Produced by David Clarke, Martin Pettit and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)






THE TALKING HORSE

ETC.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE TALKING HORSE

AND OTHER TALES


BY

F. ANSTEY

AUTHOR OF 'VICE VERSÂ' 'THE GIANT'S ROBE' 'THE PARIAH' ETC.

SECOND EDITION

LONDON
SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE
1892

[_All rights reserved_]




PREFACE


These stories originally appeared in 'Macmillan's,' 'Longman's,'
'Atalanta,' 'The Cornhill,' 'The Graphic,' 'Aunt Judy's,' 'The
Reflector,' and Unwin's 'Christmas Annual,' respectively.

                                                         F. A.




CONTENTS

                                 PAGE
THE TALKING HORSE                   1

THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL               39

A MATTER OF TASTE                  72

DON; THE STORY OF A GREEDY DOG    127

TAKEN BY SURPRISE                 151

PALEFACE AND REDSKIN              176

SHUT OUT                          234

TOMMY'S HERO                      250

A CANINE ISHMAEL                  274

MARJORY                           286




_THE TALKING HORSE_


It was on the way to Sandown Park that I met him first, on that horribly
wet July afternoon when Bendigo won the Eclipse Stakes. He sat opposite
to me in the train going down, and my attention was first attracted to
him by the marked contrast between his appearance and his attire: he had
not thought fit to adopt the regulation costume for such occasions, and
I think I never saw a man who had made himself more aggressively horsey.
The mark of the beast was sprinkled over his linen: he wore snaffle
sleeve-links, a hard hunting-hat, a Newmarket coat, and extremely tight
trousers. And with all this, he fell as far short of the genuine
sportsman as any stage super who ever wore his spurs upside down in a
hunting-chorus. His expression was mild and inoffensive, and his watery
pale eyes and receding chin gave one the idea that he was hardly to be
trusted astride anything more spirited than a gold-headed cane. And yet,
somehow, he aroused compassion rather than any sense of the ludicrous:
he had that look of shrinking self-effacement which comes of a recent
humiliation, and, in spite of all extravagances, he was obviously a
gentleman; while something in his manner indicated that his natural
tendency would, once at all events, have been to avoid any kind of
extremes.

He puzzled and interested me so much that I did my best to enter into
conversation with him, only to be baffled by the jerky embarrassment
with which he met all advances, and when we got out at Esher, curiosity
led me to keep him still in view.

Evidently he had not come with any intention of making money. He avoided
the grand stand, with the bookmakers huddling in couples, like hoarse
lovebirds; he kept away from the members' inclosure, where the Guards'
band was endeavouring to defy the elements which emptied their vials
into the brazen instruments; he drifted listlessly about the course till
the clearing-bell rang, and it seemed as if he was searching for some
one whom he only wished to discover in order to avoid.

Sandown, it must be admitted, was not as gay as usual that day, with its
'deluged park' and 'unsummer'd sky,' its waterproofed toilettes and
massed umbrellas, whose sides gleamed livid as they caught the
light--but there was a general determination to ignore the unseasonable
dampness as far as possible, and an excitement over the main event of
the day which no downpour could quench.

The Ten Thousand was run: ladies with marvellously confected bonnets
lowered their umbrellas without a murmur, and smart men on drags shook
hands effusively as, amidst a frantic roar of delight, Bendigo strode
past the post. The moment after, I looked round for my incongruous
stranger, and saw him engaged in a well-meant attempt to press a currant
bun upon a carriage-horse tethered to one of the trees--a feat of
abstraction which, at such a time, was only surpassed by that of
Archimedes at the sack of Syracuse.

After that I could no longer control my curiosity--I felt I must speak
to him again, and I made an opportunity later, as we stood alone on a
stand which commanded the finish of one of the shorter courses, by
suggesting that he should share my umbrella.

Before accepting he glanced suspiciously at me through the rills that
streamed from his unprotected hat-brim. 'I'm afraid,' I said, 'it is
rather like shutting the stable-door after the steed is stolen.'

He started. 'He _was_ stolen, then,' he cried; 'so you have heard?'

I explained that I had only used an old proverb which I thought might
appeal to him, and he sighed heavily.

'I was misled for the moment,' he said: 'you have guessed, then, that I
have been accustomed to horses?'

'You have hardly made any great secret of it.'

'The fact is,' he said, instantly understanding this allusion to his
costume, 'I--I put on these things so as not to lose the habit of
riding altogether--I have not been on horseback lately. At one time I
used to ride constantly--constantly. I was a regular attendant in Rotten
Row--until something occurred which shook my nerve, and I am only
waiting now for the shock to subside.'

I did not like to ask any questions, and we walked back to the station,
and travelled up to Waterloo in company, without any further reference
to the subject.

As we were parting, however, he said, 'I wonder if you would care to
hear my full story some day? I cannot help thinking it would interest
you, and it would be a relief to me.'

I was ready enough to hear whatever he chose to tell me; and persuaded
him to dine with me at my rooms that evening, and unbosom himself
afterwards, which he did to an extent for which I confess I was
unprepared.

That he himself implicitly believed in his own story, I could not doubt;
and he told it throughout with the oddest mixture of vanity and modesty,
and an obvious struggle between a dim perception of his own absurdity
and the determination to spare himself in no single particular, which,
though it did not overcome my scepticism, could not fail to enlist
sympathy. But for all that, by the time he entered upon the more
sensational part of his case, I was driven to form conclusions
respecting it which, as they will probably force themselves upon the
reader's own mind, I need not anticipate here.

I give the story, as far as possible, in the words of its author; and
have only to add that it would never have been published here without
his full consent and approval.


'My name,' said he, 'is Gustavus Pulvertoft. I have no occupation, and
six hundred a year. I lived a quiet and contented bachelor until I was
twenty-eight, and then I met Diana Chetwynd for the first time. We were
spending Christmas at the same country-house, and it did not take me
long to become the most devoted of her many adorers. She was one of the
most variously accomplished girls I had ever met. She was a skilled
musician, a brilliant amateur actress; she could give most men thirty
out of a hundred at billiards, and her judgment and daring across the
most difficult country had won her the warm admiration of all
hunting-men. And she was neither fast nor horsey, seeming to find but
little pleasure in the society of mere sportsmen, to whose conversation
she infinitely preferred that of persons who, like myself, were rather
agreeable than athletic. I was not at that time, whatever I may be now,
without my share of good looks, and for some reason it pleased Miss
Chetwynd to show me a degree of favour which she accorded to no other
member of the house-party.

It was annoying to feel that my unfamiliarity with the open-air sports
in which she delighted debarred me from her company to so great an
extent; for it often happened that I scarcely saw her until the evening,
when I sometimes had the bliss of sitting next to her at dinner; but on
these occasions I could not help seeing that she found some pleasure in
my society.

I don't think I have mentioned that, besides being exquisitely lovely,
Diana was an heiress, and it was not without a sense of my own
presumption that I allowed myself to entertain the hope of winning her
at some future day. Still, I was not absolutely penniless, and she was
her own mistress, and I had some cause, as I have said, for believing
that she was, at least, not ill-disposed towards me. It seemed a
favourable sign, for instance, when she asked me one day why it was I
never rode. I replied that I had not ridden for years--though I did not
add that the exact number of those years was twenty-eight.

'Oh, but you must take it up again!' she said, with the prettiest air of
imperiousness. 'You ought to ride in the Row next season.'

'If I did,' I said, 'would you let me ride with you sometimes?'

'We should meet, of course,' she said; 'and it is such a pity not to
keep up your riding--you lose so much by not doing so.'

Was I wrong in taking this as an intimation that, by following her
advice, I should not lose my reward? If you had seen her face as she
spoke, you would have thought as I did then--as I do now.

And so, with this incentive, I overcame any private misgivings, and soon
after my return to town attended a fashionable riding-school near Hyde
Park, with the fixed determination to acquire the whole art and mystery
of horsemanship.

That I found learning a pleasure I cannot conscientiously declare. I
have passed happier hours than those I spent in cantering round four
bare whitewashed walls on a snorting horse, with my interdicted stirrups
crossed upon the saddle. The riding-master informed me from time to time
that I was getting on, and I knew instinctively when I was coming off;
but I must have made some progress, for my instructor became more
encouraging. 'Why, when you come here first, Mr. Pulvertoft, sir, you
were like a pair o' tongs on a wall, as they say; whereas now--well, you
can tell yourself how you are,' he would say; though, even then, I
occasionally had reason to regret that I was _not_ on a wall. However, I
persevered, inspired by the thought that each fresh horse I crossed (and
some were very fresh indeed) represented one more barrier surmounted
between myself and Diana, and encouraged by the discovery, after
repeated experiments, that tan was rather soothing to fall upon than
otherwise.

When I walked in the Row, where a few horsemen were performing as
harbingers of spring, I criticised their riding, which I thought
indifferent, as they neglected nearly all the rules. I began to
anticipate a day when I should exhibit a purer and more classic style of
equestrianism. And one morning I saw Diana, who pulled up her dancing
mare to ask me if I had remembered her advice, and I felt proudly able
to reply that I should certainly make my appearance in the Row before
very long.

From that day I was perpetually questioning my riding-master as to when
he considered I should be ripe enough for Rotten Row. He was dubious,
but not actually dissuasive. 'It's like this, you see, sir,' he
explained, 'if you get hold of a quiet, steady horse--why, you won't
come to no harm; but if you go out on an animal that will take advantage
of you, Mr. Pulvertoft, why, you'll be all no-how on him, sir.'

They would have mounted me at the school; but I knew most of the stud
there, and none of them quite came up to my ideal of a 'quiet, steady
horse;' so I went to a neighbouring job-master, from whom I had
occasionally hired a brougham, and asked to be shown an animal he could
recommend to one who had not had much practice lately. He admitted
candidly enough that most of his horses 'took a deal of riding,' but
added that it so happened that he had one just then which would suit me
'down to the ground'--a phrase which grated unpleasantly on my nerves,
though I consented to see the horse. His aspect impressed me most
favourably. He was a chestnut of noble proportions, with a hogged mane;
but what reassured me was the expression of his eye, indicating as it
did a self-respect and sagacity which one would hardly expect for seven
and sixpence an hour.

'You won't get a showier Park 'ack than what he is, not to be so quiet,'
said his owner. 'He's what you may call a kind 'oss, and as gentle--you
could ride him on a packthread.'

I considered reins safer, but I was powerfully drawn towards the horse:
he seemed to me to be sensible that he had a character to lose, and to
possess too high an intelligence wilfully to forfeit his testimonials.
With hardly a second thought, I engaged him for the following afternoon.

I mounted at the stables, with just a passing qualm, perhaps, while my
stirrup-leathers were being adjusted, and a little awkwardness in taking
up my reins, which were more twisted than I could have wished; however,
at length, I found myself embarked on the stream of traffic on the back
of the chestnut--whose name, by the way, was Brutus.

Shall I ever forget the pride and ecstasy of finding that I had my steed
under perfect control, that we threaded the maze of carriages with
absolute security? I turned him into the Park, and clucked my tongue: he
broke into a canter, and how shall I describe my delight at the
discovery that it was not uncomfortable? I said 'Woa,' and he stopped,
so gradually that my equilibrium was not seriously disturbed; he
trotted, and still I accommodated myself to his movements without any
positive inconvenience. I could have embraced him for gratitude: never
before had I been upon a beast whose paces were so easy, whose behaviour
was so considerate. I could ride at last! or, which amounted to the same
thing, I could ride the horse I was on, and I would 'use no other.' I
was about to meet Diana Chetwynd, and need not fear even to encounter
her critical eyes.

We had crossed the Serpentine bridge, and were just turning in upon the
Ride, when--and here I am only too conscious that what I am about to say
may strike you as almost incredible--when I heard an unfamiliar voice
addressing me with, 'I say--you!' and the moment afterwards realised
that it proceeded from my own horse!

I am not ashamed to own that I was as nearly off as possible; for a more
practised rider than I could pretend to be might have a difficulty in
preserving his equanimity in this all but unparalleled situation. I was
too much engaged in feeling for my left stirrup to make any reply, and
presently the horse spoke once more. 'I say,' he inquired, and I failed
to discern the slightest trace of respect in his tone--'do you think you
can ride?' You can judge for yourself how disconcerting the inquiry must
have been from such lips: I felt rooted to the saddle--a sensation
which, with me, was sufficiently rare. I looked round in helpless
bewilderment, at the shimmering Serpentine, and the white houses in Park
Lane gleaming out of a lilac haze, at the cocoa-coloured Row, and the
flash of distant carriage-wheels in the sunlight: all looked as
usual--and yet, there was I on the back of a horse which had just
inquired 'whether I thought I could ride'!

'I have had two dozen lessons at a riding-school,' I said at last, with
rather a flabby dignity.

'I should hardly have suspected it,' was his brutal retort. 'You are
evidently one of the hopeless cases.'

I was deeply hurt, the more so because I could not deny that he had some
claim to be a judge. 'I--I thought we were getting on so nicely
together,' I faltered, and all he said in reply to that was, '_Did_
you?'

'Do you know,' I began, striving to be conversational, 'I never was on a
horse that talked before.'

'You are enough to make any horse talk,' he answered; 'but I suppose I
_am_ an exception.'

'I think you must be,' said I. 'The only horses I ever heard of as
possessing the gift of speech were the Houyhnhnms.'

'How do you know I am not one of them?' he replied.

'If you are, you will understand that I took the liberty of mounting you
under a very pardonable mistake; and if you will have the goodness to
stand still, I will no longer detain you.'

'Not so fast,' said he: 'I want to know something more about you first.
I should say now you were a man with plenty of oats.'

'I am--well off,' I said. How I wished I was!

'I have long been looking out for a proprietor who would not overwork
me: now, of course, I don't know, but you scarcely strike me as a _hard_
rider.'

'I do not think I could be fairly accused of that,' I answered, with all
the consciousness of innocence.

'Just so--then buy me.'

'No,' I gasped: 'after the extremely candid opinion you were good enough
to express of my riding, I'm surprised that you should even suggest such
a thing.'

'Oh, I will put up with that--you will suit me well enough, I dare say.'

'You must excuse me. I prefer to keep my spare cash for worthier
objects; and, with your permission, I will spend the remainder of the
afternoon on foot.'

'You will do nothing of the sort,' said he.

'If you won't stop, and let me get off properly,' I said with firmness,
'I shall _roll_ off.' There were some promenaders within easy hail; but
how was I to word a call for help, how explain such a dilemma as mine?

'You will only reduce me to the painful necessity of rolling on you,' he
replied. 'You must see that you are to a certain extent in my power.
Suppose it occurred to me to leap those rails and take you into the
Serpentine, or to run away and upset a mounted policeman with you--do
you think you could offer much opposition?'

I could not honestly assert that I did. 'You were introduced to me,' I
said reproachfully, 'as a _kind_ horse!'

'And so I am--apart from matters of business. Come, will you buy, or be
bolted with? I hate indecision!'

'Buy!' I said, with commercial promptness. 'If you will take me back, I
will arrange about it at once.'

It is needless to say that my one idea was to get safely off his back:
after which, neither honour nor law could require me to execute a
contract extorted from me by threats. But, as we were going down the
mews, he said reflectively, 'I've been thinking--it will be better for
all parties, if you make your offer to my proprietor _before_ you
dismount.' I was too vexed to speak: this animal's infernal intelligence
had foreseen my manoeuvre--he meant to foil it, if he could.

And then we clattered in under the glass-roofed yard of the livery
stables; and the job-master, who was alone there, cast his eyes up at
the sickly-faced clock, as if he were comparing its pallor with my own.
'Why, you _are_ home early, sir,' he said. 'You didn't find the 'orse
too much for you, did you?' He said this without any suspicion of the
real truth; and, indeed, I may say, once for all, that this weird
horse--Houyhnhnm, or whatever else he might be--admitted no one but
myself into the secret of his marvellous gifts, and in all his
conversations with me, managed (though how, I cannot pretend to say) to
avoid being overheard.

'Oh, dear no,' I protested, 'he carried me admirably--admirably!' and I
made an attempt to slip off.

No such thing: Brutus instantly jogged my memory, and me, by the
slightest suggestion of a 'buck.'

'He's a grand 'orse, sir, isn't he?' said the job-master complacently.

'M--magnificent!' I agreed, with a jerk. 'Will you go to his head,
please?'

But the horse backed into the centre of the yard, where he plunged with
a quiet obstinacy. 'I like him so much,' I called out, as I clung to the
saddle, 'that I want to know if you're at all inclined to part with
him?' Here Brutus became calm and attentive.

'Would you be inclined to make me a orfer for him, sir?'

'Yes,' I said faintly. 'About how much would he be?'

'You step into my orfice here, sir,' said he, 'and we'll talk it over.'

I should have been only too willing, for there was no room there for the
horse, but the suspicious animal would not hear of it: he began to
revolve immediately.

'Let us settle it now--here,' I said, 'I can't wait.'

The job-master stroked away a grin. No doubt there _was_ something
unbusinesslike and unpractical in such precipitation, especially as
combined with my appearance at the time.

'Well, you _'ave_ took a voilent fancy to the 'orse and no mistake,
sir,' he remarked.

'I never crossed a handsomer creature,' I said; which was hardly a
prudent remark for an intending purchaser, but then, there was the
animal himself to be conciliated.

'I don't know, really, as I can do without him just at this time of
year,' said the man. 'I'm under-'orsed as it is for the work I've got to
do.'

A sweet relief stole over me: I had done all that could be expected of
me. 'I'm very sorry to hear that,' I said, preparing to dismount. 'That
_is_ a disappointment; but if you can't there's an end of it.'

'Don't you be afraid,' said Brutus, '_he'll_ sell me readily enough:
make him an offer, quick!'

'I'll give you thirty guineas for him, come!' I said, knowing well
enough that he would not take twice the money.

'I thought a gentleman like you would have had more insight into the
value of a 'orse,' he said: 'why, his action alone is worth that, sir.'

'You couldn't let me have the action without the horse, I suppose?' I
said, and I must have intended some joke.

It is unnecessary to prolong a painful scene. Brutus ran me up steadily
from sum to sum, until his owner said at last: 'Well, we won't 'aggle,
sir, call it a hundred.'

I had to call it a hundred, and what is more, it _was_ a hundred. I took
him without a warranty, without even a veterinary opinion. I could have
been induced to take my purchase away then and there, as if I had been
buying a canary, so unaccustomed was I to transactions of this kind, and
I am afraid the job-master considered me little better than a fool.

So I found myself the involuntary possessor of a Houyhnhnm, or something
even worse, and I walked back to my rooms in Park Street in a state of
stupor. What was I to do with him? To ride an animal so brutally
plainspoken would be a continual penance; and yet, I should have to keep
him, for I knew he was cunning enough to outwit any attempt to dispose
of him. And to this, Love and Ambition had led me! I could not, after
all I had said, approach Diana with any confidence as a mere pedestrian:
the fact that I was in possession of a healthy horse which I never rode,
would be sure to leak out in time, and how was I to account for it? I
could see no way, and I groaned under an embarrassment which I dared not
confide to the friendliest ear. I hated the monster that had saddled
himself upon me, and looked in vain for any mode of escape.

I had to provide Brutus with stabling in another part of the town, for
he proved exceedingly difficult to please: he found fault with
everything, and I only wonder he did not demand that his stable should
be fitted up with blue china and mezzotints. In his new quarters I left
him for some days to his own devices: a course which I was glad to find,
on visiting him again, had considerably reduced his arrogance. He wanted
to go in the Row and see the other horses, and it did not at all meet
his views to be exercised there by a stableman at unfashionable hours.
So he proposed a compromise. If I would only consent to mount him, he
engaged to treat me with forbearance, and pointed out that he could give
me, as he expressed it, various 'tips' which would improve my seat. I
was not blind to the advantages of such an arrangement. It is not every
one who secures a riding-master in the person of his own horse; the
horse is essentially a generous animal, and I felt that I might trust to
Brutus's honour. And to do him justice, he observed the compact with
strict good faith. Some of his 'tips,' it is true, very nearly tipped me
off, but their result was to bring us closer together; our relations
were less strained; it seemed to me that I gained more mastery over him
every day, and was less stiff afterwards.

But I was not allowed to enjoy this illusion long. One day when I
innocently asked him if he found my hands improving, he turned upon me
his off sardonic eye. 'You'll _never_ improve, old sack-of-beans' (for
he had come to address me with a freedom I burned to resent); 'hands!
why, you're sawing my mouth off all the time. And your feet "home," and
tickling me under my shoulders at every stride--why, I'm half ashamed to
be seen about with you.'

I was deeply hurt. 'I will spare you for the future,' I said coldly;
'this is my last appearance.'

'Nonsense,' he said, 'you needn't show temper over it. Surely, if I can
put up with it, _you_ can! But we will make a new compact.' (I never
knew such a beast as he was for bargains!) 'You only worry me by
interfering with the reins. Let 'em out, and leave everything to me.
Just mention from time to time where you want to go, and I'll attend to
it,--if I've nothing better to do.'

I felt that such an understanding was destructive of all dignity,
subverting, as it did, the natural relations between horse and rider;
but I had hardly any self-respect left, and I consented, since I saw no
way of refusing. And on the whole, I cannot say, even now, that I had
any grave reason for finding fault with the use Brutus made of my
concessions; he showed more tact than I could have expected in
disguising the merely nominal nature of my authority.

I had only one serious complaint against him, which was that he had a
habit of breaking suddenly away, with a merely formal apology, to
exchange equine civilities with some cob or mare, to whose owner I was a
perfect stranger, thus driving me to invent the most desperate excuses
to cover my seeming intrusion: but I managed to account for it in
various ways, and even made a few acquaintances in this irregular and
involuntary manner. I could have wished he had been a less susceptible
animal, for, though his flirtations were merely Platonic, it is rather
humiliating to have to play 'gooseberry' to one's own horse--a part
which I was constantly being called upon to perform!

As it happened, Diana was away in Paris that Easter, and we had not met
since my appearance in the Row; but I knew she would be in town again
shortly, and with consummate diplomacy I began to excite Brutus's
curiosity by sundry careless, half-slighting allusions to Miss
Chetwynd's little mare, Wild Rose. 'She's too frisky for my taste,' I
said, 'but she's been a good deal admired, though I dare say you
wouldn't be particularly struck by her.'

So that, on the first afternoon of Diana's return to the Row, I found it
easy, under cover of giving Brutus an opportunity of forming an opinion,
to prevail on him to carry me to her side. Diana, who was with a certain
Lady Verney, her chaperon, welcomed me with a charming smile.

'I had no idea you could ride so well,' she said, 'you manage that
beautiful horse of yours so very easily--with such light hands, too.'

This was not irony, for I could now give my whole mind to my seat; and,
as I never interfered at all with the steering apparatus, my hands must
have seemed the perfection of lightness.

'He wants delicate handling,' I answered carelessly, 'but he goes very
well with _me_.'

'I wish you would let me try his paces some morning, Pulvertoft,' struck
in a Colonel Cockshott, who was riding with them, and whom I knew
slightly: 'I've a notion he would go better on the curb.'

'I shall be very happy,' I began, when, just in time, I noticed a
warning depression in Brutus's ears. The Colonel rode about sixteen
stone, and with spurs! 'I mean,' I added hastily, 'I should have
been--only, to tell you the truth, I couldn't conscientiously trust any
one on him but myself.'

'My dear fellow!' said the Colonel, who I could see was offended, 'I've
not met many horses in my time that I couldn't get upon terms with.'

'I think Mr. Pulvertoft is _quite_ right,' said Diana. 'When a horse
gets accustomed to one he does so resent a strange hand: it spoils his
temper for days. I never will lend Wild Rose to anybody for that very
reason!'

The Colonel fell back in the rear in a decided sulk. 'Poor dear Colonel
Cockshott!' said Diana, 'he is so proud of his riding, but _I_ think he
dragoons a horse. I don't call that _riding_, do you?'

'Well--hardly,' I agreed, with easy disparagement. 'I never believe in
ruling a horse by fear.'

'I suppose you are very fond of yours?' she said.

'Fond is not the word!' I exclaimed--and it certainly was not.

'I am not sure that what I said about lending Wild Rose would apply to
_you_,' she said. 'I think you would be gentle with her.'

I was certain that I should treat her with all consideration; but as I
doubted whether she would wholly reciprocate it, I said with much
presence of mind, that I should regard riding her as akin to
profanation.

As Brutus and I were going home, he observed that it was a good thing I
had not agreed to lend him to the Colonel.

'Yes,' I said, determined to improve the occasion, 'you might not have
found him as considerate as--well, as some people!'

'I meant it was a good thing for _you_!' he hinted darkly, and I did not
care to ask for an explanation. 'What did you mean,' he resumed, 'by
saying that I should not admire Wild Rose? Why, she is
charming--charming!'

'In that case,' I said, 'I don't mind riding with her mistress
occasionally--to oblige you.'

'You don't mind!' he said; 'you will _have_ to, my boy,--and every
afternoon!'

I suppressed a chuckle: after all, man _is_ the nobler animal. I could
manage a horse--in my own way. My little _ruse_ had succeeded: I should
have no more forced introductions to mystified strangers.

And now for some weeks my life passed in a happy dream. I only lived for
those hours in the Row, where Brutus turned as naturally to Wild Rose as
the sunflower to the sun, and Diana and I grew more intimate every day.
Happiness and security made me almost witty. I was merciless in my
raillery of the eccentric exhibitions of horsemanship which were to be
met with, and Diana was provoked by my comments to the sweetest silvery
laughter. As for Colonel Cockshott, whom I had once suspected of a
desire to be my rival, he had long become a 'negligible quantity;' and
if I delayed in asking Diana to trust me with her sweet self, it was
only because I found an epicurean pleasure in prolonging a suspense that
was so little uncertain.

And then, without warning, my riding was interrupted for a while. Brutus
was discovered, much to his annoyance, to have a saddle-raw, and was
even so unjust as to lay the blame on me, though, for my own part, I
thought it a mark of apt, though tardy, retribution. I was not disposed
to tempt Fortune upon any other mount, but I could not keep away from
the Row, nevertheless, and appeared there on foot. I saw Diana riding
with the Colonel, who seemed to think his opportunity had come at last;
but whenever she passed the railings on which I leaned, she would raise
her eyebrows and draw her mouth down into a little curve of resigned
boredom, which completely reassured me. Still, I was very glad when
Brutus was well again, and we were cantering down the Row once more,
both in the highest spirits.

'I never heard the horses here _whinny_ so much as they do this season,'
I said, by way of making conversation. 'Can you account for it at all?'
For he sometimes gave me pieces of information which enabled me to
impress Diana afterwards by my intimate knowledge of horses.

'Whinnying?' he said. 'They're _laughing_, that's what they're
doing--and no wonder!'

'Oh!' said I, 'and what's the joke?'

'Why, _you_ are!' he replied. 'You don't suppose you take _them_ in, do
you? They know all about you, bless your heart!'

'Oh, do they?' I said blankly. This brute took a positive pleasure, I
believe, in reducing my self-esteem.

'I dare say it has got about through Wild Rose,' he continued. 'She was
immensely tickled when I told her. I'm afraid she must have been feeling
rather dull all these days, by the bye.'

I felt an unworthy impulse to take his conceit down as he had lowered
mine.

'Not so very, I think,' I said. 'She seemed to me to find that brown
hunter of Colonel Cockshott's a very agreeable substitute.'

Late as it is for reparation, I must acknowledge with shame that in
uttering this insinuation, I did that poor little mare (for whom I
entertained the highest respect) a shameful injustice; and I should like
to state here, in the most solemn and emphatic manner, my sincere belief
that, from first to last, she conducted herself in a manner that should
have shielded her from all calumny.

It was only a mean desire to retaliate, a petty and ignoble spite, that
prompted me thus to poison Brutus's confidence, and I regretted the
words as soon as I had uttered them.

'That beast!' he said, starting as if I had touched him with a whip--a
thing I never used--'why, he hasn't two ideas in his great fiddle-head.
The only sort of officer _he_ ought to carry is a Salvationist!'

'I grant he has not your personal advantages and charm of manner,' I
said. 'No doubt I was wrong to say anything about it.'

'No,' he said, 'you--you have done me a service,' and he relapsed into a
sombre silence.

I was riding with Diana as usual, and was about to express my delight at
being able to resume our companionship, when her mare drew slightly
ahead and lashed out suddenly, catching me on the left leg, and causing
intense agony for the moment.

Diana showed the sweetest concern, imploring me to go home in a cab at
once, while her groom took charge of Brutus. I declined the cab; but, as
my leg was really painful, and Brutus was showing an impatience I dared
not disregard, I had to leave her side.

On our way home, Brutus said moodily, 'It is all over between us--you
saw that?'

'I felt it!' I replied. 'She nearly broke my leg.'

'It was intended for me,' he said. 'It was her way of signifying that we
had better be strangers for the future. I taxed her with her
faithlessness; she denied it, of course--every mare does; we had an
explanation, and everything is at an end!'

I did not ride him again for some days, and when I did, I found him
steeped in Byronic gloom. He even wanted at first to keep entirely on
the Bayswater side of the Park, though I succeeded in arguing him out of
such weakness. 'Be a horse!' I said. 'Show her you don't care. You only
flatter her by betraying your feelings.'

This was a subtlety that had evidently not occurred to him, but he was
intelligent enough to feel the force of what I said. 'You are right,' he
admitted; 'you are not quite a fool in some respects. She shall see how
little I care!'

Naturally, after this, I expected to accompany Diana as usual, and it
was a bitter disappointment to me to find that Brutus would not hear of
doing so. He had an old acquaintance in the Park, a dapple-grey, who,
probably from some early disappointment was a confirmed cynic, and whose
society he thought would be congenial just then. The grey was ridden
regularly by a certain Miss Gittens, whose appearance as she titupped
laboriously up and down had often furnished Diana and myself with
amusement.

And now, in spite of all my efforts, Brutus made straight to the grey. I
was not in such difficulties as might have been expected, for I happened
to know Miss Gittens slightly, as a lady no longer in the bloom of
youth, who still retained a wiry form of girlishness. Though rather
disliking her than not, I found it necessary just then to throw some
slight effusion into my greeting. She, not unnaturally perhaps, was
flattered by my preference, and begged me to give her a little
instruction in riding, which--Heaven forgive me for it!--I took upon
myself to do.

Even now I scarcely see how I could have acted otherwise: I could not
leave her side until Brutus had exhausted the pleasures of cynicism with
his grey friend, and the time had to be filled up somehow. But, oh, the
torture of seeing Diana at a distance, and knowing that only a miserable
misunderstanding between our respective steeds kept us apart, feeling
constrained even to avoid looking in her direction, lest she should
summon me to her side!

One day, as I was riding with Miss Gittens, she glanced coyly at me
over her sharp right shoulder, and said, 'Do you know, only such a
little while ago, I never even dreamed that we should ever become as
intimate as we are now; it seems almost incredible, does it not?'

'You must not say so,' I replied. 'Surely there is nothing singular in
my helping you a little with your riding?' Though it struck me that it
would have been very singular if I had.

'Perhaps not singular,' she murmured, looking modestly down her nose;
'but will you think me very unmaidenly if I confess that, to me, those
lessons have developed a dawning danger?'

'You are perfectly safe on the grey,' I said.

'I--I was not thinking of the grey,' she returned. 'Dear Mr. Pulvertoft,
I must speak frankly--a girl has so many things to consider, and I am
afraid you have made me forget how wrongly and thoughtlessly I have been
behaving of late. I cannot help suspecting that you must have some
motive in seeking my society in so--so marked a manner.'

'Miss Gittens,' said I, 'I can disguise nothing: I have.'

'And you have not been merely amusing yourself all this time?'

'Before Heaven,' I cried with fervour, 'I have _not_!'

'You are not one of those false men who give their bridle-reins a
shake, and ride off with "Adieu for evermore!"--tell me you are not?'

I might shake _my_ bridle-reins till I was tired and nothing would come
of it unless Brutus was in the humour to depart; so that I was able to
assure her with truth that I was not at all that kind of person.

'Then why not let your heart speak?'

'There is such a thing,' I said gloomily, 'as a heart that is gagged.'

'Can no word, no hint of mine loosen the gag?' she wished to know.
'What, you are silent still? Then, Mr. Pulvertoft, though I may seem
harsh and cruel in saying it, our pleasant intercourse must end--we must
ride together no more!'

No more? What would Brutus say to that? I was horrified. 'Miss Gittens,'
I said in great agitation, 'I entreat you to unsay those words. I--I am
afraid I could not undertake to accept such a dismissal. Surely, after
that, you will not insist!'

She sighed. 'I am a weak, foolish girl,' she said; 'you are only too
able to overcome my judgment. There, Mr. Pulvertoft, look happy again--I
relent. You may stay if you will!'

You must believe that I felt thoroughly ashamed of myself, for I could
not be blind to the encouragement which, though I sought to confine my
words to strict truth, I was innocently affording. But, with a horse
like mine, what was a man to do? What would you have done yourself? As
soon as was prudent, I hinted to Brutus that his confidences had lasted
long enough; and as he trotted away with me, he remarked, 'I thought you
were never going.' Was he weary of the grey already? My heart leaped.
'Brutus,' I said thickly, 'are you strong enough to bear a great joy?'

'Speak out,' he said, 'and do try to keep those heels out of my ribs.'

'I cannot see you suffer,' I told him, with a sense of my own hypocrisy
all the time. 'I must tell you--circumstances have come to my knowledge
which lead me to believe that we have both judged Wild Rose too hastily.
I am sure that her heart is yours still. She is only longing to tell you
that she has never really swerved from her allegiance.'

'It is too late now,' he said, and the back of his head looked
inflexibly obstinate; 'we have kept asunder too long.'

'No,' I said, 'listen. I take more interest in you than you are,
perhaps, aware of, and I have thought of a little plan for bringing you
together again. What if I find an opportunity to see the lady she
belongs to--we have not met lately, as you know, and I do not pretend
that I desire a renewal of our intimacy----'

'You like the one on the grey best; I saw that long ago,' he said; and I
left him in his error.

'In any case, for your sake, I will sacrifice myself,' I said
magnanimously. 'I will begin to-morrow. Come, you will not let your
lives be wrecked by a foolish lovers' quarrel?'

He made a little half-hearted opposition, but finally, as I knew he
would, consented. I had gained my point: I was free from Miss Gittens at
last!

That evening I met Diana in the hall of a house in Eaton Square. She was
going downstairs as I was making my way to the ball-room, and greeted me
with a rather cool little nod.

'You have quite deserted me lately,' she said, smiling, but I could read
the reproach in her eyes, 'you never ride with us now.'

My throat was swelling with passionate eloquence--and I could not get
any of it out.

'No, I never do,' was all my stupid tongue could find to say.

'You have discovered a more congenial companion,' said cruel Diana.

'Miss Chetwynd,' I said eagerly, 'you don't know how I have been
wishing--! Will you let me ride with you to-morrow, as--as you used to
do?'

'You are quite sure you won't be afraid of my naughty Wild Rose?' she
said. 'I have given her such a scolding, that I think she is thoroughly
ashamed of herself.'

'You thought it was _that_ that kept me!' I cried. 'Oh, if I could tell
you!'

She smiled: she was my dear, friendly Diana again.

'You shall tell me all about it to-morrow,' she said. 'You will not
have another opportunity, because we are going to Aix on Friday. And
now, good-night. I am stopping the way, and the linkman is getting quite
excited over it.'

She passed on, and the carriage rolled away with her, and I was too
happy to mind very much--had she not forgiven me? Should we not meet
to-morrow? I should have two whole hours to declare myself in, and this
time I would dally with Fortune no longer.

How excited I was the following day: how fearful, when the morning broke
grey and lowering: how grateful, when the benignant sun shone out later,
and promised a brilliant afternoon: how carefully I dressed, and what a
price I paid for the flower for my buttonhole!

So we cantered on to the Row, as goodly a couple (if I may be pardoned
this retrospective vanity) as any there; and by and by, I saw, with the
quick eye of a lover, Diana's willowy form in the distance. She was not
alone, but I knew that the Colonel would soon have to yield his place to
me.

As soon as she saw me, she urged her mare to a trot, and came towards me
with the loveliest faint blush and dawning smile of welcome, when, all
at once, Brutus came to a dead stop, which nearly threw me on his neck,
and stood quivering in every limb.

'Do you see that?' he said hoarsely. 'And I was about to forgive her!'

I saw: my insinuation, baseless enough at the beginning, was now but too
well justified. Colonel Cockshott was on his raw-boned brown hunter, and
even my brief acquaintance with horses enabled me to see that Wild Rose
no longer regarded him with her former indifference.

Diana and the Colonel had reined up and seemed waiting for me--would
Brutus never move? 'Show your pride,' I said in an agonised whisper,
'Treat her with the contempt she deserves!'

'I will,' he said between his bit and clenched teeth.

And then Miss Gittens came bumping by on the grey, and, before I could
interfere, my Houyhnhnm was off like a shot in pursuit. I saw Diana's
sweet, surprised face: I heard the Colonel's jarring laugh as I passed,
and I--I could only bow in mortified appeal, and long for a gulf to leap
into like Curtius!

I don't know what I said to Miss Gittens. I believe I made myself
recklessly amiable, and I remember she lingered over parting in a
horribly emotional manner. I was too miserable to mind: all the time I
was seeing Diana's astonished eyes, hearing Colonel Cockshott's
heartless laugh. Brutus made a kind of explanation on our way home: 'You
meant well,' he said, 'but you see you were wrong. Your proposed
sacrifice, for which I am just as grateful to you as if it had been
effected, was useless. All I could do in return was to take you where
your true inclination lay. I, too, can be unselfish.'

I was too dejected to curse his unselfishness. I did not even trouble
myself to explain what it had probably cost me. I only felt drearily
that I had had my last ride, I had had enough of horsemanship for ever!

That evening I went to the theatre, I wanted to deaden thought for the
moment; and during one of the intervals I saw Lady Verney in the stalls,
and went up to speak to her. 'Your niece is not with you?' I said; 'I
thought I should have had a chance of--of saying good-bye to her before
she left for the continent.'

I had a lingering hope that she might ask me to lunch, that I might have
one more opportunity of explaining.

'Oh,' said Lady Verney, 'but that is all changed; we are not going--at
least, not yet.'

'Not going!' I cried, incredulous for very joy.

'No, it is all very sudden; but,--well, you are almost like an old
friend, and you are sure to hear it sooner or later. I only knew myself
this afternoon, when she came in from her ride. Colonel Cockshott has
proposed and she has accepted him. We're _so_ pleased about it. Wasn't
dear Mrs. ---- delightful in that last act? I positively saw real tears
on her face!'

If I had waited much longer she would have seen a similar display of
realism on mine. But I went back and sat the interval out, and listened
critically to the classical selection of chamber-music from the
orchestra, and saw the rest of the play, though I have no notion how it
ended.

All that night my heart was slowly consumed by a dull rage that grew
with every sleepless hour; but the object of my resentment was not
Diana. She had only done what as a woman she was amply justified in
doing after the pointed slight I had apparently inflicted upon her. Her
punishment was sufficient already, for, of course, I guessed that she
had only accepted the Colonel under the first intolerable sting of
desertion. No: I reserved all my wrath for Brutus, who had betrayed me
at the moment of triumph. I planned revenge. Cost what it might I would
ride him once more. In the eyes of the law I was his master. I would
exercise my legal rights to the full.

The afternoon came at last. I was in a white heat of anger, though as I
ascended to the saddle there were bystanders who put a more uncharitable
construction upon my complexion.

Brutus cast an uneasy eye at my heels as we started: 'What are those
things you've got on?' he inquired.

'Spurs,' I replied curtly.

'You shouldn't wear them till you have learnt to turn your toes in,' he
said. 'And a whip, too! May I ask what that is for?'

'We will discuss that presently,' I said very coldly; for I did not want
to have a scene with my horse in the street.

When we came round by the statue of Achilles and on to the Ride, I
shortened my reins, and got a better hold of the whip, while I found
that, from some cause I cannot explain, the roof of my mouth grew
uncomfortably dry.

'I should be glad of a little quiet talk with you, if you've no
objection,' I began.

'I am quite at your disposal,' he said, champing his bit with a touch of
irony.

'First, let me tell you,' I said, 'that I have lost my only love for
ever.'

'Well,' he retorted flippantly, 'you won't die of it. So have I. We must
endeavour to console one another!'

I still maintained a deadly calm. 'You seem unaware that you are the
sole cause of my calamity,' I said. 'Had you only consented to face Wild
Rose yesterday, I should have been a happy man by this time!'

'How was I to know that, when you let me think all your affections were
given to the elderly thing who is trotted out by my friend the grey?'

'We won't argue, please,' I said hastily. 'It is enough that your
infernal egotism and self-will have ruined my happiness. I have allowed
you to usurp the rule, to reverse our natural positions. I shall do so
no more. I intend to teach you a lesson you will never forget.'

For a horse, he certainly had a keen sense of humour. I thought the
girths would have snapped.

'And when do you intend to begin?' he asked, as soon as he could speak.

I looked in front of me: there were Diana and her accepted lover riding
towards us; and so natural is dissimulation, even to the sweetest and
best women, that no one would have suspected from her radiant face that
her gaiety covered an aching heart.

'I intend to begin _now_,' I said. 'Monster, demon, whatever you are
that have held me in thrall so long, I have broken my chains! I have
been a coward long enough. You may kill me if you like. I rather hope
you will; but first I mean to pay you back some of the humiliation with
which you have loaded me. I intend to thrash you as long as I remain in
the saddle.'

I have been told by eye-witnesses that the chastisement was of brief
duration, but while it lasted, I flatter myself, it was severe. I laid
into him with a stout whip, of whose effectiveness I had assured myself
by experiments upon my own legs. I dug my borrowed spurs into his
flanks. I jerked his mouth. I dare say he was almost as much surprised
as pained. But he _was_ pained!

I was about to continue my practical rebuke, when my victim suddenly
evaded my grasp; and for one vivid second I seemed to be gazing upon a
birdseye view of his back; and then there was a crash, and I lay,
buzzing like a bee, in an iridescent fog, and each colour meant a
different pain, and they faded at last into darkness, and I remember no
more.

'It was weeks,' concluded Mr. Pulvertoft, 'before that darkness lifted
and revealed me to myself as a strapped and bandaged invalid. But--and
this is perhaps the most curious part of my narrative--almost the first
sounds that reached my ears were those of wedding bells; and I knew,
without requiring to be told, that they were ringing for Diana's
marriage with the Colonel. _That_ showed there wasn't much the matter
with me, didn't it? Why, I can hear them everywhere now. I don't think
she ought to have had them rung at Sandown though: it was just a little
ostentatious, so long after the ceremony; don't you think so?'

'Yes--yes,' I said; 'but you never told me what became of the horse.'

'Ah! the horse--yes. I am looking for him. I'm not so angry with him as
I was, and I don't like to ask too many questions at the stables, for
fear they may tell me one day that they had to shoot him while I was so
ill. You knew I was ill, I dare say?' he broke off: 'there were
bulletins about me in the papers. Look here.'

He handed me a cutting on which I read:

'THE RECENT ACCIDENT IN ROTTEN ROW.--There is no change as yet in Mr.
Pulvertoft's condition. The unfortunate gentleman is still lying
unconscious at his rooms in Park Street; and his medical attendants fear
that, even if he recovers his physical strength, the brain will be
permanently injured.'

'But that was all nonsense!' said Mr. Pulvertoft, with a little nervous
laugh, 'it wasn't injured a bit, or how could I remember everything so
clearly as I do, you know?'

And this was an argument that was, of course, unanswerable.




_THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL_

A STORY FOR CHILDREN


Her name was Priscilla Prodgers, and she was a very good little girl
indeed. So good was she, in fact, that she could not help being aware of
it herself, and that is a stage to which very many quite excellent
persons never succeed in attaining. She was only just a child, it is
true, but she had read a great many beautiful story-books, and so she
knew what a powerful reforming influence a childish and innocent remark,
or a youthful example, or a happy combination of both, can exert over
grown-up people. And early in life--she was but eleven at the date of
this history--early in life she had seen clearly that her mission was to
reform her family and relatives generally. This was a heavy task for one
so young, particularly in Priscilla's case, for, besides a father,
mother, brother, and sister, in whom she could not but discern many and
serious failings, she possessed an aunt who was addicted to insincerity,
two female cousins whose selfishness and unamiability were painful to
witness, and a male cousin who talked slang and was so worldly that he
habitually went about in yellow boots! Nevertheless Priscilla did not
flinch, although, for some reason, her earnest and unremitting efforts
had hitherto failed to produce any deep impression. At times she thought
this was owing to the fact that she tried to reform all her family
together, and that her best plan would be to take each one separately,
and devote her whole energies to improving that person alone. But then
she never could make up her mind which member of the family to begin
with. It is small wonder that she often felt a little disheartened, but
even that was a cheering symptom, for in the books it is generally just
when the little heroine becomes most discouraged that the seemingly
impenitent relative exhibits the first sign of softening.

So Priscilla persevered: sometimes with merely a shocked glance of
disapproval, which she had practised before the looking-glass until she
could do it perfectly; sometimes with some tender, tactful little hint.
'Don't you think, dear papa,' she would say softly, on a Sunday morning,
'don't you _think_ you could write your newspaper article on some
_other_ day--is it a work of _real_ necessity?' Or she would ask her
mother, who was certainly fond of wearing pretty things. 'How much bread
for poor starving people would the price of your new bonnet buy, mother?
I should so like to work it out on my little slate!'

Then she would remind her brother Alick that it would be so much better
if, instead of wasting his time in playing with silly little tin
soldiers, he would try to learn as much as he could before he was sent
to school; while she was never tired of quoting to her sister Betty the
line, 'Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever!' which Betty,
quite unjustly, interpreted to mean that Priscilla thought but poorly of
her sister's intellectual capacity. Once when, as a great treat, the
children were allowed to read 'Ivanhoe' aloud, Priscilla declined to
participate until she had conscientiously read up the whole Norman
period in her English history; and on another occasion she cried
bitterly on hearing that her mother had arranged for them to learn
dancing, and even endured bread and water for an entire day rather than
consent to acquire an accomplishment which she feared, from what she had
read, would prove a snare. On the second day--well, there was roast beef
and Yorkshire pudding for dinner, and Priscilla yielded; but she made
the resolution--and kept it too--that, if she went to the dancing class,
she would firmly refuse to take the slightest pains to learn a single
step.

I only mention all these traits to show that Priscilla really was an
unusually good child, which makes it the more sad and strange that her
family should have profited so little by her example. She was neither
loved nor respected as she ought to have been, I am grieved to say. Her
papa, when he was not angry, made the cruellest fun of her mild
reproofs; her mother continued to spend money on dresses and bonnets,
and even allowed the maid to say that her mistress was 'not at home,'
when she was merely unwilling to receive visitors. Alick and Betty, too,
only grew more exasperated when Priscilla urged them to keep their
tempers, and altogether she could not help feeling how wasted and thrown
away she was in such a circle.

But she never quite lost heart; her papa was a literary man and wrote
tales, some of which she feared were not as true as they affected to be,
while he invariably neglected to insert a moral in any of them;
frequently she dropped little remarks before him with apparent
carelessness, in the hope that he might put them in print--but he never
did; she never could recognise herself as a character in any of his
stories, and so at last she gave up reading them at all!

