonday
sun. Had Macassar seen her in this he would have yielded himself
her captive at once, quarter or no quarter. It was the most
marked, and perhaps the most attractive peculiarity of the
Lady Crinoline's face, that the end of her nose was a little
turned up. This charm, in unison with the upturned edges of her
cruel-hearted hat, was found by many men to be invincible.

"We all know how dreadful is the spectacle of a Saracen's head,
as it appears, or did appear, painted on a huge board at the top
of Snow Hill. From that we are left to surmise with what
tremendous audacity of countenance, with what terror-striking
preparations of the outward man, an Eastern army is led to
battle. Can any men so fearfully bold in appearance ever turn
their backs and fly? They look as though they could destroy by
the glance of their ferocious eyes. Who could withstand the
hirsute horrors of those fiery faces?

"There is just such audacity, a courage of a similar description,
perhaps we may say an equal invincibility, in the charms of those
Tom and Jerry hats when duly put on, over a face of the proper
description--over such a face as that of the Lady Crinoline. They
give to the wearer an appearance of concentration of pluck. But
as the Eastern array does quail before the quiet valour of
Europe, so, we may perhaps say, does the open, quick audacity of
the Tom and Jerry tend to less powerful results than the modest
enduring patience of the bonnet."

'So ends the second chapter--bravo, Charley,' said Mrs. Woodward.
'In the name of the British female public, I beg to thank you for
your exertions.'

'The editor said I was to write down turned-up hats,' said
Charley. 'I rather like them myself.'

'I hope my new slouch is not an audacious Saracen's head,' said
Linda.

'Or mine,' said Katie. 'But you may say what you like about them
now; for mine is drowned.'

'Come, girls, there are four more chapters, I see. Let me finish
it, and then we can discuss it afterwards.'

"CHAPTER III

"Having thus described the Lady Crinoline----"

'You haven't described her at all,' said Linda; 'you haven't got
beyond her clothes yet.'

'There is nothing beyond them,' said Charley.

'You haven't even described her face,' said Katie; 'you have only
said that she had a turned-up nose.'

'There is nothing further that one can say about it,' said
Charley.

"Having thus described the Lady Crinoline,' continued Mrs.
Woodward, 'it now becomes our duty, as impartial historians, to
give some account of Mr. Macassar Jones.

"We are not prepared to give the exact name of the artist by whom
Mr. Macassar Jones was turned out to the world so perfectly
dressed a man. Were we to do so, the signal service done to one
establishment by such an advertisement would draw down on us the
anger of the trade at large, and the tailors of London would be
in league against the _Daily Delight_. It is sufficient to
remark that the artist's offices are not a hundred miles from
Pall Mall. Nor need we expressly name the bootmaker to whom is
confided the task of making those feet 'small by degrees and
beautifully less.' The process, we understand, has been painful,
but the effect is no doubt remunerative.

"In three especial walks of dress has Macassar Jones been more
than ordinarily careful to create a sensation; and we believe we
may assert that he has been successful in all. We have already
alluded to his feet. Ascending from them, and ascending not far,
we come to his coat. It is needless to say that it is a frock;
needless to say that it is a long frock--long as those usually
worn by younger infants, and apparently made so for the same
purpose. But look at the exquisitely small proportions of the
collar; look at the grace of the long sleeves, the length of
back, the propriety, the innate respectability, the perfect
decorum--we had almost said the high moral worth--of the whole.
Who would not willingly sacrifice any individual existence that
he might become the exponent of such a coat? Macassar Jones was
proud to do so.

"But he had bestowed perhaps the greatest amount of personal
attention on his collar. It was a matter more within his own
grasp than those great and important articles to which attention
has been already drawn; but one, nevertheless, on which he was
able to expend the whole amount of his energy and genius. Some
people may think that an all-rounder is an all-rounder, and that
if one is careful to get an all-rounder one has done all that is
necessary. But so thought not Macassar Jones. Some men wear
collars of two plies of linen, some men of three; but Macassar
Jones wore collars of four plies. Some men--some sensual,
self-indulgent men--appear to think that the collar should be made
for the neck; but Macassar Jones knew better. He, who never spared
him self when the cause was good, he knew that the neck had been
made for the collar--it was at any rate evident that such was the
case with his own. Little can be said of his head, except that it
was small, narrow, and genteel; but his hat might be spoken of,
and perhaps with advantage. Of the loose but studied tie of his
inch-wide cravat a paragraph might be made; but we would fain not
be tedious.

"We will only further remark that he always carried with him a
wonderful representation of himself, like to him to a miracle,
only smaller in its dimensions, like as a duodecimo is to a
folio--a babe, as it were, of his own begetting--a little
_alter ego_ in which he took much delight. It was his umbrella.
Look at the delicate finish of its lower extremity; look at the long,
narrow, and well-made coat in which it is enveloped from its neck
downwards, without speck, or blemish, or wrinkle; look at the little
wooden head, nicely polished, with the effigy of a human face on
one side of it--little eyes it has, and a sort of nose; look closer at it,
and you will perceive a mouth, not expressive indeed, but still it is
there--a mouth and chin; and is it, or is it not, an attempt at a pair
of whiskers? It certainly has a moustache.

"Such were Mr. Macassar Jones and his umbrella. He was an
excellent clerk, and did great credit to the important office to
which he was attached--namely, that of the Episcopal Audit Board.
He was much beloved by the other gentlemen who were closely
connected with him in that establishment; and may be said, for
the first year or two of his service, to have been, not exactly
the life and soul, but, we may perhaps say with more propriety,
the pervading genius of the room in which he sat.

"But, alas! at length a cloud came over his brow. At first it was
but a changing shadow; but it settled into a dark veil of sorrow
which obscured all his virtues, and made the worthy senior of his
room shake his thin grey locks once and again. He shook them more
in sorrow than in anger; for he knew that Macassar was in love,
and he remembered the days of his youth. Yes; Macassar was in
love. He had seen the lovely Crinoline. To see was to admire; to
admire was to love; to love--that is, to love her, to love
Crinoline, the exalted, the sought-after, the one so much in
demand, as he had once expressed himself to one of his bosom
friends--to love her was to despair. He did despair; and
despairing sighed, and sighing was idle.

"But he was not all idle. The genius of the man had that within
it which did not permit itself to evaporate in mere sighs. Sighs,
with the high-minded, force themselves into the guise of poetry,
and so it had been with him. He got leave of absence for a week,
and shut himself up alone in his lodgings; for a week in his
lodgings, during the long evenings of winter, did he remain
unseen and unheard of. His landlady thought that he was in debt,
and his friends whispered abroad that he had caught scarlatina.
But at the end of the seven days he came forth, pale indeed, but
with his countenance lighted up by ecstatic fire, and as he
started for his office, he carefully folded and put into his
pocket the elegantly written poem on which he had been so
intently engaged."

'I'm so glad we are to have more poetry,' said Katie. 'Is it
another song?'

'You'll see,' said Mrs. Woodward.

"Macassar had many bosom friends at his office, to all of whom,
one by one, he had confided the tale of his love. For a while he
doubted to which of them he should confide the secret of his
inspiration; but genius will not hide its head under a bushel;
and thus, before long, did Macassar's song become the common
property of the Episcopal Audit Board. Even the Bishops sang it,
so Macassar was assured by one of his brother clerks who was made
of a coarser clay than his colleague--even the Bishops sang it
when they met in council together on their own peculiar bench.

"It would be useless to give the whole of it here; for it
contained ten verses. The last two were those which Macassar was
wont to sing to himself, as he wandered lonely under the elms of
Kensington Gardens.

  "'Oh, how she walks,
    And how she talks,
  And sings like a bird serene;
    But of this be sure
    While the world shall endure,
  The loveliest lady that'll ever be seen
  Will still be the Lady Crinoline,
  The lovely Lady Crinoline.

With her hair done all _à l'impératrice_,
    Sweetly done with the best of grease,
  She looks like a Goddess or Queen,--
    And so I declare,
    And solemnly swear,
  That the loveliest lady that ever was seen
  Is still the Lady Crinoline,
  The lovely Lady Crinoline.'"

'And so ends the third chapter,' said Mrs. Woodward.

Both Katie and Linda were beginning to criticize, but Mrs.
Woodward repressed them sternly, and went on with

"CHAPTER IV

"'It was a lovely day towards the end of May that Macassar Jones,
presenting himself before the desk of the senior clerk at one
o'clock, begged for permission to be absent for two hours. The
request was preferred with meek and hesitating voice, and with
downcast eyes.

"The senior clerk shook his grey locks sadly! sadly he shook his
thin grey locks, for he grieved at the sight which he saw. 'Twas
sad to see the energies of this young man thus sapped in his
early youth by the all-absorbing strength of a hopeless passion.
Crinoline was now, as it were, a household word at the Episcopal
Audit Board. The senior clerk believed her to be cruel, and as he
knew for what object these two hours of idleness were requested,
he shook his thin grey locks in sorrow.

"'I'll be back at three, sir, punctual,' said Macassar.

"'But, Mr. Jones, you are absent nearly every day for the same
period.'

"'To-day shall be the last; to-day shall end it all,' said
Macassar, with a look of wretched desperation.

"'What--what would Sir Gregory say?' said the senior clerk.

"Macassar Jones sighed deeply. Nature had not made the senior
clerk a cruel man; but yet this allusion _was_ cruel. The
young Macassar had drunk deeply of the waters that welled from
the fountain of Sir Gregory's philosophy. He had been proud to
sit humbly at the feet of such a Gamaliel; and now it rent his
young heart to be thus twitted with the displeasure of the great
master whom he so loved and so admired.

"'Well, go, Mr. Jones,' said the senior clerk, 'go, but as you
go, resolve that to-morrow you will remain at your desk. Now go,
and may prosperity attend you!'

"'All shall be decided to-day,' said Macassar, and as he spoke an
unusual spark gleamed in his eye. He went, and as he went the
senior clerk shook his thin grey hairs. He was a bachelor, and he
distrusted the charms of the sex.

"Macassar, returning to his desk, took up his hat and his
umbrella, and went forth. His indeed was a plight at which that
old senior clerk might well shake his thin grey hairs in sorrow,
for Macassar was the victim of mysterious circumstances, which,
from his youth upwards, had marked him out for a fate of no
ordinary nature. The tale must now be told."

'O dear!' said Linda; 'is it something horrid?'

'I hope it is,' said Katie; 'perhaps he's already married to some
old hag or witch.'

'You don't say who his father and mother are; but I suppose he'll
turn out to be somebody else's son,' said Linda.

'He's a very nice young man for a small tea-party, at any rate,'
said Uncle Bat.

"The tale must now be told," continued Mrs. Woodward. "In his
early years Macassar Jones had had a maiden aunt. This lady died--"

'Oh, mamma, if you read it in that way I shall certainly cry,'
said Katie.

'Well, my dear, if your heart is so susceptible you had better
indulge it.' "This lady died and left behind her----"

'What?' said Linda.

'A diamond ring?' said Katie.

'A sealed manuscript, which was found in a secret drawer?'
suggested Linda.

'Perhaps a baby,' said Uncle Bat.

"And left behind her a will----"

'Did she leave anything else?' asked Norman.

'Ladies and gentlemen, if I am to be interrupted in this way, I
really must resign my task,' said Mrs. Woodward; 'we shall never
get to bed.'

'I won't say another word,' said Katie.

"In his early years Macassar had had a maiden aunt. This lady
died and left behind her a will, in which, with many expressions
of the warmest affection and fullest confidence, she left £3,000
in the three per cents----"

'What are the three per cents?' said Katie.

'The three per cents is a way in which people get some of their
money to spend regularly, when they have got a large sum locked
up somewhere,' said Linda.

'Oh!' said Katie.

'Will you hold your tongue, miss?' said Mrs. Woodward.

"Left £3,000 in the three per cents to her nephew. But she left
it on these conditions, that he should be married before he was
twenty-five, and that he should have a child lawfully born in the
bonds of wedlock before he was twenty-six. And then the will went
on to state that the interest of the money should accumulate till
Macassar had attained the latter age; and that in the event of
his having failed to comply with the conditions and stipulations
above named, the whole money, principal and interest, should be
set aside, and by no means given up to the said Macassar, but
applied to the uses, purposes, and convenience of that excellent
charitable institution, denominated the Princess Charlotte's
Lying-in Hospital.

"Now the nature of this will had been told in confidence by
Macassar to some of his brother clerks, and was consequently well
known at the Episcopal Audit Board. It had given rise there to a
spirit of speculation against which the senior clerk had
protested in vain. Bets were made, some in favour of Macassar,
and some in that of the hospital; but of late the odds were going
much against our hero. It was well known that in three short
months he would attain that disastrous age, which, if it found
him a bachelor, would find him also denuded of his legacy. And
then how short a margin remained for the second event! The odds
were daily rising against Macassar, and as he heard the bets
offered and taken at the surrounding desks, his heart quailed
within him.

"And the lovely Crinoline, she also had heard of this eccentric
will; she and her mother. £3,000 with interest arising for some
half score of years would make a settlement by no means
despicable in Tavistock Square, and would enable Macassar to
maintain a house over which even Crinoline need not be ashamed to
preside. But what if the legacy should be lost! She also knew to
a day what was the age of her swain; she knew how close upon her
was that day, which, if she passed it unwedded, would see her
resolved to be deaf for ever to the vows of Macassar. Still, if
she managed well, there might be time--at any rate for the
marriage.

"But, alas! Macassar made no vows; none at least which the most
attentive ear could consider to be audible. Crinoline's ear was
attentive, but hitherto in vain. He would come there daily to
Tavistock Square; daily would that true and valiant page lay open
the path to his mistress's feet; daily would Macassar sit there
for a while and sigh. But the envious hour would pass away, while
the wished-for word was still unsaid; and he would hurry back,
and complete with figures, too often erroneous, the audit of some
diocesan balance.

"'You must help him, my dear,' said Crinoline's mamma.

"'But he says nothing, mamma,' said Crinoline in tears.

"'You must encourage him to speak, my dear.'

"'I do encourage him; but by that time it is always three
o'clock, and then he has to go away.'

"'You should be quicker, my dear. You should encourage him more
at once. Now try to-day; if you can't do anything to-day I really
must get your papa to interfere.'

"Crinoline had ever been an obedient child, and now, as ever, she
determined to obey. But it was a hard task for her. In three
months he would be twenty-five--in fifteen months twenty-six.
She, however, would do her best; and then, if her efforts were
unavailing, she could only trust to Providence and her papa.

"With sad and anxious heart did Macassar that day take up his new
silk hat, take up also his darling umbrella, and descend the
sombre steps of the Episcopal Audit Office. 'Seven to one on the
Lying-in,' were the last words which reached his ears as the door
of his room closed behind him. His was a dreadful position. What
if that sweet girl, that angel whom he so worshipped, what if
she, melted by his tale of sorrow--that is, if he could prevail
on himself to tell it--should take pity, and consent to be
hurried prematurely to the altar of Hymen; and then if, after
all, the legacy should be forfeited! Poverty for himself he could
endure; at least he thought so; but poverty for her! could he
bear that? What if he should live to see her deprived of that
green headdress, robbed of those copious draperies, reduced to
English shoes, compelled to desert that shrine in Hanover Square,
and all through him! His brain reeled round, his head swam, his
temples throbbed, his knees knocked against each other, his blood
stagnated, his heart collapsed, a cold clammy perspiration
covered him from head to foot; he could hardly reach the
courtyard, and there obtain the support of a pillar. Dreadful
thoughts filled his mind; the Thames, the friendly Thames, was
running close to him; should he not put a speedy end to all his
misery? Those horrid words, that 'seven to one on the Lying-in,'
still rang in his ears; were the chances really seven to one
against his getting his legacy? 'Oh!' said he, 'my aunt, my aunt,
my aunt, my aunt, my aunt!'

"But at last he roused the spirit of the man within him. 'Faint
heart never won fair lady,' seemed to be whispered to him from
every stone in Somerset House. The cool air blowing through the
passages revived him, and he walked forth through the wide
portals, resolving that he would return a happy, thriving lover,
or that he would return no more--that night. What would he care
for Sir Gregory, what for the thin locks of the senior clerk, if
Crinoline should reject him?

"It was his custom, as he walked towards Tavistock Square, to stop
at a friendly pastry-cook's in Covent Garden, and revive his spirits
for the coming interview with Banbury tarts and cherry-brandy. In
the moments of his misery something about the pastry-cook's girl,
something that reminded him of Crinoline, it was probably her nose,
had tempted him to confide to her his love. He had told her
everything; the kind young creature pitied him, and as she
ministered to his wants, was wont to ask sweetly as to his passion.

"'And how was the lovely Lady Crinoline yesterday?' asked she. He
had entrusted to her a copy of his poem.

"'More beauteous than ever,' he said, but somewhat indistinctly,
for his mouth was clogged with the Banbury tart.

"'And good-natured, I hope. Indeed, I don't know how she can
resist,' said the girl; 'I'm sure you'll make it all right to-day,
for I see you've got your winning way with you.'

"Winning way, with seven to one against him! Macassar sighed,
and spilt some of his cherry-brandy over his shirt front. The
kind-hearted girl came and wiped it for him. 'I think I'll have
another glass,' said he, with a deep voice. He did take another
glass--and also ate another tart.

"'He'll pop to-day as sure as eggs, now he's taken them two
glasses of popping powder,' said the girl, as he went out of the
shop. 'Well, it's astonishing to me what the men find to be
afraid of.'

"And so Macassar hastened towards Tavistock Square, all too
quickly; for, as he made his way across Great Russell Street, he
found that he was very hot. He leant against the rail, and,
taking off his hat and gloves, began to cool himself, and wipe
away the dust with his pocket-handkerchief. 'I wouldn't have
minded the expense of a cab,' said he to himself, 'only the
chances are so much against me: seven to one!'

"But he had no time to lose. He had had but two precious hours at
his disposal, and thirty minutes were already gone. He hurried on
to Tavistock Square, and soon found that well-known door open
before him.

"'The Lady Crinoline sits upstairs alone,' said the page, 'and is
a-thinking of you.' Then he added in a whisper, 'Do you go at her
straight, Mr. Macassar; slip-slap, and no mistake.'

"All honour to the true and brave!

"CHAPTER V

"As Macassar walked across the drawing-room, Crinoline failed to
perceive his presence, although his boots did creak rather
loudly. Such at least must be presumed to have been the case, for
she made no immediate sign of having noticed him. She was sitting
at the open window, with her lute in hand, gazing into the
vacancy of the square below; and as Macassar walked across the
room, a deep sigh escaped from her bosom. The page closed the
door, and at the same moment Crinoline touched her lute, or
rather pulled it at the top and bottom, and threw one wild witch
note to the wind. As she did so, a line of a song escaped from
her lips with a low, melancholy, but still rapturous cadence--

  'His heart is at his office, his heart is _always_ there.'

"'Oh, Mr. Macassar, is that you?' she exclaimed. She struggled to
rise, but, finding herself unequal to the effort, she sank back
again on a chair, dropped her lute on a soft footstool, and then
buried her face in her hands. It was dreadful for Macassar to
witness such agony.

"'Is anything the matter?' said he.

"'The matter!' said she. 'Ah! ah!'

"'I hope you are not sick?' said he.

"'Sick!' said she. 'Well, I fear I am very sick.'

"'What is it?' said he. 'Perhaps only bilious,' he suggested.

"'Oh! oh! oh!' said she.

"'I see I'm in the way; and I think I had better go,' and so he
prepared to depart. 'No! no! no!' said she, jumping up from her
chair. 'Oh! Mr. Macassar, don't be so cruel. Do you wish to see
me sink on the carpet before your feet?'

"Macassar denied the existence of any such wish; and said that he
humbly begged her pardon if he gave any offence.

"'Offence!' said she, smiling sweetly on him; sweetly, but yet
sadly. 'Offence! no--no offence. Indeed, I don't know how you
could--but never mind--I am such a silly thing. One's feelings
will sometimes get the better of one; don't you often find it
so?'

"'O yes! quite so,' said Macassar. 'I think it's the heat.'

"'He's a downright noodle,' said Crinoline's mamma to her
sister-in-law, who lived with them. The two were standing behind
a chink in the door, which separated the drawing-room from a
chamber behind it.

"'Won't you sit down, Mr. Macassar?' Macassar sat down. 'Mamma
will be so sorry to miss you again. She's calling somewhere in
Grosvenor Square, I believe. She wanted me to go with her; but I
could not bring myself to go with her to-day. It's useless for
the body to go out, when the heart still remains at home. Don't
you find it so?'

"'Oh, quite so,' said Macassar. The cherry-brandy had already
evaporated before the blaze of all that beauty, and he was
bethinking himself how he might best take himself off. Let the
hospital have the filthy lucre! He would let the money go, and
would show the world that he loved for the sake of love alone! He
looked at his watch, and found that it was already past two.

"Crinoline, when she saw that watch, knew that something must be
done at once. She appreciated more fully than her lover did
the value of this world's goods; and much as she doubtless
sympathized with the wants of the hospital in question, she felt
that charity should begin at home. So she fairly burst out into a
flood of tears.

"Macassar was quite beside himself. He had seen her weep before,
but never with such frightful violence. She rushed up from her
chair, and passing so close to him as nearly to upset him by the
waft of her petticoats, threw herself on to an ottoman, and
hiding her face on the stump in the middle of it, sobbed and
screeched, till Macassar feared that the buttons behind her dress
would crack and fly off.

"'Oh! oh! oh!' sobbed Crinoline.

"'It must be the heat,' said Macassar, knocking down a flower-pot
in his attempt to open the window a little wider. 'O dear, what
have I done?' said he. 'I think I'd better go.'

"'Never mind the flower-pot,' said Crinoline, looking up through
her tears. 'Oh! oh! oh! oh! me. Oh! my heart.'

"Macassar looked at his watch. He had only forty-five minutes
left for everything. The expense of a cab would, to be sure, be
nothing if he were successful; but then, what chance was there of
that?

"'Can I do anything for you in the Strand?' said he. 'I must be
at my office at three.'

"'In the Strand!' she screeched. 'What could he do for me in the
Strand? Heartless--heartless--heartless! Well, go--go--go to your
office, Mr. Macassar; your heart is there, I know. It is always
there. Go--don't let me stand between you and your duties--between
you and Sir Gregory. Oh! how I hate that man! Go! why should I
wish to prevent you? Of course I have no such wish. To me it is
quite indifferent; only, mamma will be so sorry to miss you. You
don't know how mamma loves you. She loves you almost as a son.
But go--go; pray go!'

"And then Crinoline looked at him. Oh! how she looked at him! It
was as though all the goddesses of heaven were inviting him to
come and eat ambrosia with them on a rosy-tinted cloud. All the
goddesses, did we say? No, but one goddess, the most beautiful of
them all. His heart beat violently against his ribs, and he felt
that he was almost man enough for anything. Instinctively his
hand went again to his waistcoat pocket.

"'You shan't look at your watch so often,' said she, putting up
her delicate hand and stopping his. 'There, I'll look at it for
you. It's only just two, and you needn't go to your office for
this hour;' and as she squeezed it back into his pocket, he felt
her fingers pressing against his heart, and felt her hair--done
all _à l'impératrice_--in sweet contact with his cheek. 'There,
I shall hold it there,' said she, 'so that you shan't look at it again.'

"'Will you stay till I bid you go?' said Crinoline.

"Macassar declared that he did not care a straw for the senior
clerk, or for Sir Gregory either. He would stay there for ever,
he said.

"'What! for ever in mamma's drawing-room?' said Crinoline,
opening wide her lovely eyes with surprise.

"'For ever near to you,' said Macassar.

"'Oh, Mr. Macassar,' said Crinoline, dropping her hand from his
waistcoat, and looking bashfully towards the ground, 'what can
you mean?'

"Down went Macassar on his knees, and down went Crinoline into
her chair. There was perhaps rather too much distance between
them, but that did not much matter now. There he was on both
knees, with his hands clasped together as they were wont to be
when he said his prayers, with his umbrella beside him on one
side, and his hat on the other, making his declaration in full
and unmistakable terms. A yard or two of floor, more or less,
between them, was neither here nor there. At first the bashful
Crinoline could not bring herself to utter a distinct consent,
and Macassar was very nearly up and away, in a returning fit of
despair. But her good-nature came to his aid; and as she quickly
said, 'I will, I will, I will,' he returned to his posture in
somewhat nearer quarters, and was transported into the seventh
heaven by the bliss of kissing her hand.

"'Oh, Macassar!' said she.

"'Oh, Crinoline!' said he.

"'You must come and tell papa to-morrow,' said she.

"He readily promised to do so.

"'You had better come to breakfast; before he goes into the
city,' said she.

"And so the matter was arranged, and the lovely Lady Crinoline
became the affianced bride of the happy Macassar.

"It was past three when he left the house, but what did he care
for that? He was so mad with joy that he did not even know
whither he was going. He went on straight ahead, and came to no
check, till he found himself waving his hat over his head in the
New Road. He then began to conceive that his conduct must have
been rather wild, for he was brought to a stand-still in a
crossing by four or five cabmen, who were rival candidates for
his custom.

"'Somerset House, old brick!' he shouted out, as he jumped into a
hansom, and as he did so he poked one of the other cabbies
playfully in the ribs with his umbrella.

"'Is mamma don't know as 'ow 'e's hout, I shouldn't vonder,' said
the cabman--and away went Macassar, singing at the top of his
voice as he sat in the cab--

  'The loveliest lady that ever was seen
  Is the lovely Lady Crinoline.'

"The cab passed through Covent Garden on its way. 'Stop at the
pastry-cook's at the corner,' said Macassar up through the little
trap-door. The cab drew up suddenly. 'She's mine, she's mine!'
shouted Macassar, rushing into the shop, and disregarding in the
ecstasy of the moment the various customers who were quietly
eating their ices. 'She's mine, she's mine!

  With her hair done all _á l'impératrice_,
  Sweetly done with the best of grease.

And now for Somerset House.'

"Arrived at those ancient portals, he recklessly threw
eighteenpence to the cabman, and ran up the stone stairs which
led to his office. As he did so the clock, with iron tongue,
tolled four. But what recked he what it tolled? He rushed into
his room, where his colleagues were now locking their desks, and
waving abroad his hat and his umbrella, repeated the chorus of
his song. 'She's mine, she's mine--

  The loveliest lady that ever was seen
  Is the lovely Lady Crinoline;

and she's mine, she's mine!'

"Exhausted nature could no more. He sank into a chair, and his
brother clerks stood in a circle around him. Soon a spirit of
triumph seemed to actuate them all; they joined hands in that
friendly circle, and dancing with joyful glee, took up with one
voice the burden of the song--

    'Oh how she walks,
    And how she talks,
  And sings like a bird serene,
    But of this be sure,
    While the world shall endure,
  The loveliest lady that ever was seen
    Is still the Lady Crinoline--
    The lovely Lady Crinoline.'

"And that old senior clerk with the thin grey hair--was he angry
at this general ebullition of joy? O no! The just severity of his
discipline was always tempered with genial mercy. Not a word did
he say of that broken promise, not a word of the unchecked
diocesan balance, not a word of Sir Gregory's anger. He shook his
thin grey locks; but he shook them neither in sorrow nor in
anger. 'God bless you, Macassar Jones,', said he, 'God bless
you!'

"He too had once been young, had once loved, had once hoped and
feared, and hoped again, and had once knelt at the feet of
beauty. But alas! he had knelt in vain.

"'May God be with you, Macassar Jones,' said he, as he walked out
of the office door with his coloured bandana pressed to his eyes.
'May God be with you, and make your bed fruitful!'

  "'For the loveliest lady that ever was seen
    Is the lovely Lady Crinoline,'

shouted the junior clerks, still dancing in mad glee round the
happy lover.

"We have said that they all joined in this kindly congratulation
to their young friend. But no. There was one spirit there whom
envy had soured, one whom the happiness of another had made
miserable, one whose heart beat in no unison with these jocund
sounds. As Macassar's joy was at its height, in the proud moment
of his triumph, a hated voice struck his ears, and filled his
soul with dismay once more.

"'There's two to one still on the Lying-in,' said this hateful
Lucifer.

"And so Macassar was not all happy even yet, as he walked home to
his lodgings.

"CHAPTER VI

"We have but one other scene to record, but one short scene, and
then our tale will be told and our task will be done. And this
last scene shall not, after the usual manner of novelists, be
that of the wedding, but rather one which in our eyes is of a
much more enduring interest. Crinoline and Macassar were duly
married in Bloomsbury Church. The dresses are said to have come
from the house in Hanover Square. Crinoline behaved herself with
perfect propriety, and Macassar went through his work like a man.
When we have said that, we have said all that need be said on
that subject.

"But we must beg our readers to pass over the space of the next
twelve months, and to be present with us in that front sitting-room
of the elegant private lodgings, which the married couple now
prudently occupied in Alfred Place. Lodgings! yes, they were
only lodgings; for not as yet did they know what might be the
extent of their income.

"In this room during the whole of a long autumn day sat Macassar
in a frame of mind not altogether to be envied. During the
greater portion of it he was alone; but ever and anon some
bustling woman would enter and depart without even deigning to
notice the questions which he asked. And then after a while he
found himself in company with a very respectable gentleman in
black, who belonged to the medical profession. 'Is it coming?'
asked Macassar. 'Is it, is it coming?'

"'Well, we hope so--we hope so,' said the medical gentleman. 'If
not to-day, it will be to-morrow. If I should happen to be
absent, Mrs. Gamp is all that you could desire. If not to-day, it
will certainly be to-morrow,'--and so the medical gentleman went
his way.

"Now the coming morrow would be Macassar's birthday. On that
morrow he would be twenty-six.

"All alone he sat there till the autumn sun gave way to the
shades of evening. Some one brought him a mutton chop, but it was
raw and he could not eat; he went to the sideboard and prepared
to make himself a glass of negus, but the water was all cold. His
water at least was cold, though Mrs. Gamp's was hot enough. It
was a sad and mournful evening. He thought he would go out, for
he found that he was not wanted; but a low drizzling rain
prevented him. Had he got wet he could not have changed his
clothes, for they were all in the wardrobe in his wife's room.
All alone he sat till the shades of evening were hidden by the
veil of night.

"But what sudden noise is that he hears within the house? Why do
those heavy steps press so rapidly against the stairs? What feet
are they which are so busy in the room above him? He opens the
sitting-room door, but he can see nothing. He has been left there
without a candle. He peers up the stairs, but a faint glimmer of
light shining through the keyhole of his wife's door is all that
meets his eye. 'Oh, my aunt! my aunt!' he says as he leans
against the banisters. 'My aunt, my aunt, my aunt!'

"What a birthday will this be for him on the morrow! He already
hears the sound of the hospital bells as they ring with joy at
the acquisition of their new wealth; he must dash from his
lips, tear from his heart, banish for ever from his eyes, that
vision of a sweet little cottage at Brompton, with a charming
dressing-room for himself, and gas laid on all over the house.

"'Lodgings! I hate, I detest lodgings!' he said to himself.
'Connubial bliss and furnished lodgings are not compatible. My
aunt, my aunt, for what misery hast thou not to answer! Oh, Mrs.
Gamp, could you be so obliging as to tell me what o'clock it is?'
The last question was asked as Mrs. Gamp suddenly entered the
room with a candle. Macassar's watch had been required for the
use of one of the servants.

"'It's just half-past heleven, this wery moment as is,' said Mrs.
Gamp; 'and the finest boy babby as my heyes, which has seen a
many, has ever sat upon.'

"Up, up to the ceiling went the horsehair cushion of the
lodging-house sofa--up went the footstool after it, and its four
wooden legs in falling made a terrible clatter on the mahogany
loo-table. Macassar in his joy got hold of Mrs. Gamp, and kissed
her heartily, forgetful of the fumes of gin. 'Hurrah!' shouted he,'
hurrah, hurrah, hurrah! Oh, Mrs. Gamp, I feel so--so--so--I
really don't know how I feel.'

"He danced round the room with noisy joy, till Mrs. Gamp made him
understand how very unsuited were such riotous ebullitions to the
weak state of his lady-love upstairs. He then gave over, not the
dancing but the noise, and went on capering round the room with
suppressed steps, ever and anon singing to himself in a whisper,

  'The loveliest lady that ever was seen
  Is still the Lady Crinoline.'

"A few minutes afterwards a knock at the door was heard, and the
monthly nurse entered. She held something in her embrace; but he
could not see what. He looked down pryingly into her arms, and at
the first glance thought that it was his umbrella. But then he
heard a little pipe, and he knew that it was his child.

"We will not intrude further on the first interview between
Macassar and his heir."


       *       *       *       *       *


'And so ends the romantic history of "Crinoline and Macassar",'
said Mrs. Woodward; 'and I am sure, Charley, we are all very much
obliged to you for the excellent moral lessons you have given
us.'

'I'm so delighted with it,' said Katie; 'I do so like that
Macassar.'

'So do I,' said Linda, yawning; 'and the old man with the thin
grey hair.'

'Come, girls, it's nearly one o'clock, and we'll go to bed,' said
the mother. 'Uncle Bat has been asleep these two hours.'

And so they went off to their respective chambers.



CHAPTER XXIII

SURBITON COLLOQUIES


All further conversation in the drawing-room was forbidden for
that night. Mrs. Woodward would have willingly postponed the
reading of Charley's story so as to enable Katie to go to bed
after the accident, had she been able to do so. But she was not
able to do so without an exercise of a species of authority which
was distasteful to her, and which was very seldom heard, seen, or
felt within the limits of Surbiton Cottage. It would moreover
have been very ungracious to snub Charley's manuscript, just when
Charley had made himself such a hero; and she had, therefore,
been obliged to read it. But now that it was done, she hurried
Katie off to bed, not without many admonitions.

'Good night,' she said to Charley; 'and God bless you, and make
you always as happy as we are now. What a household we should
have had to-night, had it not been for you!'

Charley rubbed his eyes with his hand, and muttered something
about there not having been the slightest danger in the world.

'And remember, Charley,' she said, paying no attention to his
mutterings, 'we always liked you--liked you very much; but liking
and loving are very different things. Now you are a dear, dear
friend--one of the dearest.'

In answer to this, Charley was not even able to mutter; so he
went his way to the inn, and lay awake half the night thinking
how Katie had kissed his hand: during the other half he dreamt,
first that Katie was drowned, and then that Norah was his bride.

Linda and Katie had been so hurried off, that they had only been
just able to shake hands with Harry and Charley. There is,
however, an old proverb, that though one man may lead a horse to
water, a thousand cannot make him drink. It was easy to send
Katie to bed, but very difficult to prevent her talking when she
was there.

'Oh, Linda,' she said, 'what can I do for him?'

'Do for him?' said Linda; 'I don't know that you can do anything
for him. I don't suppose he wants you to do anything.' Linda
still looked on her sister as a child; but Katie was beginning to
put away childish things.

'Couldn't I make something for him, Linda--something for him to
keep as a present, you know? I would work so hard to get it
done.'

'Work a pair of slippers, as Crinoline did,' said Linda.

Katie was brushing her hair at the moment, and then she sat still
with the brush in her hand, thinking. 'No,' said she, after a
while, 'not a pair of slippers--I shouldn't like a pair of
slippers.'

'Why not?' said Linda.

'Oh--I don't know--but I shouldn't.' Katie had said that
Crinoline was working slippers for Macassar because she was in
love with him; and having said so, she could not now work
slippers for Charley. Poor Katie! she was no longer a child when
she thought thus.

'Then make him a purse,' said Linda.

'A purse is such a little thing.'

'Then work him the cover for a sofa, like what mamma and I are
doing for Gertrude.'

'But he hasn't got a house,' said Katie.

'He'll have a house by the time you've done the sofa, and a wife
to sit on it too.'

'Oh, Linda, you are so ill-natured.'

'Why, child, what do you want me to say? If you were to give him
one of those grand long tobacco pipes they have in the shop
windows, that's what he'd like the best; or something of that
sort. I don't think he cares much for girls' presents, such as
purses and slippers.'

'Doesn't he?' said Katie, mournfully.

'No; not a bit. You know he's such a rake.'

'Oh! Linda; I don't think he's so very bad, indeed I don't; and
mamma doesn't think so; and you know Harry said on Easter Sunday
that he was much better than he used to be.'

'I know Harry is very good-natured to him.'

'And isn't Charley just as good-natured to Harry? I am quite sure
he is. Harry has only to ask the least thing, and Charley always
does it. Do you remember how Charley went up to town for him the
Sunday before last?'

'And so he ought,' said Linda. 'He ought to do whatever Harry
tells him.'

'Well, Linda, I don't know why he ought,' said Katie. 'They are
not brothers, you know, nor yet even cousins.'

'But Harry is very--so very--so very superior, you know,' said
Linda.

'I don't know any such thing,' said Katie.

'Oh! Katie, don't you know that Charley is such a rake?'

'But rakes are just the people who don't do whatever they are
told; so that's no reason. And I am quite sure that Charley is
much the cleverer.'

'And I am quite sure he is not--nor half so clever; nor nearly so
well educated. Why, don't you know the navvies are the most
ignorant young men in London? Charley says so himself.'

'That's his fun,' said Katie: 'besides, he always makes little of
himself. I am quite sure Harry could never have made all that
about Macassar and Crinoline out of his own head.'

'No! because he doesn't think of such nonsensical things. I
declare, Miss Katie, I think you are in love with Master
Charley.'

Katie, who was still sitting at the dressing-table, blushed up to
her forehead; and at the same time her eyes were suffused with
tears. But there was no one to see either of those tell-tale
symptoms, for Linda was in bed.

'I know he saved my life,' said Katie, as soon as she could trust
herself to speak without betraying her emotion--'I know he
jumped into the river after me, and very, very nearly drowned
himself; and I don't think any other man in the world would have
done so much for me besides him.'

'Oh, Katie! Harry would in a moment.'

'Not for me; perhaps he might for you--though I'm not quite sure
that he would.' It was thus that Katie took her revenge on her
sister.

'I'm quite sure he would for anybody, even for Sally.' Sally was
an assistant in the back kitchen. 'But I don't mean to say,
Katie, that you shouldn't feel grateful to Charley; of course you
should.'

'And so I do,' said Katie, now bursting out into tears, overdone
by her emotion and fatigue; 'and so I do--and I do love him, and will
love him, if he's ever so much a rake! But you know, Linda, that is
very different from being in love; and it was very ill-natured of you
to say so, very.'

Linda was out of bed in a trice, and sitting with her arm round
her sister's neck.

'Why, you darling little foolish child, you! I was only
quizzing,' said she. 'Don't you know that I love Charley too?'

'But you shouldn't quiz about such a thing as that. If you'd
fallen into the river, and Harry had pulled you out, then you'd
know what I mean; but I'm not at all sure that he could have done
it.'

Katie's perverse wickedness on this point was very nearly giving
rise to another contest between the sisters. Linda's common
sense, however, prevailed, and giving up the point of Harry's
prowess, she succeeded at last in getting Katie into bed. 'You
know mamma will be so angry if she hears us,' said Linda, 'and I
am sure you will be ill to-morrow.'

'I don't care a bit about being ill to-tomorrow; and yet I do
too,' she added, after a pause, 'for it's Sunday. It would be so
stupid not to be able to go out to-morrow.'

'Well, then, try to go to sleep at once'--and Linda carefully
tucked the clothes around her sister.

'I think it shall be a purse,' said Katie.

'A purse will certainly be the best; that is, if you don't like
the slippers,' and Linda rolled herself up comfortably in the
bed.

'No--I don't like the slippers at all. It shall be a purse. I can
do that the quickest, you know. It's so stupid to give a thing
when everything about it is forgotten, isn't it?'

'Very stupid,' said Linda, nearly asleep.

'And when it's worn out I can make another, can't I?'

'H'm'm'm,' said Linda, quite asleep.

And then Katie went asleep also, in her sister's arms.

Early in the morning--that is to say, not very early, perhaps
between seven and eight--Mrs. Woodward came into their room, and
having inspected her charges, desired that Katie should not get
up for morning church, but lie in bed till the middle of the day.

'Oh, mamma, it will be so stupid not going to church after
tumbling into the river; people will say that all my clothes are
wet.'

'People will about tell the truth as to some of them,' said Mrs.
Woodward; 'but don't you mind about people, but lie still and go
to sleep if you can. Linda, do you come and dress in my room.'

'And is Charley to lie in bed too?' said Katie. 'He was in the
river longer than I was.'

'It's too late to keep Charley in bed,' said Linda, 'for I see
him coming along the road now with a towel; he's been bathing.'

'Oh, I do so wish I could go and bathe,' said Katie.

Poor Katie was kept in bed till the afternoon. Charley and Harry,
however, were allowed to come up to her bedroom door, and hear
her pronounce herself quite well.

'How d'ye do, Mr. Macassar?' said she.

'And how d'ye do, my Lady Crinoline?' said Harry. After that
Katie never called Charley Mr. Macassar again.

They all went to church, and Katie was left to sleep or read, or
think of the new purse that she was to make, as best she might.

And then they dined, and then they walked out; but still without
Katie. She was to get up and dress while they were out, so as to
receive them in state in the drawing-room on their return. Four
of them walked together; for Uncle Bat now usually took himself
off to his friend at Hampton Court on Sunday afternoon. Mrs.
Woodward walked with Charley, and Harry and Linda paired
together.

'Now,' said Charley to himself, 'now would have been the time to
have told Mrs. Woodward everything, but for that accident of
yesterday. Now I can tell her nothing; to do so now would be to
demand her sympathy and to ask for assistance;' and so he
determined to tell her nothing.

But the very cause which made Charley dumb on the subject of his
own distresses made Mrs. Woodward inquisitive about them. She
knew that his life was not like that of Harry--steady, sober, and
discreet; but she felt that she did not like him, or even love
him the less on this account. Nay, it was not clear to her that
these failings of his did not give him additional claims on her
sympathies. What could she do for him? how could she relieve him?
how could she bring him back to the right way? She spoke to him
of his London life, praised his talents, encouraged him to
exertion, besought him to have some solicitude, and, above all,
some respect for himself. And then, with that delicacy which such
a woman, and none but such a woman, can use in such a matter, she
asked him whether he was still in debt.

Charley, with shame we must own it, had on this subject been
false to all his friends. He had been false to his father and his
mother, and had never owned to them the half of what he owed; he
had been false to Alaric, and false to Harry; but now, now, at
such a moment as this, he would not allow himself to be false to
Mrs. Woodward.

'Yes,' he said, 'he was in debt--rather.'

Mrs. Woodward pressed him to say whether his debts were
heavy--whether he owed much.

'It's no use thinking of it, Mrs. Woodward,' said he; 'not the
least. I know I ought not to come down here; and I don't think I
will any more.'

'Not come down here!' said Mrs. Woodward. 'Why not? There's very
little expense in that. I dare say you'd spend quite as much in
London.'

'Oh--of course--three times as much, perhaps; that is, if I had
it--but I don't mean that.'

'What do you mean?' said she.

Charley walked on in silence, with melancholy look, very
crestfallen, his thumbs stuck into his waistcoat pockets.

'Upon my word I don't know what you mean,' said Mrs. Woodward. 'I
should have thought coming to Hampton might perhaps--perhaps have
kept you--I don't exactly mean out of mischief.' That, however,
in spite of her denial, was exactly what Mrs. Woodward did mean.

'So it does--but--' said Charley, now thoroughly ashamed of
himself.

'But what?' said she.

'I am not fit to be here,' said Charley; and as he spoke his
manly self-control all gave way, and big tears rolled down his
cheeks.

Mrs. Woodward, in her woman's heart, resolved, that if it might
in any way be possible, she would make him fit, fit not only to
be there, but to hold his head up with the best in any company in
which he might find himself.

She questioned him no further then. Her wish now was not to
torment him further, but to comfort him. She determined that she
would consult with Harry and with her uncle, and take counsel
from them as to what steps might be taken to save the brand from
the burning. She talked to him as a mother might have done,
leaning on his arm, as she returned; leaning on him as a woman
never leans on a man whom she deems unfit for her society. All
this Charley's heart and instinct fully understood, and he was
not ungrateful.

But yet he had but little to comfort him. He must return to town
on Monday; return to Mr. Snape and the lock entries, to Mr.
M'Ruen and the three Seasons--to Mrs. Davis, Norah Geraghty, and
that horrid Mr. Peppermint. He never once thought of Clementina
Golightly, to whom at that moment he was being married by the
joint energies of Undy Scott and his cousin Alaric.

And what had Linda and Norman been doing all this time? Had they
been placing mutual confidence in each other? No; they had not
come to that yet. Linda still remembered the pang with which she
had first heard of Gertrude's engagement, and Harry Norman had
not yet been able to open his seared heart to a second love.

In the course of the evening a letter was brought to Captain
Cuttwater, which did not seem to raise his spirits.

'Whom is your letter from, uncle?' said Mrs. Woodward.

'From Alaric,' said he, gruffly, crumpling it up and putting it
into his pocket. And then he turned to his rum and water in a
manner that showed his determination to say nothing more on the
matter.

In the morning Harry and Charley returned to town. Captain
Cuttwater went up with them; and all was again quiet at Surbiton
Cottage.



CHAPTER XXIV

MR. M'BUFFER ACCEPTS THE CHILTERN HUNDREDS


It was an anxious hour for the Honourable Undecimus Scott when he
first learnt that Mr. M'Buffer had accepted the Stewardship of
the Chiltern Hundreds. The Stewardship of the Chiltern Hundreds!
Does it never occur to anyone how many persons are appointed to
that valuable situation? Or does anyone ever reflect why a Member
of Parliament, when he wishes to resign his post of honour,
should not be simply gazetted in the newspapers as having done
so, instead of being named as the new Steward of the Chiltern
Hundreds? No one ever does think of it; resigning and becoming a
steward are one and the same thing, with this difference,
however, that one of the grand bulwarks of the British constitution
is thus preserved.

Well, Mr. M'Buffer, who, having been elected by the independent
electors of the Tillietudlem burghs to serve them in Parliament,
could not, in accordance with the laws of the constitution, have
got himself out of that honourable but difficult position by any
scheme of his own, found himself on a sudden a free man, the
Queen having selected him to be her steward for the district in
question. We have no doubt but that the deed of appointment set
forth that her Majesty had been moved to this step by the firm
trust she had in the skill and fidelity of the said Mr. M'Buffer;
but if so her Majesty's trust would seem to have been somewhat
misplaced, as Mr. M'Buffer, having been a managing director of a
bankrupt swindle, from which he had contrived to pillage some
thirty or forty thousand pounds, was now unable to show his face
at Tillietudlem, or in the House of Commons; and in thus
retreating from his membership had no object but to save
himself from the expulsion which he feared. It was, however, a
consolation for him to think that in what he had done the
bulwarks of the British constitution had been preserved.

It was an anxious moment for Undy. The existing Parliament had
still a year and a half, or possibly two years and a half, to
run. He had already been withdrawn from the public eye longer
than he thought was suitable to the success of his career. He
particularly disliked obscurity for he had found that in his case
obscurity had meant comparative poverty. An obscure man, as he
observed early in life, had nothing to sell. Now, Undy had once
had something to sell, and a very good market he had made of it.
He was of course anxious that those halcyon days should return.
Fond of him as the electors of Tillietudlem no doubt were,
devoted as they might be in a general way to his interests still,
still it was possible that they might forget him, if he remained
too long away from their embraces. 'Out of sight out of mind' is
a proverb which opens to us the worst side of human nature. But
even at Tillietudlem nature's worst side might sometimes show
itself.

Actuated by such feelings as these, Undy heard with joy the
tidings of M'Buffer's stewardship, and determined to rush to the
battle at once. Battle he knew there must be. To be brought in
for the district of Tillietudlem was a prize which had never yet
fallen to any man's lot without a contest. Tillietudlem was no
poor pocket borough to be disposed of, this way or that way,
according to the caprice or venal call of some aristocrat. The
men of Tillietudlem knew the value of their votes, and would only
give them according to their consciences. The way to win these
consciences, to overcome the sensitive doubts of a free and
independent Tillietudlem elector, Undy knew to his cost.

It was almost a question, as he once told Alaric, whether all
that he could sell was worth all that he was compelled to buy.
But having put his neck to the collar in this line of life, he
was not now going to withdraw. Tillietudlem was once more vacant,
and Undy determined to try it again, undaunted by former outlays.
To make an outlay, however, at any rate, in electioneering
matters, it is necessary that a man should have in hand some
ready cash; at the present moment Undy had very little, and
therefore the news of Mr. M'Buffer's retirement to the German
baths for his health was not heard with unalloyed delight.

He first went into the city, as men always do when they want
money; though in what portion of the city they find it, has never
come to the author's knowledge. Charley Tudor, to be sure, did
get £5 by going to the 'Banks of Jordan;' but the supply likely
to be derived from such a fountain as that would hardly be
sufficient for Undy's wants. Having done what he could in the
city, he came to Alaric, and prayed for the assistance of all his
friend's energies in the matter. Alaric would not have been, and
was not unwilling to assist him to the extent of his own
immediate means; but his own immediate means were limited, and
Undy's desire for ready cash was almost unlimited.

There was a certain railway or proposed railway in Ireland, in
which Undy had ventured very deeply, more so indeed than he had
deemed it quite prudent to divulge to his friend; and in order to
gain certain ends he had induced Alaric to become a director of
this line. The line in question was the Great West Cork, which
was to run from Skibbereen to Bantry, and the momentous question
now hotly debated before the Railway Board was on the moot point
of a branch to Ballydehob. If Undy could carry the West Cork and
Ballydehob branch entire, he would make a pretty thing of it; but
if, as there was too much reason to fear, his Irish foes should
prevail, and leave--as Undy had once said in an eloquent speech
at a very influential meeting of shareholders--and leave the
unfortunate agricultural and commercial interest of Ballydehob
steeped in Cimmerian darkness, the chances were that poor Undy
would be well nigh ruined.

Such being the case, he had striven, not unsuccessfully, to draw
Alaric into the concern. Alaric had bought very cheaply a good
many shares, which many people said were worth nothing, and had,
by dint of Undy's machinations, been chosen a director on the
board. Undy himself meanwhile lay by, hoping that fortune might
restore him to Parliament, and haply put him on that committee
which must finally adjudicate as to the great question of the
Ballydehob branch.

Such were the circumstances under which he came to Alaric with
the view of raising such a sum of money as might enable him to
overcome the scruples of the Tillietudlem electors, and place
himself in the shoes lately vacated by Mr. M'Buffer.

They were sitting together after dinner when he commenced the
subject. He and Mrs. Val and Clementina had done the Tudors the
honour of dining with them; and the ladies had now gone up into
the drawing-room, and were busy talking over the Chiswick affair,
which was to come off in the next week, and after which Mrs. Val
intended to give a small evening party to the most _élite_
of her acquaintance.

'We won't have all the world, my dear,' she had said to Gertrude,
'but just a few of our own set that are really nice. Clementina
is dying to try that new back step with M. Jaquêtanàpe, so we
won't crowd the room.' Such were the immediate arrangements of
the Tudor and Scott party.

'So M'Buffer is off at last,' said Scott, as he seated himself
and filled his glass, after closing the dining-room door. 'He
brought his pigs to a bad market after all.'

'He was an infernal rogue,' said Alaric.

'Well, I suppose he was,' said Undy; 'and a fool into the bargain
to be found out.'

'He was a downright swindler,' said Alaric.

'After all,' said the other, not paying much attention to
Alaric's indignation, 'he did not do so very badly. Why, M'Buffer
has been at it now for thirteen years. He began with nothing; he
had neither blood nor money; and God knows he had no social
merits to recommend him. He is as vulgar as a hog, as awkward as
an elephant, and as ugly as an ape. I believe he never had a
friend, and was known at his club to be the greatest bore that
ever came out of Scotland; and yet for thirteen years he has
lived on the fat of the land; for five years he has been in
Parliament, his wife has gone about in her carriage, and every
man in the city has been willing to shake hands with him.'

'And what has it all come to?' said Alaric, whom the question of
M'Buffer's temporary prosperity made rather thoughtful.

'Well, not so bad either; he has had his fling for thirteen
years, and that's something. Thirteen good years out of a man's
life is more than falls to the lot of every one. And then, I
suppose, he has saved something.'

'And he is spoken of everywhere as a monster for whom hanging is
too good.'

'Pshaw! that won't hang him. Yesterday he was a god; to-day he is
a devil; to-morrow he'll be a man again; that's all.'

'But you don't mean to tell me, Undy, that the consciousness of
such crimes as those which M'Buffer has committed must not make a
man wretched in this world, and probably in the next also?'

'Judge not, and ye shall not be judged,' said Undy, quoting
Scripture as the devil did before him; 'and as for consciousness
of crime, I suppose M'Buffer has none at all. I have no doubt he
thinks himself quite as honest as the rest of the world. He
firmly believes that all of us are playing the same game, and
using the same means, and has no idea whatever that dishonesty is
objectionable.'

'And you, what do you think about it yourself?'

'I think the greatest rogues are they who talk most of their
honesty; and, therefore, as I wish to be thought honest myself, I
never talk of my own.'

They both sat silent for a while, Undy bethinking himself what
arguments would be most efficacious towards inducing Alaric to
strip himself of every available shilling that he had; and Alaric
debating in his own mind that great question which he so often
debated, as to whether men, men of the world, the great and best
men whom he saw around him, really endeavoured to be honest, or
endeavoured only to seem so. Honesty was preached to him on every
side; but did he, in his intercourse with the world, find men to
be honest? Or did it behove him, a practical man like him, a man
so determined to battle with the world as he had determined, did
it behove such a one as he to be more honest than his neighbours?

He also encouraged himself by that mystic word, 'Excelsior!' To
him it was a watchword of battle, repeated morning, noon, and
night. It was the prevailing idea of his life. 'Excelsior'! Yes;
how great, how grand, how all-absorbing is the idea! But what if
a man may be going down, down to Tophet, and yet think the while
that he is scaling the walls of heaven?

'But you wish to think yourself honest,' he said, disturbing Undy
just as that hero had determined on the way in which he would
play his present hand of cards.

'I have not the slightest difficulty about that,' said Undy; 'and
I dare say you have none either. But as to M'Buffer, his going
will be a great thing for us, if, as I don't doubt, I can get his
seat.'

'It will be a great thing for you,' said Alaric, who, as well as
Undy, had his Parliamentary ambition.

'And for you too, my boy. We should carry the Ballydehob branch
to a dead certainty; and even if we did not do that, we'd bring
it so near it that the expectation of it would send the shares up
like mercury in fine weather. They are at £2 12s. 6d. now, and,
if I am in the House next Session, they'll be up to £7 10s.
before Easter; and what's more, my dear fellow, if we can't help
ourselves in that way, they'll be worth nothing in a very few
months.'

Alaric looked rather blank; for he had invested deeply in this
line, of which he was now a director, of a week's standing, or
perhaps we should say sitting. He had sold out all his golden
hopes in the Wheal Mary Jane for the sake of embarking his money
and becoming a director in this Irish Railway, and in one other
speculation nearer home, of which Undy had a great opinion, viz.:
the Limehouse Thames Bridge Company. Such being the case, he did
not like to hear the West Cork with the Ballydehob branch spoken
of so slightingly.

'The fact is, a man can do anything if he is in the House, and he
can do nothing if he is not,' said Undy. 'You know our old
Aberdeen saying, 'You scratch me and I'll scratch you.' It is not
only what a man may do himself for himself, but it is what others
will do for him when he is in a position to help them. Now, there
are those fellows; I am hand-and-glove with all of them; but
there is not one of them would lift a finger to help me as I am
now; but let me get my seat again, and they'll do for me just
anything I ask them. Vigil moves the new writ to-night; I got a
line from him asking me whether I was ready. There was no good to
be got by waiting, so I told him to fire away.'

'I suppose you'll go down at once?' said Alaric.

'Well, that as may be--at least, yes; that's my intention. But
there's one thing needful--and that is the needful.'

'Money?' suggested Alaric.

'Yes, money--cash--rhino--tin--ready--or by what other name the
goddess would be pleased to have herself worshipped; money, sir;
there's the difficulty, now as ever. Even at Tillietudlem money
will have its weight.'

'Can't your father assist you?' said Alaric.

'My father! I wonder how he'd look if he got a letter from me
asking for money. You might as well expect a goose to feed her
young with blood out of her own breast, like a pelican, as expect
that a Scotch lord should give money to his younger sons like an
English duke. What would my father get by my being member for
Tillietudlem? No; I must look nearer home than my father. What
can you do for me?'

'I?'

'Yes, you,' said Undy; 'I am sure you don't mean to say you'll
refuse to lend me a helping hand if you can. I must realize by
the Ballydehobs, if I am once in the House; and then you'd have
your money back at once.'

'It is not that,' said Alaric; 'but I haven't got it.'

'I am sure you could let me have a thousand or so,' said Undy. 'I
think a couple of thousand would carry it, and I could make out
the other myself.'

'Every shilling I have,' said Alaric, 'is either in the
Ballydehobs or in the Limehouse Bridge. Why don't you sell
yourself?'

'So I have,' said Undy; 'everything that I can without utter
ruin. The Ballydehobs are not saleable, as you know.'

'What can I do for you, then?'

Undy set himself again to think. 'I have no doubt I could get a
thousand on our joint names. That blackguard, M'Ruen, would do
it.'

'Who is M'Ruen?' asked Alaric.

'A low blackguard of a discounting Jew Christian. He would do it;
but then, heaven knows what he would charge, and he'd make so
many difficulties that I shouldn't have the money for the next
fortnight.'

'I wouldn't have my name on a bill in such a man's hands on any
account,' said Alaric.

'Well, I don't like it myself,' said Undy; 'but what the deuce am
I to do? I might as well go to Tillietudlem without my head as
without money.'

'I thought you'd kept a lot of the Mary Janes,' said Alaric.

'So I had, but they're gone now. I tell you I've managed £1,000
myself. It would murder me now if the seat were to go into other
hands. I'd get the Committee on the Limehouse Bridge, and we
should treble our money. Vigil told me he would not refuse the
Committee, though of course the Government won't consent to a
grant if they can help it.'

'Well, Undy, I can let you have £250, and that is every shilling
I have at my banker's.'

'They would not let you overdraw a few hundreds?' suggested
Undy.

'I certainly shall not try them,' said Alaric.

'You are so full of scruple, so green, so young,' said Undy,
almost in an enthusiasm of remonstrance. 'What can be the harm of
trying them?'

'My credit.'

'Fal lal. What's the meaning of credit? How are you to know
whether you have got any credit if you don't try? Come, I'll tell
you how you can do it. Old Cuttwater would lend it you for the
asking.'

To this proposition Alaric at first turned a deaf ear; but by
degrees he allowed Undy to talk him over. Undy showed him that if
he lost the Tillietudlem burghs on this occasion it would be
useless for him to attempt to stand for them again. In such case,
he would have no alternative at the next general election but to
stand for the borough of Strathbogy in Aberdeenshire; whereas, if
he could secure Tillietudlem as a seat for himself, all the
Gaberlunzie interest in the borough of Strathbogy, which was
supposed to be by no means small, should be transferred to Alaric
himself. Indeed, Sandie Scott, the eldest hope of the Gaberlunzie
family, would, in such case, himself propose Alaric to the
electors. Ca'stalk Cottage, in which the Hon. Sandie lived, and
which was on the outskirts of the Gaberlunzie property, was
absolutely within the boundary of the borough.

Overcome by these and other arguments, Alaric at last consented
to ask from Captain Cuttwater the loan of £700. That sum Undy had
agreed to accept as a sufficient contribution to that desirable
public object, the re-seating himself for the Tillietudlem
borough, and as Alaric on reflection thought that it would be
uncomfortable to be left penniless himself, and as it was just as
likely that Uncle Bat would lend him £700 as £500, he determined
to ask for a loan of the entire sum. He accordingly did so, and
the letter, as we have seen, reached the captain while Harry and
Charley were at Surbiton Cottage. The old gentleman was anything
but pleased. In the first place he liked his money, though not
with any overweening affection; in the next place, he had done a
great deal for Alaric, and did not like being asked to do more;
and lastly, he feared that there must be some evil cause for the
necessity of such a loan so soon after Alaric's marriage.

Alaric in making his application had not done so actually without
making any explanation on the subject. He wrote a long letter,
worded very cleverly, which only served to mystify the captain,
as Alaric had intended that it should do. Captain Cuttwater was
most anxious that Alaric, whom he looked on as his adopted son,
should rise in the world; he would have been delighted to think
that he might possibly live to see him in Parliament; would
probably have made considerable pecuniary sacrifice for such an
object. With the design, therefore, of softening Captain
Cuttwater's heart, Alaric in his letter had spoken about great
changes that were coming, of the necessity that there was of his
stirring himself, of the great pecuniary results to be expected
from a small present expenditure; and ended by declaring that the
money was to be used in forwarding the election of his friend
Scott for the Tillietudlem district burghs.

Now, the fact was, that Uncle Bat, though he cared a great deal
for Alaric, did not care a rope's end for Undy Scott, and could
enjoy his rum-punch just as keenly if Mr. Scott was in obscurity
as he could possibly hope to do even if that gentleman should be
promoted to be a Lord of the Treasury. He was not at all pleased
to think that his hard-earned moidores should run down the
gullies of the Tillietudlem boroughs in the shape of muddy ale or
vitriolic whisky; and yet this was the first request that Alaric
had ever made to him, and he did not like to refuse Alaric's
first request. So he came up to town himself on the following
morning with Harry and Charley, determined to reconcile all these
difficulties by the light of his own wisdom.

In the evening he returned to Surbiton Cottage, having been into
the city, sold out stock for £700, and handed over the money to
Alaric Tudor.

On the following morning Undy Scott set out for Scotland,
properly freighted, Mr. Whip Vigil having in due course moved for
a new writ for the Tillietudlem borough in the place of Mr.
M'Buffer, who had accepted the situation of Steward of the
Chiltern Hundreds.



CHAPTER XXV

CHISWICK GARDENS


The following Thursday was as fine as a Chiswick flower-show-day
ought to be, and so very seldom is. The party who had agreed to
congregate there--the party, that is, whom we are to meet--was
very select. Linda and Katie had come up to spend a few days with
their sister. Mrs. Val, Clementina, Gertrude, and Linda were to
go in a carriage, for which Alaric was destined to pay, and which
Mrs. Val had hired, having selected it regardless of expense, as
one which, by its decent exterior and polished outward graces,
conferred on its temporary occupiers an agreeable appearance of
proprietorship. The two Miss Neverbends, sisters of Fidus, were
also to be with them, and they with Katie followed humbly, as
became their station, in a cab, which was not only hired, but
which very vulgarly told the fact to all the world.

Slight as had been the intimacy between Fidus Neverbend and
Alaric at Tavistock, nevertheless a sort of friendship had since
grown up between them. Alaric had ascertained that Fidus might in
a certain degree be useful to him, that the good word of the
Aristides of the Works and Buildings might be serviceable, and
that, in short, Neverbend was worth cultivating. Neverbend, on
the other hand, when he perceived that Tudor was likely to become
a Civil Service hero, a man to be named with glowing eulogy at
all the Government Boards in London, felt unconsciously a desire
to pay him some of that reverence which a mortal always feels for
a god. And thus there was formed between them a sort of alliance,
which included also the ladies of the family.

Not that Mrs. Val, or even Mrs. A. Tudor, encountered Lactimel
and Ugolina Neverbend on equal terms. There is a distressing
habitual humility in many unmarried ladies of an uncertain age,
which at the first blush tells the tale against them which they
are so painfully anxious to leave untold. In order to maintain
their places but yet a little longer in that delicious world of
love, sighs, and dancing partners, from which it must be so hard
for a maiden, with all her youthful tastes about her, to tear
herself for ever away, they smile and say pretty things, put up
with the caprices of married women, and play second fiddle,
though the doing so in no whit assists them in their task. Nay,
the doing so does but stamp them the more plainly with that
horrid name from which they would so fain escape. Their plea is
for mercy--'Have pity on me, have pity on me; put up with me but
for one other short twelve months; and then, if then I shall
still have failed, I will be content to vanish from the world for
ever.' When did such plea for pity from one woman ever find real
entrance into the heart of another?

On such terms, however, the Misses Neverbend were content to
follow Mrs. Val to the Chiswick flower-show, and to feed on the
crumbs which might chance to fall from the rich table of Miss
Golightly; to partake of broken meat in the shape of cast-off
adorers, and regale themselves with lukewarm civility from the
outsiders in the throng which followed that adorable heiress.

And yet the Misses Neverbend were quite as estimable as the
divine Clementina, and had once been, perhaps, as attractive as
she is now. They had never waltzed, it is true, as Miss Golightly
waltzes. It may be doubted, indeed, whether any lady ever did. In
the pursuit of that amusement Ugolina was apt to be stiff and
ungainly, and to turn herself, or allow herself to be turned, as
though she were made of wood; she was somewhat flat in her
figure, looking as though she had been uncomfortably pressed into
an unbecoming thinness of substance, and a corresponding breadth
of surface, and this conformation did not assist her in acquiring
a graceful flowing style of motion. The elder sister, Lactimel,
was of a different form, but yet hardly more fit to shine in the
mazes of the dance than her sister. She had her charms,
nevertheless, which consisted of a somewhat stumpy dumpy
comeliness. She was altogether short in stature, and very short
below the knee. She had fair hair and a fair skin, small bones
and copious soft flesh. She had a trick of sighing gently in the
evolutions of the waltz, which young men attributed to her
softness of heart, and old ladies to her shortness of breath.
They both loved dancing dearly, and were content to enjoy it
whenever the chance might be given to them by the aid of Miss
Golightly's crumbs.

The two sisters were as unlike in their inward lights as in their
outward appearance. Lactimel walked ever on the earth, but
Ugolina never deserted the clouds. Lactimel talked prose and
professed to read it; Ugolina read poetry and professed to write
it. Lactimel was utilitarian. _Cui bono_?--though probably
in less classic phrase--was the question she asked as to
everything. Ugolina was transcendental, and denied that there
could be real good in anything. Lactimel would have clothed
and fed the hungry and naked, so that all mankind might be
comfortable. Ugolina would have brought mankind back to their
original nakedness, and have taught them to feed on the grasses
of the field, so that the claims of the body, which so vitally
oppose those of the mind, might remain unheeded and despised.
They were both a little nebulous in their doctrines, and apt to
be somewhat unintelligible in their discourse, when indulged in
the delights of unrestrained conversation. Lactimel had a theory
that every poor brother might eat of the fat and drink of the
sweet, might lie softly, and wear fine linen, if only some body
or bodies could be induced to do their duties; and Ugolina was
equally strong in a belief that if the mind were properly looked
to, all appreciation of human ill would cease. But they delighted
in generalizing rather than in detailed propositions; and had not
probably, even in their own minds, realized any exact idea as to
the means by which the results they desired were to be brought
about.

