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THE THREE CLERKS

BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE



WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY W. TEIGNMOUTH SHORE



ANTHONY TROLLOPE

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



INTRODUCTION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

W. TEIGNMOUTH SHORE.



CONTENTS

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



CHAPTER I

THE WEIGHTS AND MEASURES


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

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

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

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

  Sport with Amaryllis in the shade.

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

  Were it not better done, as others use?

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

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

And so the high tone of the office is maintained.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER II

THE INTERNAL NAVIGATION


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charley confessed to the fact.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charley looked sheepish, but of course said nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER III

THE WOODWARDS


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'And what is he like?' said Alaric.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

'I am so sorry,' said Katie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And thus the advent of Captain Cuttwater was discussed.



CHAPTER IV

CAPTAIN CUTTWATER


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs. Woodward declared with sorrow that she had not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'But what?' said Linda.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Indeed they are,' said Mrs. Woodward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Opportunity for what?' asked Mrs. Woodward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Amen!' said Alaric.

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

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

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

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

'Fee, fo, fum!' said Alaric.

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER V

BUSHEY PARK


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'What is suffering?' said she.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER VI

SIR GREGORY HARDLINES


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'And who is to be the successful man?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'And why so?' said Harry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER VII

MR. FIDUS NEVERBEND

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

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

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

'Nothing whatever,' said Alaric.

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

'Mr. Neverbend!' said Alaric.

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

'Does he understand mining?' asked Alaric.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'I don't know that.'

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

'It will give you _prestige_.'

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

'You must manage him,' said Harry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Education is nothing,' said Harry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

'But not to defile yourself in doing so.'

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

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

'And am I a liar?'

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

'What! by having muddy gaiters?'

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

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

'Well, finish your quotation,' said Harry.

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

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

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

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

'And cannot a man be good and great?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'And much the dearest,' said the other.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER VIII

THE HON. UNDECIMUS SCOTT


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'The devil only knows,' said the other.

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

'Forty-one when I left.'

'Then they'll divide, of course?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Poor Linda!

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

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



CHAPTER IX

MR. MANYLODES


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Will you come down after dinner?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'He never indulges in anything,' said Alaric.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'And have you no faith, Scott?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Quick's the word, I suppose.'

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

'I suppose so.'

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

'And how did that happen?'

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

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

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

'And how did you do in the matter?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Not for me, Scott.'

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

Alaric allowed himself to be persuaded and stayed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'A purchase for me!'

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

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

'Forty shares in the Mary Jane.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Gammon--'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'They had private fortunes.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Or pay the loss.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER X

WHEAL MARY JANE


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Ugh!' ejaculated poor Alaric.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'No--not railway shares exactly.'

'Canal?' suggested Norman.

'No--not canal.'

'Gas?'

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

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

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

'Alaric, if it were known--'

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XI

THE THREE KINGS


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Not at all,' said Charley.

'Nor yet Buckingham Palace.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He had never renewed the disclosure of his passion; but Linda had
thought that whenever he shook hands with her since that memorable walk,
she had always felt a more than ordinary pressure. This she had been
careful not to return, but she had not the heart to rebuke it. Now, when
he bade her good morning, he certainly held her hand in his longer
than he need have done. He looked at her too, as though his looks meant
something more than ordinary looking; at least so Linda thought; but
yet he said nothing, and so Linda, slightly trembling, went on with the
adjustment of her tea-tray.

'It will be all over, Linda, when we meet again,' said Alaric. His mind
she found was intent on his examination, not on his love. But this was
natural, was as it should be. If--and she was certain in her heart that
it would be so--if he should be successful, then he might speak of love
without having to speak in the same breath of poverty as well. 'It will
be all over when we meet again,' he said.

'I suppose it will,' said Linda.

'I don't at all like it; it seems so unnatural having to contend against
one's friend. And yet one cannot help it; one cannot allow one's self to
go to the wall.'

'I'm sure Harry doesn't mind it,' said Linda.

'I'm sure I do,' said he. 'If I fail I shall be unhappy, and if I
succeed I shall be equally so. I shall set all the world against me. I
know what your mother meant when she talked of a jackanapes yesterday.
If I get the promotion I may wish good-bye to Surbiton Cottage.'

'Oh, Alaric!'

'Harry would forgive me; but Harry's friends would never do so.'

'How can you say so? I am sure mamma has no such feeling, nor yet even
Gertrude; I mean that none of us have.'

'It is very natural all of you should, for he is your cousin.'

'You are just the same as our cousin. I am sure we think quite as much
of you as of Harry. Even Gertrude said she hoped that you would get it.'

'Dear Gertrude!'

'Because, you know, Harry does not want it so much as you do. I am sure
I wish you success with all my heart. Perhaps it's wicked to wish for
either of you over the other; but you can't both get it at once, you
know.'

At this moment Katie came in, and soon afterwards Gertrude and the two
other young men, and so nothing further was said on the subject.

Charley parted with the competitors at the corner of Waterloo Bridge.
He turned into Somerset House, being there regarded on these Monday
mornings as a prodigy of punctuality; and Alaric and Harry walked back
along the Strand, arm-in-arm, toward their own office.

'Well, lads, I hope you'll both win,' said Charley. 'And whichever wins
most, why of course he'll stand an uncommon good dinner.'

'Oh! that's of course,' said Alaric. 'We'll have it at the Trafalgar.'

And so the two walked on together, arm-in-arm, to the Weights and
Measures.

The ceremony which was now about to take place at the Weights and
Measures was ordained to be the first of those examinations which,
under the auspices of Sir Gregory Hardlines, were destined to revivify,
clarify, and render perfect the Civil Service of the country. It was a
great triumph to Sir Gregory to see the darling object of his heart thus
commencing its existence in the very cradle in which he, as an infant
Hercules, had made his first exertions in the cause. It was to be his
future fortune to superintend these intellectual contests, in a stately
office of his own, duly set apart and appointed for the purpose. But the
throne on which he was to sit had not yet been prepared for him, and he
was at present constrained to content himself with exercising his power,
now here and now there, according as his services might be required,
carrying the appurtenances of his royalty about with him.

But Sir Gregory was not a solitary monarch. In days long gone by there
were, as we all know, three kings at Cologne, and again three kings
at Brentford. So also were there three kings at the Civil Service
Examination Board. But of these three Sir Gregory was by far the
greatest king. He sat in the middle, had two thousand jewels to his
crown, whereas the others had only twelve hundred each, and his name
ran first in all the royal warrants. Nevertheless, Sir Gregory, could
he have had it so, would, like most other kings, have preferred an
undivided sceptre.

Of his co-mates on the throne the elder in rank was a west country
baronet, who, not content with fatting beeves and brewing beer like his
sires, aspired to do something for his country. Sir Warwick Westend
was an excellent man, full of the best intentions, and not more than
decently anxious to get the good things of Government into his hand.
He was, perhaps, rather too much inclined to think that he could see
further through a millstone than another, and had a way of looking as
though he were always making the attempt. He was a man born to grace, if
not his country, at any rate his county; and his conduct was uniformly
such as to afford the liveliest satisfaction to his uncles, aunts, and
relations in general. If as a king he had a fault, it was this, that he
allowed that other king, Sir Gregory, to carry him in his pocket.

But Sir Gregory could not at all get the third king into his pocket.
This gentleman was a worthy clergyman from Cambridge, one Mr. Jobbles by
name. Mr. Jobbles had for many years been examining undergraduates for
little goes and great goes, and had passed his life in putting posing
questions, in detecting ignorance by viva voce scrutiny, and eliciting
learning by printed papers. He, by a stupendous effort of his
mathematical mind, had divided the adult British male world into classes
and sub-classes, and could tell at a moment's notice how long it would
take him to examine them all. His soul panted for the work. Every man
should, he thought, be made to pass through some 'go.' The
greengrocer's boy should not carry out cabbages unless his fitness
for cabbage-carrying had been ascertained, and till it had also been
ascertained that no other boy, ambitious of the preferment, would carry
them better. Difficulty! There was no difficulty. Could not he, Jobbles,
get through 5,000 viva voces in every five hours--that is, with due
assistance? and would not 55,000 printed papers, containing 555,000
questions, be getting themselves answered at the same time, with more or
less precision?

So now Mr. Jobbles was about to try his huge plan by a small
commencement.

On the present occasion the examination was actually to be carried on by
two of the kings in person. Sir Gregory had declared that as so large a
portion of his heart and affections was bound up with the gentlemen of
the Weights and Measures, he could not bring himself actually to ask
questions of them, and then to listen to or read their answers. Should
any of his loved ones make some fatal _faux pas_, his tears, like those
of the recording angel, would blot out the error. His eyes would refuse
to see faults, if there should be faults, in those whom he himself had
nurtured. Therefore, though he came with his colleagues to the Weights
and Measures, he did not himself take part in the examination.

At eleven o'clock the Board-room was opened, and the candidates walked
in and seated themselves. Fear of Sir Gregory, and other causes, had
thinned the number. Poor Jones, who by right of seniority should have
had the prize, declined to put himself in competition with his juniors,
and in lieu thereof sent up to the Lords of the Treasury an awful
memorial spread over fifteen folio pages--very uselessly. The Lords
of the Treasury referred it to the three kings, whose secretary put a
minute upon it. Sir Gregory signed the minute, and some gentleman at
the Treasury wrote a short letter to Mr. Jones, apprising that unhappy
gentleman that my Lords had taken the matter into their fullest
consideration, and that nothing could be done to help him. Had Jones
been consulted by any other disappointed Civil Service Werter as to the
expediency of complaining to the Treasury Lords, Jones would have told
him exactly what would be the result. The disappointed one, however,
always thinks that all the Treasury Lords will give all their ears to
him, though they are deafer than Icarus to the world beside.

Robinson stood his ground like a man; but Brown found out, a day or
two before the struggle came, that he could not bring himself to
stand against his friend. Jones, he said, he knew was incompetent, but
Robinson ought to get it; so he, for one, would not stand in Robinson's
way.

Uppinall was there, as confident as a bantam cock; and so was Alphabet
Precis, who had declared to all his friends that if the pure well of
official English undefiled was to count for anything, he ought to be
pretty safe. But poor Minusex was ill, and sent a certificate. He had
so crammed himself with unknown quantities, that his mind--like a
gourmand's stomach--had broken down under the effort, and he was now
sobbing out algebraic positions under his counterpane.

Norman and Alaric made up the five who still had health, strength, and
pluck to face the stern justice of the new kings; and they accordingly
took their seats on five chairs, equally distant, placing themselves in
due order of seniority.

And then, first of all, Sir Gregory made a little speech, standing up at
the head of the Board-room table, with an attendant king on either hand,
and the Secretary, and two Assistant-Secretaries, standing near him. Was
not this a proud moment for Sir Gregory?

'It had now become his duty,' he said, 'to take his position in that
room, that well-known, well-loved room, under circumstances of which he
had little dreamt when he first entered it with awe-struck steps, in
the days of his early youth. But, nevertheless, even then ambition had
warmed him. That ambition had been to devote every energy of his mind,
every muscle of his body, every hour of his life, to the Civil Service
of his country. It was not much, perhaps, that he had been able to do;
he could not boast of those acute powers of mind, of that gigantic grasp
of intellect, of which they saw in those days so wonderful an example in
a high place.' Sir Gregory here gratefully alluded to that statesman who
had given him his present appointment. 'But still he had devoted all his
mind, such as it was, and every hour of his life, to the service; and
now he had his reward. If he might be allowed to give advice to the
gentlemen before him, gentlemen of whose admirable qualifications for
the Civil Service of the country he himself was so well aware, his
advice should be this--That they should look on none of their energies
as applicable to private purposes, regard none of their hours as their
own. They were devoted in a peculiar way to the Civil Service, and they
should feel that such was their lot in life. They should know that their
intellects were a sacred pledge intrusted to them for the good of that
service, and should use them accordingly. This should be their highest
ambition. And what higher ambition,' asked Sir Gregory, 'could they
have? They all, alas! knew that the service had been disgraced in
other quarters by idleness, incompetency, and, he feared he must
say, dishonesty; till incompetency and dishonesty had become, not the
exception, but the rule. It was too notorious that the Civil Service was
filled by the family fools of the aristocracy and middle classes, and
that any family who had no fool to send, sent in lieu thereof some
invalid past hope. Thus the service had become a hospital for incurables
and idiots. It was,' said Sir Gregory, 'for him and them to cure
all that. He would not,' he said, 'at that moment, say anything with
reference to salaries. It was, as they were all aware, a very difficult
subject, and did not seem to be necessarily connected with the few
remarks which the present opportunity had seemed to him to call for.'
He then told them they were all his beloved children; that they were a
credit to the establishment; that he handed them over without a blush to
his excellent colleagues, Sir Warwick Westend and Mr. Jobbles, and that
he wished in his heart that each of them could be successful. And having
so spoken, Sir Gregory went his way.

It was beautiful then to see how Mr. Jobbles swam down the long room
and handed out his examination papers to the different candidates as he
passed them. 'Twas a pity there should have been but five; the man did
it so well, so quickly, with such a gusto! He should have been allowed
to try his hand upon five hundred instead of five. His step was so rapid
and his hand and arm moved so dexterously, that no conceivable number
would have been too many for him. But, even with five, he showed at once
that the right man was in the right place. Mr. Jobbles was created for
the conducting of examinations.

And then the five candidates, who had hitherto been all ears, of a
sudden became all eyes, and devoted themselves in a manner which would
have been delightful to Sir Gregory, to the papers before them. Sir
Warwick, in the meantime, was seated in his chair, hard at work looking
through his millstone.

It is a dreadful task that of answering examination papers--only to
be exceeded in dreadfulness by the horrors of Mr. Jobbles' viva voce
torments. A man has before him a string of questions, and he looks
painfully down them, from question to question, searching for some
allusion to that special knowledge which he has within him. He too often
finds that no such allusion is made. It appears that the Jobbles of the
occasion has exactly known the blank spots of his mind and fitted them
all. He has perhaps crammed himself with the winds and tides, and there
is no more reference to those stormy subjects than if Luna were extinct;
but he has, unfortunately, been loose about his botany, and question
after question would appear to him to have been dictated by Sir Joseph
Paxton or the head-gardener at Kew. And then to his own blank face and
puzzled look is opposed the fast scribbling of some botanic candidate,
fast as though reams of folio could hardly contain all the knowledge
which he is able to pour forth.

And so, with a mixture of fast-scribbling pens and blank faces, our five
friends went to work. The examination lasted for four days, and it
was arranged that on each of the four days each of the five candidates
should be called up to undergo a certain quantum of Mr. Jobbles' viva
voce. This part of his duty Mr. Jobbles performed with a mildness of
manner that was beyond all praise. A mother training her first-born to
say 'papa,' could not do so with a softer voice, or more affectionate
demeanour.

'The planet Jupiter,' said he to Mr. Precis; 'I have no doubt you know
accurately the computed distance of that planet from the sun, and also
that of our own planet. Could you tell me now, how would you calculate
the distance in inches, say from London Bridge to the nearest portion of
Jupiter's disc, at twelve o'clock on the first of April?' Mr. Jobbles,
as he put his little question, smiled the sweetest of smiles, and spoke
in a tone conciliating and gentle, as though he were asking Mr. Precis
to dine with him and take part of a bottle of claret at half-past six.

But, nevertheless, Mr. Precis looked very blank.

'I am not asking the distance, you know,' said Mr. Jobbles, smiling
sweeter than ever; 'I am only asking how you would compute it.'

But still Mr. Precis looked exceedingly blank.

'Never mind,' said Mr. Jobbles, with all the encouragement which his
voice could give, 'never mind. Now, suppose that _a_ be a milestone; _b_
a turnpike-gate--,' and so on.

But Mr. Jobbles, in spite of his smiles, so awed the hearts of some of
his candidates, that two of them retired at the end of the second day.
Poor Robinson, thinking, and not without sufficient ground, that he
had not a ghost of a chance, determined to save himself from further
annoyance; and then Norman, put utterly out of conceit with himself by
what he deemed the insufficiency of his answers, did the same. He had
become low in spirits, unhappy in temperament, and self-diffident to a
painful degree. Alaric, to give him his due, did everything in his power
to persuade him to see the task out to the last. But the assurance and
composure of Alaric's manner did more than anything else to provoke and
increase Norman's discomfiture. He had been schooling himself to bear a
beating with a good grace, and he began to find that he could only bear
it as a disgrace. On the morning of the third day, instead of taking
his place in the Board-room, he sent in a note to Mr. Jobbles, declaring
that he withdrew from the trial. Mr. Jobbles read the note, and
smiled with satisfaction as he put it into his pocket. It was an
acknowledgement of his own unrivalled powers as an Examiner.

Mr. Precis, still trusting to his pure well, went on to the end, and at
the end declared that so ignorant was Mr. Jobbles of his duty that he
had given them no opportunity of showing what they could do in English
composition. Why had he not put before them the papers in some memorable
official case, and desired them to make an abstract; those, for
instance, on the much-vexed question of penny versus pound, as touching
the new standard for the decimal coinage? Mr. Jobbles an Examiner
indeed! And so Mr. Precis bethought himself that he also, if
unsuccessful, would go to the Lords of the Treasury.

And Mr. Uppinall and Alaric Tudor also went on. Those who knew anything
of the matter, when they saw how the running horses were reduced in
number, and what horses were left on the course--when they observed also
how each steed came to the post on each succeeding morning, had no doubt
whatever of the result. So that when Alaric was declared on the Saturday
morning to have gained the prize, there was very little astonishment
either felt or expressed at the Weights and Measures.

Alaric's juniors wished him joy with some show of reality in their
manner; but the congratulations of his seniors, including the Secretary
and Assistant-Secretaries, the new Chief Clerk and the men in the class
to which he was now promoted, were very cold indeed. But to this he was
indifferent. It was the nature of Tudor's disposition, that he never for
a moment rested satisfied with the round of the ladder on which he
had contrived to place himself. He had no sooner gained a step than he
looked upwards to see how the next step was to be achieved. His motto
might well have been 'Excelsior!' if only he could have taught himself
to look to heights that were really high. When he found that the august
Secretary received him on his promotion without much _empressement_, he
comforted himself by calculating how long it would be before he should
fill that Secretary's chair--if indeed it should ever be worth his while
to fill it.

The Secretary at the Weights and Measures had, after all, but a
dull time of it, and was precluded by the routine of his office from
parliamentary ambition and the joys of government. Alaric was already
beginning to think that this Weights and Measures should only be a
stepping-stone to him; and that when Sir Gregory, with his stern dogma
of devotion to the service, had been of sufficient use to him, he also
might with advantage be thrown over. In the meantime an income of £600
a year brought with it to the young bachelor some very comfortable
influence. But the warmest and the pleasantest of all the
congratulations which he received was from his dear friend Undy Scott.

'Ah, my boy,' said Undy, pressing his hand, 'you'll soon be one of us.
By the by, I want to put you up for the Downing; you should leave that
Pythagorean: there's nothing to be got by it.'

Now, the Downing was a political club, in which, however, politics
had latterly become a good deal mixed. But the Government of the day
generally found there a liberal support, and recognized and acknowledged
its claim to consideration.



CHAPTER XII

CONSOLATION


On the following Sunday neither Tudor nor Norman was at Hampton. They
had both felt that they could not comfortably meet each other there, and
each had declined to go. They had promised to write; and now that the
matter was decided, how were they or either of them to keep the promise?

It may be thought that the bitterness of the moment was over with Norman
as soon as he gave up; but such was not the case. Let him struggle as he
would with himself he could not rally, nor bring himself to feel happy
on what had occurred. He would have been better satisfied if Alaric
would have triumphed; but Alaric seemed to take it all as a matter of
course, and never spoke of his own promotion unless he did so in answer
to some remark of his companion; then he could speak easily enough;
otherwise he was willing to let the matter go by as one settled and
at rest. He had consulted Norman about the purchase of a horse, but he
hitherto had shown no other sign that he was a richer man than formerly.

It was a very bitter time for Norman. He could not divest his mind of
the subject. What was he to do? Where was he to go? How was he to get
away, even for a time, from Alaric Tudor? And then, was he right in
wishing to get away from him? Had he not told himself, over and over
again, that it behoved him as a man and a friend and a Christian to
conquer the bitter feeling of envy which preyed on his spirits? Had he
not himself counselled Alaric to stand this examination? and had he
not promised that his doing so should make no difference in their
friendship? Had he not pledged himself to rejoice in the success of
his friend? and now was he to break his word both to that friend and to
himself?