But one morning she came more near to giving up in utter despair than
ever before. Only the previous day she had been so hopeful! her father
had really seemed to be beginning to appreciate his little daughter, and
had presented her with sixpence in the new coinage to put in her
money-box. This had emboldened her to such a degree that, happening on
the following morning to hear him ejaculate 'Confound it!' she had,
pressing one hand to her beating heart and laying the other hand softly
upon his shoulder (which is the proper attitude on these occasions),
reminded him that such an expression was scarcely less reprehensible
than actual bad language. Upon which her hard-hearted papa had told her,
almost sharply, '_not to be a little prig!_'

Priscilla forgave him, of course, and freely, because he was her father
and it was her duty to bear with him; but she felt the injustice deeply,
for all that. Then, when she went up into the nursery, Alick and Betty
made a frantic uproar, merely because she insisted on teaching them the
moves in chess, when they perversely wanted to play Halma! So, feeling
baffled and sick at heart, she had put on her hat and run out all alone
to a quiet lane near her home, where she could soothe her troubled mind
by thinking over the ingratitude and lack of appreciation with which her
efforts were met.

She had not gone very far up the lane when she saw, seated on a bench, a
bent old woman in a poke-bonnet with a crutch-handled stick in her
hands, and this old woman Priscilla (who was very quick of observation)
instantly guessed to be a fairy--in which, as it fell out, she was
perfectly right.

'Good day, my pretty child!' croaked the old dame.

'Good-day to you, ma'am!' answered Priscilla politely (for she knew that
it was not only right but prudent to be civil to fairies, particularly
when they take the form of old women). 'But, if you please, you mustn't
call me pretty--because I am not. At least,' she added, for she prided
herself upon her truthfulness, 'not _exactly_ pretty. And I should hate
to be always thinking about my looks, like poor Milly--she's our
housemaid, you know--and I so often have to tell her that she did not
make her _own_ face.'

'I don't alarm you, I see,' said the old crone; 'but possibly you're not
aware that you're talking to a fairy?'

'Oh, yes, I am--but I'm not a bit afraid, because, you see, fairies can
only hurt _bad_ children.'

'Ah, and you're a good little child--that's not difficult to see!'

'They don't see it at home!' said Priscilla, with a sad little sigh, 'or
they would listen more when I tell them of things they oughtn't to do.'

'And what things do they do that they oughtn't to, my child--if you
don't mind telling me?'

'Oh, I don't mind in the _least_!' Priscilla hastened to assure her; and
then she told the old woman all her family's faults, and the trial it
was to bear with them and go on trying to induce them to mend their
ways. 'And papa is getting worse than ever,' she concluded dolefully;
'only fancy, this very morning he called me a little prig!'

'Tut, tut!' said the fairy sympathetically, 'deary, deary me! So he
called you _that_, did he?--"a little prig"! And _you_, too! Ah, the
world's coming to a pretty pass! I suppose, now, your papa and the rest
of them have got it into their heads that you are too young and too
inexperienced to set up as their adviser--is that it?'

'I'm afraid so,' admitted Priscilla; 'but we mustn't blame them,' she
added gently, 'we must remember that they don't know any better--mustn't
we, ma'am?'

'You sweet child!' said the old lady with enthusiasm; 'I must see if I
can't do something to help you, though I'm not the fairy I used to
be--still, there are tricks I can manage still, if I'm put to it. What
you want is something that will prove to them that they ought to pay
more attention to you, eh?--something there can be no possible mistake
about?'

'Yes!' cried Priscilla eagerly, 'and--and--how would it be if you
changed them into something else, just to _show_ them, and then I could
ask for them to be transformed back again, you know?'

'What an ingenious little thing you are!' exclaimed the fairy; 'but, let
us see--if you came home and found your cruel papa doing duty as the
family hatstand, or strutting about as a Cochin China fowl----'

'Oh, _yes_; and I'd feed him every day, till he was sorry!' interrupted
the warmhearted little girl impulsively.

'Ah, but you're so hasty, my dear. Who would write all the clever
articles and tales to earn bread and meat for you all?--fowls can't use
a pen. No, we must find a prettier trick than that--there _was_ one I
seem to remember, long, long ago, performing for a good little ill-used
girl, just like you, my dearie, just like you! Now what was it? some
gift I gave her whenever she opened her lips----'

'Why, _I_ remember--how funny that you should have forgotten! Whenever
she opened her lips, roses, and diamonds, and rubies fell out. That
would be the very thing! Then they'd _have_ to attend to me! Oh, do be a
kind old fairy and give me a gift like that--do, _do_!'

'Now, don't be so impetuous! You forget that this is not the time of
year for roses, and, as for jewels, well, I don't think I can be very
far wrong in supposing that you open your lips pretty frequently in the
course of the day?'

'Alick does call me a "mag,"' said Priscilla; 'but that's wrong, because
I never speak without having something to say. I don't think people
ought to--it may do so _much_ harm; mayn't it?'

'Undoubtedly. But, anyhow, if we made it _every_ time you opened your
lips, you would soon ruin me in precious stones, that's plain! No, I
think we had better say that the jewels shall only drop when you are
saying something you wish to be particularly improving--how will that
do?'

'Very nicely indeed, ma'am, thank you,' said Priscilla, 'because, you
see, it comes to just the same thing.'

'Ah, well, try to be as economical of your good things as you
can--remember that in these hard times a poor old fairy's riches are
not as inexhaustible as they used to be.'

'And jewels really will drop out?'

'Whenever they are wanted to "point a moral and adorn a tale,"' said the
old woman (who, for a fairy, was particularly well-read). 'There, run
along home, do, and scatter your pearls before your relations.'

It need scarcely be said that Priscilla was only too willing to obey;
she ran all the way home with a light heart, eager to exhibit her
wonderful gift. 'How surprised they will be!' she was thinking. 'If it
had been Betty, instead of me, I suppose she would have come back
talking toads! It would have been a good lesson for her--but still,
toads are nasty things, and it would have been rather unpleasant for the
rest of us. I think I won't tell Betty _where_ I met the fairy.'

She came in and took her place demurely at the family luncheon, which
was the children's dinner; they were all seated already, including her
father, who had got through most of his writing in the course of the
morning.

'Now make haste and eat your dinner, Priscilla,' said her mother, 'or it
will be quite cold.'

'I always let it get a little cold, mother,' replied the good little
girl, 'so that I mayn't come to think too much about eating, you know.'

As she uttered this remark, she felt a jewel producing itself in some
mysterious way from the tip of her tongue, and saw it fall with a
clatter into her plate. 'I'll pretend not to notice anything,' she
thought.

'Hullo!' exclaimed Alick, pausing in the act of mastication, 'I
say--_Prissie_!'

'If you ask mother, I'm sure she will tell you that it is most
ill-mannered to speak with your mouth full,' said Priscilla, her speech
greatly impeded by an immense emerald.

'I like that!' exclaimed her rude brother; 'who's speaking with their
mouth full _now_?'

'"_Their_" is not grammar, dear,' was Priscilla's only reply to this
taunt, as she delicately ejected a pearl, 'you should say _her_ mouth
full.' For Priscilla's grammar was as good as her principles.

'But really, Priscilla, dear,' said her mother, who felt some
embarrassment at so novel an experience as being obliged to find fault
with her little daughter, 'you should not eat sweets just before dinner,
and--and couldn't you get rid of them in some other manner?'

'Sweets!' cried Priscilla, considerably annoyed at being so
misunderstood, 'they are not _sweets,_ mother. Look!' And she offered to
submit one for inspection.

'If I may venture to express an opinion,' observed her father, 'I would
rather that a child of mine should suck sweets than coloured beads, and
in either case I object to having them prominently forced upon my
notice at meal-times. But I daresay I'm wrong. I generally am.'

'Papa is quite right, dear,' said her mother, 'it _is_ such a dangerous
habit--suppose you were to swallow one, you know! Put them in the fire,
like a good girl, and go on with your dinner.'

Priscilla rose without a word, her cheeks crimsoning, and dropped the
pearl, ruby, and emerald, with great accuracy, into the very centre of
the fire. This done, she returned to her seat, and went on with her
dinner in silence, though her feelings prevented her from eating very
much.

'If they choose to think my pearls are only beads, or jujubes, or
acidulated drops,' she said to herself, bitterly, 'I won't waste any
more on them, that's all! I won't open my lips again, except to say
quite ordinary things--so _there_!'

If Priscilla had not been such a very good little girl, you might almost
have thought she was in a temper; but she was not; her feelings were
wounded, that was all, which is quite a different thing.

That afternoon, her aunt Margarine, Mrs. Hoyle, came to call. She was
the aunt whom we have already mentioned as being given to insincerity;
she was not well off, and had a tendency to flatter people; but
Priscilla was fond of her notwithstanding, and she had never detected
her in any insincerity towards herself. She was sent into the
drawing-room to entertain her aunt until her mother was ready to come
down, and her aunt, as usual, overwhelmed her with affectionate
admiration. 'How pretty and well you are looking, my pet!' she began,
'and oh, what a beautiful frock you have on!'

'The little silkworms wore it before I did, aunt,' said Priscilla,
modestly.

'How sweet of you to say so! But they never looked half so well in it,
I'll be bou---- Why, my child, you've dropped a stone out of a brooch or
something. Look--on the carpet there!'

'Oh,' said Priscilla, carelessly, 'it was out of my mouth--not out of a
brooch, I never wear jewellery. I think jewellery makes people grow so
conceited; don't you, Aunt Margarine?'

'Yes, indeed, dearest--indeed you are _so_ right!' said her aunt (who
wore a cameo-brooch as large as a tart upon her cloak), 'and--and surely
that can't be a _diamond_ in your lap?'

'Oh, yes, it is. I met a fairy this morning in the lane, and so----' and
here Priscilla proceeded to narrate her wonderful experience. 'I thought
it might perhaps make papa and mamma value me a little more than they
do,' she said wistfully, as she finished her story, 'but they don't take
the least notice; they made me put the jewels on the fire--they did,
really!'

'What blindness!' cried her aunt; 'how _can_ people shut their eyes to
such a treasure? And--and may I just have _one_ look? What, you really
don't want them?--I may keep them for my very own? You precious love!
Ah, I know a humble home where you would be appreciated at your proper
worth. What would I not give for my poor naughty Belle and Cathie to
have the advantage of seeing more of such a cousin!'

'I don't know whether I could do them much good,' said Priscilla, 'but I
would try my best.'

'I am sure you would!' said Aunt Margarine, 'and now, dearest sweet, I
am going to ask your dear mamma to spare you to us for just a little
while; we must both beg very hard.'

'I'll go and tell nurse to pack my things now, and then I can go away
with you,' said the little girl.

When her mother heard of the invitation, she consented quite willingly.
'To tell you the truth, Margarine,' she said, 'I shall be very glad for
the child to have a change. She seems a little unhappy at home with us,
and she behaved most unlike her usual self at lunch; it _can't_ be
natural for a child of her age to chew large glass beads. Did your
Cathie and Belle ever do such a thing?'

'Never,' said Aunt Margarine, coughing. 'It is a habit that certainly
ought to be checked, and I promise you, my dear Lucy, that if you will
only trust Priscilla to me, I will take away anything of that kind the
very moment I find it. And I do think, poor as we are, we shall manage
to make her feel at home. We are all so fond of your sweet Priscilla!'

So the end of it was that Priscilla went to stay with her aunt that
very afternoon, and her family bore the parting with the greatest
composure.

'I can't give you nice food, or a pretty bedroom to sleep in such as you
have at home,' said her kind aunt. 'We are very plain people, my pet;
but at least we can promise you a warm welcome.'

'Oh, auntie,' protested Priscilla, 'you mustn't think I mind a little
hardship! Why, if beds weren't hard and food not nicely cooked now and
then, we should soon grow too luxurious to do our duty, and that would
be so very bad for us!'

'Oh, what _beauties_!' cried her aunt, involuntarily, as she stooped to
recover several sparkling gems from the floor of the cab. 'I mean--it's
better to pick them up, dear, don't you think? they might get in
people's _way_, you know. What a blessing you will be in our simple
home! I want you to do all you can to instruct your cousins; don't be
afraid of telling them of any faults you may happen to see. Poor Cathie
and Belle, I fear they are very far from being all they should be!' and
Aunt Margarine heaved a sigh.

'Never mind, auntie; they will be better in time, I am sure. _I_ wasn't
_always_ a good girl.'

Priscilla thoroughly enjoyed the first few days of her visit; even her
aunt was only too grateful for instruction, and begged that Priscilla
would tell her, quite candidly, of any shortcomings she might notice.
And Priscilla, very kindly and considerately, always _did_ tell her.
Belle and Catherine were less docile, and she saw that it would take her
some time to win their esteem and affection; but this was just what
Priscilla liked: it was the usual experience of the heroines in the
books, and much more interesting, too, than conquering her cousins'
hearts at once.

Still, both Catherine and Belle persistently hardened their hearts
against their gentle little cousin in the unkindest way; they would
scarcely speak to her, and chose to make a grievance out of the fact
that one or other of them was obliged, by their mother's strict orders,
to be constantly in attendance upon her, in order to pick up and bring
Mrs. Hoyle all the jewels that Priscilla scattered in profusion wherever
she went.

'If you would only carry a plate about with you, Priscilla,' complained
Belle one day, 'you could catch the jewels in that.'

'But I don't _want_ to catch the jewels, dear Belle,' said Priscilla,
with a playful but very sweet smile; 'if other people prize such things,
that is not my fault, is it? _Jewels_ do not make people any happier,
Belle!'

'I should think not!' exclaimed Belle. 'I'm sure my back perfectly aches
with stooping, and so does Cathie's. There! that big topaz has just gone
and rolled under the sideboard, and mother will be so angry if I don't
get it out! It is too bad of you, Priscilla! _I_ believe you do it on
purpose!'

'Ah, you will know me better some day, dear, was the gentle response.

'Well, at all events, I think you might be naughty just now and then,
Prissie, and give Cathie and me a half-holiday.'

'I would do anything else to please you, dear, but not that; you must
not ask me to do what is impossible.'

Alas! not even this angelic behaviour, not even the loving admonitions,
the tender rebukes, the shocked reproaches that fell, accompanied by
perfect cascades of jewels, from the lips of our pattern little
Priscilla, succeeded in removing the utterly unfounded prejudices of her
cousins, though it was some consolation to feel that she was gradually
acquiring a most beneficial influence over her aunt, who called
Priscilla 'her little conscience.' For, you see, Priscilla's conscience
had so little to do on her own account that it was always at the service
of other people, and indeed quite enjoyed being useful, as was only
natural to a conscientious conscience which felt that it could never
have been created to be idle.

Very soon another responsibility was added to little Priscilla's
burdens. Her cousin Dick, the worldly one with the yellow boots, came
home after his annual holiday, which, as he was the junior clerk in a
large bank, he was obliged to take rather late in the year. She had
looked forward to his return with some excitement. Dick, she knew, was
frivolous and reckless in his habits--he went to the theatre
occasionally and frequently spent an evening in playing billiards and
smoking cigars at a friend's house. There would be real credit in
reforming poor cousin Dick.

He was not long, of course, in hearing of Priscilla's marvellous
endowment, and upon the first occasion they were alone together treated
her with a respect and admiration which he had very certainly never
shown her before.

'You're wonderful, Prissie!' he said; 'I'd no idea you had it in you!'

'Nor had I, Dick; but it shows that even a little girl can do
something.'

'I should rather think so! and--and the way you look--as grave as a
judge all the time! Prissie, I wish you'd tell me how you manage it, I
wouldn't tell a soul.'

'But I don't know, Dick. I only talk and the jewels come--that is all.'

'You artful little girl! you can keep a secret, I see, but so can I. And
you might tell me how you do the trick. What put you up to the dodge?
I'm to be trusted, I assure you.'

'Dick, you can't--you mustn't--think there is any trickery about it! How
can you believe I could be such a wicked little girl as to play tricks?
It was an old fairy that gave me the gift. I'm sure I don't know
why--unless she thought that I was a good child and deserved to be
encouraged.'

'By Jove!' cried Dick, 'I never knew you were half such fun!'

'I am not fun, Dick. I think fun is generally so very vulgar, and oh, I
wish you wouldn't say "by Jove!" Surely you know he was a heathen god!'

'I seem to have heard of him in some such capacity,' said Dick. 'I say,
Prissie, what a ripping big ruby!'

'Ah, Dick, Dick, you are like the others! I'm afraid you think more of
the jewels than of any words I may say--and yet _jewels_ are common
enough!'

'They seem to be with you. Pearls, too, and such fine ones! Here,
Priscilla, take them; they're your property.'

Priscilla put her hands behind her: 'No, indeed, Dick, they are of no
use to me. Keep them, please; they may help to remind you of what I have
said.'

'It's awfully kind of you,' said Dick, looking really touched.
'Then--since you put it in that way--thanks, I will, Priscilla. I'll
have them made into a horse-shoe pin.'

'You mustn't let it make you too fond of dress, then,' said Priscilla;
'but I'm afraid you're that already, Dick.'

'A diamond!' he cried; 'go on, Priscilla, I'm listening--pitch into me,
it will do me a _lot_ of good!'

But Priscilla thought it wisest to say no more just then.

That night, after Priscilla and Cathie and Belle had gone to bed, Dick
and his mother sat up talking until a late hour.

'Is dear little cousin Priscilla to be a permanency in this
establishment?' began her cousin, stifling a yawn, for there had been a
rather copious flow of precious stones during the evening.

'Well, I shall keep her with us as long as I can,' said Mrs. Hoyle,
'she's such a darling, and they don't seem to want her at home. I'm
sure, limited as my means are, I'm most happy to have such a visitor.'

'She seems to pay her way--only her way is a trifle trying at times,
isn't it? She lectured me for half an hour on end without a single
check!'

'Are you sure you picked them all up, dear boy?'

'Got a few of the best in my waistcoat-pocket now. I'm afraid I
scrunched a pearl or two, though: they were all over the place, you
know. I suppose you've been collecting too, mater?'

'I picked up one or two,' said his mother; 'I should think I must have
nearly enough now to fill a bandbox. And that brings me to what I wanted
to consult you about, Richard. How are we to dispose of them? She has
given them all to me.'

'You haven't done anything with them yet, then?'

'How could I? I have been obliged to stay at home: I've been so afraid
of letting that precious child go out of my sight for a single hour,
for fear some unscrupulous persons might get hold of her. I thought that
perhaps, when you came home, you would dispose of the jewels for me.'

'But, mater,' protested Dick, 'I can't go about asking who'll buy a
whole bandbox full of jewels!'

'Oh, very well, then; I suppose we must go on living this hugger-mugger
life when we have the means of being as rich as princes, just because
you are too lazy and selfish to take a little trouble!'

'I know something about these things,' said Dick. 'I know a fellow who's
a diamond merchant, and it's not so easy to sell a lot of valuable
stones as you seem to imagine, mother. And then Priscilla really
overdoes it, you know--why, if she goes on like this, she'll make
diamonds as cheap as currants!'

'_I_ should have thought that was a reason for selling them as soon as
possible; but I'm only a woman, and of course _my_ opinion is worth
nothing! Still, you might take some of the biggest to your friend, and
accept whatever he'll give you for them--there are plenty more, you
needn't haggle over the price.'

'He'd want to know all about them, and what should I say? I can't tell
him a cousin of mine produces them whenever she feels disposed.'

'You could say they have been in the family for some time, and you are
obliged to part with them; I don't ask you to tell a falsehood,
Richard.'

'Well, to tell you the honest truth,' said Dick, 'I'd rather have
nothing to do with it. I'm not proud, but I shouldn't like it to get
about among our fellows at the bank that I went about hawking diamonds.'

'But, you stupid, undutiful boy, don't you see that you could leave the
bank--you need never do anything any more--we should all live rich and
happy somewhere in the country, if we could only sell those jewels! And
you won't do that one little thing!'

'Well,' said Dick, 'I'll think over it. I'll see what I can do.'

And his mother knew that it was perfectly useless to urge him any
further: for, in some things, Dick was as obstinate as a mule, and, in
others, far too easy-going and careless ever to succeed in life. He had
promised to think over it, however, and she had to be contented with
that.

On the evening following this conversation cousin Dick entered the
sitting-room the moment after his return from the City, and found his
mother to all appearances alone.

'What a dear sweet little guileless angel cousin Priscilla is, to be
sure!' was his first remark.

'Then you _have_ sold some of the stones!' cried Aunt Margarine. 'Sit
down, like a good boy, and tell me all about it.'

'Well,' said Dick, 'I took the finest diamonds and rubies and pearls
that escaped from that saintlike child last night in the course of some
extremely disparaging comments on my character and pursuits--I took
those jewels to Faycett and Rosewater's in New Bond Street--you know the
shop, on the right-hand side as you go up----'

'Oh, go on, Dick; go on--never mind _where_ it is--how much did you get
for them?'

'I'm coming to that; keep cool, dear mamma. Well, I went in, and I saw
the manager, and I said: "I want you to make these up into a horse-shoe
scarf-pin for me."'

'You said that! You never tried to sell one? Oh, Dick, you are too
provoking!'

'Hold on, mater; I haven't done yet. So the manager--a very gentlemanly
person, rather thin on the top of the head--not that that affects his
business capacities; for, after all----'

'Dick, do you want to drive me frantic!'

'I can't conceive any domestic occurrence which would be more
distressing or generally inconvenient, mother dear. You do interrupt a
fellow so! I forgot where I was now--oh, the manager, ah yes! Well, the
manager said, "We shall be very happy to have the stones made in any
design you may select"--jewellery, by the way, seems to exercise a most
refining influence upon the manners: this man had the deportment of a
duke--"you may select," he said; "but of course I need not tell you that
none of these stones are genuine."'

'Not genuine!' cried Aunt Margarine excitedly. 'They must be--he was
lying!'

'West-end jewellers never lie,' said Dick; 'but naturally, when he said
that, I told him I should like to have some proof of his assertion.
"Will you take the risk of testing?" said he. "Test away, my dear man!"
said I. So he brought a little wheel near the emerald--"whizz!" and away
went the emerald! Then he let a drop of something fall on the ruby--and
it fizzled up for all the world like pink champagne. "Go on, don't mind
_me_!" I told him, so he touched the diamond with an electric
wire--"phit!" and there was only something that looked like the ash of a
shocking bad cigar. Then the pearls--and they popped like so many
air-balloons. "Are you satisfied?" he asked.

'"Oh, perfectly,"' said I, "you needn't trouble about the horse-shoe pin
now. Good evening," and so I came away, after thanking him for his very
amusing scientific experiments.'

'And do you believe that the jewels are all shams, Dick?--do you
really?'

'I think it so probable that nothing on earth will induce me to offer a
single one for sale. I should never hear the last of it at the bank. No,
mater, dear little Priscilla's sparkling conversation may be unspeakably
precious from a moral point of view, but it has no commercial value.
Those jewels are bogus--shams every stone of them!'

Now, all this time our heroine had been sitting unperceived in a corner
behind a window-curtain, reading 'The Wide, Wide World,' a work which
she was never weary of perusing. Some children would have come forward
earlier, but Priscilla was never a forward child, and she remained as
quiet as a little mouse up to the moment when she could control her
feelings no longer.

'It isn't true!' she cried passionately, bursting out of her retreat and
confronting her cousin; 'it's cruel and unkind to say my jewels are
shams! They are real--they are, they _are_!'

'Hullo, Prissie!' said her abandoned cousin; 'so you combine
jewel-dropping with eaves-dropping, eh?'

'How dare you!' cried Aunt Margarine, almost beside herself, 'you odious
little prying minx, setting up to teach your elders and your betters
with your cut and dried priggish maxims! When I think how I have petted
and indulged you all this time, and borne with the abominable litter you
left in every room you entered--and now to find you are only a little,
conceited, hypocritical impostor--oh, _why_ haven't I words to express
my contempt for such conduct--why am I dumb at such a moment as this?'

'Come, mother,' said her son soothingly, 'that's not such a bad
beginning; I should call it fairly fluent and expressive, myself.'

'Be quiet, Dick! I'm speaking to this wicked child, who has obtained our
love and sympathy and attention on false pretences, for which she ought
to be put in prison--yes, in _prison_, for such a heartless trick on
relatives who can ill afford to be so cruelly disappointed!'

'But, aunt!' expostulated poor Priscilla, 'you always said you only kept
the jewels as souvenirs, and that it did you so much good to hear me
talk!'

'Don't argue with _me_, miss! If I had known the stones were wretched
tawdry imitations, do you imagine for an instant----?'

'Now, mother,' said Dick, 'be fair--they were uncommonly good
imitations, you must admit that!'

'Indeed, indeed I thought they were real, the fairy never told me!'

'After all,' said Dick, 'it's not Priscilla's fault. She can't help it
if the stones aren't real, and she made up for quality by quantity
anyhow; didn't you, Prissie?'

'Hold your tongue, Richard; she _could_ help it, she knew it all the
time, and she's a hateful, sanctimonious little stuck-up viper, and so I
tell her to her face!'

Priscilla could scarcely believe that kind, indulgent, smooth-spoken
Aunt Margarine could be addressing such words to her; it frightened her
so much that she did not dare to answer, and just then Cathie and Belle
came into the room.

'Oh, mother,' they began penitently, 'we're _so_ sorry, but we couldn't
find dear Prissie anywhere, so we haven't picked up anything the whole
afternoon!'

'Ah, my poor darlings, you shall never be your cousin's slaves any more.
Don't go near her, she's a naughty, deceitful wretch; her jewels are
false, my sweet loves, false! She has imposed upon us all, she does not
deserve to associate with you!'

'I always said Prissie's jewels looked like the things you get on
crackers!' said Belle, tossing her head.

'Now we shall have a little rest, I hope,' chimed in Cathie.

'I shall send her home to her parents this very night,' declared Aunt
Margarine; 'she shall not stay here to pervert our happy household with
her miserable _gewgaws_!'

Here Priscilla found her tongue. 'Do you think I _want_ to stay?' she
said proudly; 'I see now that you only wanted to have me here
because--because of the horrid jewels, and I never knew they were false,
and I let you have them all, every one, you know I did; and I wanted you
to mind what I said and not trouble about picking them up, but you
_would_ do it! And now you all turn round upon me like this! What have I
done to be treated so? What have I done?'

'Bravo, Prissie!' cried Dick. 'Mother, if you ask me, I think it serves
us all jolly well right, and it's a downright shame to bullyrag poor
Prissie in this way!'

'I _don't_ ask you,' retorted his mother, sharply; 'so you will kindly
keep your opinions to yourself.'

'Tra-la-la!' sang rude Dick, 'we are a united family--we are, we are, we
_are_!'--a vulgar refrain he had picked up at one of the burlesque
theatres he was only too fond of frequenting.

But Priscilla came to him and held out her hand quite gratefully and
humbly. 'Thank you, Dick,' she said; '_you_ are kind, at all events. And
I am sorry you couldn't have your horse-shoe pin!'

'Oh, _hang_ the horse-shoe pin!' exclaimed Dick, and poor Priscilla was
so thoroughly cast down that she quite forgot to reprove him.

She was not sent home that night after all, for Dick protested against
it in such strong terms that even Aunt Margarine saw that she must give
way; but early on the following morning Priscilla quitted her aunt's
house, leaving her belongings to be sent on after her.

She had not far to walk, and it so happened that her way led through the
identical lane in which she had met the fairy. Wonderful to relate,
there, on the very same stone and in precisely the same attitude, sat
the old lady, peering out from under her poke-bonnet, and resting her
knotty old hands on her crutch-handled stick!

Priscilla walked past with her head in the air, pretending not to
notice her, for she considered that the fairy had played her a most
malicious and ill-natured trick.

'Heyday!' said the old lady (it is only fairies who can permit
themselves such old-fashioned expressions nowadays). 'Heyday, why,
here's my good little girl again! Isn't she going to speak to me?'

'No, she's not,' said Priscilla--but she found herself compelled to
stop, notwithstanding.

'Why, what's all this about? You're not going to sulk with me, my dear,
are you?'

'I think you're a very cruel, bad, unkind old woman for deceiving me
like this!'

'Goodness me! Why, didn't the jewels come, after all?'

'Yes--they came, only they were all horrid artificial ones--and it is a
shame, it _is_!' cried poor Priscilla from her bursting heart.

'Artificial, were they? that really is very odd! Can you account for
that at all, now?'

'Of course I can't! You told me that they would drop out whenever I said
anything to improve people--and I was _always_ saying _something_
improving! Aunt had a bandbox in her room quite full of them.'

'Ah, you've been very industrious, evidently; it's unfortunate your
jewels should all have been artificial--most unfortunate. I don't know
how to explain it, unless'--(and here the old lady looked up queerly
from under her white eyelashes), 'unless your goodness was artificial
too?'

'How do you mean?' asked Priscilla, feeling strangely uncomfortable.
'I'm sure I've never done anything the least bit naughty--how can my
goodness possibly be artificial?'

'Ah, that I can't explain; but I know this--that people who are really
good are generally the last persons to suspect it, and the moment they
become aware of it and begin to think how good they are, and how bad
everybody else is, why, somehow or other, their goodness crumbles away
and leaves only a sort of outside shell behind it. And--I'm very old,
and of course I may be mistaken--but I think (I only say I _think_,
mind) that a little girl so young as you must have some faults hidden
about her somewhere, and that perhaps on the whole she would be better
employed in trying to find them out and cure them before she attempted
to correct those of other people. And I'm sure it can't be good for any
child to be always seeing herself in a little picture, just as she likes
to fancy other people see her. Very many pretty books are written about
good little girls, and it is quite true that children may exercise a
great influence for good--more than they can ever tell, perhaps--but
only just so long as they remain natural and unconscious, and not
unwholesome little pragmatical prigesses; for then they make themselves
and other people worse than they might have been. But of course, my
dear, you never made such a mistake as that!'

Priscilla turned very red, and began to scrape one of her feet against
the other; she was thinking, and her thoughts were not at all pleasant
ones.

'Oh, fairy,' she said at last, 'I'm afraid that's just what I _did_ do.
I was always thinking how good I was and putting everybody--papa, mamma,
Alick, Betty, Aunt Margarine, Cathie, Belle, and even poor cousin
Dick--right! I have been a horrid little hateful prig, and that's why
all the jewels were rubbish. But, oh, shall I have to go on talking sham
diamonds and things all the rest of my life?'

'That,' said the fairy, 'depends entirely on yourself. You have the
remedy in your own hands--or lips.'

'Ah, you mean I needn't talk at all? But I must--sometimes. I couldn't
bear to be dumb as long as I lived--and it would look so odd, too!'

'I never said you were not to open your lips at all. But can't you try
to talk simply and naturally--not like little girls or boys in any
story-books whatever--not to "show off" or improve people; only as a
girl would talk who remembers that, after all, her elders are quite as
likely as she is to know what they ought or ought not to do and say?'

'I shall forget sometimes, I know I shall!' said Priscilla
disconsolately.

'If you do, there will be something to remind you, you know. And by and
by, perhaps, as you grow up you may, quite by accident, say something
sincere and noble and true--and then a jewel will fall which will really
be of value!'

'No!' cried Priscilla, 'no, _please_! Oh, fairy, let me off that! If I
_must_ drop them, let them be false ones to punish me--not real. I don't
want to be rewarded any more for being good--if I ever am really good!'

'Come,' said the fairy, with a much pleasanter smile, 'you are not a
hopeless case, at all events. It shall be as you wish, then, and perhaps
it will be the wisest arrangement for all parties. Now run away home,
and see how little use you can make of your fairy gift.'

Priscilla found her family still at breakfast.

'Why,' observed her father, raising his eyebrows as she entered the
room, 'here's our little monitor--(or is it _monitress_, eh,
Priscilla?)--back again. Children, we shall all have to mind our p's and
q's--and, indeed, our entire alphabet, now!'

'I'm sure,' said her mother, kissing her fondly, 'Priscilla knows we're
all delighted to have her home!'

'_I'm_ not,' said Alick, with all a boy's engaging candour.

'Nor am I,' added Betty, 'it's been ever so much nicer at home while
she's been away!'

Priscilla burst into tears as she hid her face upon her mother's
protecting shoulder. 'It's true!' she sobbed, 'I don't deserve that you
should be glad to see me--I've been hateful and horrid, I know--but, oh,
if you'll only forgive me and love me and put up with me a little, I'll
try not to preach and be a prig any more--I will truly!'

And at this her father called her to his side and embraced her with a
fervour he had not shown for a very long time.

       *       *       *       *       *

I should not like to go so far as to assert that no imitation diamond,
ruby, pearl, or emerald ever proceeded from Priscilla's lips again.
Habits are not cured in a day, and fairies--however old they may be--are
still fairies; so it _did_ occasionally happen that a mock jewel made an
unwelcome appearance after one of Priscilla's more unguarded utterances.
But she was always frightfully ashamed and abashed by such an accident,
and buried the imitation stones immediately in a corner of the garden.
And as time went on the jewels grew smaller and smaller, and frequently
dissolved upon her tongue, leaving a faintly bitter taste, until at last
they ceased altogether and Priscilla became as pleasant and unaffected a
girl as she who may now be finishing this history.

Aunt Margarine never sent back the contents of that bandbox; she kept
the biggest stones and had a brooch made of them, while, as she never
mentioned that they were false, no one out of the family ever so much
as suspected it.

But, for all that, she always declared that her niece Priscilla had
bitterly disappointed her expectations--which was perhaps the truest
thing that Aunt Margarine ever said.




_A MATTER OF TASTE_

PART I


It is a little singular that, upon an engagement becoming known and
being discussed by the friends and acquaintances of the persons
principally concerned, by far the most usual tone of comment should be a
sorrowing wonder. That particular alliance is generally the very last
that anybody ever expected. 'What made him choose _her_, of all people,'
and 'What on earth she could see in _him_,' are declared insoluble
problems. It is confidently predicted that the engagement will never
come to anything, or that, if such a marriage ever does take place, it
is most unlikely to prove a success.

Sometimes, in the case of female friends, this tone is even perceptible
under their warmest felicitations, and through the smiling mask of
compliment shine eyes moist with the most irritating quality of
compassion. 'So glad! so delighted! But why, _why_ didn't you consult
_me_?'--this complicated expression might be rendered: 'I could have
saved you from this--I _was_ so pleased to hear of it!'

And yet, in the majority of cases, these unions are not found to turn
out so very badly after all, and the misguided couple seem really to
have gauged their own hearts and their possibilities of happiness
together more accurately than the most clear-sighted of their
acquaintances.

The announcement that Ella Hylton had accepted George Chapman provoked
the customary sensation and surprise in their respective sets, and
perhaps with rather more justification than usual.

Miss Hylton had undeniable beauty of a spiritual and rather _exalté_
type, and was generally understood to be highly cultivated. She had
spent a year at Somerville, though she had gone down without trying for
a place in either 'Mods.' or 'Greats,' thereby preserving, if not
increasing, her reputation for superiority. She had lived all her life
among cultured people; she was devoted to music and regularly attended
the Richter Concerts, though she could seldom be induced to play in
public; she had a feeling for art, though she neither painted nor drew;
a love of literature strong enough to deter her from all amateur efforts
in that direction. In art, music and literature she was impatient of
mediocrity; and, while she was as fond as most girls of the pleasures
which upper middle-class society can offer, she reverenced intellect,
and preferred the conversation of the plainest celebrity to the
platitudes of the mere dancing-man, no matter how handsome of feature
and perfect of step he might be.

George Chapman was certainly not a mere dancing-man, his waltzing being
rather conscientious than dreamlike, and he was only tolerably
good-looking. On the other hand, he was not celebrated in any way, and
even his mother and sisters had never considered him brilliant. He had
been educated at Rugby and Trinity, Cambridge, where he rowed a fairly
good oar, on principle, and took a middle second in the Moral Science
Tripos. Now he was in a solicitor's office, where he was receiving a
good salary, and was valued as a steady, sensible young fellow, who
could be thoroughly depended upon. He was fond of his profession, and
had acquired a considerable knowledge of its details; apart from it he
had no very decided tastes; he lived a quiet, regular life, and dined
out and went to dances in moderation; his manner, though he was nearly
twenty-six, was still rather boyishly blunt.

What there was in him that had found favour in Ella Hylton's fastidious
eyes the narrator is not rash enough to attempt to particularise. But it
may be suggested that the most unlikely people may possess their fairy
rose and ring which render them irresistible to at least one heart, if
they only have faith to believe in and luck to perceive their power.

So, early in the year, George had plucked up courage to propose to Miss
Hylton, after meeting and secretly adoring her for some months past, and
she, to the general astonishment, had accepted him.

He had a private income--not a large one--of his own, and had saved out
of it. She was entitled under her grandmother's will to a sum which made
her an heiress in a modest way, and thus there was no reason why the
engagement should be a long one, and, though no date had been definitely
fixed for the marriage, it was understood that it should take place at
some time before the end of the summer.

Soon after the engagement, however, an invalid aunt with whom Ella had
always been a great favourite was ordered to the south of France, and
implored her to go with her; which Ella, who had a real affection for
her relative, as well as a strong sense of duty, had consented to do.

This was a misfortune in one of two ways: it either curtailed that most
necessary and most delightful period during which _fiancés_ discover one
another's idiosyncrasies and weaknesses, or it made it necessary to
postpone the marriage.

George naturally preferred the former, as the more endurable evil; but
Ella's letters from abroad began to hint more and more plainly at delay.
Her aunt might remain on the Continent all the summer, and she could not
possibly leave her; there was so much to be done after her return that
could not be done in a hurry; they had not even begun to furnish the
pretty little house on Campden Hill that was to be their new home--it
would be better to wait till November, or even later.

The mere idea was alarming to George, and he remonstrated as far as he
dared; but Ella remained firm, and he grew desperate.

He might have spared himself the trouble. About the middle of June
Ella's aunt--who, of course, had had to leave the Riviera--grew tired of
travelling, and Ella, to George's intense satisfaction, returned to her
mother's house in Linden Gardens, Notting Hill.

And now, when our story opens, George, who had managed to get away from
office-work two hours before his usual time, was hurrying towards Linden
Gardens as fast as a hansom could take him, to see his betrothed for the
first time after their long separation.

He was eager, naturally, and a little nervous. Would Ella still persist
in her wish for delay? or would he be able to convince her that there
were no obstacles in the way? He felt he had strong arguments on his
side, if only--and here was the real seat of his anxiety--if only her
objections were not raised from some other motive! She might have been
trying to prepare him for a final rupture, and then--'Well,' he
concluded, with his customary good sense, 'no use meeting trouble
halfway--in five minutes I shall know for certain!'

       *       *       *       *       *

At the same moment Mrs. Hylton and her daughter Flossie, a vivacious
girl in the transitionary sixteen-year-old stage, were in the
drawing-room at Linden Gardens. It was the ordinary double drawing-room
of a London house, but everything in it was beautiful and harmonious.
The eye was vaguely rested by the delicate and subdued colour of walls
and hangings; cabinets, antique Persian pottery, rare bits of china, all
occupied the precise place in which their decorative value was most
felt; a room, in short, of exceptional individuality and distinction.

Flossie was standing at the window, from which a glimpse could just be
caught of fresh green foliage and the lodge-gates, with the bustle of
the traffic in the High Street beyond; Mrs. Hylton was writing at a
Flemish bureau in the corner.

'I suppose,' said Flossie meditatively, as she fingered a piece of old
stained glass that was hanging in the window, 'we shall have George here
this afternoon.'

Mrs. Hylton raised her head. She had a striking face, tinted a clear
olive, with a high wave of silver hair crowning the forehead; her
eyebrows were dark, and so were the brilliant eyes; the nose was
aquiline, and the thin, well-cut mouth a little hard. She was a woman
who had been much admired in her time, and who still retained a certain
attraction, though some were apt to find her somewhat cold and
unsympathetic. Her daughter Ella, for example, was always secretly a
little in awe of her mother, who, however, had no terrors for audacious,
outspoken Flossie.

'If he comes, Flossie, he will be very welcome,' she said, 'but I hardly
expect him yet. George is not likely to neglect his duties, even for
Ella.'

Flossie pursed her mouth rather scornfully: 'Oh, George is immaculate!'
she murmured.

'If he was, it would hardly be a reproach,' said her mother, catching
the word; 'but, at all events, George has thoroughly good principles,
and is sure to succeed in the world. I have every reason to be pleased.'

'Every reason?--ah! but _are_ you pleased? Mother, dear, you know he's
as dull as dull!'

'Ella does not find him so--and, Flossie, I don't like to hear you say
such things, even in Ella's absence.'

'Oh, I never abuse him to Ella; it wouldn't be any use: she's firmly
convinced that he's perfection--at least she was before she went away.'

'Why? do you mean that she has altered?--have you seen any sign of it,
Flossie?'

Mrs. Hylton made this inquiry sharply, but not as if such a circumstance
would be altogether displeasing to her.

'Oh, no; only she hasn't seen him for so long, you know. Perhaps, when
she comes to look at him with fresh eyes, she'll notice things more. Ah,
here _is_ George, just getting out of a hansom--so he has played truant
for once! There's one thing I _do_ think Ella might do--persuade him to
shave off some of those straggly whiskers. I wonder why he never seems
to get a hat or anything else like other people's!'

Presently George was announced. He was slightly above middle height,
broad-shouldered and fresh-coloured; the obnoxious whiskers did indeed
cover more of his cheeks than modern fashion prescribes for men of his
age, and had evidently never known a razor; he wore a turn-down collar
and a necktie of a rather crude red; his clothes were neat and well
brushed, but not remarkable for their cut.

'Well, my dear George,' said Mrs. Hylton, 'we have seen very little of
you while Ella has been away.'

'I know,' he said awkwardly; 'I've had a lot of things to look after in
one way and another.'

'What? after your work at the office was over!' cried Flossie
incredulously.

'Yes--after that; it's taken up my time a good deal.'

'And so you couldn't spare any to call here--I see!' said Flossie.
'George,' she added, with a sudden diversion, 'I wonder you aren't
afraid of catching cold! How _can_ you go about in such absurdly thin
boots as those?'

'These?' he said, inspecting them doubtfully--they were strong, sensible
boots with notched and projecting soles of ponderous thickness--'why,
what's the matter with them, Flossie, eh? Don't you think they're strong
enough for walking in?'

'No, George; they're the very things for an afternoon dance, and quite a
lot of couples could dance in them, you see. But for walking--ah, I'm
afraid you sacrifice too much to appearances.'

'I don't, really!' George protested in all good faith; 'now _do_ I, Mrs.
Hylton?'

'Flossie is making fun of you, George; you mustn't mind her
impertinence.'

'Oh, is that all? Do you know, I really thought for the moment that she
meant they were too small for me! You like getting a rise out of me,
Flossie, don't you?'

And he laughed with such genuine and good-natured amusement that the
young lady felt somehow a little small, and almost ashamed, although it
took the form of suppressed irritation. 'He really ought not to come
here in such things,' she said to herself; 'and I don't believe that,
even now, he sees what I meant.'

Just at this point Ella came in, with the least touch of shyness,
perhaps, at meeting him before witnesses after so long an absence; but
she only looked the more charming in consequence, and, demure as her
greeting was, her pretty eyes had a sparkle of pleasure that scattered
all George Chapman's fears to the winds. Even Flossie felt instinctively
that straggly-whiskered, red-necktied, thick-booted George had lost
none of his divinity for Ella.

They did not seem to have much to say to one another, notwithstanding;
possibly because Ella was called upon to dispense the tea which had just
been brought in. George sat nursing the hat which Flossie found so
objectionable, while he balanced a teacup with the anxious eye of a
juggler out of practice, and the conversation flagged. At last, under
pretence of renewing his tea, most of which he had squandered upon a
Persian rug, he crossed to Ella: 'I say,' he suggested, 'don't you think
you could come out for a little while? I've such lots to tell you
and--and I want you to go somewhere with me.'

Mrs. Hylton made no objection, beyond stipulating that Ella must not be
allowed to tire herself after her journey, and so, a few minutes later,
Miss Hylton came down in her pretty summer hat and light cape, and she
and George were allowed to set out.

Once outside the house, he drew a long breath of mingled relief and
pleasure: 'By Jove, Ella, I am glad to get you back again! I say, how
jolly you do look in that hat! Now, do you know where I'm going to take
you?'

'It will be quietest in the Gardens,' said Ella.

'Ah, but that's not where you're going now,' he said with a delicious
assumption of authority; 'you're coming with me to see a certain house
on Campden Hill you may have heard of.'

'That will be delightful. I do want to see our dear little house again
very much. And, George, we will go carefully over all the rooms, and
settle what can be done with each of them. Then we can begin directly;
we haven't too much time.'

'Perhaps,' he said with a conscious laugh, 'it won't take so much time
as you think.'

'Oh, but it _must_--to do properly. And while I've been away I've had
some splendid ideas for some of the rooms--I've planned them out so
beautifully. You know that delightful little room at the back?--the one
I said should be your own den, with the window all festooned with
creepers and looking out on the garden--well----?'

'Take my advice,' he said, 'and don't make any plans till you see it.
And as for plans, these furnishing fellows do all that--they don't care
to be bothered with plans.'

'They will have to carry out ours, though. I shall love settling how it
is all to be--it will be such fun.'

'You wouldn't call it fun if you knew what it was like, I can tell you.'

'But I _do_ know. Mother and I rearranged most of the rooms at home only
last year--so you see I have some experience. And what experience can
_you_ have had, if you please?'

Ella had a mental vision as she spoke of the house in Dawson Place when
George lived with his mother and sisters--a house in which furniture and
everything else were commonplace and _bourgeois_ to the last degree,
and where nothing could have been altered since his boyhood; indeed she
had often secretly pitied him for having to live in such surroundings,
and admired the filial patience that had made him endure them so long.

'I've had my share, Ella, and I should be very sorry for you to have all
the worry and bother I've been through over it!'

'But when, George? How? I don't understand.'

'Ah, that's my secret!' he said provokingly; 'and you know, Ella, if we
began furnishing now, it would take no end of a time, with all these
wonderful plans of yours, and--and I couldn't stand having to wait till
next November for you--I couldn't do it!'

'Mother thinks the marriage need not be put off now,' said Ella simply,
'and we shall have six weeks till then; the house can be quite ready for
us by the time we want it.'

'Six weeks!' he said impatiently, 'what's six weeks? You've no idea what
these chaps are, Ella! And then there are all your own things to get,
and they would take up most of your time. No, we should have had to put
it off, whatever you may say. And that would mean another
separation--for, of course, you would go away in August, and I should
have to stay in town: the office wouldn't give me my fortnight twice
over--honeymoon or no honeymoon!'

Ella looked completely puzzled. 'But what are you trying to prove
_now_, George?'

'I was only showing you that, even though you have come back earlier, we
couldn't possibly have got things ready in time, if I hadn't----' but
here he stopped. 'No, I want that to be a surprise for you, Ella; you'll
see presently,' he added.

Ella's delicate eyebrows contracted. 'I like to be prepared for my
surprises, please, George. Tell me now.'

They had turned up one of the quiet streets leading to the hill. They
were so near the house that George thought he might abandon further
mystery, not to mention that he was only too anxious to reveal his
secret.

'Well, then, Ella, if you must have it,' he said triumphantly, 'the
house is very nearly ready _now_--what do you think of that?'

'Do you mean that--that it is furnished, George?'

'Papered, painted, decorated, furnished--everything, from top to bottom!
I thought that would surprise you, Ella!'

'I think,' she answered slowly, 'you might have told me you were doing
it.'

'What! before it was all done? That would have spoilt it all, dear. I
should have written, though, if you hadn't been coming home so soon. And
now it's finished I must say it looks uncommonly jolly. I'm sure you'll
be pleased with it--it looks quite a different place.'

She tried to smile: 'And did you do it all yourself, George?'

'Well, no--not exactly. I flatter myself I know how to see that the
work's properly done, and all that; but there are some things I don't
pretend to be much of a hand at, so I got certain ladies to give me some
wrinkles.'