They toadied Mrs. Val--poor young women, how little should they
be blamed for this fault, which came so naturally to them in
their forlorn position!--they toadied Mrs. Val, and therefore
Mrs. Val bore with them; they bored Gertrude, and Gertrude, for
her husband's sake, bore with them also; they were confidential
with Clementina, and Clementina, of course, snubbed them. They
called Clementina 'the sweetest creature.' Lactimel declared that
she was born to grace the position of a wife and mother, and
Ugolina swore that her face was perfect poetry. Whereupon
Clementina laughed aloud, and elegantly made a grimace with her
nose and mouth, as she turned the 'perfect poetry' to her mother.
Such were the ladies of the party who went to the Chiswick
flower-show, and who afterwards were to figure at Mrs. Val's
little evening 'the dansant,' at which nobody was to be admitted
who was not nice.

They were met at the gate of the Gardens by a party of young men,
of whom Victoire Jaquêtanàpe was foremost. Alaric and Charley
were to come down there when their office work was done. Undy was
by this time on his road to Tillietudlem; and Captain Val was
playing billiards at his club. The latter had given a promise
that he would make his appearance--a promise, however, which no
one expected, or wished him to keep.

The happy Victoire was dressed up to his eyes. That, perhaps, is
not saying much, for he was only a few feet high; but what he
wanted in quantity he fully made up in quality. He was a well-made,
shining, jaunty little Frenchman, who seemed to be perfectly at
ease with himself and all the world. He had the smallest little
pair of moustaches imaginable, the smallest little imperial, the
smallest possible pair of boots, and the smallest possible pair of
gloves. Nothing on earth could be nicer, or sweeter, or finer,
than he was. But he did not carry his finery like a hog in armour,
as an Englishman so often does when an Englishman stoops to be
fine. It sat as naturally on Victoire as though he had been
born in it. He jumped about in his best patent leather boots,
apparently quite heedless whether he spoilt them or not; and when
he picked up Miss Golightly's parasol from the gravel, he seemed
to suffer no anxiety about his gloves.

He handed out the ladies one after another, as though his life
had been passed in handing out ladies, as, indeed, it probably
had--in handing them out and handing them in; and when Mrs. Val's
'private' carriage passed on, he was just as courteous to the
Misses Neverbend and Katie in their cab, as he had been to the
greater ladies who had descended from the more ambitious vehicle.
As Katie said afterwards to Linda, when she found the free use of
her voice in their own bedroom, 'he was a darling little duck of
a man, only he smelt so strongly of tobacco.'

But when they were once in the garden, Victoire had no time for
anyone but Mrs. Val and Clementina. He had done his duty by the
Misses Neverbend and those other two insipid young English girls,
and now he had his own affairs to look after. He also knew that
Miss Golightly had £20,000 of her own!

He was one of those butterfly beings who seem to have been
created that they may flutter about from flower to flower in the
summer hours of such gala times as those now going on at
Chiswick, just as other butterflies do. What the butterflies were
last winter, or what will become of them next winter, no one but
the naturalist thinks of inquiring. How they may feed themselves
on flower-juice, or on insects small enough to be their prey, is
matter of no moment to the general world. It is sufficient that
they flit about in the sunbeams, and add bright glancing spangles
to the beauty of the summer day.

And so it was with Victoire Jaquêtanàpe. He did no work. He made
no honey. He appeared to no one in the more serious moments of
life. He was the reverse of Shylock; he would neither buy with
you nor sell with you, but he would eat with you and drink with
you; as for praying, he did little of that either with or without
company. He was clothed in purple and fine linen, as butterflies
should be clothed, and fared sumptuously everyday; but whence
came his gay colours, or why people fed him with pate and
champagne, nobody knew and nobody asked.

Like most Frenchmen of his class, he never talked about himself.
He understood life, and the art of pleasing, and the necessity
that he should please, too well to do so. All that his companions
knew of him was that he came from France, and that when the
gloomy months came on in England, the months so unfitted for a
French butterfly, he packed up his azure wings and sought some
more genial climate, certain to return and be seen again when the
world of London became habitable.

If he had means of living no one knew it; if he was in debt no
one ever heard of it; if he had a care in the world he concealed
it. He abounded in acquaintances who were always glad to see him,
and would have regarded it as quite de trop to have a friend.
Nevertheless time was flying on with him as with others; and,
butterfly as he was, the idea of Miss Golightly's £20,000 struck
him with delightful amazement--500,000 francs! 500,000 francs!
and so he resolved to dance his very best, warm as the weather
undoubtedly was at the present moment.

'Ah, he was charmed to see madame and mademoiselle look so
charmingly,' he said, walking between mother and daughter, but
paying apparently much the greater share of attention to the
elder lady. In this respect we Englishmen might certainly learn
much from the manners of our dear allies. We know well enough how
to behave ourselves to our fair young countrywomen; we can be
civil enough to young women--nature teaches us that; but it is so
seldom that we are sufficiently complaisant to be civil to old
women. And yet that, after all, is the soul of gallantry. It is
to the sex that we profess to do homage. Our theory is, that
feminine weakness shall receive from man's strength humble and
respectful service. But where is the chivalry, where the
gallantry, if we only do service in expectation of receiving such
guerdon as rosy cheeks and laughing eyes can bestow?

It may be said that Victoire had an object in being civil to Mrs.
Val. But the truth is, all French Victoires are courteous to old
ladies. An Englishman may probably be as forward as a Frenchman
in rushing into a flaming building to save an old woman's life;
but then it so rarely happens that occasion offers itself for
gallantry such as that. A man, however, may with ease be civil to
a dozen old women in one day.

And so they went on, walking through parterres and glass-houses,
talking of theatres, balls, dinner-parties, picnics, concerts,
operas, of ladies married and single, of single gentlemen who
should be married, and of married gentlemen who should be single,
of everything, indeed, except the flowers, of which neither
Victoire nor his companions took the slightest notice.

'And madame really has a dance to-night in her own house?'

'O yes,' said Mrs. Val; 'that is, just a few quadrilles and
waltzes for Clementina. I really hardly know whether the people
will take the carpet up or no.' The people, consisting of the
cook and housemaid--for the page had, of course, come with the
carriage--were at this moment hard at work wrenching up the
nails, as Mrs. Val was very well aware.

'It will be delightful, charming,' said Victoire.

'Just a few people of our own set, you know,' said Mrs. Val: 'no
crowd, or fuss, or anything of that sort; just a few people that
we know are nice, in a quiet homely way.'

'Ah, that is so pleasing,' said M. Victoire: 'that is just what I
like; and is mademoiselle engaged for--?'

No. Mademoiselle was not engaged either for--or for--or for--&c.,
&c., &c.; and then out came the little tablets, under the dome
of a huge greenhouse filled with the most costly exotics, and
Clementina and her fellow-labourer in the cause of Terpsichore
went to work to make their arrangements for the evening.

And the rest of the party followed them. Gertrude was accompanied
by an Englishman just as idle and quite as useless as M.
Victoire, of the butterfly tribe also, but not so graceful, and
without colour.

And then came the Misses Neverbend walking together, and with
them, one on each side, two tall Frenchmen, whose faces had been
remodelled in that mould into which so large a proportion of
Parisians of the present day force their heads, in order that
they may come out with some look of the Emperor about them. Were
there not some such machine as this in operation, it would be
impossible that so many Frenchmen should appear with elongated,
angular, hard faces, all as like each other as though they were
brothers! The cut of the beard, the long prickly-ended, clotted
moustache, which looks as though it were being continually rolled
up in saliva, the sallow, half-bronzed, apparently unwashed
colour--these may all, perhaps, be assumed by any man after a
certain amount of labour and culture. But how it has come to pass
that every Parisian has been able to obtain for himself a pair of
the Emperor's long, hard, bony, cruel-looking cheeks, no
Englishman has yet been able to guess. That having the power they
should have the wish to wear this mask is almost equally
remarkable. Can it be that a political phase, when stamped on a
people with an iron hand of sufficient power of pressure, will
leave its impress on the outward body as well as on the inward
soul? If so, a Frenchman may, perhaps, be thought to have gained
in the apparent stubborn wilfulness of his countenance some
recompense for his compelled loss of all political wilfulness
whatever.

Be this as it may, the two Misses Neverbend walked on, each with
a stubborn long-faced Frenchman at her side, looking altogether
not ill pleased at this instance of the excellence of French
manners. After them came Linda, talking to some acquaintance of
her own, and then poor dear little Katie with another Frenchman,
sterner, more stubborn-looking, more long-faced, more like the
pattern after whom he and they had been remodelled, than any of
them.

Poor little Katie! This was her first day in public. With many
imploring caresses, with many half-formed tears in her bright
eyes, with many assurances of her perfect health, she had induced
her mother to allow her to come to the flower-show; to allow her
also to go to Mrs. Val's dance, at which there were to be none
but such very nice people. Katie was to commence her life, to
open her ball with this flower-show. In her imagination it was
all to be one long bright flower-show, in which, however, the
sweet sorrowing of the sensitive plant would ever and anon invite
her to pity and tears. When she entered that narrow portal she
entered the world, and there she found herself walking on the
well-mown grass with this huge, stern, bearded Frenchman by her
side! As to talking to him, that was quite out of the question.
At the gate some slight ceremony of introduction had been gone
through, which had consisted in all the Frenchmen taking off
their hats and bowing to the two married ladies, and in the
Englishmen standing behind and poking the gravel with their
canes. But in this no special notice had of course been taken of
Katie; and she had a kind of idea, whence derived she knew not,
that it would be improper for her to talk to this man, unless she
were actually and _bona fide_ introduced to him. And then,
again, poor Katie was not very confident in her French, and then
her companion was not very intelligible in his English; so when
the gentleman asked, 'Is it that mademoiselle lofe de fleurs?'
poor little Katie felt herself tremble, and tried in vain to
mutter something; and when, again essaying to do his duty, he
suggested that 'all de beauté of Londres did delight to valk
itself at Chisveek,' she was equally dumb, merely turning on him
her large eyes for one moment, to show that she knew that he
addressed her. After that he walked on as silent as herself,
still keeping close to her side; and other ladies, who had not
the good fortune to have male companions, envied her happiness in
being so attended.

But Alaric and Charley were coming, she knew; Alaric was her
brother-in-law now, and therefore she would be delighted to meet
him; and Charley, dear Charley! she had not seen him since he
went away that morning, now four days since; and four days was a
long time, considering that he had saved her life. Her busy
little fingers had been hard at work the while, and now she had
in her pocket the purse which she had been so eager to make, and
which she was almost afraid to bestow.

'Oh, Linda,' she had said, 'I don't think I will, after all; it
is such a little thing.'

'Nonsense, child, you wouldn't give him a worked counterpane;
little things are best for presents.'

'But it isn't good enough,' she said, looking at her handiwork in
despair. But, nevertheless, she persevered, working in the golden
beads with constant diligence, so that she might be able to give
it to Charley among the Chiswick flowers. Oh! what a place it was
in which to bestow a present, with all the eyes of all the world
upon her!

And then this dance to which she was going! The thought of what
she would do there troubled her. Would anyone ask her to dance?
Would Charley think of her when he had so many grown-up girls,
girls quite grown up, all around him? It would be very sad if at
this London party it should be her fate to sit down the whole
evening and see others dance. It would suffice for her, she
thought, if she could stand up with Linda, but she had an idea
that this would not be allowed at a London party; and then Linda,
perhaps, might not like it. Altogether she had much upon her
mind, and was beginning to think that, perhaps, she might have
been happier to have stayed at home with her mamma. She had not
quite recovered from the effect of her toss into the water, or
the consequent excitement, and a very little misery would upset
her. And so she walked on with her Napoleonic companion, from
whom she did not know how to free herself, through one glass-house
after another, across lawns and along paths, attempting every
now and then to get a word with Linda, and not at all so happy
as she had hoped to have been.

At last Gertrude came to her rescue. They were all congregated
for a while in one great flower-house, and Gertrude, finding
herself near her sister, asked her how she liked it all.

'Oh! it is very beautiful,' said Katie, 'only--'

'Only what, dear?'

'Would you let me come with you a little while! Look here'--and
she crept softly around to the other side of her sister, sidling
with little steps away from the Frenchman, at whom, however, she
kept furtively looking, as though she feared that he would detect
her in the act. 'Look here, Gertrude,' she said, twitching her
sister's arm; 'that gentleman there--you see him, don't you? he's
a Frenchman, and I don't know how to get away from him.'

'How to get away from him?' said Gertrude. 'That's M. Delabarbe
de l'Empereur, a great friend of Mrs. Val's, and a very quiet
sort of man, I believe; he won't eat you.'

'No, he won't eat me, I know; but I can't look at anything,
because he will walk so close to me! Mayn't I come with you?'

Gertrude told her she might, and so Katie made good her escape,
hiding herself from her enemy as well as she could behind her
sister's petticoats. He, poor man, was perhaps as rejoiced at the
arrangement as Katie herself; at any rate he made no attempt to
regain his prey, but went on by himself, looking as placidly
stern as ever, till he was absorbed by Mrs. Val's more immediate
party, and then he devoted himself to her, while M. Jaquêtanàpe
settled with Clementina the properest arrangement for the waltzes
of the evening.

Katie was beginning to be tranquilly happy, and was listening to
the enthusiasm of Ugolina Neverbend, who declared that flowers
were the female poet's fitting food--it may be doubted whether
she had ever tried it--when her heart leaped within her on
hearing a sharp, clear, well-known voice, almost close behind
her. It was Charley Tudor. After her silent promenade with M.
Delabarbe de l'Empereur, Katie had been well pleased to put up
with the obscure but yet endurable volubility of Ugolina; but now
she felt almost as anxious to get quit of Ugolina as she had
before been to shake off the Frenchman.

'Flowers are Nature's chef-d'oeuvre,' said Ugolina; 'they convey
to me the purest and most direct essence of that heavenly power
of production which is the sweetest evidence which Jehovah gives
us of His presence.'

'Do they?' said Katie, looking over her shoulder to watch what
Charley was doing, and to see whether he was coming to notice
her.

'They are the bright stars of His immediate handiwork,' said
Ugolina; 'and if our dim eyes could read them aright, they would
whisper to us the secret of His love.'

'Yes, I dare say they would,' said Katie, who felt, perhaps, a
little disappointed because Charley lingered a while shaking
hands with Mrs. Val and Clementina Golightly.

It was, however, but for a moment. There was much shaking of
hands to be done, and a considerable taking off of hats to be
gone through; and as Alaric and Charley encountered the head of
the column first, it was only natural that they should work their
way through it gradually. Katie, however, never guessed--how
could she?--that Charley had calculated that by reaching her last
he would be able to remain with her.

She was still listening to Ugolina, who was mounting higher and
higher up to heaven, when she found her hand in Charley's.
Ugolina might now mount up, and get down again as best she could,
for Katie could no longer listen to her.

Alaric had not seen her yet since her ducking. She had to listen
to and to answer his congratulations, Charley standing by and
making his comments.

'Charley says you took to the water quite naturally, and swam
like a duck,' said Alaric.

'Only she went in head foremost,' said Charley.

'All bathers ought to do that,' said Alaric; 'and tell me, Katie,
did you feel comfortable when you were in the water?'

'Indeed I don't recollect anything about it,' said she, 'only
that I saw Charley coming to me, just when I was going to sink
for the last time.'

'Sink! Why, I'm told that you floated like a deal board.'

'The big hat and the crinoline kept her up,' said Charley; 'she
had no idea of sinking.'

'Oh! Charley, you know I was under the water for a long time; and
that if you had not come, just at that very moment, I should
never have come up again.'

And then Alaric went on, and Charley and Katie were left
together.

How was she to give him the purse? It was burning a hole in her
pocket till she could do so; and yet how was she to get it out of
her possession into his, and make her little speech, here in the
public garden? She could have done it easily enough at home in
the drawing-room at Surbiton Cottage.

'And how do you like the gardens?' asked Charley.

'Oh! they are beautiful; but I have hardly been able to see
anything yet. I have been going about with a great big Frenchman
--there, that man there--he has such a queer name.'

'Did his name prevent your seeing?'

'No, not his name; I didn't know his name then.

But it seemed so odd to be walking about with such a man as that.
But I want to go back, and look at the black and yellow roses in
that house, there. Would you go with me? that is, if we may. I
wonder whether we may!'

Charley was clearly of opinion that they might, and should, and
would; and so away they sallied back to the roses, and Katie
began to enjoy the first instalment of the happiness which she
had anticipated. In the temple of the roses the crowd at first
was great, and she could not get the purse out of her pocket, nor
make her speech; but after a while the people passed on, and
there was a lull before others filled their places, and Katie
found herself opposite to a beautiful black rose, with no one
close to her but Charley.

'I have got something for you,' she said; and as she spoke she
felt herself to be almost hot with blushing.

'Something for me!' said Charley; and he also felt himself
abashed, he did not know why.

'It's only a very little thing,' said Katie, feeling in her
pocket, 'and I am almost ashamed to ask you to take it. But I
made it all myself; no one else put a stitch in it,' and so
saying, and looking round to see that she was not observed, she
handed her gift to Charley.

'Oh! Katie, dearest Katie,' said he, 'I am so much obliged to
you--I'll keep it till I die.'

'I didn't know what to make that was better,' said she.

'Nothing on earth could possibly be better,' said he.

'A plate of bread and butter and a purse are a very poor return
for saving one's life,' said she, half laughing, half crying.

He looked at her with his eyes full of love; and as he looked, he
swore within himself that come what might, he would never see
Norah Geraghty again, but would devote his life to an endeavour
to make himself worthy of the angel that was now with him. Katie
the while was looking up anxiously into his face. She was
thinking of no other love than that which it became her to feel
for the man who had saved her life. She was thinking of no other
love; but her young heart was opening itself to a very different
feeling. She was sinking deep, deep in waters which were to go
near to drown her warm heart; much nearer than those other waters
which she fancied had all but closed for ever over her life.

She looked into his face and saw that he was pleased; and that,
for the present, was enough for her. She was at any rate happy
now. So they passed on through the roses, and then lost
themselves among the geraniums, and wondered at the gigantic
rhododendrons, and beautiful azaleas, and so went on from house
to house, and from flower-bed to flower-bed, Katie talking and
Charley listening, till she began to wonder at her former
supineness, and to say both to herself and out loud to her
companion, how very, very, very glad she was that her mother had
let her come.

Poor Katie!--dear, darling, bonny Katie!--sweet sweetest, dearest
child! why, oh why, has that mother of thine, that tender-hearted
loving mother, put thee unguarded in the way of such peril as
this? Has she not sworn to herself that over thee at least she
would watch as a hen does over her young, so that no unfortunate
love should quench thy young spirit, or blanch thy cheek's bloom?
Has she not trembled at the thought of what would have befallen
thee, had thy fate been such as Linda's? Has she not often--oh,
how often!--on her knees thanked the Almighty God that Linda's
spirit was not as thine; that this evil had happened to the lamb
whose temper had been fitted by Him to endure it? And yet--here
thou art--all unguarded, all unaided, left by thyself to drink of
the cup of sweet poison, and none near to warn thee that the
draught is deadly.

Alas!--'twould be useless to warn thee now. The false god has
been placed upon the altar, the temple all shining with gems and
gold has been built around him, the incense-cup is already
swinging; nothing will now turn the idolater from her worship,
nothing short of a miracle.

Our Katie's childish days are now all gone. A woman's passion
glows within her breast, though as yet she has not scanned it
with a woman's intelligence. Her mother, listening to a child's
entreaty, had suffered her darling to go forth for a child's
amusement. It was doomed that the child should return no more;
but in lieu of her, a fair, heart-laden maiden, whose every
fondest thought must henceforth be of a stranger's welfare and a
stranger's fate.

But it must not be thought that Charley abused the friendship
of Mrs. Woodward, and made love to Katie, as love is usually
made--with warm words, assurances of affection, with squeezing
of the hand, with sighs, and all a lover's ordinary catalogue of
resources. Though we have said that he was a false god, yet he
was hardly to be blamed for the temple, and gems, and gold, with
which he was endowed; not more so, perhaps, than the unconscious
bud which is made so sacred on the banks of the Egyptian river.
He loved too, perhaps as warmly, though not so fatally as Katie
did; but he spoke no word of his love. He walked among the
flowers with her, laughing and listening to her in his usual
light-hearted, easy manner; every now and again his arm would
thrill with pleasure, as he felt on it the touch of her little
fingers, and his heart would leap within him as he gazed on the
speaking beauty of her face; but he was too honest-hearted to
talk to the young girl, to Mrs. Woodward's child, of love. He
talked to her as to a child--but she listened to him and loved
him as a woman.

And so they rambled on till the hour appointed for quitting this
Elysium had arrived. Every now and again they had a glimpse of
some one of their party, which had satisfied Katie that they were
not lost. At first Clementina was seen tracing with her parasol
on the turf the plan of a new dance. Then Ugolina passed by them
describing the poetry of the motion of the spheres in a full flow
of impassioned eloquence to M. Delabarbe de l'Empereur: '_C'est
toujours vrai; ce que mademoiselle dit est toujours vrai_,'
was the Frenchman's answer, which they heard thrice repeated. And
then Lactimel and Captain Val were seen together, the latter
having disappointed the prophecies which had been made respecting
him. Lactimel had an idea that as the Scotts were great people,
they were all in Parliament, and she was endeavouring to persuade
Captain Val that something ought to be done for the poor.

'Think,' said she, 'only think, Captain Scott, of all the money
that this _fête_ must cost.'

'A doosed sight,' said the captain, hardly articulating from
under his thick, sandy-coloured moustache, which, growing
downwards from his nose, looked like a heavy thatch put on to
protect his mouth from the inclemency of the clouds above. 'A
doosed sight,' said the captain.

'Now suppose, Captain Scott, that all this money could be
collected. The tickets, you know, and the dresses, and----'

'I wish I knew how to do it,' said the captain.

Lactimel went on with her little scheme for expending the cost of
the flower-show in bread and bacon for the poor Irish of Saffron
Hill; but Charley and Katie heard no more, for the mild
philosopher passed out of hearing and out of sight.

At last Katie got a poke in her back from a parasol, just as
Charley had expended half a crown, one of Mr. M'Ruen's last, in
purchasing for her one simple beautiful flower, to put into her
hair that night.

'You naughty puss!' said Gertrude, 'we have been looking for you
all over the gardens. Mrs. Val and the Miss Neverbends have been
waiting this half-hour.' Katie looked terribly frightened. 'Come
along, and don't keep them waiting any longer. They are all in
the passage. This was your fault, Master Charley.'

'O no, it was not,' said Katie; 'but we thought----'

'Never mind thinking,' said Gertrude, 'but come along.' And so
they hurried on, and were soon replaced in their respective
vehicles, and then went back to town.

'Well, I do think the Chiswick Gardens is the nicest place in all
the world,' said Katie, leaning back in the cab, and meditating
on her past enjoyment.

'They are very pretty--very,' said Lactimel Neverbend. 'I only
wish every cottar had such a garden behind his cottage. I am sure
we might manage it, if we set about it in the right way.'

'What! as big as Chiswick?' said Katie.

'No; not so big,' said Lactimel; 'but quite as nicely kept.'

'I think the pigs would get in,' said Katie.

'It would be much easier, and more important too, to keep their
minds nicely,' said Ugolina; and there the pigs could never get
in.'

'No; I suppose not,' said Katie.

'I don't know that,' said Lactimel.



CHAPTER XXVI

KATIE'S FIRST BALL


In spite of Mrs. Val's oft-repeated assurance that they would
have none but nice people, she had done her best to fill her
rooms, and not unsuccessfully. She had, it is true, eschewed the
Golightly party, who resided some north of Oxford Street, in the
purlieus of Fitzroy Square, and some even to the east of
Tottenham Court Road. She had eschewed the Golightlys, and
confined herself to the Scott connexion; but so great had been
her success in life, that, even under these circumstances, she
had found herself able to fill her rooms respectably. If, indeed,
there was no absolute crowding, if some space was left in the
front drawing-room sufficient for the operations of dancers, she
could still attribute this apparent want of fashionable
popularity to the selections of the few nice people whom she had
asked. The Hon. Mrs. Val was no ordinary woman, and understood
well how to make the most of the goods with which the gods
provided her.

The Miss Neverbends were to dine with the Tudors, and go with
them to the dance in the evening, and their brother Fidus was to
meet them there. Charley was, of course, one of the party at
dinner; and as there was no other gentleman there, Alaric had an
excellent opportunity, when the ladies went up to their toilets,
to impress on his cousin the expediency of his losing no time in
securing to himself Miss Golightly's twenty thousand pounds. The
conversation, as will be seen, at last became rather animated.

'Well, Charley, what do you think of the beautiful Clementina?'
said Alaric, pushing over the bottle to his cousin, as soon as
they found themselves alone. 'A 'doosed' fine girl, as Captain
Val says, isn't she?'

'A 'doosed' fine girl, of course,' said Charley, laughing. 'She
has too much go in her for me, I'm afraid.'

'Marriage and children will soon pull that down. She'd make an
excellent wife for such a man as you; and to tell you the truth,
Charley, if you'll take my advice, you'll lose no time in making
up to her. She has got that d---- French fellow at her heels, and
though I don't suppose she cares one straw about him, it may be
well to make sure.'

'But you don't mean in earnest that you think that Miss Golightly
would have me?'

'Indeed I do--you are just the man to get on with girls; and, as
far as I can see, you are just the man that will never get on in
any other way under the sun.'

Charley sighed as he thought of his many debts, his poor
prospects, and his passionate love. There seemed, indeed, to be
little chance that he ever would get on at all in the ordinary
sense of the word. 'I'm sure she'd refuse me,' said he, still
wishing to back out of the difficulty. 'I'm sure she would--I've
not got a penny in the world, you know.'

'That's just the reason--she has got lots of money, and you have
got none.'

'Just the reason why she should refuse me, you should say.'

'Well--what if she does? There's no harm done. 'Faint heart never
won fair lady.' You've everything to back you--Mrs. Val is led by
Undy Scott, and Undy is all on your side.'

'But she has got guardians, hasn't she?'

'Yes--her father's first cousin, old Sam Golightly. He is dying;
or dead probably by this time; only Mrs. Val won't have the news
brought to her, because of this party. He had a fit of apoplexy
yesterday. Then there's her father's brother-in-law, Figgs; he's
bedridden. When old Golightly is off the hooks altogether,
another will be chosen, and Undy talks of putting in my name as
that of a family friend; so you'll have everything to assist
you.'

Charley looked very grave. He had not been in the habit of
discussing such matters, but it seemed to him, that if Alaric was
about to become in any legal manner the guardian of Miss
Golightly's fortune, that that in itself was reason enough why
he, Alaric, should not propose such a match as this. Needy men,
to be sure, did often marry rich ladies, and the world looked on
and regarded it only as a matter of course; but surely it would
be the duty of a guardian to protect his ward from such a fate,
if it were in his power to do so.

Alaric, who saw something of what was going on in his cousin's
mind, essayed to remove the impression which was thus made.
'Besides, you know, Clementina is no chicken. Her fortune is at
her own disposal. All the guardians on earth cannot prevent her
marrying you if she makes up her mind to do so.'

Charley gulped down his glass of wine, and then sat staring at
the fire, saying nothing further. It was true enough that he was
very poor--true enough that Miss Golightly's fortune would set
him on his legs, and make a man of him--true enough, perhaps,
that no other expedient of which he could think would do so. But
then there were so many arguments that were 'strong against the
deed.' In the first place, he thought it impossible that he
should be successful in such a suit, and then again it would
hardly be honest to obtain such success, if it were possible;
then, thirdly, he had no sort of affection whatsoever for Miss
Golightly; and fourthly, lastly, and chiefly, he loved so dearly,
tenderly, loved poor Katie Woodward.

As he thought of this, he felt horror-stricken with himself at
allowing the idea of his becoming a suitor to another to dwell
for an instant on his mind, and looking up with all the
resolution which he was able to summon, he said--'It's
impossible, Alaric, quite impossible! I couldn't do it.'

'Then what do you mean to do?' said Alaric, who was angry at
having his scheme thus thwarted; 'do you mean to be a beggar?--or
if not, how do you intend to get out of your difficulties?'

'I trust not a beggar,' said Charley, sadly.

'What other hope have you? what rational hope of setting yourself
right?'

'Perhaps I may do something by writing,' said Charley, very
bashfully.

'By writing! ha, ha, ha,' and Alaric laughed somewhat cruelly at
the poor navvy--' do something by writing! what will you do by
writing? will you make £20,000--or 20,000 pence? Of all trades
going, that, I should say, is likely to be the poorest for a poor
man--the poorest and the most heart-breaking. What have you made
already to encourage you?'

'The editor says that 'Crinoline and Macassar' will come to £4
10s.'

'And when will you get it?'

'The editor says that the rule is to pay six months after the
date of publication. The _Daily Delight_ is only a new thing,
you know. The editor says that, if the sale comes up to his expectations,
he will increase the scale of pay.'

'A prospect of £4 10s. for a fortnight's hard work! That's a bad
look-out, my boy; you had better take the heiress.'

'It may be a bad look-out,' said Charley, whose spirit was raised
by his cousin's sneers--'but at any rate it's honest. And I'll
tell you what, Alaric, I'd sooner earn £50 by writing for the
press, than get £1,000 in any other way you can think of. It may
be a poor trade in one way; and authors, I believe, are poor; but
I am sure it has its consolations.'

'Well, Charley, I hope with all my heart that you may find them.
For my own part, seeing what a place the world is, seeing what
are the general aspirations of other men, seeing what, as it
appears to me, the Creator has intended for the goal of our
labours, I look for advancement, prosperity, and such rank and
station as I may be able to win for myself. The labourer is
worthy of his hire, and I do not mean to refuse such wages as may
come in my way.'

'Yes,' said Charley, who, now that his spirit was roused,
determined to fight his battle manfully, 'yes, the labourer is
worthy of his hire; but were I to get Miss Golightly's fortune I
should be taking the hire without labour.'

'Bah!' said Alaric.

'It would be dishonest in every way, for I do not love her, and
should not love her at the moment that I married her.'

'Honesty!' said Alaric, still sneering; 'there is no sign of the
dishonesty of the age so strong as the continual talk which one
hears about honesty!' It was quite manifest that Alaric had not
sat at the feet of Undy Scott without profiting by the lessons
which he had heard.

'With what face,' continued he, 'can you pretend to be more
honest than your neighbours?'

'I know that it is wrong, and unmanly too, to hunt a girl down
merely for what she has got.'

'There are a great many wrong and unmanly men about, then,' said
Alaric. 'Look through the Houses of Parliament, and see how many
men there have married for money; aye, and made excellent
husbands afterwards. I'll tell you what it is, Charley, it is all
humbug in you to pretend to be better than others; you are not a
bit better;--mind, I do not say you are worse. We have none of us
too much of this honesty of which we are so fond of prating.
Where was your honesty when you ordered the coat for which you
know you cannot pay? or when you swore to the bootmaker that he
should have the amount of his little bill after next quarter-day,
knowing in your heart at the time that he wouldn't get a farthing
of it? If you are so honest, why did you waste your money to-day
in going to Chiswick, instead of paying some portion of your
debts? Honest! you are, I dare say, indifferently honest as the
world goes, like the rest of us. But I think you might put the
burden of Clementina's fortune on your conscience without feeling
much the worse for it after what you have already gone through.'

Charley became very red in the face as he sat silent, listening
to Alaric's address--nor did he speak at once at the first pause,
so Alaric went on. 'The truth, I take it, is, that at the present
moment you have no personal fancy for this girl.'

'No, I have not,' said Charley.

'And you are so incredibly careless as to all prudential
considerations as to prefer your immediate personal fancies to
the future welfare of your whole life. I can say no more. If you
will think well of my proposition, I will do all I can to assist
you. I have no doubt you would make a good husband to Miss
Golightly, and that she would be very happy with you. If you
think otherwise there is an end of it; but pray do not talk so
much about your honesty--your tailor would arrest you to-morrow
if he heard you.'

'There are two kinds of honesty, I take it,' said Charley,
speaking with suppressed anger and sorrow visible in his face,
'that which the world sees and that which it does not see. For
myself, I have nothing to say in my own defence. I have made my
bed badly, and must lie on it as it is. I certainly will not mend
it by marrying a girl that I can never love. And as for you,
Alaric, all who know you and love you watch your career with the
greatest hope. We know your ambition, and all look to see you
rise in the world. But in rising, as you will do, you should
remember this--that nothing that is wrong can become right
because other people do it.'

'Well, Charley,' said the other, 'thank you for the lecture. I
did not certainly expect it from you; but it is not on that
account the less welcome. And now, suppose we go upstairs and
dress for Mrs. Val;' and so they went upstairs.

Katie's heart beat high as she got out of the carriage--Mrs.
Val's private carriage had been kept on for the occasion--and saw
before and above her on the stairs a crowd of muslin crushing its
way on towards the room prepared for dancing. Katie had never
been to a ball before. We hope that the word ball may not bring
down on us the adverse criticism of the _Morning Post_. It
was probably not a ball in the strictly fashionable sense of the
word, but it was so to Katie to all intents and purposes. Her
dancing had hitherto been done either at children's parties, or
as a sort of supplemental amusement to the evening tea-gatherings
at Hampton or Hampton Court. She had never yet seen the muse
worshipped with the premeditated ceremony of banished carpets,
chalked floors, and hired musicians. Her heart consequently beat
high as she made her way upstairs, linked arm-in-arm with Ugolina
Neverbend.

'Shall you dance much?' said Ugolina.

'Oh, I hope so,' said Katie.

'I shall not. It is an amusement of which I am peculiarly fond,
and for which my active habits suit me.' This was probably said
with some allusion to her sister, who was apt to be short of
breath. 'But in the dances of the present day conversation is
impossible, and I look upon any pursuit as barbaric which stops
the "feast of reason and the flow of soul."'

Katie did not quite understand this, but she thought in her heart
that she would not at all mind giving up talking for the whole
evening if she could only get dancing enough. But on this matter
her heart misgave her. To be sure, she was engaged to Charley for
the first quadrille and second waltz; but there her engagements
stopped, whereas Clementina, as she was aware, had a whole book
full of them. What if she should get no more dancing when
Charley's good nature should have been expended? She had an idea
that no one would care to dance with her when older partners were
to be had. Ah, Katie, you do not yet know the extent of your
riches, or half the wealth of your own attractions!

And then they all heard another little speech from Mrs. Val. 'She
was really quite ashamed--she really was--to see so many people;
she could not wish any of her guests away, that would be
impossible--though perhaps one or two might be spared,' she said
in a confidential whisper to Gertrude. Who the one or two might
be it would be difficult to decide, as she had made the same
whisper to every one; 'but she really was ashamed; there was
almost a crowd, and she had quite intended that the house should
be nearly empty. The fact was, everybody asked had come, and as
she could not, of course, have counted on that, why, she had got,
you see, twice as many people as she had expected.' And then she
went on, and made the same speech to the next arrival.

Katie, who wanted to begin the play at the beginning, kept her
eye anxiously on Charley, who was still standing with Lactimel
Neverbend on his arm. 'Oh, now,' said she to herself, 'if he
should forget me and begin dancing with Miss Neverbend!' But then
she remembered how he had jumped into the water, and determined
that, even with such provocation as that, she must not be angry
with him.

But there was no danger of Charley's forgetting. 'Come,' said he,
'we must not lose any more time, if we mean to dance the first
set. Alaric will be our _vis-à-vis_--he is going to dance
with Miss Neverbend,' and so they stood up. Katie tightened her
gloves, gave her dress a little shake, looked at her shoes, and
then the work of the evening began.

'I shouldn't have liked to have sat down for the first dance,'
she said confidentially to Charley,' because it's my first ball.'

'Sit down! I don't suppose you'll be let to sit down the whole
evening. You'll be crying out for mercy about three or four
o'clock in the morning.'

'It's you to go on now,' said Katie, whose eyes were intent on
the figure, and who would not have gone wrong herself, or allowed
her partner to do so, on any consideration. And so the dance went
on right merrily.

'I've got to dance the first polka with Miss Golightly,' said
Charley.

'And the next with me,' said Katie.

'You may be sure I shan't forget that.'

'You lucky man to get Miss Golightly for a partner. I am told she
is the most beautiful dancer in the world.'

'O no--Mademoiselle.......is much better,' said Charley, naming
the principal stage performer of the day. 'If one is to go the
whole hog, one had better do it thoroughly.'

Katie did not quite understand then what he meant, and merely
replied that she would look at the performance. In this, however,
she was destined to be disappointed, for Charley had hardly left
her before Miss Golightly brought up to her the identical M.
Delabarbe de l'Empereur who had so terribly put her out in the
gardens. This was done so suddenly, that Katie's presence of mind
was quite insufficient to provide her with any means of escape.
The Frenchman bowed very low and said nothing. Katie made a
little curtsy, and was equally silent. Then she felt her own arm
gathered up and put within his, and she stood up to take her
share in the awful performance. She felt herself to be in such a
nervous fright that she would willingly have been home again at
Hampton if she could; but as this was utterly impossible, she had
only to bethink herself of her steps, and get through the work as
best she might.

Away went Charley and Clementina leading the throng; away went M.
Jaquêtanàpe and Linda; away went another Frenchman, clasping in
his arms the happy Ugolina. Away went Lactimel with a young
Weights and Measures--and then came Katie's turn. She pressed
her lips together, shut her eyes, and felt the tall Frenchman's
arms behind her back, and made a start. 'Twas like plunging into
cold water on the first bathing day of the season--'_ce n'est
que le premier pas que coute._' When once off Katie did not
find it so bad. The Frenchman danced well, and Katie herself was
a wicked little adept. At home, at Surbiton, dancing with another
girl, she had with great triumph tired out the fingers both of
her mother and sister, and forced them to own that it was
impossible to put her down. M. de l'Empereur, therefore, had his
work before him, and he did it like a man--as long as he could.

Katie, who had not yet assumed the airs or will of a grown-up
young lady, thought that she was bound to go on as long as her
grand partner chose to go with her. He, on the other hand,
accustomed in his gallantry to obey all ladies' wishes,
considered himself bound to leave it to her to stop when she
pleased. And so they went on with apparently interminable
gyrations. Charley and the heiress had twice been in motion, and
had twice stopped, and still they were going on; Ugolina had
refreshed herself with many delicious observations, and Lactimel
had thrice paused to advocate dancing for the million, and still
they went on; the circle was gradually left to themselves, and
still they went on; people stood round, some admiring and others
pitying; and still they went on. Katie, thinking of her steps and
her business, did not perceive that she and her partner were
alone; and ever and anon, others of course joined in--and so they
went on--and on--and on.

M. Delabarbe de l'Empereur was a strong and active man, but he
began to perceive that the lady was too much for him. He was
already melting away with his exertions, while his partner was as
cool as a cucumber. She, with her active young legs, her lightly
filled veins, and small agile frame, could have gone on almost
for ever; but M. de l'Empereur was more encumbered. Gallantry was
at last beat by nature, his overtasked muscles would do no more
for him, and he was fain to stop, dropping his partner into a
chair, and throwing himself in a state of utter exhaustion
against the wall.

Katie was hardly out of breath as she received the
congratulations of her friends; but at the moment she could not
understand why they were quizzing her. In after times, however,
she was often reproached with having danced a Frenchman to death
in the evening, in revenge for his having bored her in the
morning. It was observed that M. Delabarbe de l'Empereur danced
no more that evening. Indeed, he very soon left the house.

Katie had not been able to see Miss Golightly's performance, but
it had been well worth seeing. She was certainly no ordinary
performer, and if she did not quite come up to the remarkable
movements which one sees on the stage under the name of dancing,
the fault was neither in her will nor her ability, but only in
her education. Charley also was peculiarly well suited to give
her 'ample verge and room enough' to show off all her perfections.
Her most peculiar merit consisted, perhaps, in her power of stopping
herself suddenly, while going on at the rate of a hunt one way, and
without any pause or apparent difficulty going just as fast the other
way. This was done by a jerk which must, one would be inclined to
think, have dislocated all her bones and entirely upset her internal
arrangements. But no; it was done without injury, or any disagreeable
result either to her brain or elsewhere. We all know how a steamer
is manoeuvred when she has to change her course, how we stop
her and ease her and back her; but Miss Golightly stopped and
eased and backed all at once, and that without collision with
any other craft. It was truly very wonderful, and Katie ought to
have looked at her.

Katie soon found occasion to cast off her fear that her evening's
happiness would be destroyed by a dearth of partners. Her
troubles began to be of an exactly opposite description. She had
almost envied Miss Golightly her little book full of engagements,
and now she found herself dreadfully bewildered by a book of her
own. Some one had given her a card and a pencil, and every moment
she could get to herself was taken up in endeavouring to guard
herself from perfidy on her own part. All down the card, at
intervals which were not very far apart, there were great C's,
which stood for Charley, and her firmest feeling was that no earthly
consideration should be allowed to interfere with those landmarks.
And then there were all manner of hieroglyphics--sometimes,
unfortunately, illegible to Katie herself--French names and English
names mixed together in a manner most vexatious; and to make matters
worse, she found that she had put down both Victoire Jaquêtanàpe
and Mr. Johnson of the Weights, by a great I, and she could not
remember with whom she was bound to dance the lancers, and to which
she had promised the last polka before supper. One thing, however,
was quite fixed: when supper should arrive she was to go downstairs
with Charley.

'What dreadful news, Linda!' said Charley; 'did you hear it?'
Linda was standing up with Mr. Neverbend for a sober quadrille,
and Katie also was close by with her partner. 'Dreadful news
indeed!'

'What is it?' said Linda.

'A man can die but once, to be sure; but to be killed in such a
manner as that, is certainly very sad.'

'Killed! who has been killed?' said Neverbend.

'Well, perhaps I shouldn't say killed. He only died in the cab as
he went home.'

'Died in a cab! how dreadful!' said Neverbend. 'Who? who was it,
Mr. Tudor?'

'Didn't you hear? How very odd! Why M. de l'Empereur, to be sure.
I wonder what the coroner will bring it in.'

'How can you talk such nonsense, Charley?' said Linda.

'Very well, Master Charley,' said Katie. 'All that comes of being
a writer of romances. I suppose that's to be the next contribution
to the _Daily Delight_.'

Neverbend went off on his quadrille not at all pleased with the
joke. Indeed, he was never pleased with a joke, and in this
instance he ventured to suggest to his partner that the idea of a
gentleman expiring in a cab was much too horrid to be laughed at.

'Oh, we never mind Charley Tudor,' said Linda; 'he always goes on
in that way. We all like him so much.'

Mr. Neverbend, who, though not very young, still had a
susceptible heart within his bosom, had been much taken by
Linda's charms. He already began to entertain an idea that as a
Mrs. Neverbend would be a desirable adjunct to his establishment
at some future period, he could not do better than offer himself
and his worldly goods to the acceptance of Miss Woodward; he
therefore said nothing further in disparagement of the family
friend; but he resolved that no such alliance should ever induce
him to make Mr. Charles Tudor welcome at his house. But what
could he have expected? The Internal Navigation had ever been a
low place, and he was surprised that the Hon. Mrs. Val should
have admitted one of the navvies inside her drawing-room.

And so the ball went on. Mr. Johnson came duly for the lancers,
and M. Jaquêtanàpe for the polka. Johnson was great at the
lancers, knowing every turn and vagary in that most intricate and
exclusive of dances; and it need hardly be said that the polka
with M. Jaquêtanàpe was successful. The last honour, however, was
not without evil results, for it excited the envy of Ugolina,
who, proud of her own performance, had longed, but hitherto in
vain, to be whirled round the room by that wondrously expert
foreigner.

'Well, my dear,' said Ugolina, with an air that plainly said that
Katie was to be treated as a child, 'I hope you have had dancing
enough.'

'Oh, indeed I have not,' said Katie, fully appreciating the
purport and cause of her companion's remark; 'not near enough.'

'Ah--but, my dear--you should remember,' said Ugolina; 'your
mamma will be displeased if you fatigue yourself.'

'My mamma is never displeased because we amuse ourselves, and I
am not a bit fatigued;' and so saying Katie walked off, and took
refuge with her sister Gertrude. What business had any Ugolina
Neverbend to interfere between her and her mamma?

Then came the supper. There was a great rush to get downstairs,
but Charley was so clever that even this did not put him out. Of
course there was no sitting down; which means that the bashful,
retiring, and obedient guests were to stand on their legs; while
those who were forward, and impudent, and disobedient, found
seats for themselves wherever they could. Charley was certainly
among the latter class, and he did not rest therefore till he had
got Katie into an old arm-chair in one corner of the room, in
such a position as to enable himself to eat his own supper
leaning against the chimney-piece.

'I say, Johnson,' said he, 'do bring me some ham and chicken--it's
for a lady--I'm wedged up here and can't get out--and, Johnson,
some sherry.'

The good-natured young Weights obeyed, and brought the desired
provisions.

'And Johnson--upon my word I'm sorry to be so troublesome--but
one more plateful if you please--for another lady--a good deal,
if you please, for this lady, for she's very hungry; and some
more sherry.'

Johnson again obeyed--the Weights are always obedient--and
Charley of course appropriated the second portion to his own
purposes.

'Oh, Charley, that was a fib--now wasn't it? You shouldn't have
said it was for a lady.'

'But then I shouldn't have got it.'

'Oh, but that's no reason; according to that everybody might tell
a fib whenever they wanted anything.'

'Well, everybody does--everybody except you, Katie.'

'O no,' said Katie--'no they don't--mamma, and Linda, and
Gertrude never do; nor Harry Norman, he never does, nor Alaric.'

'No, Harry Norman never does,' said Charley, with something like
vexation in his tone. He made no exception to Katie's list of
truth-tellers, but he was thinking within himself whether Alaric
had a juster right to be in the catalogue than himself. 'Harry
Norman never does, certainly. You must not compare me with them,
Katie. They are patterns of excellence. I am all the other way,
as everybody knows.' He was half laughing as he spoke, but
Katie's sharp ear knew that he was more than half in earnest, and
she felt she had pained him by what she had said.

'Oh, Charley, I didn't mean that; indeed I did not. I know that
in all serious things you are as truthful as they are--and quite
as good--that is, in many ways.' Poor Katie! she wanted to
console him, she wanted to be kind, and yet she could not be
dishonest.

'Quite as good! no, you know I am not.'

'You are as good-hearted, if not better; and you will be as
steady, won't you, Charley? I am sure you will; and I know you
are more clever, really more clever than either of them.'

'Oh! Katie.'

'I am quite sure you are. I have always said so; don't be angry
with me for what I said.'

'Angry with you! I couldn't be angry with you.'

'I wouldn't, for the world, say anything to vex you. I like you
better than either of them, though Alaric is my brother-in-law.
Of course I do; how could I help it, when you saved my life?'

'Saved your life! Pooh! I didn't save your life. Any boy could
have done the same, or any waterman about the place. When you
fell in, the person who was nearest you pulled you out, that was
all.'

There was something almost approaching to ferocity in his voice
as he said this; and yet when Katie timidly looked up she saw
that he had turned his back to the room, and that his eyes were
full of tears. He had felt that he was loved by this child, but
that he was loved from a feeling of uncalled-for gratitude. He
could not stop to analyse this, to separate the sweet from the
bitter; but he knew that the latter prevailed. It is so little
flattering to be loved when such love is the offspring of
gratitude. And then when that gratitude is unnecessary, when it
has been given in mistake for supposed favours, the acceptance of
such love is little better than a cheat!

'That was not all,' said Katie, very decidedly. 'It never shall
be all in my mind. If you had not been with us I should now have
been drowned, and cold, and dead; and mamma! where would she have
been? Oh! Charley, I shall think myself so wicked if I have said
anything to vex you.'

Charley did not analyse his feelings, nor did Katie analyse hers.
It would have been impossible for her to do so. But could she
have done it, and had she done it, she would have found that her
gratitude was but the excuse which she made to herself for a
passionate love which she could not have excused, even to
herself, in any other way.

He said everything he could to reassure her and make her happy,
and she soon smiled and laughed again.

'Now, that's what my editor would call a Nemesis,' said Charley.

'Oh, that's a Nemesis, is it?'

'Johnson was cheated into doing my work, and getting me my
supper; and then you scolded me, and took away my appetite, so
that I couldn't eat it; that's a Nemesis. Johnson is avenged,
only, unluckily, he doesn't know it, and wickedness is punished.'

'Well, mind you put it into the _Daily Delight_. But all the
girls are going upstairs; pray let me get out,' and so Katie went
upstairs again.

It was then past one. About two hours afterwards, Gertrude,
looking for her sister that she might take her home, found her
seated on a bench, with her feet tucked under her dress. She was
very much fatigued, and she looked to be so; but there was still
a bright laughing sparkle in her eye, which showed that her
spirits were not even yet weary.

'Well, Katie, have you had enough dancing?'

'Nearly,' said Katie, yawning.

'You look as if you couldn't stand.'

'Yes, I am too tired to stand; but still I think I could dance a
little more, only--'

'Only what?'

'Whisper,' said Katie; and Gertrude put down her ear near to her
sister's lips. 'Both my shoes are quite worn out, and my toes are
all out on the floor.'

It was clearly time for them to go home, so away they all went.



CHAPTER XXVII

EXCELSIOR


The last words that Katie spoke as she walked down Mrs. Val's
hall, leaning on Charley's arm, as he led her to the carriage,
were these--

'You will be steady, Charley, won't you? you will try to be
steady, won't you, dear Charley?' and as she spoke she almost
imperceptibly squeezed the arm on which she was leaning. Charley
pressed her little hand as he parted from her, but he said
nothing. What could he say, in that moment of time, in answer to
such a request? Had he made the reply which would have come most
readily to his lips, it would have been this: 'It is too late,
Katie--too late for me to profit by a caution, even from you--no
steadiness now will save me.' Katie, however, wanted no other
answer than the warm pressure which she felt on her hand.

And then, leaning back in the carriage, and shutting her eyes,
she tried to think quietly over the events of the night. But it
was, alas! a dream, and yet so like reality that she could not
divest herself of the feeling that the ball was still going on.
She still seemed to see the lights and hear the music, to feel
herself whirled round the room, and to see others whirling,
whirling, whirling on every side of her. She thought over all the
names on her card, and the little contests that had taken place
for her hand, and all Charley's jokes, and M. de l'Empereur's
great disaster; and then as she remembered how long she had gone
on twisting round with the poor unfortunate ill-used Frenchman,
she involuntarily burst out into a fit of laughter.

'Good gracious, Katie, what is the matter? I thought you were
asleep,' said Gertrude.

'So did I,' said Linda. 'What on earth can you be laughing at
now?'

'I was laughing at myself,' said Katie, still going on with her
half-suppressed chuckle, 'and thinking what a fool I was to go on
dancing so long with that M. de l'Empereur. Oh dear, Gertrude, I
am so tired: shall we be home soon?' and then she burst out
crying.

The excitement and fatigue of the day had been too much for her,
and she was now completely overcome. Ugolina Neverbend's advice,
though not quite given in the kindest way, had in itself been
good. Mrs. Woodward would, in truth, have been unhappy could she
have seen her child at this moment. Katie made an attempt to
laugh off her tears, but she failed, and her sobs then became
hysterical, and she lay with her head on her married sister's
shoulder, almost choking herself in her attempts to repress them.

'Dear Katie, don't sob so,' said Linda--'don't cry, pray don't
cry, dear Katie.'

'She had better let it have its way,' said Gertrude; 'she will be
better directly, won't you, Katie?'

In a little time she was better, and then she burst out laughing
again. 'I wonder why the man went on when he was so tired. What a
stupid man he must be!'

Gertrude and Linda both laughed in order to comfort her and bring
her round.

'Do you know, I think it was because he didn't know how to say
'stop' in English;' and then she burst out laughing again, and
that led to another fit of hysterical tears.

When they reached home Gertrude and Linda soon got her into bed.
Linda was to sleep with her, and she also was not very long in
laying her head on her pillow. But before she did so Katie was
fast asleep, and twice in her sleep she cried out, 'Oh, Charley!
Oh, Charley!' Then Linda guessed how it was with her sister, and
in the depths of her loving heart she sorrowed for the coming
grief which she foresaw.

When the morning came Katie was feverish, and had a headache. It
was thought better that she should remain in town, and Alaric
took Linda down to Hampton. The next day Mrs. Woodward came up,
and as the invalid was better she took her home. But still she
was an invalid. The doctor declared that she had never quite
recovered from her fall into the river, and prescribed quiet and
cod-liver oil. All the truth about the Chiswick fête and the five
hours' dancing, and the worn-out shoes, was not told to him, or
he might, perhaps, have acquitted the water-gods of the injury.
Nor was it all, perhaps, told to Mrs. Woodward.

'I'm afraid she tired herself at the ball,' said Mrs. Woodward.

'I think she did a little,' said Linda.

'Did she dance much?' said Mrs. Woodward, looking anxiously.

'She did dance a good deal,' said Linda.

Mrs. Woodward was too wise to ask any further questions.

As it was a fine night Alaric had declared his intention of
walking home from Mrs. Val's party, and he and Charley started
together. They soon parted on their roads, but not before Alaric
had had time to notice Charley's perverse stupidity as to Miss
Golightly.

'So you wouldn't take my advice about Clementina?' said he.

'It was quite impossible, Alaric,' said Charley, in an apologetic
voice. 'I couldn't do it, and, what is more, I am sure I never
shall.'

'No, not now; you certainly can't do it now. If I am not very
much mistaken, the chance is gone. I think you'll find she
engaged herself to that Frenchman tonight.'

'Very likely,' said Charley.

'Well--I did the best I could for you. Good night, old fellow.'

'I'm sure I'm much obliged to you. Good night,' said Charley.

Alaric's suggestion with reference to the heiress was quite
correct: M. Jaquêtanàpe had that night proposed, and been duly
accepted. He was to present himself to his loved one's honourable
mother on the following morning as her future son-in-law,
comforted and supported in his task of doing so by an assurance
from the lady that if her mother would not give her consent the
marriage should go on all the same without it. How delightful to
have such a dancer for her lover! thought Clementina. That was
her 'Excelsior.'

Charley walked home with a sad heart. He had that day given a
pledge that he would on the morrow go to the 'Cat and Whistle,'
and visit his lady-love. Since the night when he sat there with
Norah Geraghty on his knee, now nearly a fortnight since, he had
spent but little of his time there. He had, indeed, gone there
once or twice with his friend Scatterall, but had contrived to
avoid any confidential intercourse with either the landlady or
the barmaid, alleging, as an excuse for his extra-ordinary
absence, that his time was wholly occupied by the demands made on
it by the editor of the _Daily Delight_. Mrs. Davis, however,
was much too sharp, and so also we may say was Miss Geraghty,
to be deceived. They well knew that such a young man as
Charley would go wherever his inclination led him. Till lately it
had been all but impossible to get him out of the little back
parlour at the 'Cat and Whistle'; now it was nearly as difficult
to get him into it. They both understood what this meant.

'You'd better take up with Peppermint and have done with it,'
said the widow. 'What's the good of your shilly-shallying till
you're as thin as a whipping-post? If you don't mind what you're
after he'll be off too.'

'And the d---- go along with him,' said Miss Geraghty, who had
still about her a twang of the County Clare, from whence she
came.

'With all my heart,' said Mrs. Davis; 'I shall save my hundred
pounds: but if you'll be led by me you'll not throw Peppermint
over till you're sure of the other; and, take my word for it,
you're----'

'I hate Peppermint.'

'Nonsense; he's an honest good sort of man, and a deal more
likely to keep you out of want than the other.'

Hereupon Norah began to cry, and to wipe her beautiful eyes with
the glass-cloth. Hers, indeed, was a cruel position. Her face was
her fortune, and her fortune she knew was deteriorating from day
to day. She could not afford to lose the lover that she loved,
and also the lover that she did not love. Matrimony with her was
extremely desirable, and she was driven to confess that it might
very probably be either now or never. Much as she hated
Peppermint, she was quite aware that she would take him if she
could not do better. But then, was it absolutely certain that she
must lose the lover that so completely suited her taste? Mrs.
Davis said it was. Norah herself, confiding, as it is so natural
that ladies should do, a little too much in her own beauty,
thought that she couldn't but have a chance left. She also had
her high aspirations; she desired to rise in the world, to leave
goes of gin and screws of tobacco behind her, and to reach some
position more worthy of the tastes of a woman. 'Excelsior,'
translated doubtless into excellent Irish, was her motto also. It
would be so great a thing to be the wife of Charles Tudor, Esq.,
of the Civil Service, and more especially as she dearly and truly
loved the same Charles Tudor in her heart of hearts.

She knew, however, that it was not for her to indulge in the
luxury of a heart, if circumstances absolutely forbade it. To eat
and drink and clothe herself, and, if possible, to provide eating
and drinking and clothes for her future years, this was the
business of life, this was the only real necessity. She had
nothing to say in opposition to Mrs. Davis, and therefore she
went on crying, and again wiped her eyes with the glass-cloth.

Mrs. Davis, however, was no stern monitor, unindulgent to the
weakness of human nature. When she saw how Norah took to heart
her sad fate, she resolved to make one more effort in her favour.
She consequently dressed herself very nicely, put on her best
bonnet, and took the unprecedented step of going off to the
Internal Navigation, and calling on Charley in the middle of his
office.

Charley was poking over the Kennett and Avon lock entries, with
his usual official energy, when the office messenger came up and
informed him that a lady was waiting to see him.

'A lady!' said Charley: 'what lady?' and he immediately began
thinking of the Woodwards, whom he was to meet that afternoon at
Chiswick.

'I'm sure I can't say, sir: all that she said was that she was a
lady,' answered the messenger, falsely, for he well knew that the
woman was Mrs. Davis, of the 'Cat and Whistle.'

Now the clerks at the Internal Navigation were badly off for a
waiting-room; and in no respect can the different ranks of
different public offices be more plainly seen than in the
presence or absence of such little items of accommodation as
this. At the Weights and Measures there was an elegant little
chamber, carpeted, furnished with leathern-bottomed chairs, and a
clock, supplied with cream-laid note-paper, new pens, and the
_Times_ newspaper, quite a little Elysium, in which to pass
half an hour, while the Secretary, whom one had called to see,
was completing his last calculation on the matter of the decimal
coinage. But there were no such comforts at the Internal
Navigation. There was, indeed, a little room at the top of the
stairs, in which visitors were requested to sit down; but even
here two men were always at work--at work, or else at play.

Into this room Mrs. Davis was shown, and there Charley found her.
Long and intimately as the young navvy had been acquainted with
the landlady of the 'Cat and Whistle,' he had never before seen
her arrayed for the outer world. It may be doubted whether Sir
John Falstaff would, at the first glance, have known even Dame
Quickly in her bonnet, that is, if Dame Quickly in those days had
had a bonnet. At any rate Charley was at fault for a moment, and
was shaking hands with the landlady before he quite recognized
who she was.

The men in the room, however, had recognized her, and Charley
well knew that they had done so.

'Mr. Tudor,' she began, not a bit abashed, 'I want to know what
it is you are a-going to do?'

Though she was not abashed, Charley was, and very much so.
However, he contrived to get her out of the room, so that he
might speak to her somewhat more privately in the passage. The
gentlemen at the Internal Navigation were well accustomed to this
mode of colloquy, as their tradesmen not unfrequently called,
with the view of having a little conversation, which could not
conveniently be held in the public room.

'And, Mr. Tudor, what are you a-going to do about that poor girl
there?' said Mrs. Davis, as soon as she found herself in the
passage, and saw that Charley was comfortably settled with his
back against the wall.

'She may go to Hong-Kong for me.' That is what Charley should
have said. But he did not say it. He had neither the sternness of
heart nor the moral courage to enable him to do so. He was very
anxious, it is true, to get altogether quit of Norah Geraghty;
but his present immediate care was confined to a desire of
getting Mrs. Davis out of the office.

'Do!' said Charley. 'Oh, I don't know; I'll come and settle
something some of these days; let me see when--say next Tuesday.'

'Settle something,' said Mrs. Davis. 'If you are an honest man,
as I take you, there is only one thing to settle; when do you
mean to marry her?'

'Hush!' said Charley; for, as she was speaking, Mr. Snape came
down the passage leading from Mr. Oldeschole's room. 'Hush!' Mr.
Snape as he passed walked very slowly, and looked curiously round
into the widow's face. 'I'll be even with you, old fellow, for
that,' said Charley to himself; and it may be taken for granted
that he kept his word before long.

'Oh! it is no good hushing any more,' said Mrs. Davis, hardly
waiting till Mr. Snape's erect ears were out of hearing. 'Hushing
won't do no good; there's that girl a-dying, and her grave'll be
a-top of your head, Mr. Tudor; mind I tell you that fairly; so
now I want to know what it to you're a-going to do.' And then
Mrs. Davis lifted up the lid of a market basket which hung on her
left arm, took out her pocket-handkerchief, and began to wipe her
eyes.

Unfortunate Charley! An idea occurred to him that he might bolt
and leave her. But then the chances were that she would make her
way into his very room, and tell her story there, out before them
all. He well knew that this woman was capable of many things if
her temper were fairly roused. And yet what could he say to her
to induce her to go out from that building, and leave him alone
to his lesser misfortunes?

'She's a-dying, I tell you, Mr. Tudor,' continued the landlady,
'and if she do die, be sure of this, I won't be slow to tell the
truth about it. I'm the only friend she's got, and I'm not going
to see her put upon. So just tell me this in two words--what is
it you're a-going to do?' And then Mrs. Davis replaced her
kerchief in the basket, stood boldly erect in the middle of the
passage, waiting for Charley's answer.

Just at this moment Mr. Snape again appeared in the passage,
going towards Mr. Oldeschole's room. The pernicious old man! He
hated Charley Tudor; and, to tell the truth, there was no love
lost between them. Charley, afflicted and out of spirits as he
was at the moment, could not resist the opportunity of being
impertinent to his old foe: 'I'm afraid you'll make yourself very
tired, Mr. Snape, if you walk about so much,' said he. Mr. Snape
merely looked at him, and then hard at Mrs. Davis, and passed on
to Mr. Oldeschole's room.

'Well, Mr. Tudor, will you be so good as to tell me what it is
you're going to do about this poor girl?'

'My goodness, Mrs. Davis, you know how I am situated--how can you
expect me to give an answer to such a question in such a place as
this? I'll come to the 'Cat and Whistle' on Tuesday.'

'Gammon!' said the eloquent lady. 'You know you means gammon.'

Charley, perhaps, did mean gammon; but he protested that he had
never been more truthfully in earnest in his life. Mr. Oldeschole's
door opened, and Mrs. Davis perceiving it, whipped out her
handkerchief in haste, and again began wiping her eyes, not
without audible sobs. 'Confound the woman!' said Charley to
himself; 'what on earth shall I do with her?'

Mr. Oldeschole's door opened, and out of it came Mr. Oldeschole,
and Mr. Snape following him. What means the clerk had used to
bring forth the Secretary need not now be inquired. Forth they
both came, and passed along the passage, brushing close by
Charley and Mrs. Davis; Mr. Oldeschole, when he saw that one of
the clerks was talking to a woman who apparently was crying,
looked very intently on the ground, and passed by with a quick
step; Mr. Snape looked as intently at the woman, and passed very
slowly. Each acted according to his lights.

'I don't mean gammon at all, Mrs. Davis--indeed, I don't--I'll be
there on Tuesday night certainly, if not sooner--I will indeed--I
shall be in a desperate scrape if they see me here talking to you
any longer; there is a rule against women being in the office at
all.'

'And there's a rule against the clerks marrying, I suppose,' said
Mrs. Davis.

The colloquy ended in Charley promising to spend the Saturday
evening at the 'Cat and Whistle,' with the view of then and there
settling what he meant to do about 'that there girl'; nothing
short of such an undertaking on his part would induce Mrs. Davis
to budge. Had she known her advantage she might have made even
better terms. He would almost rather have given her a written
promise to marry her barmaid, than have suffered her to remain
there till Mr. Oldeschole should return and see her there again.
So Mrs. Davis, with her basket and pocket-handkerchief, went her
way about her marketing, and Charley, as he returned to his room,
gave the strictest injunctions to the messenger that not, on any
ground or excuse whatever, was any woman to be again allowed to
see him at the office.

When, therefore, on the fine summer morning, with the early
daylight all bright around him, Charley walked home from Mrs.
Val's party, he naturally felt sad enough. He had one sixpence
left in his pocket; he was engaged to spend the evening of the
following day with the delightful Norah at the 'Cat and Whistle,'
then and there to plight her his troth, in whatever formal and
most irretrievable manner Mrs. Davis might choose to devise; and
as he thought of these things he had ringing in his ears the last
sounds of that angel voice, 'You will be steady, Charley, won't
you? I know you will, dear Charley--won't you now?'

Steady! Would not the best thing for him be to step down to
Waterloo Bridge and throw himself over? He still had money enough
left to pay the toll--though not enough to hire a pistol. And so
he went home and got into bed.

On that same day, the day that was to witness Charley's betrothal
to Miss Geraghty, and that of M. Jaquêtanàpe with Miss Golightly,
Alaric Tudor had an appointment with Sir Gregory Hardlines at the
new office of the Civil Service Examination Board. Alaric had
been invited to wait upon the great man, in terms which made him
perfectly understand that the communication to be made was one
which would not be unpleasing or uncomplimentary to himself.
Indeed, he pretty well guessed what was to be said to him. Since
his promotion at the Weights and Measures he had gone on rising
in estimation as a man of value to the Civil Service at large.
Nearly two years had now passed since that date, and in these
pages nothing has been said of his official career during the
time. It had, however, been everything that he or his friends
could have wished it to be. He had so put himself forward as
absolutely to have satisfied the actual chief clerk of his
office, and was even felt by some of the secretaries to be
treading very closely on their heels.

And yet a great portion of his time had been spent, not at the
Weights and Measures, but in giving some sort of special
assistance to Sir Gregory's Board. The authorities at the Weights
and Measures did not miss him; they would have been well content
that he should have remained for ever with Sir Gregory.

He had also become somewhat known to the official world, even
beyond the confines of the Weights and Measures, or the
Examination Board, He had changed his club, and now belonged to
the Downing. He had there been introduced by his friend Undy to
many men, whom to know should be the very breath in the nostrils
of a rising official aspirant. Mr. Whip Vigil, of the Treasury,
had more than once taken him by the hand, and even the Chancellor
of the Exchequer usually nodded to him whenever that o'ertasked
functionary found a moment to look in at the official club.