Schooling himself, or trying to school himself in this way, he made no
attempt at escaping from his unhappiness. They passed the Wednesday,
Thursday, and Friday evenings together. It was now nearly the end of
September, and London was empty; that is, empty as regards those friends
and acquaintances with whom Norman might have found some resource. On
the Saturday they left their office early; for all office routine had,
during this week, been broken through by the immense importance of the
ceremony which was going on; and then it became necessary to write to
Mrs. Woodward.

'Will you write to Hampton or shall I?' said Alaric, as they walked
arm-in-arm under the windows of Whitehall.

'Oh! you, of course,' said Norman; 'you have much to tell them; I have
nothing.'

'Just as you please,' said the other. 'That is, of course, I will if you
like it. But I think it would come better from you. You are nearer to
them than I am; and it will have less a look of triumph on my part, and
less also of disappointment on yours, if you write. If you tell them
that you literally threw away your chance, you will only tell them the
truth.'

Norman assented, but he said nothing further. What business had Alaric
to utter such words as triumph and disappointment? He could not keep his
arm, on which Alaric was leaning, from spasmodically shrinking from the
touch. He had been beaten by a man, nay worse, had yielded to a man, who
had not the common honesty to refuse a bribe; and yet he was bound to
love this man. He could not help asking himself the question which he
would do. Would he love him or hate him?

But while he was so questioning himself, he got home, and had to
sit down and write his letter--this he did at once, but not without
difficulty. It ran as follows:--

'My dear Mrs. Woodward,--

'I write a line to tell you of my discomfiture and Alaric's success.
I gave up at the end of the second day. Of course I will tell you all
about it when we meet. No one seemed to doubt that Alaric would get it,
as a matter of course. I shall be with you on next Saturday. Alaric
says he will not go down till the Saturday after, when I shall be at
Normansgrove. My best love to the girls. Tell Katie I shan't drown
either myself or the boat.

'Yours ever affectionately,

'H. N.

'Saturday, September, 185-.

'Pray write me a kind letter to comfort me.'

Mrs. Woodward did write him a very kind letter, and it did comfort him.
And she wrote also, as she was bound to do, a letter of congratulation
to Alaric. This letter, though it expressed in the usual terms the
satisfaction which one friend has in another's welfare, was not written
in the same warm affectionate tone as that to Norman. Alaric perceived
instantly that it was not cordial. He loved Mrs. Woodward dearly, and
greatly desired her love and sympathy. But what then? He could not have
everything. He determined, therefore, not to trouble his mind. If Mrs.
Woodward did not sympathize with him, others of the family would do
so; and success would ultimately bring her round. What woman ever yet
refused to sympathize with successful ambition?

Alaric also received a letter from Captain Cuttwater, in which
that gallant veteran expressed his great joy at the result of the
examination--'Let the best man win all the world over,' said he,
'whatever his name is. And they'll have to make the same rule at the
Admiralty too. The days of the Howards are gone by; that is, unless they
can prove themselves able seamen, which very few of them ever did yet.
Let the best man win; that's what I say; and let every man get his fair
share of promotion.' Alaric did not despise the sympathy of Captain
Cuttwater. It might turn out that even Captain Cuttwater could be made
of use.

Mrs. Woodward's letter to Harry was full of the tenderest affection.
It was a flattering, soothing, loving letter, such as no man ever could
have written. It was like oil poured into his wounds, and made him feel
that the world was not all harsh to him. He had determined not to go to
Hampton that Saturday; but Mrs. Woodward's letter almost made him rush
there at once that he might throw himself into her arms--into her arms,
and at her daughter's feet. The time had now come to him when he wanted
to be comforted by the knowledge that his love was returned. He resolved
that during his next visit he would formally propose to Gertrude.

The determination to do this, and a strong hope that he might do it
successfully, kept him up during the interval. On the following week
he was to go to his father's place to shoot, having obtained leave of
absence for a month; and he felt that he could still enjoy himself if
he could take with him the conviction that all was right at Surbiton
Cottage. Mrs. Woodward, in her letter, though she had spoken much of
the girls, had said nothing special about Gertrude. Nevertheless, Norman
gathered from it that she intended that he should go thither to look for
comfort, and that he would find there the comfort that he required.

And Mrs. Woodward had intended that such should be the effect of her
letter. It was at present the dearest wish of her heart to see Norman
and Gertrude married. That Norman had often declared his love to her
eldest daughter she knew very well, and she knew also that Gertrude
had never rejected him. Having perfect confidence in her child, she had
purposely abstained from saying anything that could bias her opinion.
She had determined to leave the matter in the hands of the young people
themselves, judging that it might be best arranged as a true love-match
between them, without interference from her; she had therefore said
nothing to Gertrude on the subject.

Mrs. Woodward, however, discovered that she was in error, when it
was too late for her to retrieve her mistake; and, indeed, had she
discovered it before that letter was written, what could she have done?
She could not have forbidden Harry to come to her house--she could not
have warned him not to throw himself at her daughter's feet. The cup was
prepared for his lips, and it was necessary that he should drink of it.
There was nothing for which she could blame him; nothing for which she
could blame herself; nothing for which she did blame her daughter. It
was sorrowful, pitiful, to be lamented, wept for, aye, and groaned for;
many inward groans it cost her; but it was at any rate well that she
could attribute her sorrow to the spite of circumstances rather than to
the ill-conduct of those she loved.

Nor would it have been fair to blame Gertrude in the matter. While she
was yet a child, this friend of her mother's had been thrown with her,
and when she was little more than a child, she found that this friend
had become a lover. She liked him, in one sense loved him, and was
accustomed to regard him as one whom it would be almost wrong in her not
to like and love. What wonder then that when he first spoke to her warm
words of adoration, she had not been able at once to know her own heart,
and tell him that his hopes would be in vain?

She perceived by instinct, rather than by spoken words, that her mother
was favourable to this young lover, that if she accepted him she would
please her mother, that the course of true love might in their case run
smooth. What wonder then that she should have hesitated before she found
it necessary to say that she could not, would not, be Harry Norman's
wife?

On the Saturday morning, the morning of that night which was, as he
hoped, to see him go to bed a happy lover, so happy in his love as to be
able to forget his other sorrows, she was sitting alone with her mother.
It was natural that their conversation should turn to Alaric and Harry.
Alaric, with his happy prospects, was soon dismissed; but Mrs. Woodward
continued to sing the praises of him who, had she been potent with the
magi of the Civil Service, would now be the lion of the Weights and
Measures.

'I must say I think it was weak of him to retire,' said Gertrude.
'Alaric says in his letter to Uncle Bat, that had he persevered he would
in all probability have been successful.'

'I should rather say that it was generous,' said her mother.

'Well, I don't know, mamma; that of course depends on his motives;
but wouldn't generosity of that sort between two young men in such a
position be absurd?'

'You mean that such regard for his friend would be Quixotic.'

'Yes, mamma.'

'Perhaps it would. All true generosity, all noble feeling, is now called
Quixotic. But surely, Gertrude, you and I should not quarrel with Harry
on that account.'

'I think he got frightened, mamma, and had not nerve to go through with
it.'

Mrs. Woodward looked vexed; but she made no immediate reply, and for
some time the mother and daughter went on working without further
conversation. At last Gertrude said:--

'I think every man is bound to do the best he can for himself--that is,
honestly; there is something spoony in one man allowing another to get
before him, as long as he can manage to be first himself.'

Mrs. Woodward did not like the tone in which her daughter spoke. She
felt that it boded ill for Harry's welfare; and she tried, but tried in
vain, to elicit from her daughter the expression of a kinder feeling.

'Well, my dear, I must say I think you are hard on him. But, probably,
just at present you have the spirit of contradiction in you. If I were
to begin to abuse him, perhaps I should get you to praise him.'

'Oh, mamma, I did not abuse him.'

'Something like it, my dear, when you said he was spoony.'

'Oh, mamma, I would not abuse him for worlds--I know how good he is,
I know how you love him, but, but---' and Gertrude, though very little
given to sobbing moods, burst into tears.

'Come here, Gertrude; come here, my child,' said Mrs. Woodward, now
moved more for her daughter than for her favourite; 'what is it? what
makes you cry? I did not really mean that you abused poor Harry.'

Gertrude got up from her chair, knelt at her mother's feet, and hid her
face in her mother's lap. 'Oh, mamma,' she said, with a half-smothered
voice, 'I know what you mean; I know what you wish; but--but--but, oh,
mamma, you must not--must not, must not think of it any more.'

'Then may God help him!' said Mrs. Woodward, gently caressing her
daughter, who was still sobbing with her face buried in her mother's
lap. 'May God Almighty lighten the blow to him! But oh, Gertrude, I had
hoped, I had so hoped----'

'Oh, mamma, don't, pray don't,' and Gertrude sobbed as though she were
going into hysterics.

'No, my child, I will not say another word. Dear as he is to me, you are
and must be ten times dearer. There, Gertrude, it is over now; over at
least between us. We know each other's hearts now. It is my fault that
we did not do so sooner.' They did understand each other at last, and
the mother made no further attempt to engage her daughter's love for the
man she would have chosen as her daughter's husband.

But still the worst was to come, as Mrs. Woodward well knew--and as
Gertrude knew also; to come, too, on this very day. Mrs. Woodward, with
a woman's keen perception, felt assured that Harry Norman, when he
found himself at the Cottage, freed from the presence of the successful
candidate, surrounded by the affectionate faces of all her circle, would
melt at once and look to his love for consolation. She understood the
feelings of his heart as well as though she had read them in a book; and
yet she could do nothing to save him from his fresh sorrows. The cup
was prepared for him, and it was necessary that he should drink it.
She could not tell him, could not tell even him, that her daughter had
rejected him, when as yet he had made no offer.

And so Harry Norman hurried down to his fate. When he reached the
Cottage, Mrs. Woodward and Linda and Katie were in the drawing-room.

'Harry, my dear Harry,' said Mrs. Woodward, rushing to him, throwing
her arms round him, and kissing him; 'we know it all, we understand it
all--my fine, dear, good Harry.'

Harry was melted in a moment, and in the softness of his mood kissed
Katie too, and Linda also. Katie he had often kissed, but never Linda,
cousins though they were. Linda merely laughed, but Norman blushed; for
he remembered that had it so chanced that Gertrude had been there, he
would not have dared to kiss her.

'Oh, Harry,' said Katie, 'we are so sorry--that is, not sorry about
Alaric, but sorry about you. Why were there not two prizes?'

'It's all right as it is, Katie,' said he; 'we need none of us be sorry
at all. Alaric is a clever fellow; everybody gave him credit for it
before, and now he has proved that everybody is right.'

'He is older than you, you know, and therefore he ought to be cleverer,'
said Katie, trying to make things pleasant.

And then they went out into the garden. But where was Gertrude all this
time? She had been in the drawing-room a moment before his arrival. They
walked out into the lawn, but nothing was said about her absence. Norman
could not bring himself to ask for her, and Mrs. Woodward could not
trust herself to talk of her.

'Where is the captain?' said Harry.

'He's at Hampton Court,' said Linda; 'he has found another navy captain
there, and he goes over every day to play backgammon.' As they were
speaking, however, the captain walked through the house on to the lawn.

'Well, Norman, how are you, how are you? sorry you couldn't all win. But
you're a man of fortune, you know, so it doesn't signify.'

'Not a great deal of fortune,' said Harry, looking sheepish.

'Well, I only hope the best man got it. Now, at the Admiralty the worst
man gets it always.'

'The worst man didn't get it here,' said Harry.

'No, no,' said Uncle Bat, 'I'm sure he did not; nor he won't long at the
Admiralty either, I can tell them that. But where's Gertrude?'

'She's in her bedroom, dressing for dinner,' said Katie.

'Hoity toity,' said Uncle Bat, 'she's going to make herself very grand
to-day. That's all for you, Master Norman. Well, I suppose we may all
go in and get ready; but mind, I have got no sweetheart, and so I shan't
make myself grand at all;' and so they all went in to dress for dinner.

When Norman came down, Gertrude was in the drawing-room alone. But he
knew that they would be alone but for a minute, and that a minute would
not serve for his purpose. She said one soft gentle word of condolence
to him, some little sentence that she had been studying to pronounce.
All her study was thrown away; for Norman, in his confusion, did not
understand a word that she spoke. Her tone, however, was kind and
affectionate; and she shook hands with him apparently with cordiality.
He, however, ventured no kiss with her. He did not even press her hand,
when for a moment he held it within his own.

Dinner was soon over, and the autumn evening still admitted of their
going out. Norman was not sorry to urge the fact that the ladies had
done so, as an excuse to Captain Cuttwater for not sitting with him
over his wine. He heard their voices in the garden, and went out to
join them, prepared to ascertain his fate if fortune would give him an
opportunity of doing so. He found the party to consist of Mrs. Woodward,
Linda, and Katie; Gertrude was not there.

'I think the evenings get warmer as the winter gets nearer,' said Harry.

'Yes,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'but they are so dangerous. The night comes
on all at once, and then the air is so damp and cold.'

And so they went on talking about the weather.

'Your boat is up in London, I know, Harry,' said Katie, with a voice of
reproach, but at the same time with a look of entreaty.

'Yes, it's at Searle's,' said Norman.

'But the punt is here,' said Katie.

'Not this evening, Katie,' said he.

'Katie, how can you be such a tease?' said Mrs. Woodward; 'you'll make
Harry hate the island, and you too. I wonder you can be so selfish.'

Poor Katie's eyes became suffused with tears.

'My dear Katie, it's very bad of me, isn't it?' said Norman, 'and the
fine weather so nearly over too; I ought to take you, oughtn't I? come,
we will go.'

'No, we won't,' said Katie, taking his big hand in both her little
ones, 'indeed we won't. It was very wrong of me to bother you; and you
with--with--with so much to think of. Dear Harry, I don't want to go at
all, indeed I don't,' and she turned away from the little path which led
to the place where the punt was moored.

They sauntered on for a while together, and then Norman left them.
He said nothing, but merely stole away from the lawn towards the
drawing-room window. Mrs. Woodward well knew with what object he went,
and would have spared him from his immediate sorrow by following him;
but she judged that it would be better both for him and for her daughter
that he should learn the truth.

He went in through the open drawing-room window, and found Gertrude
alone. She was on the sofa with a book in her hand; and had he been able
to watch her closely he would have seen that the book trembled as he
entered the room. But he was unable to watch anything closely. His own
heart beat so fast, his own confusion was so great, that he could hardly
see the girl whom he now hoped to gain as his wife. Had Alaric been
coming to his wooing, he would have had every faculty at his call. But
then Alaric could not have loved as Norman loved.

And so we will leave them. In about half an hour, when the short
twilight was becoming dusk, Mrs. Woodward returned, and found Norman
standing alone on the hearthrug before the fireplace. Gertrude was away,
and he was leaning against the mantelpiece, with his hands behind
his back, staring at vacancy; but oh! with such an aspect of dull,
speechless agony in his face.

Mrs. Woodward looked up at him, and would have burst into tears, had
she not remembered that they would not be long alone; she therefore
restrained herself, but gave one involuntary sigh; and then, taking off
her bonnet, placed herself where she might sit without staring at him in
his sorrow.

Katie came in next. 'Oh! Harry, it's so lucky we didn't start in the
punt,' said she, 'for it's going to pour, and we never should have been
back from the island in that slow thing.'

Norman looked at her and tried to smile, but the attempt was a ghastly
failure. Katie, gazing up into his face, saw that he was unhappy, and
slunk away, without further speech, to her distant chair. There, from
time to time, she would look up at him, and her little heart melted with
ruth to see the depth of his misery. 'Why, oh why,' thought she, 'should
that greedy Alaric have taken away the only prize?'

And then Linda came running in with her bonnet ribbons all moist with
the big raindrops. 'You are a nice squire of dames,' said she, 'to leave
us all out to get wet through by ourselves;' and then she also, looking
up, saw that jesting was at present ill-timed, and so sat herself down
quietly at the tea-table.

But Norman never moved. He saw them come in one after another. He saw
the pity expressed in Mrs. Woodward's face; he heard the light-hearted
voices of the two girls, and observed how, when they saw him, their
light-heartedness was abashed; but still he neither spoke nor moved. He
had been stricken with a fearful stroke, and for a while was powerless.

Captain Cuttwater, having shaken off his dining-room nap, came for his
tea; and then, at last, Gertrude also, descending from her own chamber,
glided quietly into the room. When she did so, Norman, with a struggle,
roused himself, and took a chair next to Mrs. Woodward, and opposite to
her eldest daughter.

Who could describe the intense discomfiture of that tea-party, or paint
in fitting colours the different misery of each one there assembled?
Even Captain Cuttwater at once knew that something was wrong, and
munched his bread-and-butter and drank his tea in silence. Linda
surmised what had taken place; though she was surprised, she was left
without any doubt. Poor Katie was still in the dark, but she also knew
that there was cause for sorrow, and crept more and more into her little
self. Mrs. Woodward sat with averted face, and ever and anon she put
her handkerchief to her eyes. Gertrude was very pale, and all but
motionless, but she had schooled herself, and managed to drink her tea
with more apparent indifference than any of the others. Norman sat as
he had before been standing, with that dreadful look of agony upon his
brow.

Immediately after tea Mrs. Woodward got up and went to her
dressing-room. Her dressing-room, though perhaps not improperly so
called, was not an exclusive closet devoted to combs, petticoats, and
soap and water. It was a comfortable snug room, nicely furnished, with
sofa and easy chairs, and often open to others besides her handmaidens.
Thither she betook herself, that she might weep unseen; but in about
twenty minutes her tears were disturbed by a gentle knock at the door.

Very soon after she went, Gertrude also left the room, and then Katie
crept off.

'I have got a headache to-night,' said Norman, after the remaining three
had sat silent for a minute or two; 'I think I'll go across and go to
bed.'

'A headache!' said Linda. 'Oh, I am so sorry that you have got to go to
that horrid inn.'

'Oh! I shall do very well there,' said Norman, trying to smile.

'Will you have my room?' said the captain good-naturedly; 'any sofa does
for me.'

Norman assured them as well as he could that his present headache was of
such a nature that a bed at the inn would be the best thing for him; and
then, shaking hands with them, he moved to the door.

'Stop a moment, Harry,' said Linda, 'and let me tell mamma. She'll give
you something for your head.' He made a sign to her, however, to let him
pass, and then, creeping gently upstairs, he knocked at Mrs. Woodward's
door.

'Come in,' said Mrs. Woodward, and Harry Norman, with all his sorrows
still written on his face, stood before her.

'Oh! Harry,' said she, 'come in; I am so glad that you have come to
me. Oh! Harry, dear Harry, what shall I say to comfort you? What can I
say--what can I do?'

Norman, forgetting his manhood, burst into tears, and throwing himself
on a sofa, buried his face on the arm and sobbed like a young girl. But
the tears of a man bring with them no comfort as do those of the softer
sex. He was a strong tall man, and it was dreadful to see him thus
convulsed.

Mrs. Woodward stood by him, and put her hand caressingly on his
shoulder. She saw he had striven to speak, and had found himself unable
to do so. 'I know how it is,' said she, 'you need not tell me; I know
it all. Would that she could have seen you with my eyes; would that she
could have judged you with my mind!'

'Oh, Mrs. Woodward!'

'To me, Harry, you should have been the dearest, the most welcome son.
But you are so still. No son could be dearer. Oh, that she could have
seen you as I see you!'

'There is no hope,' said he. He did not put it as a question; but Mrs.
Woodward saw that it was intended that she should take it as such if she
pleased. What could she say to him? She knew that there was no hope.
Had it been Linda, Linda might have been moulded to her will. But with
Gertrude there could now be no hope. What could she say? She knelt down
and kissed his brow, and mingled her tears with his.

'Oh, Harry--oh, Harry! my dearest, dearest son!'

'Oh, Mrs. Woodward, I have loved her so truly.'

What could Mrs. Woodward do but cry also? what but that, and throw such
blame as she could upon her own shoulders? She was bound to defend her
daughter.

'It has been my fault, Harry,' she said; 'it is I whom you must blame,
not poor Gertrude.'

'I blame no one,' said he.