Ella felt relieved. She was disappointed, it is true--hurt, even, at
having been deprived of any voice in the matter. She had been looking
forward so much to carrying out her pet schemes, to enjoying her
friends' admiration of the wonders wrought by her artistic invention.
And she had never thought of George, somehow, as likely to have any
strikingly original ideas on the subject of decoration, although she
liked him none the less for that.

But it was something that he had had the good sense to take her mother
and Flossie into his confidence: she knew she could trust them to
preserve him from any serious mistakes.

'You see,' said George, half apologetically, 'I would ever so much
rather have waited till you came back, only I couldn't tell when that
would be. I really couldn't help myself. You're sure you don't mind
about it? If you only knew how I worked over it, rushing about from one
place to another, as soon as I could get away from the office, picking
up bits of furniture here and there, standing over those beggars of
painters and keeping 'em at it, and working out estimates and seeing
foremen and managers and all kinds of chaps! I used to get home
dead-tired of an evening; but I didn't mind that: I felt it was all
bringing you nearer to me, darling, and that made everything a
pleasure!'

There was such honest affection in his look and voice; he had so
evidently intended to please her, and had been in such manifest dread of
any further separation from her, that she was completely disarmed.

'Dear George,' she said gently, 'I am so sorry you took all the trouble
on yourself; it was very, very good of you to care so much, and I know I
shall be delighted with the house.'

'Well,' said George, 'I'm not much afraid about that, because I expect
our tastes are pretty much the same in most things.'

They were by this time at the house, and George, after a little fumbling
with his as yet unfamiliar latchkey, threw open the door with a flourish
and said, 'There you are, little woman! Walk in and you'll see what you
shall see!'

No sooner was Ella inside the hall than her heart sank: 'Looks neat and
nice, doesn't it?' said George cheerfully. 'You'd almost take that paper
for real marble, wouldn't you? See how well they've done those veins. I
like this yellowish colour better than green, don't you? It looks so
cool in summer. That's a good strong hall-lamp--not what you call high
art, exactly--but gives a rattling good light, and that's the main
thing. Here, I'll light it up for you--confound it! they haven't turned
the gas on yet. However, there's too much sunshine for it to show much,
if they had. This linoleum is a capital thing: you might scrub as long
as you liked and you'd never get _that_ pattern out!'

'No,' Ella agreed, with a tragic little smile, 'it--it looks as if it
would last.'

'Last! I should just think so! And here's a hatstand--you could almost
swear it was carved wood of some sort, but it's only cast-iron painted;
indestructible, you see; they told me that was the latest
dodge--wonderful how cheaply they turn them out, isn't it?'

'I thought you said you were helped?'

'Oh, I didn't want any help _here_--this is only the passage, you know!'

Yes, it was only the passage--and yet she had been picturing such a
charming entrance, with a draped arch, a graceful lamp, a fresh bright
paper, a small buffet of genuine old oak, and so on. She suppressed a
sigh as she passed on; after all, so long as the rooms themselves were
all right, it did not so very much matter, and she knew that her
mother's taste could be trusted.

But on the threshold of the dining-room she stopped aghast. The walls
had been distempered a particularly hideous drab; the curtains were
mustard yellow; the carpet was a dull brown; the mottled marble
mantelpiece, for which she had been intending to substitute one in
walnut wood with tiles, still shone in slabs of petrified brawn; there
was a huge mahogany sideboard of a kind she had only seen in
old-fashioned hotels.

'Comfortable, eh?' remarked George. 'Lots of wear in those curtains!'

Unhappily there was, as Ella was only too well aware. 'You did _this_
room yourself too, then, George?' she managed to say, without betraying
herself by her voice.

'Yes, I chose everything here. You see, Ella, we shall only use this
room for meals.'

'Only for meals, yes,' she acquiesced with a shudder; 'but--George,
surely you said mother had helped you with the rooms?'

'What! your mother? No, Ella; her notions are rather too grand for me.
It was Jessie and Carrie I meant. Just come and see what they've made of
my den.'

Ella followed. The window--which had commanded such a cheerful outlook
into one of the pretty gardens, with a pink thorn, a laburnum-tree or
two, and some sycamores which still flourish fresh and fair on Campden
Hill--was obscured now by some detestable contrivance in transparent
paper imitating stained glass.

'That was the girls' notion,' said George, following the direction of
her eyes; 'they fixed it all themselves--it was their present to me.
Pretty of them to think of it, wasn't it? I call it an immense
improvement, and, you see, it's stuck on with some patent cement
varnish, so it can't rub off. You get the effect better if you stand
here--_now_, see how well the colours come out in the sun!'

If only they _would_ come out! But what could she do but stand and
admire hypocritically? Her eyes, in spite of herself, seemed drawn to
that bright-hued sham intersected by black lines intended to represent
leading; of the room itself she only saw vaguely that it was not
unworthy of the window.

'Nothing to what they've done with the drawing-room!' said innocent
George, beaming; 'come along, darling, you'll scarcely know the place.'

And Ella, reduced to a condition of stony stupor, followed to the
drawing-room. She did not know the place, indeed. It was a
quaintly-shaped, irregular room, with French windows opening upon the
garden on one side and a deep bow-window on another; when she had last
seen it, the walls were covered with a paper so pleasing in tone and
design that she had almost decided to retain it. That paper was gone,
and in its place a gaudy semi-Chinese pattern of unknown birds, flying
and perching on sprawling branches laden with impossible flowers. And
then the furniture--the 'elegant drawing-room suite' in brilliant plush
and shiny satin, the cheap cabinets, and the ready-made black and gilt
overmantel, with its panels of swans, hawthorn-blossom, and landscapes
sketchily daubed on dead gold--surely it had all been transferred bodily
from the stage of some carelessly mounted farcical comedy!

Ella's horrified gaze gradually took in other features--the china
monkeys swinging on cords, the porcelain parrots hanging in great brass
rings, huge misshapen terra-cotta jars and pots, dead grass in bloated
drain-pipes, tambourines, beribboned and painted with kittens and
robins, enormous wooden _sabots_, gilded Japanese fans, a woolly white
rug and a bright Kidderminster carpet.

'_Oh_, George!' burst involuntarily from her lips.

'I knew you'd be pleased!' he said complacently; 'but I mustn't take all
the credit myself. It was like this, you see: I felt all right enough
about the other rooms, but the drawing-room--that's _your_ room, and I
was awfully afraid of not having it exactly as it ought to be. So I went
to the girls, and I said, "_You_ know all about these things--just make
it what you think Ella will like, and then we can't go wrong!" We had
that Grosvenor Gallery paper down first of all. "Choose something bright
and cheerful," I said, and I don't think they've chosen badly. Then the
pottery and china and all that--those are the girls' presents to _you_,
with their best love.'

'It--it's very good of them,' said poor Ella, on the verge of tears.

'Oh, they think a lot of you! They were rather nervous about doing
anything at first, for fear you mightn't like it; but I told them they
needn't be afraid. "What I like, Ella will like," I said; and, I must
say, no one could wish to see a prettier drawing-room than they've
turned it into--they've a good deal of taste, those two girls.'

Ella stood there in a kind of dreary dream. What had happened to the
world since she came into this house? What was this change in her? She
was afraid to speak, lest the intense rebellious anger she felt should
gain the mastery. Was it she that had these wicked thoughts of
George--poor, kind, unsuspecting, loving George? She felt a little
faint, for the windows were closed and the room stuffy with the odour of
the new furniture and the atmosphere of the workshop; everything here
seemed to her commonplace and repulsive.

'How about those plans of yours now, Ella, eh?' cried George.

This was too much; her overtried patience broke down. 'George!' she
cried impulsively, and her voice sounded hoarse and strange to her own
ear; 'George! I must speak--I must tell you!----' and then she checked
herself. She must keep command of herself, or she could not, without
utter loss of dignity, find the words that were to sting him into a
sense of what he had done and allowed to be done. Before she could go
on, George had drawn her to him, and was patting her shoulder tenderly.
'I know, dear little girl,' he said, 'I know; don't try to tell me
anything. I'm so awfully glad you're pleased; but all the money and
pains in the world wouldn't make the place good enough for my Ella!'

She released herself with a little cry of impotent despair. How could
she say the sharp, cruel speeches that were struggling to reach her
tongue now? It was no use; she was a coward; she simply had not the
courage to undeceive him here, on the very first day of their reunion,
too!

'You haven't been upstairs yet,' said George, dropping sentiment
abruptly; 'shall we go up?'

Ella assented submissively, much as even this cost her; but it was
better, she reflected, to get it over and know the very worst. However,
she was spared this ordeal for the present; as they returned to the
hall, they found themselves suddenly face to face with a dingy man,
whose face was surrounded by a fringe of black whiskers and crowned by a
shock of fleecy hair.

'Who on earth are you?' demanded George, as the man rose from the
kitchen-stairs.

'No offence, sir and lady! Peagrum, that's _my_ name, fust shop round
the corner as you go into Silver Street, plumber and sanitry hengineer,
gas-fittin' and hartistic decorating, bell-'anging in all its branches.
I received instructions from Mr. Jones that I was to look into a little
matter o' leakage in the back-kitchen sink; also to see what taps, if
hany, required seein' to, and gen'ally to put things straight like. So I
come round, 'aving the keys, jest to cast a heye over them, as I may
term it, preliminry to commencing work in the course of a week or so, as
soon as I'm at libity to attend to it pussonally.'

'Oh, the landlord sent you? All right, then.'

'Correct, sir,' said the plumber affably. 'While I've been 'ere, I took
the freedom of going all over this little 'ouse, and a nice cosy little
'ouse you've made of it, for such a nouse as it is! You've done it up
very tysty--very tysty you've done this little 'ouse up; and I've some
claim to speak, seein' as how I've had the decoration throughout of a
many 'ouses in my time, likewise mansions. You ain't been too ambitious,
which is the error most parties falls into with small 'ouses. Now the
parties as 'ad the place before you--by the name o' Rummles--well, I
daresay they satisfied theirselves, but the 'ouse never looked
right--not to _my_ taste, it didn't!'

'George, get rid of this person!' said Ella rapidly, under her breath,
in French. Unfortunately, George's acquaintance with that tongue was
about on a par with the plumber's, and he remained passive.

The plumber now proceeded to put down his mechanic's straw-bag upon the
hall-table, which he did with great care, as if it were of priceless
stuff and contained fragile articles; having done this, he posed himself
with one elbow resting on the post at the foot of the staircase, like a
grimy statue of Shakespeare.

'Ah,' he said, shaking his touzled head, 'this ain't the fust time I've
been 'ere in my puffessional capacity, not by a long way. Not by a long
way, it ain't. Mr. Rummles, him as I mentioned to you afore, and a nice
pleasant-spoken gentleman he was, too--in the tea trade--Mr. Rummles, he
allus sent round for me whenever there was hany odd jobs as wanted
doin', and in course I was allus pleased to get 'em, be they hodd or
hotherwise.'

'Er-exactly,' said George, as soon as he could put in a word; 'but you
see, this lady and I----'

The plumber, however, did not abandon his position, and seemed
determined that they should hear him:

'I know, sir--I see how things were with you with 'arf a glance; but
afore we go any further, it's right you should know 'oo I am and all
about me. Jest 'ear what I'm goin' to tell you, for it's somethink out
of the common way, though gospel-truth. It's a melinkly reflection for a
man in my station of life, but'--and here he lowered his voice to a
solemn pitch--'I've never set foot inside of this 'ere 'ouse without
somethink 'appens more or less immejit. Ah, it's true, though. Seems
almost like as if I brought a fatality in along o' me. Don't you
interrupt; you wait till I'm done, and see if I'm talking at random or
without facks to support me. Well, _fust_ time as ever I was sent for
'ere was in regard to drains, as they couldn't flush satisfactory. I did
my work and come away. Not three weeks arter, Miss Rummles, the heldest
gell, was took ill with typhoid. Never the same young lady again--nor
yet she never won't be neither, not if she lives to a nundered. "Nothing
very hodd about _that_?" says you. Wait a bit. Next time, it was the
kitching copper as had got all furred up like. I tinkered that up to
rights, and come away. Well, afore I'd even made out my account, that
identical copper blew up and scalded the cook dreadful! "Coppers will
play these games," you sez. All right, then; but you let me finish.
Third time there was a flaw in one of the gas-brackets in the spare
room. I soddered it up and I come away. Soon arterwards, a day or two as
it might be, Mrs. Rummles 'ad 'er mar a-stayin' with her, and the old
lady slep in that very room, and was laid up weeks! "Curus," says I,
when I come to 'ear of it, "_very_ curus!" and it set me a-thinkin'.
Last time but one--'ere, lemme see--that was a bell-'anging job, I
_think_--no, I'm wrong, it was drains agen, so it were--drains it was
agen. And the _next_ thing I 'eard was that Mrs. Rummles was a-layin' at
death's door with the diffthery! The last time--ah, I recklect well, I
was called in to see if somethink wasn't wrong with the ballcock in the
top cistin. I see there _was_ somethink, and I come away as usual. That
day week, old Mr. Rummles was took with a fit on the floor in the back
droring-room, which broke up the 'ouse!

'Now, I think, as fair-minded and unprejudiced parties, you'll agree
with me that there was something more'n hordinary coinside-ency in all
that. I declare to you!' avowed the plumber, with a gloomy relish and a
candour that was possibly begotten of beer, 'I declare to you there's
times when I do honestly believe as I carry a curse along with me
whenever I visits this 'ere partickler 'ouse! and, though it's agen my
own hinterests, I deem it on'y my dooty, as a honest man, to mention
it!'

Under any other circumstances, the plumber's compliments on her taste
and his lugubrious assumption of character of the Destroying Angel would
have sorely tried, if not completely upset, Ella's gravity; as it was,
she was too wretched to have more than a passing and quite
unappreciative sense of his absurdity. George, having the quality of
mind which makes jokes more readily than sees them, took him quite
seriously.

'Well,' he answered solemnly, 'I hope you won't bring _us_ bad luck, at
all events!'

'_I_ 'ope so, sir, I'm sure. I _'ope_ so. It will not be by any desire
on my part, more partickler when you're just settin' up 'ousekeepin'
with your good lady 'ere. But there's no tellin' in these matters.
That's where it is, you see--there's no tellin'. And, arter all my
experence, with the best intentions in the world, I can't go and
guarantee to you as nothink won't come of it. I wish I could, but, as a
honest man, I can't. If it's to be,' moralised this fatalistic plumber,
'it _is_ to be, and that's all about it, and no hefforts on my part or
yours won't make hany difference, will they, sir?'

'Well, well,' said George, plainly ill at ease, 'that will do, my
friend. Now, Ella, what do you say--shall we go upstairs?'

'Not now,' she gasped, 'let us go away--. Oh, George, take me outside,
please!'

'Dash that confounded fool of a plumber!' said George, irritably, when
they were in the street again; 'wonder if he thinks I'm going to employ
him after that! Not that it isn't all bosh, of course---- Why, Ella,
you're not tired, are you?'

'I--I think I am a little--do you mind if we drive home?'

Ella was very silent during their short drive. When they reached Linden
Gardens she said, 'I think we must say good-bye here, George. I feel as
if I were going to have a headache.'

'You poor little girl!' he said, looking rather crestfallen, for he had
been counting upon going in and being invited to remain for dinner,
'it's been rather too much for you, going over the house and all
that--or was it that beastly plumber with his rigmaroles?'

'It wasn't the plumber,' she said hurriedly, as the door was opened,
'and--good-bye, George.'

'How easily girls do get knocked up!' thought George, as he walked
homeward, 'a little pleasant excitement like this and she seems quite
upset. She was delighted with the house, though, that's one blessing,
and I mustn't forget to tell the girls how touched she was by their
presents. What a darling she is, and how happy we shall be together!'




PART II


Once safely at home, Ella hastened upstairs to her own room, where, if
the truth must be told, she employed the half-hour before dinner in
unintermittent sobbing, into which temper largely entered. 'He has
spoilt it all for me! How _could_ he--oh, how could he?' ran the burden
of her moan. At the dinner-table, though pale and silent, she had
recovered composure.

'A pleasant walk, Ella?' inquired her mother, with rather formal
interest.

'Yes, very,' replied Ella, trusting she would not be questioned further.

'I believe I know where you went!' cried indiscreet Flossie. 'You went
to look at your new home--now, _didn't_ you? Ah, I thought so! I
suppose you have quite made up your minds how you mean to do the rooms?'

'Quite.'

'We might go round to all the best places to-morrow,' said Mrs. Hylton,
'and see some papers and hangings--there were some lovely patterns in
Blank's windows the other day.'

'And, Ella,' added Flossie, 'I've been out with Andrews after school
several times, to Tottenham Court Road, and Wardour Street, and Oxford
Street--oh, everywhere, hunting up old furniture, and I can show you
where they have some beautiful things--not shams, but really good!'

'You know, Ella,' said Mrs. Hylton, observing that she did not answer,
'I want you to have a pretty house, and you and George must order
exactly what you like; but I think you will find I may be some help to
you in choosing.'

'Thank you, mother,' said Ella, without any animation; 'I--I don't think
we shall want much.'

'You will want all that young people in your position do want, I
suppose,' said Mrs. Hylton, a little impatiently; 'and of course you
understand that the bills are to be my affair.'

'Thank you, mother,' murmured Ella again. She didn't feel able to tell
them just yet how this had all been forestalled; she felt that she would
infallibly break down if she tried.

'You seem a little overdone to-night, my dear,' said her mother
frigidly; she was naturally hurt at the very uneffusive way in which her
good offices had been met.

'I have such a dreadful headache,' pleaded Ella. 'I--I think I overtired
myself this afternoon.'

'Then you were very foolish, after travelling all yesterday, as you did.
I don't wonder that George was ashamed to come in. You had better go to
bed early, and I will send Andrews in to you with some of my sleeping
mixture.'

Ella was glad enough to obey, though the draught took some time to
operate; she felt as if no happiness or peace of mind were possible for
her till George had been persuaded to undo his work.

Surely he could not refuse when he knew that her mother was prepared to
do everything for them at her own expense!

And here it began to dawn upon her what this would entail! George's
words came back to her as if she heard them actually spoken. Did he not
say that the house had been furnished out of his savings?

What was she asking him to do? To dismantle it entirely; to humiliate
himself by going round to all the people he had dealt with, asking them
as a favour to take back their goods, or else he must sell them as best
he could for a fraction of their cost. Who was to refund him all he had
so uselessly spent? Could she ask her mother to do so? Would he even
consent to such an arrangement if it was proposed?

Then his sisters--how could she avoid offending them irreparably,
perhaps involving George in a quarrel with his family, if she were to
carry her point?

As she realised, for the first time, the inevitable consequences of
success, she asked herself in despair what she ought to do--where her
plain duty lay?

Did she love George--or was it all delusion, and was he less to her than
mere superfluities, the fringe of life?

She did love him, in spite of any passing disloyalty of thought. She
felt his sterling worth and goodness, even his weaknesses had something
lovable in them for her.

And he had been planning, spending, working all this time to give her
pleasure, and this was his reward! She had been within an ace of letting
him see the cruel ingratitude that was in her heart! 'What a selfish
wretch I have been!' she thought; 'but I won't be--no, I won't! George
shall _not_ be snubbed, hurt, estranged from his family on my account!'

No, she would suffer--she alone--and in silence. Never by a word would
she betray to him the pain his well-intentioned action cost her. Not
even to her mother and Flossie would she permit herself to utter the
least complaint, lest they should insist upon opening George's eyes!

So, having arrived at this heroic resolve, in which she found a touch of
the sublime that almost consoled her, the tears dried on her cheeks and
Ella fell asleep at last.

Some readers, no doubt--though possibly few of our heroine's sex--will
smile scornfully at this crumpled rose-leaf agony, this tempest in a
Dresden teacup; and the writer is not concerned to deny that the
situation has its ludicrous side.

But, for a girl brought up as Ella Hylton had been, in an artistic
_milieu_, her eye insensibly trained to love all that was beautiful in
colour and form, to be almost morbidly sensitive to ugliness and
vulgarity--it was a very real and bitter struggle, a hard-won victory to
come to such a decision as she formed. Life, Heaven knows, contains
worse trials and deeper tragedies than this; but at least Ella's happy
life had as yet known no harder.

And, so far, she must be given the credit of having conquered.

Resolution is, no doubt, half the battle. Unfortunately, Ella's
resolution, though she hardly perceived this at present, could not be
effected by one isolated and final act, but by a long chain of daily and
hourly forbearances, the first break in which would undo all that had
gone before.

How she bore the test we are going to see.

She woke the next morning to a sense that her life had somehow lost its
savour; the exaltation of her resolve overnight had gone off and left
her spirits flat and dead; but she came down, nevertheless, determined
to be staunch and true to George under all provocations.

'Have you and George decided when you would like your wedding to be?'
asked her mother, after breakfast, 'because we ought to have the
invitations printed very soon.'

'Not yet,' faltered Ella, and the words might have passed either as an
answer or an appeal.

'I think it should be some time before the end of next month, or people
will be going out of town.'

'I suppose so,' was the reply, so listlessly given that Mrs. Hylton
glanced keenly at her daughter.

'What do you feel about it yourself, Ella?'

'I? oh, I--I've no feeling. Perhaps, if we waited--no, it doesn't
matter--let it be when you and George wish, mother, please!'

Mrs. Hylton gave a sharp, annoyed little laugh: 'Really, my dear, if you
can't get up any more interest in it than that, I think it would
certainly be wiser to wait!'

It was more than indifference that Ella felt--a wild aversion to
beginning the new life that but lately had seemed so mysteriously sweet
and strange; she was frightened by it, ashamed of it, but she could not
help herself. She made no answer, nor did Mrs. Hylton again refer to the
subject.

But Ella's worst tribulations had yet to come. That afternoon, as she
and her mother and Flossie were sitting in the drawing-room, 'Mrs. and
the Miss Chapmans' were announced. Evidently they had deemed it
incumbent on them to pay a state visit as soon as possible after Ella's
return.

Ella returned their effusive greetings as dutifully as she could. She
had never succeeded in cultivating a very lively affection for them;
to-day she found them barely endurable.

Mrs. Chapman was a stout, dewlapped old lady, with dull eyes and
pachydermatous folds in her face. She had a husky voice and a funereal
manner. Jessie, her eldest daughter, was not altogether uncomely in a
commonplace way: she was dark-haired, high-coloured,
loud-voiced--generally sprightly and voluble and overpowering; she was
in such a hurry to speak that her words tripped one another up, and she
had a meaningless and, to Ella, highly irritating little laugh.

Carrie was plain and colourless, content to admire and echo her sister.

After some conversation on Ella's Continental experiences, Jessie
suddenly, as Ella's uneasy instinct foresaw, turned to Mrs. Hylton. 'Of
course, Ella told you what a surprise she had at Campden Hill yesterday?
Weren't you electrified?'

'No doubt I should have been,' said Mrs. Hylton, who detested Jessie,
'only Ella did not think fit to mention it.'

'Oh, I wonder at that! I hope I wasn't going to betray the secrets of
the prison-house?' Jessie was fond of using stock phrases to give
lightness and sparkle to her conversation. 'Ella, the idea of your
keeping it all to yourself, you sly puss! But tell me--would you ever
have believed Tumps'--his sisters called George 'Tumps'--'could be
capable of such independent behaviour?'

'No,' said Ella, 'I--indeed I never should!'

'Ha, ha! nor should we! You would have screamed to see him fussing
about--wasn't he killing over it, Carrie?'

'Oh, he was, Jessie!'

'My son,' explained Mrs. Chapman to Mrs. Hylton, 'is so wonderfully
energetic and practical. I have never known him fail to carry through
anything he has once undertaken--he inherits that from his poor dear
father.'

'I don't quite gather what your brother George has been doing, even
now?' said Mrs. Hylton to Jessie.

'Oh, but my lips are sealed. Wild horses sha'n't drag any more from me!
Don't be afraid, Ella, I won't spoil sport!'

'There is no sport to spoil,' said Ella. 'Mother, it is only that--that
George has furnished the house while I have been away.'

'Really?' said Mrs. Hylton politely; 'that _is_ energetic of him,
indeed!'

'Poor dear Tumps came home so proud of your approval,' said Jessie to
Ella, 'and we were awfully relieved to find you didn't think we'd made
the house quite too dreadful--weren't we, Carrie?'

'Yes, indeed, Jessie.'

'Of course,' observed the latter young lady, 'it's always so hard to hit
upon another person's taste exactly--especially in furnishing.'

'Impossible, I should have thought,' from Mrs. Hylton.

'I hope Ella is of a different opinion--what do _you_ say, dearest?'

'Oh,' cried Ella hastily, with splendid mendacity, 'I--I liked it all
very much, and--and it was so much too kind of you and Carrie. I've
never thanked you for--for all the things you gave me!'

'Oh, _those_! they ain't worth thanking for--just a few little artistic
odds and ends. They set off a room, you know--give it a finish.'

'Young people nowadays,' croaked old Mrs. Chapman lugubriously in Mrs.
Hylton's courteously inclined ear, 'think so much of luxury and
ornament. I'm sure when I married my dear husband, we----'

'Now, mater dear, you really _mustn't_!' interrupted the irrepressible
Jessie; 'Mrs. Hylton is on _our_ side, you know. She likes pretty things
about her--don't you, Mrs. Hylton? And, talking of that, Ella, I hope
you thought our glyco-vitrine decoration a success? We were perfectly
surprised ourselves to see how well it came out! Just transparent
coloured paper, Mrs. Hylton, and you cut it into sheets, and gum it on
the window-panes, and really, unless you were told or came quite close,
you would declare it was real stained glass! You ought to try some of it
on your windows, Mrs. Hylton. I'll tell you where you can get it--you go
down----'

'I'm afraid I'm old-fashioned, my dear,' said Mrs. Hylton, stiffly; 'if
I cannot have the reality, I prefer to do without even the best
imitations.'

'Why, you're deserting us, I declare! Ella, you must take her to see the
window, and then perhaps she will change her opinion.'

'I always tell my girls,' said Mrs. Chapman, in her woolly voice, 'when
I am dead and gone they can make any alterations they please, but while
I am spared to them I like everything about the house to be kept exactly
as it was in their poor father's lifetime.'

'_Isn't_ she a dear conservative old mummy?' said Jessie to Ella in an
audible aside. 'Why, I do believe she won't see anything to admire in
your little house--at least, if she does, the dear old lady, she'd
sooner die than admit it!'

The Chapmans went at last, and before they were out of the house Mrs.
Hylton, with an effort to seem unconcerned, said: 'And so, Ella, you and
George have done without my help? Of course you know your own affairs
best; still, I should have thought--I should certainly have
thought--that I might have been of some assistance to you--if only in
pecuniary matters.'

'George preferred that you should not be troubled,' stammered Ella.

'I am not blaming him. I respect him for wishing to be independent. I
own to being a little surprised that you should not have told me of this
before, though, Ella. But for that chattering girl, I presume I should
have been left to discover it for myself. I wonder you cannot bring
yourself to be a little more open with your mother, my dear.'

'Oh, mother!' cried Ella in despair, 'indeed I was going to tell
you--only, I did not know myself till yesterday. At least, that is----'
she broke off lamely, fearing to reflect on George.

'I find it hard to believe that George would act without consulting you
in any way. It is strange enough that he should have undertaken to
furnish the house in your absence.'

'But if I couldn't be there!' pleaded Ella--'and I couldn't.'

'Naturally, as you were on the Continent, you couldn't be on Campden
Hill at the same time; you need not be absurd, Ella. But what I want to
know is this--have you had a voice in the matter, or have you not?'

'N--not much,' confessed Ella, hanging her head.

'So I suspected, and I think George ought to be ashamed of himself. I
never heard of such a thing, and I shall make a point of seeing the
house and satisfying myself that it is fit for a daughter of mine to
inhabit.'

'Mother!' exclaimed Ella, springing up excitedly, 'you don't understand.
Why should you choose to suppose that the house is not pretty? It is not
done as _you_ would do it, because poor George hadn't much money to
spend; but if I am satisfied, why should you come between us? And I _am_
satisfied--quite, quite satisfied; he has done it all beautifully, and I
will not have a single thing altered! After all, it is _his_ house--our
house--and nobody else has any right to interfere--not even you,
mother!'

Mrs. Hylton shrugged her shoulders. 'Oh, my dear, if that is the way you
think proper to speak to me, it is time to change the subject. Pray
understand that I shall not dream of interfering. I am very glad that
you are so satisfied.' And by-and-by she left the room majestically.

When she had gone, Flossie, who had been listening open-eyed to all that
had taken place, came and stood in front of Ella's chair.

'Ella, tell me,' she said, 'has George really furnished the house
exactly as you like--_really_ now?'

'Haven't I said so, Flossie? Why should you doubt it?'

'Oh, I don't know; I was wondering, that was all!'

'Really!' cried Ella angrily, 'anyone would think poor George was a sort
of barbarian, who couldn't be expected to know anything, or trusted to
do anything!'

'I'm sure I never _said_ so, Ella. But how clever of him to choose just
the right things! And, Ella, do all the colours and things go well
together? I always thought most men didn't notice much about all that.
And are the new mantelpieces pretty? Oh, and where did he go for the
papers and the carpets?'

'Flossie, I wish you wouldn't tease so. Can't you see I have a headache?
I can't answer so many questions, and I won't! Once for all, everything
is just what I like. Do you understand, or shall I tell you
again?--just, _just_ what I like!'

'Oh, all right,' returned Flossie, with exasperating good-humour; 'then
there's nothing to lose your temper about, darling, is there?'

And this was all that Ella had gained by her loyalty to George so far.

It was the morning after the Chapmans' visit. Ella had seen her mother
and Flossie preparing to go out, but, owing to the friction between
them, they neither invited her to accompany them, nor did she venture to
ask where they were going. At luncheon, however, the unhappy girl
divined from the expression of their faces how they had employed the
forenoon. They had been inspecting the Campden Hill house! Her mother's
handsome face wore a look of frozen contempt. Imagine a strict Quaker's
feelings on seeing his son with a pair of black eyes--a Socialist's at
finding a peerage under his daughter's pillow--a Positivist's whose
children have all joined the Salvation Army, and even then but a faint
idea will be reached of Mrs. Hylton's utter dismay and disgust.

Flossie, though angry, took a different view of Ella's share in the
business; she knew her better than her mother did, and consequently
refused to believe that she was a Philistine at heart. It was her absurd
infatuation for George that made her see with his eyes and bow down
before the hideous household gods he had chosen to erect. On such
weakness Flossie had no mercy.

'Well, Ella, dear,' she began, 'mother and I have seen your house.
George has quite surpassed our wildest expectations. Accept my
compliments!'

'Flossie,' said her mother severely, 'will you kindly choose some other
topic? I really feel too seriously annoyed about all this to bear to
hear it spoken of just yet. I think you shall come with me to the
Amberleys' garden-party this afternoon, and not Ella, as we are dining
out this evening. You had better stay at home and rest, Ella.'

In this, and countless other ways, was Ella made to feel that she was in
disgrace.

Nor did Flossie spare her sister when they were alone. 'Poor dear
mother!' she said, 'I quite thought that house would have broken her
heart--oh, I'm not saying a word against it, Ella, I know _you_ like it,
and I'm sure it looks very comfortable--everything so sensible and
useful, and the kitchen really charming; mother and I liked it best of
all the rooms. Such a horrid man let us in; he was at work there, and he
would follow us all about, and tell mother his entire history. I don't
think he _could_ have been quite sober, he would insist on turning all
the taps on everywhere. I suppose, Ella, it's ever so much _cheaper_ to
furnish as you and George have done; that's the worst of pretty things,
they do cost such a lot! I'd no idea you were so practical, though,' and
so on.

On Sunday George came to luncheon. He was delighted to hear from Flossie
that they had been to the house, and gave a boisterously high-spirited
account of his labours. 'It _was_ a grind,' he informed them, 'and, as
for those painter-fellows, I began to think they'd stay out the entire
lease.'

'Art is long, George,' observed Flossie, wickedly.

'Oh yes, I know; but they promised faithfully to be out in ten days, and
they were over three weeks!'

'But look at the result! George, how _did_ you find out that Ella liked
grained doors?'

'Well, to tell you the truth, Flossie, that was a bit of a fluke. The
man told me that graining was coming in again, and I said, "Grain 'em,
then"--_I_ didn't know!'

In short, he was more provokingly dense than ever to-day, and Ella found
herself growing more and more captious and irritable that afternoon; he
could not understand why she was so disinclined to talk; even the dear
little house of which she was so soon to be the mistress failed to
interest her.

'You have told me twice already that you got the drawing-room carpet a
great bargain, and only paid four pounds ten for the table in the
dining-room,' she broke out. 'Can't we take that for granted in future?'

'I forgot I'd told you; I thought it was the mater,' he said; 'and I
say, Ella, how about pictures? Jessie's promised to do us some
water-colours--she's been taking lessons lately, you know--but we shall
want one or two prints for the dining-room, shan't we? You can pick them
up second-hand very cheap.'

'Oh yes, yes; anything you please, George!... No, no; I'm not cross, I'm
only tired, especially of talking about the house. It is quite finished,
you know, so what _is_ there to discuss?'

During the days that followed, Flossie devised an ingenious method of
tormenting Ella; she laid out her pocket-money, of which she had a good
deal, on the most preposterous ornaments--a pair of dangling cut-glass
lustres, bead mats, a trophy of wax fruit under a glass shade, gaudy
fire-screens and flowerpots, all of which she solemnly presented to her
suffering sister. This was not pure mischief or unkindness on Flossie's
side, but part of a treatment she had hit upon for curing Ella of her
folly. And at last the worm turned. Flossie came in one day with a cheap
plush and terra-cotta panel of appalling ugliness.

'For the drawing-room, dear,' she observed blandly, and Ella suddenly
burst into a flood of tears.

'You are very, very unkind to me, Flossie!' she sobbed.

'I!' exclaimed Flossie, in a tone of the most innocent surprise. 'Why,
Ella, I thought you would be charmed with it. I'm sure _George_ will.
And, you know, it will go beautifully with the rest of your things!'

'You might understand ... you might see----'

'I might see what?'

'How _frightfully_ miserable I am!' said Ella, which was the very
admission Miss Flossie had been seeking to provoke.

'Suppose I _do_ see,' she said; 'suppose I've been trying to get you to
act sensibly, Ella?'

'Then it's cruel of you!'

'No it's not. It's kind. How am I to help you unless you speak out? I'm
younger than you, Ella, but I know this--_I_ would never mope and make
myself miserable when a word would put everything right!'

'But it wouldn't, Flossie; it is too late to speak now. I can't tell
him how I really feel--I can't!'

'Ah, then you own there is something to tell?'

'What have I said? Flossie, forget what I said; it slipped out. I meant
nothing.'

'And you are perfectly happy and satisfied, are you? _Now_, I know how
people look when they are perfectly happy and satisfied.'

'It's no use!' cried Ella, suddenly. 'I've tried, and tried, and tried
to bear it, but I can't. I _must_ tell somebody ... it is making me ill.
I am getting cross and wicked, and unlike what I used to be. Flossie, I
can't go and live there--I dread the thought of it; I shrink from it
more and more every day! It is all odious, impossible--and yet I must, I
must!'

'No, you mustn't; and, what's more, you shan't!'

'Flossie, you mean you will tell mother! You must not, do you hear? If
you do, it will only make matters worse. Oh, why did I tell you?' cried
Ella, in shame at this lapse from all her heroism. 'Promise me you will
say nothing to mother--it is too late now--promise!'

'Very well,' said Flossie reluctantly; 'then I promise. But, all the
same, Ella, I think you're a great goose!'

'I didn't promise I wouldn't say anything to _George_, though,' she
reflected; and so, on the very next occasion that she caught him alone,
she availed herself of an innocent allusion of his to Ella's low
spirits to give him the benefit of her candid opinion, which was not
tempered by any marked consideration for his feelings.

Ella was in the morning-room alone--she had taken to sitting alone
lately, brooding over her trials. She was no heroine, after all; her
mind, it is to be feared, was far from superior. She was finding out
that she had undertaken too heavy a task; she could not console herself
for her lost dream of a charmingly appointed house. She might endure to
live in such a home as George had made for her; but to be expected to
admire it, to let it be understood that it was her handiwork, that she
had chosen or approved of it--this was the burden that was crushing her.

Suddenly the door opened and George stood before her. His expression was
so altered that she scarcely recognised him; all the cheery buoyancy had
vanished, and his stern, set face had a dignity and character in it now
that were wanting before.

'I have just had a talk with Flossie,' he began; 'she has shown me what
a--what a mistake I've been making.'

Ella could not help feeling a certain relief, though she said, 'It was
very wrong of Flossie--she had no right to speak.'

'She had every right,' he said. 'She might have done it more kindly,
perhaps, but that's nothing. Why didn't you tell me yourself, Ella? You
might have trusted me!'

'I couldn't--it seemed so cruel, so ungrateful, after all you had done.
I hoped you would never know.'

'It's well for you, and for me too, that I know this while there's still
time. Ella, I've been a blind, blundering fool. I never had a suspicion
of this till--till just now, or you don't think I should have gone on
with it a single minute. I came to tell you that you need not make
yourself miserable any longer. I will put an end to this--whatever it
costs me.'

'Oh, George, I am so ashamed. I know it is weak and cowardly of me, but
I can't help it. And--and will it cost you so very much?'

'Quite as much as I can bear.'

'No; but tell me--about _how_ much? More than a hundred pounds?'

'I haven't worked it out in pounds, shillings, and pence,' he said
grimly; 'but I should put it higher myself.'

'Won't they take back some of the things? They ought to,' she suggested
timidly.

'The things? Oh, the furniture! Good Heavens, Ella! do you suppose I
care a straw about that? All I can think of is how I could have gone on
deceiving myself like this, believing I knew your every thought; and all
the time--pah, what a fool I've been!'

'I thought I should get used to it,' she pleaded. 'And oh, you don't
know how hard I have tried to bear it, not to let anyone see what I
felt--you don't know!'

'And I would rather not know,' he replied, 'for it's not exactly
flattering, you see, Ella. And at all events, it's over now. This is the
last time I shall trouble you; you will see no more of me after to-day.'

Ella could only stare at him incredulously. Had he really taken the
matter so seriously to heart as this? Could he not forgive the wound to
his vanity? How hard, how utterly unworthy of him!

'Yes,' he continued, 'I see now we were quite unsuited to one another. I
should never have made you happy, Ella; it's best to find it out before
it's too late. So let us shake hands and say good-bye, my dear.'

She felt powerless to appeal to him, and yet it was not wholly pride
that tied her tongue; she was too shaken and stunned to make the least
effort at remonstrance.

'Then, if it must be,' she said at last, very low--'good-bye, George.'

He crushed her hand in his strong grasp. 'Don't mind about me,' he said
roughly. 'You've nothing to blame yourself for. I daresay I shall get
over it all right. It's rather sudden at first--that's all!' And with
that he was gone.

Flossie, coming in a little later, found her sister sitting by the
window, smiling in a strange, vacant way. '_Well?_' said Flossie
eagerly, for she had been anxiously waiting to hear the result of the
interview.

'It's all over, Flossie; he has broken it off.'

'Oh, Ella, I'm so glad! I _hoped_ he would, but I wasn't sure. Well,
you may thank me for delivering you, darling. If I hadn't spoken
plainly----'

'Tell me what you said.'

'Oh, let me see. Well, I told him anybody else would have seen long ago
that your feelings were altered. I said you were perfectly miserable at
having to marry him, only you thought it was too late to say so. I told
him he didn't understand you in the least, and you hadn't a single
thought or taste in common. I said if he cared about you at all, the
best way he could prove it was by setting you free, and not spoiling
your life and his own too. I put it as pleasantly as I could,' said
Flossie naïvely, 'but he is very trying!'

'You told him all that! What made you invent such wicked, cruel lies?
Flossie, it is you that have spoilt our lives, and I will never forgive
you--never, as long as I live!'

'Ella!' cried the younger sister, utterly astonished at this outburst.
'Why, didn't you tell me the other day how miserable you were, and how
you dared not speak about it? And now, when I----'

'Go away, Flossie; you have done mischief enough!'

'Oh, very well, I'm going--if this is all I get for helping you. Is it
_my_ fault if you don't know your own mind, and say what you don't mean?
And if you really want your dearly beloved George back again, there's
time yet; he hasn't gone--he's in the drawing-room with mother.'

How infinitely petty her past misery seemed now! for what trifles she
had thrown away George's honest heart! If only there was a chance still!
at least false pride should not come between them any longer: so thought
Ella on her way to the drawing-room. George was still there; as she
turned the door-handle she heard her mother's clear resonant tones. 'Not
that that is any excuse for Ella,' she was saying.

Ella burst precipitately into the room. She was only just in time, for
George had risen and was evidently on the point of leaving. 'George,'
she exclaimed, panting after her rapid flight, 'I--I came to tell
you----'

'My dear Ella,' interrupted Mrs. Hylton, 'the kindest thing you can do
for George now is to let him go without any more explanations.'

Ella stopped; again her mind became a blank. What had she come for; what
was it she felt she must say? While she hesitated, George was already at
the other door; he seemed anxious to avoid hearing her; in another
second he would be gone.

She cried to him piteously. 'George, dear George, don't leave me!... I
can't bear it!'

'This is too ridiculous!' exclaimed her mother angrily. 'What is it that
you _do_ want, Ella?'

'I want George,' she said simply. 'It was all a mistake, George. Flossie
mistook---- Oh, you don't really think that I have left off caring for
you? I haven't, dear, indeed I haven't--won't you believe me?'

'I had better leave you to come to an understanding together,' said Mrs.
Hylton, not in the best of tempers, for she had been more sorry for
George than for the rupture he came to announce, and she swept out of
the room with very perceptible annoyance.

       *       *       *       *       *

'I thought it was all up with me, Ella; I did indeed,' said George, a
minute or two later, his face still pale after all this emotion. 'But
tell me--what's wrong with the furniture I ordered?'

'Nothing, dear, nothing,' she answered, blushing. 'Don't think about it
any more.'

'No? But your mother was talking about it too,' he insisted. 'Come,
Ella, dear, for heaven's sake let us have no more misunderstandings! I
see now what an ass I was not to wait and let you choose for yourself;
these æsthetic things are not in my line. But I'd no idea you'd care so
much!'

'But I don't now--a bit.'

'Well, I do, then. And the house must be done all over again, and
exactly as you would like it; so there's no more to be said about it,'
said George, without a trace of pique or wounded vanity.

'George, you are too good to me; I don't deserve it. And indeed you must
not--think of the expense!'

His face lengthened slightly; he knew well enough that the change would
cost him dear.

'I'll manage it somehow,' he declared stoutly.

Would her mother help them now? thought Ella, and felt more than
doubtful. No, in spite of her own wishes, she must not allow George to
carry out his intentions.

'But you forget Carrie and Jessie,' she said; 'we shall hurt their
feelings so if we change now.'

'By Jove! I forgot that,' he said. 'Yes, they won't like it--they meant
well, poor girls, and took a lot of trouble. Still, you're the first
person to be considered, Ella. I'll try and smooth it over with them,
and if they choose to be offended, why, they must--that's all. And I
tell you what. Suppose we go and see the house now, and you shall tell
me just what wants doing to make it right?'

She would have liked to decline this rather invidious office, especially
as she felt no compromise to be possible; but he was so urgent that she
finally agreed to go with him.

As they gained Campden Hill and the road in which their house stood,
George stopped. 'Hullo!' he said, 'that can't be the house--what's the
matter with it?'

Very soon it was pretty evident what had been the matter--the walls were
scorched and streaming, the window sashes were empty, charred and wasted
by fire, the door was blistered and blackened, a stalwart fireman in
his undress cap, with his helmet slung at his back, was just opening the
gate as they came up.

'Can't come in, sir,' he said, civilly enough. 'No one admitted.'

'Hang it!' exclaimed George, 'it's my own fire--I'm the tenant.'

'Oh, I beg your pardon, sir--it's been got under some hours now. I was
just going off duty.'

'Much damage done?' inquired George laconically.

'Well, you see, sir,' said the man, evidently considering how to prepare
George for the worst, 'we didn't get the call till the house was well
alight, and there was three steamers and a manual a-playing on it,
so--well, you must expect things to be a bit untidy-like inside. But the
walls and the roof ain't much damaged.'

'And how did it happen?--the house isn't even occupied.'

'Workmen,' said the man. 'Someone was in there early this morning and
left the gas escaping somewheres, and as likely as not a light burning
near--and here you are. Well, I'll be off, sir; there's nothing more to
be done 'ere. Good-day, sir, and thank ye, I'm sure.'

'Oh, George!' said Ella, half crying, 'our poor, poor little house! It
seems like a judgment on me. How _can_ you laugh! Who will build it up
for us now?'

'Who? Why, the insurance people, to be sure! You see, the firm are
agents for the "Curfew," and as soon as I got all the furniture in I
insured the whole concern and got a protection note, so we're all right.
Don't worry, little girl. Why, don't you see this gets us out of our
difficulty? We can start afresh now without offending anybody. Look
there; there's that idiot of a plumber who's done all the mischief--a
nice funk he'll be in when he sees us!'

But Mr. Peagrum was quite unperturbed; if anything, his smudgy features
wore a look of sombre complacency as he came towards them. 'I'm sorry
this should have occurred,' he said,'but you'll bear me out that I
warned yer as something was bound to 'appen. In course I couldn't tell
what form it might take, and fire I must say I did _not_ expect. I
'adn't on'y been in the place not a quarter of a hour, watering the
gaselier in the libery--the libery as _was_, I _should_ say--when it
struck me I'd forgot my screw-driver, so, fortunately, as things turned
out, I went 'ome to my place to get it, and I come back to see the place
all in a blaze. It's fate, that's what it is--fate's at the bottom o'
this 'ere job!'

'Much more likely to be a lighted candle,' said George.

'I was not on the premises at the time, so I can't say; but, be that 'ow
it may, there's no denying it's a singler thing the way my words have
been fulfilled almost literal.'

'Confound you!' said George. 'You take good care your prophecies come
off. Why, man, you're not going to pretend you don't know that it's your
own carelessness that's brought this about! This isn't the only house
you've brought bad luck into, Mr. What's-your-name, since you've started
in business!'

'You can't make me lose my temper,' replied the plumber with dignity. 'I
put it down to ignirance.'

'So do I,' said George. 'And if I know anyone who's anxious for a little
typhoid, or wants his house burnt down at a moderate charge, why, I
shall know whom to recommend. Good-day.'

He turned on his heel and walked off, but Ella lingered behind. 'I only
just wanted to tell you,' she said, addressing the astonished plumber,
'that you have done us a very great service, and I, at least, am very
much obliged to you.' And she fluttered away after her _fiancé_.

The plumber--that instrument of Destiny--looked after the retreating
couple, and indulged in a mystified whistle.

'_'E_ comes a bullyragging of me,' he observed to a lamp-post, 'and
she's "very much obliged"! And I'm blowed if I know what for, either
way! Cracked, poor young things, cracked, the pair on 'em--and no
wonder, with such a calamity so recent. Ah, well, I do 'ope as this is
the end on it. I 'ope I shan't be the means of bringing no more trouble
into that little 'ouse--that I kin truly say!'

And--human gratitude having its limits--it is highly probable that this
pious aspiration will not be disappointed, so long, at least, as Mr. and
Mrs. Chapman's tenancy continues.




_DON; THE STORY OF A GREEDY DOG_

A TALE FOR CHILDREN


'Daisy, dearest,' said Miss Millikin anxiously to her niece one
afternoon, 'do you think poor Don is quite the thing? He has seemed so
very languid these last few days, and he is certainly losing his
figure!'