Things had not been going quite smoothly at the Examination
Board. Tidings had got about that Mr. Jobbles was interfering
with Sir Gregory, and that Sir Gregory didn't like it. To be
sure, when this had been indiscreetly alluded to in the House by
one of those gentlemen who pass their leisure hours in looking
out for raws in the hide of the Government carcass, some other
gentleman, some gentleman from the Treasury bench, had been able
to give a very satisfactory reply. For why, indeed, should any
gentleman sit on the Treasury bench if he be not able, when so
questioned, to give very satisfactory replies? Giving satisfactory
replies to ill-natured questions is, one may say, the constitutional
work of such gentlemen, who have generally well learned how
to do so, and earned their present places by asking the selfsame
questions themselves, when seated as younger men in other
parts of the House.

But though the answer given in this instance was so eminently
satisfactory as to draw down quite a chorus of triumphant
acclamations from the official supporters of Government,
nevertheless things had not gone on at the Board quite as
smoothly as might have been desirable. Mr. Jobbles was enthusiastically
intent on examining the whole adult male population of Great Britain,
and had gone so far as to hint that female competitors might, at
some future time, be made subject to his all-measuring rule and
compass. Sir Gregory, however, who, having passed his early
days in an office, may, perhaps, be supposed to have had some
slight prejudice remaining in favour of ancient customs, was not
inclined to travel so quickly. Moreover, he preferred following his
own lead, to taking any other lead whatever that Mr. Jobbles might
point out as preferable.

Mr. Jobbles wanted to crush all patronage at a blow; any system
of patronage would lamentably limit the number of candidates
among whom his examination papers would be distributed. He longed
to behold, crowding around him, an attendance as copious as Mr.
Spurgeon's, and to see every head bowed over the posing questions
which he should have dictated. No legion could be too many for
him. He longed to be at this great work; but his energies were
crushed by the opposition of his colleagues. Sir Gregory thought
--and Sir Warwick, though he hardly gave a firm support to Sir
Gregory, would not lend his countenance to Mr. Jobbles--Sir
Gregory thought that enough would be done for the present, if
they merely provided that every one admitted into the Service
should be educated in such a manner as to be fit for any
profession or calling under the sun; and that, with this slight
proviso, the question of patronage might for the present remain
untouched. 'Do you,' he would have said to the great officers of
Government, 'appoint whom you like. In this respect remain quite
unfettered. I, however, I am the St. Peter to whom are confided
the keys of the Elysium. Do you send whatever candidates you
please: it is for me merely to say whether or not they shall
enter.' But Mr. Jobbles would have gone much farther. He would
have had all mankind for candidates, and have selected from the
whole mass those most worthy of the high reward. And so there was
a split at the Examination Board, which was not to be healed even
by the very satisfactory reply given by the Treasury gentleman in
the House of Commons.

Neither Sir Gregory nor his rival were men likely to give way,
and it soon appeared manifest to the powers that be, that
something must be done. It therefore came to light that Mr.
Jobbles had found that his clerical position was hardly
compatible with a seat at a lay board, and he retired to the more
congenial duties of a comfortable prebendal stall at Westminster.
'So that by his close vicinity,' as was observed by a newspaper
that usually supported the Government, 'he might be able to be of
material use, whenever his advice should be required by the Board
of Commissioners.' Sir Gregory in the meantime was instructed to
suggest the name of another colleague; and, therefore, he sent
for Alaric Tudor.

Alaric, of course, knew well what had been going on at the Board.
He had been Sir Gregory's confidential man all through; had
worked out cases for him, furnished him with arguments, backed
his views, and had assisted him, whenever such a course had been
necessary, in holding Mr. Jobbles' head under the pump. Alaric
knew well on which side his bread was buttered, and could see
with a glance which star was in the ascendant; he perfectly
understood the points and merits of the winning horse. He went in
to win upon Sir Gregory, and he won. When Mr. Jobbles made his
last little speech at the Board, and retired to his house in the
Dean's yard, Alaric felt tolerably certain that he himself would
be invited to fill the vacant place.

And he was so invited. 'That is £1,200 a year, at any rate,' said
he to himself, as with many words of submissive gratitude he
thanked his patron for the nomination. 'That is £1,200 a year. So
far, so good. And now what must be the next step? Excelsior! It
is very nice to be a Commissioner, and sit at a Board at Sir
Gregory's right hand: much nicer than being a junior clerk at the
Weights and Measures, like Harry Norman. But there are nicer
things even than that; there are greater men even than Sir
Gregory; richer figures than even £1,200 a year!'

So he went to his old office, wrote his resignation, and walked
home meditating to what next step above he should now aspire to
rise. 'Excelsior!' he still said to himself, 'Excelsior!'

At the same moment Charley was leaving the Internal Navigation,
and as he moved with unusual slowness down the steps, he
bethought himself how he might escape from the fangs of his
Norah; how, if such might still be possible, he might fit himself
for the love of Katie Woodward. Excelsior! such also was the
thought of his mind; but he did not dare to bring the word to
utterance. It was destined that his thoughts should be interrupted
by no very friendly hand.



CHAPTER XXVIII

OUTERMAN _v_ TUDOR


Charley sat at his office on the Saturday afternoon, very
meditative and unlike himself. What was he to do when his office
hours were over? In the first place he had not a shilling in the
world to get his dinner. His habit was to breakfast at home at
his lodgings with Harry, and then to dine, as best he might, at
some tavern, if he had not the good fortune to be dining out. He
had a little dinner bill at a house which he frequented in the
Strand; but the bill he knew had reached its culminating point.
It would, he was aware, be necessary that it should be decreased,
not augmented, at the next commercial transaction which might
take place between him and the tavern-keeper.

This was not the first time by many in which he had been in a
similar plight--but his resource in such case had been to tell
the truth gallantly to his friend Mrs. Davis; and some sort of
viands, not at all unprepossessing to him in his hunger, would
always be forthcoming for him at the 'Cat and Whistle.' This
supply was now closed to him. Were he, under his present
circumstances, to seek for his dinner from the fair hands of
Norah Geraghty, it would be tantamount to giving himself up as
lost for ever.

This want of a dinner, however, was a small misfortune in
comparison with others which afflicted him. Should or should he
not keep his promise to Mrs. Davis, and go to the 'Cat and
Whistle' that evening? That was the question which disturbed his
equanimity, and hindered him from teasing Mr. Snape in his usual
vivacious manner.

And here let it not be said that Charley must be altogether
despicable in being so weak; that he is not only a vulgar rake in
his present habits, but a fool also, and altogether spiritless,
and of a low disposition. Persons who may so argue of him, who so
argue of those whom they meet in the real living world, are
ignorant of the twists and turns, and rapid changes in character
which are brought about by outward circumstances. Many a youth,
abandoned by his friends to perdition on account of his folly,
might have yet prospered, had his character not been set down as
gone, before, in truth, it was well formed. It is not one calf
only that should be killed for the returning prodigal. Oh,
fathers, mothers, uncles, aunts, guardians, and elderly friends
in general, kill seven fatted calves if seven should unfortunately
be necessary!

And then there was a third calamity. Charley had, at this moment,
in his pocket a certain document, which in civil but still
somewhat peremptory language invited him to meet a very
celebrated learned pundit, being no less than one of Her
Majesty's puisne judges, at some court in Westminster, to explain
why he declined to pay to one Nathaniel Outerman, a tailor, the
sum of &c., &c., &c.; and the document then went on to say, that
any hesitation on Charley's part to accept this invitation would
be regarded as great contempt shown to the said learned pundit,
and would be treated accordingly. Now Charley had not paid the
slightest attention to this requisition from the judge. It would,
he conceived, have been merely putting his head into the lion's
mouth to do so. But yet he knew that such documents meant
something; that the day of grace was gone by, and that Mr.
Nathaniel Outerman would very speedily have him locked up.

So Charley sat meditative over his lock entries, and allowed even
his proposed vengeance on Mr. Snape to be delayed.

'I say, Charley,' said Scatterall, coming over and whispering to
him, 'you couldn't lend me half a crown, could you?'

Charley said nothing, but looked on his brother navvy in a manner
that made any other kind of reply quite unnecessary.

'I was afraid it was so,' said Scatterall, in a melancholy voice.
And then, as if by the brilliance of his thought he had suddenly
recovered his spirits, he made a little proposition.

'I'll tell you what you might do, Charley. I put my watch up the
spout last week. It's a silver turnip, so I only got fifteen
shillings; yours is a Cox and Savary, and it's gold. I'm sure
you'd get £3 for it easily--perhaps £3 3s. Now, if you'll do
that, and take my turnip down, I'll let you have the turnip to
wear, if you'll let me have ten shillings of the money. You see,
you'd get clear--let me see how much.' And Scatterall went to
work with a sheet of foolscap paper, endeavouring to make some
estimate of what amount of ready cash Charley might have in his
pocket on completion of this delicate little arrangement.

'You be d----,' said Charley.

'You'll not do it, then?' said Dick.

Charley merely repeated with a little more emphasis the speech
which he had just before made.

'Oh, very well,' said Scatterall; 'there couldn't have been a
fairer bargain; at least it was all on your side; for you would
have had the watch to wear, and nearly all the money too.'

Charley still repeated the same little speech. This was uncivil;
for it had evidently been looked on by Scatterall as unsatisfactory.

'Oh, very well,' said that gentleman, now in a state of mild
anger--' only I saw that you had a fine new purse, and I thought
you'd wish to have something to put in it.'

Charley again repeated his offensive mandate; but he did it in a
spirit of bravado, in order to maintain his reputation. The
allusion to the purse made him sadder than ever. He put his hand
into his breast-pocket, and felt that it was near his heart: and
then he fancied that he again heard her words--'You will be
steady; won't you, dear Charley?'

At four o'clock, he was by no means in his usual hurry to go
away, and he sat there drawing patterns on his blotting-paper,
and chopping up a stick of sealing-wax with his penknife, in a
very disconsolate way. Scatterall went. Corkscrew went. Mr.
Snape, having carefully brushed his hat and taken down from its
accustomed peg the old cotton umbrella, also took his departure;
and the fourth navvy, who inhabited the same room, went also. The
iron-fingered hand of time struck a quarter past four on the
Somerset House clock, and still Charley Tudor lingered at his
office. The maid who came to sweep the room was thoroughly
amazed, and knew that something must be wrong.

Just as he was about to move, Mr. Oldeschole came bustling into
the room. 'Where is Corkscrew?' said he. 'Gone,' said Charley.
'And Scatterall?' asked Oldeschole. 'Gone, sir,' said Charley.
'And Mr. Snape?' said the Secretary. 'Oh, he is gone, of course,'
said Charley, taking his revenge at last.

'Then, Mr. Tudor, I must trouble you to copy these papers for me
at once. They are wanted immediately for Sir Gregory Hardlines.'
It was quite clear that Mr. Oldeschole was very much in earnest
about the job, and that he was rejoiced to find that he still had
one clerk to aid him.

Charley sat down and did the required work. On any other day he
would greatly have disliked such a summons, but now he did not
care much about it. He made the copies, however, as quickly as he
could, and then took them in to Mr. Oldeschole.

The worthy Secretary rewarded him by a lecture; a lecture,
however, which, as Charley well understood, was intended all in
kindness. He told him how Mr. Snape complained of him, how the
office books told against him, how the clerks talked, and all
Somerset House made stories of his grotesque iniquities. With
penitential air Charley listened and promised. Mr. Oldeschole
promised also that bygones should be bygones. 'I wonder whether
the old cock would lend me a five-pound note! I dare say he
would,' said Charley to himself, as he left the office. He
abstained, however, from asking for it.

Returning to his room, he took his hat and went downstairs. As he
was sauntering forth through the archway into the Strand, a man
with a decent coat but a very bad hat came up to him.

'I'm afraid I must trouble you to go with me, Mr. Tudor,' said the man.

'All right,' said Charley; 'Outerman, I suppose; isn't it?'

'All right,' said the bailiff.

And away the two walked together to a sponging-house in Cursitor
Street.

Charley had been arrested at the suit of Mr. Outerman, the
tailor. He perfectly understood the fact, and made no special
objection to following the bailiff. One case was at any rate off
his mind; he could not now, be his will to do so ever so good,
keep his appointment with Norah Geraghty. Perhaps it was quite as
well for him to be arrested just at this moment, as be left at
liberty. It must have come sooner or later. So he walked on with
the bailiff not without some feeling of consolation.

The man had suggested to him a cab; but Charley had told him,
without the slightest _mauvaise honte_, that he had not about
him the means of paying for a cab. The man again suggested that
perhaps he had better go home and get some money, as he would
find it in Cursitor Street very desirable to have some. To this Charley
replied that neither had he any money at home.

'That's blue,' said the man.

'It is rather blue,' said Charley; and on they went very amicably
arm-in-arm.

We need not give any detailed description of Charley's prison-house.
He was luckily not detained there so long as to make it necessary
that we should become acquainted with his fellow-captives, or even
have much intercourse with his jailers. He was taken to the
sponging-house, and it was there imparted to him that he had better
send for two things--first of all for money, which was by far the
more desirable of the two; and secondly, for bail, which even if
forthcoming was represented as being at best but a dubious advantage.

'There's Mrs. Davis, she'd bail you, of course, and willing,'
said the bailiff.

'Mrs. Davis!' said Charley, surprised that the man should know
aught of his personal acquaintances.

'Yes, Mrs. Davis of the 'Cat and Whistle.' She'd do it in course,
along of Miss Geraghty.'

Charley perceived with a shudder that his matrimonial
arrangements were known and talked of even in the distant world
of Cursitor Street. He declined, however, the assistance of the
landlady, which no doubt would have been willingly forthcoming,
and was divided between his three friends, Alaric, Harry, and Mr.
M'Ruen. Alaric was his cousin and his natural resource in such a
position, but he had lately rejected Alaric's advice, and now
felt a disinclination to call upon him in his difficulty. Harry
he knew would assist him, would at once pay Mr. Outerman's bill,
and relieve him from all immediate danger; but the sense of what
he already owed to Norman made him unwilling to incur further
obligations;--so he decided on sending for Mr. M'Ruen. In spite
of his being so poorly supplied with immediate cash, it was
surmised from his appearance, clothes, and known rank, that any
little outlay made in his behalf would be probably repaid, and he
was therefore furnished with a messenger on credit. This man was
first to call at Mr. M'Ruen's with a note, and then to go to
Charley's lodgings and get his brushes, razors, &c., these being
the first necessaries of life for which a man naturally looks
when once overtaken by such a misfortune as that with which
Charley was now afflicted.

In the process of time the brushes and razors came, and so did
Mr. M'Ruen.

'This is very kind of you,' said Charley, in rather a doleful
voice, for he was already becoming tired of Cursitor Street.

Mr. M'Ruen twisted his head round inside his cravat, and put out
three fingers by way of shaking hands with the prisoner.

'You seem pretty comfortable here,' said M'Ruen. Charley
dissented to this, and said that he was extremely uncomfortable.

'And what is it that I can do for you, Mr. Tudor?' said M'Ruen.

'Do for me! Why, bail me, to be sure; they won't let me out
unless somebody bails me. You know I shan't run away.'

'Bail you!' said M'Ruen.

'Yes, bail me,' said Charley. 'You don't mean to say that you
have any objection?'

Mr. M'Ruen looked very sharply at his young client from head to
foot. 'I don't know about bail,' he said: 'it's very dangerous,
very; why didn't you send for Mr. Norman or your cousin?'

'Because I didn't choose,' said Charley--'because I preferred
sending to some one I could pay for the trouble.'

'Ha--ha--ha,' laughed M'Ruen; 'but that's just it--can you pay?
You owe me a great deal of money, Mr. Tudor. You are so
unpunctual, you know.'

'There are two ways of telling that story,' said Charley; 'but
come, I don't want to quarrel with you about that now--you go
bail for me now, and you'll find your advantage in it. You know
that well enough.'

'Ha--ha--ha,' laughed the good-humoured usurer; 'ha--ha--ha--well,
upon my word I don't know. You owe me a great deal of money, Mr.
Tudor. Now, what o'clock is it by you, I wonder?'

Charley took out his watch--the Cox and Savary, before alluded
to--and said that it was past seven.

'Aye; you've a very nice watch, I see. Come, Mr. Tudor, you owe
me a great deal of money, and you are the most unpunctual young
man I know; but yet I don't like to see you distressed. I'll tell
you what, now--do you hand over your watch to me, just as a
temporary loan--you can't want it here, you know; and I'll come
down and bail you out to-morrow.'

Charley declined dealing on these terms; and then Mr. M'Ruen at
last went away, leaving Charley to his fate, and lamenting quite
pathetically that he was such an unpunctual young man, so very
unpunctual that it was impossible to do anything to assist him.
Charley, however, manfully resisted the second attack upon his
devoted watch.

'That's very blue, very blue indeed,' said the master of the
house, as Mr. M'Ruen took his departure--'ha'n't you got no
huncles nor hants, nor nothin' of that sort?'

Charley declared that he had lots of uncles and aunts,
grandfathers and grandmothers, and a perfect wealth of cousins,
and that he would send for some of the leading members of his
family to-morrow. Satisfied with this, the man supplied him with
bread and cheese, gin and water, and plenty of tobacco; and,
fortified with these comforts, Charley betook himself at last
very lugubriously, to a filthy, uninviting bed.,

He had, we have seen, sent for his brushes, and hence came
escape; but in a manner that he had little recked of, and of
which, had he been asked, he would as little have approved. Mrs.
Richards, his landlady, was not slow in learning from the
messenger how it came to pass that Charley wanted the articles of
his toilet so suddenly demanded. 'Why, you see, he's just been
quodded,' said the boy.

Mrs. Richards was quite enough up to the world, and had dealt
with young men long enough, to know what this meant; nor indeed
was she much surprised. She had practical knowledge that Charley
had no strong propensity to pay his debts, and she herself was
not unaccustomed to answer the emissaries of Mr. Outerman and
other greedy tradesmen who were similarly situated. To Mrs.
Richards herself Charley was not in debt, and she had therefore
nothing to embitter her own feelings against him. Indeed, she had
all that fondness for him which a lodging-house keeper generally
has for a handsome, dissipated, easy-tempered young man; and when
she heard that he had been 'quodded,' immediately made up her
mind that steps must be taken for his release.

But what was she to do? Norman, who she was aware would 'unquod'
him immediately, if he were in the way, was down at Hampton, and
was not expected to be at his lodgings for two or three days.
After some cogitation, Mrs. Richards resolved that there was
nothing for it but to go down to Hampton herself, and break the
news to his friends. Charley would not have been a bit obliged to
her had he known it, but Mrs. Richards acted for the best. There
was a train down to Hampton Court that night, and a return train
to bring her home again--so off she started.

Mrs. Woodward had on that same afternoon taken down Katie, who
was still an invalid;--Norman had gone down with them, and was to
remain there for some few days--going up and down every morning
and evening. Mrs. Woodward was sitting in the drawing-room; Linda
and Katie were with her, the latter lying in state on her sofa as
invalid young ladies should do; Captain Cuttwater was at Hampton
Court, and Norman was on the water; when a fly from the railway
made its way up to the door of the Cottage.

'Mrs. Richards, ma'am,' said the demure parlour-maid, ushering in
the lodging-house keeper, who in her church-going best made a
very decent appearance.

'Oh, Mrs. Richards, how are you?' said Mrs. Woodward, who knew
the woman very well--'pray sit down--are there any news from
London?'

'Oh, ma'am, such news--such bad news--Mister Charley--.' Up
jumped Katie from her sofa and stood erect upon the floor. She
stood there, with her mouth slightly open, with her eyes intently
fixed on Mrs. Richards, with her little hands each firmly
clenched, drawing her breath with hard, short, palpitating
efforts. There she stood, but said nothing.

'Oh, Mrs. Richards--what is it?' said Mrs. Woodward; 'for
Heaven's sake what is the matter?'

'Oh, ma'am; he's been took,' said Mrs. Richards.

'Took!' repeated Mrs. Woodward. 'Katie, dear Katie--sit down, my
child--sit down.'

'Oh, mamma! oh, mamma!' said she, apparently unable to move, and
certainly all but unable to stand.

'Tell us, Mrs. Richards, what is it--what has happened to Mr.
Tudor?' and as she spoke Mrs. Woodward got up and passed her arm
around her younger daughter's waist--Linda also got up and
joined the group.

'Why, ma'am,' said Mrs. Richards, 'he's been took by the
bailiffs, and now he's in prison.'

Katie did not faint. She never had fainted, and probably did not
know the way; but she clenched her hands still tighter, breathed
harder than before, and repeated her appeal to her mother in a
voice of agony. 'Oh, mamma! oh, mamma!'

Katie had no very accurate conception of what an arrest for debt
meant. She knew that next to death imprisonment was the severest
punishment inflicted on erring mortals, and she now heard that
Charley was in prison. She did not stop to think whether it was
for his life, or for some more limited period. It was enough for
her to know, that this terrible misfortune had come upon him, to
him who, to her young fancy, was so bright, so good, so clever,
so excellent, upon him who had saved her life--upon him whom she
so dearly loved.

'Oh, mamma! oh, mamma!' she said, and then in agony she shut her
eyes and shuddered violently.

Mrs. Woodward was greatly afflicted. She was indeed sorry to hear
such tidings of Charley Tudor; but her grief was now deeper even
than that. She could not be longer blind to the sort of feeling
which her child evinced for this young man; she could not think
that these passionate bursts of overpowering sorrow were the
result of mere childish friendship; she could not but see that
her Katie's bosom now held a woman's heart, and that that heart
was no longer her own.

And then Mrs. Woodward reflected of what nature, of what sort,
was this man whom she had allowed to associate with her darling,
almost as a brother does with his sister; whom she had warmed in
her bosom till he had found an opportunity of inflicting this
deadly wound. With terrible bitterness she upbraided herself as
she sat down and bade Mrs. Richards go on with her tale. She knew
that nothing which could now be said would add to Katie's
anguish.

Mrs. Richards' story was soon told. It simply amounted to
this--that 'Mister Charley,' as she always called him, had been
arrested for debt at the suit of a tailor, and that she had
learnt the circumstances from the fact of the prisoner having
sent for his brushes.

'And so I thought the best thing was to come and tell Mr.
Norman,' said Mrs. Richards, concluding her speech.

Nothing could be done till Norman came in. Linda went out with
Mrs. Richards to get some refreshment in the dining-room, and
Mrs. Woodward sat with her arm round Katie's neck on the sofa,
comforting her with kisses and little caressing touches, but
saying nothing. Katie, still unconscious of her passion, gave way
to spasmodic utterance of her own grief.

'Oh, mamma!' she said--' what can be done? What can we do? You
will do something, mamma, won't you? Poor Charley! Dear Charley!
Harry will do something--won't he? Won't Harry go to London, and
do something?'

Mrs. Woodward did what she could to quiet her. Something should
be done, she said. They must wait till Harry came in, and then
settle what was best. Nothing could be done till Harry came in.
'You must be patient, Katie, or else you will make yourself
really ill.'

Katie became afraid that she would be sent off to bed on the
score of her illness before Harry had come, and thus lose the
advantage of hearing what was the step decided on. So she sat
silent in the corner of her sofa feigning to be asleep, but
pondering in her mind what sort of penalties were the penalties
of imprisonment, how dreadful, how endurable, or how unendurable.
Would they put chains on him? would they starve him? would they
cut off his beautiful brown hair?

Mrs. Woodward sat silent waiting for Harry's return. When first
she had watched Katie's extreme misery, and guessed the secret of
her child's heart, she had felt something like hard, bitter anger
against Charley. But by degrees this feeling softened down. It
was by no means natural to her, nor akin to her usual tenderness.
After all, the fault hitherto was probably more her own than his.

Mrs. Richards was sent back to town. She was thanked for the
trouble she had taken, and told that Mr. Norman would do in the
matter all that was necessary to be done. So she took her
departure, and Linda returned to the drawing-room.

Unfortunately Captain Cuttwater came in first. They none of them
mentioned Charley's misfortune to him. Charley was no favourite
with Uncle Bat, and his remarks would not have been of the most
cheering tendency.

At last Norman came also. He came, as was his wont, through the
drawing-room window, and, throwing himself into a chair, began to
tell the girls how much they had lost by not joining him on the
river.

'Harry,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'step into the dining-room with me
for a moment.'

Harry got up to follow her. Katie and Linda also instantly jumped
from their seats to do the same. Mrs. Woodward looked round, and
motioned to them to stay with their uncle. Linda obediently,
though reluctantly, remained; but Katie's impulse was too strong
for her. She gave one imploring look at her mother, a look which
Mrs. Woodward well understood, and then taking silence for
consent, crept into the dining-room.

'Harry,' said Mrs. Woodward, as soon as the dining-room door was
closed, 'Charley has been arrested;' and then she told him how
Mrs. Richards had been at the Cottage, and what was the nature of
the tidings she had brought.

Norman was not much surprised, nor did he feign to be so. He took
the news so coolly that Katie almost hated him. 'Did she say who
had arrested him, or what was the amount?' he asked.

Mrs. Woodward replied that she knew no more than what she had
already told. Katie stood in the shade with her eyes fixed
upon her cousin, but as yet she said nothing. How cruel, how
stony-hearted must he be to hear such dreadful tidings and remain
thus undisturbed! Had Charley heard that Norman was arrested, he
would have been half way to London by this time. So, at least,
thought Katie.

'Something can be done for him, Harry, can there not? We must
contrive to do something--eh, Harry?' said Mrs. Woodward.

'I fear it is too late to do anything to-night,' said Harry,
looking at his watch. 'The last train is gone, and I could not
possibly find him out before twelve.'

'And to-morrow is Sunday,' said Mrs. Woodward.

'Oh, Harry, pray do something!' said Katie, 'pray, pray, pray,
do! Oh, Harry, think of Charley being in prison! Oh, Harry, he
would do anything for you!' and then she burst into tears, and
caught hold of Harry's arm and the front of his coat to add force
to her entreaty.

'Katie,' said her mother, 'don't be so foolish. Harry will, of
course, do whatever is best.'

'But, mamma, he says he will do nothing; why does he not go at
once?'

'I will go at once, dear Katie,' said he; 'I will go now
directly. I don't know whether we can set him free to-night, or
even to-morrow, as to-morrow is Sunday; but it certainly shall be
done on Monday, you may be sure of that at any rate. Whatever can
be done shall be done;' and, without further talk upon the
subject, he took his hat and went his way.

'May God Almighty bless him!' said Mrs. Woodward. 'How infinitely
greater are truth and honesty than any talent, however brilliant!'
She spoke only to herself and no one even guessed what was
the nature of the comparison which she thus made.

As soon as Norman was gone, Katie went to bed: and in the morning
she was pronounced to be too unwell to get up. And, indeed, she
was far from well. During the night she only slept by short
starts, and in her sleep she was restless and uneasy; then, when
she woke, she would burst out into fits of tears, and lie sobbing
hysterically till she slept again. In the morning, Mrs. Woodward
said something about Charley's misconduct, and this threw her
into a wretched state of misery, from which nothing would rouse
her till her mother promised that the prodigal should not be
thrown over and abandoned.

Poor Mrs. Woodward was in a dreadful state of doubt as to what it
now behoved her to do. She felt that, however anxious she might
be to assist Charley for his own sake, it was her bounden duty to
separate him from her child. Whatever merits he might have--and
in her eyes he had many--at any rate he had not those which a
mother would desire to see in the future husband of her daughter.
He was profligate, extravagant, careless, and idle; his prospects
in life were in every respect bad; he had no self-respect, no
self-reliance, no moral strength. Was it not absolutely necessary
that she should put a stop to any love that might have sprung up
between such a man as this and her own young bright-eyed darling?

Put a stop to it! Yes, indeed, most expedient; nay, absolutely
necessary--if it were only possible. Now, when it was too late,
she began to perceive that she had not known of what material her
own child was formed. At sixteen, Gertrude and Linda had in
reality been little more than children. In manner, Katie had been
more childish even than them, and yet--Mrs. Woodward, as she
thought of these things, felt her heart faint within her.

She was resolved that, cost what it might, Charley must be
banished from the Cottage. But at the first word of assumed
displeasure that she uttered, Katie fell into such an agony of
grief that her soft heart gave way, and she found herself obliged
to promise that the sinner should be forgiven. Katie the while
was entirely unconscious of the state of her own feelings. Had
she thought that she loved him as women love, had any thought of
such love and of him together even entered her mind, she could
not have talked of him as she now talked. Had he been her
brother, she could not have been less guarded in her protestations
of affection, or more open in her appeals to her mother that he
might be forgiven. Such was her present state; but it was doomed
that her eyes should soon be opened, and that she should know
her own sorrow.

On the Sunday afternoon, Norman returned to Hampton with the
tidings that Charley was once more a free man. The key of gold
which he had taken with him had been found potent enough to open
all barriers, even those with which the sanctity of Sunday had
surrounded the prisoner. Mr. Outerman, and the bailiff, and the
messenger, had all been paid their full claims, and Charley, with
his combs and brushes, had returned to the more benign custody of
Mrs. Richards.

'And why didn't he come down with you?' said Katie to Norman, who
had gone up to her bedroom to give her the good tidings.

Norman looked at Mrs. Woodward, but made no reply.

'He would probably prefer remaining in town at present,' said
Mrs. Woodward. 'It will be more comfortable for him to do so.'

And then Katie was left alone to meditate why Charley should be
more comfortable after his arrest in London than at Hampton; and
after a while she thought that she had surmised the truth. 'Poor
Charley! perhaps he is ashamed. He need not be ashamed to come at
any rate to me.'



CHAPTER XXIX

EASY IS THE SLOPE OF HELL


The electors for the Tillietudlem district burghs, disgusted by
the roguery of Mr. M'Buffer, and anxiously on the alert to
replace him by a strictly honest man, returned our friend Undy by
a glorious majority. He had no less than 312 votes, as opposed to
297, and though threatened with the pains and penalties of a
petition, he was not a little elated by his success. A petition
with regard to the Tillietudlem burghs was almost as much a
matter of course as a contest; at any rate the threat of a
petition was so. Undy, however, had lived through this before,
and did not fear but that he might do so again. Threatened folks
live long; parliamentary petitions are very costly, and Undy's
adversaries were, if possible, even in more need of money than
himself.

He communicated his good fortune to his friend Alaric in the
following letter:--

'Bellenden Arms, Tillietudlem, July, 185-.

'My DEAR DIRECTOR,

'Here I am once more a constituent part of the legislative wisdom
of the United Kingdom, thanks to the patriotic discretion of the
pot-wallopers, burgage-tenants, and ten-pound freeholders of
these loyal towns. The situation is a proud one; I could only
wish that it had been less expensive. I am plucked as clean as
ever was pigeon; and over and above the loss of every feather I
carried, old M'Cleury, my agent here, will have a bill against me
that will hardly be settled before the next election. I do not
complain, however; a man cannot have luxuries without paying for
them; and this special luxury of serving one's country in
Parliament is one for which a man has so often to pay, without
the subsequent fruition of the thing paid for, that a successful
candidate should never grumble, however much he may have been
mulcted. They talk of a petition; but, thank God, there are still
such things as recognizances; and, moreover, to give M'Cleury his
due, I do not think he has left a hole open for them to work at.
He is a thorough rascal, but no man does better work.

'I find there is already a slight rise in the West Corks. Keep
your eye open. If you find you can realize £4 4s. or even £4,
sell, and let the West of Cork and Ballydehob go straight to the
devil. We should then be able to do better with our money. But I
doubt of such a sale with so large a stock as we hold. I got a
letter yesterday from that Cork attorney, and I find that he is
quite prepared to give way about the branch. He wants his price,
of course; and he must have it. When once we have carried that
point, then it will be plain sailing; our only regret then will
be that we didn't go further into it. The calls, of course, must
be met; I shall be able to do something in October, but shall not
have a shilling sooner--unless I sell, which I will not do under
80s.

'I was delighted to hear of your promotion; not that you'll
remain in the shop long, but it gives you a better name and a
better claim. Old Golightly was buried yesterday, as of course
you have heard. Mrs. Val quite agrees with me that your name had
better be put in as that of Clem's trustee. She's going to marry
that d---- Frenchman. What an unmitigated ass that cousin of
yours must be! I can't say I admire her taste; but nevertheless
she is welcome for me. It would, however, be most scandalous if
we were to allow him to get possession of her money. He would, as
a matter of course, make ducks and drakes of it in no time.
Speculate probably in some Russian railway, or Polish mine, and
lose every shilling. You will of course see it tied up tight in
the hands of the trustees, and merely pay him, or if possible
her, the interest of it. Now that I am once more in, I hope we
shall be able to do something to protect the fortunes of married
women.

'You will be quite safe in laying out Clem's money, or a portion
of it, in the West Corks. Indeed, I don't know how you could well
do better with it. You will find Figgs a mere shadow. I think we
can pull through in this manner. If not we must get--to take our
joint bill. He would sooner do that than have the works stopped.
But then we should have to pay a tremendous price for it.

'So we were well out of the Mary Janes at last. The take last
month was next to nothing, and now she's full of water. Manylodes
hung on till just the last, and yet got out on his feet after
all. That fellow will make a mint of money yet. What a pity that
he should be such a rogue! If he were honest, honest enough I
mean to be trusted, he might do anything.

'I shall leave this on Wednesday night, take the oaths on
Thursday, and will see you in the evening. M'Carthy Desmond will
at once move that I be put on the West Cork Committee, in place
of Nogo, who won't act. My shares are all at present registered
in Val's name. It will be well, however, to have them all
transferred to you.

'Yours ever,

'U.S.

'M'Cleury has pledged himself to put me in again without further
expense, if I have to stand before the next general election, in
consequence of taking place under Government. I earnestly hope
his sincerity may be tried.'

During the month of July, Alaric was busy enough. He had to do
the work of his new office, to attend to his somewhat critical
duties as director of the West Cork Railway, to look after the
interests of Miss Golightly, whose marriage was to take place in
August, and to watch the Parliamentary career of his friend Undy,
with whose pecuniary affairs he was now bound up in a manner
which he could not avoid feeling to be very perilous.

July passed by, and was now over, and members were looking to be
relieved from their sultry labours, and to be allowed to seek air
and exercise on the mountains. The Ballydehob branch line had
received the sanction of Parliament through the means which the
crafty Undy had so well understood how to use; but from some
cause hitherto not sufficiently fathomed, the shares had
continued to be depressed in value in spite of that desirable
event. It was necessary, however, that calls should be paid up to
the amount of £5 a share, and as Undy and Alaric held nearly a
thousand shares between them, a large amount of money was
required. This, however, was made to be forthcoming from Miss
Golightly's fortune.

On the first of August that interesting young lady was married to
the man--shall we say of her heart or of her feet? The marriage
went off very nicely, but as we have already had one wedding, and
as others may perhaps be before us, we cannot spare much time or
many pages to describe how Miss Golightly became Madame
Jaquêtanàpe. The lady seemed well pleased with everything that
was done, and had even in secret but one care in the world. There
was to be a dance after she and her Victoire were gone, and she
could not join in it!

We, however, are in the position, as regards Clementina, in which
needy gentlemen not unfrequently place themselves with reference
to rich heiresses. We have more concern with her money than
herself. She was married, and M. Jaquêtanàpe became the happy
possessor of an income of £800 a year. Everybody conceived him to
behave well on the occasion. He acknowledged that he had very
little means of his own--about 4,000 francs a year, from rents in
Paris. He expressed himself willing to agree to any settlement,
thinking, perhaps with wisdom, that he might in this way best
make sure of his wife's income, and was quite content when
informed that he would receive his quarterly payments from so
respectable a source as one of Her Majesty's Commissioners for
the regulation of the Civil Service. The Bank of France could not
have offered better security.

Thus Alaric obtained full control of Miss Golightly's fortune:
for Figgs, his co-trustee, was, as has been said, a shadow. He
obtained the full control of £20,000, and out of it he paid the
calls due upon the West Cork shares, held both by himself and
Undy Scott. But he put a salve upon his conscience, and among his
private memoranda, appertaining to that lady's money affairs he
made an entry, intelligible to any who might read it, that he had
so invested this money on her behalf. The entry was in itself a
lie--a foolish, palpable lie--and yet he found in it something to
quiet remorse and stupefy his conscience.

Undy Scott had become tyrannical in his logic as soon as he had
persuaded Alaric to make use of a portion of Madame Jaquêtanàpe's
marriage portion. 'You have taken part of the girl's money,' was
Undy's argument; 'you have already converted to your own purposes
so much of her fortune; it is absurd for you now to talk of
conscience and honesty, of your high duties as a trustee, of the
inviolable distinction between meum and tuum. You have already
shown that the distinction is not inviolable; let us have no more
such nonsense; there are still left £15,000 on which we can
trade; open the till, and let us go on swimmingly with the
business.'

Alaric was not addressed absolutely in these words; he would not
probably have allowed the veil with which he still shrouded his
dishonesty to be withdrawn with so rough a hand; but that which
was said was in effect the same. In September he left town for a
few weeks and went down to Scotland, still with Undy Scott. He
had at first much liked this man's society, for Scott was gay,
lively, clever, and a good companion at all points. But latterly
he had become weary of him. He now put up with him as men in
business have to put up with partners whom they may not like; or,
perhaps, to speak the truth openly, he bore with him as a rogue
bears with his confederate, though he absolutely hates his
brother rogue on account of his very roguery. Alaric Tudor was
now a rogue; despite his high office, his grand ideas, his
exalted ambition; despite his talent, zeal, and well-directed
official labours, he was a rogue; a thief, a villain who had
stolen the money of the orphan, who had undertaken a trust merely
that he might break it; a robber, doubly disgraced by being a
robber with an education, a Bill Sykes without any of those
excuses which a philanthropist cannot but make for wretches
brought up in infamy.

Alas, alas! how is it that in these days such men become rogues?
How is it that we see in such frightful instances the impotency
of educated men to withstand the allurements of wealth? Men are
not now more keen after the pleasures which wealth can buy than
were their forefathers. One would rather say that they are less
so. The rich labour now, and work with an assiduity that often
puts to shame the sweat in which the poor man earns his bread.
The rich rogue, or the rogue that would be rich, is always a
laborious man. He allows himself but little recreation, for
dishonest labour admits of no cessation. His wheel is one which
cannot rest without disclosing the nature of the works which move
it. It is not for pleasure that men

  Put rancours in the vessel of their peace;

nor yet primarily for ambition. Men do not wish to rise by
treachery, or to become great through dishonesty. The object, the
ultimate object, which a man sets before himself, is generally a
good one. But he sets it up in so enviable a point of view, his
imagination makes it so richly desirable, by being gazed at it
becomes so necessary to existence, that its attainment is
imperative. The object is good, but the means of attaining it-the
path to the object-ah! there is the slip. Expediency is the
dangerous wind by which so many of us have wrecked our little
boats.

And we do so more now than ever, because great ships, swimming in
deepest waters, have unluckily come safe to haven though wafted
there by the same pernicious wind. Every great man, who gains a
great end by dishonest means, does more to deteriorate his
country and lower the standard of his countrymen than legions of
vulgar thieves, or nameless unaspiring rogues. Who has injured us
so much in this way as he whose name still stands highest among
modern politicians? Who has given so great a blow to political
honesty, has done so much to banish from men's minds the idea of
a life-ruling principle, as Sir Robert Peel?

It would shock many were we to attribute to him the roguery of
the Sadleirs and Camerons, of the Robsons and Redpaths of the
present day; but could we analyse causes and effects, we might
perhaps do so with no injustice. He has taught us as a great
lesson, that a man who has before him a mighty object may
dispense with those old-fashioned rules of truth to his
neighbours and honesty to his own principles, which should guide
us in ordinary life. At what point ordinary life ends, at what
crisis objects may be considered great enough to justify the use
of a dispensing power, that he has not taught us; that no Sir
Robert Peel can teach us; that must unfortunately be left to the
judgement of the individual. How prone we are, each of us, to
look on our own object as great, how ready to make excuses for
receiving such a lesson for our guide; how willing to think that
we may be allowed to use this dispensing power ourselves--this
experience teaches us in very plain language.

Thrice in his political life did Sir Robert Peel change his
political creed, and carry, or assist to carry, with more or less
of self-gratulation, the measures of his adversaries. Thrice by
doing so he kept to himself that political power which he had
fairly forfeited by previous opposition to the requirements of
his country. Such an apposition of circumstances is at any rate
suspicious. But let us give him credit for the expression of a
true belief; of a belief at first that the corn-laws should be
maintained, and then of a belief that they should not; let us,
with a forced confidence in his personal honesty, declare so much
of him; nevertheless, he should surely have felt, had he been
politically as well as personally honest, that he was not the man
to repeal them.'

But it was necessary, his apologist will say, that the corn-laws
should be repealed; he saw the necessity, and yielded to it. It
certainly was necessary, very necessary, very unavoidable;
absolutely necessary one may say; a fact, which the united
efforts of all the Peels of the day could in nowise longer delay,
having already delayed it to the utmost extent of their power. It
was essential that the corn-laws should be repealed; but by no
means essential that this should be done by Sir Robert Peel.

It was a matter of indifference to us Englishmen who did the
deed. But to Sir Robert Peel it was a matter of great moment that
he should do it. He did it, and posterity will point at him as a
politician without policy, as a statesman without a principle, as
a worshipper at the altar of expediency, to whom neither vows
sworn to friends, nor declarations made to his country, were in
any way binding. Had Sir Robert Peel lived, and did the people
now resolutely desire that the Church of England should be
abandoned, that Lords and Commons should bow the neck, that the
Crown should fall, who can believe that Sir Robert Peel would not
be ready to carry out their views? Readers, it may be that to you
such deeds as those are horrible even to be thought of or
expressed; to me I own that they are so. So also to Sir Robert
Peel was Catholic Emancipation horrible, so was Reform of
Parliament, so was the Corn Law Repeal. They were horrible to
him, horrible to be thought of, horrible to be expressed. But the
people required these measures, and therefore he carried them,
arguing on their behalf with all the astuteness of a practised
statesman.

That Sir Robert Peel should be a worshipper of expediency might
be matter of small moment to any but his biographer, were it not
that we are so prone to copy the example of those whose names are
ever in our mouths. It has now become the doctrine of a large
class of politicians that political honesty is unnecessary, slow,
subversive of a man's interests, and incompatible with quick
onward movement. Such a doctrine in politics is to be deplored;
but alas! who can confine it to politics? It creeps with gradual,
but still with sure and quick motion, into all the doings of our
daily life. How shall the man who has taught himself that he may
be false in the House of Commons, how shall he be true in the
Treasury chambers? or if false there, how true on the Exchange?
and if false there, how shall he longer have any truth within
him?

And thus Alaric Tudor had become a rogue, and was obliged, as it
were in his own defence, to consort with a rogue. He went down to
Scotland with Undy, leaving his wife and child at home, not
because he could thus best amuse his few leisure days, but
because this new work of his, this laborious trade of roguery,
allowed him no leisure days. When can villany have either days
or hours of leisure?

Among other things to be done in the north, Alaric was to make
acquaintance with the constituents of the little borough of
Strathbogy, which it was his ambition to represent in the next
Parliament. Strathbogy was on the confines of the Gaberlunzie
property; and indeed the lord's eldest son, who was the present
member, lived almost within the municipal boundary. Ca'stocks
Cottage, as his residence was called, was but a humble house for
a peer's eldest son; but Mr. Scott was not ashamed to live there,
and there for a while he entertained his brother Undy and Alaric
Tudor. Mr. Scott intended, when the present session was over, to
retire from the labours of parliamentary life. It may be that he
thought that he had done enough for his country; it may be that
the men of Strathbogy thought that he had not done enough for
them; it may be that there was some family understanding between
him and his brother. This, however, was clear, that he did not
intend to stand again himself, and that he professed himself
ready to put forward Alaric Tudor as a worthy successor, and to
give him the full benefit and weight of the Gaberlunzie interest.

But not for nothing was Alaric to receive such important
assistance.

'There are but 312 electors altogether,' said Undy one morning as
they went out shooting, 'and out of these we can command a
hundred and twenty. It must be odd if you cannot get enough
outsiders to turn them into a majority. Indeed you may look on it
as a certain seat. No man in England or Scotland could give you
one more certain.'

This was not the first occasion on which Undy had spoken of all
that he was doing for his friend, and Alaric therefore, somewhat
disgusted with the subject, made no reply.

'I never had things made so easy for me when I wasn't in,'
continued Undy; 'nor have I ever found them so easy since. I
don't suppose it will cost you above £500, or at most £600,
altogether.'

'Well, that will be a comfort,' said Alaric.

'A comfort! why I should say it would. What with the election and
petition together, Tillietudlem never cost me less than £2,000.
It cost me just as much, too, when I was thrown out.'

'That was a bore for you,' said Alaric.

'Upon my word you take it rather coolly,' said Undy; 'another man
would thank a fellow for putting such a nice thing in his way.'

'If the obligation be so deep,' said Alaric, becoming very red in
the face, 'I would rather not accept it. It is not too late for
you to take the cheaper seat to yourself, if you prefer it; and I
will look elsewhere.'

'Oh, of course; perhaps at Tillietudlem; but for Heaven's sake,
my dear fellow, don't let us quarrel about it. You are perfectly
welcome to whatever assistance we can give you at Strathbogy. I
only meant to say that I hope it will be efficacious. And on the
score of expense I'll tell you what we'll do--that is, if you
think that fair; we'll put the cost of the two elections
together, and share and share alike.'

'Considering that the election will not take place for at least
more than twelve months, there will be time enough to settle
that,' said Alaric.

'Well, that's true, too,' said Undy; and then they went on, and
for some time separated on the mountain, complaining, when they
met again, of the game being scarce and the dogs wild, as men
always do. But as they walked home, Undy, who regretted the loss
of good time, again began about money matters.

'How many of those bridge shares will you take?' said he. This
was a projected bridge from Poplar to Rotherhithe, which had been
got up by some city gentlemen, and as to which Undy Scott was, or
pretended to be, very sanguine.

'None,' said Alaric. 'Unless I can get rid of those confounded
West Cork and Ballydehobs, I can buy nothing more of anything.'

'Believe me, my dear fellow, the Ballydehobs are no such
confounded things at all. If you are ever a rich man it will be
through the Ballydehobs. But what you say about the bridge shares
is nonsense. You have a large command of capital, and you cannot
apply it better.'

Alaric winced, and wished in his heart that Clementina
Jaquêtanàpe, _née_ Golightly, with all her money, was buried
deep in the bogs of Ballydehob. Though he was a rogue, he could
not yet bear his roguery with comfort to himself. It sat,
however, as easy on Undy as though he had been to the manner
born.

'I have no capital now at my disposal,' said he; 'and I doubt
whether I should be doing right to lay out a ward's money in such
a manner.'

A slight smile came over Undy's gay unconcerned features; it was
very slight, but nevertheless it was very eloquent and very
offensive also. Alaric understood it well; it made him hate the
owner of it, but it made him hate himself still more.

'It is as well to be hung for a sheep as for a lamb,' said Undy's
smile; 'and, moreover,' continued the smile, 'is it not
ridiculous enough for you, Alaric Tudor, rogue as you are, to
profess to me, Undy Scott, rogue as I am, any solicitude as to
your ward's welfare, seeing that you have already taken to
yourself, for your own dishonest purposes, a considerable slice
of the fortune that has been trusted to your keeping? You have
done this, and yet you talk to me of not having capital at your
disposal! You have capital, and you will dispose of that capital
for your own purposes, as long as a shilling remains uninvested
of your ward's money. We are both rogues. God knows it, and you
and I know it; but I am not such a hypocritical rogue as to make
mock boasts of my honesty to my brother rogue.'

This was certainly a long speech to have been made by a smile
which crossed Mr. Scott's face but for a moment, but every word
of it was there expressed, and every word of it was there read.
Alaric did not at all like being addressed so uncivilly. It
seemed to tend but little to that 'Excelsior' for which his soul
panted; but what could he do? how could he help himself? Was it
not all true? could he contradict the smile? Alas! it was true;
it was useless for him now to attempt even to combat such smiles.
'Excelsior,' indeed! his future course might now probably be
called by some very different designation. Easy, very easy, is
the slope of hell.

Before they had returned to Ca'stocks Cottage, Undy had succeeded
in persuading his friend that the game must be played on--on and
on, and out. If a man intends to make a fortune in the share-market
he will never do it by being bold one day and timid the next.
No turf betting-book can be made up safely except on consistent
principles. Half-measures are always ruinous. In matters of
speculation one attempt is made safe by another. No man, it
is true, can calculate accurately what may be the upshot of
a single venture; but a sharp fellow may calculate with a fair
average of exactness what will be the aggregate upshot of many
ventures. All mercantile fortunes have been made by the knowledge
and understanding of this rule. If a man speculates but once and
again, now and then, as it were, he must of course be a loser. He
will be playing a game which he does not understand, and playing
it against men who do understand it. Men who so play always lose.
But he who speculates daily puts himself exactly in the reversed
position. He plays a game which experience teaches him to play
well, and he plays generally against men who have no such
advantage. Of course he wins.

All these valuable lessons did Undy Scott teach to Alaric Tudor,
and the result was that Alaric agreed to order--for self and
partner--a considerable number of shares in the Limehouse Bridge
Company. Easy, very easy, is the slope of hell.

And then in the evening, on this evening and other evenings, on
all evenings, they talked over the prospects of the West Cork and
Ballydehob branch, and of the Limehouse Bridge, which according
to Undy's theory is destined to work quite a revolution in the
East-end circles of the metropolis. Undy had noble ideas about
this bridge. The shares at the present moment were greatly at a
discount--so much the better, for they could be bought at a
cheaper rate; and they were sure to rise to some very respectable
figure as soon as Undy should have played out with reference to
them the parliamentary game which he had in view.

And so from morning to morning, and from night to night, they
talked over their unholy trade till the price of shares and the
sounds of sums of money entered into Alaric's soul. And this,
perhaps, is one of the greatest penalties to which men who embark
in such trade are doomed, that they can never shake off the
remembrance of their calculations; they can never drop the shop;
they have no leisure, no ease; they can never throw themselves
with loose limbs and vacant mind at large upon the world's green
sward, and call children to come and play with them. At the
Weights and Measures Alaric's hours of business had been from ten
to five. In Undy's office they continued from one noon till the
next, incessantly; even in his dreams he was working in the share
market.

On his return to town Alaric found a letter from Captain
Cuttwater, pressing very urgently for the repayment of his money.
It had been lent on the express understanding that it was to be
repaid when Parliament broke up. It was now the end of October,
and Uncle Bat was becoming uneasy.

Alaric, when he received the letter, crushed it in his hand, and
cursed the strictness of the man who had done so much for him. On
the next day another slice was taken from the fortune of Madame
Jaquêtanàpe; and his money, with the interest, was remitted to
Captain Cuttwater.



CHAPTER XXX

MRS. WOODWARD'S REQUEST


We will now go back for a while to Hampton. The author, for one,
does so with pleasure. Though those who dwell there be not
angels, yet it is better to live with the Woodwards and Harry
Norman, with Uncle Bat, or even with the unfortunate Charley,
than with such as Alaric and Undy Scott. The man who is ever
looking after money is fitting company only for the devils, of
whom, indeed, he is already one.

But Charley cannot any longer be called one of the Cottage
circle. It was now the end of October, and since the day of his
arrest, he had not yet been there. He had not been asked; nor
would he go uninvited, as after what had passed at Hampton Court
Bridge he surely might have done.

And consequently they were all unhappy. No one was more so than
Charley. When the prospect of the happy evening with Norah had
been so violently interrupted by his arrest, he had, among his
other messages, sent word to the 'Cat and Whistle,' excusing his
absence by a statement of the true cause. From that day to this
of which we are now speaking he had seen neither Mrs. Davis nor
her fair protégée.

Nor were they better contented at the Cottage. Mrs. Woodward was
harassed by different feelings and different fears, which
together made her very unhappy. Her Katie was still ill; not ill
indeed so that she was forced to keep her bed and receive daily
visits from pernicious doctors, but, nevertheless, so ill as to
make a mother very anxious.

She had never been quite strong, quite herself, from the night of
Mrs. Val's dance. The doctor who had attended her declared that
her ducking in the river had given her cold: and that this, not
having been duly checked, still hung about her. Then she had been
taken to a physician in London, who poked her on the back and
tapped her on the breast, listened to her lungs through a wooden
pipe--such was the account which Katie gave herself when she
returned home--and prescribed rum and milk and cod-liver oil,
declaring, with an authoritative nod, that there was no organic
disease--as yet.

'And what shall we do with her, doctor?' asked Mrs. Woodward.

'Go on with the rum and milk and cod-liver oil, you can't do
better.'

'And the cough, doctor?'

'Why, if that doesn't go before the cold weather begins, you may
as well take her to Torquay for the winter.'

Oh! consumption, thou scourge of England's beauty! how many
mothers, gasping with ill-suppressed fears, have listened to such
words as these--have listened and then hoped; listened again and
hoped again with fainter hopes; have listened again, and then
hoped no more!

But there was much on Mrs. Woodward's mind which she could not
bring herself to tell to any doctor, but which still left in her
breast an impression that she was perhaps keeping back the true
cause of Katie's illness. Charley had not been at Hampton since
his arrest, and it was manifest to all that Katie was therefore
wretched.

'But why do you not ask him, mamma?' she had urged when her
mother suggested that he stayed away because he did not like to
show himself after what had occurred. 'What will he think of us?
he that saved my life, mamma! Oh, mamma! you promised to forgive
him. Do ask him. You know he will come if you ask him.'

Mrs. Woodward could not explain to her--could not explain to any
one--why she did not invite him. Norman guessed it all, and Mrs.
Woodward saw that he had done so; but still she could not talk to
him of Katie's feelings, could not tell him that she feared her
child was heart-laden with so sad a love. So Mrs. Woodward had no
confidant in her sorrow, no counsel which she could seek to aid
her own wavering judgement. It was prudent, she thought, that
Katie and Charley should be kept apart. Prudent! was it not even
imperative on her to save her child from such a fate? But then,
when she saw the rosy cheek grow pale by degrees, as she watched
the plump little arms grow gradually thin and wan, as those high
spirits fell, and that voice which had ever been so frequent in
the house and so clear,--when the sound of it became low and
rare, then her heart would misgive her, and she would all but
resolve to take the only step which she knew would bring a bright
gleam on her child's face, and give a happy tone to her darling's
voice.

During the earlier portion of these days, Katie had with eager
constancy reiterated her request that Charley should be asked to
Hampton; but of a sudden her prayers ceased. She spoke no more of
Charley, asked no longer after his coming, ceased even to inquire
frequently of his welfare. But yet, when his name was mentioned,
she would open wide her bright eyes, would listen with all her
ears, and show only too plainly to one who watched her as a
mother only can watch, what were the thoughts which filled her
heart.

'Linda,' she had said one night, as they sat in their room,
preparing themselves for bed, 'Linda, why does not mamma invite
Charley to come down to Hampton?'

'Oh! I don't know,' said Linda; who, however, if she did not
know, was not far wrong in the guess she made. 'I suppose she
thinks he'd be ashamed to show himself after having been in
prison.'

'Ashamed! Why should he be ashamed after so long? Didn't you hear
Harry say that the same thing often happens to young men? Is he
never to come here again? Dear Linda, I know you know; do tell
me.'

'Well, I'm sure I do not know, if that's not the reason.'

'Oh! Linda, dear Linda, yes, you do,' said Katie, throwing
herself on her knees, resting her arms on her sister's lap, and
looking up wistfully into her sister's face. Her long hair was
streaming down her back; her white, naked feet peeped out from
beneath her bedroom dress, and large tears glistened in her eyes.
Who could have resisted the prayers of such a suppliant?
Certainly not Linda, the soft-hearted Linda.

'Do tell me,' continued Katie, 'do tell me--I am sure you know;
and, Linda, if it is wrong to ask mamma about it, I'll never,
never ask her again. I know mamma is unhappy about it. If my
asking is wrong, I'll not make her unhappy any more in that way.'

Linda, for a while, did not know what to answer. Her hesitating
manner immediately revealed to Katie that there was a secret, and
that her sister could tell it if she would.

'Oh! Linda, do tell me, do tell me, dear Linda; you ought to tell
me for mamma's sake.'

At last, with much hesitation, Linda told her the whole tale.

'Perhaps mamma thinks that you are too fond of Charley.'

An instant light flashed across Katie's heart--across her heart,
and brain, and senses. Not another word was necessary to explain
to her the whole mystery, to tell the whole tale, to reveal to
her the secret of her own love, of her mother's fears, and of his
assumed unwillingness. She got up slowly from her knees, kissed
her sister's cheek and neck, smiled at her so sweetly, so sadly,
and then sitting on her old seat, began playing with her long
hair, and gazing at vacancy.

'It is only what I guess, you know, Katie--you would make me tell
you, but I am sure there is nothing in it.'

'Dear Linda,' said she, 'you are so good; I am so much obliged to
you.'

After that Katie spoke no further of Charley. But it was evident
to them all, that though she said nothing, she had not ceased to
think of him. Nor did her cheek again become rosy, nor her arms
round, nor her voice happy. She got weaker than ever, and poor
Mrs. Woodward was overcome with sorrow.

Nor was this the only cause of grief at Surbiton Cottage. During
the last few weeks a bitter estrangement had taken place between
the Woodwards and the Tudors, Alaric Tudor, that is, and
Gertrude. Two years had now passed since Norman had chosen to
quarrel with Alaric, and during all that period the two had never
spoken amicably together, though they had met on business very
frequently; on all such occasions Alaric had been unperturbed and
indifferent, whereas Norman had been gloomy, and had carried a
hostile brow and angry eye. At their period of life, two years
generally does much to quiet feelings of ill-will and pacify
animosity; but Norman's feelings had by no means been quieted,
nor his animosity pacified. He had loved Alaric with a close and
manly love; now he hated him with a close and, I fear I may say,
a manly hatred. Alaric had, as he thought, answered his love by
treachery; and there was that in Norman's heart which would not
allow him to forgive one who had been a traitor to him. He had
that kind of selfishness so common to us, but of which we are so
unconscious, which will not allow us to pardon a sin against our
own _amour propre_. Alaric might have been forgiven, though
he had taken his friend's money, distanced him in his office,
though he had committed against him all offences which one friend
can commit against another, all but this. Norman had been proud
of his love, and yet ashamed of it--proud of loving such a girl
as Gertrude, and ashamed of being known to be in love at all. He
had confided his love to Alaric, and Alaric had robbed him of his
love, and wounded both his pride and his shame.

Norman lacked the charity which should have been capable of
forgiving even this. He now looked at all Alaric's doings through
a different glass from that which he had used when Alaric had
been dear to him. He saw, or thought that he saw, that his
successful rival was false, ambitious, treacherous, and
dishonest; he made no excuses for him, gave him no credit for his
industry, accorded no admiration to his talent. He never spoke
ill of Alaric Tudor, to others; but he fed his own heart with
speaking and thinking ill of him to himself.

Of Gertrude he thought very differently. He had taught himself to
disconnect her from the treachery of her husband--or rather her
memory; for, from the day on which he had learnt that she was
engaged to Alaric, he had never seen her. He still loved the
remembrance of her. In his solitary walks with Mrs. Woodward he
would still speak of her as he might of one in some distant
clime, for whose welfare he was deeply interested. He had seen
and caressed her baby at Hampton. She was still dear to him. Had
Alaric been called to his long account, it would have been his
dearest wish to have become at some future tune the husband of
his widow.

To all these feelings on Norman's part Alaric was very
indifferent; but their existence operated as a drawback on his
wife's comfort, and, to a certain degree, on his own. Mrs.
Woodward would not banish Norman from the Cottage, even for her
daughter's sake, and it came by degrees to be understood that the
Tudors, man and wife, should not go there unless they were aware
that Norman was absent. Norman, on the other hand, did absent
himself when it was understood that Alaric and Gertrude were
coming; and thus the Woodwards kept up their intercourse with
both.

But this was a bore. Alaric thought it most probable that Norman
would marry one of the younger sisters, and he knew that family
quarrels are uncomfortable and injudicious. When therefore he
became a Civil Service Commissioner, and was thus removed from
business intercourse with Norman, he conceived that it would be
wise to arrange a reconciliation. He discussed the matter with
Gertrude, and she, fully agreeing with him, undertook the task of
making the proposal through her mother. This she did with all the
kindness and delicacy of a woman. She desired her mother to tell
Harry how much she had valued his friendship, how greatly she
regretted the loss of it, how anxious her husband was to renew,
if possible, their former terms of affection. Mrs. Woodward, by
no means sanguine, undertook the commission. She undertook it,
and utterly failed; and when Gertrude, in her disappointment,
spoke bitterly of Norman's bitterness, both mother and sister,
both Mrs. Woodward and Linda, took Norman's part.

'I wish it could be otherwise,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'I wish it
for all our sakes; but he is a man not easily to be turned, and I
cannot blame him. He has suffered very much.'

Gertrude became very red. Her mother's words contained a reproach
against herself, tacit and unintended indeed, but not the less
keenly felt.

'I am not aware that Mr. Norman has any cause of just complaint,'
she said, 'against any one, unless it be himself. For the sake of
charity and old associations we have wished that all ideas of
injury should be forgiven and forgotten. If he chooses still to
indulge his rancour, he must do so. I had taken him to be a
better Christian.'

More words had sprung from these. Mrs. Woodward, who, in truth,
loved Norman the better for the continuance of his sorrow, would
not give up his part; and so the mother and child parted, and the
two sisters parted, not quarrelling indeed, not absolutely with
angry words, but in a tone of mind towards each other widely
differing from that of former years. Mrs. Woodward had lost none
of the love of the parent; but Gertrude had forgotten somewhat of
the reverence of the child.

All this had added much to the grief created by Katie's illness.

And then of a sudden Katie became silent, as well as sad and ill
--silent and sad, but so soft, so loving in her manner. Her gentle
little caresses, the tender love ever lying in her eye, the
constant pressure of her thin small hand, would all but break her
mother's heart. Katie would sit beside her on the sofa in the
drawing-room for hours; a book, taken up as an excuse, would be
in her lap, and she would sit there gazing listlessly into the
vacant daylight till the evening would come; and then, when the
room was shaded and sombre, when the light of the fire merely
served to make the objects indistinct, she would lean gently and
by degrees upon her mother's bosom, would coax her mother's arm
round her neck, and would thus creep as it were into her mother's
heart of hearts. And then slow tears would trickle down her
cheeks, very slow, one by one, till they would fall as telltales
on her mother's hand.

'Katie, my darling Katie,' the mother would say.

'I'm only tired, mamma,' would be her answer. 'Don't move, mamma;
pray don't move. I am so comfortable.'

And then at night she would put herself to rest close circled in
Linda's arms. She would twist up her little feet, and lie so
quiet there, that Linda would remain motionless that she might
not disturb her Katie's sleep; but soon warm tears would be
running on her bosom, and she would know that Katie was still
thinking of her love.

Linda, among all her virtues, had not that of reticence, and her
mother had soon learnt from her what had been said that night in
their bedroom about Charley. But this violation of confidence, if
it was a violation, was hardly necessary to make Mrs. Woodward
aware of what was passing in her daughter's bosom. When Katie
ceased to ask that Charley might be sent for, when she ceased to
plead for his pardon and to praise his virtues, Mrs. Woodward
knew well the cause of her silence. It was not that others
suspected her love, but that she had learned to suspect it
herself. It was not that she was ashamed of loving Charley, but
that she felt at once that such love would distress her mother's
heart.

As she sat there that night fingering her silken hair, she had
asked herself whether in truth this man was master of her heart;
she had probed her young bosom, which now, by a sudden growth,
became quick with a woman's impulse, and she had owned to herself
that she did love him. He was dearer to her, she found, than all
in the world beside. Fondly as she loved her sister, sweet to her
as were her mother's caresses, their love was not as precious to
her as his might be. And then she remembered what he was, what
was the manner of his life, what his character; how different he
was from Alaric or Harry Norman; she remembered this, and knew
that her love was an unhappy passion. Herself she would have
sacrificed: prisoner as he had been, debtor as he was, drunkard,
penniless, and a spendthrift, she would not have hesitated to
take him for her guide through life, and have done what a woman
might to guide him in return. But she would not sacrifice her
mother. She saw now why Charley was not asked, and silently
acquiesced in his banishment.

She was not yet quite seventeen. Not yet seventeen! the reader
will say. She was still such a child, and yet arguing to herself
about spendthrift debtors and self-sacrifice! All this bombast at
sixteen and a half. No, my ungentle reader, not all this bombast
at sixteen and a half. The bombast is mine. It is my fault if I
cannot put into fitting language the thoughts which God put into
her young heart. In her mind's soliloquy, Charley's vices were
probably all summed up in the one word, unsteady. Why is he so
unsteady? Why does he like these wicked things?' And then as
regarded Mrs. Woodward, she did but make a resolve that not even
for her love would she add to the unhappiness of that loving,
tenderest mother. There was no bombast in Katie, either expressed
or unexpressed.

After much consideration on the matter, Mrs. Woodward determined
that she should ask Charley down to the Cottage. In the first
place, she felt bitterly her apparent ingratitude to him. When
last they had been together, the day after Katie's escape at the
bridge, when his tale had just been read, she had told him, with
the warmth of somewhat more than friendly affection, that
henceforth they must be more than common friends. She had
promised him her love, she had almost promised him the affection
and care of a mother; and now how was she keeping her promise? He
had fallen into misfortune, and she had immediately deserted him.
Over and over again she said to herself that her first duty was
to her own child; but even with this reflection, she could hardly
reconcile herself to her neglect of him.

And then, moreover, she felt that it was impossible that all
their friendship, all their mutual regard, should die away
suddenly without any explanation. An attempt to bring about this
would not cure Katie's love. If this were done, would not Katie
always think of Charley's wrong?

And, lastly, it was quite clear that Katie had put a check on her
own heart. A meeting now might be the reverse of dangerous. It
would be well that Katie should use herself to be with him now
again; well, at any rate, that she should see him once before
their proposed journey to Torquay; for, alas, the journey to
Torquay was now insisted on by the London physician--insisted on,
although he opined with a nod, somewhat less authoritative than
his former nod, that the young lady was touched by no organic
disease.

'And then,' said Mrs. Woodward to herself, 'his heart is good,
and I will speak openly to him.' And so Charley was again invited
to the cottage. After some demurring between him and Norman, he
accepted the invitation.

Mrs. Val's dance had taken place in June, and it was now late in
October. Four months had intervened, and during that period
Charley had seen none of the Woodwards. He had over and over
again tried to convince himself that this was his own fault, and
that he had no right to accuse Mrs. Woodward of ingratitude. But
he was hardly successful. He did feel, in spite of himself, that
he had been dropped because of the disgrace attaching to his
arrest; that Mrs. Woodward had put him aside as being too bad to
associate with her and her daughters; and that it was intended
that henceforth they should be strangers.