'I know you do not; but it is I whom you should blame. I should have
learnt how her heart stood, and have prevented this--but I thought, I
thought it would have been otherwise.'

Norman looked up at her, and took her hand, and pressed it. 'I will go
now,' he said, 'and don't expect me here to-morrow. I could not come in.
Say that I thought it best to go to town because I am unwell. Good-bye,
Mrs. Woodward; pray write to me. I can't come to the Cottage now for a
while, but pray write to me: do not you forget me, Mrs. Woodward.'

Mrs. Woodward fell upon his breast and wept, and bade God bless him, and
called him her son and her dearest friend, and sobbed till her heart was
nigh to break. 'What,' she thought, 'what could her daughter wish for,
when she repulsed from her feet such a suitor as Harry Norman?'

He then went quietly down the stairs, quietly out of the house, and
having packed up his bag at the inn, started off through the pouring
rain, and walked away through the dark stormy night, through the dirt
and mud and wet, to his London lodgings; nor was he again seen at
Surbiton Cottage for some months after this adventure.



CHAPTER XIII

A COMMUNICATION OF IMPORTANCE


Norman's dark wet walk did him physically no harm, and morally some
good. He started on it in that frame of mind which induces a man to
look with indifference on all coming evils under the impression that the
evils already come are too heavy to admit of any increase. But by the
time that he was thoroughly wet through, well splashed with mud, and
considerably fatigued by his first five or six miles' walk, he began
to reflect that life was not over with him, and that he must think of
future things as well as those that were past.

He got home about two o'clock, and having knocked up his landlady, Mrs.
Richards, betook himself to bed. Alaric had been in his room for the
last two hours, but of Charley and his latch-key Mrs. Richards knew
nothing. She stated her belief, however, that two a.m. seldom saw that
erratic gentleman in his bed.

On the following morning, Alaric, when he got his hot water, heard
that Norman returned during the night from Hampton, and he immediately
guessed what had brought him back. He knew that nothing short of some
great trouble would have induced Harry to leave the Cottage so abruptly,
and that that trouble must have been of such a nature as to make his
remaining with the Woodwards an aggravation of it. No such trouble could
have come on him but the one.

As Charley seldom made his appearance at the breakfast table on Sunday
mornings, Alaric foresaw that he must undergo a _tête-à-tête_ which
would not be agreeable to himself, and which must be much more
disagreeable to his companion; but for this there was no help. Harry
had, however, prepared himself for what he had to go through, and
immediately that the two were alone, he told his tale in a very few
words.

'Alaric,' said he, 'I proposed to Gertrude last night, and she refused
me.'

Alaric Tudor was deeply grieved for his friend. There was something in
the rejected suitor's countenance--something in the tone of voice, which
would have touched any heart softer than stone; and Alaric's heart had
not as yet been so hardened by the world as to render him callous to the
sight of such grief as this.

'Take my word for it, Harry, she'll think better of it in a month or
two,' he said.

'Never--never; I am sure of it. Not only from her own manner, but from
her mother's,' said Harry. And yet, during half his walk home, he had
been trying to console himself with the reflection that most young
ladies reject their husbands once or twice before they accept them.

There is no offering a man comfort in such a sorrow as this; unless,
indeed, he be one to whom the worship of Bacchus may be made a fitting
substitute for that of the Paphian goddess.

There is a sort of disgrace often felt, if never acknowledged, which
attaches itself to a man for having put himself into Norman's present
position, and this generally prevents him from confessing his defeat in
such matters. The misfortune in question is one which doubtless occurs
not unfrequently to mankind; but as mankind generally bear their special
disappointments in silence, and as the vanity of women is generally
exceeded by their good-nature, the secret, we believe, in most cases
remains a secret.

  Shall I, wasting in despair,
  Die because a woman's fair?
  If she be not fair for me,
  What care I how fair she be?

This was the upshot of the consideration which Withers, the poet, gave
to the matter, and Withers was doubtless right. 'Tis thus that rejected
lovers should think, thus that they should demean themselves; but they
seldom come to this philosophy till a few days have passed by, and
talking of their grievance does not assist them in doing so.

When, therefore, Harry had declared what had happened to him, and had
declared also that he had no further hope, he did not at first find
himself much the better for what he had confessed. He was lackadaisical
and piteous, and Alaric, though he had endeavoured to be friendly, soon
found that he had no power of imparting any comfort. Early in the
day they parted, and did not see each other again till the following
morning.

'I was going down to Normansgrove on Thursday,' said Harry.

'Yes, I know,' said Alaric.

'I think I shall ask leave to go to-day. It can't make much difference,
and the sooner I get away the better.'

And so it was settled. Norman left town the same afternoon, and Alaric,
with his blushing honours thick upon him, was left alone.

London was now very empty, and he was constrained to enjoy his glory
very much by himself. He had never associated much with the Minusexes
and Uppinalls, nor yet with the Joneses and Robinsons of his own
office, and it could not be expected that there should be any specially
confidential intercourse between them just at the present moment. Undy
was of course out of town with the rest of the fashionable world, and
Alaric, during the next week, was left very much on his own hands.

'And so,' said he to himself, as he walked solitary along the lone paths
of Rotten Row, and across the huge desert to the Marble Arch, 'and so
poor Harry's hopes have been all in vain; he has lost his promotion,
and now he has lost his bride--poor Harry!'--and then it occurred to him
that as he had acquired the promotion it might be his destiny to win
the bride also. He had never told himself that he loved Gertrude; he had
looked on her as Norman's own, and he, at any rate, was not the man to
sigh in despair after anything that was out of his reach. But now,
now that Harry's chance was over, and that no bond of friendship could
interfere with such a passion, why should he not tell himself that he
loved Gertrude? 'If, as Harry had himself said, there was no longer any
hope for him, why,' said Alaric to himself, 'why should not I try my
chance?' Of Linda, of 'dear, dearest Linda,' at this moment he thought
very little, or, perhaps, not at all. Of what Mrs. Woodward might say,
of that he did think a good deal.

The week was melancholy and dull, and it passed very slowly at Hampton.
On the Sunday morning it became known to them all that Norman was
gone, but the subject, by tacit consent, was allowed to pass all but
unnoticed. Even Katie, even Uncle Bat, were aware that something had
occurred which ought to prevent them from inquiring too particularly why
Harry had started back to town in so sudden a manner; and so they said
nothing. To Linda, Gertrude had told what had happened; and Linda,
as she heard it, asked herself whether she was prepared to be equally
obdurate with her lover. He had now the means of supporting a wife, and
why should she be obdurate?

Nothing was said on the subject between Gertrude and her mother. What
more could Mrs. Woodward say? It would have been totally opposed to the
whole principle of her life to endeavour, by any means, to persuade
her daughter to the match, or to have used her maternal influence
in Norman's favour. And she was well aware that it would have been
impossible to do so successfully. Gertrude was not a girl to be talked
into a marriage by any parent, and certainly not by such a parent as her
mother. There was, therefore, nothing further to be said about it.

On Saturday Alaric went down, but his arrival hardly made things more
pleasant. Mrs. Woodward could not bring herself to be cordial with him,
and the girls were restrained by a certain feeling that it would not be
right to show too much outward joy at Alaric's success. Linda said one
little word of affectionate encouragement, but it produced no apparent
return from Alaric. His immediate object was to recover Mrs. Woodward's
good graces; and he thought before he went that he had reason to hope
that he might do so.

Of all the household, Captain Cuttwater was the most emphatic in his
congratulations. 'He had no doubt,' he said, 'that the best man had won.
He had always hoped that the best man might win. He had not had the same
luck when he was young, but he was very glad to see such an excellent
rule brought into the service. It would soon work great changes, he was
quite sure, at the Board of Admiralty.'

On the Sunday afternoon Captain Cuttwater asked him into his own
bedroom, and told him with a solemn, serious manner that he had a
communication of importance to make to him. Alaric followed the captain
into the well-known room in which Norman used to sleep, wondering what
could be the nature of Uncle Bat's important communication. It might,
probably, be some tidings of Sir Jib Boom.

'Mr. Alaric,' said the old man, as soon as they were both seated on
opposite sides of a little Pembroke table that stood in the middle of
the room, 'I was heartily glad to hear of your success at the Weights
and Measures; not that I ever doubted it if they made a fair sailing
match of it.'

'I am sure I am much obliged to you, Captain Cuttwater.'

'That is as may be, by and by. But the fact is, I have taken a fancy to
you. I like fellows that know how to push themselves.'

Alaric had nothing for it but to repeat again that he felt himself
grateful for Captain Cuttwater's good opinion.

'Not that I have anything to say against Mr. Norman--a very nice young
man, indeed, he is, very nice, though perhaps not quite so cheerful in
his manners as he might be.'

Alaric began to take his friend's part, and declared what a very worthy
fellow Harry was.

'I am sure of it--I am sure of it,' said Uncle Bat; 'but everybody can't
be A 1; and a man can't make everybody his heir.'

Alaric pricked up his ears. So after all Captain Cuttwater was right
in calling his communication important. But what business had Captain
Cuttwater to talk of making new heirs?--had he not declared that the
Woodwards were his heirs?

'I have got a little money, Mr. Alaric,' he went on saying in a low
modest tone, very different from that he ordinarily used; 'I have got a
little money--not much--and it will of course go to my niece here.'

'Of course,' said Alaric.

'That is to say--it will go to her children, which is all the same
thing.'

'Quite the same thing,' said Alaric.

'But my idea is this: if a man has saved a few pounds himself, I think
he has a right to give it to those he loves best. Now I have no children
of my own.'

Alaric declared himself aware of the fact.

'And I suppose I shan't have any now.'

'Not if you don't marry,' said Alaric, who felt rather at a loss for a
proper answer. He could not, however, have made a better one.

'No; that's what I mean; but I don't think I shall marry. I am very well
contented here, and I like Surbiton Cottage amazingly.'

'It's a charming place,' said Alaric.

'No, I don't suppose I shall ever have any children of my own,'--and
then Uncle Bat sighed gently--'and so I have been considering whom I
should like to adopt.'

'Quite right, Captain Cuttwater.'

'Whom I should like to adopt. I should like to have one whom I could
call in a special manner my own. Now, Mr. Alaric, I have made up my
mind, and who do you think it is?'

'Oh! Captain Cuttwater, I couldn't guess on such a matter. I shouldn't
like to guess wrong.'

'Perhaps not--no; that's right;--well then, I'll tell you; it's
Gertrude.'

Alaric was well aware that it was Gertrude before her name had been
pronounced.

'Yes, it's Gertrude; of course I couldn't go out of Bessie's family--of
course it must be either Gertrude, or Linda, or Katie. Now Linda and
Katie are very well, but they haven't half the gumption that Gertrude
has.'

'No, they have not,' said Alaric.

'I like gumption,' said Captain Cuttwater. 'You've a great deal of
gumption--that's why I like you.'

Alaric laughed, and muttered something.

'Now I have been thinking of something;' and Uncle Bat looked strangely
mysterious--'I wonder what you think of Gertrude?'

'Who--I?' said Alaric.

'I can see through a millstone as well as another,' said the captain;
'and I used to think that Norman and Gertrude meant to hit it off
together.'

Alaric said nothing. He did not feel inclined to tell Norman's secret,
and yet he could not belie Gertrude by contradicting the justice of
Captain Cuttwater's opinion.

'I used to think so--but now I find there's nothing in it. I am sure
Gertrude wouldn't have him, and I think she's right. He hasn't gumption
enough.'

'Harry Norman is no fool.'

'I dare say not,' said the captain; 'but take my word, she'll never have
him--Lord bless you, Norman knows that as well as I do.'

Alaric knew it very well himself also; but he did not say so.

'Now, the long and the short of it is this--why don't you make up to
her? If you'll make up to her and carry the day, all I can say is, I
will do all I can to keep the pot a-boiling; and if you think it will
help you, you may tell Gertrude that I say so.'

This was certainly an important communication, and one to which Alaric
found it very difficult to give any immediate answer. He said a great
deal about his affection for Mrs. Woodward, of his admiration for Miss
Woodward, of his strong sense of Captain Cuttwater's kindness, and of
his own unworthiness; but he left the captain with an impression that
he was not prepared at the present moment to put himself forward as a
candidate for Gertrude's hand.

'I don't know what the deuce he would have,' said the captain to
himself. 'She's as fine a girl as he's likely to find; and two or three
thousand pounds isn't so easily got every day by a fellow that hasn't a
shilling of his own.'

When Alaric took his departure the next morning, he thought he
perceived, from Mrs. Woodward's manner, that there was less than her
usual cordiality in the tone in which she said that of course he would
return at the end of the week.

'I will if possible,' he said, 'and I need not say that I hope to do so;
but I fear I may be kept in town--at any rate I'll write.' When the end
of the week came he wrote to say that unfortunately he was kept in town.
He thoroughly understood that people are most valued when they make
themselves scarce. He got in reply a note from Gertrude, saying that
her mother begged that on the following Saturday he would come and bring
Charley with him.

On his return to town, Alaric, by appointment, called on Sir Gregory.
He had not seen his patron yet since his great report on Wheal Mary Jane
had been sent in. That report had been written exclusively by himself,
and poor Neverbend had been obliged to content himself with putting all
his voluminous notes into Tudor's hands. He afterwards obediently signed
the report, and received his reward for doing so. Alaric never divulged
to official ears how Neverbend had halted in the course of his descent
to the infernal gods.

'I thoroughly congratulate you,' said Sir Gregory. 'You have justified
my choice, and done your duty with credit to yourself and benefit to the
public. I hope you may go on and prosper. As long as you remember that
your own interests should always be kept in subservience to those of
the public service, you will not fail to receive the praise which such
conduct deserves.'

Alaric thanked Sir Gregory for his good opinion, and as he did so, he
thought of his new banker's account, and of the £300 which was lying
there. After all, which of them was right, Sir Gregory Hardlines or Undy
Scott? Or was it that Sir Gregory's opinions were such as should control
the outward conduct, and Undy's those which should rule the inner man?



CHAPTER XIV

VERY SAD


Norman prolonged his visit to his father considerably beyond the month.
At first he applied for and received permission to stay away another
fortnight, and at the end of that fortnight he sent up a medical
certificate in which the doctor alleged that he would be unable to
attend to business for some considerable additional period. It was not
till after Christmas Day that he reappeared at the Weights and Measures.

Alaric kept his appointment at Hampton, and took Charley with him. And
on the two following Saturdays he also went there, and on both occasions
Charley accompanied him. During these visits, he devoted himself, as
closely as he could, to Mrs. Woodward. He talked to her of Norman, and
of Norman's prospects in the office; he told her how he had intended to
abstain from offering himself as a competitor, till he had, as it were,
been forced by Norman to do so; he declared over and over again that
Norman would have been victorious had he stood his ground to the end,
and assured her that such was the general opinion through the whole
establishment. And this he did without talking much about himself, or
praising himself in any way when he did so. His speech was wholly of his
friend, and of the sorrow that he felt that his friend should have been
disappointed in his hopes.

All this had its effects. Of Norman's rejected love they neither of them
spoke. Each knew that the other must be aware of it, but the subject was
far too tender to be touched, at any rate as yet. And so matters went
on, and Alaric regained the footing of favour which he had for a while
lost with the mistress of the house.

But there was one inmate of Surbiton Cottage who saw that though Alaric
spent so much of his time with Mrs. Woodward, he found opportunity also
for other private conversation; and this was Linda. Why was it that in
the moments before they dressed for dinner Alaric was whispering with
Gertrude, and not with her? Why was it that Alaric had felt it necessary
to stay from church that Sunday evening when Gertrude also had been
prevented from going by a headache? He had remained, he said, in order
that Captain Cuttwater might have company; but Linda was not slow to
learn that Uncle Bat had been left to doze away the time by himself.
Why, on the following Monday, had Gertrude been down so early, and why
had Alaric been over from the inn full half an hour before his usual
time? Linda saw and knew all this, and was disgusted. But even then she
did not, could not think that Alaric could be untrue to her; that her
own sister would rob her of her lover. It could not be that there should
be such baseness in human nature!

Poor Linda!

And yet, though she did not believe that such falseness could exist in
this world of hers at Surbiton Cottage, she could not restrain herself
from complaining rather petulantly to her sister, as they were going to
bed on that Sunday evening.

'I hope your headache is better,' she said, in a tone of voice as near
to irony as her soft nature could produce.

'Yes, it is quite well now,' said Gertrude, disdaining to notice the
irony.

'I dare say Alaric had a headache too. I suppose one was about as bad as
the other.'

'Linda,' said Gertrude, answering rather with dignity than with anger,
'you ought to know by this time that it is not likely that I should
plead false excuses. Alaric never said he had a headache.'

'He said he stayed from church to be with Uncle Bat; but when we came
back we found him with you.'

'Uncle Bat went to sleep, and then he came into the drawing-room.'

The two girls said nothing more about it. Linda should have remembered
that she had never breathed a word to her sister of Alaric's passion for
herself. Gertrude's solemn propriety had deterred her, just as she was
about to do so. How very little of that passion had Alaric breathed
himself! and yet, alas! enough to fill the fond girl's heart with dreams
of love, which occupied all her waking, all her sleeping thoughts.
Oh! ye ruthless swains, from whose unhallowed lips fall words full of
poisoned honey, do ye never think of the bitter agony of many months,
of the dull misery of many years, of the cold monotony of an uncheered
life, which follow so often as the consequence of your short hour of
pastime?

On the Monday morning, as soon as Alaric and Charley had started for
town--it was the morning on which Linda had been provoked to find that
both Gertrude and Alaric had been up half an hour before they should
have been--Gertrude followed her mother to her dressing-room, and with
palpitating heart closed the door behind her.

Linda remained downstairs, putting away her tea and sugar, not in the
best of humours; but Katie, according to her wont, ran up after her
mother.

'Katie,' said Gertrude, as Katie bounced into the room, 'dearest Katie,
I want to speak a word to mamma--alone. Will you mind going down just
for a few minutes?' and she put her arm round her sister, and kissed her
with almost unwonted tenderness.

'Go, Katie, dear,' said Mrs. Woodward; and Katie, speechless, retired.

'Gertrude has got something particular to tell mamma; something that
I may not hear. I wonder what it is about,' said Katie to her second
sister.

Linda's heart sank within her. 'Could it be? No, it could not, could
not be, that the sweet voice which had whispered in her ears those
well-remembered words, could have again whispered the same into other
ears--that the very Gertrude who had warned her not to listen to such
words from such lips, should have listened to them herself, and have
adopted them and made them her own! It could not, could not be!' and yet
Linda's heart sank low within her.


       *       *       *       *       *


'If you really love him,' said the mother, again caressing her eldest
daughter as she acknowledged her love, but hardly with such tenderness
as when that daughter had repudiated that other love--'if you really
love him, dearest, of course I do not, of course I cannot, object.'

'I do, mamma; I do.'

'Well, then, Gertrude, so be it. I have not a word to say against your
choice. Had I not believed him to be an excellent young man, I should
not have allowed him to be here with you so much as he has been. We
cannot all see with the same eyes, dearest, can we?'

'No, mamma; but pray don't think I dislike poor Harry; and, oh! mamma,
pray don't set him against Alaric because of this----'

'Set him against Alaric! No, Gertrude. I certainly shall not do that.
But whether I can reconcile Harry to it, that is another thing.'

'At any rate he has no right to be angry at it,' said Gertrude, assuming
her air of dignity.

'Certainly not with you, Gertrude.'

'No, nor with Alaric,' said she, almost with indignation.

'That depends on what has passed between them. It is very hard to say
how men so situated regard each other.'

'I know everything that has passed between them,' said Gertrude. 'I
never gave Harry any encouragement. As soon as I understood my own
feelings I endeavoured to make him understand them also.'

'But, my dearest, no one is blaming you.'

'But you are blaming Alaric.'

'Indeed I am not, Gertrude.'

'No man could have behaved more honourably to his friend,' said
Gertrude; 'no man more nobly; and if Harry does not feel it so, he has
not the good heart for which I always gave him credit.'

'Poor fellow! his friendship for Alaric will be greatly tried.'

'And, mamma, has not Alaric's friendship been tried? and has it not
borne the trial nobly? Harry told him of--of--of his intentions; Harry
told him long, long, long ago----'

'Ah me!--poor Harry!' sighed Mrs. Woodward.

'But you think nothing of Alaric!'