Daisy was absorbed in a rather ambitious attempt to sketch the lake from
the open windows of Applethwaite Cottage, and did not look up from her
drawing immediately. When she did speak her reply might perhaps have
been more sympathetic. 'He _eats_ such a lot, auntie!' she said. 'Yes,
Don, we _are_ talking about you. You know you eat too much, and that's
the reason you're so disgracefully fat!'

Don, who was lying on a rug under the verandah, wagged his tail with an
uneasy protest, as if he disapproved (as indeed he did) of the very
personal turn Daisy had given to the conversation. He had noticed
himself that he was not as active as he used to be; he grew tired so
very soon now when he chased birds (he was always possessed by a fixed
idea that, if he only gave his whole mind to it, he could catch any
swallow that flew at all fairly); he felt the heat considerably.

Still, it was Don's opinion that, so long as he did not mind being fat
himself, it was no business of any other person's--certainly not of
Daisy's.

'But, Daisy,' cried Miss Millikin plaintively, 'you don't really mean
that I overfeed him?'

'Well,' Daisy admitted, 'I think you give way to him rather, Aunt Sophy,
I really do. I know that at home we never let Fop have anything between
his meals. Jack says that unless a small dog is kept on very simple diet
he'll soon get fat, and getting fat,' added Daisy portentously, 'means
having fits sooner or later.'

'Oh, my _dear_!' exclaimed her aunt, now seriously alarmed. 'What do you
think I ought to do about it?'

'I know what I would do if he was _my_ dog,' said Daisy, with great
decision--'diet him, and take no notice when he begs at table; I would.
I'd begin this very afternoon.'

'_After_ tea, Daisy?' stipulated Miss Millikin.

'No,' was the inflexible answer, '_at_ tea. It's all for his own good.'

'Yes, dear, I'm sure you're right--but he has such pretty ways--I'm so
afraid I shall forget.'

'I'll remind you, Aunt Sophy. He shan't take advantage of you while
_I'm_ here.'

'You're just a tiny bit hard on him, Daisy, aren't you?'

'Hard on Don!' cried Daisy, catching him up and holding him out at
arm's length. 'Don, I'm _not_ hard on you, am I? I love you, only I see
your faults, and you know it. You're full of deceitfulness' (here she
kissed him between the eyes and set him down). 'Aunt Sophy, you would
never have found out his trick about the milk if it hadn't been for
me--_would_ you now?'

'Perhaps not, my love,' agreed Miss Millikin mildly.

The trick in question was a certain ingenious device of Don's for
obtaining a double allowance of afternoon tea--a refreshment for which
he had acquired a strong taste. The tea had once been too hot and burnt
his tongue, and, as he howled with the pain, milk had been added. Ever
since that occasion he had been in the habit of lapping up all but a
spoonful or two of the tea in his saucer, and _then_ uttering a pathetic
little yelp; whereupon innocent Miss Millikin would as regularly fill up
the saucer with milk again.

But, unfortunately for Don, his mistress had invited her niece Daisy to
spend part of her summer holidays at her pretty cottage in the Lake
District, and Daisy's sharper eyes had detected this little stratagem
about the milk on the very first evening!

Daisy was fourteen, and I fancy I have noticed that when a girl is about
this age, she not unfrequently has a tendency to be rather a severe
disciplinarian when others than herself are concerned. At all events
Daisy had very decided notions on the proper method of bringing up
dogs, and children too; only there did not happen to be any children at
Applethwaite Cottage to try experiments upon; and she was quite sure
that Aunt Sophy allowed herself to be shamefully imposed upon by Don.

There was perhaps some excuse for Miss Millikin, for Don was a
particularly charming specimen of the Yorkshire terrier, with a silken
coat of silver-blue, set off by a head and paws of the ruddiest gold.
His manners were most insinuating, and his great eyes glowed at times
under his long hair, as if a wistful, loving little soul were trying to
speak through them. But, though it seems an unkind thing to say, it must
be confessed that this same soul in Don's eyes was never quite so
apparent as when he was begging for some peculiarly appetising morsel.
He was really fond of his mistress, but at meal times I am afraid he
'put it on' a little bit. Of course this was not quite straightforward;
but then I am not holding him up as a model animal.

How far he understood the conversation that has been given above is more
than I can pretend to say, but from that afternoon he began to be aware
of a very unsatisfactory alteration in his treatment.

Don had sometimes felt a little out of temper with his mistress for
being slow to understand exactly what he _did_ want, and he had barked,
almost sharply, to intimate to the best of his powers--'Not bread and
butter, stoopid--_cake_!' So you may conceive his disgust when she did
not even give him bread and butter; nothing but judicious
advice--_without_ jam. She was most apologetic, it is true, and
explained amply why she could not indulge him as heretofore, but Don
wanted sugar, and not sermons. Sometimes she nearly gave way, and then
cruel Daisy would intercept the dainty under his very nose, which he
thought most unfeeling.

He had a sort of notion that it was all through Daisy that they were
just as stingy and selfish in the kitchen, and that his meals were now
so absurdly few and plain. It was very ungrateful of her, for he had
gone out of his way to be polite and attentive to her. When he thought
of her behaviour to him he felt strongly inclined to sulk, but somehow
he did not actually go so far as that. He liked Daisy; she was pretty
for one thing, and Don always preferred pretty people, and then she
stroked him in a very superior and soothing manner. Besides this, he
respected her: she had been intrusted with the duty of punishing him on
more than one occasion, and _her_ slaps really hurt, while it was
hopeless to try to soften her heart by trying to lick the chastising
hands--a manoeuvre which was always effective with poor Miss Millikin.
So he contented himself with letting her see that though he did not
understand her conduct towards him, he was willing to overlook it for
the present.

'What a wonderful improvement in the dear dog!' Miss Millikin remarked
one morning at breakfast, after Don had been on short commons for a
week or two. 'Really, Daisy, I begin to think you were quite right about
him.'

'Oh, I'm _sure_ I was,' said Daisy, who always had great confidence in
her own judgment.

'Yes,' continued her aunt, 'and, now he's so much better--just this one
small bit, Daisy?' Don's eyes already had a green glitter in them and
his mouth was watering.

'No, Aunt Sophy,' said Daisy, 'I wouldn't--really. He's better without
anything.'

'I wish that girl was gone!' reflected poor Don, as he went sulkily back
to his basket. 'It's enough to make a dog steal, upon my tail it is! I'm
positively starved--no bones, no chicken, only beastly dry dog-biscuits
and milk twice a day! I wish I could rummage about in gutters and places
as Jock does--but I don't think the things you find in gutters are ever
_really_ nice. Jock does--but he's just that low sort of dog who
_would_!'

Jock was a humble friend of his down in the village, a sort of distant
relation to the Dandie Dinmonts; he was a rough, long-backed creature,
as grey as a badger, and with a big solemn head like a hammer. Don was
civil to him in a patronising way, but he did not tell him of the
indignities he was subject to, perhaps because he had been rather given
to boast of his influence over his mistress, and the high consideration
he enjoyed at Applethwaite Cottage.

Now Daisy used to go up for solitary rambles on the fells sometimes,
when she generally took Don as a protector. He was becoming very nearly
as active as ever, and now there was a stronger motive than before for
pursuing the swallows--for he had a notion that they would be rather
good eating. But one morning she missed him on her way back through the
village by the lake; she was sure he was with her on the pier, and she
had only stopped to ask some question at the ticket-office about the
steamboat times; and when she turned round, Don was gone.

However, her aunt was neither angry nor alarmed. Miss Millikin was not
able to walk as much as Don wished, she said, so he was accustomed to
take a great deal of solitary exercise; he was such a remarkably
intelligent dog that he could be trusted to take care of himself--oh, he
would come back.

And towards dusk that evening Don did come back. There was a curious air
about him--subdued, almost sad; Daisy remembered long afterwards how
unusually affectionate he had been, and how quietly he had lain on her
lap till bedtime.

The next morning, when her aunt and she prepared to go for a walk along
the lake, Don's excitement was more marked than usual; he leaped up and
tried to caress their hands: he assured them in a thousand ways of the
delight he felt at being allowed to make one of the party.

After this, it was a painful surprise to find that he gave them the
slip the moment they reached the village. But Miss Millikin said he
always did prefer mountain scenery, and no doubt it was tiresome for him
to have to potter about as they did. And Master Don began to give them
less and less of his society in the daytime, and to wander from morn to
dewy eve in solitude and independence; though whether he went up
mountains to admire the view, or visited ruins and waterfalls, or spent
his days hunting rabbits, no one at Applethwaite Cottage could even
pretend to guess.

'_One_ good thing, Aunt Sophy,' said Daisy complacently one evening, a
little later, 'I've quite cured Don of being troublesome at meals!'

'He couldn't be _troublesome_ if he tried, dear,' said Miss Millikin
with mild reproof; 'but I must say you have succeeded quite
wonderfully--how _did_ you do it?'

'Why,' said Daisy, 'I spoke to him exactly as if he could understand
every word, and I made him thoroughly see that he was only wasting his
time by sitting up and begging for things. And you got to believe it at
last, didn't you, dear?' she added to Don, who was lying stretched out
on the rug.

Don pricked the ear that was uppermost, and then uttered a heavy sigh,
which smote his mistress to the heart.

'Daisy,' she said, 'it's _no_ use--I _must_ give him something. Poor
pet, he deserves it for being so good and patient all this time. One
biscuit, Daisy?'

Even Daisy relented: 'Well--a _very_ plain one, then. Let me give it to
him, auntie?'

The biscuit was procured, and Daisy, with an express intimation that
this was a very particular indulgence, tendered it to the deserving
terrier.

He half raised his head, sniffed at it--and then fell back again with
another weary little sigh. Daisy felt rather crushed. 'I'm afraid he's
cross with me,' she said; 'you try, Aunt Sophy.' Aunt Sophy tried, but
with no better success, though Don wagged his tail feebly to express
that he was not actuated by any personal feeling in the matter--he had
no appetite, that was all.

'Daisy,' said Miss Millikin, with something more like anger than she
generally showed, 'I was very wrong to listen to you about the diet.
It's perfectly plain to me that by checking Don's appetite as we have we
have done him serious harm. You can see for yourself that he is past
eating anything at all now. Cook told me to-day that he had scarcely
touched his meals lately. And yet he's stouter than ever--_isn't_ he?'

Daisy was forced to allow that this was so. 'But what can it be?' she
said.

'It's _disease_,' said her aunt, very solemnly. 'I've read over and over
again that corpulence has nothing whatever to do with the amount of food
one eats. And, oh! Daisy, I don't want to blame you, dear--but I'm
afraid we have been depriving him of the nourishing things he really
needed to enable him to struggle against the complaint!'

Poor Daisy was overcome by remorse as she knelt over the recumbent Don.
'Oh, darling Don,' she said, 'I didn't mean it--you know I didn't, don't
you? You must get well and forgive me! I tell you what, aunt,' she said
as she rose to her feet, 'you know you said I might drive you over in
the pony cart to that tennis-party at the Netherbys to-morrow. Well,
young Mr. Netherby is rather a "doggy" sort of man, and nice too.
Suppose we take Don with us and ask him to tell us plainly whether he
has anything dreadful the matter with him?'

Miss Millikin consented, though she did not pretend to hope much from
Mr. Netherby's skill. 'I'm afraid,' she said, with a sigh, 'that only a
very clever veterinary surgeon would find out what really is the matter
with Don. But you can try, my dear.'

The following afternoon Miss Millikin entrusted herself and Don to
Daisy's driving, not without some nervous misgivings.

'You're quite sure you can manage him, Daisy?' she said. 'If not, we can
take John.'

'Why, Aunt Sophy!' exclaimed Daisy, 'I _always_ drive the children at
home; and sometimes when I'm on the box with Toppin, he gives me the
reins in a straight part of the road, and Paul and Virginia pull like
anything--Toppin says it's all _he_ can do to hold them.'

Daisy was a little hurt at the idea that she might find Aunt Sophy's
pony too much for her--a sleepy little 'slug of a thing,' as she
privately called it, which pattered along exactly like a clockwork
animal in urgent need of winding up.

Don seemed a little better that day, and was lifted into the pony-cart,
where he lay on the indiarubber mat, sniffing the air as if it was doing
him good.

Daisy really could drive well for her age, and woke the pony up in a
manner that astonished her aunt, who remarked from time to time that she
knew Wildfire wanted to walk now--he never could trot long at a
time--and so they reached the Netherbys' house, which was five miles
away towards the head of the lake, well under the hour, a most
surprising feat--for Wildfire.

It was a grown-up tennis-party, and Daisy, although she had brought her
racket, was a little afraid to play; besides, she wanted to consult
young Mr. Netherby about Don, who had been left with the cart in the
stables.

Mr. Netherby, who was a good-natured, red-faced young soldier, just
about to join his regiment, was not playing either, so Daisy went up to
him on the first opportunity.

'You know about dogs, Mr. Netherby, don't you?'

'Rath-er!' said Mr. Netherby, who was a trifle slangy. 'Why? Are you
thinking of investing in a dog?'

'It's Aunt Sophy's dog,' explained Daisy, 'and he's ill--_very_ ill--and
we can't make out what's the matter, so I thought you would tell us
perhaps?'

'I'll ride over to-morrow and have a look at him.'

'Oh, but you needn't--he's here. Wait--I'll fetch him--don't you come,
please.'

And presently Daisy made her appearance on the lawn, carrying Don, who
felt quite a weight, in her arms. She set him down before the young man,
who examined him in a knowing manner, while Miss Millikin, and some
others who were not playing just then, gathered round. Don was languid,
but dignified--he rather liked being the subject of so much notice.
Daisy waited breathlessly for the verdict.

'Well,' said Mr. Netherby, 'it's easy enough to see what's wrong with
_him_. I should knock off his grub.'

'But,' cried Miss Millikin, 'we _have_ knocked off his grub, as you call
it. The poor dog is starved--literally starved.'

Mr. Netherby said he should scarcely have supposed so from his
appearance.

'But I assure you he has eaten nothing--positively nothing--for days and
days!'

'Ah,' said Mr. Netherby, 'chameleon, is he? then he's had too much
air--that's all.'

Just then a young lady who had been brought by some friends living close
by joined the group: 'Why,' she said at once, 'that's the little steamer
dog. How did he come here?'

'He is _not_ a little steamer dog,' said Miss Millikin in her most
dignified manner; 'he is _my_ dog.'

'Oh, I didn't know,' said the first speaker; 'but--but I'm sure I've
seen him on the steamer several times lately.'

'I never use the steamers unless I'm absolutely obliged--I disapprove of
them: it must have been some other dog.'

The young lady was positive she had made no mistake. 'You so seldom see
a dog with just those markings,' she said, 'and I don't think anybody
was with him; he came on board at Amblemere and went all round the lake
with us.'

'At Amblemere!' cried Daisy, 'that's where _we_ live; and, Aunt Sophy,
you know Don has been away all day lots of times lately.'

'What did this dog do on the steamer?' asked Miss Millikin faintly.

'Oh, he was so sweet! he went round to everybody, and sat up so prettily
till they gave him biscuits and things--he was everybody's pet; we were
all jealous of one another for the honour of feeding him. The second
time we brought buns on purpose. But we quite thought he belonged to
the steamer.'

Young Mr. Netherby laughed. 'So _that_ is how he took the air! I thought
I wasn't far wrong,' he said.

'Put him back in the cart, Daisy,' said Miss Millikin severely; 'I can't
bear to look at him.'

Don did his best to follow this dialogue, but all he could make out was
that it was about himself, and that he was being as usual exceedingly
admired. So he sat and looked as good and innocent and interesting as he
knew how. Just then he felt that he would almost rather they did _not_
offer him anything to eat--at least not anything very sweet and rich,
for he was still not at all well. It was a relief to be back in the cart
and in peace again, though he wondered why Daisy didn't kiss the top of
his head as she had done several times in carrying him to the lawn. This
time she held him at a distance, and said nothing but two words, which
sounded suspiciously like 'You _pig_!' as she put him down.

Miss Millikin was very grave and silent as they drove home. 'I can't
trust myself to speak about it, Daisy,' she said; 'if--if it was true,
it shows such an utter want of principle--such deceit; and Don used to
be so honest and straightforward! What if we make inquiries at the pier?
It--it may be all a mistake.'

They stopped for this purpose at Amblemere. 'Ay, Miss Millikin, mum, he
cooms ahn boord reglar, does that wee dug,' said the old boatman, 'and
a' makes himsel' rare an' frien'ly, a' do--they coddle him oop fine,
amang 'em. Eh, but he's a smart little dug, we quite look for him of a
morning coomin' for his constitutionil, fur arl the worl' like a
Chreestian!'

'Like a very _greedy_ Christian!' said his disgusted mistress. 'Daisy,'
she said, when she returned to the pony-cart, 'it's all true! I--I never
have been so deceived in any one; and the worst of it is, I don't know
how to punish him, or how to make him feel what a disgraceful trick this
is. Nobody else's dog I ever heard of made his mistress publicly absurd
in this way. It's so--so ungrateful!'

'Aunt Sophy,' said Daisy, 'I've an idea. Will you leave him to me, and
pretend you don't suspect anything? I _will_ cure him this time!'

'You--you won't want to whip him?' said Miss Millikin, 'because, though
it's all his own doing, he really is not well enough for it just now.'

'No,' said Daisy, 'I won't tell you my plan, auntie, but it's better
than whipping.'

And all this time the unconscious Don was wearing an expression of
uncomplaining suffering, and looking meekly sorry for himself, with no
suspicion in the world that he had been found out.

Next day he felt much better, and as the morning was bright he thought
that, after all, he might manage another steamer trip; his appetite had
come back, and his breath was not nearly so short as it had been. He
was just making modestly for the gate when Daisy stopped him. 'Where are
you going, sir?' she inquired.

Don rolled over instantly with all his legs in the air and a feeble
apology in his eye.

'I want you for just one minute first,' said Daisy politely, and carried
him into the morning-room. Was he going to be whipped?--she couldn't
have the heart--an invalid like him! He tried to protest by his
whimpering.

But Daisy did nothing of the kind; she merely took something that was
flat and broad and white, and fastened it round his neck with a very
ornamental bow and ribbon. Then she opened the French windows, and said
in rather a chilly voice, 'Now run away and get on your nasty steamer
and beg, and see what you get by it!'

That seemed, as far as he could tell, very sensible advice, and, oddly
enough, it was exactly what he had been intending to do. It did not
strike him as particularly strange that Daisy should know, because Don
was a dog that didn't go very deeply into matters unless he was obliged.

He trotted off at an easy pace down to the village, getting hungrier
every minute, and hoping that the people on the steamer would have
brought nice things to-day, when, close to the turning that led to the
landing-stage, he met Jock, and was naturally obliged to stop for a few
moments' conversation.

He was not at all pleased to see him notwithstanding, for I am sorry to
say that Don's greediness had so grown upon him of late that he was
actually afraid that his humble friend (who was a little slow to find
out when he wasn't wanted) would accompany him on to the steamboat, and
then of course the good things would have to be divided.

However, Don was a dog that was always scrupulously polite, even to his
fellow-dogs, and he did not like to be rude now.

'Hullo!' said Jock (in dogs' language of course, but I have reason to
believe that what follows is as nearly as possible what was actually
said). 'What's the matter with you this morning?'

Don replied that he was rather out of sorts, and was going down to a
certain lane for a dose of dog-grass.

'A little dog-grass won't do _me_ any harm,' said Jock; 'I'll come too.'

This was awkward, but Don pretended to be glad, and they went a little
way together.

'But what's that thing round your neck?' asked the Dandie Dinmont.

'Oh,' said Don, 'that? It's a bit of finery they put on me at the
cottage. It pleases _them_, you know. Think it's becoming?'

'Um,' answered Jock; 'reminds me of a thing a friend of mine used to
wear. But _he_ had a blind man tied to him. I don't see _your_ blind
man.'

'They would have given me a blind man of course if I'd asked for it,'
said Don airily, 'but what's the use of a blind man--isn't he rather a
bore?'

'I didn't ask; but my friend said he believed the thing round his neck,
which was flat and white just like yours (only he had a tin mug
underneath his), made people more inclined to give him things--he didn't
know why. Do _you_ find that?'

'How stupid of Daisy to forget the mug!' thought Don. 'I could have
brought things home to eat quietly then.--I don't know,' he replied to
Jock; 'I haven't tried.'

He meant to put it to the test very soon, though--if only he could get
rid of Jock.

'By the way,' he said carelessly, 'have you been round by the hotel
lately?'

'No,' answered Jock, 'not since the ostler threw a brush at me.'

'Well,' said Don, 'there was a bone outside the porch, which, if I
hadn't been feeling so poorly, I should have had a good mind to tackle
myself. But perhaps some other dog has got hold of it by this time.'

'I'll soon make him let go if he has!' said Jock, who liked a fight
almost as well as a bone. '_Where_ was it, did you say?'

'Outside the hotel. Don't let me keep you. It was a beautiful bone.
Good-morning,' said Don.

He did not think it worth while to explain that he had seen it several
days ago, for Don, as you will have remarked already, was a very artful
dog.

He got rid of his unwelcome friend in this highly unprincipled manner,
and strolled on to the pier full of expectation. Steamers ply pretty
frequently on this particular lake, so he had not to wait very long. The
little _Cygnet_ soon came hissing up, and the moment the gangway was
placed Don stepped on board, with tail proudly erect.

As usual, he examined the passengers, first to see who had anything to
give, then who looked most likely to give it to him. Generally he did
best with children. He was not fond of children (Daisy was quite an
exception), but he was very fond of cakes, and children, he had
observed, generally had the best cakes. Don was so accomplished a
courtier that he would contrive to make every child believe that he or
she was the only person he loved in the whole world, and he would stay
by his victim until the cake was all gone, and even a little longer,
just for the look of the thing, and then move on to some one else and
begin again.

There were no children with any cakes or buns on board this time,
however. There was a stout man up by the bows, dividing his attention
between scenery and sandwiches; but Don knew by experience that
tourists' sandwiches are always made with mustard, which he hated. There
were three merry-looking, round-faced young ladies on a centre bench,
eating Osborne biscuits. He wished they could have made it
sponge-cakes, because he was rather tired of Osborne biscuits; but they
were better than nothing. So to these young ladies he went, and, placing
himself where he could catch all their eyes at once, he sat up in the
way he had always found irresistible.

I don't suppose any dog ever found his expectations more cruelly
disappointed. It was not merely that they shook their heads, they went
into fits of laughter--they were laughing at him! Don was so deeply
offended that he took himself off at once, and tried an elderly person
who was munching seed-cake; she did not laugh, but she examined him
carefully, and then told him with a frown to go away. He began to think
that Daisy's collar was not a success; he ought to have had a mug, or a
blind man, or both; he did much better when he was left to himself.

Still he persevered, and went about, wagging his tail and sitting up
appealingly. By and by he began to have an uncomfortable idea that
people were saying things about him which were not complimentary. He was
almost sure he heard the word 'greedy,' and he knew what that meant: he
had been taught by Daisy. They must be talking of some other dog--not
him; they couldn't possibly know what he was!

Now Don was undeniably a very intelligent terrier indeed, but there was
just this defect in his education--he could not read: he had no idea
what things could be conveyed by innocent-looking little black marks.
'Of course not,' some of my readers will probably exclaim, 'he was only
a dog!' But it is not so absurd as it sounds, for one very distinguished
man has succeeded in teaching his dogs to read and even to spell, though
I believe they have not got into very advanced books as yet. Still, it
may happen some day that all but hopelessly backward or stupid dogs will
be able to read fluently, and then you may find that your own family dog
has taken this book into his kennel, and firmly declines to give it up
until he has finished it. At present, thank goodness, we have not come
to this, and so there is nothing remarkable in the mere fact that Don
was unable to read. I only mention it because, if he _had_ possessed
this accomplishment, he would never have fallen into the trap Daisy had
prepared for him.

For the new collar was, as you perhaps guessed long ago, a card, and
upon it was written, in Daisy's neatest and plainest round hand:--


     I am a very Greedy little Dog, and have Plenty to eat at Home,
     So please do not give me anything, or I shall have a Fit and die!


You can easily imagine that, when this unlucky Don sat up and begged,
bearing this inscription written legibly on his unconscious little
chest, the effect was likely to be too much for the gravity of all but
very stiff and solemn persons.

Nearly everybody on board the steamer was delighted with him; they
pointed out the joke to one another, and roared with laughter, until he
grew quite ashamed to sit up any more. Some teased him by pretending to
give him something, and then eating it themselves; some seemed almost
sorry for him and petted him; and one, an American, said, 'It was
playing it too low down to make the little critter give himself away in
that style!' But nobody quite liked to disobey Daisy's written appeal.

Poor Don could not understand it in the least; he only saw that every
one was very rude and disrespectful to him, and he tried to get away
under benches. But it was all in vain; people routed him out from his
hiding-places to be introduced to each new comer; he could not go
anywhere without being stared at, and followed, and hemmed in, and
hearing always that same hateful whisper of 'Greedy dog--not to be given
anything,' until he felt exactly as if he was being washed!

Poor disappointed greedy dog, how gladly he would have given the tail
between his legs to be safe at home in the drawing-room with Miss
Millikin and Daisy! How little he had bargained for such a terrible trip
as this!

I am sure that if Daisy had ever imagined he would feel his disgrace so
deeply she would not have had the heart to send him out with that
tell-tale card around his neck; but then he would not have received a
very wholesome lesson, and would certainly have eaten himself into a
serious illness before the summer ended, so perhaps it was all for the
best.

This time Don did _not_ go the whole round of the lake; he had had
quite enough of it long before the _Cygnet_ reached Highwood, but he did
not get a chance until they came to Winderside, and then, watching his
opportunity, he gave his tormentors the slip at last.

       *       *       *       *       *

Two hours later, as Daisy and her aunt sat sketching under the big
holm-oak on the lawn, a dusty little guilty dog stole sneakingly in
under the garden-gate. It was Don, and he had run all the way from
Winderside, which, though he did not appreciate it, had done him a vast
amount of good. 'Oh!' cried Daisy, dropping her paint-brush to clap her
hands gleefully, 'Look, Aunt Sophy, he has had his lesson already!'

Miss Millikin was inclined to be shocked when she read the ticket. 'It
was too bad of you, Daisy!' she said; 'I would never have allowed it if
I had known. Come here, Don, and let me take the horrid thing off.'

'Not yet, please, auntie!' pleaded Daisy, 'I want him to be quite cured,
and it will take at least till bedtime. Then we'll make it up to him.'

But Don had understood at last. It was this detestable thing, then, that
had been telling tales of him and spoiling all his fun! Very well, let
him find himself alone with it--just once! And he went off very soberly
into the shrubbery, whence in a few minutes came sounds of 'worrying.'

In half an hour Don came out again; his collar was gone, and in his
mouth he trailed a long piece of chewed ribbon, which he dropped with
the queerest mixture of penitence and reproach at Daisy's feet. After
that, of course, it was impossible to do anything but take him into
favour at once, and he was generous enough to let Daisy see that he bore
her no malice for the trick she had played him.

What became of the card no one ever discovered; perhaps Don had buried
it, though Daisy has very strong suspicions that he ate it as his best
revenge.

But what is more important is that from that day he became a slim and
reformed dog, refusing firmly to go on board a steamer on any pretence
whatever, and only consenting to sit up after much coaxing, and as a
mark of particular condescension.

So that Daisy's experiment, whatever may be thought of it, was at least
a successful one.




_TAKEN BY SURPRISE_

BEING THE PERSONAL STATEMENT OF BEDELL GRUNCHER, M.A.


There are certain misconceptions which a man who is prominently before
the public is morally bound to combat--more for the sake of others than
his own--as soon as it becomes probable that the popular estimate of his
character may be shaken, if not shattered, should he hold his peace.
Convinced as I am of this, and having some ground to anticipate that the
next few days may witness a damaging blow to my personal dignity and
influence for good, I have thought it expedient to publish the true
history of an episode which, if unexplained, is only too likely to
prejudice me to a serious extent. Any circumstance that tends to
undermine or lessen the world's reverence for its instructors is a
deplorable calamity, to be averted at all hazards, even when this can
only be effected by disclosures scarcely less painful to a delicate
mind.

For some years I, Bedell Gruncher, have consecrated my poor talents to
the guidance and education of public taste in questions of art and
literature. To do this effectively I have laboured--at the cost of some
personal inconvenience--to acquire a critical style of light and playful
badinage. My lash has ever been wreathed in ribbons of rare texture and
daintiest hues; I have thrown cold water in abundance over the nascent
flames of young ambition--but such water was systematically tinctured
with attar of roses. And in time the articles appearing in various
periodicals above the signature of 'Vitriol' became, I may acknowledge
without false modesty, so many literary events of the first magnitude. I
attribute this to my early recognition of the true function of a critic.
It is not for him to set up sign-posts, or even warning-boards, for
those who run and read. To attain true distinction he should erect a
pillory upon his study table, and start the fun himself with a choice
selection of the literary analogues of the superannuated eggs and futile
kittens which served as projectiles in the past. The public may be
trusted to keep it going, and also to retain a grateful recollection of
the original promoter of the sport. My little weekly and monthly
pillories became instantly popular, for all my kittens were well aimed,
and my eggs broke and stuck in a highly entertaining fashion. We are so
constituted that even the worst of us is capable of a kindly feeling
towards the benefactor who makes others imperishably ridiculous in our
eyes; and to do this was my _métier à moi_. At first my identity with
the lively but terrible 'Vitriol' was kept a profound secret, but
gradually, by some means which I do not at present remember, it leaked
out, and I immediately became a social, as well as a literary,
celebrity. Physically I have been endowed with a presence which, though
not of unusual height and somewhat inclined to central expansion,
produces, I find, an invariably imposing effect, especially with members
of the more emotional and impressionable sex. Consequently I was not
surprised even at the really extraordinary sensation I inspired upon my
first introduction to a very charming young lady, Miss Iris Waverley, as
soon as my _nom de guerre_ was (I forget just now by whom) incidentally
alluded to. However, as it turned out, she had another and a deeper
reason for emotion: it seemed she had been engaged to a young poet whose
verses, to her untaught and girlish judgment, seemed inspired by
draughts of the true Helicon, and whose rhythmical raptures had stirred
her maiden heart to its depths.

Well, that young poet's latest volume of verse came under my notice for
review, and in my customary light-hearted fashion I held it up to
general derision for a column or two, and then dismissed it, with an
ineffaceable epigrammatic kick, to spin for ever (approximately) down
the ringing grooves of criticism.

Miss Waverley, it happened, was inclined to correct her own views by the
opinions of others, and was, moreover, exceptionally sensitive to any
association of ridicule with the objects of her attachment--indeed, she
once despatched a dog she fondly loved to the lethal chamber at
Battersea, merely because all the hair had come off the poor animal's
tail! My trenchant sarcasms had depoetised her lover in a similar
fashion; their livid lightning had revealed the baldness, the glaring
absurdity of the very stanzas which once had filled her eyes with
delicious tears; he was dismissed, and soon disappeared altogether from
the circles which I had (in perfect innocence) rendered impossible to
him.

Notwithstanding this, Miss Waverley's first sentiments towards me were
scarcely, oddly enough, of unmixed gratitude. I represented the rod, and
a very commendable feeling of propriety made her unwilling to kiss me on
a first interview, though, as our intimacy advanced--well, there are
subjects on which I claim the privilege of a manly reticence.

I hasten over, then, the intermediate stages of antipathy, fear,
respect, interest, and adoration. In me she recognised an intellect
naturally superior, too indifferent and unambitious to give life to its
own imaginings--too honest, too devoted to humanity, to withhold merited
condemnation from those of others. I was the radiant sun whose scorching
beams melted the wax from the pinions of many a modern Icarus; or, to
put the metaphor less ingeniously, the shining light in which, by an
irresistible impulse of self-destruction, the poetical and artistic
moths flew and incontinently frizzled.

One trait in my character which Iris valued above all others was the
caution with which I habitually avoided all associations of a ridiculous
nature; for it was my pride to preserve a demeanour of unsullied dignity
under circumstances which would have been trying, if not fatal, to an
ordinary person. So we became engaged; and if, pecuniarily speaking, the
advantage of the union inclined to my side, I cannot consider that I was
the party most benefited by the transaction.

It was soon after this happy event that Iris entreated from me, as a
gift, a photograph of myself. I could not help being struck by this
instance of feminine parsimony with regard to small disbursements,
since, for the trifling sum of one shilling, it was perfectly open to
her to procure an admirable presentment of me at almost any stationer's;
for, in obedience to a widely expressed demand, I had already more than
once undergone the ordeal by camera.

But no; she professed to desire a portrait more peculiarly her own--one
that should mark the precise epoch of our mutual happiness--a caprice
which reminded me of the Salvation Army recruit who was photographed, by
desire, 'before and after conversion'; and I demurred a little, until
Iris insisted with such captivating pertinacity that--although my
personal expenses (always slightly in excess of my income) had been
further swelled since my engagement by the innumerable _petits soins_
expected by an absurd custom from every lover--I gave way at length.

It was her desire that my portrait should form a pendant to one of
herself which had been recently taken by a fashionable photographer, and
I promised to see that this wish should be gratified. It is possible
that she expected me to resort to the same artist; but there were
considerations which induced me to avoid this, if I could. To the extent
of a guinea (or even thirty shillings) I could refuse her nothing; but
every one knows what sums are demanded by a photographer who is at all
in vogue. I might, to be sure, as a public character, have sat without
being called upon for any consideration, beyond the right to dispose of
copies of my photograph; but I felt that Iris would be a little hurt if
I took this course, and none of the West-end people whom I consulted in
the matter quite saw their way to such an arrangement just then. There
was a temporary lull, they assured me, in the demand for likenesses of
our leading literary men, and I myself had been photographed within too
recent a period to form any exception to the rule.

So, keeping my promise constantly in mind, I never entered a secluded
neighbourhood without being on the look-out for some unpretending
photographic studio which would combine artistic excellence with
moderate charges.

And at last I discovered this photographic phoenix, whose nest, if I
may so term it, was in a retired suburb which I do not care to
particularise. Upon the street level was a handsome plate-glass window,
in which, against a background of dark purple hangings and potted ferns,
were displayed cartes, cabinets, and groups, in which not even my
trained faculties could detect the least inferiority to the more costly
productions of the West-end, while the list of prices that hung by the
door was conceived in a spirit of exemplary modesty. After a brief
period of hesitation I stepped inside, and, on stating my wish to be
photographed at once, was invited by a very civil youth with a slight
cast in his eye to walk upstairs, which I accordingly did.

I mounted flight after flight of stairs, till I eventually found myself
at the top of the house, in an apartment pervaded by a strong odour of
chemicals, and glazed along the roof and the whole of one side with
panes of a bluish tint. It was empty at the moment of my entrance, but,
after a few minutes, the photographer burst impetuously in--a tall young
man, with long hair and pale eyes, whose appearance denoted a nervous
and high-strung temperament. Perceiving him to be slightly overawed by a
certain unconscious dignity in my bearing, which frequently does produce
that effect upon strangers, I hastened to reassure him by discriminating
eulogies upon the specimens of his art that I had been inspecting
below, and I saw at once that he was readily susceptible to flattery.

'You will find me,' I told him frankly, 'a little more difficult to
satisfy than your ordinary _clientèle_; but, on the other hand, I am
peculiarly capable of appreciating really good work. Now I was struck at
once by the delicacy of tone, the nice discrimination of values, the
atmosphere, gradation, feeling, and surface of the examples displayed in
your window.'

He bowed almost to the ground; but, having taken careful note of his
prices, I felt secure in commending him, even to the verge of
extravagance; and, besides, does not the artistic nature demand the
stimulus of praise to enable it to put forth its full powers?

He inquired in what style I wished to be taken, whether full-length,
half-length, or vignette. 'I will answer you as concisely as possible,'
I said. 'I have been pressed, by one whose least preference is a law to
me, to have a photograph of myself executed which shall form a
counterpart or pendant, as it were, to her own. I have, therefore, taken
the precaution to bring her portrait with me for your guidance. You will
observe it is the work of a firm in my opinion greatly
overrated--Messrs. Lenz, Kamerer, & Co.; and, while you will follow it
in style and the disposition of the accessories, you will, I make no
doubt, produce, if you take ordinary pains, a picture vastly superior in
artistic merit.'

This, as will be perceived, was skilfully designed to put him on his
mettle, and rouse a useful spirit of emulation. He took the portrait of
Iris from my hands and carried it to the light, where he examined it
gravely in silence.

'I presume,' he said at length, 'that I need hardly tell you I cannot
pledge myself to produce a result as pleasing as this--under the
circumstances?'

'That,' I replied, 'rests entirely with you. If you overcome your
natural diffidence, and do yourself full justice, _I_ see no reason why
you should not obtain something even more satisfactory.'

My encouragement almost unmanned him. He turned abruptly away and blew
his nose violently with a coloured silk handkerchief.

'Come, come,' I said, smiling kindly, 'you see I have every confidence
in you--let us begin. I don't know, by the way,' I added, with a sudden
afterthought, 'whether in your leisure moments you take any interest in
contemporary literature?'

'I--I have done so in my time,' he admitted; 'not very lately.'

'Then,' I continued, watching his countenance with secret amusement for
the spasm I find this announcement invariably produces upon persons of
any education, 'it may possibly call up some associations in your mind
if I tell you that I am perhaps better known by my self-conferred
_sobriquet_ of "Vitriol."'

Evidently I had to do with a man of some intelligence--I obtained an
even more electrical effect than usual. '"_Vitriol!_"' he cried, '_not_
surely Vitriol, the great critic?'

'The same,' I said carelessly. 'I thought I had better mention it.'

'You did well,' he rejoined, 'very well! Pardon my emotion--may I wring
that hand?'

It is not my practice to shake hands with a photographer, but I was
touched and gratified by his boyish enthusiasm, and he seemed a
gentlemanly young fellow too, so I made an exception in his favour; and
he did wring my hand--hard.

'So you are Vitriol?' he repeated in a kind of daze, 'and you have
sought me out--_me_, of all people in the world--to have the honour of
taking your photograph!'

'That is so,' I said, 'but pardon me if I warn you that you must not
allow your head to be turned by what is, in truth, due to the merest
accident.'

'But what an accident!' he cried; 'after what I have learnt I really
could not think of making any charge for this privilege!'

That was a creditable and not unnatural impulse, and I did not check it.
'You shall take me as often as you please,' I said, 'and for nothing.'

'And may I,' he said, a little timidly--'would you give me permission to
exhibit the results?'

'If I followed my own inclinations,' I replied, 'I should answer
"certainly not." But perhaps I have no right to deprive you of the
advertisement, and still less to withhold my unworthy features from
public comment. I may, for private reasons,' I added, thinking of Iris,
'find it advisable to make some show of displeasure, but you need not
fear my taking any proceedings to restrain you.'

'We struggling photographers must be so careful,' he sighed. 'Suppose
the case of your lamented demise--it would be a protection if I had some
written authority under your hand to show your legal representatives.'

'_Actio personalis moritur cum personâ_,' I replied; 'if my executors
brought an action, they would find themselves non-suited.' (I had
studied for the Bar at one period of my life.)

'Quite so,' he said, 'but they might drag me into court, nevertheless. I
should really prefer to be on the safe side.'

It did not seem unreasonable, particularly as I had not the remotest
intention either of bringing an action or dying; so I wrote him a hasty
memorandum to the effect that, in consideration of his photographing me
free of charge (I took care to put _that_ in), I undertook to hold him
free from all molestation or hindrance whatever in respect of the sale
and circulation of all copies resulting from such photographing as
aforesaid.

'Will that do?' I said as I handed it to him.

His eyes gleamed as he took the document. 'It is just what I wanted,'
he said gratefully; 'and now, if you will excuse me, I will go and bring
in a few accessories, and then we will get to work.'

He withdrew in a state of positive exultation, leaving me to
congratulate myself upon the happy chance which had led me to his door.
One does not discover a true artist every day, capable of approaching
his task in a proper spirit of reverence and enthusiasm; and I had
hardly expected, after my previous failures, to be spared all personal
outlay. My sole regret, indeed, was that I had not stipulated for a
share in the profits arising from the sale--which would be doubtless a
large one; but meanness is not one of my vices, and I decided not to
press this point.

Presently he returned with something which bulged inside his velvet
jacket, and a heap of things which he threw down in a corner behind a
screen.

'A few little properties,' he said; 'we may be able to introduce them
by-and-by.'

Then he went to the door and, with a rapid action, turned the key and
placed it in his pocket.

'You will hardly believe,' he explained, 'how nervous I am on occasions
of importance like this; the bare possibility of interruption would
render me quite incapable of doing myself justice.'

I had never met any photographer quite so sensitive as that before, and
I began to be uneasy about his success; but I know what the artistic
temperament is, and, as he said, this was not like an ordinary
occasion.

'Before I proceed to business,' he said, in a voice that positively
trembled, 'I must tell you what an exceptional claim you have to my
undying gratitude. Amongst the many productions which you have visited
with your salutary satire you may possibly recall a little volume of
poems entitled "Pants of Passion"?'

I shook my head good-humouredly. 'My good friend,' I told him, 'if I
burdened my memory with all the stuff I have to pronounce sentence upon,
do you suppose my brain would be what it is?'

He looked crestfallen. 'No,' he said slowly, 'I ought to have known--you
would not remember, of course. But _I_ do. I brought out those Pants.
Your mordant pen tore them to tatters. You convinced me that I had
mistaken my career, and, thanks to your monitions, I ceased to practise
as a Poet, and became the Photographer you now behold!'

'And I have known poets,' I said encouragingly, 'who have ended far less
creditably. For even an indifferent photographer is in closer harmony
with nature than a mediocre poet.'

'And I _was_ mediocre, wasn't I?' he inquired humbly.

'So far as I recollect,' I replied (for I did begin to remember him
now), 'to attribute mediocrity to you would have been beyond the
audacity of the grossest sycophant.'

'Thank you,' he said; 'you little know how you encourage me in my
present undertaking--for you will admit that I can _photograph_?'

'That,' I replied, 'is intelligible enough, photography being a pursuit
demanding less mental ability in its votaries than that of metrical
composition, however halting.'

'There is something very soothing about your conversation,' he remarked;
'it heals my self-love--which really was wounded by the things you
wrote.'

'Pooh, pooh!' I said indulgently, 'we must all of us go through that in
our time--at least all of _you_ must go through it.'

'Yes,' he admitted sadly, 'but it ain't pleasant, is it?'

'Of that I have never been in a position to judge,' said I; 'but you
must remember that your sufferings, though doubtless painful to
yourself, are the cause, under capable treatment, of infinite pleasure
and amusement to others. Try to look at the thing without egotism. Shall
I seat myself on that chair I see over there?'

He was eyeing me in a curious manner. 'Allow me,' he said; 'I always
pose my sitters myself.' With that he seized me by the neck and
elsewhere without the slightest warning, and, carrying me to the further
end of the studio, flung me carelessly, face downwards, over the
cane-bottomed chair to which I had referred. He was a strong athletic
young man, in spite of his long hair--or might that have been, as in
Samson's case, a contributory cause? I was like an infant in his hands,
and lay across the chair, in an exceedingly uncomfortable position,
gasping for breath.

'Try to keep as limp as you can, please,' he said, 'the mouth wide open,
as you have it now, the legs careless--in fact, trailing. Beautiful!
don't move.'

And he went to the camera. I succeeded in partly twisting my head round.
'Are you _mad_?' I cried indignantly; 'do you really suppose I shall
consent to go down to posterity in such a position as this?'

I heard a click, and, to my unspeakable horror, saw that he was
deliberately covering me from behind the camera with a revolver--_that_
was what I had seen bulging inside his pocket.

'I should be sorry to slay any sitter in cold blood,' he said, 'but I
must tell you solemnly, that unless you instantly resume your original
pose--which was charming--you are a dead man!'

Not till then did I realise the awful truth--I was locked up alone, at
the top of a house, in a quiet neighbourhood, with a mad photographer!
Summoning to my aid all my presence of mind, I resumed the original pose
for the space of forty-five hours--they were seconds really, but they
_seemed_ hours; it was not needful for him to exhort me to be limp
again--I was limper than the dampest towel!

'Thank you very much,' he said gravely as he covered the lens; 'I think
that will come out very well indeed. You may move now.'

I rose, puffing, but perfectly collected. 'Ha-ha,' I laughed in a sickly
manner (for I _felt_ sick), 'I--I perceive, sir, that you are a
humorist.'

'Since I have abandoned poetry,' he said as he carefully removed the
negative to a dark place, 'I have developed a considerable sense of
quiet humour. You will find a large Gainsborough hat in that
corner--might I trouble you to put it on for the next sitting?'

'Never!' I cried, thoroughly revolted. 'Surely, with your rare artistic
perception, you must be aware that such a headdress as that (which is no
longer worn even by females) is out of all keeping with my physiognomy.
I will _not_ sit for my photograph in such a preposterous thing!'

'I shall count ten very slowly,' he replied pensively, 'and if by the
time I have finished you are not seated on the back of that chair, your
feet crossed so as to overlap, your right thumb in the corner of your
mouth, a pleasant smile on your countenance, _and_ the Gainsborough hat
on your head, you will need no more hats on this sorrowful earth.
One--two----'

I was perched on that chair in the prescribed attitude long before he
had got to seven! How can I describe what it cost me to smile, as I sat
there under the dry blue light, the perspiration rolling in beads down
my cheeks, exposed to the gleaming muzzle of the revolver, and the
steady Gorgon glare of that infernal camera?

'That will be extremely popular,' he said, lowering the weapon as he
concluded. 'Your smile, perhaps, was a _little_ too broad, but the pose
was very fresh and unstudied.'

I have always read of the controlling power of the human eye upon wild
beasts and dangerous maniacs, and I fixed mine firmly upon him now as I
said sternly, 'Let me out at once--I wish to go.'

Perhaps I did not fix them quite long enough; perhaps the power of the
human eye has been exaggerated: I only know that for all the effect mine
had on him they might have been oysters.

'Not yet,' he said persuasively, 'not when we're getting on so nicely. I
may never be able to take you under such favourable conditions again.'

That, I thought, I could undertake to answer for; but who, alas! could
say whether I should ever leave that studio alive? For all I knew, he
might spend the whole day in photographing me, and then, with a madman's
caprice, shoot me as soon as it became too dark to go on any longer! The
proper course to take, I knew, was to humour him, to keep him in a good
temper, fool him to the top of his bent--it was my only chance.

'Well,' I said, 'perhaps you're right. I--I'm in no great hurry. Were
you thinking of taking me in some different style? I am quite at your
disposition.'

He brought out a small but stout property-mast, and arranged it against
a canvas background of coast scenery. 'I generally use it for children
in sailor costume,' he said, 'but I _think_ it will bear your weight
long enough for the purpose.'

I wiped my brow. 'You are not going to ask me to climb that thing?' I
faltered.

'Well,' he suggested, 'if you will just arrange yourself upon the
cross-trees in a negligent attitude, upside down, with your tongue
protruded as if for medical inspection, I shall be perfectly satisfied.'

I tried argument. 'I should have no objection in the world,' I said;
'it's an excellent idea--only, _do_ sailors ever climb masts in that
way? Wouldn't it be better to have the thing correct while we're about
it?'

'I was not aware that you were a sailor,' he said; '_are_ you?'

I was afraid to say I was, because I apprehended that, if I did, it
might occur to him to put me through some still more frightful
performance.

'Come,' he said, 'you won't compel me to shed blood so early in the
afternoon, will you? Up with you.'