He still had Katie's purse, and he made a sort of resolve that as
long as he kept that in his possession, as long as he had that
near his heart, he would not go near Norah Geraghty. This
resolution he had kept; but though he did not go to the 'Cat and
Whistle,' he frequented other places which were as discreditable,
or more so. He paid many very fruitless visits to Mr. M'Ruen;
contrived to run up a score with the proprietor of the dancing
saloon in Holborn; and was as negligent as ever in the matter of
the lock entries.

'It is no use now,' he would say to himself, when some
aspirations for higher things came across his heart; 'it is too
late now to go back. Those who once cared for me have thrown me
over.' And then he would again think of Waterloo Bridge, and the
Monument, and of what might be done for threepence or fourpence
in a pistol gallery.

And then at last came the invitation to Hampton. He was once more
to talk to Mrs. Woodward, and associate with Linda--to see Katie
once more. When he had last left the house he had almost been as
much at home as any one of the family; and now he was to return
to it as a perfect stranger. As he travelled down with Norman by
the railway, he could not help feeling that the journey was
passing over too quickly. He was like a prisoner going to his
doom. As he crossed the bridge, and remembered how Katie had
looked when she lay struggling in the water, how he had been
feted and caressed after pulling her out, he made a bitter
contrast between his present position and that which he then
enjoyed. Were it not for very shame, he would have found it in
his heart to return to London.

And then in a moment they were at the Cottage door. The road had
never been so short. Norman, who had not fathomed Charley's
feelings, was happy and light-hearted--more so than was usual
with him, for he was unaffectedly glad to witness Charley's
return to Hampton. He rang sharply at the door, and when it was
opened, walked with happy confidence into the drawing-room.
Charley was bound to follow him, and there he found himself again
in the presence of Mrs. Woodward and her daughters. Katie would
fain have absented herself, but Mrs. Woodward knew that the first
meeting could take place in no more favourable manner.

Mrs. Woodward bade him welcome with a collected voice, and
assured, if not easy manner. She shook hands with him cordially,
and said a few words as to her pleasure of seeing him again. Then
he next took Linda's hand, and she too made a little speech, more
awkwardly than her mother, saying something mal à propos about
the very long time he had been away; and then she laughed with a
little titter, trying to recover herself. And at last he came to
Katie. There was no getting over it. She also stretched out her
now thin hand, and Charley, as he touched it, perceived how
altered she was. Katie looked up into his face, and tried to
speak, but she could not articulate a word. She looked into his
face, and then at Mrs. Woodward, as though imploring her mother's
aid to tell her how to act or what to say; and then finding her
power of utterance impeded by rising sobs, she dropped back again
on her seat, and hid her face upon the arm of the sofa.

'Our Katie is not so well as when you last saw her--is she,
Charley?' said Mrs. Woodward. 'She is very weak just now; but
thank God she has, we believe, no dangerous symptoms about her.
You have heard, perhaps, that we are going to Torquay for the
winter?'

And so they went on talking. The ice was broken and the worst was
over. They did not talk, it is true, as in former days; there was
no confidence between them now, and each of them felt that there
was none; but they nevertheless fell into a way of unembarrassed
conversation, and were all tolerably at their ease.

And then they went to dinner, and Charley was called on to
discuss Admiralty matters with Uncle Bat; and then he and Norman
sat after dinner a little longer than usual; and then they had a
short walk, during which Katie remained at home; but short as it
was, it was quite long enough, for it was very dull; and then
there was tea; and then more constrained conversation, in which
Katie took no part whatever; and then Mrs. Woodward and the girls
took their candles, and Charley went over to the inn on the other
side of the road. Oh! how different was this from the former
evenings at Surbiton Cottage.

Charley had made no plan for any special interview with Katie;
had, indeed, not specially thought about it at all; but he could
not but feel an intense desire to say one word to her in private,
and learn whether all her solicitude for him was over. 'Dear
Charley, you will be steady; won't you?' Those had been her last
words to him. Nothing could have been sweeter; although they
brought before his mind the remembrance of his own unworthy
career, they had been inexpressibly sweet, as testifying the
interest she felt in him. And was that all over now? Had it all
been talked away by Mrs. Woodward's cautious wisdom, because he
had lain for one night in a sponging-house?

But the next day came, and as it passed, it appeared to him that
no opportunity of speaking one word to her was to be allowed to
him.

She did not, however, shun him. She was not up at breakfast, but
she sat next to him at lunch, and answered him when he spoke to
her.

In the evening they again went out to walk, and then Charley
found that Linda and Norman went one way, and that he was alone
with Mrs. Woodward. It was manifest to him that this arrangement
had been made on purpose, and he felt that he was to undergo some
private conversation, the nature of which he dreaded. He dreaded
it very much; when he heard it, it made him very wretched; but it
was not the less full of womanly affection and regard for him.

'I cannot let you go from us, Charley,' began Mrs. Woodward,
'without telling you how deep a sorrow it has been to me to be so
long without seeing you. I know you have thought me very
ungrateful.'

'Ungrateful, Mrs. Woodward! 'O no! I have done nothing to make
gratitude necessary.'

'Yes, Charley, you have--you have done much, too much. You have
saved my child's life.'

'O no, I did not,' said he; 'besides, I hate gratitude. I don't
want any one to be grateful to me. Gratitude is almost as
offensive as pity. Of course I pulled Kate out of the water when
she fell in; and I would have done as much for your favourite
cat.' He said this with something of bitterness in his tone; it
was not much, for though he felt bitterly he did not intend to
show it; but Mrs. Woodward's ear did not fail to catch it.

'Don't be angry with us, Charley; don't make us more unhappy than
we already are.'

'Unhappy!' said he, as though he thought that all the unhappiness
in the world was at the present moment reserved for his own
shoulders.

'Yes, we are not so happy now as we were when you were last with
us. Poor Katie is very ill.'

'But you don't think there is any danger, Mrs. Woodward?'

There are many tones in which such a question may be asked--and
is asked from day to day--all differing widely from each other,
and giving evidence of various shades of feeling in the speaker.
Charley involuntarily put his whole heart into it. Mrs. Woodward
could not but love him for feeling for her child, though she
would have given so much that the two might have been indifferent
to each other.

'I do not know,' she said. 'We hope not. But I should not be sent
with her to Torquay if she were not very ill. She is very ill,
and it is absolutely essential that nothing should be allowed to
excite her painfully. I tell you this, Charley, to excuse our
apparent unkindness in not having you here sooner.'

Charley walked by her in silence. Why should his coming excite
her more than Norman's? What could there be painful to her in
seeing him? Did the fact of his having been arrested attach to
his visit any peculiar probability of excitement?

'Do not suppose that we have not thought of you,' continued Mrs.
Woodward.' We have all done so daily. Nay, I have done so myself
all but hourly. Ah, Charley, you will never know how truly I love
you.'

Charley's heart was as soft as it was inflammable. He was utterly
unable to resist such tenderness as Mrs. Woodward showed to him.
He had made a little resolution to be stiff and stern, to ask for
no favour and to receive none, not to palliate his own conduct,
or to allow Mrs. Woodward to condemn it. He had felt that as the
Woodwards had given him up, they had no longer any right to
criticize him. To them at least, one and all, to Mrs. Woodward
and her daughters, his conduct had been _sans reproche_. They
had no cause to upbraid him on their own account; and they had
now abandoned the right to do so on his own. With such assumed
sternness he began his walk; but now it had all melted before the
warmth of one tender word from a woman's mouth.

'I know I am not worth thinking about,' said he.

'Do not say so; pray do not say so. Do not think that we say so
to ourselves. I grieve for your faults. Charley; I know they are
grievous and wicked; but I know how much there is of good in you.
I know how clever you are, how excellent your heart is, how sweet
your disposition. I trust, I trust in God, you may reform, and be
the pride of your friends. I trust that I yet may be proud of
knowing you----'

'No one will ever be proud of me,' said Charley.

'We shall all be proud of you, if you will resolve to turn away
from childish things now that you are no longer a child--your
faults are faults which as yet may be so easily relinquished.
But, oh, Charley----' and then Mrs. Woodward paused and looked
wistfully into his face. She had now come to the point at which
she had to make her prayer to him. She had resolved to tell him
the cause of her fears, and to trust to his honour to free her
from them. Now was the moment for her to speak out; but now that
the moment was come, the words were wanting.

She looked wistfully into his face, but he did not even guess
what was her meaning. He knew the secret of his own love; but he
did not know that Katie also had her secret. He had never dreamt
that his faults, among all their ill effects, had paled her
cheek, made wan her arm, silenced her voice, and dimmed her eye.
When he had heard Katie cough, he had in nowise connected the
hated sound with his own arrest. He had thought only of his own
love.

'Oh! Charley--I know I can trust you,' said Mrs. Woodward. 'I
know you are gentle and good. You will be gentle and good to us,
will you not? you will not make us all wretched?'

Charley declared that he would not willingly do anything to cause
pain to any of them.

'No--I am sure you will not. And therefore, Charley, you must not
see Katie any more.'

At this time they had turned off the road into a shady lane, in
which the leaves of autumn were beginning to fall. A path led
over a stile away from the lane into the fields, and Mrs.
Woodward had turned towards it, as though intending to continue
their walk in that direction. But when she had reached the stile,
she had sat down upon the steps of it, and Charley had been
listening to her, standing by, leaning on the top rail.

'And therefore, Charley, you must not see Katie any more.' So
much she said, and then she looked into his face with imploring
eyes.

It was impossible that he should answer her at once. He had to
realize so much that had hitherto not been expressed between
them, before he could fully understand what she meant; and then
he was called on to give up so much that he now learnt for the
first time was within his reach! Before he could answer her he
had to assure himself that Katie loved him; he had to understand
that her love for one so abandoned was regarded as fatal; and he
had to reply to a mother's prayer that he would remove himself
from the reach of a passion which to him was worth all the world
beside.

He turned his face away from her, but still stood leaning on the
stile, with his arms folded on it. She watched him for a while in
silence, and at last she saw big tears drop from his face on to
the dust of the path on the farther side. There they came rolling
down, large globules of sorrow. Nothing is so painful to a woman
as a man in tears, and Mrs. Woodward's heart was wrung to its
very core. Why was he not like Alaric or Norman, so that she
might make him welcome to her daughter's heart?

She leant towards him and put her hand caressingly on his arm.
'It shall be so, shall it not, Charley?'

'Oh, of course, if you say so.'

'I have your word, then? If I have your word, that will be a
perfect bond. I have your word, have I not, Charley?'

'What!--never see her in my life?' said he, turning almost
fiercely on Mrs. Woodward.

'That, you know, is more than you can promise,' said she, very
gently. 'It is not to the letter of the promise that I would bind
you, but to its spirit. You understand well what I mean; you know
what I wish, and why I wish it. Say that you will obey my wish,
and I will leave the mode of doing it to your own honour. Have I
your promise?'

He shook her hand off his arm almost roughly, though
unintentionally, and turning sharply round leant with his back
against the stile. The traces of tears were still on his cheeks,
but he was no longer crying; there was, however, a look on his
face of heart-rending sorrow which Mrs. Woodward could hardly
endure.

'I do understand you,' said he, 'and since you demand it, I will
promise;' and then they walked home side by side, without
interchanging a single word.

When they reached the house, Mrs. Woodward went to her room, and
Charley found himself alone with Katie.

'I hope you find yourself better this evening,' said he.

'Oh, I am quite well,' she answered, with her sweetest, kindest
voice; 'I am quite well, only sometimes I am a little weak.'

He walked up to the window as though to pass on to the lawn; but
the season was too far advanced for that, and the window was
locked. He retraced his steps, therefore, and passing out of the
drawing-room into the hall, stood at the open front door till he
heard Mrs. Woodward come down. Then he followed her into the
room.

'Good-bye,' he said to her suddenly; 'I shall start by the early
train to-morrow, and shall not see you.' She pressed his hand,
but he in nowise returned the pressure. 'Good-bye, Linda; good-bye,
Katie; good night, Captain Cuttwater.' And so he went his way, as
Adam did when he was driven out of Paradise.

Early on the following morning, the cook, while engaged in her
most matutinal duties, was disturbed by a ring at the front door.
She, and she only of the household, was up, and as she had not
completed her toilet with much minuteness, she was rather
embarrassed when, on opening the door, she saw Mr. Charles Tudor.

'I beg your pardon, cook, for troubling you so early; but I have
left something in the drawing-room. I can find it myself;' and,
so saying, he hurried into the room, so as to prevent the servant
from following him.

Katie had a well-worn, well-known little workbox, which, in years
now long past; had been given to her either by Alaric or Harry.
Doubtless she had now work-boxes grander both in appearance and
size; but, nevertheless, whether from habit or from choice, her
custom was, in her daily needlework, to use this old friend.
Often and often had Charley played with it many wicked pranks.
Once, while Katie had as yet no pretension to be grown up, he had
put a snail into it, and had incurred her severe displeasure. He
had stuffed it full of acorns, and been rewarded by being pelted
with them round the lawn; and had filled it with nuts, for which
he had not found it so difficult to obtain pardon. He knew every
hole and corner in it! he was intimate with all her little
feminine nicknacks--her silver thimble, her scissors, her bit of
wax, and the yard-measure, which twisted itself in and out of an
ivory cottage--he knew them all, as well as though they were his
own; and he knew also where the workbox stood.

He closed the door behind him, and then, with his quickest
motion, raised the lid and put within the box, just under the bit
of work on which she was employed, a light small paper parcel. It
contained the purse which she had worked for him, and had given
to him with such sweet affection at the Chiswick flower-show.



CHAPTER XXXI

HOW APOLLO SAVED THE NAVVY


About the middle of November, the Woodwards went to Torquay, and
remained there till the following May. Norman went with them to
see them properly settled in their new lodgings, and visited them
at Christmas, and once again during their stay there. He then
went down to fetch them home, and when they all returned,
informed Charley, with whom he was still living, that he was
engaged to Linda. It was arranged, he said, that they were to be
married in August.

On the whole, the journey to Torquay was considered to have been
successful. Katie's health had been the only object in going
there, and the main consideration while they remained. She
returned, if not well, at any rate not worse. She had got through
the winter, and her lungs were still pronounced to be free from
those dreadful signs of decay, the name of which has broken so
many mothers' hearts, and sent dismay into the breasts of so many
fathers. During her sojourn at Torquay she had grown much, and,
as is often the case with those who grow quickly, she had become
weak and thin. People at Torquay are always weak and thin, and
Mrs. Woodward had not, therefore, been greatly frightened at
this. Her spirits, though by no means such as they had been in
former days, had improved, she had occupied herself more than she
had done during the last two months at Hampton, and had, at least
so Mrs. Woodward fondly flattered herself, ceased to be always
thinking of Charley Tudor. It was quite clear that she had firmly
made up her mind to some certain line of conduct with reference
to him; she never mentioned his name, nor was it mentioned in her
hearing by either her mother or sister during their stay at
Torquay. When Norman came down, she always found some opportunity
of inquiring from him as to Charley's health and welfare; but she
did this in a manner which showed that she had succeeded in
placing her feelings wonderfully under control.

On that Monday morning, on which Charley had returned to town
after his early visit to her workbox, she had not failed to find
the purse. Linda was with her when she did so, but she had
contrived so to conceal her emotion, that nothing was seen and
nothing suspected. She felt at once that it was intended that all
intercourse should be broken off between them. She knew
instinctively that this was the effect of some precaution on her
mother's part, and with a sad bosom and a broken heart, she
acquiesced in it. She said nothing, even to herself, of the truth
and constancy of her love; she made no mental resolution against
any other passion; she did not even think whether or not she
might ever be tempted to love another; but she felt a dumb aching
numbness about her heart; and, looking round about her, she
seemed to feel that all was dark and dismal.

And so they sojourned through the winter at Torquay. The effort
which Katie made was undoubtedly salutary to her. She took again
to her work and her lessons--studies we should probably now call
them--and before she left Torquay, she had again learned how to
smile; but not to laugh with that gay ringing silver laughter,
ringing, but yet not loud, which to Charley's ear had been as
sweet as heavenly music. During this time Uncle Bat remained at
Hampton, keeping bachelor's house by himself.

And then while they were at Torquay, Linda and Norman became
engaged to each other. Their loves were honest, true, and happy;
but not of a nature to give much scope to a novelist of a
romantic turn. Linda knew she was not Norman's first love, and
requited Norman, of course, by telling him something, not much,
of Alaric's falseness to her. Norman made but one ungenerous
stipulation. It was this: that in marrying him Linda must give up
all acquaintance with her brother-in-law. He would never, he
said, be the means of separating two sisters; she and Gertrude
might have such intercourse together as their circumstances might
render possible; but it was quite out of the question that either
he, Harry Norman, or his wife, should ever again associate with
Alaric Tudor.

In such matters Linda had always been guided by others; so she
sighed and promised, and the engagement was duly ratified by all
the parties concerned.

We must now return to Charley. When he got back to town, he felt
that he had lost his amulet; his charm had gone from him, and he
had nothing now left whereby to save himself from ruin and
destruction. He was utterly flung over by the Woodwards; that now
was to him an undoubted fact. When Mrs. Woodward told him that he
was never again to see Katie, that was, of course, tantamount to
turning him out of the Cottage. It might be all very well to talk
to him of affection and friendship; but it was manifest that no
further signs of either were to be shown to him. He had proved
himself to be unworthy, and was no more to be considered as one
of the circle which made the drawing-room at Surbiton Cottage its
centre. He could not quite explain all this to Norman, as he
could not tell him what had passed between him and Mrs. Woodward;
but he said enough to make his friend know that he intended to go
to Hampton no more.

It would be wrong, perhaps, to describe Charley as being angry
with Mrs. Woodward. He knew that she was only doing her duty by
her child; he knew that she was actuated by the purest and best
of motives; he was not able to say a word against her even to
himself; but, nevertheless, he desired to be revenged on her--not
by injuring her, not by injuring Katie--but by injuring himself.
He would make Mrs. Woodward feel what she had done, by rushing,
himself, on his own ruin. He would return to the 'Cat and
Whistle'--he would keep his promise and marry Norah Geraghty--he
would go utterly to destruction, and then Mrs. Woodward would
know and feel what she had done in banishing him from her
daughter's presence!

Having arrived at this magnanimous resolution after a fortnight's
doubt and misery, he proceeded to put his purpose into execution.
It was now some considerable time since he had been at the 'Cat
and Whistle;' he had had no further visit from Mrs. Davis, but he
had received one or two notes both from her and Norah, to which,
as long as he had Katie's purse, he was resolute in not replying;
messages also had reached him from the landlady through Dick
Scatterall, in the last of which he was reminded that there was a
trifle due at the bar, and another trifle for money lent.

One night, having lashed himself up to a fit state of wretched
desperation, he found himself at the well-known corner of the
street leading out of the Strand. On his journey thither he had
been trying to realize to himself what it would be to be the
husband of Norah Geraghty; what would be the joy of returning to
a small house in some dingy suburb and finding her to receive
him. Could he really love her when she would be bone of his bone
and flesh of his flesh, the wife of his bosom and the mother of
his children? In such a case would he ever be able to forget that
he had known Katie Woodward? Would those words of hers ever ring
in his ears, then as now--'You will be steady, dear Charley;
won't you?'

There are those who boast that a gentleman must always be a
gentleman; that a man, let him marry whom he will, raises or
degrades his wife to the level of his own condition, and that
King Cophetua could share his throne with a beggar-woman without
sullying its splendour or diminishing its glory. How a king may
fare in such a condition, the author, knowing little of kings,
will not pretend to say; nor yet will he offer an opinion whether
a lowly match be fatally injurious to a marquess, duke, or earl;
but this he will be bold to affirm, that a man from the ordinary
ranks of the upper classes, who has had the nurture of a
gentleman, prepares for himself a hell on earth in taking a wife
from any rank much below his own--a hell on earth, and, alas! too
often another hell elsewhere also. He must either leave her or
loathe her. She may be endowed with all those moral virtues which
should adorn all women, and which, thank God, are common to women
in this country; but he will have to endure habits, manners, and
ideas, which the close contiguity of married life will force upon
his disgusted palate, and which must banish all love. Man by
instinct desires in his wife something softer, sweeter, more
refined than himself; and though in failing to obtain this, the
fault may be all his own, he will not on that account the more
easily reconcile himself to the want.

Charley knew that he was preparing such misery for himself. As he
went along, determined to commit a moral suicide by allying
himself to the barmaid, he constrained himself to look with his
mind's eye 'upon this picture and on that.'

He had felt of what nature was the sort of love with which Katie
Woodward had inspired his heart; and he felt also what was that
other sort of love to which the charms of Norah Geraghty had
given birth.

Norah was a fine girl, smart enough in her outward apparel, but
apt occasionally to disclose uncomfortable secrets, if from any
accident more than her outward apparel might momentarily become
visible. When dressed up for a Sunday excursion she had her
attractions, and even on ordinary evenings, a young man such as
Charley, after imbibing two or three glasses of spirits and
water, and smoking two or three cigars, might find her to be what
some of her friends would have called 'very good company.' As to
her mind, had Charley been asked about it, he would probably have
said that he was ignorant whether she had any; but this he did
know, that she was sharp and quick, alert in counting change, and
gifted with a peculiar power of detecting bad coin by the touch.
Such was Norah Geraghty, whom Charley was to marry.

And then that other portrait was limned with equal accuracy
before his eyes. Katie, with all her juvenile spirit, was
delightfully feminine; every motion of hers was easy, and every
form into which she could twist her young limbs was graceful. She
had all the nice ideas and ways which a girl acquires when she
grows from childhood to woman's stature, under the eye of a
mother who is a lady. Katie could be untidy on occasions; but her
very untidiness was inviting. All her belongings were nice; she
had no hidden secrets, the chance revealing of which would
disgrace her. She might come in from her island palaces in a
guise which would call down some would-be-censorious exclamation
from her mother; but all others but her mother would declare that
Katie in such moments was more lovely than ever. And Katie's
beauty pleased more than the eye--it came home to the mind and
heart of those who saw her. It spoke at once to the intelligence,
and required, for its full appreciation, an exercise of the
mental faculties, as well as animal senses. If the owner of that
outward form were bad or vile, one would be inclined to say that
Nature must have lied when she endowed her with so fair an index.
Such was Katie Woodward, whom Charley was not to marry.

As he turned down Norfolk Street, he thought of all this, as the
gambler, sitting with his razor before him with which he intends
to cut his throat, may be supposed to think of the stakes which
he has failed to win, and the fortune he has failed to make.
Norah Geraghty was Charley's razor, and he plunged boldly into
the 'Cat and Whistle,' determined to draw it at once across his
weasand, and sever himself for ever from all that is valuable in
the world.

It was now about eleven o'clock, at which hour the 'Cat and
Whistle' generally does its most stirring trade. This Charley
knew; but he also knew that the little back parlour, even if
there should be an inmate in it at the time of his going in,
would soon be made private for his purposes.

When he went in, Mrs. Davis was standing behind the counter,
dressed in a cap of wonderful grandeur, and a red tabinet gown,
which rustled among the pots and jars, sticking out from her to a
tremendous width, inflated by its own magnificence and a
substratum of crinoline. Charley had never before seen her
arrayed in such royal robes. Her accustomed maid was waiting as
usual on the guests, and another girl also was assisting; but
Norah did not appear to Charley's first impatient glance.

He at once saw that something wonderful was going on. The front
parlour was quite full, and the ministering angel was going in
and out quickly, with more generous supplies of the gifts of
Bacchus than were usual at the 'Cat and Whistle.' Gin and water
was the ordinary tipple in the front parlour; and any one of its
denizens inclined to cut a dash above his neighbours generally
did so with a bottom of brandy. But now Mrs. Davis was mixing
port-wine negus as fast as her hands could make it.

And then there were standing round the counter four or five
customers, faces well known to Charley, all of whom seemed to be
dressed with a splendour second only to that of the landlady. One
man had on an almost new brown frock coat with a black velvet
collar, and white trousers. Two had blue swallow-tailed coats
with brass buttons; and a fourth, a dashing young lawyer's clerk
from Clement's Inn, was absolutely stirring a mixture, which he
called a mint julep, with a yellow kid glove dangling out of his
hand.

They all stood back when Charley entered; they had been
accustomed to make way for him in former days, and though he had
latterly ceased to rule at the 'Cat and Whistle' as he once did,
they were too generous to trample on fallen greatness. He gave
his hand to Mrs. Davis across the counter, and asked her in the
most unconcerned voice which he could assume what was in the
wind. She tittered and laughed, told him he had come too late for
the fun, and then retreated into the little back parlour, whither
he followed her. She was at any rate in a good humour, and seemed
quite inclined to forgive his rather uncivil treatment of her
notes and messages.

In the back parlour Charley found more people drinking, and among
them three ladies of Mrs. Davis's acquaintance. They were all
very fine in their apparel, and very comfortable as to their
immediate employment, for each had before her a glass of hot
tipple. One of them, a florid-faced dame about fifty, Charley had
seen before, and knew to be the wife of a pork butcher and
sausage maker in the neighbourhood. Directly he entered the room,
Mrs. Davis formally introduced him to them all. 'A very
particular friend of mine, Mrs. Allchops; and of Norah's too, I
can assure you,' said Mrs. Davis.

'Ah, Mr. Tudor, and how be you? A sight of you is good for sore
eyes,' said she of the sausages, rising with some difficulty from
her chair, and grasping Charley's hand with all the pleasant
cordiality of old friendship.

'The gen'leman seems to be a little too late for the fair,' said
a severe lodging-house keeper from Cecil Street.

  'Them as wills not, when they may,
   When they wills they shall have nay,'

said a sarcastic rival barmaid from a neighbouring public, to
whom all Norah's wrongs and all Mr. Tudor's false promises were
fully known.

Charley was not the fellow to allow himself to be put down, even
by feminine raillery; so he plucked up his spirit, sad as he was
at heart, and replied to them all _en masse_.

'Well, ladies, what's in the wind now? You seem to be very cosy
here, all of you; suppose you allow me to join you.'

'With a 'eart and a 'alf,' said Mrs. Allchops, squeezing her
corpulence up to the end of the horsehair sofa, so as to make
room for him between herself and the poetic barmaid. 'I'd sooner
have a gentleman next to me nor a lady hany day of the week; so
come and sit down, my birdie.'

But Charley, as he was about to accept the invitation of his
friend Mrs. Allchops, caught Mrs. Davis's eye, and followed her
out of the room into the passage. 'Step up to the landing, Mr.
Tudor,' said she; and Charley stepped up. 'Come in here, Mr.
Tudor--you won't mind my bedroom for once.' And Charley followed
her in, not minding her bedroom.

'Of course you know what has happened, Mr. Tudor?' said she.

'Devil a bit,' said Charley.

'Laws, now--don't you indeed? Well, that is odd.'

'How the deuce should I know? Where's Norah?'

'Why--she's at Gravesend.'

'At Gravesend--you don't mean to say she's----'

'I just do then; she's just gone and got herself spliced to
Peppermint this morning. They had the banns said these last three
Sundays; and this morning they was at St. Martin's at eight
o'clock, and has been here junketing ever since, and now they're
away to Gravesend.'

'Gravesend!' said Charley, struck by the suddenness of his
rescue, as the gambler would have been had some stranger seized
the razor at the moment when it was lifted to his throat.

'Yes, Gravesend,' said Mrs. Davis; 'and they'll come up home to
his own house by the first boat to-morrow.'

'So Norah's married!' said Charley, with a slight access of
sentimental softness in his voice.

'She's been and done it now, Mr. Tudor, and no mistake; and it's
better so, ain't it? Why, Lord love you, she'd never have done
for you, you know; and she's the very article for such a man as
Peppermint.'

There was something good-natured in this, and so Charley felt it.
As long as Mrs. Davis could do anything to assist her cousin's
views, by endeavouring to seduce or persuade her favourite lover
into a marriage, she left no stone unturned, working on her
cousin's behalf. But now, now that all those hopes were over, now
that Norah had consented to sacrifice love to prudence, why
should Mrs. Davis quarrel with an old friend any longer?--why
should not things be made pleasant to him as to the others?

'And now, Mr. Tudor, come down, and drink a glass to their
healths, and wish 'em both well, and don't mind what them women
says to you. You're well out of a mess; and now it's all over,
I'm glad it is as it is.'

Charley went down and took his glass and drank 'prosperity to the
bride and bridegroom.' The sarcastic rival barmaid said little
snappish things to him, offered him a bit of green ribbon, and
told him that if he 'minded hisself,' somebody might, perhaps,
take him yet. But Charley was proof against this.

He sat there about half an hour, and then went his way, shaking
hands with all the ladies and bowing to the gentlemen. On the
following day, as soon as he left his office, he called at the
'Cat and Whistle,' and paid his little bill there, and said his
last farewell to Mrs. Davis. He never visited the house again.
Now that Norah was gone the attractions were not powerful.
Reader, you and I will at the same time say our farewells to Mrs.
Davis, to Mr. Peppermint also, and to his bride. If thou art an
elegant reader, unaccustomed to the contamination of pipes and
glasses, I owe thee an apology in that thou hast been caused to
linger a while among things so unsavoury. But if thou art one who
of thine own will hast taken thine ease in thine inn, hast
enjoyed the freedom of a sanded parlour, hast known 'that ginger
is hot in the mouth,' and made thyself light-hearted with a yard
of clay, then thou wilt confess there are worse establishments
than the 'Cat and Whistle,' less generous landladies than Mrs.
Davis.

When all this happened the Woodwards had not been long at
Torquay. Mr. Peppermint was made a happy man before Christmas;
and therefore Charley was left to drift before the wind without
the ballast of any lady's love to keep him in sailing trim. Poor
fellow! he had had wealth on one side, beauty and love on
another, and on the third all those useful qualities which Miss
Geraghty has been described as possessing. He had been thus
surrounded by feminine attractions, and had lost them all. Two of
those, from whom he had to choose, had married others, and he was
banished from the presence of the third. Under such circumstances
what could he do but drift about the gulfs and straits of the
London ocean without compass or rudder, and bruise his timbers
against all the sunken rocks that might come in his way?

And then Norman told him of his coming marriage, and Charley was
more sad than ever. And thus matters went on with him till the
period at which our story will be resumed at the return of the
Woodwards to Hampton.

In the meantime another winter and another spring had passed over
Alaric's head, and now the full tide of the London season found
him still rising, and receiving every day more of the world's
homage. Sir Gregory Hardlines had had every reason to praise his
own judgement in selecting Mr. Tudor for the vacant seat among
the Magi.

From that moment all had gone smooth with Sir Gregory; there was
no one to interfere with his hobby, or run counter to his
opinion. Alaric was all that was conciliatory and amiable in a
colleague. He was not submissive and cringing; and had he been
so, Sir Gregory, to do him justice, would have been disgusted;
but neither was he self-opinionated nor obstinate like Mr.
Jobbles. He insisted on introducing no crotchets of his own, and
allowed Sir Gregory all the credit of the Commission.

This all went on delightfully for a while; but on one morning,
early in May, Alaric somewhat disturbed the equanimity of his
chief by communicating to him his intention of becoming a
candidate for the representation of the borough of Strathbogy, at
the next general election, which was to take place very shortly
after the close of the session. Sir Gregory was dumbfounded, and
expressed himself as incapable of believing that Tudor really
meant to throw up £1,200 a year on the mere speculation of its
being possible that he should get into Parliament. Men in
general, as Sir Gregory endeavoured to explain with much
eloquence, go into Parliament for the sake of getting places of
£1,200 a year. For what earthly reason should Alaric again be
going to the bottom of the ladder, seeing that he had already
attained a rung of such very respectable altitude? Alaric said to
himself, 'Excelsior!' To Sir Gregory he suggested that it might
be possible that he should get into Parliament without giving up
his seat at the Board. Earth and heaven, it might be hoped, would
not come together, even though so great a violence as this should
be done to the time-honoured practices of the Government. Sir
Gregory suggested that it was contrary to the constitution.
Alaric replied that the constitution had been put upon to as
great an extent before this, and had survived. Sir Gregory
regarded it as all but impossible, and declared it to be quite
unusual. Alaric rejoined that something of the same kind had been
done at the Poor Law Board. To this Sir Gregory replied, gently
pluming his feathers with conscious greatness, that at the Poor
Law Board the chief of the Commission was the Parliamentary
officer. Alaric declared that he was perfectly willing to give
way if Sir Gregory would go into the House himself. To this Sir
Gregory demurred; not feeling himself called on to change the
sphere of his utility. And so the matter was debated between
them, till at last Sir Gregory promised to consult his friend the
Chancellor of the Exchequer. The ice was thus broken, and Alaric
was quite contented with the part which he had taken in the
conversation.

With his own official prospects, in spite of the hazardous step
which he now meditated, he was quite contented. He had an idea
that in the public service of the Government, as well as in all
other services, men who were known to be worth their wages would
find employment. He was worth his wages. Men who could serve
their country well, who could adapt themselves to work, who were
practical, easy in harness, able to drive and patient to be
driven, were not, unfortunately, as plentiful as blackberries. He
began to perceive that a really useful man could not be found
miscellaneously under every hat in Pall Mall. He knew his own
value, and did not fear but that he should find a price for it in
some of the world's markets. He would not, therefore, allow
himself to be deterred from further progress by any fear that in
doing so he risked the security of his daily bread; no, not
though the risk extended to his wife; she had taken him for
better or worse; if the better came she should share it; if the
worse, why let her share that also, with such consolation as his
affection might be able to offer.

There was something noble in this courage, in this lack of
prudence. It may be a question whether men, in marrying, do not
become too prudent. A single man may risk anything, says the
world; but a man with a wife should be sure of his means. Why
so? A man and a woman are but two units. A man and a woman
with ten children are but twelve units. It is sad to see a man
starving--sad to see a woman starving--very sad to see children
starving. But how often does it come to pass that the man who will
work is seen begging his bread? we may almost say never--unless,
indeed, he be a clergyman. Let the idle man be sure of his wife's
bread before he marries her; but the working man, one would say,
may generally trust to God's goodness without fear.

With his official career Alaric was, as we have said, well contented;
in his stock-jobbing line of business he also had had moments of
great exaltation, and some moments of considerable depression.
The West Corks had vacillated. Both he and Undy had sold and bought
and sold again; and on the whole their stake in that stupendous
national line of accommodation was not so all-absorbing as it had
once been. But if money had been withdrawn from this, it had been
invested elsewhere, and the great sum borrowed from Madame
Jaquêtanàpe's fortune had been in no part replaced--one full moiety
of it had been taken--may one not say stolen?--to enable Alaric
and Undy to continue their speculations.

The undertaking to which they were now both wedded was the
Limehouse and Rotherhithe Bridge. Of this Undy was chairman, and
Alaric was a director, and at the present moment they looked for
ample fortune, or what would nearly be ample ruin, to the
decision of a committee of the House of Commons which was about
to sit with the view of making inquiry as to the necessity of the
bridge in question.

Mr. Nogo, the member for Mile End, was the parent of this
committee. He asserted that the matter was one of such vital
importance not only to the whole metropolis, but to the country
at large, that the Government were bound in the first place to
give a large subsidy towards building the bridge, and afterwards
to pay a heavy annual sum towards the amount which it would be
necessary to raise by tolls. Mr. Whip Vigil, on the other hand,
declared on the part of Government that the bridge was wholly
unnecessary; that if it were built it ought to be pulled down
again; and that not a stiver could be given out of the public
purse with such an object.

On this they joined issue. Mr. Nogo prayed for a committee, and
Mr. Vigil, having duly consulted his higher brethren in the
Government, conceded this point. It may easily be conceived how
high were now the hopes both of Undy Scott and Alaric Tudor. It
was not at all necessary for them that the bridge should ever be
built; that, probably, was out of the question; that, very
likely, neither of them regarded as a possibility. But if a
committee of the House of Commons could be got to say that it
ought to be built, they might safely calculate on selling out at
a large profit.

But who were to sit on the committee? That was now the all-momentous
question.



CHAPTER XXXII

THE PARLIAMENTARY COMMITTEE


There is a sport prevalent among the downs in Hampshire to which,
though not of a high degree, much interest is attached. Men and
boys, with social glee and happy boyish shouts, congregate
together on a hill-side, at the mouth of a narrow hole, and
proceed, with the aid of a well-trained bull-dog, to draw a
badger. If the badger be at all commendable in his class this is
by no means an easy thing to do. He is a sturdy animal, and well
fortified with sharp and practised teeth; his hide is of the
toughest; his paws of the strongest, and his dead power of
resistance so great as to give him more than an equal chance with
the bull-dog. The delighted sportsmen stand round listening to
the growls and snarls, the tearings, gnawings, and bloody
struggles of the combatants within.--'Well done, badger!--Well
done, bull-dog!--Draw him, bulldog!--Bite him, badger!' Each has
his friends, and the interest of the moment is intense. The
badger, it is true, has done no harm. He has been doing as it was
appointed for him to do, poor badger, in that hole of his. But
then, why were badgers created but to be drawn? Why, indeed, but
to be drawn, or not to be drawn, as the case may be? See! the
bull-dog returns minus an ear, with an eye hanging loose, his
nether lip torn off, and one paw bitten through and through.
Limping, dejected, beaten, glaring fearfully from his one
remaining eye, the dog comes out; and the badger within rolls
himself up with affected ease, hiding his bloody wounds from the
public eye.

So it is that the sport is played in Hampshire; and so also at
Westminster--with a difference, however. In Hampshire the two
brutes retain ever their appointed natures. The badger is always
a badger, and the bull-dog never other than a bull-dog. At
Westminster there is a juster reciprocity of position. The badger
when drawn has to take his place outside the hole, and fight
again for the home of his love; while the victorious bull-dog
assumes a state of badgerdom, dons the skin of his enemy, and, in
his turn, submits to be baited.

The pursuit is certainly full of interest, but it is somewhat
deficient in dignity.

The parliamentary committee, which was to sit with reference to
the Limehouse and Rotherhithe Bridge, had been one of the effects
of a baiting-match such as that above described. In this contest
the enemies of the proud occupier of the den on the mountain-side
had not been contented to attempt to expel him with a single
bull-dog. A whole pack had been let loose at his devoted throat.
Bull-dogs had been at him, and terriers, mastiffs, blood-hounds,
lurchers, and curs; but so accustomed was he to the contest, so
knowing in his fence, so ready with all the weapons given to him
by nature, that, in spite of the numbers and venom of his
enemies, he had contrived to hold his own. Some leading hounds
had fallen to rise no more; others had retreated, yelping to
their kennels, to lie quiet for a while, till time might give
them courage for a new attack. The country round was filled with
the noise of their plaints, and the yowling and howling of canine
defeat. The grey old badger meanwhile sat proud in his hole, with
all his badger kin around him, and laughed his well-known badger
laugh at his disconsolate foes. Such a brock had not for years
been seen in the country-side; so cool, so resolute, so knowing
in his badger ways, so impregnable in his badger hole, and so
good-humoured withal. He could bite full sore with those old
teeth of his, and yet he never condescended to show them. A
badger indeed of whom the country might well be proud!

But in the scramble of the fight some little curs had been
permitted to run away with some little bones; and, in this way,
Mr. Nogo, the member for Mile End, had been allowed to carry his
motion for a committee to inquire as to the expediency of the
Government's advancing a quarter of a million towards the
completion of that momentous national undertaking, the building
of a bridge from Limehouse to Rotherhithe.

Very much had been said about this bridge, till men living out of
the light of parliamentary life, nine hundred and ninety-nine
men, that is, out of every thousand in the Queen's dominions, had
begun to think that it was the great want of the age. Men living
in the light, the supporters of the bridge as well as its
enemies, knew very well that such an erection was quite unneeded,
and would in all probability never be made. But then the firm of
Blocks, Piles, and Cofferdam, who held a vast quantity of the
bridge shares, and who were to be the contractors for building
it, had an all-powerful influence in the borough of Limehouse.
Where would Mr. Nogo be if he did not cultivate the friendship of
such men as Blocks, Piles, and Cofferdam?

And so Mr. Nogo, and those who acted with Mr. Nogo--men, that
is, who had little jobs of their own to do, and in the doing of
which Mr. Nogo occasionally assisted, Undy Scott, for instance,
and such-like--these men, I say, had talked much about the
bridge; and gentlemen on the Treasury bench, who could have
afforded to show up the folly of the scheme, and to put Mr. Nogo
down at once, had he been alone, felt themselves under the
necessity of temporizing. As to giving a penny of the public
money for such a purpose, that they knew was out of the question;
that Mr. Nogo never expected; that they all knew Mr. Nogo never
expected. But as Mr. Nogo's numbers were so respectable, it was
necessary to oppose him in a respectable parliamentary steady
manner. He had fifteen with him! Had he been quite alone, Mr.
Vigil would have sneered him off; had he had but four to back
him, the old badger would have laughed them out of face with a
brace of grins. But fifteen--! Mr. Whip Vigil thought that the
committee would be the most safe. So would the outer world be
brought to confess that the interests of Limehouse and Poplar,
Rotherhithe and Deptford, had not been overlooked by a careful
Government.

But of whom was the committee to be made up? That was now the
question which to Mr. Nogo, in his hour of temporary greatness,
was truly momentous. He of course was to be the chairman, and to
him appertained the duty of naming the other members; of naming
them indeed--so much he could undoubtedly do by the strength of
his own privilege. But of what use to name a string of men to
whom Mr. Vigil would not consent? Mr. Nogo, did he do so, would
have to divide on every name, and be beaten at every division.
There would be no triumph in that. No; Mr. Nogo fully understood
that his triumph must be achieved--if he were destined to a
triumph--by an astute skill in his selection, not by an open
choice of friends. He must obtain a balance on his side, but one
in which the scale would lean so slightly to his side that Mr.
Vigil's eyes might be deceived. Those who knew Mr. Vigil best
were inclined to surmise that such an arrangement was somewhat
beyond Mr. Nogo's political capacity. There is a proverb which
goes to show that a certain little lively animal may be shaved if
he be caught napping; but then the difficulty of so catching him
is extreme.

Mr. Nogo, at the head of the list, put Mr. Vigil himself. This,
of course, was a necessity to him--would that he could have
dispensed with it! Then he named sundry supporters of the
Government, sundry members also of the opposition; and he filled
up the list with certain others who could not be regarded as sure
supporters of one side or the other, but with whom, for certain
reasons, he thought he might in this particular case be safe.
Undy Scott was of course not among the number, as Mr. Nogo would
only have damaged his cause by naming a man known to have a
pecuniary interest in the concern.

The member for Mile End was doubtless sharp, but Mr. Vigil was
sharper. His object was, in fact, merely to do his duty to the
country by preventing a profuse and useless expenditure of money.
His anxiety was a perfectly honest one--to save the Exchequer
namely. But the circumstances of the case required that he should
fight the battle according to the tactics of the House, and he
well understood how to do so.

When the list was read he objected to two or three names--only to
two or three. They were not those of staunch enemies of the
Government; nor did he propose in their places the names of
staunch supporters. He suggested certain gentlemen who, from
their acquaintance with bridges, tolls, rivers, &c., would, as he
said, be probably of use. He, also, was sure of his men, and as
he succeeded with two of them, he was also pretty sure of his
committee.

And then the committee met, and a lot of witnesses were in
attendance. The chairman opened his case, and proceeded to prove,
by the evidence of sundry most respectable men connected with
Limehouse, and with the portions of Surrey and Kent lying
immediately opposite to it, that the most intense desire for
friendly and commercial intercourse was felt; but that, though
absolutely close to each other, the districts were so divided by
adverse circumstances, circumstances which were monstrous
considering the advance of science in the nineteenth century,
that the dearest friends were constrained to perpetual banishment
from each other; and that the men of Kent were utterly unable to
do any trade at Limehouse, and the Limehousians equally unable to
carry on traffic in Surrey.

It was wonderful that the narrow river should be so effective for
injury. One gentleman from Poplar proved that, having given his
daughter in marriage to a man of Deptford two years since, he had
not yet been able to see her since that day. Her house, by the
crow's flight, was but seven furlongs from his own; but, as he
kept no horse, he could not get to her residence without a four
hours' walk, for which he felt himself to be too old. He was,
however, able to visit his married daughter at Reading, and be
back to tea. The witness declared that his life was made
miserable by his being thus debarred from his child, and he wiped
his eyes with his pocket-handkerchief piteously, sitting there in
front of the committee. In answer to Mr. Vigil he admitted that
there might be a ferry, but stated that he did not know. Having
had, from childhood, an aversion to the water, he had not
inquired. He was aware that some rash people had gone through the
Tunnel, but for himself he did not think the Tunnel a safe mode
of transit.

Another gentleman belonging to Rotherhithe, who was obliged to be
almost daily at Blackwall, maintained two horses for the express
purpose of going backwards and forwards, round by London Bridge.
They cost him £70 per annum each. Such a bridge as that now
proposed, and which the gentleman declared that he regarded as an
embryo monument of national glory, would save him £140 per annum.
He then proceeded to make a little speech about the spirit of the
age, and the influence of routine, which he described as a gloomy
gnome. But his oratory was cruelly cut short by Mr. Vigil, who
demanded of him whether he ever used the river steamers. The
witness shuddered fearfully as he assured the committee that he
never did, and referred to the _Cricket_, whose boilers burst
in the year 1842; besides, he had, he said, his things to carry
with him.

Another witness told how unsafe was the transit of heavy goods by
barge from one side of the river to another. He had had a cargo
of marine stores which would go to sea before their time. The
strong ebb of the tide, joined to the river current, had
positively carried the barge away, and its course had not been
stopped till it had drifted on shore at Purfleet. He acknowledged
that something had transpired of the bargemen being drunk, but he
had no knowledge himself that such had been the case. No other
cargoes of his own had been carried away, but he had heard that
such was often the case. He thought that the bridge was
imperatively demanded. Would the tolls pay? He felt sure that
they would. Why, then, should not the bridge be built as a
commercial speculation, without Government aid? He thought that
in such cases a fostering Government was bound to come forward
and show the way. He had a few shares in the bridge himself. He
had paid up £1 a share. They were now worth 2s. 6d. each. They
had been worth nothing before the committee had been ordered to
sit. He declined to give any opinion as to what the shares would
be worth if the money were granted.

Ladies at Limehouse proved that if there were a bridge they could
save 30s. a year each, by buying their tea and sugar at
Rotherhithe; and so singular are the usages of trade, that the
ladies of Rotherhithe would benefit their husbands equally, and
return the compliment, by consuming the bread of Limehouse. The
shores of Kent were pining for the beef of the opposite bank, and
only too anxious to give in return the surplus stock of their own
poultry.

'Let but a bridge be opened,' as was asserted by one animated
vendor of rope, 'and Poplar would soon rival Pimlico. Perhaps
that might not be desirable in the eyes of men who lived in the
purlieus of the Court, and who were desirous to build no new
bridge, except that over the ornamental water in St. James's
Park.' Upon uttering which the rope-vendor looked at Mr. Vigil as
though he expected him to sink at once under the table.

Mr. Blocks, of the great firm of Blocks, Piles, and Cofferdam,
then came forward. He declared that a large sum of money was
necessary before this great national undertaking could be begun
in a spirit worthy of the nineteenth century. It was intended to
commence the approaches on each side of the river a quarter of a
mile from the first abutment of the bridge, in order to acquire
the necessary altitude without a steep ascent. He then described
what a glorious bridge this bridge would be; how it would eclipse
all bridges that had ever been built; how the fleets of all
nations would ride under it; how many hundred thousand square
feet of wrought iron would be consumed in its construction; how
many tons of Portland stone in the abutments, parapets, and
supporting walls; how much timber would be buried twenty fathoms
deep in the mud of the river; how many miles of paving-stone
would be laid down. Mr. Blocks went on with his astonishing
figures till the committee were bewildered, and even Mr. Vigil,
though well used to calculations, could hardly raise his mind to
the dimensions of the proposed undertaking.

The engineer followed, and showed how easily this great work
could be accomplished. There was no difficulty, literally none.
The patronage of the Crown was all that was required. The
engineer was asked whether by the word patronage he meant money,
and after a little laughing and a few counter questions, he
admitted that, in his estimation, patronage and money did mean
the same thing.

Such was the case made out by the promoters of the bridge, and
the chairman and his party were very sanguine of success. They
conceived that Mr. Blocks' figures had completely cowed their
antagonists.

Mr. Vigil then took his case in hand, and brought forward his
witnesses. It now appeared that the intercourse between the
people living on each side of the river was immense, and ever on
the increase. Limehouse, it would seem, had nothing to do but to
go to Deptford, and that Deptford consumed all its time in
returning the visit. Little children were sent across continually
on the most trifling errands, going and coming for one halfpenny.
An immense income was made by the owners of the ferry. No two
adjacent streets in London had more to do with each other than
had the lanes of Rotherhithe and the lanes of Limehouse.
Westminster and Lambeth were further apart, and less connected by
friendly intercourse. The frequenters of the ferry were found to
outnumber the passengers over Waterloo Bridge by ten to one.

Indeed, so lamentable a proposition as this of building a bridge
across the river had never before been mooted by the public. Men
conversant with such matters gave it as their opinion that no
amount of tolls that could reasonably be expected would pay one
per cent on the money which it was proposed to expend; that sum,
however, they stated, would not more than half cover the full
cost of the bridge. Traffic would be prohibited by the heavy
charges which would be necessary, and the probability would be
that the ferry would still continue to be the ordinary mode of
crossing the river.

A gentleman, accustomed to use strong figures of speech, declared
that if such a bridge were built, the wisest course would be to
sow the surface with grass, and let it out for grazing. This
witness was taken specially in hand by Mr. Nogo, and targed very
tightly. Mr. Vigil had contrived to prove, out of the mouths of
inimical witnesses, the very reverse of that which they had been
summoned thither to assert. The secret of the ferry had been
first brought to the light by the gentleman who could not visit
his daughter at Deptford, and so on. These triumphs had evidently
been very pleasant to Mr. Vigil, and Mr. Nogo thought that he
might judiciously take a leaf out of the Treasury book. Actuated
by this ambition, he, with the assistance of his friend, the
M'Carthy Desmond, put no less than 2,250 questions to the
gentleman who suggested the grazing, in order to induce him to
say, that if there were a bridge, men would probably walk over
it. But they could not bring him to own to a single passenger,
unless they would abandon the tolls. The most that they could get
from him was, that perhaps an old woman, with more money than
wit, might go over it on a Sunday afternoon, if--which he did not
believe--any old woman existed, _in that part of the world_,
who had more money than wit.

This witness was kept in the chair for three days, during which
Mr. Vigil was nearly driven wild by the loss of his valuable
time. But he did not complain. Nor would he have complained,
though he might have absented himself, had the witness been kept
in the chair three weeks instead of three days. The expense of
the committee, including witnesses, shorthand-writers, and
printing, was about £60 a day, but it never occurred to any one
of the number to get up and declare with indignation, that such a
waste of money and time on so palpably absurd a scheme was
degrading, and to demand an immediate close of their labours. It
all went smoothly to the end, and Mr. Nogo walked off from his
task with the approving conscience of a patriotic legislator.

At the close the members met to prepare their report. It was then
the first week in August, and they were naturally in a hurry to
finish their work. It was now their duty to decide on the merits
of what they had heard, to form a judgement as to the veracity of
the witnesses, and declare, on behalf of the country which they
represented, whether or no this bridge should be built at the
expense of the nation.

With his decision each was ready enough; but not one of them
dreamed of being influenced by anything which had been said
before them. All the world--that is, all that were in any way
concerned in the matter--knew that the witnesses for the bridge
were anxious to have it built, and that the witnesses against the
bridge were anxious to prevent the building. It would be the
worst of ignorance, ignorance of the usage of the world we live
in, to suppose that any member of Parliament could be influenced
by such manoeuvres. Besides, was not the mind of each man fully
known before the committee met?

Various propositions were made by the members among themselves,
and various amendments moved. The balance of the different
parties had been nearly preserved. A decided victory was not to
be expected on either side. At last the resolution to which the
committee came was this: 'That this committee is not prepared,
under existing circumstances, to recommend a grant of public
money for the purpose of erecting a bridge at Limehouse; but that
the committee consider that the matter is still open to
consideration should further evidence be adduced.'

Mr. Vigil was perfectly satisfied. He did not wish to acerbate
the member for Mile End, and was quite willing to give him a lift
towards keeping his seat for the borough, if able to do so
without cost to the public exchequer. At Limehouse the report of
the committee was declared by certain persons to be as good as a
decision in their favour; it was only postponing the matter for
another session. But Mr. Vigil knew that he had carried his
point, and the world soon agreed with him. He at least did his
work successfully, and, considering the circumstances of his
position, he did it with credit to himself.

A huge blue volume was then published, containing, among other
things, all Mr. Nogo's 2,250 questions and their answers; and so
the Limehouse and Rotherhithe bridge dropped into oblivion and
was forgotten.



CHAPTER XXXIII

TO STAND, OR NOT TO STAND


Sir Gregory Hardlines had been somewhat startled by Alaric's
announcement of his parliamentary intentions. It not unnaturally
occurred to that great man that should Mr. Tudor succeed at
Strathbogy, and should he also succeed in being allowed to hold
his office and seat together, he, Tudor, would very soon become
first fiddle at the Civil Service Examination Board. This was a
view of the matter which was by no means agreeable to Sir
Gregory. Not for this had he devoted his time, his energy, and
the best powers of his mind to the office of which he was at
present the chief; not for this had he taken by the hand a young
clerk, and brought him forward, and pushed him up, and seated him
in high places. To have kept Mr. Jobbles would have been better
than this; he, at any rate, would not have aspired to parliamentary
honours.

And when Sir Gregory came to look into it, he hardly knew whether
those bugbears with which he had tried to frighten Tudor were
good serviceable bugbears, such as would stand the strain of such
a man's logic and reason. Was there really any reason why one of
the commissioners should not sit in Parliament? Would his doing
so be subversive of the constitution? Or would the ministers of
the day object to an additional certain vote? This last point of
view was one in which it did not at all delight Sir Gregory to
look at the subject in question. He determined that he would not
speak on the matter to the Chancellor of the Exchequer, or to any
of the Government wigs who might be considered to be bigger wigs
than himself.

And Alaric thought over the matter coolly also. He looked at it
till the bugbears shrank into utter insignificance; till they
became no more than forms of shreds and patches put up to
frighten birds out of cherry-orchards.

Why should the constitution be wounded by the presence of one
more commissioner in Parliament? Why should not he do his public
duty and hold his seat at the same time, as was done by so many
others? But he would have to go out if the ministry went out.
That was another difficulty, another bugbear, more substantial
perhaps than the others; but he was prepared to meet even that.
He was a poor man; his profession was that of the Civil Service;
his ambition was to sit in Parliament. He would see whether he
could not combine his poverty with his profession, and with his
ambition also. Sir Gregory resolved in his fear that he would not
speak to the Chancellor of the Exchequer on the matter; Alaric,
on the other hand, in his audacity, resolved that he would do so.

It was thus that Sir Gregory regarded the matter. 'See all that I
have done for this man,' said he to himself; 'see how I have
warmed him in my bosom, how I have lifted him to fortune and
renown, how I have heaped benefits on his head! If gratitude in
this world be possible, that man should be grateful to me; if one
man can ever have another's interest at heart, that man should
have a heartfelt anxiety as to my interest. And yet how is it? I
have placed him in the chair next to my own, and now he is
desirous of sitting above me!'

'Twas thus Sir Gregory communed with himself. But Alaric's
soliloquy was very different. A listener who could have overheard
both would hardly have thought that the same question was being
discussed by the two. 'I have got so high,' said Alaric, 'by my
own labour, by my own skill and tact; and why should I stop here?
I have left my earliest colleagues far behind me; have distanced
those who were my competitors in the walk of life; why should I
not still go on and distance others also? why stop when I am only
second or third? It is very natural that Sir Gregory should wish
to keep me out of Parliament; I cannot in the least blame him;
let us all fight as best each may for himself. He does not wish a
higher career; I do. Sir Gregory will now do all that he can to
impede my views, because they are antagonistic to his own; very
well; I must only work the harder to overcome his objections.'
There was no word in all this of gratitude; there was no thought
in Alaric's mind that it behoved him to be grateful to Sir
Gregory. It was for his own sake, not for his pupil's, that Sir
Gregory had brought this pupil forward. Grateful, indeed! In
public life when is there time for gratitude? Who ever thinks of
other interest than his own?

Such was Alaric's theory of life. But not the less would he have
expected gratitude from those whom he might serve. Such also very
probably was Sir Gregory's theory when he thought of those who
had helped him, instead of those whom he himself had helped.

And so they met, and discussed Alaric's little proposition.

'Since I saw you yesterday,' said Sir Gregory, 'I have been
thinking much of what you were saying to me of your wish to go
into Parliament.'

'I am very much obliged to you,' said Alaric.

'I need hardly tell you, Tudor, how anxious I am to further your
advancement. I greatly value your ability and diligence, and have
shown that I am anxious to make them serviceable to the public.'

'I am fully aware that I owe you a great deal, Sir Gregory.'

'Oh, I don't mean that; that's nothing; I am not thinking of
myself. I only want you to understand that I am truly anxious to
see you take that line in public matters which may make your
services most valuable to the public, and which may redound the
most to your own advantage. I have thought of what you said to me
with the most mature deliberation, and I am persuaded that I
shall best do my duty to you, and to the service, by recommending
you to abandon altogether your idea of going into Parliament.'

Sir Gregory said this in his weightiest manner. He endeavoured to
assume some of that authority with which he had erst cowed the
young Tudor at the Weights and Measures, and as he finished his
speech he assumed a profound look which ought to have been very
convincing.

But the time was gone by with Alaric when such tricks of
legerdemain were convincing to him. A grave brow, compressed
lips, and fixed eyes, had no longer much effect upon him. He had
a point to gain, and he was thinking of that, and not of Sir
Gregory's grimaces.

'Then you will not see the Chancellor of the Exchequer on the
subject?'

'No,' said Sir Gregory; 'it would be useless for me to do so. I
could not advocate such a scheme, feeling certain that it would be
injurious both to yourself and to the service; and I would not
desire to see the Chancellor with the view of opposing your wishes.'

'I am much obliged to you for that, at any rate,' said Alaric.

'But I do hope that you will not carry your plan any farther.
When I tell you, as I do with the utmost sincerity, that I feel
certain that an attempt to seat yourself in Parliament can only
lead to the ruin of your prospects as a Civil servant--prospects
which are brighter now than those of any other young man in the
service--I cannot but think that you must hesitate before you
take any step which will, in my opinion, render your resignation
necessary.'

'I shall be sorry to resign, Sir Gregory, as I have such true
pleasure in serving with you.'

'And, I presume, a salary of £1,200 a year is not unacceptable?'
said Sir Gregory, with the very faintest of smiles.

'By no means,' said Alaric; 'I am a poor man, depending
altogether on my own exertions for an income. I cannot afford to
throw away a chance.'

'Then take my word for it, you should give up all idea of
Parliament,' said Sir Gregory, who thought that he had carried
his point.

'But I call a seat in Parliament a chance,' said Alaric; 'the
best chance that a man, circumstanced as I am, can possibly have.
I have the offer of a seat, Sir Gregory, and I can't afford to
throw it away.'

'Then it is my duty to tell you, as the head of your office, that
it will be your duty to resign before you offer yourself as a
candidate.'

'That you mean is your present opinion, Sir Gregory?'

'Yes, Mr. Tudor, that is my opinion--an opinion which I shall be
forced to express to the Chancellor of the Exchequer, if you
persist in this infatuation.'

Alaric looked very grave, but not a whit angry. 'I am sorry for
it, Sir Gregory, very sorry; I had hoped to have had your
countenance.'

'I would give it you, Mr. Tudor, if I could consistently with my
duty as a public servant; but as I cannot, I am sure you will not
ask for it.' How Fidus Neverbend would have admired the chief
commissioner could he have seen and heard him at this moment!
'But,' he continued, relaxing for a while the muscles of his
face, 'I hope, I do hope, you will think better of this. What are
you to gain? Come, Tudor, think of it that way. What are you to
gain? You, with a wife and young family coming up about your
heels, what are you to gain by going into Parliament? That is
what I ask you. What are you to gain?' It was delightful to see
how pleasantly practical Sir Gregory could become when he chose
to dismount from his high horse.

'It is considered a high position in this country, that of a
member of Parliament,' said Alaric. 'A man in gaining that is
generally supposed to have gained something.'

'True, quite true. It is a desirable position for a rich man, or
a rich man's eldest son, or even for a poor man, if by getting
into Parliament he can put himself in the way of improving his
income. But, my dear Tudor, you are in none of these positions.
Abandon the idea, my dear Tudor--pray abandon it. If not for your
own sake, at any rate do so for that of your wife and child.'

Sir Gregory might as well have whistled. Not a word that he said
had the slightest effect on Alaric. How was it possible that his
words should have any effect, seeing that Alaric was convinced
that Sir Gregory was pleading for his own advantage, and not for
that of his listener? Alaric did listen. He received all that Sir
Gregory said with the most profound attention; schooled his face
into a look of the most polite deference; and then, with his most
cruel tone, informed Sir Gregory that his mind was quite made up,
and that he did intend to submit himself to the electors of
Strathbogy.

'And as to what you say about my seat at the board, Sir Gregory,
you may probably be right. Perhaps it will be as well that I
should see the Chancellor of the Exchequer myself.'

'"Who will to Cupar maun to Cupar,"' said Sir Gregory; 'I can
only say, Mr. Tudor, that I am very sorry for you, and very sorry
for your wife--very sorry, very sorry indeed.'

'And who will to Strathbogy maun to Strathbogy,' said Alaric,
laughing; 'there is certainly an air of truth about the proverb
as applied to myself just at present. But the fact is, whether
for good or for bad, I maun to Strathbogy. That is my present
destiny. The fact that I have a wife and a child does make the
step a most momentous one. But, Sir Gregory, I should never
forgive myself were I to throw away such an opportunity.'

'Then I have nothing more to say, Mr. Tudor.'

'Of course I shall try to save my place,' continued Alaric.

'I look upon that as quite impossible,' said Sir Gregory.

'It can do me no harm at any rate to see the Chancellor of the
Exchequer. If he tells me that a seat in Parliament and a seat at
the board are incompatible, and that as one of the Civil Service
Commissioners I am not free to stand for the borough, I will in
that case, Sir Gregory, put my resignation in your hands before I
publish my address.'

And so they parted, each determined to do all that in him lay to
thwart the wishes of the other. Alaric was not in the least
influenced by anything that Sir Gregory had said to him; he had
made up his mind, and was determined to be turned from it by no
arguments that his colleague could use; but nevertheless he could
not but be meditative, as, walking home across the Parks, he
thought of his wife and child. It is true that he had a second
trade; he was a stock-jobber as well as a Civil Service
Commissioner; but he already perceived how very difficult it was
to realize an income to which he could trust from that second
precarious pursuit. He had also lived in a style considerably
beyond that which his official income would have enabled him to
assume. He had on the whole, he thought, done very well; but yet
it would be a dreadful thing to have to trust to so precarious a
livelihood. He had realized nothing; he had not yet been able to
pay back the money which he had so fraudulently taken, and to
acquit himself of a debt which now lay daily heavier and heavier
on his soul. He felt that he must repay not only that but Undy's
share also, before he could again pass a happy day or a quiet
night. This plan of throwing up £1,200 a year would badly assist
him in getting rid of this incubus.

But still that watchword of his goaded him on--'Excelsior!' he
still said to himself; 'Excelsior!' If he halted now, now when
the ball was at his foot, he might never have another chance.
Very early in life before a beard was on his chin, before he
could style himself a man according to the laws of his country,
he had determined within himself that a seat in Parliament was
the only fitting ambition for an Englishman. That was now within
his reach. Would he be such a dastard as to draw back his hand,
and be deterred from taking it, by old women's tales of prudence,
and the self-interested lectures of Sir Gregory Hardlines?

'Excelsior!' There was not much that could be so styled in that
debt of his to M. and Madame Jaquêtanàpe. If he could only pay
that off he felt that he could brave the world without a fear.
Come what come might he would sell out and do so. The bridge
committee was sitting, and his shares were already worth more
than he had paid for them. Mr. Blocks had just given his
evidence, and the commercial world was willing enough to invest
in the Limehouse bridge. He would sell out and put his conscience
at rest.

But then to do so successfully, he must induce Undy to do so too;
and that he knew would not at present be an easy task. Who had
ever been successful in getting back money from Undy Scott? He
had paid the last half-year's interest with most commendable
punctuality, and was not that a great deal from Undy Scott?

But what if this appropriation of another's money, what if this
fraud should be detected and exposed before he had succeeded in
paying back the £10,000. What if he should wake some morning and
find himself in the grip of some Newgate myrmidon? A terrible new
law had just been passed for the protection of trust property; a
law in which he had not felt the slightest interest when he had
first seen in the daily newspapers some tedious account of the
passing of the various clauses, but which was now terrible to his
innermost thoughts.

His walk across the Parks was not made happy by much self-triumph.
In spite of his commissionership and coming parliamentary honours,
his solitary moments were seldom very happy. It was at his club,
when living with Undy and Undy's peers, that he was best able
to throw off his cares and enjoy himself. But even then, high
as he was mounted on his fast-trotting horse, black Care would
sit behind him, ever mounted on the same steed.

And bitterly did poor Gertrude feel the misery of these evenings
which her husband passed at his club; but she never reviled him
or complained; she never spoke of her sorrow even to her mother
or sister. She did not even blame him in her own heart. She knew
that he had other business than that of his office, higher hopes
than those attached to his board; and she taught herself to
believe that his career required him to be among public men.

He had endeavoured to induce her to associate constantly with
Mrs. Val, so that her evenings might not be passed alone; but
Gertrude, after trying Mrs. Val for a time, had quietly
repudiated the closeness of this alliance. Mrs. Val had her ideas
of 'Excelsior,' her ambition to rule, and these ideas and this
ambition did not at all suit Gertrude's temper. Not even for her
husband's sake could she bring herself to be patronized by Mrs.
Val. They were still very dear friends, of course; but they did
not live in each other's arms as Alaric had intended they should
do.

He returned home after his interview with Sir Gregory, and found
his wife in the drawing-room with her child. He usually went down
from his office to his club, and she was therefore the more ready
to welcome him for having broken through his habit on the present
occasion.

She left her infant sprawling on the floor, and came up to greet
him with a kiss.

'Ger,'--said he, putting his arm round her and embracing her--'I
have come home to consult you on business;' and then he seated
himself on the sofa, taking her with him, and still in his arms.
There was but little doubt that she would consent to anything
which he could propose to her after such a fashion, in such a
guise as this; that he knew full well.

'Well, love,' said she, 'and what is the business about? You know
that I always think that to be best which you think to be best.'