'Alaric is successful, my dear, and can----' Think sufficiently of
himself, Mrs. Woodward was going to say, but she stopped herself.

'Harry told him all,' continued Gertrude, 'and Alaric--Alaric said
nothing of his own feelings. Alaric never said a word to me that he
might not have said before his friend--till--till--You must own, mamma,
that no one can have behaved more nobly than Alaric has done.'

Mrs. Woodward, nevertheless, had her own sentiments on the matter, which
were not quite in unison with those of her daughter. But then she was
not in love with Alaric, and her daughter was. She thought that Alaric's
love was a passion that had but lately come to the birth, and that had
he been true to his friend--nobly true as Gertrude had described him--it
would never have been born at all, or at any rate not till Harry had had
a more prolonged chance of being successful with his suit. Mrs.
Woodward understood human nature better than her daughter, or, at least,
flattered herself that she did so, and she felt well assured that Alaric
had not been dying for love during the period of Harry's unsuccessful
courtship. He might, she thought, have waited a little longer before he
chose for his wife the girl whom his friend had loved, seeing that he
had been made the confidant of that love.

Such were the feelings which Mrs. Woodward felt herself unable to
repress; but she could not refuse her consent to the marriage. After
all, she had some slight twinge of conscience, some inward conviction
that she was prejudiced in Harry's favour, as her daughter was in
Alaric's. Then she had lost all right to object to Alaric, by allowing
him to be so constantly at the Cottage; and then again, there was
nothing to which in reason she could object. In point of immediate
income, Alaric was now the better match of the two. She kissed her
daughter, therefore, and promised that she would do her best to take
Alaric to her heart as her son-in-law.

'You will tell Uncle Bat, mamma?' said Gertrude.

'O yes--certainly, my dear; of course he'll be told. But I suppose it
does not make much matter, immediately?'

'I think he should be told, mamma; I should not like him to think that
he was treated with anything like disrespect.'

'Very well, my dear, I'll tell him,' said Mrs. Woodward, who was
somewhat surprised at her daughter's punctilious feelings about Uncle
Bat. However, it was all very proper; and she was glad to think that her
children were inclined to treat their grand-uncle with respect, in spite
of his long nose.

And then Gertrude was preparing to leave the room, but her mother
stopped her. 'Gertrude, dear,' said she.

'Yes, mamma.'

'Come here, dearest; shut the door. Gertrude, have you told Linda yet?'

'No, mamma, not yet.'

As Mrs. Woodward asked the question, there was an indescribable look of
painful emotion on her brow. It did not escape Gertrude's eye, and was
not to her perfectly unintelligible. She had conceived an idea--why, she
did not know--that these recent tidings of hers would not be altogether
agreeable to her sister.

'No, mamma, I have not told her; of course I told you first. But now I
shall do so immediately.'

'Let me tell her,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'will you, Gertrude?'

'Oh! certainly, mamma, if you wish it.'

Things were going wrong with Mrs. Woodward. She had perceived, with a
mother's anxious eye, that her second daughter was not indifferent to
Alaric Tudor. While she yet thought that Norman and Gertrude would have
suited each other, this had caused her no disquietude. She herself
had entertained none of those grand ideas to which Gertrude had given
utterance with so much sententiousness, when she silenced Linda's tale
of love before the telling of it had been commenced. Mrs. Woodward had
always felt sufficiently confident that Alaric would push himself in the
world, and she would have made no objection to him as a son-in-law had
he been contented to take the second instead of the first of her flock.

She had never spoken to Linda on the matter, and Linda had offered to
her no confidence; but she felt all but sure that her second child would
not have entertained the affection which she had been unable altogether
to conceal, had no lover's plea been poured into her ears. Mrs. Woodward
questioned her daughters but little, but she understood well the nature
of each, and could nearly read their thoughts. Linda's thoughts it was
not difficult to read.

'Linda, pet,' she said, as soon as she could get Linda into her room
without absolutely sending for her, 'you have not yet heard Gertrude's
news?'

'No,' said Linda, turning very pale, and feeling that her heart was like
to burst.

'I would let no one tell you but myself, Linda. Come here, dearest;
don't stand there away from me. Can you guess what it is?'

Linda, for a moment, could not speak. 'No, mamma,' she said at last, 'I
don't know what it is.'

Mrs. Woodward twined her arm round her daughter's waist, as they sat on
the sofa close to each other. Linda tried to compose herself, but she
felt that she was trembling in her mother's arms. She would have given
anything to be calm; anything to hide her secret. She little guessed
then how well her mother knew it. Her eyes were turned down, and she
found that she could not raise them to her mother's face.

'No, mamma,' she said. 'I don't know--what is it?'

'Gertrude is to be married, Linda. She is engaged.'

'I thought she refused Harry,' said Linda, through whose mind a faint
idea was passing of the cruelty of nature's arrangements, which gave all
the lovers to her sister.

'Yes, dearest, she did; and now another has made an offer--she has
accepted him.' Mrs. Woodward could hardly bring herself to speak out
that which she had to say, and yet she felt that she was only prolonging
the torture for which she was so anxious to find a remedy.

'Has she?' said Linda, on whom the full certainty of her misery had now
all but come.

'She has accepted our dear Alaric.'

Our dear Alaric! what words for Linda's ears! They did reach her ears,
but they did not dwell there--her soft gentle nature sank beneath the
sound. Her mother, when she looked to her for a reply, found that she
was sinking through her arms. Linda had fainted.

Mrs. Woodward neither screamed, nor rang for assistance, nor emptied the
water-jug over her daughter, nor did anything else which would have
the effect of revealing to the whole household the fact that Linda had
fainted. She had seen girls faint before, and was not frightened. But
how, when Linda recovered, was she to be comforted?

Mrs. Woodward laid her gently on the sofa, undid her dress, loosened her
stays, and then sat by her chafing her hands, and moistening her lips
and temples, till gradually the poor girl's eyes re-opened. The
recovery from a fainting fit, a real fainting fit I beg young ladies
to understand, brings with it a most unpleasant sensation, and for
some minutes Linda's sorrow was quelled by her sufferings; but as
she recovered her strength she remembered where she was and what had
happened, and sobbing violently she burst into an hysterical storm of
tears.

Her most poignant feeling now was one of fear lest her mother should
have guessed her secret; and this Mrs. Woodward well understood. She
could do nothing towards comforting her child till there was perfect
confidence between them. It was easy to arrive at this with Linda, nor
would it afterwards be difficult to persuade her as to the course she
ought to take. The two girls were so essentially different; the one so
eager to stand alone and guide herself, the other so prone to lean on
the nearest support that came to her hand.

It was not long before Linda had told her mother everything. Either by
words, or tears, or little signs of mute confession, she made her mother
understand, with all but exactness, what had passed between Alaric and
herself, and quite exactly what had been the state of her own heart. She
sobbed, and wept, and looked up to her mother for forgiveness as though
she had been guilty of a great sin; and when her mother caressed her
with all a mother's tenderness, and told her that she was absolved from
all fault, free of all blame, she was to a certain degree comforted.
Whatever might now happen, her mother would be on her side. But Mrs.
Woodward, when she looked into the matter, found that it was she that
should have demanded pardon of her daughter, not her daughter of her!
Why had this tender lamb been allowed to wander out of the fold, while a
wolf in sheep's clothing was invited into the pasture-ground?

Gertrude, with her talent, her beauty, and dignity of demeanour, had
hitherto been, perhaps, the closest to the mother's heart--had been, if
not the most cherished, yet the most valued; Gertrude had been the apple
of her eye. This should be altered now. If a mother's love could atone
for a mother's negligence, Mrs. Woodward would atone to her child for
this hour of misery! And Katie--her sweet bonny Katie--she, at least,
should be protected from the wolves. Those were the thoughts that passed
through Mrs. Woodward's heart as she sat there caressing Linda. But how
were things to be managed now at the present moment? It was quite clear
that the wolf in sheep's clothing must be admitted into the pastoral
family; either that, or the fairest lamb of the flock must be turned
out altogether, to take upon herself lupine nature, and roam the woods a
beast of prey. As matters stood it behoved them to make such a sheep of
Alaric as might be found practicable.

And so Mrs. Woodward set to work to teach her daughter how best she
might conduct herself in her present state of wretchedness. She had to
bear with her sister's success, to listen to her sister's joy, to enter
into all her future plans, to assist at her toilet, to prepare her
wedding garments, to hear the congratulations of friends, and take a
sister's share in a sister's triumph, and to do this without once
giving vent to a reproach. And she had worse than this to do; she had to
encounter Alaric, and to wish him joy of his bride; she had to protect
her female pride from the disgrace which a hopeless but acknowledged
love would throw on it; she had to live in the house with Alaric as
though he were her brother, and as though she had never thought to live
with him in any nearer tie. She would have to stand at the altar as her
sister's bridesmaid, and see them married, and she would have to smile
and be cheerful as she did so.

This was the lesson which Mrs. Woodward had now to teach her daughter;
and she so taught it that Linda did all that circumstances and her
mother required of her. Late on that afternoon she went to Gertrude,
and, kissing her, wished her joy. At that moment Gertrude was the more
embarrassed of the two.

'Linda, dear Linda,' she said, embracing her sister convulsively.

'I hope you will be happy, Gertrude, with all my heart,' said Linda; and
so she relinquished her lover.

We talk about the weakness of women--and Linda Woodward was, in many a
way, weak enough--but what man, what giant, has strength equal to this?
It was not that her love was feeble. Her heart was capable of truest
love, and she had loved Alaric truly. But she had that within her which
enabled her to overcome herself, and put her own heart, and hopes, and
happiness--all but her maiden pride--into the background, when the hopes
and happiness of another required it.

She still shared the same room with her sister; and those who know
how completely absorbed a girl is by her first acknowledged love, may
imagine how many questions she had to answer, to how many propositions
she was called to assent, for how many schemes she had to vouchsafe a
sister's interest, while her heart was telling her that she should have
been the questioner, she should have been the proposer, that the schemes
should all have been her own.

But she bore it bravely. When Alaric first came down, which he did in
the middle of the week, she was, as she told her mother, too weak to
stand in his presence. Her mother strongly advised her not to absent
herself; so she sat gently by, while he kissed Mrs. Woodward and Katie.
She sat and trembled, for her turn she knew must come. It did come;
Alaric, with an assurance which told more for his courage than for his
heart, came up to her, and with a smiling face offered her his hand. She
rose up and muttered some words which she had prepared for the occasion,
and he, still holding her by the hand, stooped down and kissed her
cheek. Mrs. Woodward looked on with an angry flush on her brow, and
hated him for his cold-hearted propriety of demeanour.

Linda went up to her mother's room, and, sitting on her mother's bed,
sobbed herself into tranquillity.

It was very grievous to Mrs. Woodward to have to welcome Alaric to her
house. For Alaric's own sake she would no longer have troubled herself
to do so; but Gertrude was still her daughter, her dear child. Gertrude
had done nothing to disentitle her to a child's part, and a child's
protection; and even had she done so, Mrs. Woodward was not a woman to
be unforgiving to her child. For Gertrude's sake she had to make Alaric
welcome; she forced herself to smile on him and call him her son; to
make him more at home in her house even than Harry had ever been; to
give him privileges which he, wolf as he was, had so little deserved.

But Captain Cuttwater made up by the warmth of his congratulations for
any involuntary coolness which Alaric might have detected in those of
Mrs. Woodward. It had become a strong wish of the old man's heart that
he might make Alaric, at any rate in part, his heir, without doing an
injustice to his niece or her family. He had soon seen and appreciated
what he had called the 'gumption' both of Gertrude and Alaric. Had Harry
married Gertrude, and Alaric Linda, he would have regarded either of
those matches with disfavour. But now he was quite satisfied--now he
could look on Alaric as his son and Gertrude as his daughter, and use
his money according to his fancy, without incurring the reproaches of
his conscience.

'Quite right, my boy, 'he said to Alaric, slapping him on the back at
the same time with pretty nearly all his power--'quite right. Didn't I
know you were the winning horse?--didn't I tell you how it would be?
Do you think I don't know what gumption means? If I had not had my
own weather-eye open, aye, and d---- wide open, the most of my time,
I shouldn't have two or three thousand pounds to give away now to any
young fellow that I take a fancy to.'

Alaric was, of course, all smiles and good humour, and Gertrude not less
so. The day after he heard of the engagement Uncle Bat went to town,
and, on his return, he gave Gertrude £100 to buy her wedding-clothes,
and half that sum to her mother, in order that the thing might go off,
as he expressed himself, 'slip-slap, and no mistake.' To Linda he gave
nothing, but promised her that he would not forget her when her time
came.

All this time Norman was at Normansgrove; but there were three of the
party who felt that it behoved them to let him know what was going on.
Mrs. Woodward wrote first, and on the following day both Gertrude and
Alaric wrote to him, the former from Hampton, and the latter from his
office in London.

All these letters were much laboured, but, with all this labour, not one
of them contained within it a grain of comfort. That from Mrs.
Woodward came first and told the tale. Strange to say, though Harry had
studiously rejected from his mind all idea of hope as regarded Gertrude,
nevertheless the first tidings of her betrothal with Alaric struck him
as though he had still fancied himself a favoured lover. He felt as
though, in his absence, he had been robbed of a prize which was all his
own, as though a chattel had been taken from him to which he had a full
right; as though all the Hampton party, Mrs. Woodward included, were in
a conspiracy to defraud him the moment his back was turned.

The blow was so severe that it laid him prostrate at once. He could not
sob away his sorrow on his mother's bosom; no one could teach him how to
bear his grief with meek resignation. He had never spoken of his love
to his friends at Normansgrove. They had all been witnesses to his
deep disappointment, but that had been attributed to his failure at
his office. He was not a man to seek for sympathy in the sorrows of his
heart. He had told Alaric of his rejection, because he had already told
him of his love, but he had whispered no word of it to anyone besides.
On the day on which he received Mrs. Woodward's letter, he appeared at
dinner ghastly pale, and evidently so ill as to be all but unable to sit
at table; but he would say nothing to anybody; he sat brooding over his
grief till he was unable to sit any longer.

And yet Mrs. Woodward had written with all her skill, with all her
heart striving to pluck the sting away from the tidings which she had to
communicate. She had felt, however, that she owed as much, at least, to
her daughter as she did to him, and she failed to call Alaric perjured,
false, dishonoured, unjust, disgraced, and treacherous. Nothing short of
her doing so would have been deemed by Norman fitting mention of Tudor's
sin; nothing else would have satisfied the fury of his wrath.

On the next morning he received Gertrude's letter and Alaric's. The
latter he never read--he opened it, saw that it began as usual, 'My dear
Harry,' and then crammed it into his pocket. By return of post it
went back under a blank cover, addressed to Alaric at the Weights and
Measures. The days of duelling were gone by--unfortunately, as Norman
now thought, but nothing, he determined, should ever induce him again to
hold friendly intercourse with the traitor. He abstained from making any
such oath as to the Woodwards; but determined that his conduct in that
respect should be governed by the manner in which Alaric was received by
them.

But Gertrude's letter he read over and over again, and each time he
did so he indulged in a fresh burst of hatred against the man who had
deceived him. 'A dishonest villain!' he said to himself over and over
again; 'what right had I to suppose he would be true to me when I found
that he had been so false to others?'

'Dearest Harry,' the letter began. Dearest Harry!--Why should she begin
with a lie? He was not dearest! 'You must not, must not, must not be
angry with Alaric,' she went on to say, as soon as she had told her
tale. Oh, must he not? Not be angry with Alaric! Not angry with the man
who had forgotten every law of honour, every principle of honesty, every
tie of friendship! Not angry with the man whom he had trusted with the
key of his treasure, and who had then robbed him; who had stolen from
him all his contentment, all his joy, his very heart's blood; not angry
with him!

'Our happiness will never be perfect unless you will consent to share
it.' Thus simply, in the affection of her heart, had Gertrude concluded
the letter by which she intended to pour balm into the wounds of her
rejected lover, and pave the way for the smoothing of such difficulties
as might still lie in the way of her love.

'Their happiness would not be perfect unless he would consent to share
it.' Every word in the sentence was gall to him. It must have been
written with the object of lacerating his wounds, and torturing his
spirit; so at least said Norman to himself. He read the letter over and
over again. At one time he resolved to keep it till he could thrust
it back into her hand, and prove to her of what cruelty she had been
guilty. Then he thought of sending it to Mrs. Woodward, and asking her
how, after that, could she think that he should ever again enter her
doors at Hampton. Finally he tore it into a thousand bits, and threw
them behind the fire.

'Share their happiness!' and as he repeated the words he gave the last
tear to the fragments of paper which he still held in his hand. Could
he at that moment as easily have torn to shreds all hope of earthly joys
for those two lovers, he would then have done it, and cast the ruins to
the flames.

Oh! what a lesson he might have learnt from Linda! And yet what were his
injuries to hers? He in fact had not been injured, at least not by him
against whom the strength of his wrath most fiercely raged. The two men
had both admired Gertrude, but Norman had started on the race first.
Before Alaric had had time to know his own mind, he had learnt that
Norman claimed the beauty as his own. He had acknowledged to himself
that Norman had a right to do so, and had scrupulously abstained from
interfering with him. Why should Norman, like a dog in the manger,
begrudge to his friend the fodder which he himself could not enjoy?
To him, at any rate, Alaric had in this been no traitor. 'Twas thus
at least that Gertrude argued in her heart, and 'twas thus that Mrs.
Woodward tried to argue also.

But who could excuse Alaric's falseness to Linda? And yet Linda had
forgiven him.



CHAPTER XV

NORMAN RETURNS TO TOWN


Harry Norman made no answer to either of his three letters beyond that
of sending Alaric's back unread; but this, without other reply, was
sufficient to let them all guess, nearly with accuracy, what was
the state of his mind. Alaric told Gertrude how his missive had been
treated, and Gertrude, of course, told her mother.

There was very little of that joy at Surbiton Cottage which should
have been the forerunner of a wedding. None of the Woodward circle were
content thus to lose their friend. And then their unhappiness on
this score was augmented by hearing that Harry had sent up a medical
certificate, instead of returning to his duties when his prolonged leave
of absence was expired.

To Alaric this, at the moment, was a relief. He had dreaded the return
of Norman to London. There were so many things to cause infinite pain
to them both. All Norman's things, his books and clothes, his desks
and papers and pictures, his whips and sticks, and all those sundry
belongings which even a bachelor collects around him--were strewing the
rooms in which Alaric still lived. He had of course felt that it was
impossible that they should ever again reside together. Not only must
they quarrel, but all the men at their office must know that they had
quarrelled. And yet some intercourse must be maintained between them;
they must daily meet in the rooms at the Weights and Measures; and it
would now in their altered position become necessary that in some things
Norman should receive instructions from Alaric as his superior officer.
But if Alaric thought of this often, so did Norman; and before the last
fortnight had expired, the thinking of it had made him so ill that his
immediate return to London was out of the question.

Mrs. Woodward's heart melted within her when she heard that Harry was
really ill. She had gone on waiting day after day for an answer to her
letter, but no answer came. No answer came, but in lieu thereof she
heard that Harry was laid up at Normansgrove. She heard it, and Gertrude
heard it, and in spite of the coming wedding there was very little joy
at Surbiton Cottage.

And then Mrs. Woodward wrote again; and a man must have had a heart of
stone not to be moved by such a letter. She had 'heard,' she said, 'that
he was ill, and the tidings had made her wretched--the more so inasmuch
as he had sent no answer to her last letter. Was he very ill? was he
dangerously ill? She hoped, she would fain hope, that his illness had
not arisen from any mental grief. If he did not reply to this, or get
some of his family to do so, there would be nothing for her but to go,
herself, to Normansgrove. She could not remain quiet while she was left
in such painful doubt about her dearest, well-loved Harry Norman.' How
to speak of Gertrude, or how not to speak of her, Mrs. Woodward knew
not--at last she added: 'The three girls send their kindest love; they
are all as wretchedly anxious as I am. I know you are too good to wish
that poor Gertrude should suffer, but, if you did, you might have your
wish. The tidings of your illness, together with your silence, have
robbed her of all her happiness;' and it ended thus:--'Dearest Harry! do
not be cruel to us; our hearts are all with you.'