I got up, but, as I hung there, I tried to obtain a modification of
some of the details. 'I don't think,' I said artfully, 'that I'll put
out my tongue--it's rather overdone, eh? _Everybody_ is taken with his
tongue out nowadays.'

'It is true,' he said, 'but I am not well enough known in the profession
yet to depart entirely from the conventional. Your tongue out as far as
it will go, please.'

'I shall have a rush of blood to the head, I know I shall,' I protested.

'Look here,' he said; 'am I taking this photograph, or are you?'

There was no possible doubt, unfortunately, as to who was taking the
photograph. I made one last remonstrance. 'I put it to you as a sensible
man,' I began; but it is a waste of time to put anything to a raving
lunatic as a sensible man. It is enough to say that he carried his
point.

'I wish you could see the negative!' he said as he came back from his
laboratory. 'You were a little red in the face, but it will come out
black, so it's all right. That carte will be quite a novelty, I flatter
myself.'

I groaned. However, this was the end; I would get away now at all
hazards, and tell the police that there was a dangerous maniac at large.
I got down from the mast with affected briskness. 'Well,' I said, 'I
mustn't take advantage of your good nature any longer. I'm exceedingly
obliged to you for the--the pains you have taken. You will send _all_
the photographs to this address, please?'

'Don't go yet,' he said. 'Are you an equestrian, by the way?'

If I could only engage him in conversation I felt comparatively secure.

'Oh, I put in an appearance in the Row sometimes, in the season,' I
replied; 'and, while I think of it,' I added, with what I thought at the
time was an inspiration, 'if you will come with me now, I'll show you my
horse--you might take me on horseback, eh?' I did not possess any such
animal, but I wanted to have that door unlocked.

'Take you on horseback?' he repeated. 'That's a good idea--I had rather
thought of that myself.'

'Then come along and bring your instrument,' I said, 'and you can take
me at the stables; they're close by.'

'No need for that,' he replied cheerfully. 'I'll find you a mount here.'

And the wretched lunatic went behind the screen and wheeled out a small
wooden quadruped covered with large round spots!

'She's a strawberry roan,' he said; 'observe the strawberries. So, my
beauty, quiet, then! Now settle yourself easily in the saddle, as if you
were in the Row, with your face to the tail.'

'Listen to me for one moment,' I entreated tremulously. 'I assure you
that I am not in the habit of appearing in Rotten Row on a spotted
wooden horse, nor does any one, I assure you--_any_ one mount a horse of
any description with his face towards the crupper! If you take me like
that, you will betray your ignorance--you will be laughed at!'

When people tell you it is possible to hoodwink the insane by any
specious show of argument, don't believe them; my own experience is that
demented persons can be quite perversely logical when it suits their
purpose.

'Pardon me,' he said, '_you_ will be laughed at possibly--not I. I
cannot be held responsible for the caprices of my clients. Mount,
please; she'll carry you perfectly.'

'I will,' I said, 'if you'll give me the revolver to hold. I--I should
like to be done with a revolver.'

'I shall be delighted to do you with a revolver,' he said grimly, 'but
not yet; and if I lent you the weapon now, I could not answer for your
being able to hold the horse as well--she has never been broken in to
firearms. _I'll_ hold the revolver. One--two--three.'

I mounted; why had I not disregarded the expense and gone to Lenz and
Kamerer? Lenz does not pose his customers by the aid of a revolver.
Kamerer, I was sure, would not put his patrons through these degrading
tomfooleries.

He took more trouble over this than any of the others; I was
photographed from the back, in front, and in profile; and if I escaped
being made to appear abjectly ridiculous, it can only be owing to the
tragic earnestness which the consciousness of my awful situation lent to
my expression.

As he took the last I rolled off the horse, completely prostrated. 'I
think,' I gasped faintly, 'I would rather be shot at once--_without_
waiting to be taken in any other positions. I really am not equal to any
more of this!' (He was quite capable, I felt, of photographing me in a
perambulator, if it once occurred to him!)

'Compose yourself,' he said soothingly, 'I have obtained all I wanted. I
shall not detain you much longer. Your life, I may remark, was never in
any imminent danger, as this revolver is unloaded. I have now only to
thank you for the readiness with which you have afforded me your
co-operation, and to assure you that early copies of each of the
photographs shall be forwarded for Miss Waverley's inspection.'

'Miss Waverley!' I exclaimed; 'stay, how do _you_ know that name?'

'If I mistake not, it was her photograph that you kindly brought for my
guidance. I ought to have mentioned, perhaps, that I once had the honour
of being engaged to her--until you (no doubt from the highest motives)
invested my little gift of song with a flavour of unromantic ridicule.
That ridicule I am now enabled to repay, with interest calculated up to
the present date.'

'So you are Iris's poet!' I burst out, for, somehow, I had not
completely identified him till that moment. 'You scoundrel! do you think
I shall allow you to circulate those atrocious caricatures with
impunity? No, by heavens! my solicitor shall----'

'I rely upon the document you were kind enough to furnish,' he said
quietly. 'I fear that any legal proceedings you may resort to will
hardly avert the publicity you seem to fear. Allow me to unfasten the
door. Good-bye; mind the step on the first landing. Might I beg you to
recommend me amongst your friends?'

I went out without another word; he was mad, of course, or he would not
have devised so outrageous a revenge for a fancied injury, but he was
cunning enough to be my match. I knew too well that if I took any legal
measures, he would contrive to shift the whole burden of lunacy upon
_me_. I dared not court an inquiry for many reasons, and so I was
compelled to pass over this unparalleled outrage in silence.

Iris made frequent inquiries after the promised photograph, and I had to
parry them as well as I could--which was a mistake in judgment on my
part, for one afternoon while I was actually sitting with her, a packet
arrived addressed to Miss Waverley.

I did not suspect what it might contain until it was too late. She
recognised that photographs were inside the wrappings, which she tore
open with a cry of rapture--and then!

She had a short fainting fit when she saw the Gainsborough hat, and as
soon as she revived, the extraordinary appearance I presented upside
down on the mast sent her into violent hysterics. By the time she was in
a condition to look at the equestrian portraits she had grown cold and
hard as marble. 'Go,' she said, indicating the door, 'I see I have been
wasting my affection upon a vulgar and heartless buffoon!'

I went--for she would listen to no explanations; and indeed I doubt
whether, even were she to come upon this statement, it would serve to
restore my tarnished ideal in her estimation. But, though I have lost
her, I am naturally anxious (as I said when I began) that the public
should not be misled into drawing harsh conclusions from what, if left
unexplained, may doubtless have a singular appearance.

It is true that, up to the present, I have not been able to learn that
any of those fatal portraits have absolutely been exposed for sale,
though I direct my trembling steps almost every day to Regent Street,
and search the windows of the Stereoscopic Company with furtive and
foreboding eyes, dreading to be confronted with presentments of
myself--Bedell Gruncher, 'Vitriol,' the great critic!--lying across a
chair in a state of collapse, sucking my thumb in a Gainsborough hat,
or bestriding a ridiculous wooden horse with my face towards its tail!

But they cannot be long in coming out now; and my one hope is that these
lines may appear in print in time to forestall the prejudice and scandal
which are otherwise inevitable. At all events, now that the world is in
possession of the real facts, I am entitled to hope that the treatment
to which I have been subjected will excite the indignation and sympathy
it deserves.




_PALEFACE AND REDSKIN_

A COMEDY-STORY FOR GIRLS AND BOYS




ACT THE FIRST

WHERE IS THE ENEMY?


It was a very hot afternoon, and Hazel, Hilary, and Cecily Jolliffe were
sitting under the big cedar on the lawn at The Gables. Each had her
racket by her side, and the tennis-court lay, smooth and inviting, close
by; but they did not seem inclined to play just then, and there was
something in the expression of all three which indicated a common
grievance.

'Well,' said Hazel, the eldest, who was nearly fourteen, 'we need not
have excited ourselves about the boys' holidays, if we had only known.
They don't give us much of their society--why, we haven't had one single
game of cricket together yet!'

'And then to have the impudence to tell us that they didn't care much
about _our_ sort of cricket!' said Hilary, 'when I can throw up every
bit as far as Jack, and it takes Guy three overs to bowl me! It's
beastly cheek of them.'

'_Hilary!_' cried Cecily, 'what would mother say if she heard you talk
like that?'

'Oh, it's the holidays!' said Hilary, lazily. 'Besides, it is a shame!
They would have played with us just as they used to, if it hadn't been
for that Clarence Tinling.'

'Yes,' Hazel agreed, 'he hates cricket. I do believe that's the reason
why he invented this silly army, and talked Jack and Guy into giving up
everything for it.'

'They haven't any will of their own, poor things!' said Hilary.

'You forget, Hilary,' put in Cecily, 'Tinling is the guest. They ought
to give way to him.'

'Well,' said Hilary, 'it's ridiculous for great boys who have been two
terms at school to go marching about with swords and guns. Big babies!'

Perhaps there was a little personal feeling at the bottom of this, for
she had offered herself for enlistment, and had been sternly rejected on
the ground of her sex.

'I wish he would go, I know that,' said Hazel, making a rather vicious
little chop at her shoe with her racket; 'those boys talk about nothing
but their stupid army from morning to night. Uncle Lambert says they
make him feel quite gunpowdery at lunch. And what do you think is the
last thing they've done?--put up a great fence all round their tent, and
shut themselves up there all day!'

'Except when they're sentries and hide,' put in Hilary; 'they're always
jumping up somewhere and wanting you to give the countersign. It isn't
like home, these holidays!'

'Perhaps,' suggested Cecily, 'it makes things safer, you know.'

'Duffer, Cis!' cried Hilary, contemptuously, for Cecily had appointed
herself professional peacemaker to the family, and her efforts were
about as successful as such domestic offices ever are.

'Look out!' cried Hilary, presently; 'they're coming. Don't let's take
the least notice of them. They hate that more than anything.'

From the shrubbery filed three boys, the first and tallest of whom wore
an imposing dragoon's helmet with a crimson plume, and carried a
sabretache and crossbelts, and wore red caps like those of the French
army; they carried guns on their shoulders.

'Halt! 'Tention! Dis-miss!' shouted the commanding officer, and the army
broke off with admirable precision.

'Don't be alarmed,' said the General considerately to the three girls;
'the army is only out on fatigue duty.'

'Then wouldn't the army like to sit down?' suggested Hilary, forgetting
all about her recent proposal.

'Ah, you don't understand,' said General Tinling with some pity. 'It's
a military term.'

He was a pale, puffy boy, with reddish hair and freckles, who was
evidently fully alive to the dignity of his position.

'Suppose we let military things alone for a little while,' said Hazel.
'We want the army to come and play tennis. You will, won't you, Jack and
Guy? and Cis will umpire--she likes it.'

'I don't mind a game,' said Jack.

'I'll play, if you like,' added Guy; but he had forgotten that the
General was a bit of a martinet.

'That's nice discipline,' he said. 'I don't know whether you know it;
but in some armies you'd be court-martialled for less than that.'

'Well, may we, then?' asked Guy a little impatiently.

'No salute now!' cried his superior. 'I shall never make you fellows
smart. Why, at the Haversacks, last Easter, there were half a dozen of
us, and we drilled like machines. Of course you mayn't play tennis--this
is only a bivouac; and it's over now. Attention! The left wing of the
force will occupy the shrubbery; the right will push on and blow up the
gate.

'Which of us is the left wing?' inquired Guy.

'You are, of course.'

'Oh, all right; only you said Jack was just now,' grumbled Guy, who was
evidently a little disposed to rebel at being deprived of his tennis.

'Look here,' said the General; 'either let's do the thing thoroughly, or
not do it at all. It's no pleasure to _me_ to be General, I can tell
you; and if I can't have perfect discipline in the ranks--why, we might
as well drop the army altogether!'

'Oh, all right,' said Jack, who was a sweet-tempered boy, 'we won't do
it again.'

And they went off to carry out their separate instructions, Clarence
Tinling remaining by the cedar.

'I have to be a little sharp now and then,' he explained. 'Why, if I
didn't keep an iron rule over them, they'd be getting insubordinate in
no time. You mustn't think I've any objection to their playing tennis,
or anything of that sort; only discipline must be kept up; though it
seems severe, perhaps, to you.'

'It doesn't seem to be half bad fun for _you_, at all events,' said
Hazel.

'Of course,' added Hilary, whose cheeks were flushed and eyes
suspiciously bright as she plucked all the blades of grass that were
within her reach, 'we're glad if you're enjoying being here; but it's a
little slow for us girls. You might give the army a half-holiday now and
then.'

'An army, especially a small army, like ours,' said Clarence, grandly,
'ought to be constantly prepared for action; else it's no use. Then,
look at the protection it is. Why, we've just built a fortified place
close to the kitchen garden, where you could all retire to if we were
attacked; and, properly provisioned, we could hold out for almost any
time.'

'Thank you,' said Hilary. 'I should feel a good deal safer in the
box-room. And then, who's going to attack us?'

'Well, you never know,' replied Clarence; 'but, if they did come, it's
something to feel we should be able to defend ourselves.'

'Yes, Hilary,' Cecily remarked, 'an army would certainly be a great
convenience then.'

'That would depend on what it did,' said her sister. 'It wouldn't be
much of a convenience if it ran away.'

'I don't think Jack and Guy would ever do that,' observed Hazel.

'I suppose that means that you think I should?' inquired Clarence, who
was quick at discovering personal allusions.

'I wasn't thinking about you at all,' said Hazel, with supreme
indifference; 'we don't know you well enough to say whether you're brave
or not--we do know our brothers.'

'There wouldn't be much sense in my being the General if I wasn't the
bravest, would there?' he demanded.

'Well, as to that, you see,' retorted Hilary, 'we don't see much sense
in any of it.'

'Girls can't be expected to see sense in anything,' he said sulkily.

'At all events, no one can be expected to see bravery till there's some
danger,' said Hazel; 'and there isn't the least!'

'That's all you know about it; but I've something more important to do
than stay here squabbling. I'm off to see what the army's up to.' And he
marched off with great pomp.

When he had disappeared, Hilary remarked frankly, 'Isn't he a pig?'

'I don't think it's nice to call our visitors "pigs," Hilary!'
remonstrated Cecily, 'and he's not really more greedy than most boys.'

'Don't lecture, Cis. I didn't mean he was that kind of pig--I said he
was a pig. And he is!' said Hilary, not over lucidly. 'I wonder what
Jack and Guy can see in him. I thought that when they wrote asking him
to be invited, that he'd be sure to be such a jolly boy!'

'He may be a jolly boy--at school,' was all that even the tolerant
Cecily could find to urge in his favour.

'I believe,' said Hazel, 'that they're not nearly so mad about him as
they were--didn't you notice about the tennis just now?'

'He bullies them--that's what it is,' explained Hilary; 'only with
talking, I mean, of course, but he talks such a lot, and he will have
his own way, and, if they say anything, he reminds them he's a visitor,
and ought to be humoured. I wish it was any use getting Uncle Lambert to
speak to him--but he's so stupid!'

'Is he, though?' said a lazy voice from behind the cedar.

'Oh, Uncle Lambkin!' cried Hilary, 'I didn't know you were there!'

'Don't apologise,' was the answer. 'I know it must be a trial to have an
uncle on the verge of imbecility--but bear with me. I am at least
harmless.'

'Of course we know you're really rather clever,' said Hazel, 'but you
_are_ stupid about some things--you never interfere, whatever people
do!'

'Don't I, really?' said their uncle, as he disposed himself on his back,
and tilted his hat over his nose; 'you do surprise me! What a mistake
for a man to make, who has come down for perfect quiet! Whom shall I
begin to interfere with?'

'Well, you might snub that horrid Tinling boy, instead of encouraging
him, as you always do!'

'Encourage him! He's got a fine flow of martial enthusiasm, and a good
supply of military terms, and I listen when he gives me long accounts of
thrilling engagements, when he came out uncommonly strong--and the
enemy, so far as I can gather, never came out at all. I'm passive,
because I can't help myself; and then he amuses me in his way--that's
all.'

'Do you believe he's brave, uncle?'

'I only know that I saw him kill two wasps with his teaspoon,' was the
reply. 'They don't award the Victoria Cross for it--but it's a thing I
couldn't have done myself.'

'I should hope not!' exclaimed Hilary; 'but everybody knows you're a
coward,' she added (she did not intend this remark to be taken
seriously), 'and you're awfully lazy. Still, there are some things you
might do!'

'If that means fielding long-leg till tea-time, I respectfully disagree.
Irreverent girls, have you never been taught that a digesting uncle is a
very solemn and sacred thing?'

'Now you are going to be idiotic again! But as to cricket--why, you must
know that we never get a game now! And next summer I shall be too old to
play!'

'I _never_ mean to be too old for cricket,' said Hilary, with
conviction; 'but we've had none for weeks, uncle, positive weeks!'

'Quite right, too!' observed Uncle Lambert, sleepily. 'Not a game for
girls--only spoil your hands--do you think I want a set of nieces with
paws like so many glovers' signs?'

'That's utter nonsense,' said Hazel, calmly, 'because we always play in
gloves. Mother makes us. At least, when we did play. Now the boys will
only play soldiers, and, if they do happen to be inclined for a set at
tennis, Clarence comes up and orders them off as pickets or outposts, or
something!'

'But he's not Bismarck or Boulanger, is he? I always understood this was
a free country.'

'You know what Guy and Jack are--they can't bear their visitor to think
he isn't welcome.'

'Well, they seem to have made him feel very much at home--but it isn't
my business; if they choose to declare the house in a state of siege,
and turn the garden into a seat of war, I can't help it--I'd rather they
wouldn't, but it's your mother's affair, not mine!'

And he closed the discussion by lighting a cigarette, and relapsing into
a contented silence.

Uncle Lambert was short and stout, with a round red face, a heavy auburn
moustache, and little green eyes which never seemed to notice anything.
His nieces were fond of him, though they often wished he would pay them
the occasional compliment of talking sensibly; but he never did, and he
spent all his time at The Gables in elaborately doing nothing at all.

Clarence Tinling had gone off in a decided huff--so much so indeed that
he left his devoted army to carry out their rather misty manoeuvres
without any help from him. He was beginning to find a falling-off in
their docility of late, which was no doubt owing to their sisters; it
was excessively annoying to him that those girls should be so difficult
to convince of the protective value of a fortress, and especially that
they should decline to take his own superior nerve and courage for
granted. And the worst of it was, nothing but some imminent danger was
ever likely to convince them, such were their prejudice and
narrow-mindedness.

Later that afternoon the family assembled for tea in the cool, shady
dining-room; Mrs. Jolliffe, with a gentle anxiety on her usually placid
face, sat at the head (Colonel Jolliffe was away shooting in the North
just then). 'Where are all the boys?' she said, looking round the table.
'Why don't they come in?'

'It's no use asking us, mother,' said Hilary, 'we see so very little of
them ever.'

'Very likely they are washing their hands,' said her mother.

'So _like_ them!' murmured Uncle Lambert in confidence to his tea-cake.
'But here's the noble General, at all events. Well, Field Marshal, what
have you done with the Standing Army?'

Tinling addressed himself to his hostess. 'Oh, Mrs. Jolliffe, I'm so
sorry I was late, but I had just to run round to the stables for a
minute. Oh, the other two? They're on duty--they're guarding the camp.
In fact, I can't stay here very long myself.'

'But the poor dear boys must have their tea!' cried Mrs. Jolliffe.

'Well, you know,' said their veteran officer, as he helped himself to
the marmalade, 'I don't think a little roughing it is at all a bad
thing for them--teaches them that a soldier's life is not all jam.'

'No,' said Hazel, 'the General seems to get most of that.'

All Clarence said was: 'I'll trouble one of you girls for the tea-cake.'

'I don't think it's fair that the poor army should "rough," as you call
it, while you stuff, Clarence,' said Hazel, indignantly. 'Mustn't they
come in to tea, mother? It is such nonsense!'

'Yes, dear, run and call them in,' said Mrs. Jolliffe. 'I can't let my
boys go without their meals, Clarence, it's so bad for them.'

'It's not discipline,' said the chief; 'still, if they must come, you
had better take them this permit from me.' And he scribbled a line on a
scrap of paper, which he handed to Hazel, who received it with the
utmost disdain.

Hazel crossed the lawn and over a little rustic bridge to the kitchen
garden and hothouses, beyond which was the paddock, where the fortress
had been erected. It was a very imposing construction, built, with some
help from the village carpenter, of portions of some disused fencing.
The stockade had loopholes in it, and above the top she could see a
fluttering flag and the point of a tent. Jack was perched up on a kind
of look-out, and Guy was pacing solemnly before the covered entrance
with a musket of very mild aspect over his shoulder.

'Who goes there?' he called out, some time after recognising her.

Hazel vouchsafed no direct reply to this challenge. 'You're to come in
to tea _directly_,' she announced in her most peremptory tone.

'Advance, and give the countersign,' said the sentinel.

'Don't be a donkey!' returned Hazel, tossing back her long brown hair
impatiently.

Guy levelled his firearm. It is exasperating when a sister can't enter
into the spirit of the thing better than that. Who ever heard of a
sentry being told, on challenging, 'not to be a donkey'? 'My orders are
to fire on all suspicious persons,' he informed her.

Hazel stopped both her ears. 'No, Guy, please--it makes me jump so.'

'There's no cap on,' said he.

'Then there's a ramrod, or a pea, or something horrid,' she objected;
'do turn it the other way.'

'Hazel's all right, Guy,' said Jack, in rebuke of this excessive zeal;
'we can let her pass.'

'As if I wanted to pass!' exclaimed Hazel. 'I only came to bring you
back to tea; and if you're afraid to go without leave, there's a
permission from Clarence for you.'

'Oh! come in and have a look now you're here,' said the garrison more
hospitably. 'You can't think how jolly the inside is.'

'Well, if I must,' she said; though, as a matter of fact, she was
exceedingly curious to see the interior of the stronghold.

'It's like the ones in "Masterman Ready" and "Treasure Island," you
see,' explained Jack, proudly. 'And it's pierced for musketry, too; we
could open a withering fire on besiegers before they could come near
us.'

'They would have to be rather stupid to want to besiege this, wouldn't
they?' said Hazel.

'I don't see that--besiegers must besiege something. And it is snug,
isn't it, now?'

Hazel was secretly much impressed. In the centre of the enclosure was
the commander's tent, with a lantern fixed at the pole for night
watches; and rugs and carpets were strewn about; at one of the angles of
the palisading was the look-out--an elaborate erection of old wine-cases
and egg-boxes--on the top of which was fixed a seven-and-sixpenny
telescope that commanded the surrounding country for quite a hundred
yards.

She was not the person, however, to go into raptures; she merely smiled
a rather teasing little smile, and said, 'Mar-vellous!' but somehow,
whatever sarcasm underlay this was accepted by both boys as a tribute.

'You can see now,' said Guy, in a reasonable tone, 'that there wouldn't
have been room here for all you girls--now, would there?'

'Girls are always in the way--everywhere,' said Hazel, with a
reproachful inflection which was quite lost upon her brothers.

'I knew you'd be sensible about it,' said Jack; 'you can't think what
fun we have in here--especially at night, when the lantern's lit. Hallo!
there's some one calling.'

A shrill whistle sounded from the kitchen garden, and, a moment after, a
stone came flying over the stockade, and was stopped by the canvas of
the tent.

'That's cool cheek!' said Jack; 'get up and reconnoitre, Guy--quick!'

Guy mounted the scaffold, and brought the telescope to bear upon the
immediate neighbourhood with admirable coolness and science--but no
particular result.

'We shall have to scour the bush and see if we can find any traces of
the enemy,' said he with infinite relish.

'Was that the stone?' said Hazel, pointing to one that lay at the foot
of the fence; 'because there seems to be some paper wrapped round it.'

'So there is!' said Jack, proceeding to unfold it. Presently he
exclaimed, 'I _say_!'

'What is it now?' asked Hazel.

'Nothing for you--it's private!' said Jack, mysteriously. 'Here, Guy,
come down and look at this.'

Guy read it and whistled. 'We must report this to the General at once,'
he said gravely.

Both boys were very solemn, and yet had a certain novel air of satisfied
importance.

'Shall we tell her?' asked Guy.

'She must know it some time,' returned Jack; 'we'll break it by
degrees.--We've just had notice that we're going to be attacked by Red
Indians, Hazel; don't be alarmed.'

'I'll try not to be,' she said, conquering a very strong inclination to
laugh. She saw that they took it quite seriously; and, though she had at
once suspected that some one in the village was playing them a trick,
she did not choose to enlighten them. Hazel had a malicious desire to
see what the General would do. 'I don't believe he will like the idea at
all,' she said to herself. 'What fun it will be!'

Hazel's expectations seemed about to be fulfilled; for already she could
hear steps on the plank of the little bridge, and in another minute the
General himself entered the fortress.

'I say, you fellows,' he began, 'this is too bad--no one on guard, and a
girl inside! Why, she might be a spy for anything you could tell!'

'Thank you, Clarence!' said Hazel; for this insinuation was rather
trying to a person of her dignity.

'I say, General,' began Jack, 'never mind about rowing us now; we've
some queer news to report. This has just fallen into our hands.'

Hazel watched Tinling closely as he read the paper. It was grimy, and
printed in lead pencil, and contained these words:--'BE ON THE LUKOUT.
RED INGIANS ON THE WORPATH. I HERD THEM SAYING THEY MENT TO ATACK YURE
FORT AT NITEFAL. FROM A FREND.'

She was soon compelled to own that she had done him a great injustice.
He was certainly as far as possible from betraying the slightest fear;
on the contrary, his eye seemed actually to brighten with satisfaction.
He behaved exactly as all heroes in books of adventure do on such
occasions--he went through it twice carefully, and then inquired at what
time the warning had arrived.

'About five minutes ago. Round a stone,' answered Guy, with true
military conciseness.

'This will be a bad business,' observed the General, his face
brightening with the joy of battle. 'We have no time to spare--we must
give these demons a lesson they will not forget!' (this was out of the
books). 'Look to your arms, my men, and see that we are provisioned for
a siege (you might get the cook to give us some of that shortbread, and
the rest of the cake we had at tea, Private Jack). We cannot tell to
what straits we may be reduced.'

'Then,' inquired Hazel, demurely, 'you mean to stay here and fight
them?'

'To the last gasp!' said the General.

Hazel liked him better then than she had done since his first arrival.

'He really is a plucky boy after all,' she thought. 'I wonder if it will
last?'




ACT THE SECOND

WHERE IS THE ARMY?


The General's self-possession and resource were indeed remarkable.

'We ought to have a cannon,' he said; 'there's a big roll of matting
somewhere in the house. If we got that, and widened a loophole, and
shoved it through, it would look just like the muzzle of a cannon in the
dark.'

'Would that frighten a Red Indian much?' asked Hazel.

'Not if he knew what it was, perhaps; but who's going to tell him? Jack,
just run up to the house, like a good fellow, and see if you can find
it, will you? You can go with him, Guy.'

'You seem rather to like the idea of being attacked,' said Hazel, when
she and Clarence were alone together. He was gratified to notice the new
friendliness in her voice.

'Well, you see,' he explained loftily, 'I don't suppose I'm pluckier
than most people, but it just happens that I'm not afraid of Red
Indians, that's all; when I saw all those at Buffalo Bill's I wasn't
even excited: it's constitutional, I fancy.' He always modelled his talk
a good deal upon books, and a crisis like this naturally brought out his
largest language.

'I'd better see you safe back to the house, I think,' he added; 'I don't
expect them for an hour yet, but you can never depend on savages--they
might be lurking about the grounds already, for what we know.'

And, although Hazel had her own private ideas about the reality of the
danger, she was struck by his coolness and courage, for which, whether
justified or not by the occasion, she was quite fair-minded enough to
give him due credit.

Meanwhile, the other two boys, bursting with excitement, had rushed up
to the verandah, under which their mother and uncle were sitting.

'Mother! Uncle Lambert! What do you think? Our camp is going to be
attacked this very night by Indians!'

'Yes, dears,' said Mrs. Jolliffe, serenely; 'but have you had your teas
yet?'

Trifles such as these harrow the martial soul more than conflicts.

'But, mother, did you hear what we said? The fort is to be stormed by
Red Indians!'

'Very well, dears, so long as you don't make too much noise,' was the
sole comment of this most provokingly placid lady. What she ought to
have done was, of course, to throw down her work, raise her eyes to the
clouds, clasp her hands, and observe, in an agitated tone, 'Heaven
protect us! We are lost!' But few mothers are capable of really rising
to emergencies of this kind.

Hilary and Cecily had been playing tennis, and, overhearing the alarming
news, came up to the steps of the verandah. 'Did you say Red Indians
were coming here?'

Uncle Lambert shook his head lugubriously. 'I always warned your
father,' he remarked; 'but he _would_ come to live in Berkshire.'

'Why?' inquired Cecily. 'Is Berkshire a bad place for Red Indians,
uncle?'

'I should say it was one of the worst places in all Europe!' he said
solemnly.

Both Hilary and Cecily had heard and read a good deal about Red Indians
lately, and had also, with their brothers, visited the American
Exhibition, so that it did not strike either of them as unlikely just
then that there should be a few scattered about in England, just as
gipsies are.

'But what are you going to do about it?' they asked their brother.

'Lick 'em, of course!' said Guy. 'Now you see that an army is some use,
after all.'

'Don't be taken alive, there's good boys,' advised their frivolous
uncle, who seemed still unable to realise the extreme gravity of the
occasion. 'Sell your lives as dearly as possible.'

'What is the use of telling them that, uncle?' exclaimed Cecily. 'They
wouldn't get the money; and do you think any of _us_ would touch it? How
can you talk in that horrid way? Jack and Guy, don't go to that camp.
Let the Indians have it, if they want to; you can soon build another.'

'You don't understand,' said Jack, impatiently. 'We can't have a lot of
Red Indians in our camp--it wouldn't be safe for you.'

'Oh, I shall go and speak to Clarence,' she cried. 'I'm sure he won't
want to fight them.' And she ran down to the end of the lawn, where he
could be seen returning with Hazel.

'I want to speak to you quite alone,' she said. 'No, Hazel, it's a
secret,' and she drew him aside.

'Clarence,' she said, and her blue eyes were dark with fear, 'tell
me--are the Indians really coming?'

'You can judge for yourself,' he said, and gave her the paper. 'We've
just had this thrown over the stockade. It seems to have been written by
somebody who is in their secrets.'

'How badly Red Indians do spell!' said Cecily, shuddering as she read.

'It may be a white man's writing,' he said; 'perhaps a prisoner, or a
confederate who repents.'

'But, Clarence, dear,' entreated Cecily (ten minutes ago she would not
have added the epithet), 'you won't stay out and sit up for them, will
you?'

'Do you think we're a set of cowards?' he demanded grandly.

'Not you, Clarence; but--but Jack and Guy are not very big boys, are
they? I mean, they're a little too young to fight full-sized Indians.'

'There will be all sorts of sized Indians, I expect,' said Clarence. 'Of
course, I don't say they'll come. They may think discretion's the better
part of valour when they find we're prepared; but I must say I
anticipate an attack myself.'

'I wish you would do without Jack and Guy. Couldn't you?' suggested
Cecily.

His eyes gleamed. 'Cecily,' he said, 'tell me the worst--the army are
getting in a funk?'

'No,' she cried; and then she resolved to sacrifice their reputation for
their safety. 'At least, they haven't said anything; but I'm sure they'd
feel more comfortable in the drawing-room. Can't you order them to stay
and guard us? You're General.'

'And I am to face the foe alone?' he cried. 'Well, I am older than them'
(I must decline to be responsible for the grammar of the characters of
this story). 'I have lived my life--I shall be the less missed.... Let
it be as you say.'

All this was strictly according to the books, and he enjoyed himself
immensely.

'Thank you, dear, dear Clarence. I'd no idea you were so noble and
brave. Try not to let those Indians hit you.'

'I cannot answer for the future,' he said; 'but since you wish it I will
do my best.'

After all there was some good in girls. Here was one who said exactly
the right things, without needing any prompting whatever.

Cecily hunted up Jack and Guy, who were poking about in the house.
'You're not to guard the stockade,' she announced, with ill-concealed
triumph.

'Oh, aren't we, though?' said Guy; 'who says so? Not mother!'

'No--Clarence; he said I was to tell you to go on duty in the
drawing-room.'

'What bosh!' said Guy. 'As if any Indians would come there! I don't care
what Clarence says, I shall go in the stockade!'

'So shall I! 'said Jack. 'Now let's get that piece of matting, and go
down sharp--the evening star's out already.'

Poor Cecily was in despair; what was to be done when they were so
obstinate as this?

'I know where there's some beautiful matting,' she said.

'Where? Tell us, quick!'

'Come with me, and I'll show you.' She led the way along a corridor to
the wing where the billiard-room was. 'Wait till I see if it's there
still,' she said, and went into the billiard-room and looked around.
'Yes, it _is_ there,' she told them as she came out.

'I don't see it, Cecily; where?' they cried from within.

Cecily shut the door softly, and turned the key (which she had managed
to abstract on entering) in the outer lock.

'It's on the floor,' she cried through the keyhole; 'I didn't tell a
story--and don't be angry, boys, dear, it's all for your good!'

Then, without waiting to hear their indignant outcry, she scudded along
the corridor and down the staircase, with the sounds of muffled shouts
and kicks growing fainter behind her.

'I don't mind so much now,' she thought; 'they'll be awfully angry when
they come out--but the Indians will have gone by that time!'

Clarence had already retreated to his stronghold when she entered the
drawing-room.

Everything seemed as usual; Uncle Lambert, in evening dress, was playing
desultory snatches from _Ruddigore_. Mrs. Jolliffe came down presently,
and he took her in to dinner with one of his tiresome jokes. No one
seemed at all anxious about poor Tinling, fighting all alone down in the
paddock.

She curled herself up on a settee by one of the open windows, and
listened, trying to catch the sound of Indian yells. 'Hazel,' she said
anxiously, 'do you think the Indians will hurt Tinling?'

Hazel gave a little laugh. 'I don't think the army's in any very great
danger, Cis,' she replied.

'Hazel doesn't believe there are any Indians at all,' explained Hilary.

'Well,' said Cecily, softly, 'I've kept the army out of danger, whether
there are or not!'

But she felt relieved by her sisters' evident tranquillity, and
by-and-by, when Mrs. Jolliffe came in from the dining-room and settled
down with her embroidery as if there were not the least chance of a
savage coming whooping in the open window, Cecily almost forgot her
fears.

They came back in full force, however, as, a little later on, she heard
a quick, light step on the gravel outside, and started with a little
scream of terror. 'Don't tell them where the army are!' she cried; and
then she saw that her alarm was needless, for it was the gallant General
who stepped into the room. Hazel looked up from the album which she was
making for a children's hospital, Hilary threw away her book, Mrs.
Jolliffe had ceased to embroider, but that was because she was
peacefully dozing.

'Victory!' said Clarence, waving his sword.

'Then they did come?' cried Cecily, triumphantly.

'Rather!' he replied. 'I couldn't tell how many there were, but they
were overcome with panic at the first discharge. I fancy _these_ Indians
had never heard firearms before.'

'How funny that we shouldn't have heard any now!' remarked Hazel,
resting her chin on her palms, while her grey eyes had a rather mocking
sparkle in them.

'Not funny at all,' he said, 'considering the wind was the other way. I
let them come on, and then poured a volley into the thickest part of
their ranks--that made them waver, and then I made a sortie, and you
should have just seen them scuttle!'

'I wish I had,' said Hazel, as she pasted another Christmas card into
her album. 'And weren't you wounded at all?'

'A mere scratch,' he said lightly (which is what book-heroes always
say).

'It looks as if you had been amongst the gooseberry-bushes,' said
Hilary, examining his arm as he pulled up his sleeve.

'Does it? Well, I only know it's lucky for me there were no poisoned
arrows.'

'Oughtn't you to have it burnt, though, Clarence, just in case?'
suggested Cecily, in all good faith; 'there's sure to be a red-hot poker
in the kitchen.'

But Clarence was very decidedly of opinion that such a precaution was
not necessary.

'And you're quite sure the Indians are all gone?' she asked.

'There isn't one of 'em within miles,' he said confidently, 'I'll answer
for that.'

'Then come upstairs with me, and we'll let the army out. They'll be in
such a temper!'

They found the two boys, who had tired of kicking and shouting by that
time, sitting gloomily on the long seats in the dark.

'Guy, dear--Jack,' said Cecily, timidly, 'you can come out now. Clarence
has beaten the Indians.'

'Without us?' groaned Guy. 'Cecily, I'll never speak to you again!
Tinling, I--we--you don't think we funked, do you? She locked us up
here!'

All the General's native magnanimity came out now.

'We won't say any more about it,' he said. 'It was rather a close shave,
with only one man to do it all. But, there, I managed somehow, and
perhaps it was just as well you weren't there. The first rush was no
joke, I can tell you.'

Jack punched his own head with both hands.

'Oh, it's too bad!' he said--he was almost in tears. 'They'll all think
we deserted you! Did you kill many of them, Tinling?'

'I didn't see any corpses,' he replied; 'but I shouldn't be surprised if
some of them died when they got home.'

'They may come again to-morrow night,' said Jack, more cheerfully.

'Not much fear of that--they've had their lesson. They were seized with
utter panic.'

'Which way did they go?' asked Guy, evidently bent on pursuing them.

'Oh, in all directions. But you wouldn't catch them up now; they ran too
fast for me even!'

'Then I shall go to bed,' said the entire army, in great depression. 'It
is a shame we couldn't be there. Good-night, General.' And, pointedly
ignoring poor Cecily, they marched off to their quarters. She looked
wistfully after them.

'They'll never forgive me--I know they won't!' she said to Tinling.

'Don't you mind,' he said, 'you acted very wisely. And, after all, these
raw young troops can never be depended on under fire, you know--I mean,
under arrows.'

Cecily drew herself up a little haughtily.

'I locked them in because I didn't want them to get hurt,' she said,
'not because I thought they'd be afraid.'

Uncle Lambert did not hear about the result of the engagement until the
following day, but then, to make up for any delay, he heard a good deal
about it. Even Clarence was not quite prepared for the enthusiasm he
showed.

'Splendid, my boy, splendid!' he kept repeating, while he hit him rather
hard on the back; 'you're a hero. A grateful country ought to give you
the Bath for it. I shall take care this affair is generally known.'

And the poor army looked on with hot cheeks and envious eyes. But for
Cecily, they might have been heroes, too!

Even Hazel seemed to have understood that a really brilliant victory had
been achieved; she brought Tinling a magnificent flag of pink glazed
calico, on which she had painted in crimson letters: 'Indians' Terror.'

'I did not think of making the motto "Seven at one blow,"' she said,
with a mischievous dimple.

'I like the other best,' said the General, unsuspectingly.

Jack and Guy went down to the camp as usual, but for some time they were
in very low spirits, in spite of their commander's well-meant efforts to
raise them.

'You'll do better next time,' he said kindly.

'But we've told you over and over again how it was!' they would exclaim.

'Yes, I know, I know. It's all right. I'm not complaining: I never
expected you to be as cool as I was, your first time.' But even this did
not seem to console the army to any large extent; they hunched their
shoulders and kicked pebbles about with great apparent interest.

The fact was, they could not help seeing that they had lost their
prestige. It was true that their mother and elder sister at least (in
spite of the flag) did not seem to treat the past danger with all the
seriousness it deserved. It even struck Jack and Guy sometimes that
they were under the delusion that the whole thing had been only a new
development of the game. But as the General said: 'Even if that were so,
it was kinder not to undeceive them. He certainly was contented to leave
them in their error; he knew well enough what he had had to go
through--he did not like even now to think of his despair when he found
he would have to face the danger all alone.'

He was always making the army writhe by little unintentional reminders
of this kind, and they had cruel misgivings that Uncle Lambert, though
he was always quite kind and encouraging, did not in his heart believe
that their unfortunate absence in the hour of peril was quite an
accident on their part.

How they longed for an opportunity of wiping out their disgrace, and how
their hearts sank when Tinling, from the depths of his experience,
declared it very improbable that the attack would ever again be renewed.
In the school-stories, the good boy who refuses to fight when he is
kicked, and is sent to Coventry as a coward, always gets a speedy chance
to clear his character. Someone (generally the very boy who kicked him)
falls into a mill-stream, or a convenient horse runs away, or else a mad
but considerate bull comes into the playground--and the good boy is
always at hand to dive, or hang on to the bridle and be dragged several
yards in the dust, or slowly retreat backwards, throwing down first his
hat and then his coat to amuse and detain the infuriated bull.

But out of stories, unfortunately, as even Jack and Guy dimly perceived,
things are not always arranged so satisfactorily. They might have to
wait for weeks, perhaps months or years, before Uncle Lambert fell into
the fish-pond--and, even if he did, he could probably swim better than
they could. Then they were neither of them sure that they could
successfully stop a runaway horse, or a maniac bull, without a little
more practice than they had had as yet.

However, Fortune was kind, and took pity on them in a most unexpected
manner. For one morning, soon after breakfast, when Hazel was practising
in the music-room, and Hilary and Cecily feeding their rabbits, Jack
came up in a highly-excited state of mind to the verandah where his
officer was seated doing nothing in particular. 'General,' he said, with
a very creditable salute, 'do come down to the camp at once.'

'Oh, bother!' said the veteran warrior, who had, by the way, shown
rather a tendency to rest on his laurels of late.

'No, but it isn't humbug, really,' protested Jack; 'it's something
you'll like awfully.'

The General marched down in a very stately manner; it would have been
undignified to run, eager as he was to get down to the stockade,
thinking it not unlikely that Lintoft, the carpenter, really had found
time to make a cannon for them after all, or, at the very least, that
there would be some change in the internal arrangements of the
stronghold which it would be his duty as superior officer to criticise,
if not condemn.

Now it must be explained here that, during the last two or three days,
the outside wall of the fort had been placarded with various bills, all
glorying in the recent repulse of the enemy by a single-handed defender,
and containing most insulting reflections on the courage of Red Indians
as a race; while, in case they might not have enough knowledge of
English to understand these taunts, they were accompanied by sketches
which were certainly scathing enough to infuriate the least susceptible
savage.

To do Clarence justice, they were not due to any elation on his part,
but had all been executed by the army in the wild hope that they might
thus stir up the foe to a fresh demonstration, when they themselves
might recover their lost spurs.

These placards, as Clarence found on reaching the stockade, had been
scrawled over with a kind of red and yellow paint so as to be quite
illegible.

'Ochre,' said Guy; 'but that's not the best of it, for we found this
pinned with an arrow to one of the posts.' And he produced a thin strip
of white bark, on which were writing and drawings in crimson. 'They must
have done it with their own blood,' commented Jack, with great gusto;
'but read it--do read it.'

Clarence did not need a second invitation to read the document, which
was as follows:--


                  'WAH NA SA PASH BOO (YELLOW VULTURE),

        _Chief of Black Bogallala Tribe, to the Great White Chief,
                          Tin Lin_, DEFIANCE.

     'The wigwam of Yellow Vulture wants but one ornament--the scalp of
     the white chief. Yellow Vulture has seen the taunts calling the red
     warriors "women with the hearts of deer." He will show the Paleface
     that the anger of the dusky ones is a big heap-lot terrible. When
     the sun has set behind the hills, and the stars light their
     watch-fires, then will Yellow Vulture and his braves be at hand.
     The scalp of the Paleface shall adorn the tepee of the Red Man.

                               'WAH-WAH!'


In order that there should be no possible mistake about the intention,
the message was supplemented by a rude representation of the process of
scalping, evidently the work of a practised hand.

'Didn't I tell you we had something jolly to show you!' exclaimed Jack.

But joy, or some equally powerful emotion, rendered the General
incapable of speaking for several moments.




ACT THE THIRD

WHERE IS THE GENERAL?


It was some little time before Clarence Tinling gave any opinion upon
this bloodthirsty document. He turned exceedingly red, and examined it
suspiciously on both sides. It seemed as if he did not altogether
welcome this second opportunity for distinguishing himself. When he
spoke it was with a sort of angry anxiety.

'You think yourselves very clever, I dare say,' he said; 'but you
needn't fancy you'll take me in! Come, you had better say so at
once--you did this yourselves? It is not half bad--I will say that for
it.'

'That we didn't,' cried Guy. 'Why, just look at it, Tinling. Any one
could see that it's an Indian's doing. No, it's all right; they really
are coming.'

'It's all skittles, I tell you,' said Clarence, still more angrily,
though he was paler again now. 'What should Indians come here for?'

'Well, he says why, there,' said Jack, 'and they came the other
evening.'

Clarence's colour rose again. 'That's different,' he said; 'I mean, it's
not the same tribe.'

'No, these are Black Bogallalas,' said Jack. 'What were the first ones,
Tinling?'

'I didn't ask them,' said the General shortly.

'How many braves should you think Wah Na What's-his-name will bring?'
asked Guy. 'As many as came the other evening? How many did come the
first time?'

'Do you think I had nothing better to do than count?' he retorted. 'Is
there anything else you would like to know?'

'Well, we'll hang out the lantern to-night, and watch how many come
inside its rays,' said Jack, with a briskness which displeased his
chief.

'You wouldn't be quite so jolly cheerful over it if you knew what it was
like!' he grumbled.

'Why not?' said Guy. 'You beat the others easily enough by yourself, and
we shall be three this time.'

'Oh, it's all very fine to talk,' retorted the General; 'but we shall
see what your mother and uncle say about it. They--they may think we
ought not to take any notice of it.'

Jack's eyes opened wide at this. 'Not take any notice of an attack by
Black Bogallalas! I don't see how we can very well help noticing it!'

'It all depends on what Mrs. Jolliffe says,' replied the conscientious
General. 'I'm only a visitor here, and it wouldn't be the right thing
for me to lead you into danger without leave.'

'Well, you weren't so particular the first time the Indians came!'
remarked Guy.

'Will you shut up about that first time!' the Commander burst out, in
exasperation; 'it's the second time now--that is, if it isn't all
humbug. That's what I mean to find out first--you stay here till I come
back, will you?'

Taking the strip of bark with him, he went slowly up to the house. He
had an uneasy feeling that the Indian's challenge was genuine enough,
but he still hoped to have it pronounced a forgery. This may seem
strange indeed to some, considering the courage of which he had already
given proof, but I do not wish to make any further mystery, particularly
as most of my readers will probably have already guessed the secret of
this apparent contrast.

The fact is, then, that Clarence Tinling had the best of reasons for
being cool and courageous on the previous occasion. Those Indians were
entirely imaginary; he had written the warning himself, and instructed
the coachman's boy to throw it over the stockade; the attack on the fort
and the brilliant victory were an afterthought.

What had he done it for? That is rather difficult to explain--perhaps he
hardly knew himself; he had a vague idea of proving to those
disrespectful girls that enemies did exist, and that the protection of
an Army was not to be despised.

Then when he found himself alone in the camp, the temptation to carry
his invention further was too much for him; and after Jack and Guy and
Cecily, and even Uncle Lambert himself, accepted his story without
hesitation, and treated him as a hero--why, it would have looked so
silly to explain then, and so he went through with it.

Lying is lying, whatever explanations and excuses may be made respecting
it, and I am afraid it must be admitted that Tinling, if he began by a
mere harmless device for giving a new turn to the game, ended by telling
some very unmistakable lies.

Now he found himself in a most delicate position: what if an attack by
Red Indians should really be quite possible? Mr. Lambert Jolliffe had
certainly not seemed to see anything incredible in the former visit,
and, though Clarence had not a very high opinion of his abilities, he
was grown up, and was not likely to be misinformed on such a point as
that--at all events, he was the best person to consult just then. As he
expected, he found him under the big ilex on his back, with his
after-breakfast pipe, no longer alight, between his lips.