'Yes, Ger; but this is a very important matter;' and then he
looked grave, but managed at the same time to look happy and
contented. 'This is a matter of vital importance to you, and I
will do nothing in it without your consent.'

'What is best for you must be best for me,' said Gertrude,
kissing his forehead.

Then he explained to her what had passed between himself and Sir
Gregory, and what his own ideas were as regarded the borough of
Strathbogy. 'Sir Gregory,' said he, 'is determined that I shall
not remain at the board and sit in Parliament at the same time;
but I do not see why Sir Gregory is to have his own way in
everything. If you are not afraid of the risk, I will make up my
mind to stand it at all events, and to resign if the Minister
makes it imperative. If, however, you fear the result, I will let
the matter drop, and tell the Scotts to find another candidate. I
am anxious to go into Parliament, I confess; but I will never do
so at the expense of your peace of mind.'

The way in which he put upon her the whole weight of the decision
was not generous. Nor was the mode he adopted of inducing her to
back his own wishes. If there were risk to her--and in truth
there was fearful risk--it was his duty to guard her from the
chance, not hers to say whether such danger should be encountered
or no. The nature of her answer may be easily surmised. She was
generous, though he was not. She would never retard his advance,
or be felt as a millstone round his neck. She encouraged him with
all her enthusiasm, and bade him throw prudence to the winds. If
he rose, must she not rise also? Whatever step in life was good
for him, must it not be good for her as well? And so that matter
was settled between them--pleasantly enough.

He endured a fortnight of considerable excitement, during which
he and Sir Gregory did not smile at each other, and then he saw
the Chancellor of the Exchequer. That gentleman promised to speak
to the Prime Minister, feeling himself unable to answer the
question put to him, definitely out of his own head; and then
another fortnight passed on. At the end of that time the
Chancellor of the Exchequer sent for Alaric, and they had a
second interview.

'Well, Mr. Tudor,' said the great man, 'this is a matter of very
considerable importance, and one on which I am not even yet
prepared to give you a positive answer.'

This was very good news for Alaric. Sir Gregory had spoken of the
matter as one on which there could be no possible doubt. He had
asserted that the British lion would no longer sleep peaceably in
his lair, if such a violence were put on the constitution as that
meditated by the young commissioner. It was quite clear that the
Chancellor of the Exchequer, and the Prime Minister also, looked
at it in a very different light. They doubted, and Alaric was
well aware that their doubt was as good as certainty to him.

The truth was that the Prime Minister had said to the Chancellor
of the Exchequer, in a half-serious, half-jocular way, that he
didn't see why he should reject a vote when offered to him by
a member of the Civil Service. The man must of course do his
work--and should it be found that his office work and his seat
in Parliament interfered with each other, why, he must take the
consequences. And if--or--or--made a row about it in the House
and complained, why in that case also Mr. Tudor must take the
consequences. And then, enough having been said on that matter,
the conversation dropped.

'I am not prepared to give a positive answer,' said the
Chancellor of the Exchequer, who of course did not choose to
commit himself.

Alaric assured the great man that he was not so unreasonable as
to expect a positive answer. Positive answers, as he well knew,
were not often forthcoming among official men; official men, as
he had already learnt, prefer to do their business by answers
which are not positive. He himself had become adverse to positive
answers since he had become a commissioner, and was quite
prepared to dispense with them in the parliamentary career which
he hoped that he was now about to commence. This much, however,
was quite clear, that he might offer himself as a candidate to
the electors of Strathbogy without resigning; and that Sir
Gregory's hostile remonstrance on the subject, should he choose
to make one, would not be received as absolute law by the greater
powers.

Accordingly as Alaric was elated, Sir Gregory was depressed. He
had risen high, but now this young tyro whom he had fostered was
about to climb above his head. O the ingratitude of men!

Alaric, however, showed no triumph. He was more submissive, more
gracious than ever to his chief. It was only to himself that he
muttered 'Excelsior!



CHAPTER XXXIV

WESTMINSTER HALL


The parliamentary committee pursued their animated inquiries
respecting the Limehouse bridge all through the sultry month of
July. How Mr. Vigil must have hated Mr. Nogo, and the M'Carthy
Desmond! how sick he must have been of that eternal witness who,
with imperturbable effrontery, answered the 2,250 questions put
to him without admitting anything! To Mr. Vigil it was all mere
nonsense, sheer waste of time. Had he been condemned to sit for
eight days in close contiguity to the clappers of a small mill,
he would have learnt as much as he did from the witnesses before
the committee. Nevertheless he went through it and did not lose
his temper. He smiled sweetly on Mr. Nogo every morning, and
greeted the titled Irishman with his easy familiar nod, as though
the continued sitting of this very committee was of all things to
him the most desirable. Such is Mr. Vigil's peculiar tact, such
his special talent; these are the gifts--gifts by no means
ordinary--which have made him Right Honourable, and recommended
him to the confidence of successive badgers.

But though the committee was uninteresting to Mr. Vigil, it was
not so to the speculative inhabitants of Limehouse, or to the
credulous shopkeepers of Rotherhithe. On the evening of the day
on which Mr. Blocks was examined, the shares went up 20 per cent;
and when his evidence was published _in extenso_ the next
Saturday morning by the _Capel Court Share-buyer_, a periodical
which served for Bible and Prayer-book, as well as a Compendium
of the Whole Duty of Man, to Undy Scott and his friends, a further rise
in the price of this now valuable property was the immediate
consequence.

Now, then, was the time for Alaric to sell and get out of his
difficulties if ever he could do so. Shares which he bought for
30s. were now worth nearly £2 10s. He was strongly of opinion
that they would fall again, and that the final result of the
committee would leave them of a less value than their original
purchase-money, and probably altogether valueless. He could not,
however, act in the matter without consulting Undy, so closely
linked were they in the speculation; and even at the present
price his own shares would not enable him to pay back the full
amount of what he had taken.

The joint property of the two was, however, at its present market
price, worth £12,000--£10,000 would make him a free man. He was
perfectly willing to let Undy have the full use of the difference
in amount; nay, he was ready enough to give it to him altogether,
if by so doing he could place the whole of his ward's money once
more in safety. With the power of offering such a douceur to his
friend's rapacity, he flattered himself that he might have a
chance of being successful. He was thus prepared to discuss the
matter with his partner.

It so happened that at the same moment Undy was desirous of
discussing the same subject, their joint interest, namely, in the
Limehouse bridge; there was no difficulty therefore in their
coming together. They met at the door of the committee-room when
Mr. Nogo had just put his 999th question to the adverse witness;
and as the summons to prayers prevented the 1,000th being
proceeded with at that moment, Undy and Alaric sauntered back
along the passages, and then walking up and down the immense
space of Westminster Hall, said each to the other what he had to
say on the matter mooted between them.

Undy was in great glee, and seemed to look on his fortune as
already made. They had at first confined their remarks to the
special evidence of the witness who had last been in the chair;
and Undy, with the volubility which was common to him when he was
in high spirits, had been denouncing him as an ass who was
injuring his own cause by his over obstinacy.

'Nothing that he can say,' said Undy, 'will tell upon the
share-market. The stock is rising from hour to hour; and Piles
himself told me that he knew from sure intelligence that the
Chancellor of the Exchequer is prepared to give way, whatever
Vigil may say to the contrary. Their firm, Piles says, is buying
every share they can lay their hands on.'

'Then in God's name let them buy ours,' said Alaric.

'Buy ours!' said Undy. 'You don't mean to tell me that you wish
to sell now? You don't mean to say that you want to back out, now
that the game is all going our own way?'

'Indeed I do, and I intend to do so; just listen to me, Undy----'

'I tell you fairly, Tudor, I will not sell a share; what you may
choose to do with your own I cannot say. But if you will be
guided by me you will keep every share you have got. Instead of
selling we should both add to our stock. I at any rate am
resolved to do so.'

'Listen to me, Undy,' said Alaric.

'The truth is,' said Undy--who at the present moment preferred
talking to listening--'the truth is, you do not understand buying
and selling shares. We should both be ruined very quickly were I
to allow myself to be led by you; you are too timid, too much
afraid of risking your money; your speculative pluck hardly rises
higher than the Three per cents, and never soars above a first-class
mortgage on land.'

'I could be as sanguine as you are, and as bold,' said Alaric,
'were I venturing with my own money.'

'In the name of goodness get that bugbear out of your head,' said
Undy. 'Whatever good it might have done you to think of that some
time ago, it can do you no good now.' There was a bitter truth in
this which made Alaric's heart sink low within his breast.
'Wherever the money came from, whose property it may have been or
be, it has been used; and now your only safety is in making the
best use of it. A little daring, a little audacity--it is that
which ruins men. When you sit down to play brag, you must brag it
out, or lose your money.'

'But, my dear fellow, there is no question here of losing money.
If we sell now we shall realize about £2,000.'

'And will that, or the half of that, satisfy you? Is that your
idea of a good thing? Will that be sufficient to pay for the
dozen of bad things which a fellow is always putting his foot
into? It won't satisfy me. I can tell you that, at any rate.'

Alaric felt very desirous of keeping Undy in a good humour. He
wished, if possible, to persuade him rather than to drive him; to
coax him into repaying this money, and not absolutely to demand
the repayment. 'Come,' said he, 'what do you call a good thing
yourself?'

'I call cent per cent a good thing, and I'll not sell a share
till they come up to that.'

'They'll never do that, Undy.'

'That's your opinion. I think differently. And I'm sure you will
own I have had more experience of the share-market than you have.
When I see such men as Blocks and Piles buying fast, I know very
well which way the wind blows. A man may be fishing a long time,
Tudor, in these waters, before he gets such a haul as this; but
he must be a great fool to let go his net when he does get it.'

They both then remained silent for a time, for each was doubtful
how best to put forward the view which he himself wished to urge.
Their projects were diametrically different, and yet neither
could carry his own without the assistance of the other.

'I tell you what I propose,' said Undy.

'Wait a moment, Undy,' said Alaric; 'listen to me for one moment.
I can hear nothing till you do so, and then I will hear
anything.'

'Well, what is it?'

We have each of us put something near to £5,000 into this
venture.'

'I have put more,' said Scott.

'Very well. But we have each of us withdrawn a sum equal to that
I have named from my ward's fortune for this purpose.'

'I deny that,' said Undy. 'I have taken nothing from your ward's
fortune. I have had no power to do so. You have done as you
pleased with that fortune. But I am ready to admit that I have
borrowed £5,000--not from your ward, but from you.'

Alaric was nearly beside himself; but he still felt that he
should have no chance of carrying his point if he lost his
temper.

'That is ungenerous of you, Scott, to say the least of it; but
we'll let that pass. To enable me to lend you the £5,000, and to
enable me to join you in this speculation, £10,000 has been
withdrawn from Clementina's fortune.'

'I know nothing about that,' said Scott.

'Know nothing about it!' said Alaric, looking at him with
withering scorn. But Undy was not made of withering material, and
did not care a straw for his friend's scorn.

'Nothing whatever,' said he.

'Well, so be it,' said Alaric; 'but the fact is, the money has
been withdrawn.'

'I don't doubt that in the least,' said Undy. 'I am not now going
to argue whether the fault has been most mine or yours,'
continued Alaric.

'Well, that is kind of you,' said Undy, 'considering that you are
the girl's trustee, and that I have no more to do with it than
that fellow in the wig there.'

'I wish at any rate you would let me explain myself,' said
Alaric, who felt that his patience was fast going, and who could
hardly resist the temptation of seizing his companion by the
throat, and punishing him on the spot for his iniquity.

'I don't prevent you, my dear fellow--only remember this: I will
not permit you to assert, without contradicting you, that I am
responsible for Clem's fortune. Now, go on, and explain away as
hard as you like.'

Alaric, under these circumstances, found it not very easy to put
what he had to say into any words that his companion would admit.
He fully intended at some future day to thrust Scott's innocence
down his throat, and tell him that he was not only a thief, but a
mean, lying, beggarly thief. But the present was not the time.
Too much depended on his inducing Undy to act with him.

'Ten thousand pounds has at any rate been taken.'

'That I won't deny.'

'And half that sum has been lent to you.'

'I acknowledge a debt of £5,000.'

'It is imperative that £10,000 should at once be repaid.'

'I have no objection in life.'

'I can sell my shares in the Limehouse bridge,' continued Alaric,
'for £6,000, and I am prepared to do so.'

'The more fool you,' said Undy,' if you do it; especially as
£6,000 won't pay £10,000, and as the same property, if overheld
another month or two, in all probability will do so.'

'I am ready to sacrifice that and more than that,' said Alaric.
'If you will sell out £4,000, and let me at once have that
amount, so as to make up the full sum I owe, I will make you a
free present of the remainder of the debt. Come, Undy, you cannot
but call that a good thing. You will have pocketed two thousand
pounds, according to the present market value of the shares, and
that without the slightest risk.'

Undy for a while seemed staggered by the offer. Whether it was
Alaric's extreme simplicity in making it, or his own good luck in
receiving it, or whether by any possible chance some all but
dormant remnant of feeling within his heart was touched, we will
not pretend to say. But for a while he walked on silent, as
though wavering in his resolution, and looking as if he wished to
be somewhat more civil, somewhat less of the bully, than he had
been.

There was no one else to whom Alaric could dare to open his heart
on this subject of his ward's fortune; there was none other but
this ally of his to whom he could confide, whom he could consult.
Unpromising, therefore, though Undy was as a confederate, Alaric,
when he thought he saw this change in his manner, poured forth at
once the full tide of his feelings.

'Undy,' said he, 'pray bear with me a while. The truth is, I
cannot endure this misery any longer. I do not now want to blame
anyone but myself. The thing has been done, and it is useless now
to talk of blame. The thing has been done, and all that now
remains for me is to undo it; to put this girl's money back
again, and get this horrid weight from off my breast.'

'Upon my word, my dear fellow, I did not think that you took it
in such a light as that,' said Undy.

'I am miserable about it,' said Alaric. 'It keeps me awake all
night, and destroys all my energy during the day.'

'Oh, that's all bile,' said Undy. 'You should give up fish for a
few days, and take a blue pill at night.'

'Scott, this money must be paid back at once, or I shall lose my
senses. Fortune has so far favoured me as to enable me to put my
hand at once on the larger portion of it. You must let me have
the remainder. In God's name say that you will do so.'

Undy Scott unfortunately had not the power to do as he was asked.
Whether he would have done so, had he had the power, may be
doubtful. He was somewhat gravelled for an answer to Alaric's
earnest supplication, and therefore made none till the request
was repeated.

'In God's name let me have this money,' repeated Alaric. 'You
will then have made two thousand pounds by the transaction.'

'My dear Tudor,' said he, 'your stomach is out of order, I can
see it as well as possible from the way you talk.'

Here was an answer for a man to get to the most earnest appeal
which he could make! Here was comfort for a wretch suffering from
fear, remorse, and shame, as Alaric was suffering. He had spoken
of his feelings and his heart, but these were regions quite out
of Undy Scott's cognizance. 'Take a blue pill,' said he, 'and
you'll be as right as a trivet in a couple of days.'

What was Alaric to say? What could he say to a man who at such a
crisis could talk to him of blue pills? For a while he said
nothing; but the form of his face changed, a darkness came over
his brow which Scott had never before seen there, the colour flew
from his face, his eyes sparkled, and a strange appearance of
resolute defiance showed itself round his mouth. Scott began to
perceive that his medical advice would not be taken in good part.

'Scott,' said he, stopping short in his walk and taking hold of
the collar of his companion's coat, not loosely by the button,
but with a firm grip which Undy felt that it would be difficult
to shake off--'Scott, you will find that I am not to be trifled
with. You have made a villain of me. I can see no way to escape
from my ruin without your aid; but by the living God, if I fall,
you shall fall with me. Tell me now; will you let me have the sum
I demand? If you do not, I will go to your brother's wife and
tell her what has become of her daughter's money.'

'You may go to the devil's wife if you like it,' said Undy, 'and
tell her whatever you please.'

'You refuse, then?' said Alaric, still keeping hold of Undy's
coat.

'Come, take your hand off,' said Undy. 'You will make me think
your head is wrong as well as your stomach, if you go on like
this. Take your hand off and listen to me. I will then explain to
you why I cannot do what you would have me. Take your hand away,
I say; do you not see that people are looking at us.'

They were now standing at the upper end of the hall--close under
the steps which lead to the Houses of Parliament; and, as Undy
said, the place was too public for a display of physical
resentment. Alaric took his hand away. 'Well,' said he, 'now tell
me what is to hinder you from letting me have the money you owe
me?'

'Only this,' said Undy, 'that every share I have in the concern
is made over by way of security to old M'Cleury, and he now holds
them. Till I have redeemed them, I have no power of selling.'

Alaric, when he heard these words, could hardly prevent himself
from falling in the middle of the hall. All his hopes were then
over; he had no chance of shaking this intolerable burden from
his shoulders; he had taken the woman's money, this money which
had been entrusted to his honour and safe-keeping, and thrown it
into a bottomless gulf.

'And now listen to me,' said Undy, looking at his watch. 'I must
be in the House in ten or fifteen minutes, for this bill about
married women is on, and I am interested in it: listen to me now
for five minutes. All this that you have been saying is sheer
nonsense.'

'I think you'll find that it is not all nonsense,' said Alaric.

'Oh, I am not in the least afraid of your doing anything rash.
You'll be cautious enough I know when you come to be cool;
especially if you take a little physic. What I want to say is
this--Clem's money is safe enough. I tell you these bridge shares
will go on rising till the beginning of next session. Instead of
selling, what we should do is to buy up six or seven thousand
pounds more.'

'What, with Clementina's money?'

'It's as well to be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Besides, your
doing so is your only safety. My brother Val insists upon having
250 shares.'

'Your brother Val!' said Alaric.

'Yes, Val; and why shouldn't he? I would give them to him if I
could, but I can't. M'Cleury, as I tell you, has every share of
mine in his possession.'

'Your brother Val wants 250 shares! And does he expect me to give
them to him?'

'Well--I rather think he does. That is, not to give them, of
course; you don't suppose he wants you to make him a present of
money. But he wants you to accommodate him with the price of
them. You can either do that, or let him have so many of your
own; it will be as broad as it is long; and he'll give you his
note of hand for the amount.'

Now it was well known among the acquaintance of the Scott family,
that the note of hand of the Honourable Captain Val was not worth
the paper on which it was written.

Alaric was so astonished at this monstrous request, coming as it
did after such a conversation, that he did not well know how to
take it.

Was Undy mad, or was he in joke? What man in his senses would
think of lending six or seven hundred pounds to Val Scott! 'I
suppose you are in jest,' said he, somewhat bitterly.

'I never was more in earnest in my life,' said Undy. 'I'll just
explain how the matter is; and as you are sharp enough, you'll
see at once that you had better oblige him. Val, you know, is
always hard up; he can't touch a shilling of that woman's money,
and just at present he has none of his own. So he came to me this
morning to raise the wind.'

'And you are kind enough to pass him on to me.'

'Listen a moment. I did not do anything of the kind. I never lend
money to Val. It's a principle with me not to do so, and he knows
it.'

'Then just tell him that my principles in this respect are
identical with your own.'

'That's all very well; and you may tell him so yourself, if you
like it; but hear first of all what his arguments are. Of course
I told him I could do nothing for him. 'But,' said he, 'you can
get Tudor to do it.' I told him, of course, that I could do
nothing of the kind. 'Oh!' said Val, 'I know the game you are
both playing. I know all about Clem's money.' Val, you know,
never says much. He was playing pool at the time, at the club;
but he came back after his stroke, and whispered to me--'You and
Tudor must let me have 250 of those shares, and then it'll be all
right.' Now Val, you know, is a most determined fellow.

Alaric, when he heard this, looked up into his companion's face
to see whether he was talking to the Evil One himself. Oh, what a
net of ruin was closing round him!--how inextricable were the
toils into which he had fallen!

'After all,' continued Undy,' what he asks is not much, and I
really think you should do it for him. He is quite willing to
give you his assistance at Strathbogy, and he is entitled to some
accommodation.'

'Some accommodation!' repeated Alaric, almost lost in the
consideration of his own misery.

'Yes; I really think he is. And, Tudor, you may be sure of this,
you know; you will be quite safe with him. Val is the very soul
of honour. Do this for him, and you'll hear no more about it. You
may be quite sure he'll ask for nothing further, and that he'll
never say a word to annoy you. He's devilish honourable is Val;
no man can be more so; though, perhaps, you wouldn't think it.'

'Devilish honourable!' said Alaric. 'Only he would like to have a
bribe.'

'A bribe!' said Scott. 'Come, my dear fellow, don't you make an
ass of yourself. Val is like the rest of us; when money is going,
he likes to have a share of it. If you come to that, every man
who is paid either for talking or for not talking is bribed.'

'I don't know that I ever heard of a much clearer case of a bribe
than this which you now demand for your brother.'

'Bribe or no bribe,' said Undy, looking at his watch, 'I strongly
advise you to do for him what he asks; it will be better for all
of us. And let me give you another piece of advice: never use
hard words among friends. Do you remember the Mary Janes which
Manylodes brought for you in his pocket to the hotel at
Tavistock?' Here Alaric turned as pale as a spectre. 'Don't talk
of bribes, my dear fellow. We are all of us giving and taking
bribes from our cradles to our graves; but men of the world
generally call them by some prettier names. Now, if you are not
desirous to throw your cards up altogether, get these shares for
Val, and let him or me have them to-morrow morning.' And so
saying Undy disappeared into the House, through the side door out
of the hall, which is appropriated to the use of honourable
members.

And then Alaric was left alone. He had never hitherto realized
the true facts of the position in which he had placed himself;
but now he did so. He was in the hands of these men, these
miscreants, these devils; he was completely at their mercy, and
he already felt that they were as devoid of mercy as they were of
justice. A cold sweat broke out all over him, and he continued
walking up and down the hall, ignorant as to where he was and
what he was doing, almost thoughtless, stunned, as it were, by
his misery and the conviction that he was a ruined man. He had
remained there an hour after Undy had left him, before he roused
himself sufficiently to leave the hall and think of returning
home. It was then seven o'clock, and he remembered that he had
asked his cousin to dine with him. He got into a cab, therefore,
and desired to be driven home.

What was he to do? On one point he instantly made up his mind. He
would not give one shilling to Captain Val; he would not advance
another shilling to Undy; and he would at once sell out his own
shares, and make such immediate restitution as might now be in
his power. The mention of Manylodes and the mining shares had
come home to him with frightful reality, and nearly stunned him.
What right, indeed, had he to talk of bribes with scorn--he who
so early in his own life had allowed himself to be bought? How
could he condemn the itching palm of such a one as Val Scott--he
who had been so ready to open his own when he had been tempted by
no want, by no poverty?

He would give nothing to Captain Val to bribe him to silence. He
knew that if he did so, he would be a slave for ever. The
appetite of such a shark as that, when once he has tasted blood,
is unappeasable. There is nothing so ruinous as buying the
silence of a rogue who has a secret.

What you buy you never possess; and the price that is once paid
must be repaid again and again, as often as the rogue may demand
it. Any alternative must be better than this.

And yet what other alternative was there? He did not doubt that
Val, when disappointed of his prey, would reveal whatever he
might know to his wife, or to his stepson. Then there would be
nothing for Alaric but confession and ruin. And how could he
believe what Undy Scott had told him? Who else could have given
information against him but Undy himself? Who else could have put
up so heavily stupid a man as Captain Scott to make such a
demand? Was it not clear that his own colleague, his own partner,
his own intimate associate, Undy Scott himself, was positively
working out his ruin? Where were now his high hopes, where now
his seat in Parliament, his authority at the board, his proud
name, his soaring ambition, his constant watchword? 'Excelsior'
--ah me--no! no longer 'Excelsior'; but he thought of the cells of
Newgate, of convict prisons, and then of his young wife and of
his baby.

He made an effort to assume his ordinary demeanour, and partially
succeeded. He went at once up to his drawing-room, and there he
found Charley and Gertrude waiting dinner for him; luckily he had
no other guests.

'Are you ill, Alaric?' said Gertrude, directly she saw him.

'Ill! No,' said he; 'only fagged, dearest; fagged and worried,
and badgered and bored; but, thank God, not ill;' and he
endeavoured to put on his usual face, and speak in his usual
tone. 'I have kept you waiting most unmercifully for your dinner,
Charley; but then I know you navvies always lunch on mutton
chops.'

'Oh, I am not particularly in a hurry,' said Charley; 'but I deny
the lunch. This has been a bad season for mutton chops in the
neighbourhood of Somerset House; somehow they have not grown this
year.'

Alaric ran up to prepare for dinner, and his wife followed him.

'Oh! Alaric,' said she, 'you are so pale: what is the matter? Do
tell me,' and she put her arm through his, took hold of his hand,
and looked up into his face.

'The matter! Nothing is the matter--a man can't always be
grinning;' and he gently shook her off, and walked through their
bedroom to his own dressing-room. Having entered it he shut the
door, and then, sitting down, bowed his head upon a small table
and buried it in his hands. All the world seemed to go round and
round with him; he was giddy, and he felt that he could not
stand.

Gertrude paused a moment in the bedroom to consider, and then
followed him. 'What is it you want?' said he, as soon as he heard
the handle turn, 'do leave me alone for one moment. I am fagged
with the heat, and I want one minute's rest.'

'Oh, Alaric, I see you are ill,' said she. 'For God's sake do not
send me from you,' and coming into the room she knelt down beside
his chair. 'I know you are suffering, Alaric; do let me do
something for you.'

He longed to tell her everything. He panted to share his sorrows
with one other bosom; to have one near him to whom he could speak
openly of everything, to have one counsellor in his trouble. In
that moment he all but resolved to disclose everything to her,
but at last he found that he could not do it. Charley was there
waiting for his dinner; and were he now to tell his secret to his
wife, neither of them, neither he nor she, would be able to act
the host or hostess. If done at all, it could not at any rate be
done at the present moment.

'I am better now,' said he, giving a long and deep sigh; and then
he threw his arms round his wife and passionately embraced her.
'My own angel, my best, best love, how much too good or much too
noble you are for such a husband as I am!'

'I wish I could be good enough for you,' she replied, as she
began to arrange his things for dressing. 'You are so tired,
dearest; wash your hands and come down--don't trouble yourself to
dress this evening; unless, indeed, you are going out again.'

'Gertrude,' said he, 'if there be a soul on earth that has not in
it a spark of what is good or generous, it is the soul of Undy
Scott;' and so saying he began the operations of his toilet.

Now Gertrude had never liked Undy Scott; she had attributed to
him whatever faults her husband might have as a husband; and at
the present moment she was not inclined to fight for any of the
Scott family.

'He is a very worldly man, I think,' said she.

'Worldly!--no--but hellish,' said Alaric; 'hellish, and damnable,
and fiendish.'

'Oh, Alaric, what has he done?'

'Never mind; I cannot tell you; he has done nothing. It is not
that he has done anything, or can do anything to me--but his
heart--but never mind--I wish--I wish I had never seen him.'

'Alaric, if it be about money tell me the worst, and I'll bear it
without a murmur. As long as you are well I care for nothing
else--have you given up your place?'

'No, dearest, no; I can keep my place. It is nothing about that.
I have lost no money; I have rather made money. It is the
ingratitude of that man which almost kills me. But come, dearest,
we will go down to Charley. And Gertrude, mind this, be quite
civil to Mrs. Val at present. We will break from the whole set
before long; but in the meantime I would have you be very civil
to Mrs. Val.'

And so they went down to dinner, and Alaric, after taking a glass
of wine, played his part almost as though he had no weight upon
his soul. After dinner he drank freely, and as he drank his
courage rose. 'Why should I tell her?' he said to himself as he
went to bed. 'The chances are that all will yet go well.'



CHAPTER XXXV

MRS. VAL'S NEW CARRIAGE


On the next morning Alaric went to his office without speaking
further as to the trouble on his mind, and endeavoured to comfort
himself as best he might as he walked down to his office. Then he
had also to decide whether it would better suit his purpose to
sell out at once and pay up every shilling that he could, or
whether he would hold on, and hope that Undy's predictions would
be fulfilled, and that the bridge shares would go on rising till
they would sell for all that was required of him.

Unfortunate man! what would he have given now to change his
position for Norman's single clerkship, or even for Charley's
comparative poverty!

Gertrude stayed within all day; but not all day in solitude.
About four in the afternoon the Hon. Mrs. Val called, and with
her came her daughter Clem, now Madame Jaquêtanàpe, and the two
Misses Neverbend. M. Jaquêtanàpe had since his marriage made
himself very agreeable to his honourable mother-in-law, so much
so that he now occupied the place in her good graces which Undy
had formerly filled, and which after Undy's reign had fallen to
Alaric's lot. Mrs. Val liked to have about her some confidential
gentleman; and as she never thought of placing her confidence in
her husband, she was prone to select first one man and then
another as her taste and interest dictated. Immediately after
their marriage, Victoire and Clem had consented to join
housekeeping with their parent. Nothing could be more pleasant
than this; their income was unembarrassed, and Mrs. Val, for the
first time in her life, was able to set up her carriage. Among
the effects arising from this cause, the female Neverbends, who
had lately been worshippers of Gertrude, veered round in their
idolatry, and paid their vows before Mrs. Val's new yellow
panels. In this new carriage now came the four ladies to pay a
morning visit to Mrs. Tudor. It was wonderful to see into how
small dimensions the Misses Neverbend had contrived to pack, not
themselves, but their crinoline.

As has before been hinted, Gertrude did not love Mrs. Val; nor
did she love Clem the danseuse; nor did she specially love the
Misses Neverbend. They were all of a class essentially different
from that in which she had been brought up; and, moreover, Mrs.
Val was not content to allow Gertrude into her set without ruling
over her, or at any rate patronizing her. Gertrude had borne with
them all for her husband's sake; and was contented to do so yet
for a while longer, but she thought in her heart that she would
be able to draw some consolation from her husband's misfortune if
it should be the means of freeing her from Mrs. Val.

'Oh, my dear,' said Mrs. Val, throwing herself down into a sofa
as though she were exhausted--'what a dreadful journey it is to
you up here! How those poor horses will stand it this weather I
don't know, but it nearly kills me; it does indeed.' The Tudors,
as has been said, lived in one of the quiet streets of Westbournia,
not exactly looking into Hyde Park, but very near to it; Mrs. Val,
on the other hand, lived in Ebury Street, Pimlico; her house was
much inferior to that of the Tudors; it was small, ill built, and
afflicted with all the evils which bad drainage and bad ventilation
can produce; but then it was reckoned to be within the precincts
of Belgravia, and was only five minutes' walk from Buckingham
Palace. Mrs. Val, therefore, had fair ground for twitting her dear
friend with living so far away from the limits of fashion. 'You really
must come down somewhat nearer to the world; indeed you must,
my dear,' said the Hon. Mrs. Val.

'We are thinking of moving; but then we are talking of going to
St. John's Wood, or Islington,' said Gertrude, wickedly.

'Islington!' said the Honourable Mrs. Val, nearly fainting.

'Is not Islington and St. Giles' the same place?' asked the
innocent Clem, with some malice, however, to counterbalance her
innocence.

'O no!' said Lactimel. 'St Giles' is where the poor wretched
starving Irish dwell. Their utter misery in the middle of this
rich metropolis is a crying disgrace to the Prime Minister.' Poor
Badger, how much he has to bear! 'Only think,' continued
Lactimel, with a soft pathetic drawl, 'they have none to feed
them, none to clothe them, none to do for them!'

'It is a great question,' said Ugolina, 'whether promiscuous
charity is a blessing or a curse. It is probably the greatest
question of the age. I myself am inclined to think--'

'But, ma,' said Madame Jaquêtanàpe, 'Mrs. Tudor doesn't really
mean that she is going to live at St. Giles', does she?'

'I said Islington,' said Gertrude. 'We may go to St. Giles' next,
perhaps.' Had she known all, how dreadful would such jokes have
been to her!

Mrs. Val saw that she was being quizzed, and, not liking it,
changed the conversation. 'Ugolina,' said she, 'might I trouble
you to look out of the front window? I hope those stupid men of
mine are not letting the horses stand still. They were so warm
coming here, that they will be sure to catch cold.' The stupid
men, however, were round the corner at the public-house, and
Ugolina could only report that as she did not see them she
supposed the horses were walking about.

'And so,' said Mrs. Val, 'Mr. Tudor is thinking of resigning his
place at the Civil Service Board, and standing for that borough
of Lord Gaberlunzie's, in Aberdeenshire?'

'I really cannot say,' said Gertrude; 'but I believe he has some
idea of going into Parliament. I rather believe he will continue
to hold his place.'

'Oh, that I know to be impossible! I was told that by a gentleman
who has been much longer in the service than Mr. Tudor, and who
understands all its bearings.' She here alluded to Fidus
Neverbend.

'I cannot say,' said Gertrude. 'I do not think Mr. Tudor has
quite made up his mind yet.'

'Well, my dear, I'll tell you fairly what I think about it. You
know the regard I have for you and Mr. Tudor. He, too, is
Clementina's trustee; that is to say, her fortune is partly
consigned to his care; so I cannot but have a very great interest
about him, and be very anxious that he should do well. Now, my
dear, I'll tell you fairly what I think, and what all the world
is saying. He ought not to think of Parliament. He ought not,
indeed, my dear. I speak for your sake, and your child's. He is
not a man of fortune, and he ought not to think of Parliament. He
has a very fine situation, and he really should be contented.'

This was intolerable to Gertrude. She felt that she must put Mrs.
Val down, and yet she hardly knew how to do it without being
absolutely rude; whereas her husband had specially begged her to
be civil to this woman at present. 'Oh,' said she, with a slight
smile, 'Mr. Tudor will be able to take care of himself; you will
find, I hope, that there is no cause for uneasiness.'

'Well, I hope not, I am sure I hope not,' said Mrs. Val, looking
very grave. 'But I tell you fairly that the confidence which we
all have in your husband will be much shaken if he does anything
rash. He should think of this, you know. He has no private
fortune to back him; we must remember that.'

Gertrude became very red in the face; but she would not trust
herself to answer Mrs. Val at the spur of the moment.

'It makes such a difference, when one has got no private
fortune,' said Madame Jaquêtanàpe, the heiress. 'Does it not,
Lactimel?'

'Oh, indeed it does,' said Lactimel. 'I wish every one had a
private fortune; it would be so nice, wouldn't it?'

'There would be very little poetry in the world if you were to
banish poverty,' said Ugolina. 'Poverty may be called the parent
of poetry. Look at Milton, how poor he was; and Homer, he begged
his bread.'

'But Lord Byron was not a beggar,' said Clem, contemptuously.

'I do hope Mr. Tudor will think of what he is doing,' continued
Mrs. Val. 'It is certainly most good-natured and most disinterested
of my dear father-in-law, Lord Gaberlunzie, to place his borough
at Mr. Tudor's disposal. It is just like him, dear good old nobleman.
But, my dear, it will be a thousand pities if Mr. Tudor should be
led on by his lordship's kindness to bring about his own ruin.'

Mrs. Val had once in her life seen his good-natured lordship.
Soon after her marriage she had insisted on Captain Val taking
her down to the family mansion. She stayed there one night, and
then left it, and since that had shown no further desire to visit
Cauldkail Castle. She did not the less delight to talk about her
dear good father-in-law, the lord. Why should she give his son
Val board and lodging, but that she might be enabled to do so?
She was not the woman to buy an article, and not make of it all
the use of which it might be capable.

'Pray do not concern yourself,' said Gertrude. 'I can assure you
Mr. Tudor will manage very well for himself--but should any
misfortune happen to him he will not, you may be certain,
attribute it to Lord Gaberlunzie.'

'I am told that Sir Gregory is most opposed to it,' continued
Mrs. Val. 'I heard that from Mr. Neverbend, who is altogether in
Sir Gregory's confidence--did not you, my dears?' and she turned
round to the sisters of Fidus for confirmation.

'I heard my brother say that as Mr. Tudor's office is not
parliamentary but permanent, and as he has to attend from ten
till four----'

'Alaric has not to attend from ten till four,' said Gertrude, who
could not endure the idea that her husband should be ranked with
common clerks, like Fidus Neverbend.

'Oh, I didn't know,' said Lactimel, meekly. 'Perhaps Fidus only
meant that as it is one of those offices where the people have
something to do, the commissioners couldn't be in their offices
and in Parliament at the same time.'

'I did understand,' said Ugolina, 'that Sir Gregory Hardlines had
put his veto upon it; but I must confess that it is a subject
which I have not sufficiently studied to enable me----'

'It's £1,200 a year, isn't it?' asked the bride.

'Twelve hundred pounds a year,' said her mother--'a very serious
consideration when there is no private fortune to back it, on
either side. Now if it were Victoire----'

'He couldn't sit in Parliament, ma, because he's an alien--only
for that I shouldn't think of his doing anything else.'

'Perhaps that may be altered before long,' said Lactimel,
graciously.

'If Jews are to be admitted,' said Ugolina, 'who certainly belong
to an alien nation; a nation expressly set apart and separated
from all people--a peculiar nation distinct from all others, I
for one cannot discern----'

What Ugolina could or could not discern about the Jews was
communicated perhaps to Madame Jaquêtanàpe or to Lactimel, but
not to Gertrude or to Mrs. Val; for the latter, taking Gertrude
apart into a corner as it were of the sofa, began confidentially
to repeat to her her fears about her husband.

'I see, my dear,' said she, 'that you don't like my speaking
about it.'

'Upon my word,' said Gertrude, 'I am very indifferent about it.
But would it not be better if you said what you have to say to my
husband?'

'I intend to do so. I intend to do that also. But I know that a
wife ought to have influence over her husband, and I believe that
you have influence over yours.'

'Not the least,' said Gertrude, who was determined to contradict
Mrs. Val in everything.

'I am sorry to hear it,' said Mrs. Val, who among all her
excellent acquirements, did not possess that specially excellent
one of understanding repartee. 'I am very sorry to hear it, and I
shall certainly speak to him the more seriously on that account.
I think I have some influence over him; at any rate I ought to
have.'

'I dare say you have,' said Gertrude; 'Alaric always says that no
experience is worth anything that is not obtained by years.'

Mrs. Val at least understood this, and continued her lecture with
some additional severity. 'Well, my dear, I am glad he has so
much wisdom. But what I was going to say is this: you know how
much we have at stake with Mr. Tudor--what a very large sum of
Clementina's money lies in his hands. Now I really should not
have consented to the arrangement had I thought it possible that
Mr. Tudor would have given up his income with the idea of going
into Parliament. It wouldn't have been right or prudent of me to
do so. I have the greatest opinion of your husband's talents and
judgement, or I should not of course have entrusted him with the
management of Clementina's fortune; but I really shall think it
right to make some change if this project of his goes on.'

'Why, what is it you suspect?' said Gertrude. 'Do you think that
Mr. Tudor intends to use your daughter's income if he loses a
portion of his own? I never heard such a thing in my life.'

'Hush! my dear--gently--I would not for worlds let Clementina
hear a word of this; it might disturb her young happiness. She is
so charmed with her husband; her married life is so fortunate;
Victoire is so--so--so everything that we all wish, that I would
not for the world breathe in her hearing a shadow of a suspicion.'

'Good gracious! Mrs. Scott, what do you mean? Suspicion!--what
suspicion? Do you suspect my husband of robbing you?' Oh,
Gertrude; poor Gertrude! she was doomed to know it all before
long.

'Oh dear, no,' said Mrs. Val; 'nothing of the kind, I assure you.
Of course we suspect nothing of the sort. But one does like to
have one's money in safe hands. Of course Mr. Tudor wouldn't have
been chosen as trustee if he hadn't had a good income of his own;
and look here, my dear,'--and Mrs. Val whispered very confidentially,
--'Mr. Tudor we all know is greatly concerned in this bridge that
the committee is sitting about; and he and my brother-in-law,
Undecimus, are always dealing in shares. Gentlemen do, I know;
and therefore I don't say that there is anything against it. But
considering all, I hope Mr. Tudor won't take it ill if we propose to
change our trustee.'

'I am very certain he will not,' said Gertrude. 'It is a
laborious business, and he will be glad enough to be rid of it.
When he was asked to accept it, he thought it would be ill-natured
to refuse; I am certain, however, he will be very glad to give
up the work to any other person who may be appointed. I will
be sure to tell him this evening what you have said.'

'You need not trouble yourself to do that,' said Mrs. Val. 'I
shall see him myself before long.'

'It will be no trouble,' said Gertrude, very indignantly, for she
was very angry, and had, as she thought, great cause for anger.
'I shall certainly think it my duty to do so after what has
passed. Of course you will now take steps to relieve him as soon
as possible.'

'You have taken me up a great deal too quick, my dear,' said Mrs.
Val. 'I did not intend----'

'Oh--one can't be too quick on such a matter as this,' said
Gertrude. 'When confidence is once lost between two persons it is
better that the connexion which has grown out of confidence
should be put an end to as soon as possible.'

'Lost confidence! I said nothing about lost confidence!'

'Alaric will so understand it, I am quite sure; at any rate I
will tell him what you have said. Suspicion indeed! who has dared
to suspect him of anything not honest or upright?'

Gertrude's eyes flashed with anger as she vindicated her absent
lord. Mrs. Val had been speaking with bated breath, so that no
one had heard her but she to whom she was speaking; but Gertrude
had been unable so to confine her answers, and as she made her
last reply Madame Jaquêtanàpe and the Misses Neverbend were all
ears.

'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed Mrs. Val. 'Upon my word, my dear, it is
amusing to hear you take it up. However, I assure you I meant
nothing but what was kind and friendly. Come, Clementina, we have
been sitting here a most unconscionable time. Will you allow me,
my dear, to ring for my carriage?'

'Mamma,' said Clem, 'have you asked Mrs. Tudor to our little
dance?'

'No, my dear; I have left that for you to do. It's your party,
you know--but I sincerely hope Mrs. Tudor will come.'

'Oh yes,' said Clementina, the tongue of whose eloquence was now
loosened. 'You must come, Mrs. Tudor; indeed you must. It will be
so charming; just a few nice people, you know, and nothing more.'

'Thank you,' said Gertrude; 'but I never dance now.' She had
inwardly resolved that nothing should ever induce her again to
enter Mrs. Val's house.

'Oh, but you must come,' said Clementina. 'It will be so
charming. We only mean to dance one kind of dance--that new thing
they have just brought over from Spain--the Contrabandista. It is
a polka step, only very quick, and you take every other turn by
yourself; so you have to take your partner up and let him go as
quick as possible. You don't know how charming it is, and it will
be all the rage. We are to have the music out in the street, just
as they have in Spain.'

'It would be much too difficult for me,' said Gertrude.

'It is difficult,' said the enthusiastic Clem; 'but Victoire
gives us lessons in it everyday from twelve to two--doesn't he,
Ugolina?'

'I'm afraid I shouldn't have time to go to school,' said
Gertrude.

'Oh, it doesn't take much time--six or seven or eight lessons
will do it pretty well. I have almost learnt it already, and
Ugolina is coming on very fast. Lactimel is not quite so perfect.
She has learnt the step, but she cannot bring herself to let
Victoire go quick enough. Do come, and bring Mr. Tudor with you.'

'As he has not to attend from ten till four, he could come and
take lessons too,' said Lactimel, who, now that she was no longer
a hanger-on of Gertrude's, could afford to have her little
revenge.

'That would be delightful,' said Clem. 'Mr. Charles Tudor does
come in sometimes at twelve o'clock, and I think he does it
almost as well as Victoire.'

Gertrude, however, would go neither to the rehearsals nor to the
finished performance; and as Mrs. Val's men had by this time been
induced to leave the beershop, the whole party went away, leaving
Gertrude to her meditations.



CHAPTER XXXVI

TICKLISH STOCK


Alaric returned from his office worn and almost as wretched as he
had been on the day before. He had spent a miserable day. In the
morning Sir Gregory had asked him whether he had finally made up
his mind to address the electors of Strathbogy. 'No, not
finally,' said Alaric, 'but I think I shall do so.'

'Then I must tell you, Tudor,' said Sir Gregory, speaking more in
sorrow than in anger, 'that you will not have my countenance. I
cannot but think also that you are behaving with ingratitude.'
Alaric prepared to make some petulant answer, but Sir Gregory, in
the meantime, left the room.

Every one was falling away from him. He felt inclined to rush
after Sir Gregory, and promise to be guided in this matter solely
by him, but his pride prevented him: though he was no longer
sanguine and confident as he had been a week ago, still his
ambition was high. 'Those who play brag must brag it out, or they
will lose their money.' This had been said by Undy; but it was
not the less true on that account. Alaric felt that he was
playing brag, and that his only game was to brag it out.

He walked home slowly through the Parks. His office and house
were so circumstanced that, though they were some two miles
distant, he could walk from one to the other almost without
taking his feet off the grass. This had been the cause of great
enjoyment to him; but now he sauntered on with his hands behind
his back, staring straight before him, with fixed eyes, going by
his accustomed route, but never thinking for a moment where he
was. The tune was gone when he could watch the gambols of
children, smile at the courtships of nursery-maids, watch the
changes in the dark foliage of the trees, and bend from his
direct path hither and thither to catch the effects of distant
buildings, and make for his eye half-rural landscapes in the
middle of the metropolis. No landscapes had beauty for him now;
the gambols even of his own baby were unattractive to him; leaves
might bud forth and nourish and fall without his notice. How went
the share-market? that was the only question that had an interest
for him. The dallyings of Capel Court were the only courtships
that he now cared to watch.

And with what a terribly eager eye had he now to watch them! If
his shares went up quickly, at once, with an unprecedented
success, he might possibly be saved. That was all. But if they
did not--! Such was the phase of life under which at the present
moment it behoved him to exist.

And then, when he reached his home, how was he welcomed? With all
the fond love which a loving wife can show; so much at least was
his; but before he had felt the sweetness of her caresses, before
he had acknowledged how great was the treasure that he possessed,
forth from her eager lips had come the whole tale of Mrs. Val's
impertinence.

'I will never see her again, Alaric! never; she talked of her
daughter's money, and said something of suspicion!' Suspicion!
Gertrude's eye again flashed fire with anger; and she all but
stamped with her little foot upon the ground. Suspicion! suspect
him, her husband, the choice of her heart, her Alaric, the human
god whom she worshipped! suspect him of robbery! her lord, her
heart, her soul, the strong staff on which she leaned so
securely, with such true feminine confidence! Suspect him of
common vile dishonesty!--'You will never ask me to see her again
--will you, Alaric?'

What was he to say to her? how was he to bear this? His heart
yearned to tell her all; he longed for the luxury of having one
bosom to whom he could entrust his misery, his slight remaining
hope. But how could he himself, at one blow, by one word, destroy
the high and polished shaft on which she whom he loved had placed
him? He could not do it. He would suffer by himself; hope by
himself, cease to hope by himself, and endure all, till either
his sufferings or his hopes should be over.

He had to pretend that he was indignant at Mrs. Val's
interference; he had to counterfeit the feelings of outraged
honour, which was so natural to Gertrude. This he failed to do
well. Had he been truly honest--had that woman's suspicion really
done him injustice--he would have received his wife's tidings
with grave displeasure, and have simply resolved to acquit
himself as soon as possible of the disagreeable trust which had
been reposed in him. But such was not now his conduct. He
contented himself by calling Mrs. Val names, and pretended to
laugh at her displeasure.

'But you will give up this trust, won't you?' said Gertrude.

'I will think about it,' said he. 'Before I do anything I must
consult old Figgs. Things of that kind can't be put out of their
course by the spleen of an old woman like Mrs. Val.'

'Oh, Alaric, I do so wish you had had nothing to do with these
Scotts!'

'So do I,' said he, bitterly; 'I hate them--but, Gertrude, don't
talk about them now; my head aches, and I am tired.'

He sat at home the whole evening; and though he was by no means
gay, and hardly affectionate in his demeanour to her, yet she
could not but feel that some good effect had sprung from his
recent dislike to the Scotts, since it kept him at home with her.
Lately he had generally spent his evenings at his club. She
longed to speak to him of his future career, of his proposed seat
in Parliament, of his office-work; but he gave her no encouragement
to speak of such things, and, as he pleaded that he was ill, she left
him in quiet on the sofa.

On the next morning he again went to his office, and in the
course of the morning a note was brought to him from Undy. It ran
as follows:--

'MY DEAR TUDOR,

'Is Val to have the shares? Let me have a line by the bearer.

'Yours ever,

'U. S.'

To this he replied by making an appointment to meet Undy before
dinner at his own office.

At the time fixed Undy came, and was shown by the sole remaining
messenger into Alaric's private room. The two shook hands
together in their accustomed way. Undy smiled good-humouredly, as
he always did; and Alaric maintained his usual composed and
uncommunicative look.

'Well,' said Undy, sitting down, 'how about those shares?'

'I am glad you have come,' said Alaric, 'because I want to speak
to you with some earnestness.'

'I am quite in earnest myself,' said Undy; 'and so, by G--, is
Val. I never saw a fellow more in earnest--nor yet apparently
more hard up. I hope you have the shares ready, or else a cheque
for the amount.'

'Look here, Undy; if my doing this were the only means of saving
both you and me from rotting in gaol, by the Creator that made me
I would not do it!'

'I don't know that it will have much effect upon me, one way or
the other,' said Undy, coolly; 'but it seems to me to be the only
way that can save yourself from some such fate. Shall I tell you
what the clauses are of this new bill about trust property?'

'I know the clauses well enough; I know my own position; and I
know yours also.'

'D---- your impudence!' said Undy; 'how do you dare to league me
with your villany? Have I been the girl's trustee? have I drawn,
or could I have drawn, a shilling of her money? I tell you,
Tudor, you are in the wrong box. You have one way of escape, and
one only. I don't want to ruin you; I'll save you if I can; I
think you have treated the girl in a most shameful way,
nevertheless I'll save you if I can; but mark this, if this money
be not at once produced I cannot save you.'

Alaric felt that he was covered with cold perspiration. His
courage did not fail him; he would willingly have taken Undy by
the throat, could his doing so have done himself or his cause any
good; but he felt that he was nearly overset by the cool deep
villany of his companion.

'I have treated the girl badly--very badly,' he said, after a
pause; 'whether or no you have done so too I leave to your own
conscience, if you have a conscience. I do not now mean to accuse
you; but you may know this for certain--my present anxiety is to
restore to her that which I have taken from her; and for no
earthly consideration--not to save my own wife--will I increase
the deficiency.'

'Why, man, what nonsense you talk--as if I did not know all the
time that you have your pocket full of these shares.'

'Whatever I have, I hold for her. If I could succeed in getting
out of your hands enough to make up the full sum that I owe her--'

'You will succeed in getting nothing from me. When I borrowed
£5,000 from you, it was not understood that I was to be called
upon for the money in three or four months' time.'

'Now look here, Scott; you have threatened me with ruin and a
prison, and I will not say but your threats may possibly prove
true. It may be that I am ruined; but, if I fall, you shall share
my fall.'

'That's false,' said Undy. 'I am free to hold my head before the
world, which you are not. I have done nothing to bring me to
shame.'

'Nothing to bring you to shame, and yet you would now have me
give you a further portion of this girl's money!'

'Nothing! I care nothing about the girl's money. I have not
touched it, nor do I want to touch it. I bring you a message from
my brother; you have ample means of your own to comply with his
request.'

'Then tell your brother,' said Alaric, now losing all control
over his temper--'tell your brother, if indeed he have any part
in this villany--tell your brother that if it were to save me
from the gallows, he should not have a shilling. I have done very
badly in this matter; I have acted shamefully, and I am ashamed,
but----'

'Oh, I want to hear none of your rhapsodies,' said Undy. 'If you
will not now do what I ask you, I may as well go, and you may
take the consequences;' and he lifted his hat as though preparing
to take his leave.

'But you shall hear me,' said Alaric, rising quickly from his
seat, and standing between Undy and the door. Undy very coolly
walked to the bell and rang it. 'I have much to answer for,'
continued Alaric, 'but I would not have your sin on my soul, I
would not be as black as you are, though, by being so, I could
save myself with certainty from all earthly punishment.'

As he finished, the messenger opened the door. 'Show Mr. Scott
out,' said Alaric.

'By, by,' said Undy. 'You will probably hear from Mrs. Val and
her daughter to-morrow,' and so saying he walked jauntily along
the passage, and went jauntily to his dinner at his club. It was
part of his philosophy that nothing should disturb the even tenor
of his way, or interfere with his animal comforts. He was at the
present moment over head and ears in debt; he was playing a game
which, in all human probability, would end in his ruin; the
ground was sinking beneath his feet on every side; and yet he
thoroughly enjoyed his dinner. Alaric could not make such use of
his philosophy. Undy Scott might be the worse man of the two, but
he was the better philosopher.

Not on the next day, or on the next, did Alaric hear from Mrs.
Val, but on the following Monday he got a note from her begging
him to call in Ebury Street. She underscored every line of it
once or twice, and added, in a postscript, that he would, she was
sure, at once acknowledge the NECESSITY of her request, as she
wished to communicate with him on the subject of her DAUGHTER'S
FORTUNE.

Alaric immediately sent an answer to her by a messenger. 'My dear
Mrs. Scott,' said he, 'I am very sorry that an engagement
prevents my going to you this evening; but, as I judge by your
letter, and by what I have heard from Gertrude, that you are
anxious about this trust arrangement, I will call at ten to-morrow
morning on my way to the office.'

Having written and dispatched this, he sat for an hour leaning
with his elbows on the table and his hands clasped, looking with
apparent earnestness at the rows of books which stood inverted
before him, trying to make up his mind as to what step he should
now take.

Not that he sat an hour undisturbed. Every five minutes some one
would come knocking at the door; the name of some aspirant to the
Civil Service would be brought to him, or the card of some
influential gentleman desirous of having a little job perpetrated
in favour of his own peculiarly interesting, but perhaps not very
highly-educated, young candidate. But on this morning Alaric
would see no one; to every such intruder he sent a reply that he
was too deeply engaged at the present moment to see any one.
After one he would be at liberty, &c., &c.

And so he sat and looked at the books; but he could in nowise
make up his mind. He could in nowise bring himself even to try to
make up his mind--that is, to make any true effort towards doing
so. His thoughts would run off from him, not into the happy
outer world, but into a multitude of noisy, unpleasant paths, all
intimately connected with his present misery, but none of which
led him at all towards the conclusions at which he would fain
arrive. He kept on reflecting what Sir Gregory would think when
he heard of it; what all those clerks would say at the Weights
and Measures, among whom he had held his head so high; what
shouts there would be among the navvies and other low pariahs
of the service; how Harry Norman would exult--(but he did not
yet know Harry Norman);--how the Woodwards would weep; how
Gertrude--and then as he thought of that he bowed his head, for
he could no longer endure the open light of day. At one o'clock
he was no nearer to any decision than he had been when he reached
his office.

At three he put himself into a cab, and was taken to the city.
Oh, the city, the weary city, where men go daily to look for
money, but find none; where every heart is eaten up by an
accursed famishing after gold; where dark, gloomy banks come
thick on each other, like the black, ugly apertures to the realms
below in a mining district, each of them a separate little pit-mouth
into hell. Alaric went into the city, and found that the shares
were still rising. That imperturbable witness was still in the
chair at the committee, and men said that he was disgusting
the members by the impregnable endurance of his hostility. A man
who could answer 2,250 questions without admitting anything must
be a liar! Such a one could convince no one! And so the shares
went on rising, rising, and rising, and Messrs. Blocks, Piles,
and Cofferdam were buying up every share; either doing that
openly--or else selling on the sly.

Alaric found that he could at once realize £7,600. Were he to do
this, there would be at any rate seven-eighths of his ward's
fortune secure.

Might he not, in such a case, calculate that even Mrs. Val's
heart would be softened, and that time would be allowed him to
make up the small remainder? Oh, but in such case he must tell
Mrs. Val; and could he calculate on her forbearance? Might he not
calculate with much more certainty on her love of triumphing?
Would he not be her slave if she had the keeping of his secret?
And why should he run so terrible a risk of destroying himself?
Why should he confide in Mrs. Val, and deprive himself of the
power of ever holding up his head again, when, possibly, he might
still run out his course with full sails, and bring his vessel
into port, giving no knowledge to the world of the perilous state
in which she had been thus ploughing the deep? He need not, at
any rate, tell everything to Mrs. Val at his coming visit on the
morrow.

He consulted his broker with his easiest air of common concern as
to his money; and the broker gave him a dubious opinion. 'They
may go a little higher, sir; indeed I think they will. But they
are ticklish stock, sir--uncommon ticklish. I should not like to
hold many myself, sir.' Alaric knew that the man was right; they
were ticklish stock: but nevertheless he made up his mind to hold
on a little longer.

He then got into another cab and went back to his office; and as
he went he began to bethink himself to whom of all his friends he
might apply for such a loan as would enable him to make up this
sum of money, if he sold his shares on the morrow. Captain
Cuttwater was good for £1,000, but he knew that he could not get
more from him. It would be bad borrowing, he thought, from Sir
Gregory. Intimate as he had been with that great man, he knew
nothing of his money concerns; but he had always heard that Sir
Gregory was a close man. Sir Warwick, his other colleague, was in
easy circumstances; but then he had never been intimate with Sir
Warwick. Norman--ah, if he had known Norman now, Norman would
have pulled him through; but hope in that quarter there was, of
course, none. Norman was gone, and Norman's place had been filled
by Undy Scott! What could be done with Undy Scott he had already
tried. Fidus Neverbend! he had a little money saved; but Fidus
was not the man to do anything without security. He, he, Alaric
Tudor, he, whose credit had stood, did stand, so high, did not
know where to borrow, how to raise a thousand pounds; and yet he
felt that had he not wanted it so sorely, he could have gotten it
easily.

He was in a bad state for work when he got back to the office on
that day. He was flurried, ill at ease, wretched, all but
distracted; nevertheless he went rigidly to it, and remained
there till late in the evening. He was a man generally blessed
with excellent health; but now he suddenly found himself ill, and
all but unable to accomplish the task which he had prescribed to
himself. His head was heavy and his eyes weak, and he could not
bring himself to think of the papers which lay before him.

Then at last he went home, and had another sad and solitary walk
across the Parks, during which he vainly tried to rally himself
again, and collect his energies for the work which he had to do.
It was in such emergencies as this that he knew that it most
behoved a man to fall back upon what manliness there might be
within him; now was the time for him to be true to himself; he
had often felt proud of his own energy of purpose; and now was
the opportunity for him to use such energy, if his pride in this
respect had not been all in vain.

Such were the lessons with which he endeavoured to strengthen
himself, but it was in vain; he could not feel courageous--he
could not feel hopeful--he could not do other than despair. When
he got home, he again prostrated himself, again declared himself
ill, again buried his face in his hands, and answered the
affection of his wife by saying that a man could not always be
cheerful, could not always laugh. Gertrude, though she was very
far indeed from guessing the truth, felt that something
extraordinary was the matter, and knew that her husband's
uneasiness was connected with the Scotts.

He came down to dinner, and though he ate but little, he drank
glass after glass of sherry. He thus gave himself courage to go
out in the evening and face the world at his club. He found Undy
there as he expected, but he had no conversation with him, though
they did not absolutely cut each other. Alaric fancied that men
stared at him, and sat apart by himself, afraid to stand up among
talking circles, or to put himself forward as it was his wont to
do. He himself avoided other men, and then felt that others were
avoiding him. He took up one evening paper after another,
pretending to read them, but hardly noticing a word that came
beneath his eye: at last, however, a name struck him which
riveted his attention, and he read the following paragraph, which
was among many others, containing information as to the coming
elections.

'STRATHBOGY.--We hear that Lord Gaberlunzie's eldest son will
retire from this borough, and that his place will be filled by
his brother, the Honourable Captain Valentine Scott. The family
have been so long connected with Strathbogy by ties of friendship
and near neighbourhood, and the mutual alliance has been so much
to the taste of both parties, that no severance need be
anticipated.'

Alaric's first emotion was one of anger at the whole Scott tribe,
and his first resolve was to go down to Strathbogy and beat that
inanimate fool, Captain Val, on his own ground; but he was not
long in reflecting that, under his present circumstances, it
would be madness in him to bring his name prominently forward in
any quarrel with the Scott family. This disappointment he might
at any rate bear; it would be well for him if this were all. He
put the paper down with an affected air of easy composure, and
walked home through the glaring gas-lights, still trying to
think--still trying, but in vain, to come to some definite
resolve.

And then on the following morning he went off to call on Mrs.
Val. He had as yet told Gertrude nothing. When she asked him what
made him start so early, he merely replied that he had business
to do on his road. As lie went, he had considerable doubt whether
or no it would be better for him to break his word to Mrs. Val,
and not go near her at all. In such event he might be sure that
she would at once go to work and do her worst; but, nevertheless,
he would gain a day, or probably two, and one or two days might
do all that he required; whereas he could not see Mrs. Val
without giving her some explanation, which if false would be
discovered to be false, and if true would be self-condemnatory.
He again, however, failed to decide, and at last knocked at Mrs.
Val's door merely because he found himself there.

He was shown up into the drawing-room, and found, of course, Mrs.
Val seated on a sofa; and he also found, which was not at all of
course, Captain Val, on a chair on one side of the table, and M.
Victoire Jaquêtanàpe on the other. Mrs. Val shook hands with him
much in her usual way, but still with an air of importance in her
face; the Frenchman was delighted to see M. Tudere, and the
Honourable Val got up from his chair, said 'How do?' and then sat
down again.

'I requested you to call, Mr. Tudor,' said Mrs. Val, opening her
tale in a most ceremonious manner, 'because we all think it
necessary to know somewhat more than has yet been told to us of
the manner in which my daughter's money has been invested.'

Captain Val wiped his moustache with the middle finger of his
right hand, by way of saying that he quite assented to his wife's
proposition; and Victoire remarked that 'Madame was a leetle
anxious, just a leetle anxious; not that anything could be wrong
with M. Tudere, but because she was one excellent mamma.'

'I thought you knew, Mrs. Scott,' said Alaric, 'that your
daughter's money is in the funds.'

'Then I may understand clearly that none of the amount so
invested has been sold out or otherwise appropriated by you.'
said Mrs. Val.

'Will you allow me to inquire what has given rise to these
questions just at the present moment?' asked Alaric.

'Yes, certainly,' said Mrs. Val; 'rumours have reached my
husband--rumours which, I am happy to say, I do not believe--that
my daughter's money has been used for purposes of speculation.'
Whereupon Captain Val again wiped his upper lip, but did not find
it necessary to speak.

'May I venture to ask Captain Scott from what source such rumours
have reached him!'

'Ah-ha-what source? d---- lies, very likely; d---- lies, I dare
say; but people do talk--eh--you know,' so much the eloquent
embryo member for Strathbogy vouchsafed.

 'And therefore, Mr. Tudor, you mustn't be surprised that we
should ask you this question.'

'It is one simple, simple question,' said Victoire, 'and if M.
Tudere will say that it is all right, I, for myself, will be
satisfied.' The amiable Victoire, to tell the truth, was still
quite satisfied to leave his wife's income in Alaric's hands, and
would not have been at all satisfied to remove it to the hands of
his respected step-papa-in-law, or even his admired mamma-in-law.

'When I undertook this trust,' said Alaric, 'which I did with
considerable hesitation, I certainly did not expect to be
subjected to any such cross-examination as this. I consider such
questions as insults, and therefore I shall refuse to answer
them. You, Mrs. Scott, have of course a right to look after your
daughter's interests, as has M. Jaquêtanàpe to look after those
of his wife; but I will not acknowledge that Captain Scott has
any such right whatsoever, nor can I think that his conduct in
this matter is disinterested;' and as he spoke he looked at
Captain Val, but he might just as well have looked at the door;
Captain Val only wiped his moustache with his finger once more.
'My answer to your inquiries, Mrs. Scott, is this--I shall not
condescend to go into any details as to Madame Jaquêtanàpe 's
fortune with anyone but my co-trustee. I shall, however, on
Saturday next, be ready to give up my trust to any other person
who may be legally appointed to receive it, and will then produce
all the property that has been entrusted to my keeping:' and so
saying, Alaric got up and took his hat as though to depart.

'And do you mean to say, Mr. Tudor, that you will not answer my
question?' said Mrs. Scott.

'I mean to say, most positively, that I will answer no
questions,' said Alaric.

'Oh, confound, not do at all; d----,' said the captain. 'The
girl's money all gone, and you won't answer questions!'

'No!' shouted Alaric, walking across the room till he closely
confronted the captain. 'No--no--I will answer no questions that
may be asked in your hearing. But that your wife's presence
protects you, I would kick you down your own stairs before me.'

Captain Val retreated a step--he could retreat no more--and wiped
his moustache with both hands at once. Mrs. Val screamed.
Victoire took hold of the back of a chair, as though he thought
it well that he should be armed in the general battle that was to
ensue; and Alaric, without further speech, walked out of the
room, and went away to his office.

'So you have given up Strathbogy?' said Sir Gregory to him, in
the course of the day.

'I think I have,' said Alaric; 'considering all things, I believe
it will be the best for me to do so.'

'Not a doubt of it,' said Sir Gregory--'not a doubt of it, my
dear fellow;' and then Sir Gregory began to evince, by the
cordiality of his official confidence, that he had fully taken
Alaric back into his good graces. It was nothing to him that
Strathbogy had given up Alaric instead of Alaric giving up
Strathbogy. He was sufficiently pleased at knowing that the
danger of his being supplanted by his own junior was over.

And then Alaric again went into the weary city, again made
inquiries about his shares, and again returned to his office, and
thence to his home.

But on his return to his office, he found lying on his table a
note in Undy's handwriting, but not signed, in which he was
informed that things would yet be well, if the required shares
should be forthcoming on the following day.

He crumpled the note tight in his hand, and was about to fling it
among the waste paper, but in a moment he thought better of it,
and smoothing the paper straight, he folded it, and laid it
carefully on his desk.

That day, on his visit into the city, he had found that the
bridge shares had fallen to less than the value of their original
purchase-money; and that evening he told Gertrude everything. The
author does not dare to describe the telling.



CHAPTER XXXVII

TRIBULATION


We must now return for a short while to Surbiton Cottage. It was
not so gay a place as it once had been; merry laughter was not so
often heard among the shrubbery walks, nor was a boat to be seen
so often glancing in and out between the lawn and the adjacent
island. The Cottage had become a demure, staid abode, of which
Captain Cuttwater was in general the most vivacious inmate; and
yet there was soon to be marrying, and giving in marriage.

Linda's wedding-day had twice been fixed. That first-named had
been postponed in consequence of the serious illness of Norman's
elder brother. The life of that brother had been very different
in its course from Harry's; it had been dissipated at college in
riotous living, and had since been stained with debauchery during
the career of his early manhood in London. The consequence had
been that his health had been broken down, and he was now
tottering to an early grave.