This was too much for Norman's sternness; and he relented, at least as
far as Mrs. Woodward was concerned. He wrote to say that though he was
still weak, he was not dangerously ill; and that he intended, if nothing
occurred amiss, to be in town about the end of the year. He hoped
he might then see her to thank her for all her kindness. She would
understand that he could not go down to Surbiton Cottage; but as she
would doubtless have some occasion for coming up to town, they might
thus contrive to meet. He then sent his love to Linda and Katie, and
ended by saying that he had written to Charley Tudor to take lodgings
for him. Not the slightest allusion was made either to Gertrude or
Alaric, except that which might seem to be conveyed in the intimation
that he could make no more visits to Hampton.

This letter was very cold. It just permitted Mrs. Woodward to know that
Norman did not regard them all as strangers; and that was all. Linda
said it was very sad; and Gertrude said, not to her mother but to
Alaric, that it was heartless. Captain Cuttwater predicted that he would
soon come round, and be as sound as a roach again in six months' time.
Alaric said nothing; but he went on with his wooing, and this he did
so successfully, as to make Gertrude painfully alive to what would have
been, in her eyes, the inferiority of her lot, had she unfortunately
allowed herself to become the victim of Norman's love.

Alaric went on with his wooing, and he also went on with his
share-buying. Undy Scott had returned to town for a week or two to
wind up the affairs of his expiring secretaryship, and he made Alaric
understand that a nice thing might yet be done in Mary Janes. Alaric
had been very foolish to sell so quickly; so at least said Undy. To this
Alaric replied that he had bought the shares thoughtlessly, and had felt
a desire to get rid of them as quickly as he could. Those were scruples
at which Undy laughed pleasantly, and Alaric soon laughed with him.

'At any rate,' said Undy, 'your report is written, and off your hands
now: so you may do what you please in the matter, like a free man, with
a safe conscience.'

Alaric supposed that he might.

'I am as fond of the Civil Service as any man,' said Undy; 'just as fond
of it as Sir Gregory himself. I have been in it, and may be in it again.
If I do, I shall do my duty. But I have no idea of having my hands tied.
My purse is my own, to do what I like with it. Whether I buy beef or
mutton, or shares in Cornwall, is nothing to anyone. I give the Crown
what it pays for, my five or six hours a day, and nothing more. When I
was appointed private secretary to the First Lord of the Stannaries, I
told my friend Whip Vigil that those were the terms on which I accepted
office; and Vigil agreed with me.' Alaric, pupil as he was to the great
Sir Gregory, declared that he also agreed with him. 'That is not Sir
Gregory's doctrine, but it's mine,' said Undy; 'and though it's my own,
I think it by far the honester doctrine of the two.'

Alaric did not sift the matter very deeply, nor did he ask Undy, or
himself either, whether in using the contents of his purse in the
purchase of shares he would be justified in turning to his own purpose
any information which he might obtain in his official career. Nor did
he again offer to put that broad test to himself which he had before
proposed, and ask himself whether he would dare to talk of what he was
doing in the face of day, in his own office, before Sir Gregory,
or before the Neverbends of the Service. He had already learnt the
absurdity of such tests. Did other men talk of such doings? Was it not
notorious that the world speculated, and that the world was generally
silent in the matter? Why should he attempt to be wiser than those
around him? Was it not sufficient for him to be wise in his generation?
What man had ever become great, who allowed himself to be impeded by
small scruples? If the sportsman returned from the field laden with
game, who would scrutinize the mud on his gaiters? 'Excelsior!' said
Alaric to himself with a proud ambition; and so he attempted to rise by
the purchase and sale of mining shares.

When he was fairly engaged in the sport, his style of play so fascinated
Undy that they embarked in a sort of partnership, _pro hoc vice_, good
to the last during the ups and downs of Wheal Mary Jane. Mary Jane, no
doubt, would soon run dry, or else be drowned, as had happened to New
Friendship. But in the meantime something might be done.

'Of course you'll be consulted about those other papers,' said Undy. 'It
might be as well they should be kept back for a week or two.'

'Well, I'll see,' said Alaric; and as he said it, he felt that his face
was tinged with a blush of shame. But what then? Who would look at the
dirt on his gaiters, if he filled his bag with game?

Mrs. Woodward was no whit angered by the coldness of Norman's letter.
She wished that he could have brought himself to write in a different
style, but she remembered his grief, and knew that as time should
work its cure upon it, he would come round and again be gentle and
affectionate, at any rate with her.

She misdoubted Charley's judgement in the choice of lodgings, and
therefore she talked over the matter with Alaric. It was at last decided
that he, Alaric, should move instead of driving Norman away. His final
movement would soon take place; that movement which would rob him of
the freedom of lodginghood, and invest him with all the ponderous
responsibility and close restraint of a householder. He and Gertrude
were to be married in February, and after spending a cold honeymoon in
Paris and Brussels, were to begin their married life amidst the sharp
winds of a London March. But love, gratified love, will, we believe,
keep out even an English east wind. If so, it is certainly the only
thing that will.

Charley, therefore, wrote to Norman, telling him that he could remain in
his old home, and humbly asking permission to remain there with him.
To this request he received a kind rejoinder in the affirmative. Though
Charley was related to Alaric, there had always apparently been a closer
friendship between him and Norman than between the two cousins; and now,
in his fierce unbridled quarrel with Alaric, and in his present coolness
with the Woodwards, he seemed to turn to Charley with more than ordinary
affection.

Norman made his appearance at the office on the first Monday of the new
year. He had hitherto sat at the same desk with Alaric, each of them
occupying one side of it; on his return he found himself opposite to a
stranger. Alaric had, of course, been promoted to a room of his own.

The Weights and Measures had never been a noisy office; but now it
became more silent than ever. Men there talked but little at any time,
and now they seemed to cease from talking altogether. It was known
to all that the Damon and Pythias of the establishment were Damon and
Pythias no longer; that war waged between them, and that if all accounts
were true, they were ready to fly each at the other's throat. Some
attributed this to the competitive examination; others said it was love;
others declared that it was money, the root of evil; and one rash young
gentleman stated his positive knowledge that it was all three. At any
rate something dreadful was expected; and men sat anxious at their
desks, fearing the coming evil.

On the Monday the two men did not meet, nor on the Tuesday. On the
next morning, Alaric, having acknowledged to himself the necessity of
breaking the ice, walked into the room where Norman sat with three
or four others. It was absolutely necessary that he should make some
arrangement with him as to a certain branch of office-work; and though
it was competent for him, as the superior, to have sent for Norman as
the inferior, he thought it best to abstain from doing so, even though
he were thereby obliged to face his enemy, for the first time, in the
presence of others.

'Well, Mr. Embryo,' said he, speaking to the new junior, and standing
with his back to the fire in an easy way, as though there was nothing
wrong under the sun, or at least nothing at the Weights and Measures,
'well, Mr. Embryo, how do you get on with those calculations?'

'Pretty well, I believe, sir; I think I begin to understand them now,'
said the tyro, producing for Alaric's gratification five or six folio
sheets covered with intricate masses of figures.

'Ah! yes; that will do very well,' said Alaric, taking up one of the
sheets, and looking at it with an assumed air of great interest. Though
he acted his part pretty well, his mind was very far removed from Mr.
Embryo's efforts.

Norman sat at his desk, as black as a thunder-cloud, with his eyes
turned intently at the paper before him; but so agitated that he could
not even pretend to write.

'By the by, Norman,' said Alaric, 'when will it suit you to look through
those Scotch papers with me?'

'My name, sir, is Mr. Norman,' said Harry, getting up and standing by
his chair with all the firmness of a Paladin of old.

'With all my heart,' said Alaric. 'In speaking to you I can have but one
wish, and that is to do so in any way that may best please you.'

'Any instructions you may have to give I will attend to, as far as my
duty goes,' said Norman.

And then Alaric, pushing Mr. Embryo from his chair without much
ceremony, sat down opposite to his former friend, and said and did what
he had to say and do with an easy unaffected air, in which there was, at
any rate, none of the usual superciliousness of a neophyte's authority.
Norman was too agitated to speak reasonably, or to listen calmly, but
Alaric knew that though he might not do so to-day, he would to-morrow,
or if not to-morrow, then the next day; and so from day to day he
came into Norman's room and transacted his business. Mr. Embryo got
accustomed to looking through the window at the Council Office for the
ten minutes that he remained there, and Norman also became reconciled to
the custom. And thus, though they never met in any other way, they daily
had a kind of intercourse with each other, which, at last, contrived to
get itself arranged into a certain amount of civility on both sides.

Immediately that Norman's arrival was heard of at Surbiton Cottage, Mrs.
Woodward hastened up to town to see him. She wrote to him to say that
she would be at his lodgings at a certain hour, and begged him to come
thither to her. Of course he did not refuse, and so they met. Mrs.
Woodward had much doubted whether or no she would take Linda or Katie
with her, but at last she resolved to go alone. Harry, she thought,
would be more willing to speak freely to her, to open his heart to her,
if there were nobody by but herself.

Their meeting was very touching, and characteristic of the two persons.
Mrs. Woodward was sad enough, but her sadness was accompanied by a
strength of affection that carried before it every obstacle. Norman was
also sad; but he was at first stern and cold, and would have remained
so to the last, had not his manly anger been overpowered by her feminine
tenderness.

It was singular, but not the less true, that at this period Norman
appeared to have forgotten altogether that he had ever proposed to
Gertrude, and been rejected by her. All that he said and all that he
thought was exactly what he might have said and thought had Alaric taken
from him his affianced bride. No suitor had ever felt his suit to be
more hopeless than he had done; and yet he now regarded himself as one
whose high hopes of happy love had all been destroyed by the treachery
of a friend and the fickleness of a woman.

This made the task of appeasing him very difficult to Mrs. Woodward.
She could not in plain language remind him that he had been plainly
rejected; nor could she, on the other hand, permit her daughter to be
branded with a fault of which she had never been guilty.

Mrs. Woodward had wished, though she had hardly hoped, so to mollify
Norman as to induce him to promise to be at the wedding; but she soon
found that this was out of the question. There was no mitigating his
anger against Alaric.

'Mrs. Woodward,' said he, standing very upright, and looking very stiff,
'I will never again willingly put myself in any position where I must
meet him.'

'Oh! Harry, don't say so--think of your close friendship, think of your
long friendship.'

'Why did he not think of it?'

'But, Harry--if not for his sake, if not for your own, at any rate do so
for ours; for my sake, for Katie's and Linda's, for Gertrude's sake.'

'I had rather not speak of Gertrude, Mrs. Woodward.'

'Ah! Harry, Gertrude has done you no injury; why should you thus turn
your heart against her? You should not blame her; if you have anyone to
blame, it is me.'

'No; you have been true to me.'

'And has she been false? Oh! Harry, think how we have loved you! You
should be more just to us.'

'Tush!' he said. 'I do not believe in justice; there is no justice
left. I would have given everything I had for him. I would have made any
sacrifice. His happiness was as much my thought as my own. And now--and
yet you talk to me of justice.'

'And if he had injured you, Harry, would you not forgive him? Do you
repeat your prayers without thinking of them? Do you not wish to forgive
them that trespass against you?' Norman groaned inwardly in the spirit.
'Do you not think of this when you kneel every night before your God?'

'There are injuries which a man cannot forgive, is not expected to
forgive.'

'Are there, Harry? Oh! that is a dangerous doctrine. In that way every
man might nurse his own wrath till anger would make devils of us all.
Our Saviour has made no exceptions.'

'In one sense, I do forgive him, Mrs. Woodward. I wish him no evil.
But it is impossible that I should call a man who has so injured me my
friend. I look upon him as disgraced for ever.'

She then endeavoured to persuade him to see Gertrude, or at any rate to
send his love to her. But in this also he was obdurate. 'It could,' he
said, 'do no good.' He could not answer for himself that his feelings
would not betray him. A message would be of no use; if true, it would
not be gracious; if false, it had better be avoided. He was quite sure
Gertrude would be indifferent as to any message from him. The best thing
for them both would be that they should forget each other.

He promised, however, that he would go down to Hampton immediately after
the marriage, and he sent his kindest love to Linda and Katie. 'And,
dear Mrs. Woodward,' said he, 'I know you think me very harsh, I know
you think me vindictive--but pray, pray believe that I understand all
your love, and acknowledge all your goodness. The time will, perhaps,
come when we shall be as happy together as we once were.'

Mrs. Woodward, trying to smile through her tears, could only say that
she would pray that that time might soon come; and so, bidding God bless
him, as a mother might bless her child, she left him and returned to
Hampton, not with a light heart.



CHAPTER XVI

THE FIRST WEDDING


In spite, however, of Norman and his anger, on a cold snowy morning in
the month of February, Gertrude stood at the altar in Hampton Church,
a happy trusting bride, and Linda stood smiling behind her, the lovely
leader of the nuptial train. Nor were Linda's smiles false or forced,
much less treacherous. She had taught herself to look on Alaric as her
sister's husband, and though in doing so she had suffered, and did still
suffer, she now thought of her own lost lover in no other guise.

A housemaid, not long since, who was known in the family in which she
lived to be affianced to a neighbouring gardener, came weeping to her
mistress.

'Oh, ma'am!'

'Why, Susan, what ails you?'

'Oh, ma'am!'

'Well, Susan--what is it?--why are you crying?'

'Oh, ma'am--John!'

'Well--what of John? I hope he is not misbehaving.'

'Indeed, ma'am, he is then; the worst of misbehaviour; for he's gone and
got hisself married.' And poor Susan gave vent to a flood of tears.

Her mistress tried to comfort her, and not in vain. She told her that
probably she might be better as she was; that John, seeing what he had
done, must be a false creature, who would undoubtedly have used her ill;
and she ended her good counsel by trying to make Susan understand that
there were still as good fish in the sea as had ever yet been caught out
of it.

'And that's true too, ma'am,' said Susan, with her apron to her eyes.

'Then you should not be downhearted, you know.'

'Nor I han't down'arted, ma'am, for thank God I could love any man, but
it's the looks on it, ma'am; it's that I mind.'

How many of us are there, women and men too, who think most of the
'looks of it' under such circumstances; and who, were we as honest as
poor Susan, ought to thank God, as she did, that we can love anyone;
anyone, that is, of the other sex. We are not all of us susceptible of
being torn to tatters by an unhappy passion; not even all those of us
who may be susceptible of a true and honest love. And it is well that it
is so. It is one of God's mercies; and if we were as wise as Susan, we
should thank God for it.

Linda was, perhaps, one of those. She was good, affectionate, tender,
and true. But she was made of that stuff which can bend to the north
wind. The world was not all over with her because a man had been untrue
to her. She had had her grief, and had been told to meet it like a
Christian; she had been obedient to the telling, and now felt the good
result. So when Gertrude was married she stood smiling behind her; and
when her new brother-in-law kissed her in the vestry-room she smiled
again, and honestly wished them happiness.

And Katie was there, very pretty and bonny, still childish, with her
short dress and long trousers, but looking as though she, too, would
soon feel the strength of her own wings, and be able to fly away from
her mother's nest. Dear Katie! Her story has yet to be told. To her
belongs neither the soft easiness of her sister Linda nor the sterner
dignity of Gertrude. But she has a character of her own, which contains,
perhaps, higher qualities than those given to either of her sisters.

And there were other bridesmaids there; how many it boots not now to
say. We must have the spaces round our altars greatly widened if
this passion for bevies of attendant nymphs be allowed to go on
increasing--and if crinolines increase also. If every bride is to have
twelve maidens, and each maiden to stand on no less than a twelve-yard
circle, what modest temple will ever suffice for a sacrifice to Hymen?

And Mrs. Woodward was there, of course; as pretty to my thinking as
either of her daughters, or any of the bridesmaids. She was very pretty
and smiling and quiet. But when Gertrude said 'I will,' she was thinking
of Harry Norman, and grieving that he was not there.

And Captain Cuttwater was there, radiant in a new blue coat, made
specially for the occasion, and elastic with true joy. He had been very
generous. He had given £1,000 to Alaric, and settled £150 a year on
Gertrude, payable, of course, after his death. This, indeed, was the
bulk of what he had to give, and Mrs. Woodward had seen with regret
his exuberant munificence to one of her children. But Gertrude was her
child, and of course she could not complain.

And Charley was there, acting as best man. It was just the place and
just the work for Charley. He forgot all his difficulties, all his
duns, and also all his town delights. Without a sigh he left his lady in
Norfolk Street to mix gin-sling for other admirers, and felt no regret
though four brother navvies were going to make a stunning night of it at
the 'Salon de Seville dansant,' at the bottom of Holborn Hill. However,
he had his hopes that he might be back in time for some of that fun.

And Undy Scott was there. He and Alaric had fraternized so greatly
of late that the latter had, as a matter of course, asked him to his
wedding, and Mrs. Woodward had of course expressed her delight at
receiving Alaric's friend. Undy also was a pleasant fellow for a wedding
party; he was full of talk, fond of ladies, being no whit abashed in his
attendance on them by the remembrance of his bosom's mistress, whom he
had left, let us hope, happy in her far domestic retirement. Undy Scott
was a good man at a wedding, and made himself specially agreeable on
this occasion.

But the great glory of the day was the presence of Sir Gregory
Hardlines. It was a high honour, considering all that rested on Sir
Gregory's shoulders, for so great a man to come all the way down to
Hampton to see a clerk in the Weights and Measures married.

  Cum tot sustineas, et tanta negotia solus,

--for we may call it 'solus,' Sir Warwick and Mr. Jobbles being sources
of more plague than profit in carrying out your noble schemes--while so
many things are on your shoulders, Sir Gregory; while you are defending
the Civil Service by your pen, adorning it by your conduct, perfecting
it by new rules, how could any man have had the face to ask you to a
wedding?

Nevertheless Sir Gregory was there, and did not lose the excellent
opportunity which a speech at the breakfast-table afforded him for
expressing his opinion on the Civil Service of his country.

And so Gertrude Woodward became Gertrude Tudor, and she and Alaric were
whirled away by a post-chaise and post-boy, done out with white bows,
to the Hampton Court station; from thence they whisked up to London, and
then down to Dover; and there we will leave them.

They were whisked away, having first duly gone through the amount of
badgering which the bride and bridegroom have to suffer at the wedding
breakfast-table. They drank their own health in champagne. Alaric made a
speech, in which he said he was quite unworthy of his present happiness,
and Gertrude picked up all the bijoux, gold pencil-cases, and silver
cream-jugs, which were thrown at her from all sides. All the men made
speeches, and all the women laughed, but the speech of the day was that
celebrated one made by Sir Gregory, in which he gave a sketch of Alaric
Tudor as the beau idéal of a clerk in the Civil Service. 'His heart,'
said he, energetically, 'is at the Weights and Measures;' but Gertrude
looked at him as though she did not believe a word of it.

And so Alaric and Gertrude were whisked away, and the wedding guests
were left to look sheepish at each other, and take themselves off as
best they might. Sir Gregory, of course, had important public business
which precluded him from having the gratification of prolonging his stay
at Hampton. Charley got away in perfect time to enjoy whatever there
might be to be enjoyed at the dancing saloon of Seville, and Undy Scott
returned to his club.

Then all was again quiet at Surbiton Cottage. Captain Cuttwater, who had
perhaps drunk the bride's health once too often, went to sleep; Katie,
having taken off her fine clothes, roamed about the house disconsolate,
and Mrs. Woodward and Linda betook themselves to their needles.

The Tudors went to Brussels, and were made welcome by the Belgian
banker, whose counters he had deserted so much to his own benefit, and
from thence to Paris, and, having been there long enough to buy a French
bonnet and wonder at the enormity of French prices, they returned to
a small but comfortable house they had prepared for themselves in the
neighbourhood of Westbourne Terrace.

Previous to this Norman had been once, and but once, at Hampton, and,
when there, he had failed in being comfortable himself, or in making the
Woodwards so; he could not revert to his old habits, or sit, or move,
or walk, as though nothing special had happened since he had been last
there. He could not talk about Gertrude, and he could not help talking
of her. By some closer packing among the ladies a room had now been
prepared for him in the house; even this upset him, and brought to his
mind all those unpleasant thoughts which he should have endeavoured to
avoid.

He did not repeat his visit before the Tudors returned; and then
for some time he was prevented from doing so by the movements of
the Woodwards themselves. Mrs. Woodward paid a visit to her married
daughter, and, when she returned, Linda did the same. And so for a while
Norman was, as it were, divided from his old friends, whereas Tudor, as
a matter of course, was one of themselves.