'Mr. Jolliffe; I say, Mr. Jolliffe,' began Clarence.

Lambert Jolliffe sat up, and fixed his glass in one drowsy eye. 'Hullo,
Sir Garnet--I beg your pardon, Lord Wolseley, I mean. You ought to hear
what they're saying at the War Office, I can tell you!'

Praise is sweet, even when we do not deserve it, and Clarence felt a
thrill of satisfaction at this somewhat vague tribute.

'I wanted to ask you,' he said, 'should you say that Red Indians
were--well, common in England?'

'You have asked me a straightforward question, and I'll give you a
straightforward answer,' was the reply. 'Till quite lately I should say
they were absolutely unknown in this country.'

Clarence's face brightened; he felt quite fond of Uncle Lambert, and
began to think him a particularly well-informed and entertaining person.

'Yes,' continued Uncle Lambert, thoughtfully, 'I must confess I thought
it a little unlikely at first that you should have been annoyed by Red
Indians; but, of course, when I remembered the Earl's Court Show, I saw
at once that it was quite possible.' Clarence felt a cold qualm. He had,
as we already know, seen Buffalo Bill's wonderful show, which, indeed,
was responsible for much of his recent military enthusiasm. But till
that moment, curiously enough, it had not occurred to him to connect the
mysterious Wah Na Sa Pash Boo with the denizens of the Wild West whom he
had seen careering about the immense arena at Earl's Court.

'Do you mean,' he said, with an effort, 'that you thought some of
Buffalo Bill's Indians had managed to _escape_?'

'Well, I don't know any other way to account for such a thing. Do you?'

Clarence did not answer this question directly: 'But,' he objected
desperately, 'those were _converted_ Indians. They went to church, and
the Lyceum, and all that!'

Uncle Lambert shrugged his shoulders: 'Once an Indian always an
Indian!' he said. 'They must have their fling now and then, I suppose,
and then the old Adam crops up. And you see,' he added, 'it cropped up
in that attack on you the other night. Fortunately for us, and indeed
for the whole country, you were prepared for them--otherwise no one can
tell what horrors we might not have seen.'

'We may--we may see them yet!' said the hero, gloomily. 'Just look at
this, Mr. Jolliffe.'

Lambert took the bark from him, and read it with a thoughtful frown. At
last he said:

'Well, I rather expected something of this sort when I saw you posting
up all those insulting notices--Indians are so confoundedly touchy, you
know.'

'You might have said that at the time, then!' exclaimed the General
reproachfully.

Lambert lifted his eyebrows.

'My dear chap, I thought you knew. Wasn't that what you were all driving
at?'

'Not me,' said Clarence. 'I was against it from the first. I told them
it was caddish to insult a fallen foe, but they would go and stick up
those _beastly_ notices.'

'All's well that ends well, eh? You've got a rise out of 'em this time.
I congratulate you, my boy, on getting the chance of a second brush with
the Indians. And this time you'll have the army with you.'

'A lot of good they are!' said Clarence, in a muffled voice.

'Come, it's not good form for a General to run down his troops; but you
heroes are always so modest. I'll be bound, now, you've determined not
to mention this in the house till the danger is passed?'

'No, I haven't, though. I shall mention it, most likely. Why not?'

'To save them useless anxiety. Because, unless I am wrong, you see cause
to apprehend (I must ask you not to conceal anything from me)--to
apprehend that this will be a more serious affair than the last?'

'Yes, I do,' replied the General, promptly, 'a good deal.'

'I feared as much,' said Uncle Lambert, with a very grave face. 'But in
that case, isn't it as well not to terrify my sister and those poor
girls unnecessarily?'

'I don't see that. Mrs. Jolliffe might think we ought to be guarding the
inside of the house.'

'Oh,' said Uncle Lambert, 'but I should object to that strongly. You see
it's very plain that it's _you_ the Yellow Vulture's after. He won't
think of coming near the house unless you're in it, and then what will
become of us all?'

'You'll take care you don't get mixed up in it, I can see,' said
Tinling, savagely.

'I shall take very good care indeed. Oh, but you must make allowances
for me, my boy. Remember, I've not been in military training for days
and days, as you have.'

'If that's all, I could get you up in the drill in half-an-hour,'
proposed Tinling, eagerly.

'Thanks, but I have a better reason still. Tastes differ so much. You
like to spend your evenings in beating off wild Indians from a stockade.
Now, I prefer a plain, comfortable dinner, and a quiet cigar. I'm not
sure that your way isn't the manlier of the two--but it's not nearly so
much in my line.'

'Why don't you say you're a funk, and have done with it?' Tinling said
rudely.

'My dear young friend,' was the placid answer, 'if Providence has
endowed you with a meed of personal courage beyond that of others, it is
ungraceful to taunt those who are less fortunate. While I am by no means
prepared to admit that I am what you so pleasingly term "a funk," I
readily allow that----'

But Tinling did not stay to hear any more; he turned on his heel with an
anger that had a spice of envy in it. Why, why had not he been content
with an ordinary reputation, instead of one that he must sustain now at
all hazards? He could deceive himself no longer; his foolish vanity,
which had allowed the army to post those rash defiances, had brought
down some real Red Indians upon him, and he was horribly afraid.

As he walked restlessly down the path, a veil seemed drawn across the
brilliant sky, the dahlias and 'red-hot pokers' and gladioli in the beds
burnt with a sinister glow, the smell of the sweet peas and mignonette
seemed oppressive, the bees droning about the lavender patches had a
note of warning in their buzz, he felt chilly in the shade and sick in
the sun.

He saw nothing for it but fighting, but the idea of facing a horde of
howling savages with only two boys younger than himself was too
appalling; he must engage recruits, grown-up ones, and with this
intention he went to the stable-yard, where he found Chinnock, the
coachman, sluicing the carriage-wheels.

'Chinnock,' he began, with an attempt to seem casual and careless,
'we're going to be attacked by Red Indians again to-night.'

Chinnock touched a sandy forelock, as he raised his red grinning face.

'Lor', sir, be you indeed? Well, you young genl'men du have rare goings
on down in the paddock, that you du.'

'It's--it's real Red Indians this time, Chinnock--B--black Bogallalas!'

Chinnock had deliberately moved to the harness-room, and Tinling had to
repeat his information.

'Ah, indeed, sir! Red Injians? Well, to think o' that!' he said
cheerfully, as if he was humouring some rather childish remark.

'But we shall want every available man; do you think you can spare time
to come and help?'

''Bout what time, sir?' said Chinnock.

'About nine--half-past eight, say. Do try.'

'Can't come as late as that, nohow, sir. That's my supper-hour, that
is. If the mistress don't want the carriage to-day, I dessay I could
step down 'bout five for half-an-hour or so, if that would suit.'

'That wouldn't be any use at all, Chinnock; we shan't begin till dark.'

'Then I'm afraid I can't be of no sarvice to 'ee, sir.'

The poor General turned away: evidently the coachman had no intention of
risking his life. He remembered Joe, the gardener's boy and
stable-help--he was better than no one. Joe was rolling the
tennis-court, and grinned sheepishly on being pressed to join.

'Noa, sur,' he said, 'it doan't lay in my work fur to fight no Injins. I
see one onst at Reading Vair, I did, a nippin' about he wur, and a
roarin'! I bain't goin' to hev naught to do with the likes o' he!'

Tinling saw only one hope left. If he could see Mrs. Jolliffe and tell
her of the danger which threatened him, she might refuse permission to
fight at all, or, at the very least, she would see that he had proper
assistance. So into the house he went, and the first person he found was
Hazel, who was knitting her pretty forehead over the Latin exercise
which had been given her as a holiday task.

'I say, Hazel,' he said, with a trembling voice; but she interrupted
him:

'Oh, perhaps you can help me. What's the Latin for "Balbus says it is
all over with the General"?'

He shivered; it sounded so like an omen. 'No, but Hazel, listen,' he
said; 'the Indians are coming again to-night.'

'If you're not going to talk sensibly,' said Hazel, 'go out this
instant.'

He saw she was utterly unsympathetic, and he wandered on to the hall,
which was used as a morning-room, where Hilary sat painting a pansy, and
he broke the news to her in much the same words. She actually laughed,
and she had been almost as frightened as Cecily when he had told her of
the other Indians.

'You are too killing over those Red Indians!' she said. Privately, he
thought that the Red Indians would do all the killing.

'You needn't laugh; it's true!' he said solemnly.

'Oh, of course!' said Hilary; 'but don't come so near, or you'll upset
my glass of water.' Hilary, too, was hopeless; he was reduced to his
last cards now, and came in upon Mrs. Jolliffe as she sat at her
writing-table. She looked up with a sweet, vague smile.

'What is it now, dear boy?' she asked. 'I hope you are managing to amuse
yourself.'

'I think I ought to tell you,' he said thickly, 'that a tribe of
Bogallala Indians are going to storm our encampment this evening.'

Perhaps Mrs. Jolliffe was getting a little bored with military topics.
'Yes, yes,' she said absently, 'that will be very nice, I'm sure. Don't
be too late in coming in, there's good boys.'

'You don't _mind_ our being there?--there will be danger!' he said with
meaning.

'Mind? Not in the very least, so long as you are enjoying yourself,' she
said kindly.

There went one card: he had but one more. 'Could you let Corklett and
George' (they were the butler and page respectively) 'come down to the
camp about half-past eight? We should be so much safer if we had them
with us.'

'What are you thinking of, Clarence? We dine at eight, remember; how can
I send either of them down then? You really must be reasonable.'

Clarence was by no means an ill-mannered boy in general, but fear made
him insolent at this.

'Of course, if you think your dinner is more important than us!' he
burst out hotly.

'Clarence, I can't allow you to speak to me in that way. It is
ridiculous for you to expect me to alter my arrangements to suit your
convenience,' said Mrs. Jolliffe; 'leave the room, or I shall be really
angry with you. I don't wish to hear any more--go.'

He went with a swelling heart, and in the garden he met Cecily. If he
could only induce her to beg him not to risk his life again! He
disclosed the situation as impressively as he could; but, alas! Cecily
seemed perfectly tranquil.

'I'm not a bit afraid this time,' she said, 'because you beat them so
easily before; there's only one thing, Clarence. You know I daren't lock
the army in again--they've made it up; but they _were_ so cross over it!
So I want you to promise to look after them.'

'I shall have enough to do to look after myself, I expect,' he answered
roughly; 'you don't know what these Indians are.'

'Oh, but I do, Clarence; I saw them at the "Wild West." I thought they
looked rather nice then. And you know you frightened them so before. You
are so awfully brave--aren't you?'

'I--I don't think I feel quite so awfully brave as I did then,' he
admitted.

'Ah, but you will. Jack and Guy will be quite safe with you. Good-bye;
I'm going to get some mulberry-leaves for my silkworms.' And she ran off
cheerfully.

It was his hard fate that everybody persisted in treating the affair in
one of two ways--either they looked upon it as part of the army game, or
else considered him such a champion, on the strength of his past
exploits, that there was practically no danger even if a whole tribe of
Redskins came to attack him.

Luncheon that day was a terrible meal for him. Uncle Lambert (though he
was too great a coward to go near the fight himself) seemed very anxious
that the defenders should be in good condition. 'Give yourself a
chance, General,' he would say; 'another slice of this roly-poly pudding
may just turn the scale between you and Yellow Vulture. Look at the
army--they're victualling for a regular siege!'

But Clarence was quite unable to follow their example; he was annoyed
with them for what he considered was 'showing off'--though he might have
reflected that to consume three helpings of jam-and-suet in rapid
succession was an almost impossible form of bravado.

The rest of the afternoon he spent in trying to lower the army's
confidence by telling all the gruesome stories of Indian warfare he
could think of; but he frightened himself a great deal more than them,
and at last had to abandon the attempt in despair.

For Jack and Guy had no nerves to speak of; they were eager to clear
their tarnished reputation, and the possibility of harm coming to them
did not seem to present itself. They had formed rather a poor opinion of
Buffalo Bill's Indians, whose yell turned out to be very little more
than short yelps, and who ran away directly a Cowboy showed his nose.
Hadn't Clarence defeated them with ease already? What Clarence had done
alone they surely could do together, and then they had an unbounded
belief in the impregnable character of their stockade.

Tinling found that he could not undeceive them without exposing himself,
which he would still rather die than do, and he roamed about the
grounds, making a little mental calculation whenever a clock struck in
the heavy afternoon stillness: 'In so many hours from this I shall be
fighting hand-to-hand with real Indians!'

Then at tea-time he thought (for the first time) the smell of cake quite
detestable, and he hardly knew how he forced himself to sit quietly on
his chair.

'General Tinling,' said Uncle Lambert, 'before you, so to speak, "go to
the front" and occupy the post of danger, will you oblige me by drawing
up the troops before the verandah? I should like, though unable to
accompany you myself, to say a few words of farewell.'

Clarence sulkily acquiesced, and Lambert Jolliffe addressed the army:
'Soldiers,' he said, 'a great responsibility rests upon you this day.
You are expected solemnly and earnestly to strive your utmost _not_ to


     Let the red man dance
     By _our_ red cedar tree,


to quote (with a trifling variation) from Tennyson's "Maud." For myself,
I have no fears of the result. Under the leadership of your veteran
General, victory must infallibly crown your arms. We peaceful civilians
shall rest secure in the absolute confidence such protection inspires,
and be the first to welcome your triumphant return. Should your hearts
fail you at any moment, I have already instructed you how to act. To
the Commander himself I should consider the mere suggestion an
impertinence. Go, then, devoted spirits, where Glory leads, and
endeavour to avoid the indignity of scalping--if only for the sake of
appearances. Soldiers, I have done. May the God of Battles (I need
hardly explain to scholars that I refer to Mars) keep his eye on you!'

Hazel and Hilary were also on the verandah, and used their handkerchiefs
freely--but principally to conceal their mouths. 'They'll be sorry they
laughed by-and-by;' thought Clarence; 'they'll wish they had cried just
a little, perhaps!'--a reflection the pathos of which very nearly made
him cry himself, as he marched down to the stockade, feeling distinctly
unwell.

Before he entered the fort he tore down the fatal notices. 'What's the
good of that?' asked Guy.

'Well, the Indians have seen 'em,' said the General.

'But they'll think we want to back out of it,' objected Jack.

'Let them think!' was the bold retort.

Inside the fort Jack and Guy set to work in the highest spirits to
barricade the entrance with wheelbarrows and an old mowing-machine; then
they lit the lantern, and polished their guns, sharpened their swords,
and looked to the springs of their pistols for about the hundredth time.

'I say, this would jolly well pepper a Red Indian, wouldn't it!' cried
Guy, showing a pistol, the tiny barrel of which was constructed to
discharge swanshot with a steel watch-spring.

'I tell you what,' said Jack, with the air of a trapper, 'I shall
reserve my peas till I've fired away all the corks, and take a
deliberate aim each time.'

It was impossible to persuade them that these missiles would not be
accepted as deadly by savages, who of course would know no better; and
again, had not the first victory been won by these simple means?

So General Tinling held his peace, and the western sky slowly changed
from crocus to green, and from green to deep violet, and the evening
star lighted its steady golden fire, the grasshoppers set up a louder
chirp, a bat executed complicated figures overhead, and the boys
unconsciously began to speak in whispers.

'It's getting too dark to see much with this telescope,' said Jack, 'I
wish we had a night-glass. The Indians ought to be here by this
time--they said "sunset," didn't they? If I _was_ a Red Indian I would
be punctual! When do you suppose they'll come, Clarence--soon?'

'How on earth do I know?' snapped the General from within the tent.

'Well, you needn't get in a bait over it. How did they come on the first
time--did they crawl along like snakes till they were quite near, and
then give a yell and rush at the stockade?'

'I forget what they did--don't bother me!'

'I suppose they'll all have tomahawks,' said Guy. 'Clarence, does
scalping hurt?'

There was a slight convulsion inside the tent, but no answer.

'I wonder if the Bogallala torture prisoners,' Jack observed; 'I don't
think I could stand _that_.'

The General came to the tent-door at this: 'Can't you fellows shut up?'
he said fiercely. 'They'll hear you!'

'They're not here yet--we shall know when they come, by the
signalling--let's all keep quite quiet for a minute or two.'

There was a breathless interval of silence. At last Jack said: 'I hear
something--a sort of low grunting noise, like pigs.'

'Perhaps it is the pigs at the farm,' suggested Guy.

'Indians can imitate all kinds of birds, I know,' reasoned Jack, not
directly to the point, perhaps, but he was getting excited.

Tinling felt a dull rage against the other two. How dared they pretend
not to be afraid? It was all swagger--he knew that very well. Various
unpleasant recollections began to rise in his mind. He remembered how
that Indian spy had stalked the settler's cabin at Earl's Court. He
could see him now, stealing over the sand, then listening with his ear
to the ground, and turning to beckon on the ambushed warriors. He even
remembered the way the yellow and red striped blinds of the log hut
flapped in the wind, and how the horse that was hobbled outside raised
his head from his hay, and pricked his ears uneasily, as the foe came
gliding nearer and nearer. Then their way of fighting--he had thought it
rather comic _then_--they hopped and pranced about like so many lively
frogs, but the butchery would not be rendered any more agreeable by
being accompanied by laughable gestures! And there was an almost naked
light-yellow savage, whom he recalled dancing the war dance--he tried
not to think of all this, but it came vividly before him.

'S-s-h--_Cave_!' cried Guy, suddenly, as he looked through the loophole;
'I can see just the top of one's head and feathers among the currant
bushes. I'll touch him up in a second.'

He raised his tiny spring pistol, and was just aiming, when Tinling,
almost beside himself, darted on him, and struck it out of his hand.
'What are you doing now?' he said, through his teeth. 'What is the good
of _irritating_ them?'

'Why, they _are_ irritated,' said Guy, 'or they wouldn't come.'

'If they are,' retorted Clarence, raising his voice, 'whose doing was
it? You can't say I had anything to do with putting up those defiances!
Haven't I always said I respected Red men? They've got feelings like us.
When you go and insult them, of course they get annoyed--who wouldn't, I
should like to know? I honour a chief like Yellow Vulture myself, and I
don't care if he hears me say so. I say I honour him!'

His voice rose almost to a scream as he concluded.

'I say, Tinling, I do believe you're in a funk!' said Guy, after a
moment of wondering silence.

'If you are, say so, and we shall know what to do,' added Jack, feeling
in his pocket. 'Are you?'

'Feel his hands,' suggested Guy.

'Look here,' said Clarence, dashing aside the obstacles before the door,
'I'm not going to stay here to be treated in this way. If it hadn't been
for your foolery in sticking up the notices we should have been friends
with the Indians now. I don't want to quarrel with any Bogallala. And
you have the cheek to ask me if I'm in a funk, and to want to feel my
hands. Well, it just serves you right--I'm going.'

'Well, go then; who wants you?' said Guy.

But softer-hearted Jack said, 'Clarence, you mustn't. You'll be safe in
here; but out there----'

But the General had already vanished. He was crouching outside in the
shadow of the stockade. He could not bear being penned up any longer; he
must at least have a run for his life.

Had the enemy heard him declare his innocence? If so, it did not seem to
have softened them. They were still crouching--silent, hidden,
relentless--behind the currant bushes, their scouts signalling to one
another, for no _real_ grasshopper ever made so much noise as that. He
must make a bolt for it, and take his chance of their arrows missing
him. Over the open space of grey-green grass he scuttled, and actually
succeeded in reaching the friendly shadow of the holly hedge unharmed;
but that was probably because they felt so certain of cutting him off at
their pleasure.

On tiptoe and trembling went the General along the narrow paths, green
with damp, and latticed by the shadows which branches cast in the sickly
moonlight, until--just when he was almost clear of the gloom--his knees
bent under him; for there, at the end of the walk, against the starry
sky, stood a towering figure, with bristling feather head-dress, and
tomahawk poised.

'Oh, please, sir, don't!' he faltered, and shut his eyes, expecting the
Indian to bound upon him. But when he opened his eyes again, the savage
was gone! He must have slipped behind a ragged old yew which had once
been clipped and trimmed to look like a chess-king.

Clarence Tinling tottered on through the shrubbery, which was full of
terrors. Warriors, stealthy and cruel, lurked behind every rustling
laurel; far away on the lawn he saw their spears through the tall pampas
grass; he heard them chirping, clucking, and grunting in every direction
as they lay in wait for him, until at last he gained the broad gravel
path, at the end of which--oh, how far away they seemed!--were the
three lighted windows of the drawing-room. He could see the interior
quite plainly, and the group round the piano where the shaded lamp made
a spot of brilliant colour. What were they all doing? Were they huddled
together, waiting, watching in an agony of suspense? Nothing of the
kind: it will be scarcely credited, perhaps, but this heartless domestic
circle were positively passing the time with music, as if nothing were
happening!

If only he could reach that bright drawing-room before the rush came! He
felt that there were lithe forms stealing along behind the flower-beds.
He dared not run, but dragged his heavy feet along the gravel; and then,
all at once, from the rhododendron bushes rose a wild, unearthly yell.
He could bear it no longer; he would make one last effort, even if they
tomahawked him on the very verandah.

Somehow--he never knew how--he found himself in the midst of that quiet
musical party, wild with terror, scarcely able to speak.

'The Red Indians!' he gasped. 'Don't let them get me! Save me--hide me
somewhere!' and he remembered afterwards that he made a mad endeavour to
get inside the piano.

He was instantly surrounded by the astonished family. 'My dear
Clarence,' said Mrs. Jolliffe, 'you're perfectly safe--you've been
frightening yourself with your own game. There are no Indians here.'

Another howl from the shrubbery seemed to contradict her. 'There,
didn't you hear that?' he cried. 'Oh, you won't believe me till it's too
late! There are hundreds of them round the stockade. They may have
scalped Jack and Guy by this time!'

'And why ain't you being scalped too?' inquired Uncle Lambert.

'I'm sure you needn't talk!' he retorted; 'you weren't any more anxious
to fight than I am.'

'But isn't that different? I thought you had fought them before, and
conquered?'

'Then you thought wrong! Those--those weren't real Indians--I made them
up, then!'

'Now we've got it!' said Uncle Lambert. 'Well, Master Clarence, you've
made your little confession, and now it's my turn--_I_ made Yellow
Vulture up!'

'Are you sure--really sure--on your honour?' he asked eagerly.

'Honest Injun!' said Lambert. 'You see, I began to think the military
business was getting rather overdone; the army, like Wordsworth's world,
was "too much with us," and it occurred to me to see whether the
General's courage would stand an outside test--so I composed that little
challenge. Yes, you see before you the only Wah Na Sa Pash Boo--no
others are genuine!'

Tinling felt that those girls were laughing at him; they had probably
been in the secret for some time; but he could not care much just
then--the relief was so delicious!

'It was too bad of you, Lambert,' said Mrs. Jolliffe. 'He was really
horribly frightened, and there are those other two down in the stockade
all alone--you might have thought of that--they will be half out of
their minds by this time!'

'My dear Cecilia,' was the reply,'don't be uneasy, I _did_ think of it.
The moment they begin to feel at all uncomfortable they have directions
to open a certain packet which explains the whole thing. If the gallant
General had not been in quite such a hurry, he would have spared himself
this unpleasant experience.'

'Let's all go down, and see how they're getting on,' said Hazel.

'I know this,' said the General sullenly, 'they were in quite as big a
funk as I was!'

'Then why didn't they run in, and ask to be hidden too?' inquired
Hilary.

'Why? Because they didn't dare!' retorted Tinling, boldly.

'You know,' he remarked to Cecily, as they were going down together
through the warm darkness, 'it's not fair of your uncle to play these
tricks on fellows.'

'Perhaps it isn't quite,' said Cecily, impartially; 'but then he didn't
_begin_, did he?'

'Ahoy!' shouted Uncle Lambert, as they neared the stockade, and he was
answered by a ringing cheer from the fortress.

'Come on--we ain't afraid of you! Don't skulk there--see what you'll
get!' And a volley of peas, corks, and small shot flew about their ears.

Lambert Jolliffe ran forward: 'Hi, stop that! spare our lives!' he
cried, laughing. 'Jack, you young rascal, put down that confounded
popgun--can't you see we're not Red Indians?'

'What, is it you, uncle?' said Guy, in a rather crestfallen tone. 'Where
are the Red Indians then?'

'They had to go up to town to see their dentist. But do you mean to say
you haven't opened my envelope after all?'

'I thought you told us it was only in case we got frightened?' said
Jack.

'What does the General say to _that_?' cried Lambert--but Clarence
Tinling was nowhere to be found. He had slipped off to his bedroom, and
the next morning he announced at breakfast that he 'thought his people
would be wanting him at home.'

So the army was disbanded, for there was a general disarmament, and on
the afternoon after Tinling's departure the entire Jolliffe family
engaged in a grand cricket match, when lazy Uncle Lambert came out
unexpectedly strong as an overhand bowler.




_SHUT OUT_


It is towards the end of an afternoon in December, and Wilfred Rolleston
is walking along a crowded London street with his face turned westward.
A few moments ago and he was scarcely conscious of where he was or where
he meant to go: he was walking on mechanically in a heavy stupor,
through which there stole a haunting sense of degradation and despair
that tortured him dully. And suddenly, as if by magic, this has
vanished: he seems to himself to have waked from a miserable day dream
to the buoyant consciousness of youth and hope. Temperaments which are
subject to fits of heavy and causeless depression have their
compensations sometimes in the reaction which follows; the infesting
cares, as in Longfellow's poem, 'fold their tents, like the Arabs, and
as silently steal away,' and with their retreat comes an exquisite
exhilaration which more equable dispositions can never experience.

Is this so with Rolleston now? He only knows that the cloud has lifted
from his brain, and that in the clear sunshine which bursts upon him now
he can look his sorrows in the face and know that there is nothing so
terrible in them after all.

It is true that he is not happy at the big City day school which he has
just left. How should he be? He is dull and crabbed and uncouth, and
knows too well that he is an object of general dislike; no one there
cares to associate with him, and he makes no attempt to overcome their
prejudices, being perfectly aware that they are different from him, and
hating them for it, but hating himself, perhaps, the most.

And though all his evenings are spent at home there is little rest for
him even there, for the work for the next day must be prepared; and he
sits over it till late, sometimes with desperate efforts to master the
difficulties, but more often staring at the page before him with eyes
that are almost wilfully vacant.

All this has been and is enough in itself to account for the gloomy
state into which he had sunk. But--and how could he have forgotten
it?--it is over for the present.

To-night he will not have to sit up struggling with the tasks which will
only cover him with fresh disgrace on the morrow; for a whole month he
need not think of them, nor of the classes in which the hand of everyone
is against him. For the holidays have begun; to-day has been the last of
the term. Is there no reason for joy and thankfulness in that? What a
fool he has been to let those black thoughts gain such a hold over him!

Slowly, more as if it had all happened a long time ago instead of quite
recently, the incidents of the morning come back to him, vivid and clear
once more--morning chapel and the Doctor's sermon, and afterwards the
pretence of work and relaxed discipline in the class rooms, when the
results of the examinations had been read out, with the names of the
boys who had gained prizes and their remove to the form above. He had
come out last of course, but no one expected anything else from him; a
laugh had gone round the desks when his humble total closed the list,
and he had joined in it to show them he didn't care. And then the class
had been dismissed, and there had been friendly good-byes, arrangements
for walking home in company or for meeting during the holidays--for all
but him; he had gone out alone--and the dull blankness had come over him
from which he has only just recovered.

But, for the present at all events, he has got rid of it completely; he
is going home, where at least he is not despised, where he will find a
sanctuary from gibes and jostlings and impositions; and the longer he
thinks of this the higher his spirits rise, and he steps briskly, with a
kind of exultation, until the people he passes in the streets turn and
look at him, struck by his expression. 'They can see how jolly I'm
feeling,' he thinks with a smile.

The dusk is falling, and the shops he passes are brilliant with lights
and decorations, but he does not stop to look at any of them; his mind
is busy with settling how he shall employ himself on this the first
evening of his liberty, the first for so long on which he could feel his
own master.

At first he decides to read. Is there not some book he had begun and
meant to finish, so many days ago now that he has even forgotten what it
was all about, and only remembers that it was exciting?

And yet, he thinks, he won't read to-night--not on the very first night
of the holidays. Quite lately--yesterday or the day before--his mother
had spoken to him, gently but very seriously, about what she called the
morose and savage fits which would bring misery upon him if he did not
set himself earnestly to overcome them.

And there were times, he knew, when it seemed as if a demon possessed
him and drove him to wound even those who loved him and whom he
loved--times when their affection only roused in him some hideous spirit
of sullen contradiction.

He feels softened now somehow, and has a new longing for the love he has
so often harshly repulsed. He _will_ overcome this sulkiness of his; he
will begin this very evening; as soon as he gets home he will tell his
mother that he is sorry, that he does love her really, only that when
these fits come on him he hardly knows what he says or does.

And she will forgive him, only too gladly; and his mind will be quite at
ease again. No, not quite; there is still something he must do before
that: he has a vague recollection of a long-standing coolness between
himself and his younger brother, Lionel. They never have got on very
well together; Lionel is so different--much cleverer even already, for
one thing; better looking too, and better tempered. Whatever they
quarrelled about Wilfred is very sure that he was the offender; Lionel
never begins that kind of thing. But he will put himself in the right at
once, and ask Lionel to make friends again; he will consent readily
enough--he always does.

And then he has a bright idea: he will take his brother some little
present to prove that he really wishes to behave decently for the
future. What shall he buy?

He finds himself near a large toy shop at the time, and in the window
are displayed several regiments of brightly coloured tin warriors--the
very thing! Lionel is still young enough to delight in them.

Feeling in his pockets, Rolleston discovers more loose silver than he
had thought he possessed, and so he goes into the shop and asks for one
of the boxes of soldiers. He is served by one of two neatly dressed
female assistants, who stare and giggle at one another at his first
words, finding it odd, perhaps, that a fellow of his age should buy
toys--as if, he thinks indignantly, they couldn't see that it was not
for _himself_ he wanted the things.

But he goes on, feeling happier after his purchase. They will see now
that he is not so bad after all. It is long since he has felt such a
craving to be thought well of by somebody.

A little farther on he comes to a row of people, mostly women and
tradesmen's boys, standing on the curb stone opposite a man who is
seated in a little wooden box on wheels drawn up close to the pavement.
He is paralytic and blind, with a pinched white face framed in an
old-fashioned fur cap with big ear lappets; he seems to be preaching or
reading, and Rolleston stops idly enough to listen for a few moments,
the women making room for him with alacrity, and the boys staring
curiously round at the new arrival with a grin.

He hardly pays much attention to this; he is listening to the poem which
the man in the box is reciting with a nasal and metallic snuffle in his
voice:


     There's a harp _and_ a crown,
       For you and _for_ me,
     Hanging on the boughs
       Of that Christmas tree!


He hears, and then hurries on again, repeating the stanza mechanically
to himself, without seeing anything particularly ludicrous about it. The
words have reminded him of that Christmas party at the Gordons', next
door. Did not Ethel Gordon ask him particularly to come, and did he not
refuse her sullenly? What a brute he was to treat her like that! If she
were to ask him again, he thinks he would not say no, though he does
hate parties.

Ethel is a dear girl, and never seems to think him good-for-nothing, as
most people do. Perhaps it is sham though--no, he can't think that when
he remembers how patiently and kindly she has borne with his senseless
fits of temper and tried to laugh away his gloom.

Not every girl as pretty as Ethel is would care to notice him, and
persist in it in spite of everything; yet he has sulked with her of
late. Was it because she had favoured Lionel? He is ashamed to think
that this may have been the reason.

Never mind, that is all over now; he will start clear with everybody. He
will ask Ethel, too, to forgive him. Is there nothing he can do to
please her? Yes some time ago she had asked him to draw something for
her. (He detests drawing lessons, but he has rather a taste for drawing
things out of his own head.) He had told her, not too civilly, that he
had work enough without doing drawings for girls. He will paint her
something to-night as a surprise; he will begin as soon as tea is
cleared away; it will be more sociable than reading a book.

And then already he sees a vision of the warm little panelled room, and
himself getting out his colour-box and sitting down to paint by
lamp-light--for any light does for his kind of colouring--while his
mother sits opposite and Lionel watches the picture growing under his
hand.

What shall he draw? He gets quite absorbed in thinking over this; his
own tastes run in a gory direction, but perhaps Ethel, being a girl, may
not care for battles or desperate duels. A compromise strikes him; he
will draw a pirate ship: that will be first rate, with the black flag
flying on the mainmast, and the pirate captain on the poop scouring the
ocean with a big glass in search of merchantmen; all about the deck and
rigging he can put the crew, with red caps, and belts stuck full of
pistols and daggers.

And on the right there shall be a bit of the pirate island, with a mast
and another black flag--he knows he will enjoy picking out the skull and
cross-bones in thick Chinese white--and then, if there is room, he will
add a cannon, and perhaps a palm tree. A pirate island always has palm
trees.

He is so full of this projected picture of his that he is quite
surprised to find that he is very near the square where he lives; but
here, just in front of him, at the end of the narrow lane, is the
public-house with the coach and four engraved on the ground glass of the
lower part of the window, and above it the bottles full of coloured
water.

And here is the greengrocer's. How long is it since it was a
barber's?--surely a very little time. And there is the bootmaker's, with
its outside display of dangling shoes, and the row of naked gas jets
blown to pale blue specks and whistling red tongues by turns as a gust
sweeps across them.

This is his home, this little dingy, old-fashioned red-brick house at an
angle of the square, with a small paved space railed in before it. He
pushes open the old gate with the iron arch above, where an oil-lamp
used to hang, and hurries up to the door with the heavy shell-shaped
porch, impatient to get to the warmth and light which await him within.

The bell has got out of order, for only a faint jangle comes from below
as he rings; he waits a little and then pulls the handle again, more
sharply this time, and still no one comes.

When Betty does think proper to come up and open the door he will tell
her that it is too bad keeping a fellow standing out here, in the fog
and cold, all this time.... She is coming at last--no, it was fancy; it
seems as if Betty had slipped out for something, and perhaps the cook is
upstairs, and his mother may be dozing by the fire, as she has begun to
do of late.

Losing all patience, he gropes for the knocker, and, groping in vain,
begins to hammer with bare fists on the door, louder and louder, until
he is interrupted by a rough voice from the railings behind him.

'Now then, what are you up to there, eh?' says the voice, which belongs
to a burly policeman who has stopped suspiciously on the pavement.

'Why,' says Rolleston, 'I want to get in, and I can't make them hear me.
I wish you'd try what you can do, will you?'

The policeman comes slowly in to the gate. 'I dessay,' he says
jocularly. 'Is there anythink else? Come, suppose you move on.'

A curious kind of dread of he knows not what begins to creep over
Wilfred at this.

'Move on?' he cries, '_why_ should I move on? This is my house; don't
you see? I live here.'

'Now look 'ere, my joker, I don't want a job over this,' says the
constable, stolidly. 'You'll bring a crowd round in another minute if
you keep on that 'ammering.'

'Mind your own business,' says the other with growing excitement.

'That's what you'll make me do if you don't look out,' is the retort.
'Will you move on before I make you?'

'But, I say,' protests Rolleston, 'I'm not joking; I give you my word
I'm not. I do live here. Why, I've just come back from school, and I
can't get in.'

'Pretty school _you_ come from!' growls the policeman; ''andles on to
_your_ lesson books, if _I_ knows anything. 'Ere, out you go!'

Rolleston's fear increases. 'I won't! I won't!' he cries frantically,
and rushing back to the door beats upon it wildly. On the other side of
it are love and shelter, and it will not open to him. He is cold and
hungry and tired after his walk; why do they keep him out like this?

'Mother!' he calls hoarsely. 'Can't you hear me, mother? It's Wilfred;
let me in!'

The other takes him, not roughly, by the shoulder. 'Now you take my
advice,' he says. 'You ain't quite yourself; you're making a mistake. I
don't want to get you in trouble if you don't force me to it. Drop this
'ere tomfool game and go home quiet to wherever it is you _do_ live.'

'I tell you I live here, you fool!' shrieks Wilfred, in deadly terror
lest he should be forced away before the door is opened.

'And I tell you you don't do nothing of the sort,' says the policeman,
beginning to lose his temper. 'No one don't live 'ere, nor ain't done
not since I've bin on the beat. Use your eyes if you're not too far
gone.'

For the first time Rolleston seems to see things plainly as they are; he
glances round the square--that is just as it always is on foggy winter
evenings, with its central enclosure a shadowy black patch against a
reddish glimmer, beyond which the lighted windows of the houses make
yellow bars of varying length and tint.

But this house, his own--why, it is all shuttered and dark; some of the
window panes are broken; there is a pale grey patch in one that looks
like a dingy bill; the knocker has been unscrewed from the door, and on
its scraped panels someone has scribbled words and rough caricatures
that were surely not there when he left that morning.

Can anything--any frightful disaster--have come in that short time? No,
he will not think of it; he will not let himself be terrified, all for
nothing.

'Now, are you goin'?' says the policeman after a pause.

Rolleston puts his back against the door and clings to the sides. 'No!'
he shouts. 'I don't care what you say; I don't believe you: they are all
in there--they are, I tell you, they are--they _are_!'

In a second he is in the constable's strong grasp and being dragged,
struggling violently, to the gate, when a soft voice, a woman's,
intercedes for him.

'What is the matter? Oh, don't--don't be so rough with him, poor
creature!' it cries pitifully.

'I'm only exercisin' my duty, mum,' says the officer; 'he wants to
create a disturbance 'ere.'

'No,' cries Wilfred, 'he lies! I only want to get into my own house, and
no one seems to hear me. _You_ don't think anything is the matter, do
you?'

It is a lady who has been pleading for him; as he wrests himself from
his captor and comes forward she sees his face, and her own grows white
and startled.

'Wilfred!' she exclaims.

'Why, you know my name!' he says. 'Then you can tell him it's all
right. Do I know you? You speak like--is it--_Ethel_?'

'Yes,' she says, and her voice is low and trembling, 'I am Ethel.'

He is silent for an instant; then he says slowly, 'You are not the
same--nothing is the same: it is all changed--changed--and oh, my God,
what am _I_?'

Slowly the truth is borne in upon his brain, muddled and disordered by
long excess, and the last shred of the illusion which had possessed him
drifts away.

He knows now that his boyhood, with such possibilities of happiness as
it had ever held, has gone for ever. He has been knocking at a door
which will open for him never again, and the mother by whose side his
evening was to have been passed died long long years ago.

The past, blotted out completely for an hour by some freak of the
memory, comes back to him, and he sees his sullen, morbid boyhood
changing into something worse still, until by slow degrees he became
what he is now--dissipated, degraded, lost.

At first the shock, the awful loneliness he awakes to, and the shame of
being found thus by the woman for whom he had felt the only pure love he
had known, overwhelm him utterly, and he leans his head upon his arms as
he clutches the railings, and sobs with a grief that is terrible in its
utter abandonment.

The very policeman is silent and awed by what he feels to be a scene
from the human tragedy, though he may not be able to describe it to
himself by any more suitable phrase than 'a rum start.'

'You can go now, policeman,' says the lady, putting money in his hand.
'You see I know this--this gentleman. Leave him to me; he will give you
no trouble now.'

And the constable goes, taking care, however, to keep an eye
occasionally on the corner where this has taken place. He has not gone
long before Rolleston raises his head with a husky laugh: his manner has
changed now; he is no longer the boy in thought and expression that he
was a short time before, and speaks as might be expected from his
appearance.

'I remember it all now,' he says. 'You are Ethel Gordon, of course you
are, and you wouldn't have anything to do with me--and quite right
too--and then you married my brother Lionel. You see I'm as clear as a
bell again now. So you came up and found me battering at the old door,
eh? Do you know, I got the fancy I was a boy again and coming home
to--bah, what does all that matter? Odd sort of fancy though, wasn't it?
Drink is always playing me some cursed trick now. A pretty fool I must
have made of myself!'

She says nothing, and he thrusts his hands deep in his ragged pockets.
'Hallo! what's this I've got?' he says, as he feels something at the
bottom of one of them, and, bringing out the box of soldiers he had
bought half an hour before, he holds it up with a harsh laugh which has
the ring of despair in it.

'Do you see this?' he says to her. 'You'll laugh when I tell you it's a
toy I bought just now for--guess whom--for your dear husband! Must have
been pretty bad, mustn't I? Shall I give it to you to take to him--no?
Well, perhaps he has outgrown such things now, so here goes!' and he
pitches the box over the railings, and it falls with a shiver of broken
glass as the pieces of painted tin rattle out upon the flag-stones.

'And now I'll wish you good evening,' he says, sweeping off his battered
hat with mock courtesy.

She tries to keep him back. 'No, Wilfred, no; you must not go like that.
We live here still, Lionel and I, in the same old house,' and she
indicates the house next door; 'he will be home very soon. Will you'
(she cannot help a little shudder at the thought of such a guest)--'will
you come in and wait for him?'

'Throw myself into his arms, eh?' he says. 'How delighted he would be!
I'm just the sort of brother to be a credit to a highly respectable
young barrister like him. You really think he'd like it? No; it's all
right, Ethel; don't be alarmed: I was only joking. I shall never come in
your way, I promise you. I'm just going to take myself off.'

'Don't say that,' she says (in spite of herself she feels relieved);
'tell me--is there nothing we can do--no help we can give you?'

'Nothing,' he answers fiercely; 'I don't want your pity. Do you think I
can't see that you wouldn't touch me with the tongs if you could help
it? It's too late to snivel over me now, and I'm well enough as I am.
You leave me alone to go to the devil my own way; it's all I ask of you.
Good-bye. It's Christmas, isn't it? I haven't dreamed _that_ at all
events. Well, I wish you and Lionel as merry a Christmas as I mean to
have. I can't say more than that in the way of enjoyment.'

He turns on his heel at the last words and slouches off down the narrow
lane by which he had come. Ethel Rolleston stands for a while, looking
after his receding form till the fog closes round it and she can see it
no more. She feels as if she had seen a ghost; and for her at least the
enclosure before the deserted house next door will be haunted
evermore--haunted by a forlorn and homeless figure sobbing there by the
railings.

As for the man, he goes on his way until he finds a door
which--alas!--is not closed against him.




_TOMMY'S HERO_

A STORY FOR SMALL BOYS


It was the night after Tommy had been taken to his first pantomime, and
he had been lying asleep in his little bedroom (for now that he was nine
he slept in the night nursery no longer); he had been asleep, when he
was suddenly awakened by a brilliant red glare. At first he was afraid
the house was on fire, but when the red turned to a dazzling green, he
gave a great gasp of delight, for he thought the transformation scene
was still going on. 'And there's all the best part still to come,' he
said to himself.

But as he became wider awake, he saw that it was out of the question to
expect his bedroom to hold all those wonders, and he was almost
surprised to see that there was even so much as a single fairy in it. A
fairy there was, nevertheless; she stood there with a star in her hair,
and her dress shimmering out all around her, just as he had seen her a
few hours before, when she rose up, with little jerks, inside a great
gilded shell, and spoke some poetry, which he didn't quite catch.

She spoke audibly enough now, nor was her voice so squeaky as it had
sounded before. 'Little boy,' she began, 'I am the ruling genius of
Pantomime Fairyland. You entered my kingdom for the first time last
night--how did you enjoy yourself?'

'Oh,' said Tommy, '_so_ much; it was splendid, thank you!'

She smiled and seemed well pleased. 'I always call to inquire on a new
acquaintance,' she said. 'And so you liked our realms, as every sensible
boy does? Well, Tommy, it is in my power to reward you; every night for
a certain time you shall see again the things you liked best. What _did_
you like best?'

'The clown part,' said Tommy, promptly.

For it ought to be said here that he was a boy who had always had a
leaning to the kind of practical fun which he saw carried out by the
clown to a pitch of perfection which at once enchanted and humbled him.
Till that harlequinade, he had thought himself a funny boy in his way,
and it had surprised him that his family had not found him more amusing
than they did; but now he felt all at once that he was only a very
humble beginner, and had never understood what real fun was.

For he had not soared much above hiding behind doors, and popping out
suddenly on a passing servant, causing her to 'jump' delightfully; once,
indeed, he used to be able to 'sell' his family by pretending all
manner of calamities, but they had grown so stupid lately that they
never believed a single word he said.

No, the clown would not own him as a follower: he would despise his
little attempts at practical jokes. 'Still,' thought Tommy, 'I can try
to be more like him; perhaps he will come to hear of me some day!'

For he had never met anyone he admired half so much as that clown, who
was always in a good temper (to be sure he had everything his own
way--but then he deserved to), always quick and ready with his excuses;
and if he did run away in times of danger, it was not because he was
really afraid! Then how deliciously impudent he was to shopkeepers! Who
but he would have dared to cheapen a large fish by making a door mat of
it, or to ask the prices of cheeses on purpose to throw mud at them? Not
that he couldn't be serious when he chose--for once he unfurled a Union
Jack and said something quite noble, which made everybody clap their
hands for two minutes; and he told people the best shops to go to for a
quantity of things, and he could not have been joking _then_, for they
were the same names that were to be seen on all the hoardings.

This will explain how it was natural that Tommy, on being asked which
part of the pantomime he preferred, should say, without the slightest
hesitation, 'Oh, the _clown_ part!'

The fairy seemed less pleased. 'The clown part!' she repeated. 'What,
those shop scenes tacked on right at the end without rhyme or reason?'

'Yes,' said Tommy, 'those ones!'

'And the great wood with the shifting green and violet lights, and the
white bands of fairies dancing in circles--didn't you like them?'

'Oh yes,' said the candid Tommy; 'pretty well. I didn't care much for
them.'

'Well,' she said, 'but you liked the grand processions, with all their
gorgeous dresses and monstrous figures, surely you liked _them_?'

'There was such a lot of it,' said Tommy. 'The clown was the best.'

'And if you could, you'd rather see those last scenes again than all the
rest?' she said, frowning a little.

'Oh, wouldn't I just!' said Tommy; 'but may I--really and truly?'

'I see you are not one of _my_ boys,' said the Genius of Pantomime,
rather sadly. 'It so happens that those closing scenes are the very ones
I have least control over--they are a part of my kingdom which has
fallen into sad decay and rebellion. But one thing, O Tommy, I _can_ do
for you. I will give you the clown for a friend and companion--and much
good may he do you!'

'But would he _come_?' he asked, hardly daring to believe in such
condescension.

'He must, if _I_ bid him; it is for you to make him feel comfortable
and at home with you;--the longer you can keep him the better I shall be
pleased.'

'Oh, _how_ kind of you!' he cried; 'he shall stay all the holidays. I'd
rather have him than anybody else. What fun we shall have--what fun!'

The green fire faded out and the fairy with it. He must have fallen
asleep again, for, when he opened his eyes, there was the clown at the
foot of his bed making a face.

''Ullo!' said the clown; 'I say, are you the nice little boy I was told
to come and stay with?'

'Yes, yes,' said Tommy; 'I am so glad to see you. I'm just going to get
up.'

'I know you are,' said the clown, and upset him out of bed into the cold
bath.

This he could not help thinking a little bit unkind of the clown on such
a cold morning, particularly as he followed it up by throwing a
hair-brush, two pieces of soap, and a pair of shoes at him before he
could get out again.

But it woke him, at all events, and he ventured (with great respect) to
throw one of the shoes back; it just grazed the clown's top-knot.

To Tommy's alarm, the clown set up a hullaballoo as if he was mortally
injured.

'You cruel, unkind little boy,' he sobbed, 'to play so rough with a poor
clown!'