Cuthbert Norman was found to be so ill when the day first named
for Linda's marriage approached, that it had been thought
absolutely necessary to postpone the ceremony. What amount of
consolation Mrs. Woodward might have received from the knowledge
that her daughter, by this young man's decease, would become Mrs.
Norman of Normansgrove, we need not inquire; but such consolation,
if it existed at all, did not tend to dispel the feeling of sombre
disappointment which such delay was sure to produce. The heir,
however, rallied, and another day, early in August, was fixed.

Katie, the while, was still an invalid; and, as such, puzzled all
the experience of that very experienced medical gentleman, who
has the best aristocratic practice in the neighbourhood of
Hampton Court. He, and the London physician, agreed that her
lungs were not affected; but yet she would not get well. The
colour would not come to her cheeks, the flesh would not return
to her arms, nor the spirit of olden days shine forth in her
eyes. She did not keep her bed, or confine herself to her room,
but she went about the house with a slow, noiseless, gentle
tread, so unlike the step of that Katie whom we once knew.

But that which was a mystery to the experienced medical
gentleman, was no mystery to her mother. Mrs. Woodward well knew
why her child was no longer rosy, plump, and _débonnaire_.
As she watched her Katie move about so softly, as she saw her
constant attempt to smile whenever her mother's eye was on her,
that mother's heart almost gave way; she almost brought herself
to own that she would rather see her darling the wife of an idle,
ruined spendthrift, than watch her thus drifting away to an early
grave. These days were by no means happy days for Mrs. Woodward.

When that July day was fixed for Linda's marriage, certain
invitations were sent out to bid the family friends to the
wedding. These calls were not so numerous as they had been when
Gertrude became a bride. No Sir Gregory was to come down from
town, no gallant speech-makers from London clubs were to be
gathered there, to wake the echoes of the opposite shore with
matrimonial wit. Mrs. Woodward could not bear that her daughter
should be married altogether, as it were, in the dark; but for
many considerations the guests were to be restricted in numbers,
and the mirth was to be restrained and quiet.

When the list was made out, Katie saw it, and saw that Charley's
name was not there.

'Mamma,' she said, touching her mother's arm in her sweet winning
way, 'may not Charley come to Linda's wedding? You know how fond
Harry is of him: would not Harry wish that he should be here?'

Mrs. Woodward's eyes immediately filled with tears, and she
looked at her daughter, not knowing how to answer her. She had
never spoken to Katie of her love; no word had ever passed
between them on the subject which was now always nearest to the
hearts of them both. Mrs. Woodward had much in her character, as
a mother, that was excellent, nay, all but perfect; but she could
not bring herself to question her own children as to the inward
secrets of their bosoms. She knew not at once how to answer
Katie's question; and so she looked up at her with wistful eyes,
laden with tears.

'You may do so, mamma,' said Katie. Katie was already a braver
woman than her mother. 'I think Harry would like it, and poor
Charley will feel hurt at being left out; you may do it, mamma,
if you like; it will not do any harm.'

Mrs. Woodward quite understood the nature of the promise conveyed
in her daughter's assurance, and replied that Charley should be
asked. He was asked, and promised, of course, to come. But when
the wedding was postponed, when the other guests were put off, he
also was informed that his attendance at Hampton was not
immediately required; and so he still remained a stranger to the
Cottage.

And then after a while another day was named, the guests, and
Charley with them, were again invited, and Norman was again
assured that he should be made happy. But, alas! his hopes were
again delusive. News arrived at Surbiton Cottage which made it
indispensable that the marriage should be again postponed, news
worse than any which had ever yet been received there, news which
stunned them all, and made it clear to them that this year was no
time for marrying. Alaric had been arrested. Alaric, their own
Gertrude's own husband, their son-in-law and brother-in-law, the
proud, the high, the successful, the towering man of the world,
Alaric had been arrested, and was to be tried for embezzling the
money of his ward.

These fatal tidings were brought to Hampton by Harry Norman
himself; how they were received we must now endeavour to tell.

But that it would be tedious we might describe the amazement with
which that news was received at the Weights and Measures. Though
the great men at the Weights were jealous of Alaric, they were
not the less proud of him. They had watched him rise with a
certain amount of displeasure, and yet they had no inconsiderable
gratification in boasting that two of the Magi, the two working
Magi of the Civil Service, had been produced by their own
establishment. When therefore tidings reached them that Tudor had
been summoned in a friendly way to Bow Street, that he had there
passed a whole morning, and that the inquiry had ended in his
temporary suspension from his official duties, and in his having
to provide two bailsmen, each for £1,000, as security that he
would on a certain day be forthcoming to stand his trial at the
Old Bailey for defrauding his ward--when, I say, these tidings
were carried from room to room at the Weights and Measures, the
feelings of surprise were equalled by those of shame and
disappointment.

No one knew who brought this news to the Weights and Measures. No
one ever does know how such tidings fly; one of the junior clerks
had heard it from a messenger, to whom it had been told
downstairs; then another messenger, who had been across to the
Treasury Chambers with an immediate report as to a projected
change in the size of the authorized butter-firkin, heard the
same thing, and so the news by degrees was confirmed.

But all this was not sufficient for Norman. As soon as the rumour
reached him, he went off to Bow Street, and there learnt the
actual truth as it has been above stated. Alaric was then there,
and the magistrates had decided on requiring bail; he had, in
fact, been committed.

It would be dreadful that the Woodwards should first hear all
this from the lips of a stranger, and this reflection induced
Norman at once to go to Hampton; but it was dreadful, also, to
find himself burdened with the task of first telling such
tidings. When he found himself knocking at the Cottage door he
was still doubtful how he might best go through the work he had
before him.

He found that he had a partial reprieve; but then it was so
partial that it would have been much better for him to have had
no such reprieve at all. Mrs. Woodward was at Sunbury with Linda,
and no one was at home but Katie. What was he to do? was he to
tell Katie? or was he to pretend that all was right, that no
special business had brought him unexpectedly to Hampton?

'Oh, Harry, Linda will be so unhappy,' said Katie as soon as she
saw him. 'They have gone to dine at Sunbury, and they won't be
home till ten or eleven. Uncle Bat dined early with me, and he
has gone to Hampton Court. Linda will be so unhappy. But, good
gracious, Harry, is there anything the matter?'

'Mrs. Woodward has not heard from Gertrude to-day, has she?'

'No--not a word--Gertrude is not ill, is she? Oh, do tell me,'
said Katie, who now knew that there was some misfortune to be
told.

'No; Gertrude is not ill.'

'Is Alaric ill, then? Is there anything the matter with Alaric?'

'He is not ill,' said Norman,' but he is in some trouble. I came
down as I thought your mother should be told.'

So much he said, but would say no more. In this he probably took
the most unwise course that was open to him. He might have held
his tongue altogether, and let Katie believe that love alone had
brought him down, as it had done so often before; or he might
have told her all, feeling sure that all must be told her before
long. But he did neither; he left her in suspense, and the
consequence was that before her mother's return she was very ill.

It was past eleven before the fly was heard in which Linda and
her mother returned home. Katie had then gone upstairs, but not
to bed. She had seated herself in the armchair in her mother's
dressing-room, and sitting there waited till she should be told
by her mother what had occurred. When the sound of the wheels
caught her ears, she came to the door of the room and held it in
her hand that she might learn what passed. She heard Linda's
sudden and affectionate greeting; she heard Mrs. Woodward's
expression of gratified surprise; and then she heard also
Norman's solemn tone, by which, as was too clear, all joy,
all gratification, was at once suppressed. Then she heard the
dining-room door close, and she knew that he was telling his tale
to Linda and her mother.

O the misery of that next hour! For an hour they remained there
talking, and Katie knew nothing of what they were talking; she
knew only that Norman had brought unhappiness to them all. A
dozen different ideas passed across her mind. First she thought
that Alaric was dismissed, then that he was dead; was it not
possible that Harry had named Alaric's name to deceive her? might
not this misfortune, whatever it was, be with Charley? might not
he be dead? Oh! better so than the other. She knew, and said as
much to herself over and over again; but she did not the less
feel that his death must involve her own also.

At last the dining-room door opened, and she heard her mother's
step on the stairs. Her heart beat so that she could hardly
support herself. She did not get up, but sat quite quiet, waiting
for the tidings which she knew that she should now hear. Her
mother's face, when she entered the room, nearly drove her to
despair; Mrs. Woodward had been crying, bitterly, violently,
convulsively crying; and when one has reached the age of forty,
the traces of such tears are not easily effaced even from a
woman's cheek.

'Mamma, mamma, what is it? pray, pray tell me; oh! mamma, what is
it?' said Katie, jumping up and rushing into her mother's arms.

'Oh! Katie,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'why are you not in bed? Oh! my
darling, I wish you were in bed; I do so wish you were in bed--my
child, my child!' and, seating herself in the nearest chair, Mrs.
Woodward again gave herself up to uncontrolled weeping.

Then Linda came up with the copious tears still streaming down
her face. She made no effort to control them; at her age tears
are the easiest resource in time of grief. Norman had kept her
back a moment to whisper one word of love, and she then followed
her mother into the room.

Katie was now kneeling at her mother's feet. 'Linda,' she said,
with more quietness than either of the others was able to assume,
'what has happened? what makes mamma so unhappy? Has anything
happened to Alaric?' But Linda was in no state to tell anything.

'Do tell me, mamma,' said Katie; 'do tell me all at once. Has
anything--anything happened to--to Charley?'

'Oh, it is worse than that, a thousand times worse than that!'
said Mrs. Woodward, who, in the agony of her own grief, became
for the instant ungenerous.

Katie's blood rushed back to her heart, and for a moment her own
hand relaxed the hold which she had on that of her mother. She
had never spoken of her love; for her mother's sake she had been
silent; for her mother's sake she had determined to suffer and be
silent--now, and ever! Well; she would bear this also. It was but
for a moment she relaxed her hold; and then again she tightened
her fingers round her mother's hand, and held it in a firmer
grasp. 'It is Alaric, then?' she said.

'God forgive me,' said Mrs. Woodward, speaking through her
sobs--'God forgive me! I am a brokenhearted woman, and say I know
not what. My Katie, my darling, my best of darlings--will you
forgive me?'

'Oh, mamma,' said Katie, kissing her mother's hands, and her
arms, and the very hem of her garment, 'oh, mamma, do not speak
so. But I wish I knew what this sorrow is, so that I might share
it with you; may I not be told, mamma? is it about Alaric?'

'Yes, Katie. Alaric is in trouble.'

'What trouble--is he ill?'

'No--he is not ill. It is about money.'

'Has he been arrested?' asked Katie, thinking of Charley's
misfortune. 'Could not Harry get him out? Harry is so good; he
would do anything, even for Alaric, when he is in trouble.'

'He will do everything for him that he can,' said Linda, through
her tears.

'He has not been arrested,' said Mrs. Woodward; 'he is still at
home; but he is in trouble about Miss Golightly's money--and--and
he is to be tried.'

'Tried,' said Katie; 'tried like a criminal!'

Katie might well express herself as horrified. Yes, he had to be
tried like a criminal; tried as pickpockets, housebreakers, and
shoplifters are tried, and for a somewhat similar offence; with
this difference, however, that pickpockets, housebreakers, and
shoplifters, are seldom educated men, and are in general led on
to crime by want. He was to be tried for the offence of making
away with some of Miss Golightly's money for his own purposes.
This was explained to Katie, with more or less perspicuity; and
then Gertrude's mother and sisters lifted up their voices
together and wept.

He might, it is true, be acquitted; they would none of them
believe him to be guilty, though they all agreed that he had
probably been imprudent; but then the public shame of the trial!
the disgrace which must follow such an accusation! What a
downfall was here! 'Oh, Gertrude! oh, Gertrude!' sobbed Mrs.
Woodward; and indeed, at that time, it did not fare well with
Gertrude.

It was very late before Mrs. Woodward and her daughters went to
bed that night; and then Katie, though she did not specially
complain, was very ill. She had lately received more than one
wound, which was still unhealed; and now this additional blow,
though she apparently bore it better than the others, altogether
upset her. When the morning came, she complained of headache, and
it was many days after that before she left her bed.

But Mrs. Woodward was up early. Indeed, she could hardly be said
to have been in bed at all; for though she had lain down for an
hour or two, she had not slept. Early in the morning she knocked
at Harry's door, and begged him to come out to her. He was not
long in obeying her summons, and soon joined her in the little
breakfast parlour.

'Harry, said she, 'you must go and see Alaric.'

Harry's brow grew black. On the previous evening he had spoken of
Alaric without bitterness, nay, almost with affection; of
Gertrude he had spoken with the truest brotherly love; he had
assured Mrs. Woodward that he would do all that was in his power
for them; that he would spare neither his exertions nor his
purse. He had a truer idea than she had of what might probably be
the facts of the case, and was prepared, by all the means at his
disposal, to help his sister-in-law, if such aid would help her.
But he had not thought of seeing Alaric.

'I do not think it would do any good,' said he.

'Yes, Harry, it will; it will do the greatest good; whom else can
I get to see him? who else can find out and let us know what
really is required of us, what we ought to do? I would do it
myself, but I could not understand it; and he would never trust
us sufficiently to tell me all the truth.'

'We will make Charley go to him. He will tell everything to
Charley, if he will to anyone.'

'We cannot trust Charley; he is so thoughtless, so imprudent.
Besides, Harry, I cannot tell everything to Charley as I can to
you. If there be any deficiency in this woman's fortune, of
course it must be made good; and in that case I must raise the
money. I could not arrange all this with Charley.'

'There cannot, I think, be very much wanting,' said Norman, who
had hardly yet realized the idea that Alaric had actually used
his ward's money for his own purposes. 'He has probably made some
bad investment, or trusted persons that he should not have
trusted. My small property is in the funds, and I can get the
amount at a moment's notice. I do not think there will be any
necessity to raise more money than that. At any rate, whatever
happens, you must not touch your own income; think of Katie.'

'But, Harry--dear, good, generous Harry--you are so good, so
generous! But, Harry, we need not talk of that now. You will see
him, though, won't you?'

'It will do no good,' said Harry; 'we have no mutual trust in
each other.'

'Do not be unforgiving, Harry, now that he requires forgiveness.'

'If he does require forgiveness, Mrs. Woodward, if it shall turn
out that he has been guilty, God knows that I will forgive him. I
trust this may not be the case; and it would be useless for me to
thrust myself upon him now, when a few days may replace us again
in our present relations to each other.'

'I don't understand you, Harry; why should there always be a
quarrel between two brothers, between the husbands of two
sisters? I know you mean to be kind, I know you are most kind,
most generous; but why should you be so stern?'

'What I mean is this--if I find him in adversity, I shall be
ready to offer him my hand; it will then be for him to say
whether he will take it. But if the storm blow over, in such case
I would rather that we should remain as we are.'

Norman talked of forgiveness, and accused himself of no want of
charity in this respect. He had no idea that his own heart was
still hard as the nether millstone against Alaric Tudor. But yet
such was the truth. His money he could give; he could give also
his time and mind, he could lend his best abilities to rescue his
former friend and his own former love from misfortune. He could
do this, and he thought therefore that he was forgiving; but
there was no forgiveness in such assistance. There was generosity
in it, for he was ready to part with his money; there was kindness
of heart, for he was anxious to do good to his fellow-creature;
but there were with these both pride and revenge. Alaric had
out-topped him in everything, and it was sweet to Norman's pride
that his hand should be the one to raise from his sudden fall the
man who had soared so high above him. Alaric had injured him, and
what revenge is so perfect as to repay gross injuries by great
benefits? Is it not thus that we heap coals of fire on our enemies'
heads? Not that Norman indulged in thoughts such as these; not that
he resolved thus to gratify his pride, thus to indulge his revenge.
He was unconscious of his own sin, but he was not the less a sinner.

'No,' said he, 'I will not see him myself; it will do no good.'

Mrs. Woodward found that it was useless to try to bend him. That,
indeed, she knew from a long experience. It was then settled that
she should go up to Gertrude that morning, travelling up to town
together with Norman, and that when she had learned from her
daughter, or from Alaric--if Alaric would talk to her about his
concerns--what was really the truth of the matter, she should
come to Norman's office, and tell him what it would be necessary
for him to do.

And then the marriage was again put off. This, in itself, was a
great misery, as young ladies who have just been married, or who
may now be about to be married, will surely own. The words 'put
off' are easily written, the necessity of such a 'put off' is
easily arranged in the pages of a novel; an enforced delay of a
month or two in an affair which so many folk willingly delay for
so many years, sounds like a slight thing; but, nevertheless, a
matrimonial 'put off' is, under any circumstances, a great grief.
To have to counter-write those halcyon notes which have given
glad promise of the coming event; to pack up and put out of
sight, and, if possible, out of mind, the now odious finery with
which the house has for the last weeks been strewed; to give the
necessary information to the pastry-cook, from whose counter the
sad tidings will be disseminated through all the neighbourhood;
to annul the orders which have probably been given for rooms and
horses for the happy pair; to live, during the coming interval, a
mark for Pity's unpitying finger; to feel, and know, and hourly
calculate, how many slips there may be between the disappointed
lip and the still distant cup; all these things in themselves
make up a great grief, which is hardly lightened by the knowledge
that they have been caused by a still greater grief.

These things had Linda now to do, and the poor girl had none to
help her in the doing of them. A few hurried words were spoken on
that morning between her and Norman, and for the second time she
set to work to put off her wedding. Katie, the meantime, lay sick
in bed, and Mrs. Woodward had gone to London to learn the worst
and to do the best in this dire affliction that had come upon
them.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

ALARIC TUDOR TAKES A WALK


There is, undoubtedly, a propensity in human love to attach
itself to excellence; but it has also, as undoubtedly, a
propensity directly antagonistic to this, and which teaches it to
put forth its strongest efforts in favour of inferiority. Watch
any fair flock of children in which there may be one blighted
bud, and you will see that that blighted one is the mother's
darling. What filial affection is ever so strong as that evinced
by a child for a parent in misfortune? Even among the rough,
sympathies of schoolboys, the cripple, the sickly one, or the
orphan without a home, will find the warmest friendship and a
stretch of kindness. Love, that must bow and do reverence to
superiority, can protect and foster inferiority; and what is so
sweet as to be able to protect?

Gertrude's love for her husband had never been so strong as when
she learnt that that love must now stand in the place of all
other sympathies, of all other tenderness. Alaric told her of his
crime, and in his bitterness he owned that he was no longer
worthy of her love. She answered by opening her arms to him with
more warmth than ever, and bidding him rest his weary head upon
her breast. Had they not taken each other for better or for
worse? had not their bargain been that they would be happy
together if such should be their lot, or sad together if God
should so will it?--and would she be the first to cry off from
such a bargain?

It seldom happens that a woman's love is quenched by a man's
crime. Women in this respect are more enduring than men; they
have softer sympathies, and less acute, less selfish, appreciation
of the misery of being joined to that which has been shamed. It
was not many hours since Gertrude had boasted to herself of the
honour and honesty of her lord, and tossed her head with defiant
scorn when a breath of suspicion had been muttered against his
name. Then she heard from his own lips the whole truth, learnt
that that odious woman had only muttered what she soon would
have a right to speak out openly, knew that fame and honour,
high position and pride of life, were all gone; and then in that bitter
hour she felt that she had never loved him as she did then.

He had done wrong, he had sinned grievously; but no sooner did
she acknowledge so much than she acknowledged also that a man may
sin and yet not be all sinful; that glory may be tarnished, and
yet not utterly destroyed; that pride may get a fall, and yet
live to rise again. He had sinned, and had repented; and now to
her eyes he was again as pure as snow. Others would now doubt
him, that must needs be the case; but she would never doubt him;
no, not a whit the more in that he had once fallen. He should
still be the cynosure of her eyes, the pride of her heart, the
centre of her hopes. Marina said of her lord, when he came to her
shattered in limb, from the hands of the torturer--

  'I would not change
  My exiled, mangled, persecuted husband,
  Alive or dead, for prince or paladin,
  In story or in fable, with a world
  To back his suit.'

Gertrude spoke to herself in the same language. She would not
have changed her Alaric, branded with infamy as he now was, or
soon would be, for the proudest he that carried his head high
among the proud ones of the earth. Such is woman's love; such is
the love of which a man's heart is never capable!

Alaric's committal had taken place very much in the manner in
which it was told at the Weights and Measures. He had received a
note from one of the Bow Street magistrates, begging his
attendance in the private room at the police-office. There he had
passed nearly the whole of one day; and he was also obliged to
pass nearly the whole of another in the same office. On this
second day the proceedings were not private, and he was
accompanied by his own solicitor.

It would be needless to describe how a plain case was, as usual,
made obscure by the lawyers, how Acts of Parliament were
consulted, how the magistrate doubted, how indignant Alaric's
attorney became when it was suggested that some insignificant
piece of evidence should be admitted, which, whether admitted or
rejected, could have no real bearing on the case. In these
respects this important examination was like other important
examinations of the same kind, such as one sees in the newspapers
whenever a man above the ordinary felon's rank becomes amenable
to the outraged laws. It ended, however, in Alaric being
committed, and giving bail to stand his trial in about a
fortnight's time; and in his being assured by his attorney that
he would most certainly be acquitted. That bit of paper on which
he had made an entry that certain shares bought by him had been
bought on behalf of his ward, would save him; so said the
attorney: to which, however, Alaric answered not much. Could any
acutest lawyer, let him be made of never so fine an assortment of
forensic indignation, now whitewash his name and set him again
right before the world? He, of course, communicated with Sir
Gregory, and agreed to be suspended from his commissionership
till the trial should be over. His two colleagues then became
bail for him.

So much having been settled, he got into a cab with his attorney,
and having dropped that gentleman on the road, he returned home.
The excitement of the examination and the necessity for action
had sustained him? but now--what was to sustain him now? How was
he to get through the intervening fortnight, banished as he was
from his office, from his club, and from all haunts of men? His
attorney, who had other rogues to attend to besides him, made
certain set appointments with him--and for the rest, he might sit
at home and console himself as best he might with his own
thoughts. 'Excelsior!' This was the pass to which 'Excelsior' had
brought _Sic itur ad astro!_--Alas, his road had taken him
hitherto in quite a different direction.

He sent for Charley, and when Charley came he made Gertrude
explain to him what had happened. He had confessed his own fault
once, to his own wife, and he could not bring himself to do it
again. Charley was thunderstruck at the greatness of the ruin,
but he offered what assistance he could give. Anything that he
could do, he would. Alaric had sent for him for a purpose, and
that purpose at any rate Charley could fulfil. He went into the
city to ascertain what was now the price of the Limehouse bridge
shares, and returned with the news that they were falling,
falling, falling.

No one else called at Alaric's door that day. Mrs. Val, though
she did not come there, by no means allowed her horses to be
idle; she went about sedulously among her acquaintance, dropping
tidings of her daughter's losses. 'They will have enough left to
live upon, thank God,' said she; 'but did you ever hear of so
barefaced, so iniquitous a robbery? Well, I am not cruel; but my
own opinion is that he should certainly be hanged.'

To this Ugolina assented fully, adding, that she had been so
shocked by the suddenness and horror of the news, as to have
become perfectly incapacitated ever since for any high order of
thought.

Lactimel, whose soft bosom could not endure the idea of putting
an end to the life of a fellow-creature, suggested perpetual
banishment to the penal colonies; perhaps Norfolk Island. 'And
what will she do?' said Lactimel.

'Indeed I cannot guess,' said Ugolina; 'her education has been
sadly deficient.'

None but Charley called on Alaric that day, and he found himself
shut up alone with his wife and child. His own house seemed to
him a prison. He did not dare to leave it; he did not dare to
walk out and face the public as long as daylight continued; he
was ashamed to show himself, and so he sat alone in his dining-room
thinking, thinking, thinking. Do what he would, he could not
get those shares out of his mind; they had entered like iron into
his soul, as poison into his blood; they might still rise, they
might yet become of vast value, might pay all his debts, and
enable him to begin again. And then this had been a committee
day; he had had no means of knowing how things had gone there, of
learning the opinions of the members, of whispering to Mr. Piles,
or hearing the law on the matter laid down by the heavy deep
voice of the great Mr. Blocks. And so he went on thinking,
thinking, thinking, but ever as though he had a clock-weight
fixed to his heart and pulling at its strings. For, after all,
what were the shares or the committee to him? Let the shares rise
to ever so fabulous a value, let the Chancellor of the Exchequer
be ever so complaisant in giving away his money, what avail would
it be to him? what avail now? He must stand his trial for the
crime of which he had been guilty.

With the utmost patience Gertrude endeavoured to soothe him, and
to bring his mind into some temper in which it could employ
itself. She brought him their baby, thinking that he would play
with his child, but all that he said was--'My poor boy! I have
ruined him already;' and then turning away from the infant, he
thrust his hands deep into his trousers-pockets, and went on
calculating about the shares.

When the sun had well set, and the daylight had, at last,
dwindled out, he took up his hat and wandered out among the new
streets and rows of houses which lay between his own house and
the Western Railway. He got into a district in which he had never
been before, and as he walked about here, he thought of the fate
of other such swindlers as himself;--yes, though he did not speak
the word, he pronounced it as plainly, and as often, in the
utterance of his mind, as though it was being rung out to him
from every steeple in London; he thought of the fate of such
swindlers as himself; how one had been found dead in the streets,
poisoned by himself; how another, after facing the cleverest
lawyers in the land, was now dying in a felon's prison; how a
third had vainly endeavoured to fly from justice by aid of wigs,
false whiskers, painted furrows, and other disguises. Should he
try to escape also, and avoid the ignominy of a trial? He knew it
would be in vain; he knew that, at this moment, he was dogged at
the distance of some thirty yards by an amiable policeman in
mufti, placed to watch his motions by his two kind bailsmen, who
preferred this small expense to the risk of losing a thousand
pounds a-piece.

As he turned short round a corner, into the main road leading
from the railway station to Bayswater, he came close upon a man
who was walking quickly in the opposite direction, and found
himself face to face with Undy Scott. How on earth should Undy
Scott have come out there to Bayswater, at that hour of the
night, he, the constant denizen of clubs, the well-known
frequenter of Pall Mall, the member for the Tillietudlem burghs,
whose every hour was occupied in the looking after things
political, or things commercial? Who could have expected him in a
back road at Bayswater? There, however, he was, and Alaric,
before he knew of his presence, had almost stumbled against him.

'Scott!' said Alaric, starting back.

'Hallo, Tudor, what the deuce brings you here? but I suppose
you'll ask me the same question?' said Undy.

Alaric Tudor could not restrain himself. 'You scoundrel,' said
he, seizing Undy by the collar; 'you utterly unmitigated
scoundrel! You premeditated, wilful villain!' and he held Undy as
though he intended to choke him.

But Undy Scott was not a man to be thus roughly handled with
impunity; and in completing the education which he had received,
the use of his fists had not been overlooked. He let out with his
right hand, and struck Alaric twice with considerable force on
the side of his jaw, so that the teeth rattled in his mouth.

But Alaric, at the moment, hardly felt it. 'You have brought me
and mine to ruin,' said he; 'you have done it purposely, like a
fiend. But, low as I have fallen, I would not change places with
you for all that the earth holds. I have been a villain; but such
villany as yours--ugh--' and so saying, he flung his enemy from
him, and Undy, tottering back, saved himself against the wall.

In a continued personal contest between the two men, Undy would
probably have had the best of it, for he would certainly have
been the cooler of the two, and was also the more skilful in such
warfare; but he felt in a moment that he could gain nothing by
thrashing Tudor, whereas he might damage himself materially by
having his name brought forward at the present moment in
connexion with that of his old friend.

'You reprobate!' said he, preparing to pass on; 'it has been my
misfortune to know you, and one cannot touch pitch and not be
defiled. But, thank God, you'll come by your deserts now. If you
will take my advice you'll hang yourself;' and so they parted.

The amiable policeman in mufti remained at a convenient distance
during this little interview, having no special mission to keep
the peace, pending his present employment; but, as he passed by,
he peered into Undy's face, and recognized the honourable member
for the Tillietudlem burghs. A really sharp policeman knows every
one of any note in London. It might, perhaps, be useful that
evidence should be given at the forthcoming trial of the little
contest which we have described. If so, our friend in mufti was
prepared to give it.

On the following morning, at about eleven, a cab drove up to the
door, and Alaric, standing at the dining-room window, saw Mrs.
Woodward get out of it.

'There's your mother,' said Alaric to his wife. 'I will not see
her--let her go up to the drawing-room.'

'Oh! Alaric, will you not see mamma?'

'How can I, with my face swollen as it is now? Besides, what
would be the good? What can I say to her? I know well enough what
she has to say to me, without listening to it.'

'Dear Alaric, mamma will say nothing to you that is not kind; do
see her, for my sake, Alaric.'

But misery had not made him docile. He merely turned from her,
and shook his head impatiently. Gertrude then ran out to welcome
her mother, who was in the hall.

And what a welcoming it was! 'Come upstairs, mamma, come into the
drawing-room,' said Gertrude, who would not stop even to kiss her
mother till they found themselves secured from the servants'
eyes. She knew that one word of tenderness would bring her to the
ground.

'Mamma, mamma!' she almost shrieked, and throwing herself into
her mother's arms wept convulsively. Mrs. Woodward wanted no more
words to tell her that Alaric had been guilty.

'But, Gertrude, how much is it?' whispered the mother, as, after
a few moments of passionate grief, they sat holding each other's
hands on the sofa. 'How much money is wanting? Can we not make it
up? If it be all paid before the day of trial, will not that do?
will not that prevent it?'

Gertrude could not say. She knew that £10,000 had been
abstracted. Mrs. Woodward groaned as she heard the sum named. But
then there were those shares, which had not long since been worth
much more than half that sum, which must still be worth a large
part of it.

'But we must know, dearest, before Harry can do anything,' said
Mrs. Woodward.

Gertrude blushed crimson when Harry Norman's name was mentioned.
And had it come to that--that they must look to him for aid?

'Can you not ask him, love?' said Mrs. Woodward. 'I saw him in
the dining-room; go and ask him; when he knows that we are doing
our best for him, surely he will help us.'

Gertrude, with a heavy heart, went down on her message, and did
not return for fifteen or twenty minutes. It may easily be
conceived that Norman's name was not mentioned between her and
her husband, but she made him understand that an effort would be
made for him if only the truth could be ascertained.

'It will be of no use,' said he.

'Don't say so, Alaric; we cannot tell what may be of use. But at
any rate it will be weight off your heart to know that this money
has been paid. It is that which overpowers you now, and not your
own misfortune.'

At last he suffered her to lead him, and she put down on paper
such figures as he dictated to her. It was, however, impossible
to say what was the actual deficiency; that must depend upon the
present value of the shares; these he said he was prepared to
give over to his own attorney, if it was thought that by so doing
he should be taking the best steps towards repairing the evil he
had done; and then he began calculating how much the shares might
possibly be worth, and pointing out under what circumstances they
should be sold, and under what again they should be overheld till
the market had improved. All this was worse than Greek to
Gertrude; but she collected what facts she could, and then
returned to her mother.

And they discussed the matter with all the wit and all the
volubility which women have on such occasions. Paper was brought
forth, and accounts were made out between them, not such as would
please the eyes of a Civil Service Examiner, but yet accurate in
their way. How they worked and racked their brains, and strained
their women's nerves in planning how justice might be defeated,
and the dishonesty of the loved one covered from shame! Uncle Bat
was ready with his share. He had received such explanation as
Mrs. Woodward had been able to give, and though when he first
heard the news he had spoken severely of Alaric, still his money
should be forthcoming for the service of the family. He could
produce some fifteen hundred pounds; and would if needs be that
he should do so. Then Harry--but the pen fell from Gertrude's
fingers as she essayed to write down Harry Norman's contribution
to the relief of her husband's misery.

'Remember, Gertrude, love, in how short a time he will be your
brother.'

'But when will it be, mamma? Is it to be on Thursday, as we had
planned? Of course, mamma, I cannot be there.'

And then there was a break in their accounts, and Mrs. Woodward
explained to Gertrude that they had all thought it better to
postpone Linda's marriage till after the trial; and this, of
course was the source of fresh grief. When men such as Alaric
Tudor stoop to dishonesty, the penalties of detection are not
confined to their own hearthstone. The higher are the branches of
the tree and the wider, the greater will be the extent of earth
which its fall will disturb.

Gertrude's pen, however, again went to work. The shares were put
down at £5,000. 'If they can only be sold for so much, I think we
may manage it,' said Mrs. Woodward; 'I am sure that Harry can get
the remainder--indeed he said he could have more than that.'

'And what will Linda do?'

'Linda will never want it, love; and if she did, what of that?
would she not give all she has for you?'

And then Mrs. Woodward went her way to Norman's office, without
having spoken to Alaric. 'You will come again soon, mamma,' said
Gertrude. Mrs. Woodward promised that she would.

'And, mamma,' and she whispered close into her mother's ear, as
she made her next request; 'and, mamma, you will be with me on
that day?'

We need not follow Norman in his efforts to have her full fortune
restored to Madame Jaquêtanàpe. He was daily in connexion with
Alaric's lawyer, and returned sometimes with hope and sometimes
without it. Mrs. Val's lawyer would receive no overtures towards
a withdrawal of the charge, or even towards any mitigation in
their proceedings, unless the agent coming forward on behalf of
the lady's late trustee, did so with the full sum of £20,000 in
his hands.

We need not follow Charley, who was everyday with Alaric, and who
was, unknown to Alaric, an agent between him and Norman. 'Well,
Charley, what are they doing to-day?' was Alaric's constant
question to him, even up to the very eve of his trial.

If any spirit ever walks it must be that of the stockjobber, for
how can such a one rest in its grave without knowing what shares
are doing?



CHAPTER XXXIX

THE LAST BREAKFAST


And that day was not long in coming; indeed, it came with
terrible alacrity; much too quickly for Gertrude, much too
quickly for Norman; and much too quickly for Alaric's lawyer. To
Alaric only did the time pass slowly, for he found himself
utterly without employment.

Norman and Uncle Bat between them had raised something about
£6,000; but when the day came on which they were prepared to
dispose of the shares, the Limehouse bridge was found to be worth
nothing. They were, as the broker had said, ticklish stock; so
ticklish that no one would have them at any price. When Undy,
together with his agent from Tillietudlem, went into the market
about the same time to dispose of theirs, they were equally
unsuccessful. How the agent looked and spoke and felt may be
imagined; for the agent had made large advances, and had no other
security; but Undy had borne such looks and speeches before, and
merely said that it was very odd--extremely odd; he had been
greatly deceived by Mr. Piles. Mr. Piles also said it was very
odd; but he did not appear to be nearly so much annoyed as the
agent from Tillietudlem; and it was whispered that, queer as
things now looked, Messrs. Blocks, Piles, and Cofferdam, had not
made a bad thing of the bridge.

Overture after overture was made to the lawyer employed by Mrs.
Val's party. Norman first offered the £6,000 and the shares; then
when the shares were utterly rejected by the share-buying world,
he offered to make himself personally responsible for the
remainder of the debt, and to bind himself by bond to pay it
within six months. At first these propositions were listened to,
and Alaric's friends were led to believe that the matter would be
handled in such a way that the prosecution would fall to the
ground. But at last all composition was refused. The adverse
attorney declared, first, that he was not able to accept any
money payment short of the full amount with interest, and then he
averred, that as criminal proceedings had been taken they could
not now be stayed. Whether or no Alaric's night attack had
anything to do with this, whether Undy had been the means of
instigating this rigid adherence to justice, we are not prepared
to say.

That day for which Gertrude had prayed her mother's assistance
came all too soon. They had become at last aware that the trial
must go on. Charley was with them on the last evening, and
completed their despair by telling them that their attorney had
resolved to make no further efforts at a compromise.

Perhaps the most painful feeling to Gertrude through the whole of
the last fortnight had been the total prostration of her
husband's energy, and almost of his intellect; he seemed to have
lost the power of judging for himself, and of thinking and
deciding what conduct would be best for him in his present
condition. He who had been so energetic, so full of life, so
ready for all emergencies, so clever at devices, so able to
manage not only for himself but for his friends, he was, as it
were, paralysed and unmanned. He sat from morning to night
looking at the empty fire-grate, and hardly ventured to speak of
the ordeal that he had to undergo.

His lawyer was to call for him on the morning of the trial, and
Mrs. Woodward was to be at the house soon after he had left it.
He had not yet seen her since the inquiry had commenced, and it
was very plain that he did not wish to do so. Mrs. Woodward was
to be there and to remain till his fate had been decided, and
then--Not a word had yet been said as to the chance of his not
returning; but Mrs. Woodward was aware that he would probably be
unable to do so, and felt, that if such should be the case, she
could not leave her daughter alone.

And so Alaric and his wife sat down to breakfast on that last
morning. She had brought their boy down; but as she perceived
that the child's presence did not please his father, he had been
sent back to the nursery, and they were alone. She poured out his
tea for him, put bread upon his plate, and then sat down close
beside him, endeavouring to persuade him to eat. She had never
yet found fault with him, she had never even ventured to give him
counsel, but now she longed to entreat him to collect himself and
take a man's part in the coming trial. He sat in the seat
prepared for him, but, instead of eating, he thrust his hands
after his accustomed manner into his pockets and sat glowering at
the teacups.

'Come, Alaric, won't you eat your breakfast?' said she.

'No; breakfast! no-how can I eat now? how can you think that I
could eat at such a time as this? Do you take yours; never mind
me.'

'But, dearest, you will be faint if you do not eat; think what you
have to go through; remember how many eyes will be on you to-day.'

He shuddered violently as she spoke, and motioned to her with his
hand not to go on with what she was saying.

'I know, I know,' said she passionately, 'dearest, dearest love--I
know how dreadful it is; would that I could bear it for you! would
that I could!'

He turned away his head, for a tear was in his eye. It was the
first that had come to his assistance since this sorrow had come
upon him.

'Don't turn from me, dearest Alaric; do not turn from me now at
our last moments. To me at least you are the same noble Alaric
that you ever were.'

'Noble!' said he, with all the self-scorn which he so truly felt.

'To me you are, now as ever; but, Alaric, I do so fear that you
will want strength, physical strength, you know, to go through
all this. I would have you bear yourself like a man before them
all.'

'It will be but little matter,' said he.

'It will be matter. It will be matter to me. My darling, darling
husband, rouse yourself,' and she knelt before his knees and
prayed to him; 'for my sake do it; eat and drink that you may
have the power of a man when all the world is looking at you. If
God forgives us our sins, surely we should so carry ourselves
that men may not be ashamed to do so.'

He did not answer her, but he turned to the table and broke the
bread, and put his lips to the cup. And then she gave him food as
she would give it to a child, and he with a child's obedience ate
and drank what was put before him. As he did so, every now and
again a single tear forced itself beneath his eyelid and trickled
down his face, and in some degree Gertrude was comforted.

He had hardly finished his enforced breakfast when the cab and
the lawyer came to the door. The learned gentleman had the good
taste not to come in, and so the servant told them that Mr.
Gitemthruet was there.

'Say that your master will be with him in a minute,' said
Gertrude, quite coolly; and then the room door was again closed,
and the husband and wife had now to say adieu.

Alaric rose from his chair and made a faint attempt to smile.
'Well, Gertrude,' said he, 'it has come at last.'

She rushed into his embrace, and throwing her arms around him,
buried her face upon his breast. 'Alaric, Alaric, my husband! my
love, my best, my own, my only love!'

'I cannot say much now, Gertrude, but I know how good you are;
you will come and see me, if they will let you, won't you?'

'See you!' said she, starting back, but still holding him and
looking up earnestly into his face. 'See you!' and then she
poured out her love with all the passion of a Ruth: '"Whither
thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge....
Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried; the
Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and
me." See you, Alaric; oh, it cannot be that they will hinder the
wife from being with her husband. But, Alaric,' she went on, 'do
not droop now, love--will you?'

'I cannot brazen it out,' said he. 'I know too well what it is
that I have done.'

'No, not that, Alaric; I would not have that. But remember, all
is not over, whatever they may do. Ah, how little will really be
over, whatever they can do! You have repented, have you not,
Alaric?'

'I think so, I hope so,' said Alaric, with his eyes upon the
ground.

'You have repented, and are right before God; do not fear then
what man can do to you. I would not have you brazen, Alaric; but
be manly, be collected, be your own self, the man that I have
loved, the man that I do now love so well, better, better than
ever;' and she threw herself on him and kissed him and clung to
him, and stroked his hair and put her hand upon his face, and
then holding him from her, looked up to him as though he were a
hero whom she all but worshipped.

'Gertrude, Gertrude--that I should have brought you to this!'

'Never mind,' said she; 'we will win through it yet--we will yet
be happy together, far, far away from here--remember that--let
that support you through all. And now, Alaric, you will come up
for one moment and kiss him before you go.'

'The man will be impatient.'

'Never mind; let him be impatient-you shall not go away without
blessing your boy; come up, Alaric.' And she took him by the hand
and led him like a child into the nursery.

'Where is the nurse? bring him here--papa is going away--Alley,
boy, give papa a big kiss.'

Alaric, for the first time for the fortnight, took the little
fellow into his arms and kissed him. 'God bless you, my bairn,'
said he, 'and grant that all this may never be visited against
you, here or hereafter!'

'And now go,' said Gertrude, as they descended the stairs
together, 'and may God in His mercy watch over and protect you
and give you back to me! And, Alaric, wherever you are I will be
close to you, remember that. I will be quite, quite close to you.
Now, one kiss--oh, dearest, dearest Alaric--there--there--now
go.' And so he went, and Gertrude shutting herself into her room
threw herself on to the bed, and wept aloud.



CHAPTER XL

MR. CHAFFANBRASS


We must now follow Alaric to his trial. He was, of course, much
too soon at court. All people always are, who are brought to the
court perforce, criminals for instance, and witnesses, and other
such-like unfortunate wretches; whereas many of those who only go
there to earn their bread are very often as much too late. He was
to be tried at the Old Bailey. As I have never seen the place,
and as so many others have seen it, I will not attempt to
describe it. Here Mr. Gitemthruet was quite at home; he hustled
and jostled, elbowed and ordered, as though he were the second
great man of the place, and the client whom he was to defend was
the first. In this latter opinion he was certainly right. Alaric
was the hero of the day, and people made way for him as though he
had won a victory in India, and was going to receive the freedom
of the city in a box. As he passed by, a gleam of light fell on
him from a window, and at the instant three different artists had
him photographed, daguerreotyped, and bedevilled; four graphic
members of the public press took down the details of his hat,
whiskers, coat, trousers, and boots; and the sub-editor of the
_Daily Delight_ observed that 'there was a slight tremor in
the first footstep which he took within the precincts of the
prison, but in every other respect his demeanour was dignified
and his presence manly; he had light-brown gloves, one of which
was on his left hand, but the other was allowed to swing from his
fingers. The court was extremely crowded, and some fair ladies
appeared there to grace its customarily ungracious walls. On the
bench we observed Lord Killtime, Sir Gregory Hardlines, and Mr.
Whip Vigil. Mr. Undecimus Scott, who had been summoned as a
witness by the prisoner, was also accommodated by the sheriffs
with a seat.' Such was the opening paragraph of the seven columns
which were devoted by the _Daily Delight_ to the all-absorbing
subject.

But Mr. Gitemthruet made his way through artists, reporters, and
the agitated crowd with that happy air of command which can so
easily be assumed by men at a moment's notice, when they feel
themselves to be for that moment of importance. 'Come this way,
Mr. Tudor; follow me and we will get on without any trouble; just
follow me close,' said Mr. Gitemthruet to his client, in a
whisper which was audible to not a few. Tudor, who was essaying,
and not altogether unsuccessfully, to bear the public gaze
undismayed, did as he was bid, and followed Mr. Gitemthruet.

'Now,' said the attorney, 'we'll sit here--Mr. Chaffanbrass will
be close to us, there; so that I can touch him up as we go along;
of course, you know, you can make any suggestion, only you must
do it through me. Here's his lordship; uncommon well he looks,
don't he? You'd hardly believe him to be seventy-seven, but he's
not a day less, if he isn't any more; and he has as much work in
him yet as you or I, pretty nearly. If you want to insure a man's
life, Mr. Tudor, put him on the bench; then he'll never die. We
lawyers are not like bishops, who are always for giving up, and
going out on a pension.'

But Alaric was not at the moment inclined to meditate much on the
long years of judges. He was thinking, or perhaps trying to
think, whether it would not be better for him to save this crowd
that was now gathered together all further trouble, and plead
guilty at once. He knew he was guilty, he could not understand
that it was possible that any juryman should have a doubt about
it; he had taken the money that did not belong to him; that would
be made quite clear; he had taken it, and had not repaid it;
there was the absolute _corpus delicti_ in court, in the shape
of a deficiency of some thousands of pounds. What possible
doubt would there be in the breast of anyone as to his guilt? Why
should he vex his own soul by making himself for a livelong day
the gazing-stock for the multitude? Why should he trouble all
those wigged counsellors, when one word from him would set all at
rest?

'Mr. Gitemthruet, I think I'll plead guilty,' said he.

'Plead what!' said Mr. Gitemthruet, turning round upon his client
with a sharp, angry look. It was the first time that his attorney
had shown any sign of disgust, displeasure, or even disapprobation
since he had taken Alaric's matter in hand. 'Plead what! Ah, you're
joking, I know; upon my soul you gave me a start.'

Alaric endeavoured to explain to him that he was not joking, nor
in a mood to joke; but that he really thought the least vexatious
course would be for him to plead guilty.

'Then I tell you it would be the most vexatious proceeding ever I
heard of in all my practice. But you are in my hands, Mr. Tudor,
and you can't do it. You have done me the honour to come to me,
and now you must be ruled by me. Plead guilty! Why, with such a
case as you have got, you would disgrace yourself for ever if you
did so. Think of your friends, Mr. Tudor, if you won't think of
me or of yourself.'

His lawyer's eloquence converted him, and he resolved that he
would run his chance. During this time all manner of little legal
preliminaries had been going on; and now the court was ready for
business; the jury were in their box, the court-keeper cried
silence, and Mr. Gitemthruet was busy among his papers with
frantic energy. But nothing was yet seen of the great Mr.
Chaffanbrass.

'I believe we may go on with the trial for breach of trust,' said
the judge. 'I do not know why we are waiting.'

Then up and spoke Mr. Younglad, who was Alaric's junior counsel.
Mr. Younglad was a promising common-law barrister, now commencing
his career, of whom his friends were beginning to hope that he
might, if he kept his shoulders well to the collar, at some
distant period make a living out of his profession. He was
between forty and forty-five years of age, and had already
overcome the natural diffidence of youth in addressing a learned
bench and a crowded court.

'My lud,' said Younglad, 'my learned friend, Mr. Chaffanbrass,
who leads for the prisoner, is not yet in court. Perhaps, my lud,
on behalf of my client, I may ask for a few moments' delay.'

'And if Mr. Chaffanbrass has undertaken to lead for the prisoner,
why is he not in court?' said the judge, looking as though he had
uttered a poser which must altogether settle Mr. Younglad's
business.

But Mr. Younglad had not been sitting, and walking and listening,
let alone talking occasionally, in criminal courts, for the last
twenty years, to be settled so easily.

'My lud, if your ludship will indulge me with five minutes'
delay--we will not ask more than five minutes--your ludship
knows, no one better, the very onerous duties--'

'When I was at the bar I took no briefs to which I could not
attend,' said the judge.

'I am sure you did not, my lud; and my learned friend, should he
ever sit in your ludship's seat, will be able to say as much for
himself, when at some future time he may be--; but, my lud, Mr.
Chaffanbrass is now in court.' And as he spoke, Mr. Chaffanbrass,
carrying in his hand a huge old blue bag, which, as he entered,
he took from his clerk's hands, and bearing on the top of his
head a wig that apparently had not been dressed for the last ten
years, made his way in among the barristers, caring little on
whose toes he trod, whose papers he upset, or whom he elbowed on
his road. Mr. Chaffanbrass was the cock of this dunghill, and
well he knew how to make his crowing heard there.

'And now, pray, let us lose no more time,' said the judge.

'My lord, if time has been lost through me, I am very sorry; but
if your lordship's horse had fallen down in the street as mine
did just now----'

'My horse never falls down in the street, Mr. Chaffanbrass.'

'Some beasts, my lord, can always keep their legs under them, and
others can't; and men are pretty much in the same condition. I
hope the former may be the case with your lordship and your
lordship's cob for many years.' The judge, knowing of old that
nothing could prevent Mr. Chaffanbrass from having the last word,
now held his peace, and the trial began.

There are not now too many pages left to us for the completion of
our tale; but, nevertheless, we must say a few words about Mr.
Chaffanbrass. He was one of an order of barristers by no means
yet extinct, but of whom it may be said that their peculiarities
are somewhat less often seen than they were when Mr. Chaffanbrass
was in his prime. He confined his practice almost entirely to one
class of work, the defence, namely, of culprits arraigned for
heavy crimes, and in this he was, if not unrivalled, at least
unequalled. Rivals he had, who, thick as the skins of such men
may be presumed to be, not unfrequently writhed beneath the
lashes which his tongue could inflict. To such a perfection had
he carried his skill and power of fence, so certain was he in
attack, so invulnerable when attacked, that few men cared to come
within the reach of his forensic flail. To the old stagers who
were generally opposed to him, the gentlemen who conducted
prosecutions on the part of the Crown, and customarily spent
their time and skill in trying to hang those marauders on the
public safety whom it was the special business of Mr. Chaffanbrass
to preserve unhung, to these he was, if not civil, at least forbearing;
but when any barrister, who was comparatively a stranger to him,
ventured to oppose him, there was no measure to his impudent
sarcasm and offensive sneers.

Those, however, who most dreaded Mr. Chaffanbrass, and who had
most occasion to do so, were the witnesses. A rival lawyer could
find a protection on the bench when his powers of endurance were
tried too far; but a witness in a court of law has no protection.
He comes there unfeed, without hope of guerdon, to give such
assistance to the State in repressing crime and assisting justice
as his knowledge in this particular case may enable him to
afford; and justice, in order to ascertain whether his testimony
be true, finds it necessary to subject him to torture. One would
naturally imagine that an undisturbed thread of clear evidence
would be best obtained from a man whose position was made easy
and whose mind was not harassed; but this is not the fact: to
turn a witness to good account, he must be badgered this way and
that till he is nearly mad; he must be made a laughingstock for
the court; his very truths must be turned into falsehoods, so
that he may be falsely shamed; he must be accused of all manner
of villany, threatened with all manner of punishment; he must be
made to feel that he has no friend near him, that the world is
all against him; he must be confounded till he forget his right
hand from his left, till his mind be turned into chaos, and his
heart into water; and then let him give his evidence. What will
fall from his lips when in this wretched collapse must be of
special value, for the best talents of practised forensic heroes
are daily used to bring it about; and no member of the Humane
Society interferes to protect the wretch. Some sorts of torture
are, as it were, tacitly allowed even among humane people. Eels
are skinned alive, and witnesses are sacrificed, and no one's
blood curdles at the sight, no soft heart is sickened at the
cruelty.

To apply the thumbscrew, the boot, and the rack to the victim
before him was the work of Mr. Chaffanbrass's life. And it may be
said of him that the labour he delighted in physicked pain. He
was as little averse to this toil as the cat is to that of
catching mice. And, indeed, he was not unlike a cat in his method
of proceeding; for he would, as it were, hold his prey for a
while between his paws, and pat him with gentle taps before he
tore him. He would ask a few civil little questions in his
softest voice, glaring out of his wicked old eye as he did so at
those around him, and then, when he had his mouse well in hand,
out would come his envenomed claw, and the wretched animal would
feel the fatal wound in his tenderest part.

Mankind in general take pleasure in cruelty, though those who are
civilized abstain from it on principle. On the whole Mr.
Chaffanbrass is popular at the Old Bailey. Men congregate to hear
him turn a witness inside out, and chuckle with an inward
pleasure at the success of his cruelty. This Mr. Chaffanbrass
knows, and, like an actor who is kept up to his high mark by the
necessity of maintaining his character, he never allows himself
to grow dull over his work. Therefore Mr. Chaffanbrass bullies
when it is quite unnecessary that he should bully; it is a labour
of love; and though he is now old, and stiff in his joints,
though ease would be dear to him, though like a gladiator
satiated with blood, he would as regards himself be so pleased to
sheathe his sword, yet he never spares himself. He never spares
himself, and he never spares his victim.

As a lawyer, in the broad and high sense of the word, it may be
presumed that Mr. Chaffanbrass knows little or nothing. He has,
indeed, no occasion for such knowledge. His business is to
perplex a witness and bamboozle a jury, and in doing that he is
generally successful. He seldom cares for carrying the judge with
him: such tactics, indeed, as his are not likely to tell upon a
judge. That which he loves is, that a judge should charge against
him, and a jury give a verdict in his favour. When he achieves
that he feels that he has earned his money. Let others, the young
lads and spooneys of his profession, undertake the milk-and-water
work of defending injured innocence; it is all but an insult to
his practised ingenuity to invite his assistance to such
tasteless business. Give him a case in which he has all the world
against him; Justice with her sword raised high to strike; Truth
with open mouth and speaking eyes to tell the bloody tale;
outraged humanity shrieking for punishment; a case from which
Mercy herself, with averted eyes, has loathing turned and bade
her sterner sister do her work; give him such a case as this, and
then you will see Mr. Chaffanbrass in his glory. Let him, by the
use of his high art, rescue from the gallows and turn loose upon
the world the wretch whose hands are reeking with the blood of
father, mother, wife, and brother, and you may see Mr. Chaffanbrass,
elated with conscious worth, rub his happy hands with infinite
complacency. Then will his ambition be satisfied, and he will feel
that in the verdict of the jury he has received the honour due to
his genius. He will have succeeded in turning black into white,
in washing the blackamoor, in dressing in the fair robe of innocence
the foulest, filthiest wretch of his day; and as he returns to his home,
he will be proudly conscious that he is no little man.

In person, however, Mr. Chaffanbrass is a little man, and a very
dirty little man. He has all manner of nasty tricks about him,
which make him a disagreeable neighbour to barristers sitting
near to him. He is profuse with snuff, and very generous with his
handkerchief. He is always at work upon his teeth, which do not
do much credit to his industry. His wig is never at ease upon his
head, but is poked about by him, sometimes over one ear,
sometimes over the other, now on the back of his head, and then
on his nose; and it is impossible to say in which guise he looks
most cruel, most sharp, and most intolerable. His linen is never
clean, his hands never washed, and his clothes apparently never
new. He is about five feet six in height, and even with that
stoops greatly. His custom is to lean forward, resting with both
hands on the sort of desk before him, and then to fix his small
brown basilisk eye on the victim in the box before him. In this
position he will remain unmoved by the hour together, unless the
elevation and fall of his thick eyebrows and the partial closing
of his wicked eyes can be called motion. But his tongue! that
moves; there is the weapon which he knows how to use!

Such is Mr. Chaffanbrass in public life; and those who only know
him in public life can hardly believe that at home he is one of
the most easy, good-tempered, amiable old gentlemen that ever was
pooh-poohed by his grown-up daughters, and occasionally told to
keep himself quiet in a corner. Such, however, is his private
character. Not that he is a fool in his own house; Mr. Chaffanbrass
can never be a fool; but he is so essentially good-natured, so
devoid of any feeling of domestic tyranny, so placid in his
domesticities, that he chooses to be ruled by his own children.
But in his own way he is fond of hospitality; he delights in a cosy
glass of old port with an old friend in whose company he may
be allowed to sit in his old coat and old slippers. He delights
also in his books, in his daughters' music, and in three or four
live pet dogs, and birds, and squirrels, whom morning and night
he feeds with his own hands. He is charitable, too, and subscribes
largely to hospitals founded for the relief of the suffering poor.

Such was Mr. Chaffanbrass, who had been selected by the astute
Mr. Gitemthruet to act as leading counsel on behalf of Alaric. If
any human wisdom could effect the escape of a client in such
jeopardy, the wisdom of Mr. Chaffanbrass would be likely to do
it; but, in truth, the evidence was so strong against him, that
even this Newgate hero almost feared the result.

I will not try the patience of anyone by stating in detail all
the circumstances of the trial. In doing so I should only copy,
or, at any rate, might copy, the proceedings at some of those
modern _causes célèbres_ with which all those who love such
subjects are familiar. And why should I force such matters on
those who do not love them? The usual opening speech was made by
the chief man on the prosecuting side, who, in the usual manner,
declared 'that his only object was justice; that his heart bled
within him to see a man of such acknowledged public utility as
Mr. Tudor in such a position; that he sincerely hoped that the
jury might find it possible to acquit him, but that--' And then
went into his 'but' with so much venom that it was clearly
discernible to all, that in spite of his protestations, his heart
was set upon a conviction.

When he had finished, the witnesses for the prosecution were
called--the poor wretches whose fate it was to be impaled alive
that day by Mr. Chaffanbrass. They gave their evidence, and in
due course were impaled. Mr. Chaffanbrass had never been greater.
The day was hot, and he thrust his wig back till it stuck rather
on the top of his coat-collar than on his head; his forehead
seemed to come out like the head of a dog from his kennel, and he
grinned with his black teeth, and his savage eyes twinkled, till
the witnesses sank almost out of sight as they gazed at him.

And yet they had very little to prove, and nothing that he could
disprove. They had to speak merely to certain banking transactions,
to say that certain moneys had been so paid in and so drawn out,
in stating which they had their office books to depend on. But
not the less on this account were they made victims. To one
clerk it was suggested that he might now and then, once in three
months or so, make an error in a figure; and, having acknowledged
this, he was driven about until he admitted that it was very possible
that every entry he made in the bank books in the course of the
year was false. 'And you, such as you,' said Mr. Chaffanbrass, 'do
you dare to come forward to give evidence on commercial affairs?
Go down, sir, and hide your ignominy.' The wretch, convinced that
he was ruined for ever, slunk out of court, and was ashamed to
show himself at his place of business for the next three days.

There were ten or twelve witnesses, all much of the same sort,
who proved among them that this sum of twenty thousand pounds had
been placed at Alaric's disposal, and that now, alas! the twenty
thousand pounds were not forthcoming. It seemed to be a very
simple case; and, to Alaric's own understanding, it seemed
impossible that his counsel should do anything for him. But as
each impaled victim shrank with agonized terror from the torture,
Mr. Gitemthruet would turn round to Alaric and assure him that
they were going on well, quite as well as he had expected. Mr.
Chaffanbrass was really exerting himself; and when Mr. Chaffanbrass
did really exert himself he rarely failed.

And so the long day faded itself away in the hot sweltering
court, and his lordship, at about seven o'clock, declared his
intention of adjourning. Of course a _cause célèbre_ such as
this was not going to decide itself in one day. Alaric's guilt
was clear as daylight to all concerned; but a man who had risen
to be a Civil Service Commissioner, and to be entrusted with the
guardianship of twenty thousand pounds, was not to be treated
like a butcher who had merely smothered his wife in an ordinary
way, or a housebreaker who had followed his professional career
to its natural end; more than that was due to the rank and
station of the man, and to the very respectable retaining fee
with which Mr. Gitemthruet had found himself enabled to secure
the venom of Mr. Chaffanbrass. So the jury retired to regale
themselves _en masse_ at a neighbouring coffee-house; Alaric
was again permitted to be at large on bail (the amiable policeman
in mufti still attending him at a distance); and Mr. Chaffanbrass
and his lordship retired to prepare themselves by rest for the
morrow's labours.

But what was Alaric to do? He soon found himself under the
guardianship of the constant Gitemthruet in a neighbouring
tavern, and his cousin Charley was with him. Charley had been in
court the whole day, except that he had twice posted down to the
West End in a cab to let Gertrude and Mrs. Woodward know how
things were going on. He had posted down and posted back again,
and, crowded as the court had been, he had contrived to make his
way in, using that air of authority to which the strongest-minded
policeman will always bow; till at last the very policemen
assisted him, as though he were in some way connected with the
trial.

On his last visit at Gertrude's house he had told her that it was
very improbable that the trial should be finished that day. She
had then said nothing as to Alaric's return to his own house; it
had indeed not occurred to her that he would be at liberty to do
so: Charley at once caught at this, and strongly recommended his
cousin to remain where he was. 'You will gain nothing by going
home,' said he; 'Gertrude does not expect you; Mrs. Woodward is
there; and it will be better for all parties that you should
remain.' Mr. Gitemthruet strongly backed his advice, and Alaric,
so counselled, resolved to remain where he was. Charley promised
to stay with him, and the policeman in mufti, without making any
promise at all, silently acquiesced in the arrangement. Charley
made one more visit to the West, saw Norman at his lodgings, and
Mrs. Woodward and Gertrude in Albany Place, and then returned to
make a night of it with Alaric. We need hardly say that Charley
made a night of it in a very different manner from that to which
he and his brother navvies were so well accustomed.



CHAPTER XLI

THE OLD BAILEY


The next morning, at ten o'clock, the court was again crowded.
The judge was again on his bench, prepared for patient endurance;
and Lord Killtime and Sir Gregory Hardlines were alongside of
him. The jury were again in their box, ready with pen and paper
to give their brightest attention--a brightness which will be dim
enough before the long day be over; the counsel for the
prosecution were rummaging among their papers; the witnesses for
the defence were sitting there among the attorneys, with the
exception of the Honourable Undecimus Scott, who was accommodated
with a seat near the sheriff, and whose heart, to tell the truth,
was sinking somewhat low within his breast, in spite of the glass
of brandy with which he had fortified himself. Alaric was again
present under the wings of Mr. Gitemthruet; and the great Mr.
Chaffanbrass was in his place. He was leaning over a slip of
paper which he held in his hand, and with compressed lips was
meditating his attack upon his enemies; on this occasion his wig
was well over his eyes, and as he peered up from under it to the
judge's face, he cocked his nose with an air of supercilious
contempt for all those who were immediately around him.

It was for him to begin the day's sport by making a speech, not
so much in defence of his client as in accusation of the
prosecutors. 'It had never,' he said, 'been his fate, he might
say his misfortune, to hear a case against a man in a respectable
position, opened by the Crown with such an amount of envenomed
virulence.' He was then reminded that the prosecution was not
carried on by the Crown. 'Then,' said he, 'we may attribute this
virulence to private malice; that it is not to be attributed to
any fear that this English bride should lose her fortune, or that
her French husband should be deprived of any portion of his
spoil, I shall be able to prove to a certainty. Did I allow
myself that audacity of denunciation which my learned friend has
not considered incompatible with the dignity of his new silk
gown? Could I permit myself such latitude of invective as he has
adopted?'--a slight laugh was here heard in the court, and an
involuntary smile played across the judge's face--'yes,'
continued Mr. Chaffanbrass, 'I boldly aver that I have never
forgotten myself, and what is due to humanity, as my learned
friend did in his address to the jury. Gentlemen of the jury, you
will not confound the natural indignation which counsel must feel
when defending innocence from the false attacks, with the
uncalled-for, the unprofessional acerbity which has now been used
in promoting such an accusation as this. I may at times be angry,
when I see mean falsehood before me in vain assuming the garb of
truth--for with such juries as I meet here it generally is in
vain--I may at times forget myself in anger; but, if we talk of
venom, virulence, and eager hostility, I yield the palm, without
a contest, to my learned friend in the new silk gown.'

He then went on to dispose of the witnesses whom they had heard
on the previous day, and expressed a regret that an _exposé_
should have been made so disgraceful to the commercial establishments
of this great commercial city. It only showed what was the effect
on such establishments of that undue parsimony which was now
one of the crying evils of the times. Having thus shortly disposed
of them, he came to what all men knew was the real interest of
the day's doings. 'But,' said he, 'the evidence in this case, to
which your attention will be chiefly directed, will be, not that for
the accusation, but that for the defence. It will be my business
to show to you, not only that my client is guiltless, but to what
temptations to be guilty he has been purposely and wickedly
subjected. I shall put into that bar an honourable member of the
House of Commons, who will make some revelations as to his own
life, who will give us an insight into the ways and means of a legislator,
which will probably surprise us all, not excluding his lordship on
the bench. He will be able to explain to us--and I trust I may be
able to induce him to do so, for it is possible that he may be a little
coy--he will be able to explain to us why my client, who is in no
way connected either with the Scotts, or the Golightlys, or the
Figgs, or the Jaquêtanàpes, why he was made the lady's trustee;
and he will also, perhaps, tell us, after some slight, gentle persuasion,
whether he has himself handled, or attempted to handle, any of
this lady's money.'

Mr. Chaffanbrass then went on to state that, as the forms of the
court would not give him the power of addressing the jury again,
he must now explain to them what he conceived to be the facts of
the case. He then admitted that his client, in his anxiety to do
the best he could with the fortune entrusted to him, had invested
it badly. The present fate of these unfortunate bridge shares, as
to which the commercial world had lately held so many different
opinions, proved that: but it had nevertheless been a _bona
fide_ investment, made in conjunction with, and by the advice
of, Mr. Scott, the lady's uncle, who thus, for his own purposes,
got possession of money which was in truth confided to him for
other purposes. His client, Mr. Chaffanbrass acknowledged, had
behaved with great indiscretion; but the moment he found that the
investment would be an injurious one to the lady whose welfare
was in his hands, he at once resolved to make good the whole
amount from his own pocket. That he had done so, or, at any rate,
would have done so, but for this trial, would be proved to them.
Nobler conduct than this it was impossible to imagine. Whereas,
the lady's uncle, the honourable member of Parliament, the
gentleman who had made a stalking-horse of his, Mr. Chaffanbrass's,
client, refused to refund a penny of the spoil, and was now the
instigator of this most unjust proceeding.

As Mr. Chaffanbrass thus finished his oration, Undy Scott tried
to smile complacently on those around him. But why did the big
drops of sweat stand on his brow as his eye involuntarily caught
those of Mr. Chaffanbrass? Why did he shuffle his feet, and
uneasily move his hands and feet hither and thither, as a man
does when he tries in vain to be unconcerned? Why did he pull his
gloves on and off, and throw himself back with that affected air
which is so unusual to him? All the court was looking at him, and
every one knew that he was wretched. Wretched! aye, indeed he
was; for the assurance even of an Undy Scott, the hardened man of
the clubs, the thrice elected and twice rejected of Tillietudlem,
fell prostrate before the well-known hot pincers of Chaffanbrass,
the torturer!