It was only natural that Mrs. Woodward should forgive Alaric and receive
him to her bosom, now that he was her son-in-law. After all, such ties
as these avail more than any predilections, more than any effort of
judgement in the choice of the objects of our affections. We associate
with those with whom the tenor of life has thrown us, and from habit we
learn to love those with whom we are brought to associate.



CHAPTER XVII

THE HONOURABLE MRS. VAL AND MISS GOLIGHTLY


The first eighteen months of Gertrude's married life were not unhappy,
though, like all persons entering on the realities of the world,
she found much to disappoint her. At first her husband's society was
sufficient for her; and to give him his due, he was not at first an
inattentive husband. Then came the baby, bringing with him, as first
babies always should do, a sort of second honeymoon of love, and a
renewal of those services which women so delight to receive from their
bosoms' lord.

She had of course made acquaintances since she had settled herself in
London, and had, in her modest way, done her little part in adding to
the gaiety of the great metropolis. In this respect indeed Alaric's
commencement of life had somewhat frightened Mrs. Woodward, and the more
prudent of his friends. Grand as his official promotion had been, his
official income at the time of his marriage did not exceed £600 a year,
and though this was to be augmented occasionally till it reached £800,
yet even with this advantage it could hardly suffice for a man and his
wife and a coming family to live in an expensive part of London, and
enable him to 'see his friends' occasionally, as the act of feeding
one's acquaintance is now generally called.

Gertrude, like most English girls of her age, was at first so ignorant
about money that she hardly knew whether £600 was or was not a
sufficient income to justify their present mode of living; but she soon
found reason to suspect that her husband at any rate endeavoured to
increase it by other means. We say to suspect, because he never spoke to
her on the subject; he never told her of Mary Janes and New Friendships;
or hinted that he had extensive money dealings in connexion with Undy
Scott.

But it can be taken for granted that no husband can carry on such
dealings long without some sort of cognizance on his wife's part as to
what he is doing; a woman who is not trusted by her lord may choose
to remain in apparent darkness, may abstain from questions, and may
consider it either her duty or her interest to assume an ignorance as
to her husband's affairs; but the partner of one's bed and board, the
minister who soothes one's headaches, and makes one's tea, and looks
after one's linen, can't but have the means of guessing the thoughts
which occupy her companion's mind and occasionally darken his brow.

Much of Gertrude's society had consisted of that into which Alaric was
thrown by his friendship with Undy Scott. There was a brother of Undy's
living in town, one Valentine Scott--a captain in a cavalry regiment,
and whose wife was by no means of that delightfully retiring disposition
evinced by Undy's better half. The Hon. Mrs. Valentine, or Mrs. Val
Scott as she was commonly called, was a very pushing woman, and pushed
herself into a prominent place among Gertrude's friends. She had been
the widow of Jonathan Golightly, Esq., umquhile sheriff of the city of
London, and stockbroker, and when she gave herself and her jointure
up to Captain Val, she also brought with her, to enliven the house,
a daughter Clementina, the only remaining pledge of her love for the
stockbroker.

When Val Scott entered the world, his father's precepts as to the
purposes of matrimony were deeply graven on his heart. He was the best
looking of the family, and, except Undy, the youngest. He had not Undy's
sharpness, his talent for public matters, or his aptitude for the higher
branches of the Civil Service; but he had wit to wear his sash and
epaulets with an easy grace, and to captivate the heart, person, and
some portion of the purse, of the Widow Golightly. The lady was ten
years older than the gentleman; but then she had a thousand a year, and,
to make matters more pleasant, the beauteous Clementina had a fortune of
her own.

Under these circumstances the marriage had been contracted without any
deceit, or attempt at deceit, by either party. Val wanted an income,
and the sheriff's widow wanted the utmost amount of social consideration
which her not very extensive means would purchase for her. On the whole,
the two parties to the transaction were contented with their bargain.
Mrs. Val, it is true, kept her income very much in her own hands; but
still she consented to pay Val's tailors' bills, and it is something for
a man to have bed and board found him for nothing. It is true, again,
the lady did not find that the noble blood of her husband gave her an
immediate right of entry into the best houses in London; but it did
bring her into some sort of contact with some few people of rank and
fame; and being a sensible woman, she had not been unreasonable in her
expectations.

When she had got what she could from her husband in this particular,
she did not trouble him much further. He delighted in the Rag, and there
spent the most of his time; happily, she delighted in what she called
the charms of society, and as society expanded itself before her, she
was also, we must suppose, happy. She soon perceived that more in her
immediate line was to be obtained from Undy than from her own member of
the Gaberlunzie family, and hence had sprung up her intimacy with Mrs.
Tudor.

It cannot be said that Gertrude was very fond of the Honourable Mrs.
Val, nor even of her daughter, Clementina Golightly, who was more of
her own age. These people had become her friends from the force of
circumstances, and not from predilection. To tell the truth, Mrs. Val,
who had in her day encountered, with much patience, a good deal of
snubbing, and who had had to be thankful when she was patronized, now
felt that her day for being a great lady had come, and that it behoved
her to patronize others. She tried her hand upon Gertrude, and found the
practice so congenial to her spirits, so pleasantly stimulating, so well
adapted to afford a gratifying compensation for her former humility,
that she continued to give up a good deal of her time to No. 5, Albany
Row, Westbourne Terrace, at which house the Tudors resided.

The young bride was not exactly the woman to submit quietly to patronage
from any Mrs. Val, however honourable she might be; but for a while
Gertrude hardly knew what it meant; and at her first outset the natural
modesty of youth, and her inexperience in her new position, made her
unwilling to take offence and unequal to rebellion. By degrees, however,
this feeling of humility wore off; she began to be aware of the assumed
superiority of Mrs. Val's friendship, and by the time that their mutual
affection was of a year's standing, Gertrude had determined, in a quiet
way, without saying anything to anybody, to put herself on a footing of
more perfect equality with the Honourable Mrs. Val.

Clementina Golightly was, in the common parlance of a large portion of
mankind, a 'doosed fine gal.' She stood five feet six, and stood very
well, on very good legs, but with rather large feet. She was as straight
as a grenadier, and had it been her fate to carry a milk-pail, she
would have carried it to perfection. Instead of this, however, she was
permitted to expend an equal amount of energy in every variation of
waltz and polka that the ingenuity of the dancing professors of the age
has been able to produce. Waltzes and polkas suited her admirably; for
she was gifted with excellent lungs and perfect powers of breathing, and
she had not much delight in prolonged conversation. Her fault, if she
had one, was a predilection for flirting; but she did her flirtations in
a silent sort of way, much as we may suppose the fishes do theirs, whose
amours we may presume to consist in swimming through their cool element
in close contiguity with each other. 'A feast of reason and a flow of
soul' were not the charms by which Clementina Golightly essayed to keep
her admirers spell-bound at her feet. To whirl rapidly round a room at
the rate of ten miles an hour, with her right hand outstretched in the
grasp of her partner's, and to know that she was tightly buoyed up, like
a horse by a bearing-rein, by his other hand behind her back, was for
her sufficient. To do this, as she did do it, without ever crying for
mercy, with no slackness of breath, and apparently without distress,
must have taken as much training as a horse gets for a race. But the
training had in nowise injured her; and now, having gone through her
gallops and run all her heats for three successive seasons, she was
still sound of wind and limb, and fit to run at any moment when called
upon.

We have said nothing about the face of the beauteous Clementina, and
indeed nothing can be said about it. There was no feature in it with
which a man could have any right to find fault; that she was a 'doosed
fine girl' was a fact generally admitted; but nevertheless you might
look at her for four hours consecutively on a Monday evening, and yet
on Tuesday you would not know her. She had hair which was brownish and
sufficiently silky--and which she wore, as all other such girls do,
propped out on each side of her face by thick round velvet pads,
which, when the waltzing pace became exhilarating, occasionally showed
themselves, looking greasy. She had a pair of eyes set straight in her
head, faultless in form, and perfectly inexpressive. She had a nose
equally straight, but perhaps a little too coarse in dimensions. She had
a mouth not over large, with two thin lips and small whitish teeth; and
she had a chin equal in contour to the rest of her face, but on which
Venus had not deigned to set a dimple. Nature might have defied a French
passport officer to give a description of her, by which even her own
mother or a detective policeman might have recognized her.

When to the above list of attractions it is added that Clementina
Golightly had £20,000 of her own, and a reversionary interest in
her mother's jointure, it may be imagined that she did not want for
good-winded cavaliers to bear her up behind, and whirl around with her
with outstretched hands.

'I am not going to stay a moment, my dear,' said Mrs. Val, seating
herself on Gertrude's sofa, having rushed up almost unannounced into the
drawing-room, followed by Clementina; 'indeed, Lady Howlaway is
waiting for me this moment; but I must settle with you about the June
flower-show.'

'Oh! thank you, Mrs. Scott, don't trouble yourself about me,' said
Gertrude; 'I don't think I shall go.'

'Oh! nonsense, my dear; of course you'll go; it's the show of the year,
and the Grand duke is to be there--baby is all right now, you know; I
must not hear of your not going.'

'All the same--I fear I must decline,' said Gertrude; 'I think I shall
be at Hampton.'

'Oh! nonsense, my dear; of course you must show yourself. People will
say all manner of things else. Clementina has promised to meet Victoire
Jaquêtanápes there and a party of French people, people of the very
highest ton. You'll be delighted, my dear.'

'M. Jaquêtanápes is the most delicious polkist you ever met,' said
Clementina. 'He has got a new back step that will quite amaze you.' As
Gertrude in her present condition was not much given to polkas, this
temptation did not have great effect.

'Oh, you must come, of course, my dear--and pray let me recommend you to
go to Madame Bosconi for your bonnet; she has such darling little ducks,
and as cheap as dirt. But I want you to arrange about the carriage;
you can do that with Mr. Tudor, and I can settle with you afterwards.
Captain Scott won't go, of course; but I have no doubt Undecimus and Mr.
Tudor will come later and bring us home; we can manage very well with
the one carriage.'

In spite of her thousand a year the Honourable Mrs. Val was not ashamed
to look after the pounds, shillings, and pence. And so, having made her
arrangements, Mrs. Val took herself off, hurrying to appease the anger
of Lady Howlaway, and followed by Clementina, who since her little
outburst as to the new back step of M. Jaquêtanápes had not taken much
part in the conversation.

Flower-shows are a great resource for the Mrs. Scotts of London life.
They are open to ladies who cannot quite penetrate the inner sancta of
fashionable life, and yet they are frequented by those to whom those
sancta are everyday household walks. There at least the Mrs. Scotts of
the outer world can show themselves in close contiguity, and on equal
terms, with the Mrs. Scotts of the inner world. And then, who is to
know the difference? If also one is an Honourable Mrs. Scott, and can
contrive to appear as such in the next day's _Morning Post_, may not one
fairly boast that the ends of society have been attained? Where is the
citadel? How is one to know when one has taken it?

Gertrude could not be quite so defiant with her friends as she would
have wished to have been, as they were borne with and encouraged by
her husband. Of Undy's wife Alaric saw nothing and heard little, but
it suited Undy to make use of his sister-in-law's house, and it suited
Alaric to be intimate with Undy's sister-in-law. Moreover, had not
Clementina Golightly £20,000, and was she not a 'doosed fine girl?' This
was nothing to Alaric now, and might not be considered to be much to
Undy. But that far-seeing, acute financier knew that there were other
means of handling a lady's money than that of marrying her. He could not
at present acquire a second fortune in that way; but he might perhaps
acquire the management of this £20,000 if he could provide the lady
with a husband of the proper temperament. Undy Scott did not want
to appropriate Miss Golightly's fortune, he only wanted to have the
management of it.

Looking round among his acquaintance for a fitting _parti_ for the sweet
Clementina, his mind, after much consideration, settled upon Charley
Tudor. There were many young men much nearer and dearer to Undy than
Charley, who might be equally desirous of so great a prize; but he could
think of none over whom he might probably exercise so direct a control.
Charley was a handsome gay fellow, and waltzed _au ravir_; he might,
therefore, without difficulty, make his way with the fair Clementina.
He was distressingly poor, and would therefore certainly jump at an
heiress--he was delightfully thoughtless and easy of leading, and
therefore the money, when in his hands, might probably be manageable. He
was also Alaric's cousin, and therefore acceptable.

Undy did not exactly open his mind to Alaric Tudor in this matter.
Alaric's education was going on rapidly; but his mind had not yet
received with sufficient tenacity those principles of philosophy which
would enable him to look at this scheme in its proper light. He had
already learnt the great utility, one may almost say the necessity, of
having a command of money; he was beginning also to perceive that money
was a thing not to be judged of by the ordinary rules which govern
a man's conduct. In other matters it behoves a gentleman to be open,
above-board, liberal, and true; good-natured, generous, confiding,
self-denying, doing unto others as he would wish that others should do
unto him; but in the acquirement and use of money--that is, its use
with the object of acquiring more, its use in the usurer's sense--his
practice should be exactly the reverse; he should be close, secret,
exacting, given to concealment, not over troubled by scruples;
suspicious, without sympathies, self-devoted, and always doing unto
others exactly that which he is on his guard to prevent others from
doing unto him--viz., making money by them. So much Alaric had learnt,
and had been no inapt scholar. But he had not yet appreciated the full
value of the latitude allowed by the genius of the present age to men
who deal successfully in money. He had, as we have seen, acknowledged
to himself that a sportsman may return from the field with his legs and
feet a little muddy; but he did not yet know how deep a man may wallow
in the mire, how thoroughly he may besmear himself from head to foot
in the blackest, foulest mud, and yet be received an honoured guest by
ladies gay and noble lords, if only his bag be sufficiently full.

  Rem..., quocunque modo rem!

The remainder of the passage was doubtless applicable to former times,
but now is hardly worth repeating.

As Alaric's stomach was not yet quite suited for strong food, Undy
fitted this matter to his friend's still juvenile capacities. There
was an heiress, a 'doosed fine girl' as Undy insisted, laying peculiar
strength on the word of emphasis, with £20,000, and there was Charley
Tudor, a devilish decent fellow, without a rap. Why not bring them
together? This would only be a mark of true friendship on the part of
Undy; and on Alaric's part, it would be no more than one cousin would be
bound to do for another. Looking at it in this light, Alaric saw nothing
in the matter which could interfere with his quiet conscience.

'I'll do what I can,' said Undy. 'Mrs. Val is inclined to have a way of
her own in most things; but if anybody can lead her, I can. Charley
must take care that Val himself doesn't take his part, that's all. If he
interferes, it would be all up with us.'

And thus Alaric, intent mainly on the interest of his cousin, and
actuated perhaps a little by the feeling that a rich cousin would be
more serviceable than a poor one, set himself to work, in connexion with
Undy Scott, to make prey of Clementina Golightly's £20,000.

But if Undy had no difficulty in securing the co-operation of Alaric
in this matter, Alaric by no means found it equally easy to secure the
co-operation of Charley. Charley Tudor had not yet learnt to look
upon himself as a marketable animal, worth a certain sum of money, in
consequence of such property in good appearance, address, &c., as God
had been good enough to endow him withal.

He daily felt the depth and disagreeable results of his own poverty, and
not unfrequently, when specially short of the Queen's medium, sighed for
some of those thousands and tens of thousands with which men's mouths
are so glibly full. He had often tried to calculate what would be his
feelings if some eccentric, good-natured old stranger should leave him,
say, five thousand a year; he had often walked about the street, with
his hands in his empty pockets, building delicious castles in the air,
and doing the most munificent actions imaginable with his newly-acquired
wealth, as all men in such circumstances do; relieving distress,
rewarding virtue, and making handsome presents to all his friends,
and especially to Mrs. Woodward. So far Charley was not guiltless of
coveting wealth; but he had never for a moment thought of realizing his
dreams by means of his personal attractions. It had never occurred to
him that any girl having money could think it worth her while to marry
him. He, navvy as he was, with his infernal friends and pot-house love,
with his debts and idleness and low associations, with his saloons of
Seville, his Elysium in Fleet Street, and his Paradise near the Surrey
Gardens, had hitherto thought little enough of his own attractions. No
kind father had taught him that he was worth £10,000 in any market in
the world. When he had dreamt of money, he had never dreamt of it as
accruing to him in return for any value or worth which he had inherent
in himself. Even in his lighter moments he had no such conceit; and at
those periods, few and far between, in which he did think seriously
of the world at large, this special method of escaping from his
difficulties--never once presented itself to his mind.

When, therefore, Alaric first spoke to him of marrying £20,000 and
Clementina Golightly, his surprise was unbounded.

'£20,000!' said Alaric, 'and a doosed fine girl, you know;' and he
also laid great stress on the latter part of the offer, knowing how
inflammable was Charley's heart, and at the same time how little
mercenary was his mind.

But Charley was not only surprised at the proposed arrangement, but
apparently also unwilling to enter into it. He argued that in the first
place no girl in her senses would accept him. To this Alaric replied
that as Clementina had not much sense to speak of, that objection might
fall to the ground. Then Charley expressed an idea that Miss Golightly's
friends might probably object when they learnt what were the exact
pecuniary resources of the expectant husband; to which Alaric argued
that the circumstances of the case were very lucky, inasmuch as some of
Clementina's natural friends were already prepossessed in favour of such
an arrangement.

Driven thus from two of his strongholds, Charley, in the most modest
of voices, in a voice one may say quite shamefaced and conscious of
its master's weakness--suggested that he was not quite sure that at the
present moment he was very much in love with the lady in question.

Alaric had married for love, and was not two years married, yet had his
education so far progressed in that short period as to enable him to
laugh at such an objection.

'Then, my dear fellow, what the deuce do you mean to do with yourself?
You'll certainly go to the dogs.

Charley had an idea that he certainly should; and also had an idea that
Miss Clementina and her £20,000 might not improbably go in the same
direction, if he had anything to do with them.

'And as for loving her,' continued Alaric, 'that's all my eye. Love is
a luxury which none but the rich or the poor can afford. We middle-class
paupers, who are born with good coats on our backs, but empty purses,
can have nothing to do with it.'

'But you married for love, Alaric?'

'My marriage was not a very prudent one, and should not be taken as an
example. And then I did get some fortune with my wife; and what is more,
I was not so fearfully in want of it as you are.'

Charley acknowledged the truth of this, said that he would think of the
matrimonial project, and promised, at any rate, to call on Clementina
on an early occasion. He had already made her acquaintance, had already
danced with her, and certainly could not take upon himself to deny that
she was a 'doosed fine girl.'

But Charley had reasons of his own, reasons which he could not make
known to Alaric, for not thinking much of, or trusting much to, Miss
Golightly's fortune. In the first place, he regarded marriage on such a
grand scale as that now suggested, as a ceremony which must take a long
time to adjust; the wooing of a lady with so many charms could not
be carried on as might be the wooing of a chambermaid or a farmer's
daughter. It must take months at least to conciliate the friends of so
rich an heiress, and months at the end of them to prepare the wedding
gala. But Charley could not wait for months; before one month was over
he would probably be laid up in some vile limbo, an unfortunate poor
prisoner at the suit of an iron-hearted tailor.

At this very moment of Alaric's proposition, at this instant when
he found himself talking with so much coolness of the expedience or
inexpedience of appropriating to his own purpose a slight trifle of
£20,000, he was in dire strait as to money difficulties.

He had lately, that is, within the last twelve months, made acquaintance
with an interesting gentleman named Jabesh M'Ruen. Mr. Jabesh M'Ruen
was in the habit of relieving the distresses of such impoverished young
gentlemen as Charley Tudor; and though he did this with every
assurance of philanthropic regard, though in doing so he only made one
stipulation, 'Pray be punctual, Mr. Tudor, now pray do be punctual,
sir, and you may always count on me,' nevertheless, in spite of all
his goodness, Mr. M'Ruen's young friends seldom continued to hold their
heads well up over the world's waters.

On the morning after this conversation with Alaric, Charley intended
to call on his esteemed old friend. Many were the morning calls he did
make; many were the weary, useless, aimless walks which he took to that
little street at the back of Mecklenburg Square, with the fond hope of
getting some relief from Mr. M'Ruen; and many also were the calls,
the return visits, as it were, which Mr. M'Ruen made at the Internal
Navigation, and numerous were the whispers which he would there whisper
into the ears of the young clerk, Mr. Snape the while sitting by, with
a sweet unconscious look, as though he firmly believed Mr. M'Ruen to be
Charley's maternal uncle.