'But you threw them at me first,' pleaded Tommy, 'and much harder,
too!'

'I'm the oldest,' said the clown, 'and you've got to make me feel at
home, or I shall go away again.'

'I won't do it again, and I'm very sorry,' pleaded Tommy; but the clown
wouldn't be friends with him for ever so long, and was only appeased at
last by being allowed to put Tommy upside down in a tall wicker basket
which stood in a corner.

Then he helped Tommy to dress by buttoning all his clothes the wrong
way, and hiding his stockings and necktie. While he was doing this,
Sarah, the under-nurse, came in, and he strutted up to her and began to
dance quietly. 'Go away, imperence,' said Sarah.

'Beautiful gal,' said the clown (though Sarah was extremely plain), 'I
love yer!' and he put out his tongue and wagged his head at her until
she ran out of the room in terror.

He looked so absurd that Tommy was delighted with him again, and yet,
when the bell rang for breakfast, he felt obliged to give his new friend
a hint.

'I say,' he said, 'you don't mind my telling you--but mother's very
particular about manners at table;' but the clown relieved him instantly
by saying that so was he--_very_ particular; and he slid down the
banisters and turned somersaults in the hall until Tommy joined him.

'I do hope father and mother won't be unkind to him,' he thought, as he
went in, 'because he does seem to feel things so.'

But nothing could be more polite than the welcome Tommy's parents gave
the stranger, as he came in, bowing very low, and making a queer little
skipping step. Tommy's mother said she was always glad to see any friend
of her boy's, while his father begged the clown to make himself quite at
home. All _he_ said was, 'I'm disgusted to make your acquaintance;' but
he certainly made himself at home--in fact, he was not quite so
particular about his manners as he had led Tommy to expect.

He volunteered to divide the sausages and bacon himself, and did so in
such a way that everybody else got very little and he himself got a
great deal. If it had been anybody else, Tommy would certainly have
called this 'piggish'; as it was, he tried to think it was all fun, and
that he himself had no particular appetite.

His cousin Barbara, a little girl of about his own age, was staying with
them just then, and came down presently to breakfast. 'Oh, my!' said the
clown, laying a great red hand on his heart, 'what a nice little gal you
are, ain't yer? Come and sit by me, my dear!'

'No, thank you; I'm going to sit by Aunt Mary,' she replied, looking
rather shy and surprised.

'Allow me, missy,' he persisted, 'to pass you the strawberry-jam and
the muffins!'

'I'll have some jam, thank you,' she replied.

He looked round and chuckled. 'Oh, I say; that little gal said "thank
you" before she got it!' he exclaimed. 'There ain't no muffins, and I've
eaten all the jam!' which made Tommy choke with laughter.

Barbara flushed. 'That's a very stupid joke,' she pronounced severely,
'and rude, too; it's a pity you weren't taught to behave better when you
were young.'

'So I was!' said the clown, with his mouth full.

'Then you've forgotten it,' she said; 'you're nothing but a big baby,
that you are!'

'Yah!' retorted the clown; 'so are _you_ a big baby!' which, as even
Tommy saw, was not a very brilliant reply. It was a singular fact about
the clown that the slightest check seemed to take away all his
brilliancy.

'You know you're not telling the truth now,' said Barbara, so
contemptuously, that the clown began to weep bitterly. 'She says I don't
speak the truth!' he complained, 'and she _knows_ it will be my aunt's
birthday last Toosday!'

'You great silly thing, what has that to do with it?' cried Barbara,
indignantly. 'What _is_ there to cry about?' which very nearly made
Tommy quarrel with her, for why couldn't she be polite to _his_ friend?

However, the clown soon dried his eyes on the tablecloth, and recovered
his cheerfulness; and presently he noticed the _Times_ lying folded by
Tommy's papa's plate.

'Oh, I say, mister,' he said, 'shall I air the newspaper for yer?'

'Thank you, if you will,' was the polite reply.

He shook it all out in one great sheet and wrapped it round him, and
waddled about in it until Tommy nearly rolled off his seat with delight.

'When you've _quite_ done with it----' his father was saying mildly, as
the clown made a great hole in the middle and thrust his head out of it
with a bland smile.

'I'm only just looking through it,' he explained; 'you can have it now,'
and he rolled it up in a tight ball and threw it at his host's head.

Breakfast was certainly not such a dull meal as usual that morning,
Tommy thought; but he wished his people would show a little more
appreciation, instead of sitting there all stiff and surprised; he was
afraid the clown would feel discouraged.

When his papa undid the ball, the paper was found to be torn into long
strips, which delighted Tommy; but his father, on the other hand, seemed
annoyed, possibly because it was not so easy to read in that form.
Meanwhile, the clown busied himself in emptying the butter-dish into his
pockets, and this did shock the boy a little, for he knew it was not
polite to pocket things at meals, and wondered how he could be so nasty.

Breakfast was over at last, and the clown took Tommy's arm and walked
upstairs to the first floor with him.

'Who's in there?' he asked, as they passed the spare bedroom.

'Granny,' said the boy; 'she's staying with us; only she always has
breakfast in her room, you know.'

'Why, you don't mean to say you've got a granny!' cried the clown, with
joy; 'you are a nice little boy; now we'll have some fun with her.'
Tommy felt doubtful whether she could be induced to join them so early
in the morning, and said so. 'You knock, and say you've got a present
for her if she'll come out,' suggested the clown.

'But I haven't,' objected Tommy; 'wouldn't that be a story?' He had
unaccountably forgotten his old fondness for 'sells.'

'Of course it would,' said the clown; 'I'm always a tellin' of 'em, I
am.'

Tommy was shocked once more, as he realised that his friend was not a
_truthful_ clown. But he knocked at the door, nevertheless, and asked
his grandmother to come out and see a friend of his.

'Wait one minute, my boy,' she answered, 'and I'll come out.'

Tommy was surprised to see his companion preparing to lie, face
downwards, on the mat just outside the door.

'Get up,' he said; 'you'll trip grandma up if you stay there.'

'That's what I'm doing it for, stoopid,' said the clown.

'But it will hurt her,' he cried.

'Nothing hurts old women,' said the clown; 'I've tripped up 'undreds of
'em, and I ought to know.'

'Well, you shan't trip up my granny, anyhow,' said Tommy, stoutly; for
he was not a bad-hearted boy, and his grandmother had given him a
splendid box of soldiers on Christmas Day. 'Don't come out, granny; it's
a mistake,' he shouted.

The clown rose with a look of disgust.

'Do you call this actin' like a friend to me?' he demanded.

'Well,' said Tommy, apologetically, 'she's my granny, you see.'

'She ain't _my_ granny, and, if she was, I'd let you trip her up, I
would; _I_ ain't selfish. I shan't stop with you any longer.'

'Oh, do,' said Tommy; 'we'll go and play somewhere else.'

'Well,' said the clown, relenting, 'if you're a good boy you shall see
me make a butter-slide in the hall.'

Then Tommy saw how he had wronged him in thinking he had pocketed the
butter out of mere greediness, and he felt ashamed and penitent; the
clown made a beautiful slide, though Tommy wished he would not insist
upon putting all the butter that was left down his back.

'There's a ring at the bell,' said the clown; 'I'll open the door, and
you hide and see the fun.'

So Tommy hid himself round a corner as the door opened.

'Walk in, sir,' said the clown, politely.

'Master Tommy in?' said a jolly, hearty voice. It was dear old Uncle
John, who had taken him to the pantomime the night before. 'I thought
I'd look in and see if he would care to come with me to the
Crystal----oh!' And there was a scuffling noise and a heavy bump.

Tommy ran out, full of remorse. Uncle John was sitting on the tiles
rubbing his head, and, oddly enough, did not look at all funny.

'Oh, uncle,' cried the boy, 'you're not hurt? I didn't know it was you!'

'I'm a bit shaken, my boy, that's all,' said his uncle; 'one doesn't
come down like a feather at my age.' And he picked himself slowly up.
'Well, I must get home again,' he said; 'no Crystal Palace to-day,
Tommy, after this. Good-bye.'

And he went slowly out, leaving Tommy with the feeling that he had had
enough of slides. He even wiped the flooring clean again with a
waterproof and the clothes-brush, though the clown (who had been hiding)
tried to prevent him.

'We ain't 'ad 'arf the fun out of it yet!' he complained (he always
spoke in rather a common way, as Tommy began to notice with pain).

'I've had enough,' said Tommy. 'It was my Uncle John who slipped down
that time, and he's hurt, and he'd come to take me to the Crystal
Palace!'

'Well, he hadn't come to take _me_,' said the clown; 'you are stingy
about your relations, you are; you ain't 'arf a boy for a bit o' fun.'

Tommy felt this rebuke very much, he had hoped so to gain the clown's
esteem; but he would not give in, he only suggested humbly that they
should go up into the play-room.

The play-room was at the top of the house, and Barbara and two little
sisters of Tommy's were playing there when they came in, the clown
turning in his toes and making awful faces.

The two little girls ran into a corner, and seemed considerably
frightened by the stranger's appearance, but Barbara reassured them.

'Don't take any notice,' she said, 'it's only a horrid friend of
Tommy's. He won't interfere with _us_.'

'Oh, Barbara,' the boy protested, 'he's awfully nice if you only knew
him. He can make you laugh. Do let us play with you. He wants to, and he
won't be rough.'

'Do,' pleaded the clown, 'I'll behave so pretty!'

'Well,' said Barbara, 'mind you do, then, or you shan't stop.'

And for a little while he did behave himself. Tommy showed him his new
soldiers, and he seemed quite interested; and then he had a ride on the
rocking horse, and was sorry when it broke down under him; and after
that he came suddenly upon a beautiful doll which belonged to the
youngest sister.

'Do let me nurse it,' he said, and the little girl gave it up timidly.
Of course he nursed it the wrong way up, and at last he forgot, and sat
down on it, the head, which was wax, being crushed to pieces!

Tommy was in fits of laughter at the droll face he made as he held out
the crushed doll at arm's length, and looked at it with one eye shut,
exclaiming, 'Poor thing! what a pity! I do 'ope I 'aven't made its 'ead
ache!'

But the two little girls were crying bitterly in one another's arms, and
Barbara turned on the clown with tremendous indignation.

'You did it on purpose, you know you did!' she said.

'Go away, little girl; don't talk to me!' said the clown, putting Tommy
in front of him.

'Tommy,' she said, 'what did you bring your friend up here for? He only
spoils everything he's allowed to touch. Take him away!'

'Barbara,' pleaded Tommy, 'he's a _visitor_, you know!'

'I don't care,' she replied. 'Mr. Clown, you shan't stay here; this is
our room, and we don't want you. Go away!' She walked towards him
looking so fierce that he backed hastily. 'Go downstairs,' she said,
pointing to the door. 'You, too, Tommy, for you encouraged him!'

'Nyah, nyah, nyah!' said the clown, a sound by which he intended to
imitate her anger. 'Oh, please, I'm going; remember me to your mother.'
And he left the room, followed rather sadly by Tommy, who felt that
Barbara was angry with him. 'That's a very disagribble little girl,'
remarked the clown, confidentially, when they were safe outside, and
Tommy thought it wiser to agree.

'What have you got in your pockets?' he asked, presently, seeing a hard
bulge in his friend's white trunks.

'Only some o' your nice soldiers,' said the clown, and walked into the
schoolroom, where there was a fire burning. 'Are they brave?' he asked.

'Very,' said Tommy, who had quite persuaded himself that this was so.
'Look here, we'll have a battle.' He thought a battle would keep the
clown quiet. 'Here's two cannon and peas, and you shall be the French
and I'll be English.'

'All right,' said the clown, and took his share of the soldiers and
calmly put them all in the middle of the red-hot coals. 'I want to be
quite sure they can stand fire first,' he explained; and then, as they
melted, he said, 'There, you see, they're all running away. I never see
such cowards.'

Tommy was in a great rage, and could almost have cried, if it had not
been babyish, for they were his best regiments which he could see
dropping down in great glittering stars on the ashes below. 'That's a
caddish thing to do,' he said, with difficulty; 'I didn't give them to
you to put in the fire!'

'Oh, I thought you did,' said the clown, 'I beg your pardon;' and he
threw the rest after them as he spoke.

'You're a beast!' cried Tommy, indignantly; 'I've done with you, after
this.'

'Oh, no, yer ain't,' he returned.

'I have, though,' said Tommy; 'we're not friends any longer.'

'All right,' said the clown; 'when I'm not friends with any one, I take
and use the red-'ot poker to 'em,' and he put it in the fire to heat as
he spoke.

This terrified the boy. It was no use trying to argue with the clown,
and he had seen how he used a red-hot poker. 'Well, I'll forgive you
this time,' he said hastily; 'let's come away from here.'

'I tell you what,' said the clown, 'you and me'll go down in the kitchen
and make a pie.'

Tommy forgot his injuries at this delightful idea; he knew what the
clown's notion of pie-making would be. 'Yes,' he said eagerly, 'that
will be jolly; only I don't know,' he added doubtfully, 'if cook will
let us.'

However, the clown soon managed to secure the kitchen to himself; he had
merely to attempt to kiss the cook once or twice and throw the best
dinner service at the other servants, and they were left quite alone to
do as they pleased.

What fun it was, to begin with! The clown brought out a large deep dish,
and began by putting a whole turkey and an unskinned hare in it out of
the larder; after that he put in sausages, jam, pickled walnuts, and
lemons, and, in short, the first thing that came to hand.

'It ain't 'arf full yet,' he said at last, as he looked gravely into the
pie.

'No,' said Tommy, sympathetically, 'can't we get anything else to put
in?'

'The very thing,' cried the clown, 'you're just about the right size to
fill up--my! what a pie it's going to be, eh?' And he caught up his
young friend, just as he was, rammed him into the pie, and poured sauce
on him.

But he kicked and howled until the clown grew seriously displeased. 'Why
carn't you lay quiet,' he said angrily, 'like the turkey does? you don't
deserve to be put into such a nice pie!'

'If you make a pie of me,' said Tommy, artfully, 'there'll be nobody to
look on and laugh at you, you know!'

'No more there won't,' said the clown, and allowed him to crawl out,
all over sauce. 'It was a pity,' he declared, 'because he fitted so
nicely, and now they would have to look about for something else;' but
he contrived to make a shift with the contents of the cook's
work-basket, which he poured in--reels, pin-cushions, wax, and all. He
had tried to put the kitchen cat in too, but she scratched his hands and
could not be induced to form the finishing touch to the pie.

How the clown got the paste and rolled it, and made Tommy in a mess with
it, and how the pie was finished at last, would take too long to tell
here; but somehow it was not quite such capital fun as he had
expected--it seemed to want the pantomime music or something; and then
Tommy was always dreading lest the clown should change his mind at the
last minute, and put him in the pie after all.

Even when it was safely in the oven he had another fear lest he should
be made to stay and eat it, for it had such very peculiar things in it
that it could not be at all nice. Fortunately, as soon as it was put
away the clown seemed to weary of it himself.

'Let me and you go and take a walk,' he suggested.

Tommy caught at the proposal, for he was fast becoming afraid of the
clown, and felt really glad to get him out of the house; so he got his
cap, and the clown put on a brown overcoat and a tall hat, under which
his white and red face looked stranger than ever, and they sallied forth
together.

Once Tommy would have thought it a high privilege to be allowed to go
out shopping with a clown; but, if the plain truth must be told, he did
not enjoy himself so very much after all. People seemed to stare at them
so, for one thing, and he felt almost ashamed of his companion, whose
behaviour was outrageously ridiculous. They went to all the family
tradesmen, to whom Tommy was, of course, well known, and the clown
_would_ order the most impossible things, and say they were for Tommy!
Once he even pushed him into a large draper's shop, full of pretty and
contemptuous young ladies, and basely left him to explain his presence
as he could.

But it was worse when they happened to meet an Italian boy with a tray
of plaster images on his head.

'Here's a lark!' said the clown, and elbowed Tommy against him in such a
way that the tray slipped and all the images fell to the ground with a
crash.

It was certainly amusing to see all the pieces rolling about; but, while
Tommy was still laughing, the boy began to howl and denounce him to the
crowd which gathered round them. The crowd declared that it was a shame,
and that Tommy ought to be made to pay for it; and no one said so more
loudly and indignantly than the clown!

Before he could escape he had to give his father's name and address, and
promise that he would pay for the damage, after which he joined the
clown (who had strolled on) with a heavy heart, for he knew that that
business would stop all his pocket-money for years after he was grown
up! He even ventured to reproach his friend: 'I shan't sneak of you, of
course, he said, 'but you know _you_ did it!' The clown's only answer to
this was a reproof for telling wicked stories.

At last they passed a confectioner's, and the clown suddenly remembered
that he was hungry, so they went in, and he borrowed sixpence from
Tommy, which he spent in buns.

He ate them all himself slowly, and was so very quiet and well-behaved
all the time that Tommy hoped he was sobering down. They had gone a
little way from the shop when he found that the clown was eating tarts.

'You might give me one,' said Tommy; and the clown, after looking over
his shoulder, actually gave him all he had left, filling his pocket with
them, in fact.

'I never saw you buy them,' he said wonderingly, which the clown said
was very peculiar; and just then an attendant came up breathlessly.

'You forgot to pay for those tarts,' she said.

The clown replied that he never took pastry. She insisted that they
were gone, and he must have taken them.

'It wasn't me, please,' said the clown; 'it was this little boy done it.
Why, he's got a jam tart in his pocket now. Where's a policeman?'

Tommy was so thunderstruck by this treachery that he could say nothing.
It was only what he might have expected, for had not the clown served
the pantaloon exactly the same the night before? But that did not make
the situation any the funnier now, particularly as the clown made such a
noise that two real policemen came hurrying up.

Tommy did not wait for them. No one held him, and he ran away at the top
of his speed. What a nightmare sort of run it was!--the policemen
chasing him, and the clown urging them on at the top of his voice.
Everybody he passed turned round and ran after him too.

Still he kept ahead. He was surprised to find how fast he could run, and
all at once he remembered that he was running the opposite way from
home. Quick as thought he turned up the first street he came to, hoping
to throw them off the scent and get home by a back way.

For the moment he thought he had got rid of them; but just as he stopped
to take breath, they all came whooping and hallooing round the corner
after him; and he had to scamper on, panting, and sobbing, and
staggering, and almost out of his mind with fright. If he could only
get home first, and tell his mother! But they were gaining on him, and
the clown was leading and roaring with delight as he drew closer and
closer. He came to a point where two roads met. It was round another
corner, and they could not see him. He ran down one, and, to his immense
relief, found they had taken the other. He was saved, for his house was
quite near now.

He tried to hasten, but the pavement was all slushy and slippery, and
his boots felt heavier and heavier, and, to add to his misery, the
pursuers had found out their mistake. As he looked back, he could see
the clown galloping round the corner and hear his yell of discovery.

'Oh, fairy, dear fairy,' he gasped, 'save me this time. I _do_ like your
part best, now!'

She must have heard him and taken pity, for in a second he had reached
his door, and it flew open before him. He was not safe even yet, so he
rushed upstairs to his bedroom, and bounced, just as he was, into his
bed.

'If they come up I'll pretend I'm ill,' he thought, as he covered his
head with the bedclothes.

They _were_ coming up, all of them. There was a great trampling on the
stairs. He heard the clown officiously shouting: 'This way, Mr.
Policeman, sir!' and then a tremendous battering at his door.

He lay there shivering under the blankets.

'Perhaps they'll think the door's locked, and go away,' he tried to
hope, and the battering went on not quite so violently.

'Master Tommy! Master Tommy!' It was Sarah's voice. They had got her to
come up and tempt him out. Well, she _wouldn't_, then!

And then--oh! horror!--the door was thrown open. He sprang out of bed in
an agony.

'Sarah! Sarah! keep them out,' he gasped. 'Don't let them take me away!'

'Lor', Master Tommy! keep who out?' said Sarah, wonderingly.

'The--the clown--and the policemen,' he said. 'I know they're behind the
door.'

'There, there!' said Sarah; 'why, you ain't done dreaming yet. That's
what comes of going out to these late pantomimes. Rub your eyes; it's
nearly eight o'clock.'

Tommy could have hugged her. It was only a dream after all, then. As he
stood there, shivering in his nightgown, the nightmare clown began to
melt away, though even yet some of the adventures he had gone through
seemed too vivid to be quite imaginary.

       *       *       *       *       *

Singularly enough, his Uncle John actually did call that morning, and to
take him to the Crystal Palace, too; and as there was no butter-slide
for him to fall down on, they were able to go. On the way Tommy told him
all about his unpleasant dream.

'I shall always hate a clown after this, uncle,' he said, as he
concluded.

'My good Tommy,' said his uncle, 'when you are fortunate enough to dream
a dream with a moral in it, don't go and apply it the wrong way up. The
real clown, like a sensible man, keeps his fun for the place where it is
harmless and appreciated, and away from the pantomime conducts himself
like any other respectable person. Now, your _dream_ clown, Tommy----'

'I know,' said Tommy, meekly. 'Should you think the pantomime was good
here, Uncle John?'




_A CANINE ISHMAEL_

(FROM THE NOTES OF A DINER-OUT)


'Tell me,' she said suddenly, with a pretty imperiousness that seemed to
belong to her, 'are you fond of dogs?' How we arrived at the subject I
forget now, but I know she had just been describing how a collie at a
dog-show she had visited lately had suddenly thrown his forepaws round
her neck in a burst of affection--a proceeding which, in my own mind
(although I prudently kept this to myself), I considered less
astonishing than she appeared to do.

For I had had the privilege of taking her in to dinner, and the meal had
not reached a very advanced stage before I had come to the conclusion
that she was the most charming, if not the loveliest, person I had ever
met.

It was fortunate for me that I was honestly able to answer her question
in a satisfactory manner, for, had it been otherwise, I doubt whether
she would have deigned to bestow much more of her conversation upon me.

'Then I wonder,' she said next, meditatively, 'if you would care to
hear about a dog that belonged to--to someone I know very well? Or would
it bore you?'

I am very certain that if she had volunteered to relate the adventures
of Telemachus, or the history of the Thirty Years' War, I should have
accepted the proposal with a quite genuine gratitude. As it was, I made
it sufficiently plain that I should care very much indeed to hear about
that dog.

She paused for a moment to reject an unfortunate _entrée_ (which I
confess to doing my best to console), and then she began her story. I
shall try to set it down as nearly as possible in her own words,
although I cannot hope to convey the peculiar charm and interest that
she gave it for me. It was not, I need hardly say, told all at once, but
was subject to the inevitable interruptions which render a dinner-table
intimacy so piquantly precarious.

'This dog,' she began quietly, without any air of beginning a story,
'this dog was called Pepper. He was not much to look at--rather a rough,
mongrelly kind of animal; and he and a young man had kept house together
for a long time, for the young man was a bachelor and lived in chambers
by himself. He always used to say that he didn't like to get engaged to
anyone, because he was sure it would put Pepper out so fearfully.
However, he met somebody at last who made him forget about Pepper, and
he proposed and was accepted--and then, you know,' she added, as a
little dimple came in her cheek, 'he had to go home and break the news
to the dog.'

She had just got to this point, when, taking advantage of a pause she
made, the man on her other side (who was, I daresay, strictly within his
rights, although I remember at the time considering him a pushing beast)
struck in with some remark which she turned to answer, leaving me
leisure to reflect.

I was feeling vaguely uncomfortable about this story; something, it
would be hard to say what, in her way of mentioning Pepper's owner made
me suspect that he was more than a mere acquaintance of hers.

Was it _she_, then, who was responsible for----? It was no business of
mine, of course; I had never met her in my life till that evening--but I
began to be impatient to hear the rest.

And at last she turned to me again: 'I hope you haven't forgotten that I
was in the middle of a story. You haven't? And you would really like me
to go on? Well, then--oh yes, when Pepper was told, he was naturally a
little annoyed at first. I daresay he considered he ought to have been
consulted previously. But, as soon as he had seen the lady, he withdrew
all opposition--which his master declared was a tremendous load off his
mind, for Pepper was rather a difficult dog, and slow as a rule to take
strangers into his affections, a little snappy and surly, and very
easily hurt or offended. Don't you know dogs who are sensitive like
that? _I_ do, and I'm always so sorry for them--they feel little things
so much, and one never can find out what's the matter, and have it out
with them! Sometimes it's shyness; once I had a dog who was quite
painfully shy--self-consciousness it was really, I suppose, for he
always fancied everybody was looking at him, and often when people were
calling he would come and hide his face in the folds of my dress till
they had gone--it was too ridiculous! But about Pepper. He was devoted
to his new mistress from the very first. I am not sure that she was
quite so struck with him, for he was not at all a lady's dog, and his
manners had been very much neglected. Still, she came quite to like him
in time; and when they were married, Pepper went with them for the
honeymoon.'

'_When they were married!_' I glanced at the card which lay half-hidden
by her plate. Surely _Miss_ So-and-so was written on it?--yes, it was
certainly 'Miss.' It was odd that such a circumstance should have
increased my enjoyment of the story, perhaps--but it undoubtedly did.

'After the honeymoon,' my neighbour continued, 'they came to live in the
new house, which was quite a tiny one, and Pepper was a very important
personage in it indeed. He had his mistress all to himself for the
greater part of most days, as his master had to be away in town; so she
used to talk to him intimately, and tell him more than she would have
thought of confiding to most people. Sometimes, when she thought there
was no fear of callers coming, she would make him play, and this was
quite a new sensation for Pepper, who was a serious-minded animal, and
took very solemn views of life. At first he hadn't the faintest idea
what was expected of him; it must have been rather like trying to romp
with a parish beadle, he was so intensely respectable! But as soon as he
once grasped the notion and understood that no liberty was intended, he
lent himself to it readily enough and learnt to gambol quite creditably.
Then he was made much of in all sorts of ways; she washed him twice a
week with her very own hands--which his master would never have dreamt
of doing--and she was always trying new ribbons on his complexion. That
rather bored him at first, but it ended by making him a little conceited
about his appearance. Altogether he was dearly fond of her, and I don't
believe he had ever been happier in all his life than he was in those
days. Only, unfortunately, it was all too good to last.'

Here I had to pass olives or something to somebody, and the other man,
seeing his chance, and, to do him justice, with no idea that he was
interrupting a story, struck in once more, so that the history of Pepper
had to remain in abeyance for several minutes.

My uneasiness returned. Could there be a mistake about that name-card
after all? Cards _do_ get re-arranged sometimes, and she seemed to know
that young couple so very intimately. I tried to remember whether I had
been introduced to her as a Miss or Mrs. So-and-so, but without success.
There is some fatality which generally distracts one's attention at the
critical moment of introduction, and in this case it was perhaps easily
accounted for. My turn came again, and she took up her tale once more.
'I think when I left off I was saying that Pepper's happiness was too
good to last. And so it was. For his mistress was ill, and, though he
snuffed and scratched and whined at the door of her room for ever so
long, they wouldn't let him in. But he managed to slip in one day
somehow, and jumped up on her lap and licked her hands and face, and
almost went out of his mind with joy at seeing her again. Only (I told
you he was a sensitive dog) it gradually struck him that she was not
_quite_ so pleased to see him as usual--and presently he found out the
reason. There was another animal there, a new pet, which seemed to take
up a good deal of her attention. Of course you guess what that was--but
Pepper had never seen a baby before, and he took it as a personal slight
and was dreadfully offended. He simply walked straight out of the room
and downstairs to the kitchen, where he stayed for days.

'I don't think he enjoyed his sulk much, poor doggie; perhaps he had an
idea that when they saw how much he took it to heart they would send the
baby away. But as time went on and this didn't seem to occur to them,
he decided to come out of the sulks and look over the matter, and he
came back quite prepared to resume the old footing. Only everything was
different. No one seemed to notice that he was in the room now, and his
mistress never invited him to have a game; she even forgot to have him
washed--and one of his peculiarities was that he had no objection to
soap and warm water. The worst of it was, too, that before very long the
baby followed him into the sitting-room, and, do what he could, he
couldn't make the stupid little thing understand that it had no business
there. If you think of it, a baby must strike a dog as a very inferior
little animal: it can't bark (well, yes, it _can_ howl), but it's no
good whatever with rats, and yet everybody makes a tremendous fuss about
it! The baby got all poor Pepper's bows now; and his mistress played
games with it, though Pepper felt he could have done it ever so much
better, but he was never allowed to join in. So he used to lie on a rug
and pretend he didn't mind, though, really, I'm certain he felt it
horribly. I always believe, you know, that people never give dogs half
credit enough for feeling things, don't you?

'Well, at last came the worst indignity of all: Pepper was driven from
his rug--his own particular rug--to make room for the baby; and when he
had got away into a corner to cry quietly, all by himself, that wretched
baby came and crawled after him and pulled his tail!

'He always _had_ been particular about his tail, and never allowed
anybody to touch it but very intimate friends, and even then under
protest, so you can imagine how insulted he felt.

'It was too much for him, and he lost the last scrap of temper he had.
They said he bit the baby, and I'm afraid he did--though not enough
really to hurt it; still, it howled fearfully, of course, and from that
moment it was all over with poor Pepper--he was a ruined dog!

'When his master came home that evening he was told the whole story.
Pepper's mistress said she would be ever so sorry to part with him, but,
after his misbehaviour, she should never know a moment's peace until he
was out of the house--it really wasn't safe for baby!

'And his master was sorry, naturally; but I suppose he was beginning
rather to like the baby himself, and so the end of it was that Pepper
had to go. They did all they could for him; found him a comfortable
home, with a friend who was looking out for a good house-dog, and wasn't
particular about breed, and, after that, they heard nothing of him for a
long while. And, when they did hear, it was rather a bad report: the
friend could do nothing with Pepper at all; he had to tie him up in the
stable, and then he snapped at everyone who came near, and howled all
night--they were really almost afraid of him.

'So when Pepper's mistress heard that, she felt more thankful than ever
that the dog had been sent away, and tried to think no more about him.
She had quite forgotten all about it, when, one day, a new nursemaid,
who had taken the baby out for an airing, came back with a terrible
account of a savage dog which had attacked them, and leaped up at the
perambulator so persistently that it was as much as she could do to
drive it away. And even then Pepper's mistress did not associate the dog
with him; she thought he had been destroyed long ago.

'But the next time the nurse went out with the baby she took a thick
stick with her, in case the dog should come again. And no sooner had she
lifted the perambulator over the step, than the dog _did_ come again,
exactly as if he had been lying in wait for them ever since outside the
gate.

'The nurse was a strong country girl, with plenty of pluck, and as the
dog came leaping and barking about in a very alarming way, she hit him
as hard as she could on his head. The wonder is she did not kill him on
the spot, and, as it was, the blow turned him perfectly giddy and silly
for a time, and he ran round and round in a dazed sort of way--do you
think you could lower that candle-shade just a little? Thanks!' she
broke off suddenly, as I obeyed. 'Well, she was going to strike again,
when her mistress rushed out, just in time to stop her. For, you see,
she had been watching at the window, and although the poor beast was
miserably thin, and rough, and neglected-looking, she knew at once that
it must be Pepper, and that he was not in the least mad or dangerous,
but only trying his best to make his peace with the baby. Very likely
his dignity or his conscience or something wouldn't let him come back
quite at once, you know; and perhaps he thought he had better get the
baby on his side first. And then all at once, his mistress--I heard all
this through her, of course--his mistress suddenly remembered how
devoted Pepper had been to her, and how fond she had once been of him,
and when she saw him standing, stupid and shivering, there, her heart
softened to him, and she went to make it up with him, and tell him that
he was forgiven and should come back and be her dog again, just as in
the old days!----'

Here she broke off for a moment. I did not venture to look at her, but I
thought her voice trembled a little when she spoke again. 'I don't quite
know _why_ I tell you all this. There was a time when I never could bear
the end of it myself,' she said; 'but I have begun, and I will finish
now. Well, Pepper's mistress went towards him, and called him;
but--whether he was still too dizzy to quite understand who she was, or
whether his pride came uppermost again, poor dear! I don't know--but he
gave her just one look (she says she will never forget it--never; it
went straight to her heart), and then he walked very slowly and
deliberately away.

'She couldn't bear it; she followed; she felt she simply _must_ make
him understand how very, very sorry she was for him; but the moment he
heard her he began to run faster and faster, until he was out of reach
and out of sight, and she had to come back. I know she was crying
bitterly by that time.'

'And he never came back again?' I asked, after a silence.

'Never again!' she said softly; 'that was the very last they ever saw or
heard of him. And--and I've always loved every dog since for Pepper's
sake!'

'I'm almost glad he did decline to come back,' I declared; 'it served
his mistress right--she didn't deserve anything else!'

'Ah, I didn't want you to say that!' she protested; 'she never meant to
be so unkind--it was all for the baby's sake!'

I was distinctly astonished, for all her sympathy in telling the story
had seemed to lie in the other direction.

'You don't mean to say,' I cried involuntarily, 'that you can find any
excuses for her? I did not expect _you_ would take the baby's part!'

'But I did,' she confessed, with lowered eyes--'I _did_ take the baby's
part--it was all my doing that Pepper was sent away--I have been sorry
enough for it since!'

It was her own story she had been telling at second-hand after all--and
she was not Miss So-and-so! I had entirely forgotten the existence of
any other members of the party but our two selves, but at the moment of
this discovery--which was doubly painful--I was recalled by a general
rustle to the fact that we were at a dinner-party, and that our hostess
had just given the signal.

As I rose and drew back my chair to allow my neighbour to pass, she
raised her eyes for a moment and said almost meekly:

'I _was_ the baby, you see!'




_MARJORY_

INTRODUCTION


I have thought myself justified in printing the following narrative,
found among the papers of my dead friend, Douglas Cameron, who left me
discretion to deal with them as I saw fit. It was written indeed, as its
opening words imply, rather for his own solace and relief than with the
expectation that it would be read by any other. But, painful and
intimate as it is in parts, I cannot think that any harm will be done by
printing it now, with some necessary alterations in the names of the
characters chiefly concerned.

Before, however, leaving the story to speak for itself, I should like to
state, in justice to my friend, that during the whole of my acquaintance
with him, which began in our college days, I never saw anything to
indicate the morbid timidity and weakness of character that seem to have
marked him as a boy. Reserved he undoubtedly was, with a taste for
solitude that made him shrink from the society of all but a small
circle, and with a sensitive and shy nature which prevented him from
doing himself complete justice; but he was very capable of holding his
own on occasion, and in his disposition, as I knew it, there was no want
of moral courage, nor any trace of effeminacy.

How far he may have unconsciously exaggerated such failings in the
revelation of his earlier self, or what the influence of such an
experience as he relates may have done to strengthen the moral fibre,
are points on which I can express no opinion, any more than I can pledge
myself to the credibility of the supernatural element of his story.

It may be that only in the boy's overwrought imagination, the innocent
Child-spirit came back to complete the work of love and pity she had
begun in life; but I know that he himself believed otherwise, and,
truly, if those who leave us are permitted to return at all, it must be
on some such errand as Marjory's.

Douglas Cameron's life was short, and in it, so far as I am aware, he
met no one who at all replaced his lost ideal. Of this I cannot be
absolutely certain, for he was a reticent man in such matters; but I
think, had it been so, I should have known of it, for we were very close
friends. One would hardly expect, perhaps, that an ordinary man would
remain faithful all his days to the far-off memory of a child-love; but
then Cameron was not quite as other men, nor were his days long in the
land.

And if this ideal of his was never dimmed for him by some grosser, and
less spiritual, passion, who shall say that he may not have been a
better and even a happier man in consequence.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is not without an effort that I have resolved to break, in the course
of this narrative, the reserve maintained for nearly twenty years. But
the chief reason for silence is removed now that all those are gone who
might have been pained or harmed by what I have to tell, and, though I
shrink still from reviving certain memories that are fraught with pain,
there are others associated therewith which will surely bring
consolation and relief.

I must have been about eleven at the time I am speaking of, and the
change which--for good or ill--comes over most boys' lives had not yet
threatened mine. I had not left home for school, nor did it seem at all
probable then that I should ever do so.

When I read (I was a great reader) of Dotheboys Hall and Salem House--a
combination of which establishments formed my notion of school-life--it
was with no more personal interest than a cripple might feel in perusing
the notice of an impending conscription; for from the battles of
school-life I was fortunately exempted.

I was the only son of a widow, and we led a secluded life in a London
suburb. My mother took charge of my education herself, and, as far as
mere acquirements went, I was certainly not behind other boys of my
age. I owe too much to that loving and careful training, Heaven knows,
to think of casting any reflection upon it here, but my surroundings
were such as almost necessarily to exclude all bracing and hardening
influences.

My mother had few friends; we were content with our own companionship,
and of boys I knew and cared to know nothing; in fact, I regarded a
strange boy with much the same unreasoning aversion as many excellent
women feel for the most ordinary cow.

I was happy to think that I should never be called upon to associate
with them; by-and-by, when I outgrew my mother's teaching, I was to have
a tutor, perhaps even go to college in time, and when I became a man I
was to be a curate and live with my mother in a clematis-covered cottage
in some pleasant village.

She would often dwell on this future with a tender prospective pride;
she spoke of it on the very day that saw it shattered for ever.

For there came a morning when, on going to her with my lessons for the
day, I was gladdened with an unexpected holiday. I little knew
then--though I was to learn it soon enough--that my lessons had been all
holidays, or that on that day they were to end for ever.

My mother had had one or two previous attacks of an illness which seemed
to prostrate her for a short period, and as she soon regained her
ordinary health, I did not think they could be of a serious nature.

So I devoted my holiday cheerfully enough to the illumination of a
text, on the gaudy colouring of which I found myself gazing two days
later with a dull wonder, as at the work of a strange hand in a long
dead past, for the boy who had painted that was a happy boy who had a
mother, and for two endless days I had been alone.

Those days, and many that followed, come back to me now but vaguely. I
passed them mostly in a state of blank bewilderment caused by the double
sense of sameness and strangeness in everything around me; then there
were times when this gave way to a passionate anguish which refused all
attempts at comfort, and times even--but very, very seldom--when I
almost forgot what had happened to me.

Our one servant remained in the house with me, and a friend and
neighbour of my mother's was constant in her endeavours to relieve my
loneliness; but I was impatient of them, I fear, and chiefly anxious to
be left alone to indulge my melancholy unchecked.

I remember how, as autumn began, and leaf after leaf fluttered down from
the trees in our little garden, I watched them fall with a heavier
heart, for they had known my mother, and now they, too, were deserting
me.

This morbid state of mind had lasted quite long enough when my uncle,
who was my guardian, saw fit to put a summary end to it by sending me
to school forthwith; he would have softened the change for me by taking
me to his own home first, but there was illness of some sort there, and
this was out of the question.

I was neither sorry nor glad when I heard of it, for all places were the
same to me just then; only, as the time drew near, I began to regard the
future with a growing dread.

The school was at some distance from London, and my uncle took me down
by rail; but the only fact I remember connected with the journey is that
there was a boy in the carriage with us who cracked walnuts all the way,
and I wondered if he was going to school too, and concluded that he was
not, or he would hardly eat quite so many walnuts.

Later we were passing through some wrought-iron gates, and down an
avenue of young chestnuts, which made a gorgeous autumn canopy of
scarlet, amber, and orange, up to a fine old red-brick house, with a
high-pitched roof, and a cupola in which a big bell hung, tinted a warm
gold by the afternoon sun.

This was my school, and it did not look so very-terrible after all.
There was a big bow-window by the pillared portico, and, looking timidly
in, I saw a girl of about my own age sitting there, absorbed in the book
she was reading, her long brown hair drooping over her cheek and the
hand on which it rested.

She glanced up at the sound of the door-bell, and I felt her eyes
examining me seriously and critically, and then I forgot everything but
the fact that I was about to be introduced to my future schoolmaster,
the Rev. Basil Dering.

This was less of an ordeal than I had expected; he had a strong,
massively-cut, leonine face, free and abundant white hair, streaked with
dark grey, but there was a kind light in his eyes as I looked up at
them, and the firm mouth could smile, I found, pleasantly enough.

Mrs. Dering seemed younger, and was handsome, with a certain stateliness
and decision of manner which put me less at my ease, and I was relieved
to be told I might say good-bye to my uncle, and wander about the
grounds as I liked.

I was not surprised to pass through an empty schoolroom, and to descend
by some steep stairs to a deserted playground, for we had been already
told that the Michaelmas holidays were not over, and that the boys would
not return for some days to come.

It gave me a kind of satisfaction to think of my resemblance, just then,
to my favourite David Copperfield, but I was to have a far pleasanter
companion than poor lugubrious, flute-tootling Mr. Mell, for as I paced
the damp paths paved with a mosaic of russet and yellow leaves, I heard
light footsteps behind me, and turned to find myself face to face with
the girl I had seen at the window.

She stood there breathless for an instant, for she had hurried to
overtake me, and against a background of crimson creepers I saw the
brilliant face, with its soft but fearless brown eyes, small straight
nose, spirited mouth, and crisp wavy golden-brown hair, which I see now
almost as distinctly as I write.

'You're the new boy,' she said at length. 'I've come out to make you
feel more at home. I suppose you don't feel _quite_ at home just yet?'

'Not quite, thank you,' I said, lifting my cap with ceremony, for I had
been taught to be particular about my manners; 'I have never been to
school before, you see, Miss Dering.'

I think she was a little puzzled by so much politeness. 'I know,' she
said softly; 'mother told me about it, and I'm very sorry. And I'm
called Marjory, generally. Shall you like school, do you think?'

'I might,' said I, 'if--if it wasn't for the boys!'

'Boys aren't bad,' she said; 'ours are rather nice, I think. But perhaps
you don't know many?'

'I know one,' I replied.

'How old is _he_?' she wished to know.

'Not very old--about three, I think,' I said. I had never wished till
then that my only male acquaintance had been of less tender years, but I
felt now that he was rather small, and saw that Marjory was of the same
opinion.

'Why, he's only a baby!' she said; 'I thought you meant a _real_ boy.
And is that all the boys you know? Are you fond of games?'

'Some games--very,' said I.

'What's your favourite game?' she demanded.

'Bezique,' I answered, 'or draughts.'

'I meant _out_door games; draughts are indoor games--_is_ indoor games,
I mean--no, _are_ an indoor game--and _that_ doesn't sound grammar! But
haven't you ever played cricket? Not ever, really? I like it dreadfully
myself, only I'm not allowed to play with the boys, and I'm sure I can
bat well enough for the second eleven--Cartwright said I could last
term--and I can bowl round-hand, and it's all no use, just because I was
born a girl! Wouldn't you like a game at something? They haven't taken
in the croquet hoops yet; shall we play at that?'

But again I had to confess my ignorance of what was then the popular
garden game.

'What do you generally do to amuse yourself, then?' she inquired.

'I read, generally, or paint texts or outlines. Sometimes'--(I thought
this accomplishment would surely appeal to her)--'sometimes I do
woolwork!'

'I don't think I would tell the boys that,' she advised rather gravely;
she evidently considered me a very desperate case. 'It's such a pity,
your not knowing any games. Suppose I taught you croquet, now? It would
be something to go on with, and you'll soon learn if you pay attention
and do exactly what I tell you.'

I submitted myself meekly to her direction, and Marjory enjoyed her
office of instructress for a time, until my extreme slowness wore out
her patience, and she began to make little murmurs of disgust, for which
she invariably apologised. 'That's enough for to-day!' she said at last,
'I'll take you again to-morrow. But you really must try and pick up
games, Cameron, or you'll never be liked. Let me see, I wonder if
there's time to teach you a little football. I think I could do that.'

Before she could make any further arrangements the tea-bell rang, but
when I lay down that night in my strange cold bed, hemmed round by other
beds, which were only less formidable than if they had been occupied, I
did not feel so friendless as I might have done, and dreamed all night
that Marjory was teaching me something I understood to be cricket,
which, however, was more like a bloated kind of backgammon.

The next day Marjory was allowed to go out walking with me, and I came
home feeling that I had known her for quite a long time, while her
manner to me had acquired a tone even more protecting than before, and
she began to betray an anxiety as to my school prospects which filled me
with uneasiness.

'I am so afraid the boys won't like the way you talk,' she said on one
occasion.

'I used to be told I spoke very correctly,' I said, verdantly enough.

'But not like boys talk. You see, Cameron, I ought to know, with such a
lot of them about. I tell you what I could do, though--I could teach you
most of their words--only I must run and ask mother first if I may.
Teaching slang isn't the same as using it on my own account, is it?'

Marjory darted off impulsively to ask leave, to return presently with a
slow step and downcast face. 'I mayn't,' she announced. 'Mother says
"Certainly not," so there's an end of that! Still, I think myself it's a
decided pity.'

And more than once that day she would observe, as if to herself, 'I do
wish they had let him come to school in different collars!'

I knew that these remarks, and others of a similar tendency, were
prompted by her interest in my welfare, and I admired her too heartily
already to be offended by them: still, I cannot say they added to my
peace of mind.

And on the last evening of the holidays she said 'Good-night' to me with
some solemnity. 'Everything will be different after this,' she said; 'I
shan't be able to see nearly so much of you, because I'm not allowed to
be much with the boys. But I shall be looking after you all the time,
Cameron, and seeing how you get on. And oh! I do hope you will try to be
a popular kind of boy!'

       *       *       *       *       *

I'm afraid I must own that this desire of Marjory's was not realised. I
do not know that I tried to be--and I certainly was not--a popular boy.

The other boys, I now know, were by no means bad specimens of the
English schoolboy, as will be evident when I state that, for a time, my
deep mourning was held by them to give me a claim to their forbearance.

But I had an unfortunate tendency to sudden floods of tears (apparently
for no cause whatever, really from some secret spring of association,
such as I remember was touched when I first found myself learning Latin
from the same primer over which my mother and I had puzzled together),
and these outbursts at first aroused my companions' contempt, and
finally their open ridicule.

I could not conceal my shrinking dislike to their society, which was not
calculated to make them more favourably disposed towards me; while my
tastes, my expressions, my ways of looking at things, were all at total
variance with their own standards.

The general disapproval might well have shown itself in a harsher manner
than that of merely ignoring my existence--and it says much for the tone
of the school that it did not; unfortunately, I felt their indifference
almost as keenly as I had dreaded their notice.

From my masters I met with more favour, for I had been thoroughly well
grounded, and found, besides, a temporary distraction in my school-work;
but this was hardly likely to render me more beloved by my fellows, and
so it came to pass that every day saw my isolation more complete.

Something, however, made me anxious to hide this from Marjory's eyes,
and whenever she happened to be looking on at us in the school grounds
or the playing fields, I made dismal attempts to appear on terms of
equality with the rest, and would hang about a group with as much
pretence of belonging to it as I thought at all prudent.

If she had had more opportunities of questioning me, she would have
found me out long before; as it was, the only occasion on which we were
near one another was at the weekly drawing lesson, when, although she
drew less and talked more than the Professor quite approved of, she was
obliged to restrict herself to a conversation which did not admit of
confidences.

But this negative neutral-tinted misery was not to last; I was harmless
enough, but then to some natures nothing is so offensive as
inoffensiveness. My isolation was certain to raise me up an enemy in
time, and he came in the person of one Clarence Ormsby.

He was a sturdy, good-looking fellow, about two years older than myself,
good at games, and, though not brilliant in other respects, rather idle
than dull. He was popular in the school, and I believe his general
disposition was by no means bad; but there must have been some hidden
flaw in his nature which might never have disclosed itself for any other
but me.

For me he had displayed, almost from the first, one of those special
antipathies that want but little excuse to ripen into hatred. My
personal appearance--I had the misfortune to be a decidedly plain
boy--happened to be particularly displeasing to him, and, as he had an
unsparing tongue, he used it to cover me with ridicule, until gradually,
finding that I did not retaliate, he indulged in acts of petty
oppression which, though not strictly bullying, were even more harassing
and humiliating.