The first witness called was Henry Norman. Alaric looked up for a
moment with surprise, and then averted his eyes. Mr. Gitemthruet
had concealed from him the fact that Norman was to be called.
He merely proved this, that having heard from Mrs. Woodward,
who was the prisoner's mother-in-law, and would soon be his own
mother-in-law, that a deficiency had been alleged to exist in
the fortune of Madame Jaquêtanàpe, he had, on the part of Mrs.
Woodward, produced what he believed would cover this deficiency,
and that when he had been informed that more money was wanting,
he had offered to give security that the whole should be paid in
six months. Of course, on him Mr. Chaffanbrass exercised none of
his terrible skill, and as the lawyers on the other side declined
to cross-examine him, he was soon able to leave the court. This
he did speedily, for he had no desire to witness Alaric's misery.

And then the Honourable Undecimus Scott was put into the
witness-box. It was suggested, on his behalf, that he might give
his evidence from the seat which he then occupied, but this Mr.
Chaffanbrass would by no means allow. His intercourse with Mr.
Scott, he said, must be of a nearer, closer, and more confidential
nature than such an arrangement as that would admit. A witness,
to his way of thinking, was never an efficient witness till he had
his arm on the rail of a witness-box. He must trouble Mr. Scott to
descend from the grandeur of his present position; he might return
to his seat after he had been examined--if he then should have
a mind to do so. Our friend Undy found that he had to obey, and
he was soon confronted with Mr. Chaffanbrass in the humbler
manner which that gentleman thought so desirable.

'You are a member of the House of Commons, I believe, Mr. Scott?'
began Mr. Chaffanbrass.

Undy acknowledged that he was so.

'And you are the son of a peer, I believe?'

'A Scotch peer,' said Undy.

'Oh, a Scotch peer,' said Mr. Chaffanbrass, bringing his wig
forward over his left eye in a manner that was almost irresistible
--'a Scotch peer--a member of Parliament, and son of a Scotch
peer; and you have been a member of the Government, I believe,
Mr. Scott?'

Undy confessed that he had been in office for a short time.

'A member of Parliament, a son of a peer, and one of the
Government of this great and free country. You ought to be a
proud and a happy man. You are a man of fortune, too, I believe,
Mr. Scott?'

'That is a matter of opinion,' said Undy; 'different people have
different ideas. I don't know what you call fortune.'

'Why I call £20,000 a fortune--this sum that the lady had who
married the Frenchman. Have you £20,000?'

'I shall not answer that question.'

'Have you £10,000? You surely must have as much as that, as I know
you married a fortune yourself,--unless, indeed, a false-hearted
trustee has got hold of your money also. Come, have you got
£10,000?'

'I shall not answer you.'

'Have you got any income at all? Now, I demand an answer to that
on your oath, sir.'

'My lord, must I answer such questions?' said Undy.

'Yes, sir; you must answer them, and many more like them,' said
Mr. Chaffanbrass. 'My lord, it is essential to my client that I
should prove to the jury whether this witness is or is not a
penniless adventurer; if he be a respectable member of society,
he can have no objection to let me know whether he has the means
of living.'

'Perhaps, Mr. Scott,' said the judge, 'you will not object to
state whether or no you possess any fixed income.'

'Have you, or have you not, got an income on which you live?'
demanded Mr. Chaffanbrass.

'I have an income,' said Undy, not, however, in a voice that
betokened much self-confidence in the strength of his own answer.

'You have an income, have you? And now, Mr. Scott, will you tell
us what profession you follow at this moment with the object of
increasing your income? I think we may surmise, by the tone of
your voice, that your income is not very abundant.'

'I have no profession,' said Undy.

'On your oath, you are in no profession?'

'Not at present.'

'On your oath, you are not a stock-jobber?'

Undy hesitated for a moment.

'By the virtue of your oath, sir, are you a stock-jobber, or are
you not?'

'No, I am not. At least, I believe not.'

'You believe not!' said Mr. Chaffanbrass--and it would be
necessary to hear the tone in which this was said to understand
the derision which was implied. 'You believe you are not a
stock-jobber! Are you, or are you not, constantly buying shares and
selling shares--railway shares--bridge shares--mining shares--and
such-like?'

'I sometimes buy shares.'

'And sometimes sell them?'

'Yes--and sometimes sell them.'

Where Mr. Chaffanbrass had got his exact information, we cannot
say; but very exact information he had acquired respecting Undy's
little transactions. He questioned him about the Mary Janes and
Old Friendships, about the West Corks and the Ballydehob Branch,
about sundry other railways and canals, and finally about the
Limehouse bridge; and then again he asked his former question.
'And now,' said he, 'will you tell the jury whether you are a
stock-jobber or no?'

'It is all a matter of opinion,' said Undy. 'Perhaps I may be, in
your sense of the word.'

'My sense of the word!' said Mr. Chaffanbrass. 'You are as much a
stock-jobber, sir, as that man is a policeman, or his lordship is
a judge. And now, Mr. Scott, I am sorry that I must go back to
your private affairs, respecting which you are so unwilling to
speak. I fear I must trouble you to tell me this--How did you
raise the money with which you bought that latter batch--the
large lump of the bridge shares--of which we were speaking?'

'I borrowed it from Mr. Tudor,' said Undy, who had prepared
himself to answer this question glibly.

'You borrowed it from Mr. Alaric Tudor--that is, from the
gentleman now upon his trial. You borrowed it, I believe, just at
the time that he became the lady's trustee?'

'Yes,' said Undy; 'I did so.'

'You have not repaid him as yet?'

'No--not yet,' said Undy.

'I thought not. Can you at all say when Mr. Tudor may probably
get his money?'

'I am not at present prepared to name a day. When the money was
lent it was not intended that it should be repaid at an early
day.'

'Oh! Mr. Tudor did not want his money at an early day--didn't he?
But, nevertheless, he has, I believe, asked for it since, and
that very pressingly?'

'He has never asked for it,' said Undy.

'Allow me to remind you, Mr. Scott, that I have the power of
putting my client into that witness-box, although he is on his
trial; and, having so reminded you, let me again beg you to say
whether he has not asked you for repayment of this large sum of
money very pressingly.'

'No; he has never done so.'

'By the value of your oath, sir--if it has any value--did not my
client beseech you to allow these shares to be sold while they
were yet saleable, in order that your niece's trust money might
be replaced in the English funds?'

'He said something as to the expediency of selling them, and I
differed from him.'

'You thought it would be better for the lady's interest that they
should remain unsold?'

'I made no question of the lady's interest. I was not her
trustee.'

'But the shares were bought with the lady's money.'

'What shares?' asked Undy.

'What shares, sir? Those shares which you had professed to hold
on the lady's behalf, and which afterwards you did not scruple to
call your own. Those shares of yours--since you have the
deliberate dishonesty so to call them--those shares of yours,
were they not bought with the lady's money?'

'They were bought with the money which I borrowed from Mr.
Tudor.'

'And where did Mr. Tudor get that money?'

'That is a question you must ask himself,' said Undy.

'It is a question, sir, that just at present I prefer to ask you.
Now, sir, be good enough to tell the jury, whence Mr. Tudor got
that money; or tell them, if you dare do so, that you do not
know.'

Undy for a minute remained silent, and Mr. Chaffanbrass remained
silent also. But if the fury of his tongue for a moment was at
rest, that of his eyes was as active as ever. He kept his gaze
steadily fixed upon the witness, and stood there with compressed
lips, still resting on his two hands, as though he were quite
satisfied thus to watch the prey that was in his power. For an
instant he glanced up to the jury, and then allowed his eyes to
resettle on the face of the witness, as though he might have
said, 'There, gentlemen, there he is--the son of a peer, a member
of Parliament; what do you think of him?'

The silence of that minute was horrible to Undy, and yet he could
hardly bring himself to break it. The judge looked at him with
eyes which seemed to read his inmost soul; the jury looked at
him, condemning him one and all; Alaric looked at him with
fierce, glaring eyes of hatred, the same eyes that had glared at
him that night when he had been collared in the street; the whole
crowd looked at him derisively; but the eyes of them all were as
nothing to the eyes of Mr. Chaffanbrass.

'I never saw him so great; I never did,' said Mr. Gitemthruet,
whispering to his client; and Alaric, even he, felt some
consolation in the terrible discomfiture of his enemy.

'I don't know where he got it,' said Undy, at last breaking the
terrible silence, and wiping the perspiration from his brow.

'Oh, you don't!' said Mr. Chaffanbrass, knocking his wig back,
and coming well out of his kennel. 'After waiting for a quarter
of an hour or so, you are able to tell the jury at last that you
don't know anything about it. He took the small trifle of change
out of his pocket, I suppose?'

'I don't know where he took it from.'

'And you didn't ask?'

'No.'

'You got the money; that was all you know. But this was just at
the time that Mr. Tudor became the lady's trustee; I think you
have admitted that.'

'It may have been about the time.'

'Yes; it may have been about the time, as you justly observe, Mr.
Scott. Luckily, you know, we have the dates of the two transactions.
But it never occurred to your innocent mind that the money which
you got into your hands was a part of the lady's fortune; that
never occurred to your innocent mind--eh, Mr. Scott?'

'I don't know that my mind is a more innocent mind than your
own,' said Undy.

'I dare say not. Well, did the idea ever occur to your guilty
mind?'

'Perhaps my mind is not more guilty than your own, either.'

'Then may God help me,' said Mr. Chaffanbrass, 'for I must be at
a bad pass. You told us just now, Mr. Scott, that some time since
Mr. Tudor advised you to sell these shares--what made him give
you this advice?'

'He meant, he said, to sell his own.'

'And he pressed you to sell yours?'

'Yes.'

'He urged you to do so more than once?'

'Yes; I believe he did.'

'And now, Mr. Scott, can you explain to the jury why he was so
solicitous that you should dispose of your property?'

'I do not know why he should have done so, unless he wanted back
his money.'

'Then he did ask for his own money?'

'No; he never asked for it. But if I had sold the shares perhaps
he might have asked for it.'

'Oh!' said Mr. Chaffanbrass; and as he uttered the monosyllable
he looked up at the jury, and gently shook his head, and gently
shook his hands. Mr. Chaffanbrass was famous for these little
silent addresses to the jury-box.

But not even yet had he done with this suspicious loan. We cannot
follow him through the whole of his examination; for he kept our
old friend under the harrow for no less than seven hours. Though
he himself made no further statement to the jury, he made it
perfectly plain, by Undy's own extracted admissions, or by the
hesitation of his denials, that he had knowingly received this
money out of his niece's fortune, and that he had refused to sell
the shares bought with this money, when pressed to do so by
Tudor, in order that the trust-money might be again made up.

There were those who blamed Mr. Chaffanbrass for thus admitting
that his client had made away with his ward's money by lending it
to Undy; but that acute gentleman saw clearly that he could not
contend against the fact of the property having been fraudulently
used; but he saw that he might induce the jury to attach so much
guilt to Undy, that Tudor would, as it were, be whitened by the
blackness of the other's villany. The judge, he well knew, would
blow aside all this froth; but then the judge could not find the
verdict.

Towards the end of the day, when Undy was thoroughly worn out--at
which time, however, Mr. Chaffanbrass was as brisk as ever, for
nothing ever wore him out when he was pursuing his game--when the
interest of those who had been sweltering in the hot court all
the day was observed to flag, Mr. Chaffanbrass began twisting
round his finger a bit of paper, of which those who were best
acquainted with his manner knew that he would soon make use.

'Mr. Scott,' said he, suddenly dropping the derisive sarcasm of
his former tone, and addressing him with all imaginable courtesy,
'could you oblige me by telling me whose handwriting that is?'
and he handed to him the scrap of paper. Undy took it, and saw
that the writing was his own; his eyes were somewhat dim, and he
can hardly be said to have read it. It was a very short
memorandum, and it ran as follows: 'All will yet be well, if
those shares be ready to-morrow morning.'

'Well, Mr. Scott,' said the lawyer, 'do you recognize the
handwriting?'

Undy looked at it, and endeavoured to examine it closely, but he
could not; his eyes swam, and his head was giddy, and he felt
sick. Could he have satisfied himself that the writing was not
clearly and manifestly his own, he would have denied the document
altogether; but he feared to do this; the handwriting might be
proved to be his own.

'It is something like my own,' said he.

'Something like your own, is it?' said Mr. Chaffanbrass, as
though he were much surprised. 'Like your own! Well, will you
have the goodness to read it?'

Undy turned it in his hand as though the proposed task were
singularly disagreeable to him. Why, thought he to himself,
should he be thus browbeaten by a dirty old Newgate lawyer? Why
not pluck up his courage, and, at any rate, show that he was a
man? 'No,' said he, 'I will not read it.'

'Then I will. Gentlemen of the jury, have the goodness to listen
to me.' Of course there was a contest then between him and the
lawyers on the other side whether the document might or might not
be read; but equally of course the contest ended in the judge's
decision that it should be read. And Mr. Chaffanbrass did read it
in a voice audible to all men. 'All will yet be well, if those
shares be ready to-morrow morning.' We may take it as admitted, I
suppose, that this is in your handwriting, Mr. Scott?'

'It probably may be, though I will not say that it is.'

'Do you not know, sir, with positive certainty that it is your
writing?'

To this Undy made no direct answer. 'What is your opinion, Mr.
Scott?' said the judge; 'you can probably give an opinion by
which the jury would be much guided.'

'I think it is, my lord,' said Undy.

'He thinks it is, said Mr. Chaffanbrass, addressing the jury.
'Well, for once I agree with you. I think it is also--and how
will you have the goodness to explain it. To whom was it
addressed?'

'I cannot say.'

'When was it written?'

'I do not know.'

'What does it mean?'

'I cannot remember.'

'Was it addressed to Mr. Tudor?'

'I should think not.'

'Now, Mr. Scott, have the goodness to look at the jury, and to
speak a little louder. You are in the habit of addressing a
larger audience than this, and cannot, therefore, be shamefaced.
You mean to tell the jury that you think that that note was not
intended by you for Mr. Tudor?'

'I think not,' said Undy.

'But you can't say who it was intended for?'

'No.'

'And by the virtue of your oath, you have told us all that you
know about it?' Undy remained silent, but Mr. Chaffanbrass did
not press him for an answer. 'You have a brother, named
Valentine, I think.' Now Captain Val had been summoned also, and
was at this moment in court. Mr. Chaffanbrass requested that he
might be desired to leave it, and, consequently, he was ordered
out in charge of a policeman.

'And now, Mr. Scott--was that note written by you to Mr. Tudor,
with reference to certain shares, which you proposed that Mr.
Tudor should place in your brother's hands? Now, sir, I ask you,
as a member of Parliament, as a member of the Government, as the
son of a peer, to give a true answer to that question.' And then
again Undy was silent; and again Mr. Chaffanbrass leant on the
desk and glared at him. 'And remember, sir, member of Parliament
and nobleman as you are, you shall be indicted for perjury, if
you are guilty of perjury.'

'My lord,' said Undy, writhing in torment, 'am I to submit to
this?'

'Mr. Chaffanbrass,' said the judge, 'you should not threaten your
witness. Mr. Scott--surely you can answer the question.'

Mr. Chaffanbrass seemed not to have even heard what the judge
said, so intently were his eyes fixed on poor Undy. 'Well, Mr.
Scott,' he said at last, very softly, 'is it convenient for you
to answer me? Did that note refer to a certain number of bridge
shares, which you required Mr. Tudor to hand over to the
stepfather of this lady?'

Undy had no trust in his brother. He felt all but sure that,
under the fire of Mr. Chaffanbrass, he would confess everything.
It would be terrible to own the truth, but it would be more
terrible to be indicted for perjury. So he sat silent.

'My lord, perhaps you will ask him,' said Mr. Chaffanbrass.

'Mr. Scott, you understand the question--why do you not answer
it?' asked the judge. But Undy still remained silent.

'You may go now,' said Mr. Chaffanbrass. 'Your eloquence is of
the silent sort; but, nevertheless, it is very impressive. You
may go now, and sit on that bench again, if, after what has
passed, the sheriff thinks proper to permit it.'

Undy, however, did not try that officer's complaisance. He
retired from the witness-box, and was not again seen during the
trial in any conspicuous place in the court.

It was then past seven o'clock; but Mr. Chaffanbrass insisted on
going on with the examination of Captain Val. It did not last
long. Captain Val, also, was in that disagreeable position, that
he did not know what Undy had confessed, and what denied. So he,
also, refused to answer the questions of Mr. Chaffanbrass, saying
that he might possibly damage himself should he do so. This was
enough for Mr. Chaffanbrass, and then his work was done.

At eight o'clock the court again adjourned; again Charley posted
off--for the third time that day--to let Gertrude know that, even
as yet, all was not over; and again he and Alaric spent a
melancholy evening at the neighbouring tavern; and then, again,
on the third morning, all were re-assembled at the Old Bailey.

Or rather they were not all re-assembled. But few came now, and
they were those who were obliged to come. The crack piece of the
trial, that portion to which, among the connoisseurs, the
interest was attached, that was all over. Mr. Chaffanbrass had
done his work. Undy Scott, the member of Parliament, had been
gibbeted, and the rest was, in comparison, stale, flat, and
unprofitable. The judge and jury, however, were there, so were
the prosecuting counsel, so were Mr. Chaffanbrass and Mr.
Younglad, and so was poor Alaric. The work of the day was
commenced by the judge's charge, and then Alaric, to his infinite
dismay, found how all the sophistry and laboured arguments of his
very talented advocate were blown to the winds, and shown to be
worthless. 'Gentlemen,' said the judge to the jurors, after he
had gone through all the evidence, and told them what was
admissible, and what was not--'gentlemen, I must especially
remind you, that in coming to a verdict in the matter, no amount
of guilt on the part of any other person can render guiltless him
whom you are now trying, or palliate his guilt if he be guilty.
An endeavour has been made to affix a deep stigma on one of the
witnesses who has been examined before you; and to induce you to
feel, rather than to think, that Mr. Tudor is, at any rate,
comparatively innocent--innocent as compared with that gentleman.
That is not the issue which you are called on to decide; not
whether Mr. Scott, for purposes of his own, led Mr. Tudor on to
guilt, and then turned against him; but whether Mr. Tudor himself
has, or has not, been guilty under this Act of Parliament that
has been explained to you.

'As regards the evidence of Mr. Scott, I am justified in telling
you, that if the prisoner's guilt depended in any way on that
evidence, it would be your duty to receive it with the most
extreme caution, and to reject it altogether if not corroborated.
That evidence was not trustworthy, and in a great measure
justified the treatment which the witness encountered from the
learned barrister who examined him. But Mr. Scott was a witness
for the defence, not for the prosecution. The case for the
prosecution in no way hangs on his evidence.

'If it be your opinion that Mr. Tudor is guilty, and that he was
unwarily enticed into guilt by Mr. Scott; that the whole
arrangement of this trust was brought about by Mr. Scott or
others, to enable him or them to make a cat's-paw of this new
trustee, and thus use the lady's money for their own purposes,
such an opinion on your part may justify you in recommending the
prisoner to the merciful consideration of the bench; but it
cannot justify you in finding a verdict of not guilty.'

As Alaric heard this, and much more to the same effect, his
hopes, which certainly had been high during the examination of
Undy Scott, again sank to zero, and left him in despair. He had
almost begun to doubt the fact of his own guilt, so wondrously
had his conduct been glossed over by Mr. Chaffanbrass, so
strikingly had any good attempt on his part been brought to the
light, so black had Scott been made to appear. Ideas floated
across his brain that he might go forth, not only free of the
law, but whitewashed also in men's opinions, that he might again
sit on his throne at the Civil Service Board, again cry to
himself 'Excelsior,' and indulge the old dreams of his ambition.

But, alas! the deliberate and well-poised wisdom of the judge
seemed to shower down cold truth upon the jury from his very
eyes. His words were low in their tone, though very clear,
impassive, delivered without gesticulation or artifice, such as
that so powerfully used by Mr. Chaffanbrass; but Alaric himself
felt that it was impossible to doubt the truth of such a man;
impossible to suppose that any juryman should do so. Ah me! why
had he brought himself thus to quail beneath the gaze of an old
man seated on a bench? with what object had he forced himself to
bend his once proud neck? He had been before in courts such as
this, and had mocked within his own spirit the paraphernalia of
the horsehair wigs, the judges' faded finery, and the red cloth;
he had laughed at the musty, stale solemnity by which miscreants
were awed, and policemen enchanted; now, these things told on
himself heavily enough; he felt now their weight and import.

And then the jury retired from the court to consider their
verdict, and Mr. Gitemthruet predicted that they would be hungry
enough before they sat down to their next meal. 'His lordship was
dead against us,' said Mr. Gitemthruet; 'but that was a matter of
course; we must look to the jury, and the city juries are very
fond of Mr. Chaffanbrass; I am not quite sure, however, that Mr.
Chaffanbrass was right: I would not have admitted so much myself;
but then no one knows a city jury so well as Mr. Chaffanbrass.'

Other causes came on, and still the jury did not return to court.
Mr. Chaffanbrass seemed to have forgotten the very existence of
Alaric Tudor, and was deeply engaged in vindicating a city
butcher from an imputation of having vended a dead ass by way of
veal. All his indignation was now forgotten, and he was full of
boisterous fun, filling the court with peals of laughter. One
o'clock came, two, three, four, five, six, seven, and still no
verdict. At the latter hour, when the court was about to be
adjourned, the foreman came in, and assured the judge that there
was no probability that they could agree; eleven of them thought
one way, while the twelfth was opposed to them. 'You must reason
with the gentleman,' said the judge. 'I have, my lord,' said the
foreman, 'but it's all thrown away upon him.' 'Reason with him
again,' said the judge, rising from his bench and preparing to go
to his dinner.

And then one of the great fundamental supports of the British
constitution was brought into play. Reason was thrown away upon
this tough juryman, and, therefore, it was necessary to ascertain
what effect starvation might have upon him. A verdict, that is, a
unanimous decision from these twelve men as to Alaric's guilt,
was necessary; it might be that three would think him innocent,
and nine guilty, or that any other division of opinion might take
place; but such divisions among a jury are opposed to the spirit
of the British constitution. Twelve men must think alike; or, if
they will not, they must be made to do so. 'Reason with him
again,' said the judge, as he went to his own dinner. Had the
judge bade them remind him how hungry he would soon be if he
remained obstinate, his lordship would probably have expressed
the thought which was passing through his mind. 'There is one of
us, my lord,' said the foreman, 'who will I know be very ill
before long; he is already so bad that he can't sit upright.'

There are many ludicrous points in our blessed constitution, but
perhaps nothing so ludicrous as a juryman praying to a judge for
mercy. He has been caught, shut up in a box, perhaps, for five or
six days together, badgered with half a dozen lawyers till he is
nearly deaf with their continual talking, and then he is locked
up until he shall die or find a verdict. Such at least is the
intention of the constitution. The death, however, of three or
four jurymen from starvation would not suit the humanity of the
present age, and therefore, when extremities are nigh at hand,
the dying jurymen, with medical certificates, are allowed to be
carried off. It is devoutly to be wished that one juryman might
be starved to death while thus serving the constitution; the
absurdity then would cure itself, and a verdict of a majority
would be taken.

But in Alaric's case, reason or hunger did prevail at the last
moment, and as the judge was leaving the court, he was called
back to receive the verdict. Alaric, also, was brought back,
still under Mr. Gitemthruet's wing, and with him came Charley. A
few officers of the court were there, a jailer and a policeman or
two, those whose attendance was absolutely necessary, but with
these exceptions the place was empty. Not long since men were
crowding for seats, and the policemen were hardly able to
restrain the pressure of those who pushed forward; but now there
was no pushing; the dingy, dirty benches, a few inches of which
had lately been so desirable, were not at all in request, and
were anything but inviting in appearance; Alaric sat himself down
on the very spot which had lately been sacred to Mr. Chaffanbrass,
and Mr. Gitemthruet, seated above him, might also fancy himself
a barrister. There they sat for five minutes in perfect silence; the
suspense of the moment cowed even the attorney, and Charley,
who sat on the other side of Alaric, was so affected that he could
hardly have spoken had he wished to do so.

And then the judge, who had been obliged to re-array himself
before he returned to the bench, again took his seat, and an
officer of the court inquired of the foreman of the jury, in his
usual official language, what their finding was.

'Guilty on the third count,' said the foreman. 'Not guilty on the
four others. We beg, however, most strongly to recommend the
prisoner to your lordship's merciful consideration, believing
that he has been led into this crime by one who has been much
more guilty than himself.'

'I knew Mr. Chaffanbrass was wrong,' said Mr. Gitemthruet. 'I
knew he was wrong when he acknowledged so much. God bless my
soul! in a court of law one should never acknowledge anything!
what's the use?'

And then came the sentence. He was to be confined at the
Penitentiary at Millbank for six months. 'The offence,' said the
judge, 'of which you have been found guilty, and of which you
most certainly have been guilty, is one most prejudicial to the
interests of the community. That trust which the weaker of
mankind should place in the stronger, that reliance which widows
and orphans should feel in their nearest and dearest friends,
would be destroyed, if such crimes as these were allowed to pass
unpunished. But in your case there are circumstances which do
doubtless palliate the crime of which you have been guilty; the
money which you took will, I believe, be restored; the trust
which you were courted to undertake should not have been imposed
on you; and in the tale of villany which has been laid before
us, you have by no means been the worst offender. I have,
therefore, inflicted on you the slightest penalty which the law
allows me. Mr. Tudor, I know what has been your career, how great
your services to your country, how unexceptionable your conduct
as a public servant; I trust, I do trust, I most earnestly, most
hopefully trust, that your career of utility is not over. Your
abilities are great, and you are blessed with the power of
thinking; I do beseech you to consider, while you undergo that
confinement which you needs must suffer, how little any wealth is
worth an uneasy conscience.'

And so the trial was over. Alaric was taken off in custody; the
policeman in mufti was released from his attendance; and Charley,
with a heavy heart, carried the news to Gertrude and Mrs.
Woodward.

'And as for me,' said Gertrude, when she had so far recovered
from the first shock as to be able to talk to her mother--'as for
me, I will have lodgings at Millbank.'



CHAPTER XLII

A PARTING INTERVIEW


Mrs. Woodward remained with her eldest daughter for two days
after the trial, and then she was forced to return to Hampton.
She had earnestly entreated Gertrude to accompany her, with her
child; but Mrs. Tudor was inflexible. She had, she said, very
much to do; so much, that she could not possibly leave London;
the house and furniture were on her hands, and must be disposed
of; their future plans must be arranged; and then nothing, she
said, should induce her to sleep out of sight of her husband's
prison, or to omit any opportunity of seeing him which the prison
rules would allow her.

Mrs. Woodward would not have left one child in such extremity,
had not the state of another child made her presence at the
Cottage indispensable. Katie's anxiety about the trial had of
course been intense, so intense as to give her a false strength,
and somewhat to deceive Linda as to her real state. Tidings of
course passed daily between London and the Cottage, but for three
days they told nothing. On the morning of the fourth day,
however, Norman brought the heavy news, and Katie sank completely
under it. When she first heard the result of the trial she
swooned away, and remained for some time nearly unconscious. But
returning consciousness brought with it no relief, and she lay
sobbing on her pillow, till she became so weak, that Linda in her
fright wrote up to her mother begging her to return at once.
Then, wretched as it made her to leave Gertrude in her trouble,
Mrs. Woodward did return.

For a fortnight after this there was an unhappy household at
Surbiton Cottage. Linda's marriage was put off till the period of
Alaric's sentence should be over, and till something should be
settled as to his and Gertrude's future career. It was now
August, and they spoke of the event as one which perhaps might
occur in the course of the following spring. At this time, also,
they were deprived for a while of the comfort of Norman's visits
by his enforced absence at Normansgrove. Harry's eldest brother
was again ill, and at last the news of his death was received at
Hampton. Under other circumstances such tidings as those might,
to a certain extent, have brought their own consolation with
them. Harry would now be Mr. Norman of Normansgrove, and Linda
would become Mrs. Norman of Normansgrove; Harry's mother had long
been dead, and his father was an infirm old man, who would be too
glad to give up to his son the full management of the estate, now
that the eldest son was a man to whom that estate could be
trusted. All those circumstances had, of course, been talked over
between Harry and Linda, and it was understood that Harry was now
to resign his situation at the Weights and Measures. But Alaric's
condition, Gertrude's misery, and Katie's illness, threw all such
matters into the background. Katie became no better; but then the
doctors said that she did not become any worse, and gave it as
their opinion that she ought to recover. She had youth, they
said, on her side; and then her lungs were not affected. This was
the great question which they were all asking of each other
continually. The poor girl lived beneath a stethoscope, and bore
all their pokings and tappings with exquisite patience. She
herself believed that she was dying, and so she repeatedly told
her mother. Mrs. Woodward could only say that all was in God's
hands, but that the physicians still encouraged them to hope the
best.

One day Mrs. Woodward was sitting with a book in her usual place
at the side of Katie's bed; she looked every now and again at her
patient, and thought that she was slumbering; and at last she
rose from her chair to creep away, so sure was she that she might
be spared for a moment. But just as she was silently rising, a
thin, slight, pale hand crept out from beneath the clothes, and
laid itself on her arm.

'I thought you were asleep, love,' said she.

'No, mamma, I was not asleep. I was thinking of something. Don't
go away, mamma, just now. I want to ask you something.'

Mrs. Woodward again sat down, and taking her daughter's hand in
her own, caressed it.

'I want to ask a favour of you, mamma,' said Katie.

'A favour, my darling! what is it? you know I will do anything in
my power that you ask me.'

'Ah, mamma, I do not know whether you will do this.'

'What is it, Katie? I will do anything that is for your good. I
am sure you know that, Katie.'

'Mamma, I know I am going to die. Oh, mamma, don't say anything
now, don't cry now--dear, dear mamma; I don't say it to make you
unhappy; but you know when I am so ill I ought to think about it,
ought I not, mamma?'

'But, Katie, the doctor says that he thinks you are not so
dangerously ill; you should not, therefore, despond; it will
increase your illness, and hinder your chance of getting well.
That would be wrong, wouldn't it, love?'

'Mamma, I feel that I shall never again be well, and therefore--'
It was useless telling Mrs. Woodward not to cry; what else could
she do? 'Dear mamma, I am so sorry to make you unhappy, but you
are my own mamma, and therefore I must tell you. I can be happy
still, mamma, if you will let me talk to you about it.'

'You shall talk, dearest; I will hear what you say; but oh,
Katie, I cannot bear to hear you talk of dying. I do not think
you are dying. If I did think so, my child, my trust in your
goodness is so strong that I should tell you.'

'You know, mamma, it might have been much worse; suppose I had
been drowned, when he, when Charley, you know, saved me;' and as
she mentioned his name a tear for the first time ran down each
cheek; 'how much worse that would have been! think, mamma, what
it would be to be drowned without a moment for one's prayers.'

'It is quite right we should prepare ourselves for death. Whether
we live, or whether we die, we shall be better for doing that.'

Katie still held her mother's hand in hers, and lay back against
the pillows which had been placed behind her back. 'And now,
mamma,' she said at last, 'I am going to ask you this favour--I
want to see Charley once more.'

Mrs. Woodward was so much astonished at the request that at first
she knew not what answer to make. 'To see Charley!' she said at
last.

'Yes, mamma; I want to see Charley once more; there need be no
secrets between us now, mamma.'

'There have never been any secrets between us,' said Mrs.
Woodward, embracing her. 'You have never had any secrets from
me?'

'Not intentionally, mamma; I have never meant to keep anything
secret from you. And I know you have known what I felt about
Charley.'

'I know that you have behaved like an angel, my child; I know
your want of selfishness, your devotion to others, has been such
as to shame me; I know your conduct has been perfect: oh, my
Katie, I have understood it, and I have so loved you, so admired
you.'

Katie smiled through her tears as she returned her mother's
embrace. 'Well, mamma,' she said, 'at any rate you know that I
love him. Oh, mamma, I do love him so dearly. It is not now like
Gertrude's love, or Linda's. I know that I can never be his wife.
I did know before, that for many reasons I ought not to wish to
be so; but now I know I never, never can be.'

Mrs. Woodward was past the power of speaking, and so Katie went
on.

'But I do not love him the less for that reason; I think I love
him the more. I never, never, could have loved anyone else,
mamma; never, never; and that is one reason why I do not so much
mind being ill now.'

Mrs. Woodward bowed forward, and hid her face in the counterpane,
but she still kept hold of her daughter's hand.

'And, mamma,' she continued, 'as I do love him so dearly, I feel
that I should try to do something for him. I ought to do so; and,
mamma, I could not be happy without seeing him. He is not just
like a brother or a brother-in-law, such as Harry and Alaric; we
are not bound to each other as relations are; but yet I feel that
something does bind me to him. I know he doesn't love me as I
love him; but yet I think he loves me dearly; and if I speak to
him now, mamma, now that I am--that I am so ill, perhaps he will
mind me. Mamma, it will be as though one came unto him from the
dead.'

Mrs. Woodward did not know how to refuse any request that Katie
might now make to her, and felt herself altogether unequal to the
task of refusing this request. For many reasons she would have
done so, had she been able; in the first place she did not think
that all chance of Katie's recovery was gone; and then at the
present moment she felt no inclination to draw closer to her any
of the Tudor family. She could not but feel that Alaric had been
the means of disgracing and degrading one child; and truly,
deeply, warmly, as she sympathized with the other, she could not
bring herself to feel the same sympathy for the object of her
love. It was a sore day for her and hers, that on which the
Tudors had first entered her house.

Nevertheless she assented to Katie's proposal, and undertook the
task of asking Charley down to Hampton.

Since Alaric's conviction Charley led a busy life; and as men who
have really something to do have seldom time to get into much
mischief, he had been peculiarly moral and respectable. It is not
surprising that at such a moment Gertrude found that Alaric's
newer friends fell off from him. Of course they did; nor is it a
sign of ingratitude or heartlessness in the world that at such a
period of great distress new friends should fall off. New
friends, like one's best coat and polished patent-leather dress
boots, are only intended for holiday wear. At other times they
are neither serviceable nor comfortable; they do not answer the
required purposes, and are ill adapted to give us the ease we
seek. A new coat, however, has this advantage, that it will in
time become old and comfortable; so much can by no means be
predicted with certainty of a new friend. Woe to those men who go
through the world with none but new coats on their backs, with no
boots but those of polished leather, with none but new friends to
comfort them in adversity.

But not the less, when misfortune does come, are we inclined to
grumble at finding ourselves deserted. Gertrude, though she
certainly wished to see no Mrs. Val and no Miss Neverbends, did
feel lonely enough when her mother left her, and wretched enough.
But she was not altogether deserted. At this time Charley was
true to her, and did for her all those thousand nameless things
which a woman cannot do for herself. He came to her everyday
after leaving his office, and on one excuse or another remained
with her till late every evening.

He was not a little surprised one morning on receiving Mrs.
Woodward's invitation to Hampton. Mrs. Woodward in writing had
had some difficulty in wording her request. She hardly liked
asking Charley to come because Katie was ill; nor did she like to
ask him without mentioning Katie's illness. 'I need not explain
to you,' she said in her note, 'that we are all in great
distress; poor Katie is very ill, and you will understand what we
must feel about Alaric and Gertrude. Harry is still at Normansgrove.
We shall all be glad to see you, and Katie, who never forgets
what you did for her, insists on my asking you at once. I am sure
you will not refuse her, so I shall expect you to-morrow.' Charley
would not have refused her anything, and it need hardly be said
that he accepted the invitation.

Mrs. Woodward was at a loss how to receive him, or what to say to
him. Though Katie was so positive that her own illness would be
fatal--a symptom which might have confirmed those who watched her
in their opinion that her disease was not consumption--her mother
was by no means so desponding. She still thought it not
impossible that her child might recover, and so thinking could
not but be adverse to any declaration on Katie's part of her own
feelings. She had endeavoured to explain this to her daughter;
but Katie was so carried away by her enthusiasm, was at the
present moment so devoted, and, as it were, exalted above her
present life, that all that her mother said was thrown away upon
her. Mrs. Woodward might have refused her daughter's request, and
have run the risk of breaking her heart by the refusal; but now
that the petition had been granted, it was useless to endeavour
to teach her to repress her feelings.

'Charley,' said Mrs. Woodward, when he had been some little time
in the house, 'our dear Katie wants to see you; she is very ill,
you know.'

Charley said he knew she was ill.

'You remember our walk together, Charley.'

'Yes,' said Charley, 'I remember it well. I made you a promise
then, and I have kept it. I have now come here only because you
have sent for me.' This he said in the tone which a man uses when
he feels himself to have been injured.

'I know it, Charley; you have kept your promise; I knew you
would, and I know you will. I have the fullest trust in you; and
now you shall come and see her.'

Charley was to return to town that night, and they had not
therefore much time to lose; they went upstairs at once, and
found Linda and Uncle Bat in the patient's room. It was a lovely
August evening, and the bedroom window opening upon the river was
unclosed. Katie, as she sat propped up against the pillows, could
look out upon the water and see the reedy island, on which in
happy former days she had so delighted to let her imagination
revel.

'It is very good of you to come and see me, Charley,' said she,
as he made his way up to her bedside.

He took her wasted hand in his own and pressed it, and, as he did
so, a tear forced itself into each corner of his eyes. She smiled
as though to cheer him, and said that now she saw him she could
be quite happy, only for poor Alaric and Gertrude. She hoped she
might live to see Alaric again; but if not, Charley was to give
him her best-best love.

'Live to see him! of course you will,' said Uncle Bat.

'What's to hinder you?' Uncle Bat, like the rest of them, tried
to cheer her, and make her think that she might yet live.

After a while Uncle Bat went out of the room, and Linda followed
him. Mrs. Woodward would fain have remained, but she perfectly
understood that it was part of the intended arrangement with
Katie, that Charley should be alone with her. 'I will come back
in a quarter of an hour,' she said, rising to follow the others.
'You must not let her talk too much, Charley: you see how weak
she is.'

'Mamma, when you come, knock at the door, will you?' said Katie.
Mrs. Woodward, who found herself obliged to act in complete
obedience to her daughter, promised that she would; and then they
were left alone.

'Sit down, Charley,' said she; he was still standing by her
bedside, and now at her bidding he sat in the chair which Captain
Cuttwater had occupied. 'Come here nearer to me,' said she; 'this
is where mamma always sits, and Linda when mamma is not here.'
Charley did as he was bid, and, changing his seat, came and sat
down close to her bed-head.

'Charley, do you remember how you went into the water for me?'
said she, again smiling, and pulling her hand out and resting it
on his arm which lay on the bed beside her.

'Indeed I do, Katie--I remember the day very well.'

'That was a very happy day in spite of the tumble, was it not,
Charley? And do you remember the flower-show, and the dance at
Mrs. Val's?'

Charley did remember them all well. Ah me! how often had he
thought of them!

'I think of those days so often--too often,' continued Katie.
'But, dear Charley, I cannot remember too often that you saved my
life.'

Charley once more tried to explain to her that there was nothing
worthy of notice in his exploit of that day.

'Well, Charley, I may think as I like, you know,' she said, with
something of the obstinacy of old days. 'I think you did save my
life, and all the people in the world won't make me think
anything else; but, Charley, I have something now to tell you.'

He sat and listened. It seemed to him as though he were only
there to listen; as though, were he to make his own voice
audible, he would violate the sanctity of the place. His thoughts
were serious enough, but he could not pitch his voice so as to
suit the tone in which she addressed him.

'We were always friends, were we not?' said she; 'we were always
good friends, Charley. Do you remember how you were to build a
palace for me in the dear old island out there? You were always
so kind, so good to me.'

Charley said he remembered it all--they were happy days; the
happiest days, he said, that he had ever known.

'And you used to love me, Charley?'

'Used!' said he, 'do you think I do not love you now?'

'I am sure you do. And, Charley, I love you also. That it is that
I want to tell you. I love you so well that I cannot go away from
this world in peace without wishing you farewell. Charley, if you
love me, you will think of me when I am gone; and then for my
sake you will be steady.'

Here were all her old words over again--'You will be steady,
won't you, Charley? I know you will be steady, now.' How much
must she have thought of him! How often must his career have
caused her misery and pain! How laden must that innocent bosom
have been with anxiety on his account! He had promised her then
that he would reform; but he had broken his promise. He now
promised her again, but how could he hope that she would believe
him?

'You know how ill I am, don't you? You know that I am dying,
Charley?'

Charley of course declared that he still hoped that she would
recover.

'If I thought so,' said she, 'I should not say what I am now
saying; but I feel that I may tell the truth. Dear Charley,
dearest Charley, I love you with all my heart--I do not know how
it came so; I believe I have always loved you since I first knew
you; I used to think it was because you saved my life; but I know
it was not that. I was so glad it was you that came to me in the
water, and not Harry; so that I know I loved you before that.'

'Dear Katie, you have not loved me, or thought of me, more than I
have loved and thought of you.'

'Ah, Charley,' she said, smiling in her sad sweet way--'I don't
think you know how a girl can love; you have so many things to
think of, so much to amuse you up in London; you don't know what
it is to think of one person for days and days, and nights and
nights together. That is the way I have thought of you, I don't
think there can be any harm,' she continued, 'in loving a person
as I have loved you. Indeed, how could I help it? I did not love
you on purpose. But I think I should be wrong to die without
telling you. When I am dead, Charley, will you think of this, and
try--try to give up your bad ways? When I tell you that I love
you so dearly, and ask you on my deathbed, I think you will do
this.'

Charley went down on his knees, and bowing his head before her
and before his God, he made the promise. He made it, and we may
so far anticipate the approaching end of our story as to declare
that the promise he then made was faithfully kept.

'Katie, Katie, my own Katie, my own, own, own Katie--oh, Katie,
you must not die, you must not leave me! Oh, Katie, I have so
dearly loved you! Oh, Katie, I do so dearly love you! If you knew
all, if you could know all, you would believe me.'

At this moment Mrs. Woodward knocked at the door, and Charley
rose from his knees. 'Not quite yet, mamma,' said Katie, as Mrs.
Woodward opened the door. 'Not quite yet; in five minutes, mamma,
you may come.' Mrs. Woodward, not knowing how to refuse, again
went away.

'Charley, I never gave you anything but once, and you returned it
to me, did you not?'

'Yes,' said he, 'the purse--I put it in your box, because----'

And then he remembered that he could not say why he had returned
it without breaking in a manner that confidence which Mrs.
Woodward had put in him.

'I understand it all. You must not think I am angry with you. I
know how good you were about it. But Charley, you may have it
back now; here it is;' and putting her hand under the pillow, she
took it out, carefully folded up in new tissue paper. 'There,
Charley, you must never part with it again as long as there are
two threads of it together; but I know you never will; and
Charley, you must never talk of it to anybody but to your wife;
and you must tell her all about it.'

He took the purse, and put it to his lips, and then pressed it to
his heart. 'No,' said he, 'I will never part with it again. I
think I can promise that.' 'And now, dearest, good-bye,' said
she; 'dearest, dearest Charley, good-bye; perhaps we shall know
each other in heaven. Kiss me, Charley, before you go,' So he
stooped down over her, and pressed his lips to hers.

Charley, leaving the room, found Mrs. Woodward at the other end
of the passage, standing at the door of her own dressing-room.
'You are to go to her now,' he said. 'Good-bye,' and without
further speech to any of them he hurried out of the house.

None but Mrs. Woodward had seen him; but she saw that the tears
were streaming down his cheeks as he passed her, and she
expressed no surprise that he had left the Cottage without going
through the formality of making his adieux.

And then he walked up to town, as Norman once had done after a
parting interview with her whom he had loved. It might be
difficult to say which at the moment suffered the bitterest
grief.



CHAPTER XLIII

MILLBANK


The immediate neighbourhood of Millbank Penitentiary is not one
which we should, for its own sake, choose for our residence,
either on account of its natural beauty, or the excellence of its
habitations. That it is a salubrious locality must be presumed
from the fact that it has been selected for the site of the
institution in question; but salubrity, though doubtless a great
recommendation, would hardly reconcile us to the extremely dull,
and one might almost say, ugly aspect which this district bears.

To this district, however, ugly as it is, we must ask our readers
to accompany us, while we pay a short visit to poor Gertrude. It
was certainly a sad change from her comfortable nursery and
elegant drawing-room near Hyde Park. Gertrude had hitherto never
lived in an ugly house. Surbiton Cottage and Albany Place were
the only two homes that she remembered, and neither of them was
such as to give her much fitting preparation for the melancholy
shelter which she found at No. 5, Paradise Row, Millbank.

But Gertrude did not think much of this when she changed her
residence. Early one morning, leaning on Charley's arm, she had
trudged down across the Park, through Westminster, and on to the
close vicinity of the prison; and here they sought for and
obtained such accommodation as she thought fitting to her present
situation. Charley had begged her to get into a cab, and when she
refused that, had implored her to indulge in the luxury of an
omnibus; but Gertrude's mind was now set upon economy; she would
come back, she said, in an omnibus when the day would be hotter,
and she would be alone, but she was very well able to walk the
distance once.

She procured, for seven shillings a week, a sitting-room and
bedroom, from whence she could see the gloomy prison walls, and
also a truckle-bed for the young girl whom she was to bring with
her as her maid. This was a little Hampton maiden, whom she had
brought from the country to act as fag and deputy to her grand
nurse; but the grand nurse was now gone, and the fag was promoted
to the various offices of nurse, lady's-maid, and parlour
servant. The rest of the household in Albany Place had already
dispersed with the discreet view of bettering their situations.

Everything in the house was given up to pay what Alaric owed.
Independently of his dreadful liability to Madame Jaquêtanàpe, he
could not have been said to be in debt; but still, like most
other men who live as he had done, when his career was thus
brought to a sudden close, it was found that there were many
people looking for money. There were little bills, as the owners
said of them, which had been forgotten, of course, on account of
their insignificance, but which being so very little might now be
paid, equally of course, without any trouble. It is astonishing
how easy it is to accumulate three or four hundred pounds' worth
of little bills, when one lives before the world in a good house
and in visible possession of a good income.

At the moment of Alaric's conviction, there was but a slender
stock of money forthcoming for these little bills. The necessary
expense of his trial,--and it had been by no means trifling,--he
had, of course, been obliged to pay. His salary had been
suspended, and all the money that he could lay his hands on had
been given up towards making restitution towards the dreadful sum
of £20,000 that had been his ruin. The bills, however, did not
come in till after his trial, and then there was but little left
but the furniture.

As the new trustees employed on behalf of Madame Jaquêtanàpe and
Mr. Figgs were well aware that they had much more to expect from
the generosity of Tudor's friends than from any legal seizure of
his property, they did not interfere in the disposal of the
chairs and tables. But not on that account did Gertrude conceive
herself entitled to make any use on her own behalf of such money
as might come into her hands. The bills should be paid, and then
every farthing that could be collected should be given towards
lessening the deficiency. Six thousand pounds had already been
made up by the joint efforts of Norman and Captain Cuttwater.
Undy Scott's acknowledgement for the other four thousand had been
offered, but the new trustees declined to accept it as of any
value whatsoever. They were equally incredulous as to the bridge
shares, which from that day to this have never held up their
heads, even to the modest height of half a crown a share.

Gertrude's efforts to make the most of everything had been
unceasing. When her husband was sentenced, she had in her
possession a new dress and some finery for her baby, which were
not yet paid for; these she took back with her own hand, offering
to the milliners her own trinkets by way of compensation for
their loss. When the day for removal came, she took with her
nothing that she imagined could be sold. She would have left the
grander part of her own wardrobe, if the auctioneers would have
undertaken to sell it. Some few things, books and trifling
household articles, which she thought were dear to Alaric, she
packed up; and such were sent to Hampton. On the day of her
departure she dressed herself in a plain dark gown, one that was
almost mourning, and then, with her baby in her lap, and her
young maid beside her, and Charley fronting her in the cab, she
started for her new home.

I had almost said that her pride had left her. Such an assertion
would be a gross libel on her. No; she was perhaps prouder than
ever, as she left her old home. There was a humility in her cheap
dress, in her large straw bonnet coming far over her face, in her
dark gloves and little simple collar; nay, there was a humility
in her altered voice, and somewhat chastened mien; but the spirit
of the woman was wholly unbroken. She had even a pride in her
very position, in her close and dear tie with the convicted
prisoner. She was his for better and for worse; she would now
show him what was her idea of the vow she had made. To the men
who came to ticket and number the furniture, to the tradesmen's
messengers who called for money, to the various workmen with whom
the house was then invaded, she was humble enough; but had Mrs.
Val come across her with pity, or the Miss Neverbends with their
sententious twaddlings, she would have been prouder than ever.
Fallen indeed! She had had no fall; nor had he; he was still a
man, with a greater aggregate of good in him than falls to the
average lot of mortals. Who would dare to tell her that he had
fallen? 'Twas thus that her pride was still strong within her;
and as it supported her through this misery, who can blame her
for it?

She was allowed into the prison twice a week; on Tuesdays and
Fridays she was permitted to spend one hour with her husband, and
to take her child with her. It is hardly necessary to say that
she was punctual to the appointed times. This, however, occupied
but a short period, even of those looked-for days; and in spite
of her pride, and her constant needle, the weary six months went
from her all too slowly.

Nor did they pass with swifter foot within the prison. Alaric was
allowed the use of books and pens and paper, but even with these
he found a day in prison to be almost an unendurable eternity.
This was the real punishment of his guilt; it was not that he
could not eat well, and lie soft, or enjoy the comforts which had
always surrounded him; but that the day would not pass away. The
slowness of the lagging hours nearly drove him mad. He made a
thousand resolutions as to reading, writing, and employment for
his mind. He attempted to learn whole pages by rote, and to
fatigue himself to rest by exercise of his memory. But his memory
would not work; his mind would continue idle; he was impotent
over his own faculties. Oh, if he could only sleep while these
horrid weeks were passing over him!

All hope of regaining his situation had of course passed from
him, all hope of employment in England. Emigration must now be
his lot; and hers also, and the lot of that young one that was
already born to them, and of that other one who was, alas! now
coming to the world, whose fate it would be first to see the
light under the walls of its father's prison.--Yes, they must
emigrate.--But there was nothing so very terrible in that. Alaric
felt that even his utter poverty would be no misfortune if only
his captivity were over. Poverty!--how could any man be poor who
had liberty to roam the world?

We all of us acknowledge that the educated man who breaks the
laws is justly liable to a heavier punishment than he who has
been born in ignorance, and bred, as it were, in the lap of sin;
but we hardly realize how much greater is the punishment which,
when he be punished, the educated man is forced to undergo.
Confinement to the man whose mind has never been lifted above
vacancy is simply remission from labour. Confinement, with
labour, is simply the enforcement of that which has hitherto been
his daily lot. But what must a prison be to him whose intellect
has received the polish of the world's poetry, who has known what
it is to feed more than the belly, to require other aliment than
bread and meat?

And then, what does the poor criminal lose? His all, it will be
said; and the rich can lose no more. But this is not so. No man
loses his all by any sentence which a human judge can inflict. No
man so loses anything approaching to his all, however much he may
have lost before. But the one man has too often had no self-respect
to risk; the other has stood high in his own esteem, has held
his head proudly before the world, has aspired to walk in
some way after the fashion of a god. Alaric had so aspired, and
how must he have felt during those prison days! Of what nature
must his thoughts have been when they turned to Gertrude and his
child! His sin had indeed been heavy, and heavy was the penalty
which he suffered. When they had been thus living for about three
months, Gertrude's second child was born. Mrs. Woodward was with
her at the time, and she had suffered but little except that for
three weeks she was unable to see her husband; then, in the teeth
of all counsel, and in opposition to all medical warning, she
could resist no longer, and carried the newborn stranger to his
father.

'Poor little wretch!' said Alaric, as he stooped to kiss him.

'Wretch!' said Gertrude, looking up to him with a smile upon her
face--'he is no wretch. He is a sturdy little man, that shall yet
live to make your heart dance with joy.'

Mrs. Woodward came often to see her. She did not stay, for there
was no bed in which she could have slept; but the train put her
down at Vauxhall, and she had but to pass the bridge, and she was
close to Gertrude's lodgings. And now the six months had nearly
gone by, when, by appointment, she brought Norman with her. At
this time he had given up his clerkship at the Weights and
Measures, and was about to go to Normansgrove for the remainder
of the winter. Both Alaric and Norman had shown a great distaste
to meet each other. But Harry's heart softened towards Gertrude.
Her conduct during her husband's troubles had been so excellent,
that he could not but forgive her the injuries which he fancied
he owed to her.

Everything was now prepared for their departure. They were to
sail on the very day after Alaric's liberation, so as to save him
from the misery of meeting those who might know him. And now
Harry came with Mrs. Woodward to bid farewell, probably for ever
on this side the grave, to her whom he had once looked on as his
own. How different were their lots now! Harry was Mr. Norman of
Normansgrove, immediately about to take his place as the squire
of his parish, to sit among brother magistrates, to decide about
roads and poachers, parish rates and other all-absorbing topics,
to be a rural magistrate, and fill a place among perhaps the most
fortunate of the world's inhabitants. Gertrude was the wife of a
convicted felon, who was about to come forth from his prison in
utter poverty, a man who, in such a catalogue as the world makes
of its inhabitants, would be ranked among the very lowest.

And did Gertrude even now regret her choice? No, not for a
moment! She still felt certain in her heart of hearts that she
had loved the one who was the most worthy of a woman's love. We
cannot, probably, all agree in her opinion; but we will agree in
this, at least, that she was now right to hold such opinion. Had
Normansgrove stretched from one boundary of the county to the
other, it would have weighed as nothing. Had Harry's virtues been
as bright as burnished gold--and indeed they had been bright--they
would have weighed as nothing. A nobler stamp of manhood was on
her husband--so at least Gertrude felt;--and manhood is the one
virtue which in a woman's breast outweighs all others.

They had not met since the evening on which Gertrude had declared
to him that she never could love him; and Norman, as he got out
of the cab with Mrs. Woodward, at No. 5, Paradise Row, Millbank,
felt his heart beat within him almost as strongly as he had done
when he was about to propose to her. He followed Mrs. Woodward
into the dingy little house, and immediately found himself in
Gertrude's presence.

I should exaggerate the fact were I to say that he would not have
known her; but had he met her elsewhere, met her where he did not
expect to meet her, he would have looked at her more than once
before he felt assured that he was looking at Gertrude Woodward.
It was not that she had grown pale, or worn, or haggard; though,
indeed, her face had on it that weighty look of endurance which
care will always give; it was not that she had lost her beauty,
and become unattractive in his eyes; but that the whole nature of
her mien and form, the very trick of her gait was changed. Her
eye was as bright as ever, but it was steady, composed, and
resolved; her lips were set and compressed, and there was no
playfulness round her mouth. Her hair was still smooth and
bright, but it was more brushed off from her temples than it had
been of yore, and was partly covered by a bit of black lace,
which we presume we must call a cap; here and there, too, through
it, Norman's quick eye detected a few grey hairs. She was stouter
too than she had been, or else she seemed to be so from the
changes in her dress. Her step fell heavier on the floor than it
used to do, and her voice was quicker and more decisive in its
tones. When she spoke to her mother, she did so as one sister
might do to another; and, indeed, Mrs. Woodward seemed to
exercise over her very little of the authority of a parent. The
truth was that Gertrude had altogether ceased to be a girl, had
altogether become a woman. Linda, with whom Norman at once
compared her, though but one year younger, was still a child in
comparison with her elder sister. Happy, happy Linda!

Gertrude had certainly proved herself to be an excellent wife;
but perhaps she might have made herself more pleasing to others
if she had not so entirely thrown off from herself all traces of
juvenility. Could she, in this respect, have taken a lesson from
her mother, she would have been a wiser woman. We have said that
she consorted with Mrs. Woodward as though they had been sisters;
but one might have said that Gertrude took on herself the manners
of the elder sister. It is true that she had hard duties to
perform, a stern world to overcome, an uphill fight before her
with poverty, distress, and almost, nay, absolutely, with
degradation. It was well for her and Alaric that she could face
it all with the true courage of an honest woman. But yet those
who had known her in her radiant early beauty could not but
regret that the young freshness of early years should all have
been laid aside so soon.

'Linda, at any rate, far exceeds her in beauty,' was Norman's
first thought, as he stood for a moment to look at her--'and then
Linda too is so much more feminine.' 'Twas thus that Harry Norman
consoled himself in the first moment of his first interview with
Alaric's wife. And he was right in his thoughts. The world would
now have called Linda the more lovely of the two, and certainly
the more feminine in the ladylike sense of the word. If, however,
devotion be feminine, and truth to one selected life's companion,
if motherly care be so, and an indomitable sense of the duties
due to one's own household, then Gertrude was not deficient in
feminine character.

'You find me greatly altered, Harry, do you not?' said she,
taking his hand frankly, and perceiving immediately the effect
which she had made upon him. 'I am a steady old matron, am I
not?--with a bairn on each side of me,' and she pointed to her
baby in the cradle, and to her other boy sitting on his
grandmother's knee.

Harry said he did find her altered. It was her dress, he said,
and the cap on her head.

'Yes, Harry; and some care and trouble too. To you, you know, to
a friend such as you are, I must own that care and trouble do
tell upon one. Not, thank God, that I have more than I can bear;
not that I have not blessings for which I cannot but be too
thankful.'

'And so these are your boys, Gertrude?'

'Yes,' said she, cheerfully; 'these are the little men, that in
the good times coming will be managing vast kingdoms, and giving
orders to this worn-out old island of yours. Alley, my boy, sing
your new song about the 'good and happy land.' But Alley, who
had got hold of his grandmother's watch, and was staring with all
his eyes at the stranger, did not seem much inclined to be
musical at the present moment.

'And this is Charley's godson,' continued Gertrude, taking up the
baby. 'Dear Charley! he has been such a comfort to me.'

'I have heard all about you daily from him,' said Harry.

'I know you have--and he is daily talking of you, Harry. And so
he should do; so we all should do. What a glorious change this is
for him! is it not, Harry?'

Charley by this time had torn himself away from Mr. Snape and the
navvies, and transferred the whole of his official zeal and
energies to the Weights and Measures. The manner and reason of
this must, however, be explained in a subsequent chapter.

'Yes,' said Harry, 'he has certainly got into a better office.'

'And he will do well there?'

'I am sure he will. It was impossible he should do well at that
other place. No man could do so. He is quite an altered man now.
The only fault I find with him is that he is so full of his
heroes and heroines.'

'So he is, Harry; he is always asking me what he is to do with
some forlorn lady or gentleman, 'Oh, smother her!' I said the
other day. 'Well,' said he, with a melancholy gravity, 'I'll try
it; but I fear it won't answer.' Poor Charley! what a friend you
have been to him, Harry!'

'A friend!' said Mrs. Woodward, who was still true to her
adoration of Norman. 'Indeed he has been a friend--a friend to us
all. Who is there like him?'

Gertrude could have found it in her heart to go back to the
subject of old days, and tell her mother that there was somebody
much better even than Harry Norman. But the present was hardly a
time for such an assertion of her own peculiar opinion.

'Yes, Harry,' she said, 'we have all much, too much, to thank you
for. I have to thank you on his account.'

'Oh no,' said he, ungraciously; 'there is nothing to thank me
for,--not on his account. Your mother and Captain Cuttwater----'
and then he stopped himself. What he meant was that he had
sacrificed his little fortune--for at the time his elder brother
had still been living--not to rescue, or in attempting to
rescue, his old friend from misfortune--not, at least, because
that man had been his friend; but because he was the husband of
Gertrude Woodward, and of Mrs. Woodward's daughter. Could he have
laid bare his heart, he would have declared that Alaric Tudor
owed him nothing; that he had never forgiven, never could
forgive, the wrongs he had received from him; but that he had
forgiven Alaric's wife; and that having done so in the tenderness
of his heart, he had been ready to give up all that he possessed
for her protection. He would have spared Gertrude what pain he
could; but he would not lie, and speak of Alaric Tudor with
affection.

'But there is, Harry; there is,' said Gertrude; 'much--too much
--greatly too much. It is that now weighs me down more than
anything. Oh! Harry, how are we to pay to you all this money?'

'It is with Mrs. Woodward,' said he coldly, 'and Captain
Cuttwater, not with me, that you should speak of that. Mr. Tudor
owes me nothing.'

'Oh, Harry, Harry,' said she, 'do not call him Mr. Tudor--pray,
pray; now that we are going--now that we shall never wound your
sight again! do not call him Mr. Tudor.

He has done wrong; I do not deny it; but which of us is there
that has not?'

'It was not on that account,' said he; 'I could forgive all
that.'

Gertrude understood him, and her cheeks and brow became tinged
with red. It was not from shame, nor yet wholly from a sense of
anger, but mingled feelings filled her heart; feelings which she
could in nowise explain. 'If you have forgiven him that'--she
would have said, had she thought it right to speak out her
mind--'if you have forgiven him that, then there is nothing left
for further forgiveness.'

Gertrude had twice a better knowledge of the world than he had,
twice a quicker perception of how things were going, and should
be made to go. She saw that it was useless to refer further to
her husband. Norman had come there at her request to say adieu to
her; that she and he, who had been friends since she was a child,
might see each other before they were separated for ever by half
a world, and that they might part in love and charity. She would
be his sister-in-law, he would be son to her mother, husband to
her Linda; he had been, though he now denied it, her husband's
staunchest friend in his extremity; and it would have added
greatly to the bitterness of her departure had she been forced to
go without speaking to him one kindly word. The opportunity was
given to her, and she would not utterly mar its sweetness by
insisting on his injustice to her husband.

They all remained silent for a while, during which Gertrude
fondled her baby, and Norman produced before the elder boy some
present that he had brought for him.

'Now, Alley,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'you're a made man; won't that
do beautifully to play with on board the big ship?'

'And so, Harry, you have given up official life altogether,' said
Gertrude.

'Yes,' said he--'the last day of the last year saw my finale at
the Weights and Measures. I did not live long--officially--to
enjoy my promotion. I almost wish myself back again.'

'You'll go in on melting days, like the retired tallow-chandler,'
said Gertrude; 'but, joking apart, I wish you joy on your freedom
from thraldom; a government office in England is thraldom. If a
man were to give his work only, it would be well. All men who
have to live by labour must do that; but a man has to give himself
as well as his work; to sacrifice his individuality; to become body
and soul a part of a lumbering old machine.'

This hardly came well from Gertrude, seeing that Alaric at any
rate had never been required to sacrifice any of his individuality.
But she was determined to hate all the antecedents of his life,
as though those antecedents, and not the laxity of his own
principles, had brought about his ruin. She was prepared
to live entirely for the future, and to look back on her London
life as bad, tasteless, and demoralizing. England to her was no
longer a glorious country; for England's laws had made a felon of
her husband. She would go to a new land, new hopes, new ideas,
new freedom, new work, new life, and new ambition. 'Excelsior!'
there was no longer an excelsior left for talent and perseverance
in this effete country. She and hers would soon find room for
their energies in a younger land; and as she went she could not
but pity those whom she left behind. Her reasoning was hardly
logical, but, perhaps, it was not unfortunate.

'For myself,' said Norman, not quite following all this--'I
always liked the Civil Service, and now I leave it with a sort of
regret. I am quite glad that Charley has my old desk; it will
keep up a sort of tie between me and the place.'

'What does Linda say about it, mamma?'

'Linda and I are both of Harry's way of thinking,' said Mrs.
Woodward, 'because Normansgrove is such a distance.'

'Distance!' repeated Gertrude, with something of sorrow, but more
of scorn in her tone. 'Distance, mamma! why you can get to her
between breakfast and dinner. Think where Melbourne is, mamma!'

'It has nearly broken my heart to think of it,' said Mrs.
Woodward.

'And you will still have Linda, mamma, and our darling Katie, and
Harry, and dear Charley. If the idea of distance should frighten
anyone it is me. But nothing shall frighten me while I have my
husband and children. Harry, you must not let mamma be too often
alone when some other knight shall have come and taken away
Katie.'

'We will take her to Normansgrove for good and all, if she will
let us,' said Harry.

And now the time came for them to part. Harry was to say good-bye
to her, and then to see her no more. Early on the following
morning Gertrude was to go to Hampton and see Katie for the last
time; to see Katie for the last time, and the Cottage, and the
shining river, and all the well-known objects among which she had
passed her life. To Mrs. Woodward, to Linda, and Katie, all this
was subject of inexpressible melancholy; but with Gertrude every
feeling of romance seemed to have been absorbed by the realities
of life. She would, of course, go to Katie and give her a
farewell embrace, since Katie was still too weak to come to her;
she would say farewell to Uncle Bat, to whom she and Alaric owed
so much; she would doubtless shed a tear or two, and feel some
emotion at parting, even from the inanimate associations of her
youth; but all this would now impress no lasting sorrow on her.

She was eager to be off, eager for her new career, eager that
he should stand on a soil where he could once more face his
fellow-creatures without shame. She panted to put thousands of
leagues of ocean between him and his disgrace.

On the following morning Gertrude was to go to Hampton for two
hours, and then to return to Millbank, with her mother and
sister, for whose accommodation a bed had been hired in the
neighbourhood. On that evening Alaric would be released from his
prison; and then before daybreak on the following day they were
to take their way to the far-off docks, and place themselves on
board the vessel which was to carry them to their distant home.

'God bless you, Gertrude,' said Norman, whose eyes were not dry.

'God Almighty bless you, Harry, you and Linda--and make you
happy. If Linda does not write constantly very constantly, you
must do it for her. We have delayed the happiness of your
marriage, Harry--you must forgive us that, as well as all our
other trespasses. I fear Linda will never forgive that.'

'You won't find her unmerciful on that score,' said he. 'Dear
Gertrude, good-bye.'

She put up her face to him, and he kissed her, for the first time
in his life. 'He bade me give you his love,' said she, in her
last whisper; 'I must, you know, do his bidding.'

Norman's heart palpitated so that he could hardly compose his
voice for his last answer; but even then he would not be untrue
to his inexorable obstinacy; he could not send his love to a man
he did not love. 'Tell him,' said he, 'that he has my sincerest
wishes for success wherever he may be; and Gertrude, I need
hardly say----' but he could get no further.

And so they parted.



CHAPTER XLIV

THE CRIMINAL POPULATION IS DISPOSED OF


Before we put Alaric on board the ship which is to take him away
from the land in which he might have run so exalted a career, we
must say one word as to the fate and fortunes of his old friend
Undy Scott. This gentleman has not been represented in our pages
as an amiable or high-minded person. He has indeed been the bad
spirit of the tale, the Siva of our mythology, the devil that has
led our hero into temptation, the incarnation of evil, which it
is always necessary that the novelist should have personified in
one of his characters to enable him to bring about his misfortunes,
his tragedies, and various requisite catastrophes. Scott had his
Varney and such-like; Dickens his Bill Sykes and such-like; all
of whom are properly disposed of before the end of those
volumes in which are described their respective careers.

I have ventured to introduce to my readers, as my devil, Mr. Undy
Scott, M.P. for the Tillietudlem district burghs; and I also feel
myself bound to dispose of him, though of him I regret I cannot
make so decent an end as was done with Sir Richard Varney and
Bill Sykes.