And then, too, Charley had other difficulties, which in his mind
presented great obstacles to the Golightly scheme, though Alaric would
have thought little of them, and Undy nothing. What was he to do with
his Norfolk Street lady, his barmaid houri, his Norah Geraghty, to whom
he had sworn all manner of undying love, and for whom in some sort of
fashion he really had an affection? And Norah was not a light-of-love
whom it was as easy to lay down as to pick up. Charley had sworn to love
her, and she had sworn to love Charley; and to give her her due, she had
kept her word to him. Though her life rendered necessary a sort of daily
or rather nightly flirtation with various male comers--as indeed, for
the matter of that, did also the life of Miss Clementina Golightly--yet
she had in her way been true to her lover. She had been true to him,
and Charley did not doubt her, and in a sort of low way respected her;
though it was but a dissipated and debauched respect. There had even
been talk between them of marriage, and who can say what in his softer
moments, when his brain had been too weak or the toddy too strong,
Charley may not have promised?

And there was yet another objection to Miss Golightly; one even more
difficult of mention, one on which Charley felt himself more absolutely
constrained to silence than even either of the other two. He was
sufficiently disinclined to speak to his cousin Alaric as to the merits
either of Mr. Jabesh M'Ruen or of Miss Geraghty, but he could have been
eloquent on either rather than whisper a word as to the third person who
stood between him and the £20,000.

The school in which Charley now lived, that of the infernal navvies,
had taught him to laugh at romance; but it had not been so successful in
quelling the early feelings of his youth, in drying up the fountains of
poetry within him, as had been the case with his cousin, in that
other school in which he had been a scholar. Charley was a dissipated,
dissolute rake, and in some sense had degraded himself; but he had still
this chance of safety on his side, that he himself reprobated his own
sins. He dreamt of other things and a better life. He made visions to
himself of a sweet home, and a sweeter, sweetest, lovely wife; a love
whose hair should not be redolent of smoke, nor her hands reeking with
gin, nor her services at the demand of every libertine who wanted a
screw of tobacco, or a glass of 'cold without.'

He had made such a vision to himself, and the angel with which he had
filled it was not a creature of his imagination. She who was to reign
in this ethereal paradise, this happy home, far as the poles away
from Norfolk Street, was a living being in the sublunar globe, present
sometimes to Charley's eyes, and now so often present to his thoughts;
and yet she was but a child, and as ignorant that she had ever touched a
lover's heart by her childish charms as though she had been a baby.

After all, even on Charley's part, it was but a vision. He never really
thought that his young inamorata would or could be to him a real true
heart's companion, returning his love with the double love of a woman,
watching his health, curing his vices, and making the sweet things
of the world a living reality around him. This love of his was but
a vision, but not the less on that account did it interfere with his
cousin Alaric's proposition, in reference to Miss Clementina Golightly.

That other love also, that squalid love of his, was in truth no
vision--was a stern, palpable reality, very difficult to get rid of,
and one which he often thought to himself would very probably swallow up
that other love, and drive his sweet dream far away into utter darkness
and dim chaotic space.

But at any rate it was clear that there was no room in his heart for
the beauteous Clementina, 'doosed fine girl' as she undoubtedly was, and
serviceable as the £20,000 most certainly would have been.



CHAPTER XVIII

A DAY WITH ONE OF THE NAVVIES.--MORNING


On the morning after this conversation with Alaric, Charley left his
lodgings with a heavy heart, and wended his way towards Mecklenburg
Square. At the corner of Davies Street he got an omnibus, which for
fourpence took him to one of the little alleys near Gray's Inn, and
there he got down, and threading the well-known locality, through
Bedford Place and across Theobald's Road, soon found himself at the door
of his generous patron. Oh! how he hated the house; how he hated the
blear-eyed, cross-grained, dirty, impudent fish-fag of an old woman who
opened the door for him; how he hated Mr. Jabesh M'Ruen, to whom he now
came a supplicant for assistance, and how, above all, he hated himself
for being there.

He was shown into Mr. M'Ruen's little front parlour, where he had to
wait for fifteen minutes, while his patron made such a breakfast as
generally falls to the lot of such men. We can imagine the rancid
butter, the stale befingered bread, the ha'porth of sky-blue milk, the
tea innocent of China's wrongs, and the soiled cloth. Mr. M'Ruen
always did keep Charley waiting fifteen minutes, and so he was no whit
surprised; the doing so was a part of the tremendous interest which the
wretched old usurer received for his driblets of money.

There was not a bit of furniture in the room on which Charley had not
speculated till speculation could go no further; the old escritoire or
secrétaire which Mr. M'Ruen always opened the moment he came into the
room; the rickety Pembroke table, covered with dirty papers which stood
in the middle of it; the horsehair-bottomed chairs, on which Charley
declined to sit down, unless he had on his thickest winter trousers, so
perpendicular had become some atoms on the surface, which, when new, had
no doubt been horizontal; the ornaments (!) on the chimney, broken bits
of filthy crockery, full of wisps of paper, with a china duck without a
tail, and a dog to correspond without a head; the pictures against
the wall, with their tarnished dingy frames and cracked glasses,
representing three of the Seasons; how the fourth had gone before its
time to its final bourne by an unhappy chance, Mr. M'Ruen had once
explained to Charley, while endeavouring to make his young customer
take the other three as a good value for £7 10s. in arranging a little
transaction, the total amount of which did not exceed £15.

In that instance, however, Charley, who had already dabbled somewhat
deeply in dressing-cases, utterly refused to trade in the articles
produced.

Charley stood with his back to the dog and duck, facing Winter, with
Spring on his right and Autumn on his left; it was well that Summer was
gone, no summer could have shed light on that miserable chamber. He knew
that he would have to wait, and was not therefore impatient, and at
the end of fifteen minutes Mr. M'Ruen shuffled into the room in his
slippers.

He was a little man, with thin grey hair, which stood upright from his
narrow head--what his age might have been it was impossible to guess; he
was wizened, and dry, and grey, but still active enough on his legs
when he had exchanged his slippers for his shoes; and as keen in all his
senses as though years could never tell upon him.

He always wore round his neck a stiff-starched deep white handkerchief,
not fastened with a bow in front, the ends being tucked in so as to be
invisible. This cravat not only covered his throat but his chin also, so
that his head seemed to grow forth from it without the aid of any neck;
and he had a trick of turning his face round within it, an inch or two
to the right or to the left, in a manner which seemed to indicate that
his cranium was loose and might be removed at pleasure.

He shuffled into the room where Charley was standing with little
short quick steps, and putting out his hand, just touched that of his
customer, by way of going through the usual process of greeting.

Some short statement must be made of Charley's money dealings with Mr.
M'Ruen up to this period. About two years back a tailor had an over-due
bill of his for £20, of which he was unable to obtain payment, and being
unwilling to go to law, or perhaps being himself in Mr. M'Ruen's
power, he passed this bill to that worthy gentleman--what amount of
consideration he got for it, it matters not now to inquire; Mr. M'Ruen
very shortly afterwards presented himself at the Internal Navigation,
and introduced himself to our hero. He did this with none of the
overbearing harshness of the ordinary dun, or the short caustic decision
of a creditor determined to resort to the utmost severity of the law.
He turned his head about and smiled, and just showed the end of the
bill peeping out from among a parcel of others, begged Mr. Tudor to be
punctual, he would only ask him to be punctual, and would in such case
do anything for him, and ended his visit by making an appointment to
meet Charley in the little street behind Mecklenburg Square.
Charley kept his appointment, and came away from Mr. M'Ruen's with a
well-contented mind. He had, it is true, left £5 behind him, and had
also left the bill, still entire; but he had obtained a promise of
unlimited assistance from the good-natured gentleman, and had also
received instructions how he was to get a brother clerk to draw a bill,
how he was to accept it himself, and how his patron was to discount it
for him, paying him real gold out of the Bank of England in exchange for
his worthless signature.

Charley stepped lighter on the ground as he left Mr. M'Ruen's house
on that eventful morning than he had done for many a day. There was
something delightful in the feeling that he could make money of his name
in this way, as great bankers do of theirs, by putting it at the bottom
of a scrap of paper. He experienced a sort of pride too in having
achieved so respectable a position in the race of ruin which he was
running, as to have dealings with a bill-discounter. He felt that he was
putting himself on a par with great men, and rising above the low level
of the infernal navvies. Mr. M'Ruen had pulled the bill out of a heap
of bills which he always carried in his huge pocket-book, and showed to
Charley the name of an impoverished Irish peer on the back of it; and
the sight of that name had made Charley quite in love with rum.
He already felt that he was almost hand-and-glove with Lord
Mount-Coffeehouse; for it was a descendant of the nobleman so celebrated
in song. 'Only be punctual, Mr. Tudor; only be punctual, and I will
do anything for you,' Mr. M'Ruen had said, as Charley left the house.
Charley, however, never had been punctual, and yet his dealings with
Mr. M'Ruen had gone on from that day to this. What absolute money he had
ever received into his hand he could not now have said, but it was very
little, probably not amounting in all to £50. Yet he had already paid
during the two years more than double that sum to this sharp-clawed
vulture, and still owed him the amounts of more bills than he could
number. Indeed he had kept no account of these double-fanged little
documents; he had signed them whenever told to do so, and had even been
so preposterously foolish as to sign them in blank. All he knew was that
at the beginning of every quarter Mr. M'Ruen got nearly the half of his
little modicum of salary, and that towards the middle of it he usually
contrived to obtain an advance of some small, some very small sum, and
that when doing so he always put his hand to a fresh bit of paper.

He was beginning to be heartily sick of the bill-discounter. His
intimacy with the lord had not yet commenced, nor had he experienced any
of the delights which he had expected to accrue to him from the higher
tone of extravagance in which he entered when he made Mr. M'Ruen's
acquaintance. And then the horrid fatal waste of time which he incurred
in pursuit of the few pounds which he occasionally obtained, filled even
his heart with a sort of despair. Morning after morning he would wait in
that hated room; and then day after day, at two o'clock, he would attend
the usurer's city haunt--and generally all in vain. The patience of Mr.
Snape was giving way, and the discipline even of the Internal Navigation
felt itself outraged.

And now Charley stood once more in that dingy little front parlour in
which he had never yet seen a fire, and once more Mr. Jabesh M'Ruen
shuffled into the room in his big cravat and dirty loose slippers.

'How d'ye do, Mr. Tudor, how d'ye do? I hope you have brought a little
of this with you;' and Jabesh opened out his left hand, and tapped the
palm of it with the middle finger of his right, by way of showing that
he expected some money: not that he did expect any, cormorant that he
was; this was not the period of the quarter in which he ever got money
from his customer.

'Indeed I have not, Mr. M'Ruen; but I positively must get some.'

'Oh--oh--oh--oh--Mr. Tudor--Mr. Tudor! How can we go on if you are
so unpunctual? Now I would do anything for you if you would only be
punctual.'

'Oh! bother about that--you know your own game well enough.'

'Be punctual, Mr. Tudor, only be punctual, and we shall be all
right--and so you have not got any of this?' and Jabesh went through the
tapping again.

'Not a doit,' said Charley; 'but I shall be up the spout altogether if
you don't do something to help me.'

'But you are so unpunctual, Mr. Tudor.'

'Oh, d---- it; you'll make me sick if you say that again. What else do
you live by but that? But I positively must have some money from you
to-day. If not I am done for.'

'I don't think I can, Mr. Tudor; not to-day, Mr. Tudor--some other day,
say this day month; that is, if you'll be punctual.'

'This day month! no, but this very day, Mr. M'Ruen--why, you got £18
from me when I received my last salary, and I have not had a shilling
back since.'

'But you are so unpunctual, Mr. Tudor,' and Jabesh twisted his head
backwards and forwards within his cravat, rubbing his chin with the
interior starch.

'Well, then, I'll tell you what it is,' said Charley, 'I'll be shot if
you get a shilling from me on the 1st of October, and you may sell me up
as quick as you please. If I don't give a history of your business that
will surprise some people, my name isn't Tudor.'

'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed Mr. M'Ruen, with a soft quiet laugh.

'Well, really, Mr. Tudor, I would do more for you than any other young
man that I know, if you were only a little more punctual. How much is it
you want now?'

'£15--or £10--£10 will do.'

'Ten pounds!' said Jabesh, as though Charley had asked for ten
thousand--'ten pounds!--if two or three would do--'

'But two or three won't do.'

'And whose name will you bring?'

'Whose name! why Scatterall's, to be sure.' Now Scatterall was one of
the navvies; and from him Mr. M'Ruen had not yet succeeded in extracting
one farthing, though he had his name on a volume of Charley's bills.

'Scatterall--I don't like Mr. Scatterall,' said Jabesh; 'he is very
dissipated, and the most unpunctual young man I ever met--you really
must get some one else, Mr. Tudor; you really must.'

'Oh, that's nonsense--Scatterall is as good as anybody--I couldn't ask
any of the other fellows--they are such a low set.'

'But Mr. Scatterall is so unpunctual. There's your cousin, Mr. Alaric
Tudor.'

'My cousin Alaric! Oh, nonsense! you don't suppose I'd ask him to do
such a thing? You might as well tell me to go to my father.'

'Or that other gentleman you live with; Mr. Norman. He is a most
punctual gentleman. Bring me his name, and I'll let you have £10 or
£8--I'll let you have £8 at once.'

'I dare say you will, Mr. M'Ruen, or £80; and be only too happy to give
it me. But you know that is out of the question. Now I won't wait any
longer; just give me an answer to this: if I come to you in the city
will you let me have some money to-day? If you won't, why I must go
elsewhere--that's all.'

The interview ended by an appointment being made for another meeting to
come off at two p.m. that day, at the 'Banks of Jordan,' a public-house
in Sweeting's Alley, as well known to Charley as the little front
parlour of Mr. M'Ruen's house. 'Bring the bill-stamp with you, Mr.
Tudor,' said Jabesh, by way of a last parting word of counsel; 'and let
Mr. Scatterall sign it--that is, if it must be Mr. Scatterall; but I
wish you would bring your cousin's name.'

'Nonsense!'

'Well, then, bring it signed--but I'll fill it; you young fellows
understand nothing of filling in a bill properly.'

And then taking his leave the infernal navvy hurried off, and reached
his office in Somerset House at a quarter past eleven o'clock. As he
walked along he bought the bit of stamped paper on which his friend
Scatterall was to write his name.

When he reached the office he found that a great commotion was going on.
Mr. Snape was standing up at his desk, and the first word which greeted
Charley's ears was an intimation from that gentleman that Mr. Oldeschole
had desired that Mr. Tudor, when he arrived, should be instructed to
attend in the board-room.

'Very well,' said Charley, in a tone of great indifference, 'with all my
heart; I rather like seeing Oldeschole now and then. But he mustn't keep
me long, for I have to meet my grandmother at Islington at two o'clock;'
and Charley, having hung up his hat, prepared to walk off to the
Secretary's room.

'You'll be good enough to wait a few minutes, Mr. Tudor,' said Snape.
'Another gentleman is with Mr. Oldeschole at present. You will be good
enough to sit down and go on with the Kennett and Avon lock entries,
till Mr. Oldeschole is ready to see you.'

Charley sat down at his desk opposite to his friend Scatterall. 'I hope,
Mr. Snape, you had a pleasant meeting at evening prayers yesterday,'
said he, with a tone of extreme interest.

'You had better mind the lock entries at present, Mr. Tudor; they are
greatly in arrear.'

'And the evening meetings are docketed up as close as wax, I suppose.
What the deuce is in the wind, Dick?' Mr. Scatterall's Christian name
was Richard. 'Where's Corkscrew?' Mr. Corkscrew was also a navvy, and
was one of those to whom Charley had specially alluded when he spoke of
the low set.

'Oh, here's a regular go,' said Scatterall. 'It's all up with Corkscrew,
I believe.'

'Why, what's the cheese now?'

'Oh! it's all about some pork chops, which Screwy had for supper last
night.' Screwy was a name of love which among his brother navvies was
given to Mr. Corkscrew. 'Mr. Snape seems to think they did not agree
with him.'

'Pork chops in July!' exclaimed Charley.

'Poor Screwy forgot the time of year,' said another navvy; 'he ought to
have called it lamb and grass.'

And then the story was told. On the preceding afternoon, Mr. Corkscrew
had been subjected to the dire temptation of a boating party to the
Eel-pie Island for the following day, and a dinner thereon. There were
to be at the feast no less than four-and-twenty jolly souls, and it was
intimated to Mr. Corkscrew that as no soul was esteemed to be more jolly
than his own, the party would be considered as very imperfect unless he
could join it. Asking for a day's leave Mr. Corkscrew knew to be out
of the question; he had already taken too many without asking. He was
therefore driven to take another in the same way, and had to look about
for some excuse which might support him in his difficulty. An excuse it
must be, not only new, but very valid; one so strong that it could
not be overset; one so well avouched that it could not be doubted.
Accordingly, after mature consideration, he sat down after leaving his
office, and wrote the following letter, before he started on an evening
cruising expedition with some others of the party to prepare for the
next day's festivities.

'Thursday morning,--July, 185-.

'MY DEAR SIR,

'I write from my bed where I am suffering a most tremendous
indiggestion, last night I eat a stunning supper off pork chopps and
never remembered that pork chopps always does disagree with me, but I
was very indiscrete and am now teetotally unable to rise my throbing
head from off my pillar, I have took four blu pills and some salts and
sena, plenty of that, and shall be the thing to-morrow morning no
doubt, just at present I feel just as if I had a mill stone inside my
stomac--Pray be so kind as to make it all right with Mr. Oldeschole and
believe me to remain,

'Your faithful and obedient servant,

'VERAX CORKSCREW.

'Thomas Snape, Esq., &c.,

'Internal Navigation Office, Somerset House.'

Having composed this letter of excuse, and not intending to return
to his lodgings that evening, he had to make provision for its safely
reaching the hands of Mr. Snape in due time on the following morning.
This he did, by giving it to the boy who came to clean the lodging-house
boots, with sundry injunctions that if he did not deliver it at the
office by ten o'clock on the following morning, the sixpence accruing to
him would never be paid. Mr. Corkscrew, however, said nothing as to the
letter not being delivered before ten the next morning, and as other
business took the boy along the Strand the same evening, he saw no
reason why he should not then execute his commission. He accordingly did
so, and duly delivered the letter into the hands of a servant girl, who
was cleaning the passages of the office.

Fortune on this occasion was blind to the merits of Mr. Corkscrew, and
threw him over most unmercifully. It so happened that Mr. Snape had
been summoned to an evening conference with Mr. Oldeschole and the
other pundits of the office, to discuss with them, or rather to hear
discussed, some measure which they began to think it necessary to
introduce, for amending the discipline of the department.

'We are getting a bad name, whether we deserve it or not,' said Mr.
Oldeschole. 'That fellow Hardlines has put us into his blue-book, and
now there's an article in the _Times_!'

Just at this moment, a messenger brought in to Mr. Snape the unfortunate
letter of which we have given a copy.

'What's that?' said Mr. Oldeschole.

'A note from Mr. Corkscrew, sir,' said Snape.

'He's the worst of the whole lot,' said Mr. Oldeschole.

'He is very bad,' said Snape; 'but I rather think that perhaps, sir, Mr.
Tudor is the worst of all.'

'Well, I don't know,' said the Secretary, muttering _sotto voce_ to the
Under-Secretary, while Mr. Snape read the letter--'Tudor, at any rate,
is a gentleman.'

Mr. Snape read the letter, and his face grew very long. There was a sort
of sneaking civility about Corkscrew, not prevalent indeed at all
times, but which chiefly showed itself when he and Mr. Snape were alone
together, which somewhat endeared him to the elder clerk. He would have
screened the sinner had he had either the necessary presence of mind or
the necessary pluck. But he had neither. He did not know how to account
for the letter but by the truth, and he feared to conceal so flagrant a
breach of discipline at the moment of the present discussion.

Things at any rate so turned out that Mr. Corkscrew's letter was read in
full conclave in the board-room of the office, just as he was describing
the excellence of his manoeuvre with great glee to four or five other
jolly souls at the 'Magpie and Stump.'