I suspect now that if I had made ever so slight a stand at the outset, I
should have escaped further molestation, but I was not pugnacious by
nature, and never made the experiment; partly, probably, from a theory
on which I had been reared, that all violence was vulgar, but chiefly
from a tendency, unnatural in one of my age and sex, to find a
sentimental satisfaction in a certain degree of unhappiness.

So that I can neither pity myself nor expect pity from others for woes
which were so essentially my own creation, though they resulted, alas!
in misery that was real enough.

It was inevitable that quick-sighted Marjory should discover the
subjection into which I had fallen, and her final enlightenment was
brought about in this manner. Ormsby and I were together alone, shortly
before morning school, and he came towards me with an exercise of mine
from which he had just been copying his own, for we were in the same
classes, despite the difference in our ages, and he was in the habit of
profiting thus by my industry.

'Thanks, Cameron,' he said, with a sweetness which I distrusted, for he
was not as a rule so lavish in his gratitude. 'I've copied out that
exercise of yours, but it's written so beastly badly that you'd better
do it over again.'

With which he deliberately tore the page he had been copying from to
scraps, which he threw in my face, and strolled out down to the
playground.

I was preparing submissively to do the exercise over again as well as I
could in the short time that was left, when I was startled by a low cry
of indignation, and, looking round, saw Marjory standing in the doorway,
and knew by her face that she had seen all.

'Has Ormsby done that to you before?' she inquired.

'Once or twice he has,' said I.

'And you let him!' she cried. 'Oh, Cameron!'

'What can I do?' I said.

'I know what _I_ would do,' she replied. 'I would slap his face, or
pinch him. I wouldn't put up with it!'

'Boys don't slap one another, or pinch,' I said, not displeased to find
a weak place in her knowledge of us.

'Well, they do _something_!' she said; 'a real boy would. But I don't
think you are a real boy, Cameron. _I'll_ show you what to do. Where's
the exercise that--that _pig_ copied? Ah! I see it. And now--look!'
(Here she tore his page as he had torn mine.)

'Now for an envelope!' and from the Doctor's own desk she took an
envelope, in which she placed the fragments, and wrote on the outside in
her round, childish hand: 'With Marjory's compliments, for being a
bully.'

'He won't do that again,' she said gleefully.

'He'll do worse,' I said in dismay; 'I shall have to pay for it.
Marjory, why didn't you leave things alone? I didn't complain--you know
I didn't.'

She turned upon me, as well she might, in supreme disdain. 'Oh! what a
coward you are! I wouldn't believe all Cartwright told me about you when
I asked--but I see it's all true. Why don't you stick up for yourself?'

I muttered something or other.

'But you _ought_ to. You'll never get on unless,' said Marjory, very
decidedly. 'Now, promise me you will, next time.'

I sat there silent. I was disgusted with myself, and meanly angry with
her for having rendered me so.

'Then, listen,' she said impressively. 'I promised I would look after
you, and I did mean to, but it's no use if you won't help yourself. So,
unless you say you won't go on being a coward any more, I shall have to
leave you to your own way, and not take the least interest in you ever
again.'

'Then, you may,' I said stolidly; 'I don't care.' I wondered, even while
I spoke the words, what could be impelling me to treat spirited,
warm-hearted Marjory like that, and I hate myself still at the
recollection.

'Good-bye, then,' she said very quietly; 'I'm sorry, Cameron.' And she
went out without another word.

When Ormsby came in, I watched him apprehensively as he read the
envelope upon his desk and saw its contents. He said nothing, however,
though he shot a malignant glance in my direction; but the lesson was
not lost upon him, for from that time he avoided all open ill-treatment
of me, and even went so far as to assume a friendliness which might have
reassured me had I not instinctively felt that it merely masked the old
dislike.

I was constantly the victim of mishaps, in the shape of missing and
defaced books, ink mysteriously spilt or strangely adulterated, and,
though I could never trace them to any definite hand, they seemed too
systematic to be quite accidental; still I made no sign, and hoped thus
to disarm my persecutor--if persecutor there were.

As for my companions, I knew that in no case would they take the trouble
to interfere in my behalf; they had held aloof from the first, the
general opinion (which I now perceive was not unjust) being that 'I
deserved all I got.'

And my estrangement from Marjory grew wider and wider; she never spoke
to me now when we sat near one another at the drawing-class; if she
looked at me it was by stealth, and with a glance that I thought
sometimes was contemptuously pitiful, and sometimes half fancied
betrayed a willingness to return to the old comradeship.

But I nursed my stupid, sullen pride, though my heart ached with it at
times. For I had now come to love Marjory devotedly, with a love that,
though I was a boy and she was a child, was as genuine as any I am ever
likely to feel again.

The chance of seeing her now and then, of hearing her speak--though it
was not to me--gave me the one interest in my life, which, but for her,
I could hardly have borne. But this love of mine was a very far-off and
disinterested worship after all. I could not imagine myself ever
speaking of it to her, or picture her as accepting it. Marjory was too
thorough a child to be vulgarised in that way, even in thought.

The others were healthy, matter-of-fact youths, to whom Marjory was an
ordinary girl, and who certainly did not indulge in any strained
sentiment respecting her; it was left for me to idealise her; but of
that, at least, I cannot feel ashamed, or believe that it did me
anything but good.

And the days went on, until it wanted but a fortnight to Christmas, and
most of us were thinking of the coming holidays, and preparing with a
not unpleasant excitement for the examinations, which were all that
barred the way to them now. I was to spend my Christmas with my uncle
and cousins, who would by that time be able to receive me; but I felt no
very pleasurable anticipations, for my cousins were all boys, and from
boys I thought I knew what to expect.

One afternoon Ormsby came to me with the request that I would execute a
trifling commission for him in the adjoining village; he himself, he
said, was confined to bounds, but he had a shilling he wanted to lay out
at a small fancy-shop we were allowed to patronise, and he considered me
the best person to be entrusted with that coin. I was simply to spend
the money on anything I thought best, for he had entire confidence, he
gave me to understand, in my taste and judgment. I think I suspected a
design of some sort, but I did not dare to refuse, and then his manner
to some extent disarmed me.

I took the shilling, therefore, with which I bought some article--I
forget what--and got back to the school at dusk. The boys had all gone
down to tea except Ormsby, who was waiting for me up in the empty
schoolroom.

'Well?' he said, and I displayed my purchase, only to find that I had
fallen into a trap.

When I think how easily I was the dupe of that not too subtle artifice,
which was only half malicious, I could smile, if I did not know how it
ended.

'How much was that?' he asked contemptuously, 'twopence-halfpenny? Well,
if you choose to give a shilling for it, I'm not going to pay, that's
all. So just give me back my shilling!'

Now, as my weekly allowance consisted of threepence, which was
confiscated for some time in advance (as I think he knew), to provide
fines for my mysteriously-stained dictionaries, this was out of the
question, as I represented.

'Then go back to the shop and change it,' said he; 'I won't have that
thing!'

'Tell me what you would like instead, and I will,' I stipulated, not
unreasonably.

He laughed; his little scheme was working so admirably. 'That's not the
bargain,' he said; 'you're bound to get me something I like. I'm not
obliged to tell you what it is.'

But even I was driven to protest against such flagrant unfairness. 'I
didn't know you meant that,' I said, 'or I'm sure I shouldn't have gone.
I went to oblige _you_, Ormsby.'

'No, you didn't,' he said, 'you went because I told you. And you'll go
again.'

'Not unless you tell me what I'm to get,' I said.

'I tell you what I believe,' he said; 'you never spent the whole
shilling at all on that; you bought something for yourself with the
rest, you young swindler! No wonder you won't go back to the shop.'

This was, of course, a mere taunt flung out by his inventive fancy; but
as he persisted in it, and threatened exposure and a variety of
consequences, I became alarmed, for I had little doubt that, innocent as
I was, I could be made very uncomfortable by accusations which would
find willing hearers.

He stood there enjoying my perplexity and idly twisting a piece of
string round and round his fingers. At length he said, 'Well, I don't
want to be hard on you. You may go and change this for me even now, if
you like. I'll give you three minutes to think it over, and you can come
down into the playground when I sing out, and tell me what you mean to
do. And you had better be sharp in coming, too, or it will be the worse
for you.'

He took his cap, and presently I heard him going down the steps to the
playground. I would have given worlds to go and join the rest at tea,
but I did not dare, and remained in the schoolroom, which was dim just
then, for the gas was lowered; and while I stood there by the fireplace,
trembling in the cold air which stole in through the door Ormsby had
left open, Marjory came in by the other one, and was going straight to
her father's desk, when she saw me.

Her first impulse seemed to be to take no notice, but something in my
face or attitude made her alter her mind and come straight to me,
holding out her hand.

'Cameron,' she said, 'shall we be friends again?'

'Yes, Marjory,' I said; I could not have said any more just then.

'You look so miserable, I couldn't bear it any longer,' she said, 'so I
_had_ to make it up. You know, I was only pretending crossness, Cameron,
all the time, because I really thought it was best. But it doesn't seem
to have done you much good, and I did promise to take care of you. What
is it? Ormsby again?'

'Yes,' I said, and told her the story of the commission.

'Oh, you stupid boy!' she cried, 'couldn't you see he only wanted to
pick a quarrel? And if you change it now, he'll make you change it
again, and the next time, and the next after that--I know he will!'

Here Ormsby's voice shouted from below, 'Now then, you, Cameron, time's
up!'

'What is he doing down there?' asked Marjory, and her indignation rose
higher when she heard.

'Now, Cameron, be brave; go down and tell him once for all he may just
keep what he has, and be thankful. Whatever it is, it's good enough for
_him_, I'm sure!'

But I still hung back. 'It's no use, Marjory, he'll tell everyone I
cheated him--he says he will!'

'That he shall not!' she cried; 'I won't have it, I'll go myself, and
tell him what I think of him, and make him stop treating you like this.'

Some faint glimmer of manliness made me ashamed to allow her thus to
fight my battles. 'No, Marjory, not you!' I said; 'I will go: I'll say
what you want me to say!'

But it was too late. I saw her for just a second at the door, my
impetuous, generous little Marjory, as she flung back her pretty hair in
a certain spirited way she had, and nodded to me encouragingly.

And then--I can hardly think of it calmly even now--there came a sharp
scream, and the sound of a fall, and, after that, silence.

Sick with fear, I rushed to the head of the steps, and looked down into
the brown gloom.

'Keep where you are for a minute!' I heard Ormsby cry out. 'It's all
right--she's not hurt; now you can come down.'

I was down in another instant, at the foot of the stairs, where, in a
patch of faint light that fell from the door above, lay Marjory, with
Ormsby bending over her insensible form.

'She's dead!' I cried in my terror, as I saw her white face.

'I tell you she's all right,' said he, impatiently; 'there's nothing to
make a fuss about. She slipped coming down and cut her forehead--that's
all.'

'Marjory, speak to me--don't look like that; tell me you're not much
hurt!' I implored her; but she only moaned a little, and her eyes
remained fast shut.

'It's no use worrying her now, you know,' said Ormsby, more gently.
'Just help me to get her round to the kitchen door, and tell somebody.'

We carried her there between us, and, amidst a scene of terrible
confusion and distress, Marjory, still insensible, was carried into the
library, and a man sent off in hot haste for the surgeon.

A little later Ormsby and I were sent for to the study, where Dr.
Dering, whose face was white and drawn as I had never seen it before,
questioned us closely as to our knowledge of the accident.

Ormsby could only say that he was out in the playground, when he saw
somebody descending the steps, and heard a fall, after which he ran up
and found Marjory.

'I sent her into the schoolroom to bring my paper-knife,' said the
Doctor; 'if I had but gone myself--! But why should she have gone
outside on a frosty night like this?'

'Oh, Dr. Dering!' I broke out, 'I'm afraid--I'm afraid she went for me!'

I saw Ormsby's face as I spoke, and there was a look upon it which made
me pity him.

'And you sent my poor child out on your errand, Cameron! Could you not
have done it yourself?'

'I wish I had!' I exclaimed; 'oh, I wish I had! I tried to stop her,
and then--and then it was too late. Please tell me, sir, is she badly
hurt?'

'How can I tell?' he said harshly; 'there, I can't speak of this just
yet: go, both of you.'

There was little work done at evening preparation that night; the whole
school was buzzing with curiosity and speculation, as we heard doors
opening and shutting around, and the wheels of the doctor's gig as it
rolled up the chestnut avenue.

I sat with my hands shielding my eyes and ears, engaged to all
appearance with the books before me, while my restless thoughts were
employed in making earnest resolutions for the future.

At last I saw my cowardice in its true light, and felt impatient to tell
Marjory that I did so, to prove to her that I had really reformed; but
when would an opportunity come? I might not see her again for days,
perhaps not at all till after the holidays; but I would not let myself
dwell upon such a contingency as that, and, to banish it, tried to
picture what Marjory would say, and how she would look, when I was
allowed to see her again.

After evening prayers, read by one of the assistant-masters, for the
Doctor did not appear again, we were enjoined to go up to our bedrooms
with as little noise as possible, and we had been in bed some time
before Sutcliffe, the old butler, came up as usual to put out the
lights.

On this occasion he was assailed by a fire of eager whispers from every
door: 'Sutcliffe, hi! old Sutty, how is she?' but he did not seem to
hear, until a cry louder than the rest brought him to our room.

'For God's sake, gentlemen, don't!' he said, in a hoarse whisper, as he
turned out the light; 'they'll hear you downstairs.'

'But how is she? do you know--better?'

'Ay,' he said, 'she's better. She'll be over her trouble soon, will Miss
Marjory!'

A low murmur of delight ran round the room, which the butler tried to
check in vain.

'Don't!' he said again, 'wait--wait till morning.... Go to sleep quiet
now, and I'll come up first thing and tell you.'

He had no sooner turned his back than the general relief broke out
irrepressibly; Ormsby being especially demonstrative. 'Didn't I tell you
fellows so?' he said triumphantly; 'as if it was likely a plucky girl
like Marjory would mind a little cut like that. She'll be all right in
the morning, you see!'

But this confidence jarred upon me, who could not pretend to share it,
until I was unable to restrain the torturing anxiety I felt.

'You're wrong--all of you!' I cried, 'I'm sure she's not better. Didn't
you hear how Sutcliffe said it? She's _worse_--she may even be dying!'

I met with the usual treatment of a prophet of evil. 'You young muff,' I
was told on all sides, 'who asked your opinion? Who are you, to know
better than anyone else?'

Ormsby attacked me hotly for trying to excite a groundless alarm, and I
was recommended to hold my tongue and go to sleep.

I said no more, but I could not sleep; the others dropped off one by
one, Ormsby being the last; but I lay awake listening and thinking,
until the dread and suspense grew past bearing. I _must_ know the truth.
I would go down and find the Doctor, and beg him to tell me; he might be
angry and punish me--but that would be nothing in comparison with the
relief of knowing my fear was unfounded.

Stealthily I slipped out of bed, stole through the dim room to the door,
and down the old staircase, which creaked under my bare feet. The dog in
the yard howled as I passed the big window, through which the stars were
sparkling frostily in the keen blue sky. Outside the room in which
Marjory lay, I listened, but could hear nothing. At least she was
sleeping, then, and, relieved already, I went on down to the hall.

The big clock on a table there was ticking solemnly, like a slow
footfall; the lamp was alight, so the Doctor must be still up. With a
heart that beat loudly I went to his study door and lifted my hand to
knock, when from within rose a sound at which the current of my blood
stopped and ran backwards--the terrible, heartbroken grief of a grown
man.

Boy as I was, I felt that an agony like that was sacred; besides, I
knew the worst then.

I dragged myself upstairs again, cold to the bones, with a brain that
was frozen too. My one desire was to reach my bed, cover my face, and
let the tears flow; though, when I did regain it, no tears and no
thoughts came. I lay there and shivered for some time, with a stony,
stunned sensation, and then I slept--as if Marjory were well.

The next morning the bell under the cupola did not clang, and Sutcliffe
came up with the direction that we were to go down very quietly, and not
to draw up the window-blinds; and then we all knew what had happened
during the night.

There was a very genuine grief, though none knew Marjory as I had known
her; the more emotional wept, the older ones indulged in little
semi-pious conventional comments, oddly foreign to their usual tone;
all--even the most thoughtless--felt the same hush and awe overtake
them.

I could not cry; I felt nothing, except a dull rage at my own
insensibility. Marjory was dead--and I had no tears.

Morning school was a mere pretence that day; we dreaded, for almost the
first time, to see the Doctor's face, but he did not show himself, and
the arrangements necessary for the breaking-up of the school were made
by the matron.

Some, including Ormsby and myself, could not be taken in for some days,
during which we had to remain at the school: days of shadow and
monotony, with occasional ghastly outbreaks of the high spirits which
nothing could repress, even in that house of mourning.

But the time passed at last, until it was the evening of the day on
which Marjory had been left to her last sleep.

The poor father and mother had been unable to stay in the house now that
it no longer covered even what had been their child; and the only two,
besides the matron and a couple of servants who still remained there,
were Ormsby and I, who were both to leave on the following morning.

I would rather have been alone just then with anyone but Ormsby, though
he had never since that fatal night taken the slightest notice of me; he
looked worn and haggard to a degree that made me sure he must have cared
more for Marjory than I could have imagined, and yet he would break at
times into a feverish gaiety which surprised and repelled me.

He was in one of these latter moods that evening, as we sat, as far
apart as possible, in the empty, firelit schoolroom.

'Now, Cameron,' he said, as he came up to me and struck me boisterously
on the shoulder, 'wake up, man! I've been in the blues long enough. We
can't go on moping always, on the night before the holidays, too! Do
something to make yourself sociable--talk, can't you?'

'No, I can't,' I said; and, breaking from him, went to one of the
windows and looked vacantly out into blackness, which reflected the long
room, with its dingy greenish maps, and the desks and forms glistening
in the fire-beams.

The ice-bound state in which I had been so long was slowly passing away,
now that the scene by the little grave that raw, cheerless morning had
brought home remorselessly the truth that Marjory was indeed gone--lost
to me for ever.

I could see now what she had been to me; how she had made my great
loneliness endurable; how, with her innocent, fearless nature, she had
tried to rouse me from spiritless and unmanly dejection. And I could
never hope to please her now by proving that I had learnt the lesson;
she had gone from me to some world infinitely removed, in which I was
forgotten, and my pitiful trials and struggles could be nothing to her
any more!

I was once more alone, and this second bereavement revived in all its
crushing desolation the first bitter loss which it so closely followed.

So, as I stood there at the window, my unnatural calm could hold out no
longer; the long-frozen tears thawed, and I could weep for the first
time since Marjory died.

But I was not allowed to sorrow undisturbed; I felt a rough grasp on my
arm, as Ormsby asked me angrily, 'What's the matter now?'

'Oh, Marjory, come to me!' I could only cry; 'I can't bear it! I can't!
I can't!'

'Stop that, do you hear?' he said savagely, 'I won't have it! Who are
you to cry about her, when--but for _you_----'

He got no farther; the bitter truth in such a taunt, coming from him,
stung me to ungovernable rage. I turned and struck him full in the
mouth, which I cut open with my clenched hand.

His eyes became all pupil. 'You shall pay me for that!' he said through
his teeth; and, forcing me against a desk, he caught up a large T-square
which lay near; he was far the stronger, and I felt myself powerless in
his grasp. Passion and pain had made him beside himself for the moment,
and he did not know how formidable a weapon the heavily-weighted
instrument might become in his hand.

I shut my eyes: I think I rather hoped he would kill me, and then
perhaps I might go where Marjory was. I did not cry for help, and it
would have been useless if I had done so, for the schoolroom was a long
way from the kitchen and offices of that rambling old house.

But before the expected blow was dealt I felt his grasp relax, and heard
the instrument fall with a sudden clatter on the floor. 'Look,' he
whispered, in a voice I did not recognise, '_look there_!'

And when I opened my eyes, I saw Marjory standing between us!

She looked just as I had always seen her: I suppose that even the
after-life could not make Marjory look purer, or more lovely than she
was on earth. My first feeling was a wild conviction that it had all
been some strange mistake--that Marjory was not dead.

'Marjory, Marjory!' I cried in my joy, 'is it really you? You have come
back, after all, and it is not true!'

She looked at us both without speaking for a moment; her dear brown eyes
had lost their old childish sparkle, and were calm and serious as if
with a deeper knowledge.

Ormsby had cowered back to the opposite wall, covering his face. 'Go
away!' he gasped. 'Cameron--_you_ ask her to go. She--she liked you....
I never meant it. Tell her I never meant to do it!'

I could not understand such terror at the sight of Marjory, even if she
had been what he thought her; but there was a reason in his case.

'You were going to hurt Cameron,' said Marjory, at length, and her voice
sounded sad and grave and far-away.

'I don't care, Marjory,' I cried, 'not now you are here!'

She motioned me back: 'You must not come nearer,' she said. 'I cannot
stay long, and I must speak to Ormsby. Ormsby, have you told anyone?'

'No,' he said, shaking all over, 'it could do no good.... I thought I
needn't.'

'Tell _him_,' said Marjory.

'Must I? Oh, no, no!' he groaned, 'don't make me do that!'

'You must,' she answered, and he turned to me with a sullen fear.

'It was like this,' he began; 'that night, when I was waiting for you
down there--I had some string, and it struck me, all in a moment, that
it would be fun to trip you up. I didn't mean to hurt you--only frighten
you. I fastened the string across a little way from the bottom. And
then'--he had to moisten his lips before he could go on--'then _she_
came down, and I tried to catch her--and couldn't--no, I couldn't!'

'Is that all?' asked Marjory, as he stopped short.

'I cut the string and hid it before you came. Now you know, and you may
tell if you like!'

'Cameron, you will never tell, will you--as long as he lives?' said
Marjory. 'You must promise.'

I was horrified by what I had heard; but her eyes were upon me, and I
promised.

'And you, Ormsby, promise me to be kinder to him after this.'

He could not speak; but he made a sign of assent.

'And now,' said Marjory, 'shake hands with him and forgive him.'

But I revolted: 'No, Marjory, I can't; not now--when I know this!'

'Cameron, dear,' she said, 'you won't let me go away sorry, will you?
and I must go so soon. For my sake, when I wish it so!'

I went to Ormsby, and took his cold, passive hand. 'I do forgive him,
Marjory,' I said.

She smiled brightly at us both. 'And you won't forget, either of you?'
she said. 'And, Douglas, you will be brave, and take your own part now.
Good-bye, good-bye.'

I tried to reach her. 'Don't leave me; take me with you, Marjory--dear,
dear Marjory, don't go!' But there was only firelit space where she had
stood, though the sound of her pleading, pathetic voice was still in the
air.

Ormsby remained for a few minutes leaning against a desk, with his face
buried in his arms, and I heard him struggling with his sobs. At last he
rose, and left the room without a word.

But I stayed there where I had last seen Marjory, till the fire died
down, and the hour was late, for I was glad to be alone with the new and
solemn joy that had come to me. For she had not forgotten me where she
was; I had been allowed to see her once more, and it might even be that
I should see her again. And I resolved then that when she came she
should find me more worthy of her.

       *       *       *       *       *

From that night my character seemed to enter upon a new phase, and when
I returned to school it was to begin my second term under better
auspices.

My cousins had welcomed me cordially among them, and as I mastered the
lesson of give and take, of respecting one's self in respecting others,
which I needed to learn, my early difficulties vanished with the
weakness that had produced them.

By Ormsby I was never again molested; in word and deed, he was true to
the promise exacted from him during that last strange scene. At first,
he avoided me as being too painfully connected with the past; but by
degrees, as he recognised that his secret was safe in my keeping, we
grew to understand one another better, although it would be too much to
say that we ever became intimate.

After he went to Sandhurst I lost sight of him, and only a few months
since the news of his death in the Soudan, where he fell gallantly, made
me sorrowfully aware that we should never meet again.

I had a lingering fancy that Marjory might appear to me once more, but I
have long since given up all hope of that in this life, and for what may
come after I am content to wait.

But the charge my child-friend had undertaken was completed on the night
she was allowed to return to earth and determine the crisis of two
lives; there is nothing now to call the bright and gracious little
spirit back, for her influence will remain always.


     _Spottiswoode & Co. Printers, New-street Square, London_.

       *       *       *       *       *

WORKS BY F. ANSTEY.

       *       *       *       *       *

SECOND EDITION. Crown 8vo. 6_s._

THE TALKING HORSE;

AND OTHER TALES.

+From THE DAILY CHRONICLE.+--'Full of quaintnesses, fun about dogs and
boys, and with now and then a graver touch.... Stories which no one but
the author of "Vice Versâ" could have produced.'

       *       *       *       *       *

FOURTH EDITION. Crown 8vo. 6_s._

THE GIANT'S ROBE.

+From THE PALL MALL GAZETTE.+--'The main interest of the book, which is
very strong indeed, begins when Vincent returns, when Harold Caffyn
discovers the secret, when every page threatens to bring down doom on
the head of the miserable Mark. Will he confess? Will he drown himself?
Will Vincent denounce him? Will Caffyn inform on him? Will his wife
abandon him?--we ask eagerly as we read, and cannot cease reading till
the puzzle is solved in a series of exciting situations.'

       *       *       *       *       *

POPULAR EDITION. Crown 8vo. 6_s._

CHEAP EDITION. Crown 8vo. limp red cloth, 2_s._ 6_d._

THE PARIAH.

+From THE SATURDAY REVIEW.+--'In "The Pariah" we are more than ever
struck by the sharp intuitive perception and the satirical balancing of
judgment which makes the author's writings such extremely entertaining
reading. There is not a dull page--we might say, not a dull sentence--in
it.... The girls are delightfully drawn, especially the bewitching
Margot and the childish Lettice. Nothing that polish and finish,
cleverness, humour, wit, and sarcasm can give is left out.'

       *       *       *       *       *

CHEAP EDITION. Crown 8vo. limp red cloth, 2_s._ 6_d._

VICE VERSÂ;

OR, A LESSON TO FATHERS.

+From THE SATURDAY REVIEW.+--'If ever there was a book made up from
beginning to end of laughter, and yet not a comic book, or a "merry"
book, or a book of jokes, or a book of pictures, or a jest book, or a
tomfool book, but a perfectly sober and serious book, in the reading of
which a sober man may laugh without shame from beginning to end, it is
the new book called "Vice Versâ; or, a Lesson to Fathers."... We close
the book, recommending it very earnestly to all fathers in the first
instance, and their sons, nephews, uncles, and male cousins next.'

       *       *       *       *       *

CHEAP EDITION. Crown 8vo. limp red cloth, 2_s._ 6_d._

A FALLEN IDOL.

+From THE TIMES.+--'Mr. Anstey's new story will delight the
multitudinous public that laughed over "Vice Versâ."... The boy who
brings the accursed image to Champion's house, Mr. Bales, the artist's
factotum, and above all Mr. Yarker, the ex-butler who has turned
policeman, are figures whom it is as pleasant to meet as it is
impossible to forget.'

       *       *       *       *       *

London: SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 Waterloo Place.

       *       *       *       *       *

NOVELS BY THE AUTHOR OF 'MEHALAH.'

_Fcp. 8vo. Pictorial boards, 2s. each; or limp red cloth, 2s. 6d. each._

       *       *       *       *       *

MEHALAH:

A STORY OF THE SALT MARSHES.

'The book is one of the most powerful that has, so far as we know,
appeared for many years. It will remind many readers of Emily Brontë's
wonderful story, "Wuthering Heights," and indeed in some respects it is
even more powerful.'--SCOTSMAN.

'"Mehalah" is far above the ordinary level of novels. The writer
possesses strength, and strength is one of the rarest qualities in
modern fiction.'--DAILY NEWS.

'A bit of real romance: original, violent, powerful, novel both in place
and circumstance, and peculiarly impressive.'--TRUTH.

       *       *       *       *       *

JOHN HERRING:

A WEST OF ENGLAND ROMANCE.

'Among most novels of the day "John Herring" is a very considerable work
indeed, and both deserves and will receive proportionate
attention.'--PALL MALL GAZETTE.

'Far, very far, above the level of ordinary novels.'--ACADEMY.

'A powerful and interesting novel. The English is admirable; there is
great freshness and vigour in the descriptions of scenery and character,
and in the narrative there is abundance of invention, and many of the
situations are extremely dramatic.... A book of unusual originality and
power.'--TIMES.

       *       *       *       *       *

COURT ROYAL.

'"Court Royal" is among the few novels of our time that deserve, and
will probably obtain, life beyond its day. Intellect, knowledge, fancy,
and humour have gone to its making, and thought besides.'--GRAPHIC.

'The story holds the reader under a spell which is unbroken from first
to last.'--MORNING POST.

'It is difficult to say which is the most striking feature of this
remarkable and welcome novel--the quaint humour, the consummate power,
or the freshness.'--VANITY FAIR.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE GAVEROCKS.

'Marked by the vigour of style the freshness of invention, and the
dramatic power which have gained this talented writer his
reputation.'--SCOTSMAN.

'A tale of vivid and well-sustained interest.'--GUARDIAN.

'The story is one of deep human interest, while the intensity of its
local colouring enhances its intrinsic merit.'--MORNING POST.

       *       *       *       *       *

RICHARD CABLE,

THE LIGHTSHIPMAN.

'A novel essentially readable, and full of life and colour.'--DAILY
TELEGRAPH.

'The story has a strong interest, which is likely to prove enduring. It
is as good as anything this powerful writer has produced.'--SCOTSMAN.

       *       *       *       *       *

London: SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 Waterloo Place.

       *       *       *       *       *

The 'MOLLY BAWN' SERIES of POPULAR NOVELS

Works by the Author of 'MOLLY BAWN,' 'GREEN PLEASURE AND GREY GRIEF,'
&c. &c.

_In Pictorial Covers, fcp. 8vo. 2s.; or, in limp red cloth, fcp. 8vo.
2s. 6d. each._

       *       *       *       *       *

PHYLLIS: A NOVEL.

'A clever and interesting novel.'--SPECTATOR. 'Very pleasant
writing.'--QUEEN.


MOLLY BAWN.

'Really an attractive novel, idealising human life without departing
from the truth, and depicting the love of a tender, feminine, yet
high-spirited girl in a most touching manner. Full of wit, spirit, and
gaiety. All women will envy and all men will fall in love with her.
Higher praise we surely cannot give.'--ATHENÆUM.


'AIRY FAIRY LILIAN.'

'A delightful story, cast in the same mould as its predecessors. The
characters are cleverly drawn, the dialogue is terse and
pointed.'--COURT JOURNAL.


MRS. GEOFFREY.

'A prettier or more readable story than "Mrs. Geoffrey" nobody need wish
to meet with.'--SCOTSMAN.


ROSSMOYNE.

'Monica Beresford is a very pretty example of Irish _naïveté_
dissociated from shilleaghs; and there is true humour in the conception
of Kit, her sister.'--ACADEMY.


DORIS.

'"Doris" is a clever story of a marriage of convenience.... The dialogue
is good: that of "Dicky Browne," a kind of licensed jester, being really
bright and lively. The heroine is well drawn, and so is a terrible aunt
of hers, whose encounters with the Marquis (himself a clever portrait)
are diverting.'--ACADEMY.


GREEN PLEASURE AND GREY GRIEF.

'"Green Pleasure and Grey Grief" is what many of its readers will be
inclined to call a sweetly pretty story.'--ATHENÆUM.


PORTIA.

'"Portia, or by Passions Rocked," is of the category of novels to which
may fairly be applied the epithet of "charming."'--MORNING POST.


BEAUTY'S DAUGHTERS.

'Another triumph.... Of the success of the story there can hardly be any
doubt.' COURT JOURNAL.


FAITH AND UNFAITH.

'A singularly bright, vivacious, readable story.'--ILLUSTRATED LONDON
NEWS.

'Distinctly superior to three-fourths of the fiction
published.'--ACADEMY.


LADY BRANKSMERE.

'.... Sufficiently sensational to suit the most ardent admirers of
fiction, and yet contains much that is worthy of admiration.'--COURT
JOURNAL.


LOYS, LORD BERRESFORD, and other Tales.

'A collection of stories which cannot fail to be popular. There is
something good in all of them, and one or two are especially racy and
piquant.'--ACADEMY.


UNDER-CURRENTS.

'Altogether as enjoyable as one is accustomed to expect from the clever
author of "Molly Bawn."'--SCOTSMAN.

       *       *       *       *       *

London: SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 Waterloo Place.

       *       *       *       *       *

NOVELS BY GEORGE GISSING.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Fcp. 8vo. Pictorial boards, 2s. each; or limp red cloth, 2s. 6d. each._


DEMOS:

A STORY OF SOCIALIST LIFE IN ENGLAND.

'If a tale of Socialism does not find abundance of readers, it is not
because the times are not ripe for it. This remarkable novel presents
the great social problem in a striking garb.... "Demos" does not aspire
to vie with "Alton Locke," but it tells a story more practical, and of
more brightness and variety.'--TIMES.

'A really able and vigorous romance.'--ATHENÆUM.

'This is a novel of very considerable ability.... It is evidently
written by a man who has a very intimate knowledge of the working
classes, and not a little sympathy with them.... Nothing can be more
skilful than the sketch of the artisan family round whose fortunes the
story of the book revolves. The chief character is very powerfully
drawn.... His mother too, with her narrow, complaining, and almost dumb
integrity, ... the weak, pretty daughter, and the worthless, blackguard
son, are hardly less truthful studies.... The sketch of the one or two
Socialist meetings which the author has occasion to describe, of the
style of Socialist literature, and the conversation of Socialist
agitators, shows an intimate knowledge of that field of
action.'--SPECTATOR.


A LIFE'S MORNING.

'Powerful and unique, as all Mr. Gissing's former writings are. "A
Life's Morning" is his _chef-d'oeuvre_.... The story is most
fascinating and most natural.' WHITEHALL REVIEW.

'As a study of feminine nature, "A Life's Morning" is, perhaps, the most
successful of all Mr. Gissing's works, and deserves to be fully as
popular as its predecessors.' PALL MALL GAZETTE.

'A story which is marked by imaginative insight, subtle delineation of
character, epigrammatic force of style, and gleams of genuine
humour.'--STANDARD.


THE NETHER WORLD.

'Terrible in its earnestness, in its "untouched" photography of the
desperate struggles and bitter misery of the London poor; never was
word-painting more thoroughly and obviously true.'--WORLD.

'Mr. Gissing is one of the few persons who can handle pitch without
being defiled by it. While he runs Zola close as a realist, his thoughts
and language are as pure as those of Miss Yonge herself.'--STANDARD.

'A powerful and most interesting novel.'--MANCHESTER GUARDIAN.


_Crown 8vo. 6s._

THYRZA.

'A very good story indeed.... In power and pathetic treatment the novel
is above the average.'--ATHENÆUM.

'Thyrza is a really exquisite figure; as pathetic a creation as can well
be imagined.... In short, "Thyrza" is a book of unusual literary
merit.'--MORNING POST.


_Crown 8vo. 6s._

NEW GRUB STREET.

'Mr. Gissing's writing is bright and strong, his humour is delightful,
and his satire is easy and yet restrained.'--SPEAKER.

'Mr. Gissing has produced a very powerful book.... Full of clever
touches on literary and social matters.'--SATURDAY REVIEW.

'The book is decidedly forcible, and, to a great extent, the result of
experience.' ATHENÆUM.

'Mr. Gissing's new book is the best bit of work he has done since
"Thyrza." In none of his recent novels has there been such reality of
feeling, such pathos, such careful yet broad analysis of character. Mr.
Gissing's characters are real living men and women; they are drawn with
great skill, sympathy, and truth.'--GUARDIAN.

       *       *       *       *       *

London: SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 Waterloo Place.

       *       *       *       *       *

ILLUSTRATED EDITIONS

OF

POPULAR WORKS.

Handsomely bound in cloth gilt, each volume containing

Four Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. each.

       *       *       *       *       *

+THE SMALL HOUSE AT ALLINGTON.+ By ANTHONY TROLLOPE

+FRAMLEY PARSONAGE.+ By ANTHONY TROLLOPE

+THE CLAVERINGS.+ By ANTHONY TROLLOPE

+TRANSFORMATION:+ a Romance. By NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

+DOMESTIC STORIES.+ By the Author of 'John Halifax, Gentleman.'

+THE MOORS AND THE FENS.+ By Mrs. J. H. RIDDELL.

+WITHIN THE PRECINCTS.+ By Mrs. OLIPHANT.

+CARITÀ.+ By Mrs. OLIPHANT.

+FOR PERCIVAL.+ By MARGARET VELEY.

+NO NEW THING.+ By W. E. NORRIS.

+LOVE THE DEBT.+ By RICHARD ASHE KING ('Basil').

+WIVES AND DAUGHTERS.+ By Mrs. GASKELL.

+NORTH AND SOUTH.+ By Mrs. GASKELL.

+SYLVIA'S LOVERS.+ By Mrs. GASKELL.

+CRANFORD, and other Stories.+ By Mrs. GASKELL.

+MARY BARTON, and other Stories.+ By Mrs. GASKELL.

+RUTH; THE GREY WOMAN, and other Stories.+ By Mrs. GASKELL.

+LIZZIE LEIGH; A DARK NIGHT'S WORK, and other Stories.+ By Mrs. GASKELL.

       *       *       *       *       *

London: SMITH, ELDER & CO., 15 Waterloo Place.

       *       *       *       *       *

ILLUSTRATED EDITION

OF THE

LIFE AND WORKS

OF

CHARLOTTE BRONTË

(CURRER BELL),

AND HER SISTERS

EMILY AND ANNE BRONTË

(ELLIS AND ACTON BELL).

In Seven Volumes, Large Crown 8vo. handsomely bound in cloth.

_Price 5s. per Volume._

       *       *       *       *       *

The descriptions in 'Jane Eyre' and the other Fictions by Charlotte
Brontë and her Sisters being mostly of actual places, the Publishers
considered that Views were the most suitable Illustrations for the
Novels. They were indebted for a clue to the real names of the most
interesting scenes to a friend of the Brontë family, who enabled the
artist, Mr. G. M. Wimperis, to identify the places described. He made
faithful sketches of them on the spot, and drew them on wood.

       *       *       *       *       *

1.--+JANE EYRE.+ By Charlotte Brontë. With Five Illustrations.
LOWOOD.
GATESHEAD HALL.
THORNFIELD HALL.
MOOR HOUSE.
FERNDEAN MANOR.

2.--+SHIRLEY.+ By Charlotte Brontë. With Five Illustrations.
YORKE'S HOUSE.
NUNNELY COMMON AND WOOD.
FIELDHEAD HALL.
HOLLOW'S MILL.
BRIARFIELD CHURCH.

3.--+VILLETTE.+ By Charlotte Brontë. With Five Illustrations.
THE PARK, BRUSSELS.
DOME OF ST. PAUL'S.
PENSIONNAT DES DEMOISELLES, BRUSSELS.
GARDEN IN THE RUE FOSSETTE.
GRANDE PLACE, BRUSSELS.

4.--+THE PROFESSOR, and POEMS.+ By Charlotte Brontë. With Poems by
her Sisters and Father. With Five Illustrations.
VIEW FROM CRIMSWORTH HALL.
HOUSE IN DAISY LANE.
RUE ROYALE, BRUSSELS.
PROTESTANT CEMETERY.
VIEW OF THE MOORS.

5.--+WUTHERING HEIGHTS.+ By Emily Brontë. +AGNES GREY.+ By Anne
Brontë. With a Preface and Biographical Notice of both Authors, by
Charlotte Brontë. With Five Illustrations.
HAWORTH CHURCH AND PARSONAGE.
VALLEY OF GIMMERTON.
WUTHERING HEIGHTS.
THE MOORS.
HORTON LODGE.

6.--+THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL.+ By Anne Brontë. With Five
Illustrations.
WILDFELL HALL.
GRASSDALE MANOR.
HARRINGBY HALL.
ON THE MOORS.
WILDFELL HALL (_second view_).

7.--+LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTË.+ By Mrs. Gaskell. With Seven
Illustrations.
PORTRAIT OF CHARLOTTE BRONTË.
PORTRAIT OF THE REV. PATRICK BRONTË.
CASTERTON SCHOOL.
ROE HEAD.
HAWORTH PARSONAGE.
THE BRONTË WATERFALL.
FACSIMILE OF A SKETCH BY PATRICK BRANWELL BRONTË.

*** The Volumes are also to be had in small post 8vo. limp cloth, price
2s. 6d. each; or in small fcp. 8vo. bound in half-cloth, with
Frontispiece to each volume, cut or uncut edges, price 1s. 6d. each.

       *       *       *       *       *

London: SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 Waterloo Place.

       *       *       *       *       *

POPULAR NOVELS.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Each Work complete in One Volume, Crown 8vo._

_price Six Shillings._

+NEW GRUB STREET.+ By GEORGE GISSING.

+EIGHT DAYS.+ By R. E. FORREST, Author of 'The Touchstone of Peril.'

+A DRAUGHT OF LETHE.+ By ROY TELLET, Author of 'The Outcasts' &c.

+THE RAJAH'S HEIR.+ By a New Author.

+THE PARIAH.+ By F. ANSTEY, Author of 'Vice Versâ' &c.

+THYRZA.+ By GEORGE GISSING, Author of 'Demos' &c.

+THE NETHER WORLD.+ By GEORGE GISSING, Author of 'Demos' &c.

+ROBERT ELSMERE.+ By Mrs. HUMPHRY WARD, Author of 'Miss Bretherton' &c.

+RICHARD CABLE+: the Lightshipman. By the Author of 'Mehalah,' 'John
Herring,' 'Court Royal,' &c.

+THE GAVEROCKS.+ By the Author of 'Mehalah,' 'John Herring,' 'Court
Royal,' &c.

+DEMOS+: a Story of Socialist Life in England. By GEORGE GISSING, Author
of 'Thyrza' &c.

+A FALLEN IDOL.+ By F. ANSTEY, Author of 'Vice Versâ' &c.

+THE GIANT'S ROBE.+ By F. ANSTEY, Author of 'Vice Versâ' &c.

+OLD KENSINGTON.+ By Miss THACKERAY.

+THE VILLAGE ON THE CLIFF.+ By Miss THACKERAY.

+FIVE OLD FRIENDS AND A YOUNG PRINCE.+ By Miss THACKERAY.

+TO ESTHER, and other Sketches.+ By Miss THACKERAY.

+BLUEBEARD'S KEYS, and other Stories.+ By Miss THACKERAY.

+THE STORY OF ELIZABETH; TWO HOURS; FROM AN ISLAND.+ By Miss THACKERAY.

+TOILERS AND SPINSTERS.+ By Miss THACKERAY.

+MISS ANGEL; FULHAM LAWN.+ By Miss THACKERAY.

+MISS WILLIAMSON'S DIVAGATIONS.+ By Miss THACKERAY.

+MRS. DYMOND.+ By Miss THACKERAY.

+LLANALY REEFS.+ By Lady VERNEY, Author of 'Stone Edge' &c.

+LETTICE LISLE.+ By Lady VERNEY. With 3 Illustrations.

       *       *       *       *       *

London: SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 Waterloo Place.


POCKET EDITIONS.

       *       *       *       *       *

W. M. THACKERAY'S WORKS.

In Twenty-seven Volumes. Price 1_s._ 6_d._ each in half-cloth,
cut or uncut edges; or 1_s._ in paper cover.

*** _The set of Twenty-seven Volumes can also be had in a handsome
ebonised case. Height is 17 inches, width 12 inches, depth 4¾ inches.
Price £2. 12s. 6d._

'A perfect and marvellously cheap edition.' Spectator.

'Neat, handy, and pretty little books.' SATURDAY REVIEW.

TITLES OF THE VOLUMES.

VANITY FAIR. 2 vols.

The HISTORY of PENDENNIS. 2 vols.

The MEMOIRS of BARRY LYNDON:
A Little Dinner at Timmins's.

The NEWCOMES. 2 vols.

The HISTORY of HENRY ESMOND.

The VIRGINIANS. 2 vols.

The ADVENTURES of PHILIP, to which is prefixed A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY.
2 vols.

The IRISH SKETCH-BOOK.

The GREAT HOGGARTY DIAMOND. The HISTORY of the NEXT FRENCH REVOLUTION.
CRUIKSHANK and LEECH. COX'S DIARY. The BEDFORD ROW CONSPIRACY.

MAJOR GAHAGAN. The FATAL BOOTS. MEN'S WIVES. The SECOND FUNERAL of
NAPOLEON.

The YELLOWPLUSH PAPERS. CATHERINE.

The FITZBOODLE PAPERS. CHARACTER SKETCHES. TALES. PAPERS by the FAT
CONTRIBUTOR. Miss TICKLETOBY'S LECTURES on ENGLISH HISTORY.

The BOOK of SNOBS. NOVELS by EMINENT HANDS. SULTAN STORK, and other
Papers.

LOVEL the WIDOWER. The WOLVES and the LAMB. NOTES of a JOURNEY from
CORNHILL to GRAND CAIRO.

BALLADS. A LEGEND of the RHINE. The DIARY of C. JEAMES DE LA PLUCHE,
Esq., with his Letters.

ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. LITTLE TRAVELS and ROADSIDE-SKETCHES.

The CHRISTMAS BOOKS of Mr. M. A. TITMARSH. 2 vols. CONTENTS:--Mrs.
Perkins' Ball--Our Street--Dr. Birch and his Young Friends--Rebecca and
Rowena--The Rose and the Ring--The Kickleburys on the Rhine.

SKETCHES and TRAVELS in LONDON; and MISCELLANEOUS CONTRIBUTIONS to
'PUNCH.'

The FOUR GEORGES; and The ENGLISH HUMORISTS of the EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.

The PARIS SKETCH-BOOK; and A LECTURE on CHARITY and HUMOUR.

DENIS DUVAL; and MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS, SKETCHES, and REVIEWS.

       *       *       *       *       *

Small fcp. 8vo. half-cloth, cut or uncut edges, One Shilling.

POEMS BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

       *       *       *       *       *

Small fcp. 8vo. bound in half-cloth, with cut or uncut edges, price One
Shilling.

POCKET VOLUME OF SELECTIONS FROM THE POETICAL WORKS OF ROBERT BROWNING.

       *       *       *       *       *

LIFE AND WORKS OF CHARLOTTE BRONTË

(CURRER BELL) and her Sisters EMILY and ANNE BRONTË (ELLIS and ACTON
BELL). Seven small Fcp. 8vo. Volumes, each containing a Frontispiece,
bound in half-cloth, with cut or uncut edges, price 1_s._ 6_d._ per
volume.

TITLES OF THE VOLUMES:--JANE EYRE.--SHIRLEY.--VILLETTE.--The PROFESSOR
and POEMS.--WUTHERING HEIGHTS and AGNES GREY.--TENANT of WILDFELL
HALL.--LIFE of CHARLOTTE BRONTË.

       *       *       *       *       *

MRS. GASKELL'S WORKS.

Eight Volumes, small fcp. 8vo. bound in half-cloth, with cut or uncut
edges, price 1_s._ 6_d._ per volume.

TITLES OF THE VOLUMES:--WIVES and DAUGHTERS.--NORTH and SOUTH.--SYLVIA'S
LOVERS.--CRANFORD, and other Tales.--MARY BARTON, and
other Tales.--RUTH, and other Tales.--A DARK NIGHT'S WORK, and
other Tales.--MY LADY LUDLOW, and other Tales.

       *       *       *       *       *

London: SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 Waterloo Place.