He deserves, however, as severe a fate as either of those heroes.
With the former we will not attempt to compare him, as the vices
and devilry of the days of Queen Elizabeth are in no way similar
to those in which we indulge; but with Bill Sykes we may contrast
him, as they flourished in the same era, and had their points of
similitude, as well as their points of difference.

They were both apparently born to prey on their own species; they
both resolutely adhered to a fixed rule that they would in nowise
earn their bread, and to a rule equally fixed that, though they
would earn no bread, they would consume much. They were both of
them blessed with a total absence of sensibility and an utter
disregard to the pain of others, and had no other use for a heart
than that of a machine for maintaining the circulation of the
blood. It is but little to say that neither of them ever acted on
principle, on a knowledge, that is, of right and wrong, and a
selection of the right; in their studies of the science of evil
they had progressed much further than this, and had taught
themselves to believe that that which other men called virtue
was, on its own account, to be regarded as mawkish, insipid, and
useless for such purposes as the acquisition of money or
pleasure; whereas vice was, on its own account, to be preferred,
as offering the only road to those things which they were
desirous of possessing.

So far there was a great resemblance between Bill Sykes and Mr.
Scott; but then came the points of difference, which must give to
the latter a great pre-eminence in the eyes of that master whom
they had both so worthily served. Bill could not boast the merit
of selecting the course which he had run; he had served the
Devil, having had, as it were, no choice in the matter; he was
born and bred and educated an evil-doer, and could hardly have
deserted from the colours of his great Captain, without some
spiritual interposition to enable him to do so. To Undy a warmer
reward must surely be due: he had been placed fairly on the
world's surface, with power to choose between good and bad, and
had deliberately taken the latter; to him had, at any rate, been
explained the theory of _meum_ and _tuum_, and he had resolved
that he liked _tuum_ better than _meum_; he had learnt that
there is a God ruling over us, and a Devil hankering after us, and
had made up his mind that he would belong to the latter. Bread
and water would have come to him naturally without any villany
on his part, aye, and meat and milk, and wine and oil, the fat
things of the world; but he elected to be a villain; he liked to do
the Devil's bidding.--Surely he was the better servant; surely he
shall have the richer reward.

And yet poor Bill Sykes, for whom here I would willingly say a
word or two, could I, by so saying, mitigate the wrath against
him, is always held as the more detestable scoundrel. Lady, you
now know them both. Is it not the fact, that, knowing him as you
do, you could spend a pleasant hour enough with Mr. Scott,
sitting next to him at dinner; whereas your blood would creep
within you, your hair would stand on end, your voice would stick
in your throat, if you were suddenly told that Bill Sykes was in
your presence?

Poor Bill! I have a sort of love for him, as he walks about
wretched with that dog of his, though I know that it is necessary
to hang him. Yes, Bill; I, your friend, cannot gainsay that, must
acknowledge that. Hard as the case may be, you must be hung; hung
out of the way of further mischief; my spoons, my wife's throat,
my children's brains, demand that. You, Bill, and polecats, and
such-like, must be squelched when we can come across you, seeing
that you make yourself so universally disagreeable. It is your
ordained nature to be disagreeable; you plead silently. I know
it; I admit the hardship of your case; but still, my Bill,
self-preservation is the first law of nature. You must be hung.
But, while hanging you, I admit that you are more sinned against
than sinning. There is another, Bill, another, who will surely take
account of this in some way, though it is not for me to tell you
how.

Yes, I hang Bill Sykes with soft regret; but with what a savage
joy, with what exultation of heart, with what alacrity of eager
soul, with what aptitude of mind to the deed, would I hang my
friend, Undy Scott, the member of Parliament for the Tillietudlem
burghs, if I could but get at his throat for such a purpose! Hang
him! aye, as high as Haman! In this there would be no regret, no
vacillation of purpose, no doubt as to the propriety of the
sacrifice, no feeling that I was so treating him, not for his own
desert, but for my advantage.

We hang men, I believe, with this object only, that we should
deter others from crime; but in hanging Bill we shall hardly
deter his brother. Bill Sykes must look to crime for his bread,
seeing that he has been so educated, seeing that we have not yet
taught him another trade.

But if I could hang Undy Scott, I think I should deter some
others. The figure of Undy swinging from a gibbet at the broad
end of Lombard Street would have an effect. Ah! my fingers itch
to be at the rope.

Fate, however, and the laws are averse. To gibbet him, in one
sense, would have been my privilege, had I drunk deeper from that
Castalian rill whose dark waters are tinged with the gall of
poetic indignation; but as in other sense I may not hang him, I
will tell how he was driven from his club, and how he ceased to
number himself among the legislators of his country.

Undy Scott, among his other good qualities, possessed an enormous
quantity of that which schoolboys in these days call 'cheek.' He
was not easily browbeaten, and was generally prepared to browbeat
others. Mr. Chaffanbrass certainly did get the better of him; but
then Mr. Chaffanbrass was on his own dunghill. Could Undy Scott
have had Mr. Chaffanbrass down at the clubs, there would have
been, perhaps, another tale to tell.

Give me the cock that can crow in any yard; such cocks, however,
we know are scarce. Undy Scott, as he left the Old Bailey, was
aware that he had cut a sorry figure, and felt that he must
immediately do something to put himself right again, at any rate
before his portion of the world. He must perform some exploit
uncommonly cheeky in order to cover his late discomfiture. To get
the better of Mr. Chaffanbrass at the Old Bailey had been beyond
him; but he might yet do something at the clubs to set aside the
unanimous verdict which had been given against him in the city.
Nay, he must do something, unless he was prepared to go to the
wall utterly, and at once.

Going to the wall with Undy would mean absolute ruin; he lived
but on the cheekiness of his gait and habits; he had become
member of Parliament, Government official, railway director, and
club aristocrat, merely by dint of cheek. He had now received a
great blow; he had stood before a crowd, and been annihilated by
the better cheek of Mr. Chaffanbrass, and, therefore, it behoved
him at once to do something. When the perfume of the rose grows
stale, the flower is at once thrown aside, and carried off as
foul refuse. It behoved Undy to see that his perfume was
maintained in its purity, or he, too, would be carried off.

The club to which Undy more especially belonged was called the
Downing; and of this Alaric was also a member, having been
introduced into it by his friend. Here had Alaric spent by far
too many of the hours of his married life, and had become well
known and popular. At the time of his conviction, the summer was
far advanced; it was then August; but Parliament was still
sitting, and there were sufficient club men remaining in London
to create a daily gathering at the Downing.

On the day following that on which the verdict was found, Undy
convened a special committee of the club, in order that he might
submit to it a proposition which he thought it indispensable
should come from him; so, at least, he declared. The committee
did assemble, and when Undy met it, he saw among the faces before
him not a few with whom he would willingly have dispensed.
However, he had come there to exercise his cheek; no one there
should cow him; the wig of Mr. Chaffanbrass was, at any rate,
absent.

And so he submitted his proposition. I need not trouble my
readers with the neat little speech in which it was made. Undy
was true to himself, and the speech was neat. The proposition was
this: that as he had unfortunately been the means of introducing
Mr. Alaric Tudor to the club, he considered it to be his duty to
suggest that the name of that gentleman should be struck off the
books. He then expressed his unmitigated disgust at the crime of
which Tudor had been found guilty, uttered some nice little
platitudes in the cause of virtue, and expressed a hope 'that he
might so far refer to a personal matter as to say that his
father's family would take care that the lady, whose fortune had
been the subject of the trial, should not lose one penny through
the dishonesty of her trustee.'

Oh, Undy, as high as Haman, if I could! as high as Haman! and if
not in Lombard Street, then on that open ground where Waterloo
Place bisects Pall Mall, so that all the clubs might see thee!

'He would advert,' he said, 'to one other matter, though,
perhaps, his doing so was unnecessary. It was probably known to
them all that he had been a witness at the late trial; an
iniquitous attempt had been made by the prisoner's counsel to
connect his name with the prisoner's guilt. They all too well
knew the latitude allowed to lawyers in the criminal courts, to
pay much attention to this. Had he' (Undy Scott) 'in any way
infringed the laws of his country, he was there to answer for it.
But he would go further than this, and declare that if any member
of that club doubted his probity in the matter, he was perfectly
willing to submit to such member documents which would,' &c., &c.

He finished his speech, and an awful silence reigned around him.
No enthusiastic ardour welcomed the well-loved Undy back to his
club, and comforted him after the rough usage of the unpolished
Chaffanbrass. No ten or twenty combined voices expressed, by
their clamorous negation of the last-proposed process, that their
Undy was above reproach. The eyes around looked into him with no
friendly alacrity. Undy, Undy, more cheek still, still more
cheek, or you are surely lost.

'If,' said he, in a well-assumed indignant tone of injured
innocence, 'there be any in the club who do suspect me of
anything unbecoming a gentleman in this affair, I am willing to
retire from it till the matter shall have been investigated; but
in such case I demand that the investigation be immediate.'

Oh, Undy, Undy, the supply of cheek is not bad; it is all but
unlimited; but yet it suffices thee not. 'Can there be positions
in this modern West End world of mine,' thought Undy to himself,
'in which cheek, unbounded cheek, will not suffice?' Oh, Undy,
they are rare; but still there are such, and this, unfortunately
for thee, seemeth to be one of them.

And then got up a discreet old baronet, one who moveth not often
in the affairs around him, but who, when he moveth, stirreth many
waters; a man of broad acres, and a quiet, well-assured fame
which has grown to him without his seeking it, as barnacles grow
to the stout keel when it has been long a-swimming; him, of all
men, would Undy have wished to see unconcerned with these
matters.

Not in many words, nor eloquent did Sir Thomas speak. 'He felt it
his duty,' he said, 'to second the proposal made by Mr. Scott for
removing Mr. Tudor from amongst them. He had watched this trial
with some care, and he pitied Mr. Tudor from the bottom of his
heart. He would not have thought that he could have felt so
strong a sympathy for a man convicted of dishonesty. But, Mr.
Tudor had been convicted, and he must incur the penalties of his
fault. One of these penalties must, undoubtedly, be his
banishment from this club. He therefore seconded Mr. Scott's
proposal.'

He then stood silent for a moment, having finished that task; but
yet he did not sit down. Why, oh, why does he not sit down? why,
O Undy, does he thus stand, looking at the surface of the table
on which he is leaning?

'And now,' he said, 'he had another proposition to make; and that
was that Mr. Undecimus Scott should also be expelled from the
club,' and having so spoken, in a voice of unusual energy, he
then sat down.

And now, Undy, you may as well pack up, and be off, without
further fuss, to Boulogne, Ostend, or some such idle Elysium,
with such money-scrapings as you may be able to collect together.
No importunity will avail thee anything against the judges and
jurymen who are now trying thee. One word from that silent old
baronet was worse to thee than all that Mr. Chaffanbrass could
say. Come! pack up; and begone.

But he was still a Member of Parliament. The Parliament, however,
was about to be dissolved, and, of course, it would be useless
for him to stand again; he, like Mr. M'Buffer had had his spell
of it, and he recognized the necessity of vanishing. He at first
thought that his life as a legislator might be allowed to come to
a natural end, that he might die as it were in his bed, without
suffering the acute pain of applying for the Chiltern Hundreds.
In this, however, he found himself wrong. The injured honour of
all the Tillietudlemites rose against him with one indignant
shout; and a rumour, a horrid rumour, of a severer fate met his
ears. He applied at once for the now coveted sinecure,--and was
refused. Her Majesty could not consent to entrust to him the
duties of the situation in question--; and in lieu thereof the
House expelled him by its unanimous voice.

And now, indeed, it was time for him to pack and begone. He was
now liable to the vulgarest persecution from the vulgar herd; his
very tailor and bootmaker would beleaguer him, and coarse
unwashed bailiffs take him by the collar. Yes, now indeed, it was
time to be off.

And off he was. He paid one fleeting visit to my Lord at
Cauldkail Castle, collecting what little he might; another to his
honourable wife, adding some slender increase to his little
budget, and then he was off. Whither, it is needless to say--to
Hamburg perhaps, or to Ems, or the richer tables of Homburg. How
he flourished for a while with ambiguous success; how he talked
to the young English tourists of what he had done when in
Parliament, especially for the rights of married women; how he
poked his 'Honourable' card in every one's way, and lugged Lord
Gaberlunzie into all conversations; how his face became pimply
and his wardrobe seedy; and how at last his wretched life will
ooze out from him in some dark corner, like the filthy juice of a
decayed fungus which makes hideous the hidden wall on which it
bursts, all this is unnecessary more particularly to describe. He
is probably still living, and those who desire his acquaintance
will find him creeping round some gambling table, and trying to
look as though he had in his pocket ample means to secure those
hoards of money which men are so listlessly raking about. From
our view he has now vanished.

It was a bitter February morning, when two cabs stood packing
themselves at No. 5, Paradise Row, Millbank. It was hardly yet
six o'clock, and Paradise Row was dark as Erebus; that solitary
gas-light sticking out from the wall of the prison only made
darkness visible; the tallow candles which were brought in and
out with every article that was stuffed under a seat, or into a
corner, would get themselves blown out; and the sleet which was
falling fast made the wicks wet, so that they could with
difficulty be relighted.

But at last the cabs were packed with luggage, and into one got
Gertrude with her husband, her baby, and her mother; and into the
other Charley handed Linda, then Alley, and lastly, the youthful
maiden, who humbly begged his pardon as she stepped up to the
vehicle; and then, having given due directions to the driver, he
not without difficulty squeezed himself into the remaining space.

Such journeys as these are always made at a slow pace. Cabmen
know very well who must go fast, and who may go slow. Women with
children going on board an emigrant vessel at six o'clock on a
February morning may be taken very slowly. And very slowly
Gertrude and her party were taken. Time had been--nay, it was but
the other day--when Alaric's impatient soul would have spurned at
such a pace as this. But now he sat tranquil enough. His wife
held one of his hands, and the other he pressed against his eyes,
as though shading them from the light. Light there was none, but
he had not yet learnt to face Mrs. Woodward even in the darkness.

He had come out of the prison on the day before, and had spent an
evening with her. It is needless to say that no one had upbraided
him, that no one had hinted that his backslidings had caused all
this present misery, had brought them all to that wretched cabin,
and would on the morrow separate, perhaps for ever, a mother and
a child who loved each other so dearly. No one spoke to him of
this; perhaps no one thought of it; he, however, did so think of
it that he could not hold his head up before them.

'He was ill,' Gertrude said; 'his long confinement had prostrated
him; but the sea air would revive him in a day or two.' And then
she made herself busy, and got the tea for them, and strove, not
wholly in vain,' to drive dull care away!'

But slowly as the cabs went in spite of Charley's vocal
execrations, they did get to the docks in time. Who, indeed, was
ever too late at the docks? Who, that ever went there, had not to
linger, linger, linger, till every shred of patience was clean
worn out? They got to the docks in time, and got on board that
fast-sailing, clipper-built, never-beaten, always-healthy ship,
the _Flash of Lightning_, 5,600 tons, A 1. Why, we have often
wondered, are ships designated as A 1, seeing that all ships are of
that class? Where is the excellence, seeing that all share it? Of
course the _Flash of Lightning_ was A 1. The author has for
years been looking out, and has not yet found a ship advertised as
A 2, or even as B 1. What is this catalogue of comparative
excellence, of which there is but one visible number?

The world, we think, makes a great mistake on the subject of
saying, or acting, farewell. The word or deed should partake of
the suddenness of electricity; but we all drawl through it at a
snail's pace. We are supposed to tear ourselves from our friends;
but tearing is a process which should be done quickly. What is so
wretched as lingering over a last kiss, giving the hand for the
third time, saying over and over again, 'Good-bye, John, God
bless you; and mind you write!' Who has not seen his dearest
friends standing round the window of a railway carriage, while
the train would not start, and has not longed to say to them,
'Stand not upon the order of your going, but go at once!' And of
all such farewells, the ship's farewell is the longest and the
most dreary. One sits on a damp bench, snuffing up the odour of
oil and ropes, cudgelling one's brains to think what further word
of increased tenderness can be spoken. No tenderer word can be
spoken. One returns again and again to the weather, to coats and
cloaks, perhaps even to sandwiches and the sherry flask. All
effect is thus destroyed, and a trespass is made even on the
domain of feeling.

I remember a line of poetry, learnt in my earliest youth, and
which I believe to have emanated from a sentimental Frenchman, a
man of genius, with whom my parents were acquainted. It is as
follows:--

  Are you go?--Is you gone?--And I left?--Vera vell!

Now the whole business of a farewell is contained in that line.
When the moment comes, let that be said; let that be said and
felt, and then let the dear ones depart.

Mrs. Woodward and Gertrude--God bless them!--had never studied
the subject. They knew no better than to sit in the nasty cabin,
surrounded by boxes, stewards, porters, children, and abominations
of every kind, holding each other's hands, and pressing damp
handkerchiefs to their eyes. The delay, the lingering, upset even
Gertrude, and brought her for a moment down to the usual level
of leave-taking womanhood. Alaric, the meanwhile, stood leaning
over the taffrail with Charley, as mute as the fishes beneath him.

'Write to us the moment you get there,' said Charley. How often had
the injunction been given! 'And now we had better get off--you'll
be better when we are gone, Alaric,'--Charley had some sense of
the truth about him--'and, Alaric, take my word for it, I'll
come and set the Melbourne Weights and Measures to rights
before long--I'll come and weigh your gold for you.'

'We had better be going now,' said Charley, looking down into the
cabin; 'they may let loose and be off any moment now.'

'Oh, Charley, not yet, not yet,' said Linda, clinging to her
sister.

'You'll have to go down to the Nore, if you stay; that's all,'
said Charley.

And then again began the kissing and the crying. Yes, ye dear
ones--it is hard to part--it is hard for the mother to see the
child of her bosom torn from her for ever; it is cruel that
sisters should be severed: it is a harsh sentence for the world
to give, that of such a separation as this. These, O ye loving
hearts, are the penalties of love! Those that are content to love
must always be content to pay them.

'Go, mamma, go,' said Gertrude; 'dearest, best, sweetest
mother--my own, own mother; go, Linda, darling Linda. Give my
kindest love to Harry--Charley, you and Harry will be good to
mamma, I know you will. And mamma'--and then she whispered to her
mother one last prayer in Charley's favour--'she may love him now,
indeed she may.'

Alaric came to them at the last moment--'Mrs. Woodward,' said he,
'say that you forgive me.'

'I do,' said she, embracing him--'God knows that I do;--but,
Alaric, remember what a treasure you possess.'

And so they parted. May God speed the wanderers!



CHAPTER XLV

THE FATE OF THE NAVVIES


And now, having dispatched Alaric and his wife and bairns on
their long journey, we must go back for a while and tell how
Charley had been transformed from an impudent, idle young Navvy
into a well-conducted, zealous young Weights.

When Alaric was convicted, Charley had, as we all know, belonged
to the Internal Navigation; when the six months' sentence had
expired, Charley was in full blow at the decorous office in
Whitehall; and during the same period Norman had resigned and
taken on himself the new duties of a country squire. The change
which had been made had affected others than Charley. It had been
produced by one of those far-stretching, world-moving commotions
which now and then occur, sometimes twice or thrice in a
generation, and, perhaps, not again for half a century, causing
timid men to whisper in corners, and the brave and high-spirited
to struggle with the struggling waves, so that when the storm
subsides they may be found floating on the surface. A moral
earthquake had been endured by a portion of the Civil Service of
the country.

The Internal Navigation had--No, my prognostic reader, it had not
been reformed; no new blood had been infused into it; no attempt
had been made to produce a better discipline by the appointment
of a younger secretary; there had been no carting away of decayed
wood in the shape of Mr. Snape, or gathering of rank weeds in the
form of Mr. Corkscrew; nothing of the kind had been attempted.
No--the disease had gone too far either for phlebotomy, purging,
or cautery. The Internal Navigation had ceased to exist! Its
demise had been in this wise.--It may be remembered that some
time since Mr. Oldeschole had mentioned in the hearing of Mr.
Snape that things were going wrong. Sir Gregory Hardlines had
expressed an adverse opinion as to the Internal Navigation, and
worse, ten times worse than that, there had been an article in
the _Times_. Now, we all know that if anything is ever done
in any way towards improvement in these days, the public press
does it. And we all know, also, of what the public press
consists. Mr. Oldeschole knew this well, and even Mr. Snape had a
glimmering idea of the truth. When he read that article, Mr.
Oldeschole felt that his days were numbered, and Mr. Snape, when
he heard of it, began to calculate for the hundredth time to what
highest amount of pension he might be adjudged to be entitled by
a liberal-minded Treasury minute.

Mr. Oldeschole began to set his house in order, hopelessly; for
any such effort the time was gone by. It was too late for the
office to be so done by, and too late for Mr. Oldeschole to do
it. He had no aptitude for new styles and modern improvements; he
could not understand Sir Gregory's code of rules, and was
dumbfounded by the Civil Service requisitions that were made upon
him from time to time. Then came frequent calls for him to attend
at Sir Gregory's office. There a new broom had been brought in,
in the place of our poor friend Alaric, a broom which seemed
determined to sweep all before it with an unmitigable energy. Mr.
Oldeschole found that he could not stand at all before this young
Hercules, seeing that his special stall was considered to be the
foulest in the whole range of the Augean stables. He soon saw
that the river was to be turned in on him, and that he was to be
officially obliterated in the flood.

The civility of those wonder-doing demigods--those Magi of the
Civil Service office--was most oppressive to him. When he got to
the board, he was always treated with a deference which he knew
was but a prelude to barbaric tortures. They would ask him to sit
down in a beautiful new leathern arm-chair, as though he were
really some great man, and then examine him as they would a
candidate for the Custom House, smiling always, but looking at
him as though they were determined to see through him.

They asked him all manner of questions; but there was one
question which they put to him, day after day, for four days,
that nearly drove him mad. It was always put by that horrid young
lynx-eyed new commissioner, who sat there with his hair brushed
high from off his forehead, peering out of his capacious,
excellently-washed shirt-collars, a personification of conscious
official zeal.

'And now, Mr. Oldeschole, if you have had leisure to consider
the question more fully, perhaps you can define to us what is
the--hum--hm--the use--hm--hm--the exact use of the Internal
Navigation Office?'

And then Sir Warwick would go on looking through his millstone as
though now he really had a hope of seeing something, and Sir
Gregory would lean back in his chair, and rubbing his hands
slowly over each other, like a great Akinetos as he was, wait
leisurely for Mr. Oldeschole's answer, or rather for his no
answer.

What a question was this to ask of a man who had spent all his
life in the Internal Navigation Office! O reader! should it
chance that thou art a clergyman, imagine what it would be to
thee, wert thou asked what is the exact use of the Church of
England; and that, too, by some stubborn catechist whom thou wert
bound to answer; or, if a lady, happy in a husband and family,
say, what would be thy feelings if demanded to define the exact
use of matrimony? Use! Is it not all in all to thee?

Mr. Oldeschole felt a hearty inward conviction that his office
had been of very great use. In the first place, had he not drawn
from it a thousand a year for the last five-and-twenty years? had
it not given maintenance and employment to many worthy men who
might perhaps have found it difficult to obtain maintenance
elsewhere? had it not always been an office, a public office of
note and reputation, with proper work assigned to it? The use of
it--the exact use of it? Mr. Oldeschole at last declared, with
some indignation in his tone, that he had been there for forty
years and knew well that the office was very useful; but that he
would not undertake to define its exact use. 'Thank you, thank
you, Mr. Oldeschole--that will do, I think,' said the very
spruce-looking new gentleman out of his shirt-collars.

In these days there was a kind of prescience at the Internal
Navigation that something special was going to be done with them.
Mr. Oldeschole said nothing openly; but it may be presumed that
he did whisper somewhat to those of the seniors around him in
whom he most confided. And then, his frequent visits to Whitehall
were spoken of even by the most thoughtless of the navvies, and
the threatenings of the coming storm revealed themselves with
more or less distinctness to every mind.

At last the thundercloud broke and the bolt fell. Mr. Oldeschole
was informed that the Lords of the Treasury had resolved on
breaking up the establishment and providing for the duties in
another way. As the word duties passed Sir Gregory's lips a
slight smile was seen to hover round the mouth of the new
commissioner. Mr. Oldeschole would, he was informed, receive an
official notification to this effect on the following morning;
and on the following morning accordingly a dispatch arrived, of
great length, containing the resolution of my Lords, and putting
an absolute extinguisher on the life of every navvy.

How Mr. Oldeschole, with tears streaming down his cheeks,
communicated the tidings to the elder brethren; and how the elder
brethren, with palpitating hearts and quivering voices, repeated
the tale to the listening juniors, I cannot now describe. The
boldest spirits were then cowed, the loudest miscreants were then
silenced, there were but few gibes, but little jeering at the
Internal Navigation on that day; though Charley, who had already
other hopes, contrived to keep up his spirits. The men stood
about talking in clusters, and old animosities were at an end.
The lamb sat down with the wolf, and Mr. Snape and Dick
Scatterall became quite confidential.

'I knew it was going to happen,' said Mr. Snape to him. 'Indeed,
Mr. Oldeschole has been consulting us about it for some time; but
I must own I did not think it would be so sudden; I must own
that.'

'If you knew it was coming,' said Corkscrew, 'why didn't you tell
a chap?'

'I was not at liberty,' said Mr. Snape, looking very wise.

'We shall all have liberty enough now,' said Scatterall; 'I
wonder what they'll do with us; eh, Charley?'

'I believe they will send the worst of us to Spike Island or
Dartmoor prison,' said Charley; 'but Mr. Snape, no doubt, has
heard and can tell us.'

'Oh, come, Charley! It don't do to chaff now,' said a young
navvy, who was especially down in the mouth. 'I wonder will they
do anything for a fellow?'

'I heard my uncle, in Parliament Street, say, that when a chap
has got any _infested_ interest in a thing, they can't turn
him out,' said Corkscrew; 'and my uncle is a parliamentary
agent.'

'Can't they though!' said Scatterall. 'It seems to me that they
mean to, at any rate; there wasn't a word about pensions or
anything of that sort, was there, Mr. Snape?'

'Not a word,' said Snape. 'But those who are entitled to pensions
can't be affected injuriously. As far as I can see they must give
me my whole salary. I don't think they can do less.'

'You're all serene then, Mr. Snape,' said Charley; 'you're in the
right box. Looking at matters in that light, Mr. Snape, I think
you ought to stand something handsome in the shape of lunch.
Come, what do you say to chops and stout all round? Dick will go
over and order it in a minute.'

'I wish you wouldn't, Charley,' said the navvy who seemed to be
most affected, and who, in his present humour, could not endure a
joke, As Mr. Snape did not seem to accede to Charley's views, the
liberal proposition fell to the ground.

'Care killed a cat,' said Scatterall. 'I shan't break my heart
about it. I never liked the shop--did you, Charley?'

'Well, I must say I think we have been very comfortable here,
under Mr. Snape,' said Charley. But if Mr. Snape is to go, why
the office certainly would be deuced dull without him.'

'Charley!' said the broken-hearted young navvy, in a tone of
reproach.

Sorrow, however, did not take away their appetite, and as Mr.
Snape did not see fitting occasion for providing a banquet, they
clubbed together, and among them managed to get a spread of
beefsteaks and porter. Scatterall, as requested, went across the
Strand to order it at the cookshop, while Corkscrew and Charley
prepared the tables. 'And now mind it's the thing,' said Dick,
who, with intimate familiarity, had penetrated into the eating-house
kitchen; 'not dry, you know, or too much done; and lots of fat.'

And then, as the generous viands renewed their strength, and as
the potent stout warmed their blood, happier ideas came to them,
and they began to hope that the world was not all over. 'Well, I
shall try for the Customs,' said the unhappy one, after a deep
pull at the pewter. 'I shall try for the Customs; one does get
such stunning feeds for tenpence at that place in Thames Street.'
Poor youth! his ideas of earning his bread did not in their
wildest flight spread beyond the public offices of the Civil
Service.

For a few days longer they hung about the old office, doing
nothing--how could men so circumstanced do anything?--and
waiting for their fate. At last their fate was announced. Mr.
Oldeschole retired with his full salary. Secretaries and such-like
always retire with full pay, as it is necessary that dignity
should be supported. Mr. Snape and the other seniors were
pensioned, with a careful respect to their years of service; with
which arrangement they all of them expressed themselves highly
indignant, and loudly threatened to bring the cruelty of their
treatment before Parliament, by the aid of sundry members, who
were supposed to be on the look out for such work; but as nothing
further was ever heard of them, it may be presumed that the
members in question did not regard the case as one on which the
Government of the day was sufficiently vulnerable to make it
worth their while to trouble themselves. Of the younger clerks,
two or three, including the unhappy one, were drafted into other
offices; some others received one or more years' pay, and then
tore themselves away from the fascinations of London life; among
those was Mr. R. Scatterall, who, in after years, will doubtless
become a lawgiver in Hong-Kong; for to that colony has he betaken
himself. Some few others, more unfortunate than the rest, among
whom poor Screwy was the most conspicuous, were treated with a
more absolute rigour, and were sent upon the world portionless.
Screwy had been constant in his devotion to pork chops, and had
persisted in spelling blue without the final 'e.' He was
therefore, declared unworthy of any further public confidence
whatever. He is now in his uncle's office in Parliament Street;
and it is to be hoped that his peculiar talents may there be
found useful.

And so the Internal Navigation Office came to an end, and the
dull, dingy rooms were vacant. Ruthless men shovelled off as
waste paper all the lock entries of which Charley had once been
so proud; and the ponderous ledgers, which Mr. Snape had
delighted to haul about, were sent away into Cimmerian darkness,
and probably to utter destruction. And then the Internal
Navigation was no more.

Among those who were drafted into other offices was Charley, whom
propitious fate took to the Weights and Measures. But it must not
be imagined that chance took him there. The Weights and Measures
was an Elysium, the door of which was never casually open.

Charley at this time was a much-altered man; not that he had
become a good clerk at his old office--such a change one may say
was impossible; there were no good clerks at the Internal
Navigation, and Charley had so long been among navvies the most
knavish or navviest, that any such transformation would have met
with no credence--but out of his office he had become a much-altered
man. As Katie had said, it was as though some one had come to him
from the dead. He could not go back to his old haunts, he could not
return like a dog to his vomit, as long as he had that purse so near
his heart, as long as that voice sounded in his ear, while the
memory of that kiss lingered in his heart.

He now told everything to Gertrude, all his debts, all his love,
and all his despair. There is no relief for sorrow like the
sympathy of a friend, if one can only find it. But then the
sympathy must be real; mock sympathy always tells the truth
against itself, always fails to deceive. He told everything to
Gertrude, and by her counsel he told much to Norman. He could not
speak to him, true friend as he was, of Katie and her love. There
was that about the subject which made it too sacred for man's
ears, too full of tenderness to be spoken of without feminine
tears. It was only in the little parlour at Paradise Row, when
the evening had grown dark, and Gertrude was sitting with her
baby in her arms, that the boisterous young navvy could bring
himself to speak of his love.

During these months Katie's health had greatly improved, and as
she herself had gained in strength, she had gradually begun to
think that it was yet possible for her to live. Little was now
said by her about Charley, and not much was said of him in her
hearing; but still she did learn how he had changed his office,
and with his office his mode of life; she did hear of his
literary efforts, and of his kindness to Gertrude, and it would
seem as though it were ordained that his moral life and her
physical life were to gain strength together.



CHAPTER XLVI

MR. NOGO'S LAST QUESTION


But at this time Charley was not idle. The fate of 'Crinoline and
Macassar' has not yet been told; nor has that of the two rival
chieftains, the 'Baron of Ballyporeen and Sir Anthony Allan-a-dale.'
These heartrending tales appeared in due course, bit by bit,
in the pages of the _Daily Delight_. On every morning of the
week, Sundays excepted, a page and a half of Charley's narrative
was given to the expectant public; and though I am not prepared
to say that the public received the offering with any violent
acclamations of applause, that his name became suddenly that
of a great unknown, that literary cliques talked about him
to the exclusion of other topics, or that he rose famous one
morning as Byron did after the publication of the 'Corsair,'
nevertheless something was said in his praise. The _Daily
Delight_, on the whole, was rather belittled by its grander
brethren of the press; but a word or two was said here and there
to exempt Charley's fictions from the general pooh-poohing with
which the remainder of the publication was treated.

Success, such as this even, is dear to the mind of a young
author, and Charley began to feel that he had done something. The
editor was proportionably civil to him, and he was encouraged to
commence a third historiette.

'We have polished off poison and petticoats pretty well,' said
the editor; 'what do you say to something political?'

Charley had no objection in life.

'This Divorce Bill, now--we could have half a dozen married
couples all separating, getting rid of their ribs and buckling
again, helter-skelter, every man to somebody else's wife; and the
parish parson refusing to do the work; just to show the
immorality of the thing.'

Charley said he'd think about it.

'Or the Danubian Principalities and the French Alliance--could
you manage now to lay your scene in Constantinople?'

Charley doubted whether he could.

'Or perhaps India is the thing? The Cawnpore massacre would work
up into any lengths you pleased. You could get a file of the
_Times_, you know, for your facts.'

But while the editor was giving these various valuable hints as
to the author's future subjects, the author himself, with base
mind, was thinking how much he should be paid for his past
labours. At last he ventured, in the mildest manner, to allude to
the subject.

'Payment!' said the editor.

Charley said that he had understood that there was to be some
fixed scale of pay; so much per sheet, or something of that sort.

'Undoubtedly there will,' said the editor; 'and those who will
have the courage and perseverance to work through with us, till
the publication has obtained that wide popularity which it is
sure to achieve, will doubtless be paid,--be paid as no writers
for any periodical in this metropolis have ever yet been paid.
But at present, Mr. Tudor, you really must be aware that it is
quite out of the question.'

Charley had not the courage and perseverance to work through with
the _Daily Delight_ till it had achieved its promised popularity,
and consequently left its ranks like a dastard. He consulted both
Gertrude and Norman on the subject, and on their advice set
himself to work on his own bottom. 'You may perhaps manage to
fly alone,' said Gertrude; 'but you will find it very difficult to fly if
you tie the whole weight of the _Daily Delight_ under your wings.'
So Charley prepared himself for solitary soaring.

While he was thus working, the time arrived at which Norman was
to leave his office, and it occurred to him that it might be
possible that he should bequeath his vacancy to Charley. He went
himself to Sir Gregory, and explained, not only his own
circumstances, and his former friendship with Alaric Tudor, but
also the relationship between Alaric and Charley. He then learnt,
in the strictest confidence of course, that the doom of the
Internal Navigation had just been settled, and that it would be
necessary to place in other offices those young men who could in
any way be regarded as worth their salt, and, after considerable
manoeuvring, had it so arranged that the ne'er-do-well young
navvy should recommence his official life under better auspices.

Nor did Charley come in at the bottom of his office, but was
allowed, by some inscrutable order of the great men who arranged
those things, to take a position in the Weights and Measures
equal in seniority and standing to that which he had held at the
Navigation, and much higher, of course, in pay. There is an old
saying, which the unenlightened credit, and which declares that
that which is sauce for the goose is sauce also for the gander.
Nothing put into a proverb since the days of Solomon was ever
more untrue. That which is sauce for the goose is not sauce for
the gander, and especially is not so in official life. Poor
Screwy was the goose, and certainly got the sauce best suited to
him when he was turned adrift out of the Civil Service. Charley
was the gander, and fond as I am of him for his many excellent
qualities, I am fain to own that justice might fairly have
demanded that he should be cooked after the same receipt. But it
suited certain potent personages to make a swan of him; and
therefore, though it had long been an assured fact through the
whole service that no man was ever known to enter the Weights and
Measures without the strictest examination, though the character
of aspirants for that high office was always subjected to a rigid
scrutiny, though knowledge, accomplishments, industry, morality,
outward decency, inward zeal, and all the cardinal virtues were
absolutely requisite, still Charley was admitted, without any
examination or scrutiny whatever, during the commotion consequent
upon the earthquake above described.

Charley went to the Weights some time during the recess. In the
process of the next session Mr. Nogo gave notice that he meant to
ask the Government a question as to a gross act of injustice
which had been perpetrated--so at least the matter had been
represented to him--on the suppression of the Internal Navigation
Office.

Mr. Nogo did not at first find it very easy to get a fitting
opportunity for asking his question. He had to give notice, and
inquiries had to be made, and the responsible people were away,
and various customary accidents happened, so that it was late in
June before the question was put. Mr. Nogo, however, persevered
ruthlessly, and after six months' labour, did deliver himself of
an indignant, and, as his friends declared to him, a very telling
speech.

It was reported at the time by the opposition newspapers, and
need not therefore be given here. But the upshot was this: two
men bearing equal character--Mr. Nogo would not say whether the
characters of the gentlemen were good or bad; he would only say
equal characters--sat in the same room at this now defunct
office; one was Mr. Corkscrew and the other Mr. Tudor. One had no
friends in the Civil Service, but the other was more fortunate.
Mr. Corkscrew had been sent upon the world a ruined, blighted
man, without any compensation, without any regard for his
interests, without any consideration for his past services or
future prospects. They would be told that the Government had no
further need of his labours, and that they could not dare to
saddle the country with a pension for so young a man. But what
had been done in the case of the other gentleman? Why, he had
been put into a valuable situation, in the best Government office
in London, had been placed over the heads of a dozen others, who
had been there before him, &c., &c., &c. And then Mr. Nogo ended
with so vehement an attack on Sir Gregory, and the Government as
connected with him, that the dogs began to whet their teeth and
prepare for a tug at the great badger.

But circumstances were mischancy with Mr. Nogo, and all he said
redounded only to the credit of our friend Charley. His black
undoubtedly was black; the merits of Charley and Mr. Corkscrew,
as public servants, had been about equal; but Mr. Whip Vigil
turned the black into white in three minutes.

As he got upon his legs, smiling after the manner of his great
exemplar, he held in his hand a small note and a newspaper. 'A
comparison,' he said, 'had been instituted between the merits of
two gentlemen formerly in the employment of the Crown, one of
them had been selected for further employment, and the other
rejected. The honourable member for Mile End had, he regretted to
say, instituted this comparison. They all knew what was the
proverbial character of a comparison. It was, however, ready made
to his hands, and there was nothing left for him, Mr. Whip Vigil,
but to go on with it. This, however, he would do in as light a
manner as possible. It had been thought that the one gentleman
would not suit the public service, and that the other would do
so. It was for him merely to defend this opinion. He now held in
his hand a letter written by the protégé of the honourable member
for Limehouse; he would not read it--' (cries of 'Read, read!')
'no, he would not read it, but the honourable member might if he
would--and could. He himself was prepared to say that a gentleman
who chose to express himself in such a style in his private
notes--this note, however, was not private in the usual sense--could
hardly be expected to command a proper supply of wholesome English,
such as the service of the Crown demanded!' Then Mr. Vigil handed
across to Mr. Nogo poor Screwy's unfortunate letter about the pork
chops. 'As to the other gentleman, whose name was now respectably
known in the lighter walks of literature, he would, if permitted,
read the opinion expressed as to his style of language by a
literary publication of the day; and then the House would see
whether or no the produce of the Civil Service field had not
been properly winnowed; whether the wheat had not been garnered,
and the chaff neglected.' And then the right honourable gentleman
read some half-dozen lines, highly eulogistic of Charley's first
solitary flight.

Poor Mr. Nogo remained in silence, feeling that his black had
become white to all intents and purposes; and the big badger sat
by and grinned, not deigning to notice the dogs around him. Thus
it may be seen that that which is sauce for the goose is not
sauce for the gander.

Early in the spring Norman was married; and then, as had been
before arranged, Charley once more went to Surbiton Cottage. The
marriage was a very quiet affair. The feeling of disgrace which
had fallen upon them all since the days of Alaric's trial had
by no means worn itself away. There were none of them yet--no,
not one of the Cottage circle, from Uncle Bat down to the
parlour-maid--who felt that they had a right to hold up their
faces before the light of day as they had formerly done. There
was a cloud over their house, visible perhaps with more or less
distinctness to all eyes, but which to themselves appeared black
as night. That evil which Alaric had done to them was not to be
undone in a few moons. We are all of us responsible for our
friends, fathers-in-law for their sons-in-law, brothers for their
sisters, husbands for their wives, parents for their children,
and children even for their parents. We cannot wipe off from us,
as with a wet cloth, the stains left by the fault of those who
are near to us. The ink-spot will cling. Oh! Alaric, Alaric, that
thou, thou who knewest all this, that thou shouldest have done
this thing! They had forgiven his offence against them, but they
could not forget their own involuntary participation in his
disgrace. It was not for them now to shine forth to the world
with fine gala doings, and gay gaudy colours, as they had done
when Gertrude had been married.

But still there was happiness--quiet, staid happiness--at the
Cottage. Mrs. Woodward could not but be happy to see Linda
married to Harry Norman, her own favourite, him whom she had
selected in her heart for her son-in-law from out of all the
world. And now, too, she was beginning to be conscious that Harry
and Linda were better suited for each other than he and Gertrude
would have been. What would have been Linda's fate, how
unendurable, had she been Alaric's wife, when Alaric fell? How
would she have borne such a fall? What could she have done, poor
lamb, towards mending the broken thread or binding the bruised
limbs? What balm could she have poured into such wounds as those
which fate had inflicted on Gertrude and her household? But at
Normansgrove, with a steady old housekeeper at her back, and her
husband always by to give her courage, Linda would find the very
place for which she was suited.

And then Mrs. Woodward had another source of joy, of liveliest
joy, in Katie's mending looks. She was at the wedding, though
hardly with her mother's approval.

As she got better her old spirit returned to her, and it became
difficult to refuse her anything. It was in vain that her mother
talked of the cold church, and easterly winds, and the necessary
lightness of a bridesmaid's attire. Katie argued that the church
was only two hundred yards off, that she never suffered from the
cold, and that though dressed in light colours, as became a
bridesmaid, she would, if allowed to go, wear over her white
frock any amount of cloaks which her mother chose to impose on
her. Of course she went, and we will not say how beautiful she
looked, when she clung to Linda in the vestry-room, and all her
mother's wrappings fell in disorder from her shoulders.

So Linda was married and carried off to Normansgrove, and Katie
remained with her mother and Uncle Bat.

'Mamma, we will never part--will we, mamma?' said she, as they
comforted each other that evening after the Normans were gone,
and when Charley also had returned to London.

'When you go, Katie, I think you must take me with you,' said her
mother, smiling through her tears. 'But what will poor Uncle Bat
do? I fear you can't take him also.'

'I will never go from you, mamma.'

Her mother knew what she meant. Charley had been there, Charley
to whom she had declared her love when lying, as she thought, on
her bed of death--Charley had been there again, and had stood
close to her, and touched her hand, and looked--oh, how much
handsomer he was than Harry, how much brighter than Alaric!--he
had touched her hand, and spoken to her one word of joy at her
recovered health. But that had been all. There was a sort of
compact, Katie knew, that there should be no other Tudor
marriage. Charley was not now the scamp he had been, but still--it
was understood that her love was not to win its object.

'I will never go from you, mamma.'

But Mrs. Woodward's heart was not hard as the nether millstone.
She drew her daughter to her, and as she pressed her to her
bosom, she whispered into her ears that she now hoped they might
all be happy.



CHAPTER XLVII

CONCLUSION


Our tale and toils have now drawn nigh to an end; our loves and
our sorrows are over; and we are soon to part company with the
three clerks and their three wives. Their three wives? Why, yes.
It need hardly be told in so many words to an habitual novel-reader
that Charley did get his bride at last.

Nevertheless, Katie kept her promise to Mrs. Woodward. What
promise did she ever make and not keep? She kept her promise, and
did not go from her mother. She married Mr. Charles Tudor, of the
Weights and Measures, that distinguished master of modern
fiction, as the _Literary Censor_ very civilly called him
the other day; and Mr. Charles Tudor became master of Surbiton
Cottage.

Reader! take one last leap with me, and presume that two years
have flown from us since the end of the last chapter; or rather
somewhat more than two years, for we would have it high midsummer
when we take our last farewell of Surbiton Cottage.

But sundry changes had taken place at the Cottage, and of such a
nature, that were it not for the old name's sake, we should now
find ourselves bound to call the place Surbiton Villa, or
Surbiton Hall, or Surbiton House. It certainly had no longer any
right to the title of a cottage; for Charley, in anticipation of
what Lucina might do for him, had added on sundry rooms, a
children's room on the ground floor, and a nursery above, and a
couple of additional bedrooms on the other side, so that the
house was now a comfortable abode for an increasing family.

At the time of which we are now speaking Lucina had not as yet
done much; for, in truth, Charley had been married but little
over twelve months; but there appeared every reason to believe
that the goddess would be propitious. There was already one
little rocking shrine, up in that cosy temple opening out of
Katie's bedroom--we beg her pardon, we should have said Mrs.
Charles Tudor's bedroom--one precious tabernacle in which was
laid a little man-deity, a young Charley, to whom was daily paid
a multitude of very sincere devotions.

How precious are all the belongings of a first baby; how dear are
the cradle, the lace-caps, the first coral, all the little duds
which are made with such punctilious care and anxious efforts of
nicest needlework to encircle that small lump of pink humanity!
What care is taken that all shall be in order! See that basket
lined with crimson silk, prepared to hold his various garments,
while the mother, jealous of her nurse, insists on tying every
string with her own fingers. And then how soon the change comes;
how different it is when there are ten of them, and the tenth is
allowed to inherit the well-worn wealth which the ninth, a year
ago, had received from the eighth. There is no crimson silk
basket then, I trow.

'Jane, Jane, where are my boots?' 'Mary, I've lost my trousers!'
Such sounds are heard, shouted through the house from powerful
lungs.

'Why, Charley,' says the mother, as her eldest hope rushes in to
breakfast with dishevelled hair and dirty hands, 'you've got no
handkerchief on your neck--what have you done with your
handkerchief?'

'No, mamma; it came off in the hay-loft, and I can't find it.'

'Papa,' says the lady wife, turning to her lord, who is reading
his newspaper over his coffee--'papa, you really must speak to
Charley; he will not mind me. He was dressed quite nicely an hour
ago, and do see what a figure he has made himself.'

'Charley,' says papa, not quite relishing this disturbance in the
midst of a very interesting badger-baiting--'Charley, my boy, if
you don't mind your P's and Q's, you and I shall fall out; mind
that;' and he again goes on with his sport; and mamma goes on
with her teapot, looking not exactly like Patience on a monument.

Such are the joys which await you, Mr. Charles Tudor; but not to
such have you as yet arrived. As yet there is but the one little
pink deity in the rocking shrine above; but one, at least, of
your own. At the moment of which we are now speaking there were
visitors at Surbiton Cottage, and the new nursery was brought
into full use. Mr. and Mrs. Norman of Normansgrove were there
with their two children and two maids, and grandmamma Woodward
had her hands quite full in the family nursery line.

It was a beautiful summer evening, and the two young mothers were
sitting with Mrs. Woodward and Uncle Bat in the drawing-room,
waiting for their lords' return from London. As usual, when they
stayed late, the two men were to dine at their club and come down
to tea. The nursemaids were walking on the lawn before the window
with their charges, and the three ladies were busily employed
with some fairly-written manuscript pages, which they were
cutting carefully into shape, and arranging in particular form.

'Now, mamma,' said Katie, 'if you laugh once while you are
reading it, you'll spoil it all.'

'I'll do the best I can, my dear, but I'm sure I shall break
down; you have made it so very abusive,' said Mrs. Woodward.

'Mamma, I think I'll take out that about official priggism--hadn't
I better, Linda?'

'Indeed, I think you had; I'm sure mamma would break down there,'
said Linda. 'Mamma, I'm sure you would never get over the
official priggism.'

'I don't think I should, my dear,' said Mrs. Woodward.

'What is it you are all concocting?' said Captain Cuttwater;
'some infernal mischief, I know, craving your pardons.'

'If you tell, Uncle Bat, I'll never forgive you,' said Katie.

'Oh, you may trust me; I never spoil sport, if I can't make any;
but the fun ought to be very good, for you've been a mortal long
time about it.'

And then the two younger ladies again went on clipping and
arranging their papers, while Mrs. Woodward renewed her protest
that she would do her best as to reading their production. While
they were thus employed the postman's knock was heard, and a
letter was brought in from the far-away Australian exiles. The
period at which these monthly missives arrived were moments of
intense anxiety, and the letter was seized upon with eager
avidity. It was from Gertrude to her mother, as all these letters
were; but in such a production they had a joint property, and it
was hardly possible to say who first mastered its contents.

It will only be necessary here to give some extracts from the
letter, which was by no means a short one. So much must be done
in order that our readers may know something of the fate of those
who perhaps may be called the hero and heroine of the tale. The
author does not so call them; he professes to do his work without
any such appendages to his story--heroism there may be, and he
hopes there is--more or less of it there should be in a true
picture of most characters; but heroes and heroines, as so
called, are not commonly met with in our daily walks of life.

Before Gertrude's letter had been disposed of, Norman and Charley
came in, and it was therefore discussed in full conclave.
Alaric's path in the land of his banishment had not been over
roses. The upward struggle of men, who have fallen from a high
place once gained, that second mounting of the ladder of life,
seldom is an easy path. He, and with him Gertrude and his
children, had been called on to pay the full price of his
backsliding. His history had gone with him to the Antipodes; and,
though the knowledge of what he had done was not there so
absolute a clog upon his efforts, so overpowering a burden, as it
would have been in London, still it was a burden and a heavy one.

It had been well for Gertrude that she had prepared herself to
give up all her luxuries by her six months' residence in that
Millbank Paradise of luxuries: for some time she had little
enough in the 'good and happy land,' to which she had taught
herself and her children to look forward. That land of promise
had not flowed with milk and honey when first she put her foot
upon its soil; its produce for her had been gall and bitter herbs
for many a weary month after she first landed. But her heart had
never sunk within her. She had never forgotten that he, if he
were to work well, should have at least one cheerful companion by
his side. She had been true to him, then as ever. And yet it is
so hard to be true to high principles in little things. The
heroism of the Roman, who, for his country's sake, leapt his
horse into a bottomless gulf, was as nothing to that of a woman
who can keep her temper through poverty, and be cheerful in
adversity.

Through poverty, scorn, and bad repute, under the privations of a
hard life, separated from so many that she had loved, and from
everything that she had liked, Gertrude had still been true to
her ideas of her marriage vow; true, also, to her pure and single
love. She had entwined herself with him in sunny weather; and
when the storm came she did her best to shelter the battered stem
to which she had trusted herself.

By degrees things mended with them; and in this letter, which is
now passing from eager hand to hand in Katie's drawing-room,
Gertrude spoke with better hope of their future prospects.

'Thank God, we are once more all well,' she said; 'and Alaric's
spirits are higher than they were. He has, indeed, had much to
try them. They think, I believe, in England, that any kind of
work here is sure to command a high price; of this I am quite
sure, that in no employment in England are people so tasked as
they are here. Alaric was four months in these men's counting-house,
and I am sure another four months would have seen him in his
grave. Though I knew not then what other provision might be
made for us, I implored him, almost on my knees, to give up that.
He was expected to be there for ten, sometimes twelve, hours a
day; and they thought he should always be kept going like a
steam-engine. You know Alaric never was afraid of work; but that
would have killed him. And what was it for? What did they give
him for that--for all his talent, all his experience, all his
skill? And he did give them all. His salary was two pounds ten a
week! And then, when he told them of all he was doing for them,
they had the baseness to remind him of----. Dearest mother, is
not the world hard? It was that that made me insist that he
should leave them.'

Alaric's present path was by no means over roses. This certainly
was a change from those days on which he had sat, one of a mighty
trio, at the Civil Service Examination Board, striking terror
into candidates by a scratch of his pen, and making happy the
desponding heart by his approving nod. His ambition now was not
to sit among the magnates of Great Britain, and make his voice
thunder through the columns of the _Times_; it ranged somewhat
lower at this period, and was confined for the present to a strong
desire to see his wife and bairns sufficiently fed, and not left
absolutely without clothing. He inquired little as to the feeling of
the electors of Strathbogy.

And had he utterly forgotten the stirring motto of his early
days? Did he ever mutter 'Excelsior' to himself, as, with weary
steps, he dragged himself home from that hated counting-house?
Ah! he had fatally mistaken the meaning of the word which he had
so often used. There had been the error of his life. 'Excelsior!'
When he took such a watchword for his use, he should surely have
taught himself the meaning of it.

He had now learnt that lesson in a school somewhat of the
sternest; but, as time wore kindly over him, he did teach himself
to accept the lesson with humility. His spirit had been wellnigh
broken as he was carried from that court-house in the Old Bailey
to his prison on the river-side; and a broken spirit, like a
broken goblet, can never again become whole. But Nature was a
kind mother to him, and did not permit him to be wholly crushed.
She still left within the plant the germ of life, which enabled
it again to spring up and vivify, though sorely bruised by the
heels of those who had ridden over it. He still repeated to
himself the old watchword, though now in humbler tone and more
bated breath; and it may be presumed that he had now a clearer
meaning of its import.

'But his present place,' continued Gertrude, 'is much--very much
more suited to him. He is corresponding clerk in the first bank
here, and though his pay is nearly double what it was at the
other place, his hours of work are not so oppressive. He goes at
nine and gets away at five--that is, except on the arrival or
dispatch of the English mails.' Here was a place of bliss for a
man who had been a commissioner, attending at the office at such
hours as best suited himself, and having clerks at his beck to do
all that he listed. And yet, as Gertrude said, this was a place
of bliss to him. It was a heaven as compared with that other
hell.

'Alley is such a noble boy,' said Gertrude, becoming almost
joyous as she spoke of her own immediate cares. 'He is most like
Katie, I think, of us all; and yet he is very like his papa. He
goes to a day-school now, with his books slung over his back in a
bag. You never saw such a proud little fellow as he is, and so
manly. Charley is just like you--oh! so like. It makes me so
happy that he is. He did not talk so early as Alley, but,
nevertheless, he is more forward than the other children I see
here. The little monkeys! they are neither of them the least like
me. But one can always see oneself, and it don't matter if one
does not.'

'If ever there was a brick, Gertrude is one,' said Norman.

'A brick!' said Charley--'why you might cut her to pieces, and
build another Kensington palace out of the slices. I believe she
is a brick.'

'I wonder whether I shall ever see her again?' said Mrs.
Woodward, not with dry eyes.

'Oh yes, mamma,' said Katie. 'She shall come home to us some day,
and we will endeavour to reward her for it all.'

Dear Katie, who will not love you for such endeavour? But,
indeed, the reward for heroism cometh not here.

There was much more in the letter, but enough has been given for
our purpose. It will be seen that hope yet remained both for
Alaric and his wife; and hope not without a reasonable base. Bad
as he had been, it had not been with him as with Undy Scott. The
devil had not contrived to put his whole claw upon him. He had
not divested himself of human affections and celestial hopes. He
had not reduced himself to the present level of a beast, with the
disadvantages of a soul and of an eternity, as the other man had
done. He had not put himself beyond the pale of true brotherhood
with his fellow-men. We would have hanged Undy had the law
permitted us; but now we will say farewell to the other, hoping
that he may yet achieve exaltation of another kind.

And to thee, Gertrude--how shall we say farewell to thee,
excluded as thou art from that dear home, where those who love
thee so well are now so happy? Their only care remaining is now
thy absence. Adversity has tried thee in its crucible, and thou
art found to be of virgin gold, unalloyed; hadst thou still been
lapped in prosperity, the true ring of thy sterling metal would
never have been heard. Farewell to thee, and may those young
budding flowerets of thine break forth into golden fruit to
gladden thy heart in coming days!

The reading of Gertrude's letter, and the consequent discussion,
somewhat put off the execution of the little scheme which had
been devised for that evening's amusement; but, nevertheless, it
was still broad daylight when Mrs. Woodward consigned the
precious document to her desk; the drawing-room windows were
still open, and the bairns were still being fondled in the room.
It was the first week in July, when the night almost loses her
dominion, and when those hours which she generally claims as her
own, become the pleasantest of the day.

'Oh, Charley,' said Katie, at last, 'we have great news for you,
too. Here is another review on "The World's Last Wonder."'

Now 'The World's Last Wonder' was Charley's third novel; but he
was still sensitive enough on the subject of reviews to look
with much anxiety for what was said of him. These notices were
habitually sent down to him at Hampton, and his custom was to
make his wife or her mother read them, while he sat by in lordly
ease in his arm-chair, receiving homage when homage came to him,
and criticizing the critics when they were uncivil.

'Have you?' said Charley. 'What is it? Why did you not show it me
before?'

'Why, we were talking of dear Gertrude,' said Katie; 'and it is
not so pleasant but that it will keep. What paper do you think it
is?'

'What paper? how on earth can I tell?--show it me.'

'No; but do guess, Charley; and then mamma will read it--pray
guess now.'

'Oh, bother, I can't guess. _The Literary Censor_, I
suppose--I know they have turned against me.'

'No, it's not that,' said Linda; 'guess again.'

'_The Guardian Angel_,' said Charley.

'No--that angel has not taken you under his wings as yet,' said
Katie.

'I know it's not the _Times_,' said Charley, 'for I have
seen that.'

'O no,' said Katie, seriously; 'if it was anything of that sort,
we would not keep you in suspense.'

'Well, I'll be shot if I guess any more--there are such thousands
of them.'

'But there is only one _Daily Delight_,' said Mrs. Woodward.

'Nonsense!' said Charley. 'You don't mean to tell me that my dear
old friend and foster-father has fallen foul of me--my old
teacher and master, if not spiritual pastor; well--well--well!
The ingratitude of the age! I gave him my two beautiful stories,
the first-fruits of my vine, all for love; to think that he
should now lay his treacherous axe to the root of the young tree
--well, give it here.'

'No--mamma will read it--we want Harry to hear it.'

'O yes--let Mrs. Woodward read it,' said Harry. 'I trust it is
severe. I know no man who wants a dragging over the coals more
peremptorily than you do.'

'Thankee, sir. Well, grandmamma, go on; but if there be anything
very bad, give me a little notice, for I am nervous.'

And then Mrs. Woodward began to read, Linda sitting with Katie's
baby in her arms, and Katie performing a similar office for her
sister.

"'The World's Last Wonder,' by Charles Tudor, Esq."

'He begins with a lie,' said Charley, 'for I never called myself
Esquire.'

'Oh, that was a mistake,' said Katie, forgetting herself.

'Men of that kind shouldn't make such mistakes,' said Charley.
'When one fellow attempts to cut up another fellow, he ought to
take special care that he does it fairly.'

"By the author of 'Bathos.'"

'I didn't put that in,' said Charley, 'that was the publisher. I
only put Charles Tudor.'

'Don't be so touchy, Charley, and let me go on,' said Mrs.
Woodward.

'Well, fire away--it's good fun to you, I dare say, as the fly
said to the spider.'

'Well, Charley, at any rate we are not the spiders,' said Linda.
Katie said nothing, but she could not help feeling that she must
look rather spiderish.

'Mr. Tudor has acquired some little reputation as a humorist, but
as is so often the case with those who make us laugh, his very
success will prove his ruin.'

'Then upon my word the _Daily Delight_ is safe,' said
Charley. 'It will never be ruined in that way.'

'There is an elaborate jocosity about him, a determined eternity
of most industrious fun, which gives us the idea of a boy who is
being rewarded for having duly learnt by rote his daily lesson
out of Joe Miller.'

'Now, I'll bet ten to one he has never read the book at all--well,
never mind--go on.'

"'The World's Last Wonder' is the description of a woman who kept
a secret under certain temptations to reveal it, which, as Mr.
Tudor supposes, might have moved any daughter of Eve to break her
faith."

'I haven't supposed anything of the kind,' said Charley.

'This secret, which we shall not disclose, as we would not wish
to be thought less trustworthy than Mr. Tudor's wonderful woman--'

'We shall find that he does disclose it, of course; that is the
way with all of them.'

--'Is presumed to permeate the whole three volumes.'

'It is told at full length in the middle of the second,' said
Charley.

'And the effect upon the reader of course is, that he has ceased
to interest himself about it, long before it is disclosed to him!

'The lady in question is engaged to be married to a gentleman, a
circumstance which in the pages of a novel is not calculated to
attract much special attention. She is engaged to be married, but
the gentleman who has the honour of being her intended sposo----'

'Intended sposo!' said Charley, expressing by his upturned lip a
withering amount of scorn--'how well I know the fellow's low
attempts at wit! That's the editor himself--that's my literary
papa. I know him as well as though I had seen him at it.'

Katie and Mrs. Woodward exchanged furtive glances, but neither of
them moved a muscle of her face.

'But the gentleman who has the honour of being her intended
sposo,' continued Mrs. Woodward.

'What the devil's a sposo?' said Uncle Bat, who was sitting in an
arm-chair with a handkerchief over his head.

'Why, you're not a sposo, Uncle Bat,' said Linda; 'but Harry is,
and so is Charley.'

'Oh, I see,' said the captain; 'it's a bird with his wings
clipped.'

'But the gentleman who has the honour of being her intended
sposo----' again read Mrs. Woodward.

'Now I'm sure I'm speaking by the card,' said Charley, 'when I
say that there is not another man in London who could have
written that line, and who would have used so detestable a word.
I think I remember his using it in one of his lectures to me;
indeed I'm sure I do. Sposo! I should like to tweak his nose oh!'

'Are you going to let me go on?' said Mrs. Woodward--'her
intended sposo'--Charley gave a kick with his foot and satisfied
himself with that--'is determined to have nothing to say to her
in the matrimonial line till she has revealed to him this secret
which he thinks concerns his own honour.'

'There, I knew he'd tell it.'

'He has not told it yet,' said Norman.

'The lady, however, is obdurate, wonderfully so, of course,
seeing that she is the world's last wonder, and so the match is
broken off. But the secret is of such a nature that the lady's
invincible objection to revealing it is bound up with the fact of
her being a promised bride.'

'I wonder he didn't say sposa,' said Charley.

'I never thought of that,' said Katie.

Mrs. Woodward and Linda looked at her, but Charley did not, and
her blunder passed by unnoticed.

'Now that she is free from her matrimonial bonds, she is free
also to tell the secret; and indeed the welfare both of the
gentleman and of the lady imperiously demands that it should be
told. Should he marry her, he is destined to learn it after his
marriage; should he not marry her, he may hear it at any time.
She sends for him and tells him, not the first of these facts, by
doing which all difficulty would have at once been put an end to--'

'It is quite clear he has never read the story, quite clear,'
said Charley.

'She tells him only the last, viz., that as they are now
strangers he may know the secret; but that when once known it
will raise a barrier between them that no years, no penance, no
sorrow on his part, no tenderness on hers, can ever break down.
She then asks him--will he hear the secret?'

'She does not ask any such thing,' said Charley; 'the letter that
contains it has been already sent to him. She merely gives him an
opportunity of returning it unopened.'

'The gentleman, who is not without a grain of obstinacy in his
own composition and many grains of curiosity, declares it to be
impossible that he can go to the altar in ignorance of facts
which he is bound to know, and the lady, who seems to be of an
affectionate disposition, falls in tenderness at his feet. She is
indeed in a very winning mood, and quite inclined to use every
means allowable to a lady for retaining her lover; every means
that is short of that specially feminine one of telling her
secret.

'We will give an extract from this love scene, partly for the
sake of its grotesque absurdity--'

Charley kicked out another foot, as though he thought that the
editor of the _Daily Delight_ might perhaps be within reach.

'--And partly because it gives a fair example of the manner in
which Mr. Tudor endeavours to be droll even in the midst of his
most tender passages.

'Leonora was at this time seated--'

'Oh, skip the extract,' said Charley; 'I suppose there are three
or four pages of it?'

'It goes down to where Leonora says that his fate and her own are
in his hands.'

'Yes, about three columns,' said Charley; 'that's an easy way of
making an article--eh, Harry?'

'_Aliter non fit, amice, liber_,' said the classical Norman.

'Well, skip the extract, grandmamma.'

'Now, did anyone ever before read such a mixture of the bombastic
and the burlesque? We are called upon to cry over every joke,
and, for the life of us, we cannot hold our sides when the
catastrophes occur. It is a salad in which the pungency of the
vinegar has been wholly subdued by the oil, and the fatness of
the oil destroyed by the tartness of the vinegar.'

'His old simile,' said Charley; 'he was always talking about
literary salads.'

'The gentleman, of course, gives way at the last minute,'
continued Mrs. Woodward. 'The scene in which he sits with the
unopened letter lying on his table before him has some merit; but
this probably arises from the fact that the letter is dumb, and
the gentleman equally so.'

'D----nation!' said Charley, whose patience could not stand such
impudence at this.

'The gentleman, who, as we should have before said, is the eldest
son of a man of large reputed fortune----'

'There--I knew he'd tell it.'

'Oh, but he hasn't told it,' said Norman.

'Doesn't the word 'reputed' tell it?'

'--The eldest son of a man of large reputed fortune, does at last
marry the heroine; and then he discovers--But what he discovers,
those who feel any interest in the matter may learn from the book
itself; we must profess that we felt none.

'We will not say there is nothing in the work indicative of
talent. The hero's valet, Jacob Brush, and the heroine's
lady's-maid, Jacintha Pintail, are both humorous and good in their
way. Why it should be so, we do not pretend to say; but it certainly
does appear to us that Mr. Tudor is more at home in the servants'
hall than in the lady's boudoir.'

'Abominable scoundrel!' said Charley.

'But what we must chiefly notice,' continued the article, 'in the
furtherance of those views by which we profess that we are
governed--'

'Now, I know, we are to have something very grandiloquent and
very false,' said Charley.

'--Is this: that no moral purpose can be served by the volumes
before us. The hero acts wrongly throughout, but nevertheless he
is rewarded at last. There is no Nemesis--'

'No what?' said Charley, jumping up from his chair and looking
over the table.

'No Nemesis,' said Mrs. Woodward, speaking with only half-sustained
voice, and covering with her arms the document which she had been
reading.

Charley looked sharply at his wife, then at Linda, then at Mrs.
Woodward. Not one of them could keep her face. He made a snatch
at the patched-up manuscript, and as he did so, Katie almost
threw out of her arms the baby she was holding.

'Take him, Harry, take him,' said she, handing over the child to
his father. And then gliding quick as thought through the
furniture of the drawing-room, she darted out upon the lawn, to
save herself from the coming storm.

Charley was quickly after her; but as he made his exit, one chair
fell to the right of him, and another to the left. Mrs. Woodward
followed them, and so did Harry and Linda, each with a baby.

And then Captain Cuttwater, waking from his placid nap, rubbed
his eyes in wondering amazement.

'What the devil is all the row about?' said he. But there was
nobody to answer him.





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