At first it was impossible to prevent a fit of laughter, in which even
Mr. Snape joined; but very shortly the laughter gave way to the serious
considerations to which such an epistle was sure to give rise at such a
moment. What if Sir Gregory Hardlines should get hold of it and put it
into his blue-book! What if the _Times_ should print it and send it over
the whole world, accompanied by a few of its most venomous touches,
to the eternal disgrace of the Internal Navigation, and probably utter
annihilation of Mr. Oldeschole's official career! An example must be
made!

Yes, an example must be made. Messengers were sent off scouring the town
for Mr. Corkscrew, and about midnight he was found, still true to the
'Magpie and Stump,' but hardly in condition to understand the misfortune
which had befallen him. So much as this, however, did make itself
manifest to him, that he must by no means join his jolly-souled brethren
at the Eel-pie Island, and that he must be at his office punctually at
ten o'clock the next morning if he had any intention of saving himself
from dismissal. When Charley arrived at his office, Mr. Corkscrew was
still with the authorities, and Charley's turn was to come next.

Charley was rather a favourite with Mr. Oldeschole, having been
appointed by himself at the instance of Mr. Oldeschole's great friend,
Sir Gilbert de Salop; and he was, moreover, the best-looking of the
whole lot of navvies; but he was no favourite with Mr. Snape.

'Poor Screwy--it will be all up with him,' said Charley. 'He might just
as well have gone on with his party and had his fun out.'

'It will, I imagine, be necessary to make more than one example, Mr.
Tudor,' said Mr. Snape, with a voice of utmost severity.

'A-a-a-men,' said Charley. 'If everything else fails, I think I'll go
into the green line. You couldn't give me a helping hand, could you, Mr.
Snape?' There was a rumour afloat in the office that Mr. Snape's wife
held some little interest in a small greengrocer's establishment.

'Mr. Tudor to attend in the board-room, immediately,' said a fat
messenger, who opened the door wide with a start, and then stood with it
in his hand while he delivered the message.

'All right,' said Charley; 'I'll tumble up and be with them in ten
seconds;' and then collecting together a large bundle of the arrears of
the Kennett and Avon lock entries, being just as much as he could carry,
he took the disordered papers and placed them on Mr. Snape's desk,
exactly over the paper on which he was writing, and immediately under
his nose.

'Mr. Tudor--Mr. Tudor!' said Snape.

'As I am to tear myself away from you, Mr. Snape, it is better that I
should hand over these valuable documents to your safe keeping. There
they are, Mr. Snape; pray see that you have got them all;' and
so saying, he left the room to attend to the high behests of Mr.
Oldeschole.

As he went along the passages he met Verax Corkscrew returning from his
interview. 'Well, Screwy,' said he, 'and how fares it with you? Pork
chops are bad things in summer, ain't they?'

'It's all U-P,' said Corkscrew, almost crying. 'I'm to go down to the
bottom, and I'm to stay at the office till seven o'clock every day for
a month; and old Foolscap says he'll ship me the next time I'm absent
half-an-hour without leave.'

'Oh! is that all?' said Charley. 'If that's all you get for pork chops
and senna, I'm all right. I shouldn't wonder if I did not get promoted;'
and so he went in to his interview.

What was the nature of the advice given him, what amount of caution he
was called on to endure, need not here be exactly specified. We all know
with how light a rod a father chastises the son he loves, let Solomon
have given what counsel he may to the contrary. Charley, in spite of his
manifold sins, was a favourite, and he came forth from the board-room an
unscathed man. In fact, he had been promoted as he had surmised, seeing
that Corkscrew who had been his senior was now his junior. He came forth
unscathed, and walking with an easy air into his room, put his hat on
his head and told his brother clerks that he should be there to-morrow
morning at ten, or at any rate soon after.

'And where are you going now, Mr. Tudor?' said Snape.

'To meet my grandmother at Islington, if you please, sir,' said Charley.
'I have permission from Mr. Oldeschole to attend upon her for the rest
of the day--perhaps you would like to ask him.' And so saying he went
off to his appointment with Mr. M'Ruen at the 'Banks of Jordan.'



CHAPTER XIX

A DAY WITH ONE OF THE NAVVIES.--AFTERNOON


The 'Banks of Jordan' was a public-house in the city, which from its
appearance did not seem to do a very thriving trade; but as it was
carried on from year to year in the same dull, monotonous, dead-alive
sort of fashion, it must be surmised that some one found an interest in
keeping it open.

Charley, when he entered the door punctually at two o'clock, saw that it
was as usual nearly deserted. One long, lanky, middle-aged man, seedy as
to his outward vestments, and melancholy in countenance, sat at one of
the tables. But he was doing very little good for the establishment:
he had no refreshment of any kind before him, and was intent only on a
dingy pocket-book in which he was making entries with a pencil.

You enter the 'Banks of Jordan' by two folding doors in a corner of a
very narrow alley behind the Exchange. As you go in, you observe on
your left a little glass partition, something like a large cage, inside
which, in a bar, are four or five untempting-looking bottles; and also
inside the cage, on a chair, is to be seen a quiet-looking female, who
is invariably engaged in the manufacture of some white article of inward
clothing. Anything less like the flashy-dressed bar-maidens of the
western gin palaces it would be difficult to imagine. To this encaged
sempstress no one ever speaks unless it be to give a rare order for a
mutton chop or pint of stout. And even for this she hardly stays her
sewing for a moment, but touches a small bell, and the ancient waiter,
who never shows himself but when called for, and who is the only other
inhabitant of the place ever visible, receives the order from her
through an open pane in the cage as quietly as she received it from her
customer.

The floor of the single square room of the establishment is sanded, and
the tables are ranged round the walls, each table being fixed to the
floor, and placed within wooden partitions, by which the occupier is
screened from any inquiring eyes on either side.

Such was Mr. Jabesh M'Ruen's house-of-call in the city, and of many a
mutton chop and many a pint of stout had Charley partaken there while
waiting for the man of money. To him it seemed to be inexcusable to sit
down in a public inn and call for nothing; he perceived, however,
that the large majority of the frequenters of the 'Banks of Jordan' so
conducted themselves.

He was sufficiently accustomed to the place to know how to give his
orders without troubling that diligent barmaid, and had done so about
ten minutes when Jabesh, more punctual than usual, entered the place.
This Charley regarded as a promising sign of forthcoming cash. It very
frequently happened that he waited there an hour, and that after all
Jabesh would not come; and then the morning visit to Mecklenburg Square
had to be made again; and so poor Charley's time, or rather the time of
his poor office, was cut up, wasted, and destroyed.

'A mutton chop!' said Mr. M'Ruen, looking at Charley's banquet. 'A very
nice thing indeed in the middle of the day. I don't mind if I have one
myself,' and so Charley had to order another chop and more stout.

'They have very nice sherry here, excellent sherry,' said M'Ruen. 'The
best, I think, in the city--that's why I come here.'

'Upon my honour, Mr. M'Ruen, I shan't have money to pay for it until I
get some from you,' said Charley, as he called for a pint of sherry.

'Never mind, John, never mind the sherry to-day,' said M'Ruen. 'Mr.
Tudor is very kind, but I'll take beer;' and the little man gave a laugh
and twisted his head, and ate his chop and drank his stout, as though
he found that both were very good indeed. When he had finished, Charley
paid the bill and discovered that he was left with ninepence in his
pocket.

And then he produced the bill stamp. 'Waiter,' said he, 'pen and ink,'
and the waiter brought pen and ink.

'Not to-day,' said Jabesh, wiping his mouth with the table-cloth. 'Not
to-day, Mr. Tudor--I really haven't time to go into it to-day--and I
haven't brought the other bills with me; I quite forgot to bring the
other bills with me, and I can do nothing without them,' and Mr. M'Ruen
got up to go.

But this was too much for Charley. He had often before bought bill
stamps in vain, and in vain had paid for mutton chops and beer for Mr.
M'Ruen's dinner; but he had never before, when doing so, been so hard
pushed for money as he was now. He was determined to make a great
attempt to gain his object.

'Nonsense,' said he, getting up and standing so as to prevent M'Ruen
from leaving the box; 'that's d---- nonsense.'

'Oh! don't swear,' said M'Ruen--'pray don't take God's name in vain; I
don't like it.'

'I shall swear, and to some purpose too, if that's your game. Now look
here----'

'Let me get up, and we'll talk of it as we go to the bank--you are so
unpunctual, you know.'

'D---- your punctuality.'

'Oh! don't swear, Mr. Tudor.'

'Look here--if you don't let me have this money to-day, by all that is
holy I will never pay you a farthing again--not one farthing; I'll go
into the court, and you may get your money as you can.'

'But, Mr. Tudor, let me get up, and we'll talk about it in the street,
as we go along.'

'There's the stamp,' said Charley. 'Fill it up, and then I'll go with
you to the bank.'

M'Ruen took the bit of paper, and twisted it over and over again in his
hand, considering the while whether he had yet squeezed out of the young
man all that could be squeezed with safety, or whether by an additional
turn, by giving him another small advancement, he might yet get
something more. He knew that Tudor was in a very bad state, that he was
tottering on the outside edge of the precipice; but he also knew that
he had friends. Would his friends when they came forward to assist their
young Pickle out of the mire, would they pay such bills as these or
would they leave poor Jabesh to get his remedy at law? That was the
question which Mr. M'Ruen had to ask and to answer. He was not one of
those noble vultures who fly at large game, and who are willing to run
considerable risk in pursuit of their prey. Mr. M'Ruen avoided courts of
law as much as he could, and preferred a small safe trade; one in which
the fall of a single customer could never be ruinous to him; in which
he need run no risk of being transported for forgery, incarcerated for
perjury, or even, if possibly it might be avoided, gibbeted by some
lawyer or judge for his malpractices.

'But you are so unpunctual,' he said, having at last made up his mind
that he had made a very good thing of Charley, and that probably he
might go a _little_ further without much danger. 'I wish to oblige you,
Mr. Tudor; but pray do be punctual;' and so saying he slowly spread the
little document before him, across which Scatterall had already scrawled
his name, and slowly began to write in the date. Slowly, with his head
low down over the table, and continually twisting it inside his cravat,
he filled up the paper, and then looking at it with the air of a
connoisseur in such matters, he gave it to Charley to sign.

'But you haven't put in the amount,' said Charley.

Mr. M'Ruen twisted his head and laughed. He delighted in playing with
his game as a fisherman does with a salmon. 'Well--no--I haven't put in
the amount yet. Do you sign it, and I'll do that at once.'

'I'll do it,' said Charley; 'I'll say £15, and you'll give me £10 on
that.'

'No, no, no!' said Jabesh, covering the paper over with his hands; 'you
young men know nothing of filling bills; just sign it, Mr. Tudor, and
I'll do the rest.' And so Charley signed it, and then M'Ruen, again
taking the pen, wrote in 'fifteen pounds' as the recognized amount of
the value of the document. He also took out his pocket-book and filled
a cheque, but he was very careful that Charley should not see the amount
there written. 'And now,' said he, 'we will go to the bank.'

As they made their way to the house in Lombard Street which Mr. M'Ruen
honoured by his account, Charley insisted on knowing how much he was to
have for the bill. Jabesh suggested £3 10s.; Charley swore he would take
nothing less than £8; but by the time they had arrived at the bank, it
had been settled that £5 was to be paid in cash, and that Charley was
to have the three Seasons for the balance whenever he chose to send for
them. When Charley, as he did at first, positively refused to accede
to these terms, Mr. M'Ruen tendered him back the bill, and reminded
him with a plaintive voice that he was so unpunctual, so extremely
unpunctual.

Having reached the bank, which the money-lender insisted on Charley
entering with him, Mr. M'Ruen gave the cheque across the counter, and
wrote on the back of it the form in which he would take the money,
whereupon a note and five sovereigns were handed to him. The cheque
was for £15, and was payable to C. Tudor, Esq., so that proof might be
forthcoming at a future time, if necessary, that he had given to his
customer full value for the bill. Then in the outer hall of the bank,
unseen by the clerks, he put, one after another, slowly and unwillingly,
four sovereigns into Charley's hand.

'The other--where's the other?' said Charley.

Jabesh smiled sweetly and twisted his head.

'Come, give me the other,' said Charley roughly.

'Four is quite enough, quite enough for what you want; and remember my
time, Mr. Tudor; you should remember my time.'

'Give me the other sovereign,' said Charley, taking hold of the front of
his coat.

'Well, well, you shall have ten shillings; but I want the rest for a
purpose.'

'Give me the sovereign,' said Charley, 'or I'll drag you in before them
all in the bank and expose you; give me the other sovereign, I say.'

'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed Mr. M'Ruen; 'I thought you liked a joke, Mr.
Tudor. Well, here it is. And now do be punctual, pray do be punctual,
and I'll do anything I can for you.'

And then they parted, Charley going westward towards his own haunts, and
M'Ruen following his daily pursuits in the city.

Charley had engaged to pull up to Avis's at Putney with Harry Norman,
to dine there, take a country walk, and row back in the cool of the
evening; and he had promised to call at the Weights and Measures with
that object punctually at five.

'You can get away in time for that, I suppose,' said Harry.

'Well, I'll try and manage it,' said Charley, laughing.

Nothing could be kinder, nay, more affectionate, than Norman had been to
his fellow-lodger during the last year and a half. It seemed as though
he had transferred to Alaric's cousin all the friendship which he had
once felt for Alaric; and the deeper were Charley's sins of idleness and
extravagance, the wider grew Norman's forgiveness, and the more sincere
his efforts to befriend him. As one result of this, Charley was already
deep in his debt. Not that Norman had lent him money, or even paid bills
for him; but the lodgings in which they lived had been taken by Norman,
and when the end of the quarter came he punctually paid his landlady.

Charley had once, a few weeks before the period of which we are now
writing, told Norman that he had no money to pay his long arrear, and
that he would leave the lodgings and shift for himself as best he could.
He had said the same thing to Mrs. Richards, the landlady, and had gone
so far as to pack up all his clothes; but his back was no sooner turned
than Mrs. Richards, under Norman's orders, unpacked them all, and hid
away the portmanteau. It was well for him that this was done. He had
bespoken for himself a bedroom at the public-house in Norfolk Street,
and had he once taken up his residence there he would have been ruined
for ever.

He was still living with Norman, and ever increasing his debt. In his
misery at this state of affairs, he had talked over with Harry all
manner of schemes for increasing his income, but he had never told him
a word about Mr. M'Ruen. Why his salary, which was now £150 per annum,
should not be able to support him, Norman never asked. Charley the while
was very miserable, and the more miserable he was, the less he found
himself able to rescue himself from his dissipation. What moments of
ease he had were nearly all spent in Norfolk Street; and such being the
case how could he abstain from going there?

'Well, Charley, and how do 'Crinoline and Macassar' go on?' said Norman,
as they sauntered away together up the towing-path above Putney. Now
there were those who had found out that Charley Tudor, in spite of his
wretched, idle, vagabond mode of life, was no fool; indeed, that there
was that talent within him which, if turned to good account, might
perhaps redeem him from ruin and set him on his legs again; at least
so thought some of his friends, among whom Mrs. Woodward was the most
prominent. She insisted that if he would make use of his genius he
might employ his spare time to great profit by writing for magazines or
periodicals; and, inspirited by so flattering a proposition, Charley had
got himself introduced to the editor of a newly-projected publication.
At his instance he was to write a tale for approval, and 'Crinoline and
Macassar' was the name selected for his first attempt.

The affair had been fully talked over at Hampton, and it had been
arranged that the young author should submit his story, when completed,
to the friendly criticism of the party assembled at Surbiton Cottage,
before he sent it to the editor. He had undertaken to have 'Crinoline
and Macassar' ready for perusal on the next Saturday, and in spite of
Mr. M'Ruen and Norah Geraghty, he had really been at work.

'Will it be finished by Saturday, Charley?' said Norman.

'Yes--at least I hope so; but if that's not done, I have another all
complete.'

'Another! and what is that called?'

'Oh, that's a very short one,' said Charley, modestly.

'But, short as it is, it must have a name, I suppose. What's the name of
the short one?'

'Why, the name is long enough; it's the longest part about it. The
editor gave me the name, you know, and then I had to write the
story. It's to be called "Sir Anthony Allan-a-dale and the Baron of
Ballyporeen."'

'Oh! two rival knights in love with the same lady, of course,' and Harry
gave a gentle sigh as he thought of his own still unhealed grief. 'The
scene is laid in Ireland, I presume?'

'No, not in Ireland; at least not exactly. I don't think the scene is
laid anywhere in particular; it's up in a mountain, near a castle. There
isn't any lady in it--at least, not alive.'

'Heavens, Charley! I hope you are not dealing with dead women.'

'No--that is, I have to bring them to life again. I'll tell you how it
is. In the first paragraph, Sir Anthony Allan-a-dale is lying dead, and
the Baron of Ballyporeen is standing over him with a bloody sword. You
must always begin with an incident now, and then hark back for your
explanation and description; that's what the editor says is the great
secret of the present day, and where we beat all the old fellows that
wrote twenty years ago.'

'Oh!--yes--I see. They used to begin at the beginning; that was very
humdrum.'

'A devilish bore, you know, for a fellow who takes up a novel because
he's dull. Of course he wants his fun at once. If you begin with a long
history of who's who and all that, why he won't read three pages; but if
you touch him up with a startling incident or two at the first go off,
then give him a chapter of horrors, then another of fun, then a little
love or a little slang, or something of that sort, why, you know, about
the end of the first volume, you may describe as much as you like, and
tell everything about everybody's father and mother for just as many
pages as you want to fill. At least that's what the editor says.'

'_Meleager ab ovo_ may be introduced with safety when you get as far as
that,' suggested Norman.

'Yes, you may bring him in too, if you like,' said Charley, who was
somewhat oblivious of his classicalities. 'Well, Sir Anthony is lying
dead and the Baron is standing over him, when out come Sir Anthony's
retainers----'

'Out--out of what?'

'Out of the castle: that's all explained afterwards. Out come the
retainers, and pitch into the Baron till they make mincemeat of him.'

'They don't kill him, too?'

'Don't they though? I rather think they do, and no mistake.'

'And so both your heroes are dead in the first chapter.'

'First chapter! why that's only the second paragraph. I'm only to be
allowed ten paragraphs for each number, and I am expected to have an
incident for every other paragraph for the first four days.'

'That's twenty incidents.'

'Yes--it's a great bother finding so many.--I'm obliged to make the
retainers come by all manner of accidents; and I should never have
finished the job if I hadn't thought of setting the castle on fire. 'And
now forked tongues of liquid fire, and greedy lambent flames burst forth
from every window of the devoted edifice. The devouring element----.'
That's the best passage in the whole affair.'

'This is for the _Daily Delight_, isn't it?'

'Yes, for the _Daily Delight_. It is to begin on the 1st of September
with the partridges. We expect a most tremendous sale. It will be the
first halfpenny publication in the market, and as the retailers will get
them for sixpence a score--twenty-four to the score--they'll go off like
wildfire.'

'Well, Charley, and what do you do with the dead bodies of your two
heroes?'

'Of course I needn't tell you that it was not the Baron who killed Sir
Anthony at all.'

'Oh! wasn't it? O dear--that was a dreadful mistake on the part of the
retainers.'

'But as natural as life. You see these two grandees were next-door
neighbours, and there had been a feud between the families for seven
centuries--a sort of Capulet and Montague affair. One Adelgitha, the
daughter of the Thane of Allan-a-dale--there were Thanes in those
days, you know--was betrothed to the eldest son of Sir Waldemar de
Ballyporeen. This gives me an opportunity of bringing in a succinct
little account of the Conquest, which will be beneficial to the lower
classes. The editor peremptorily insists upon that kind of thing.'

'_Omne tulit punctum_,' said Norman.

'Yes, I dare say,' said Charley, who was now too intent on his own new
profession to attend much to his friend's quotation. 'Well, where was
I?--Oh! the eldest son of Sir Waldemar went off with another lady and so
the feud began. There is a very pretty scene between Adelgitha and her
lady's-maid.'

'What, seven centuries before the story begins?'

'Why not? The editor says that the unities are altogether thrown over
now, and that they are regular bosh--our game is to stick in a good bit
whenever we can get it--I got to be so fond of Adelgitha that I rather
think she's the heroine.'

'But doesn't that take off the interest from your dead grandees?'

'Not a bit; I take it chapter and chapter about. Well, you see, the
retainers had no sooner made mincemeat of the Baron--a very elegant
young man was the Baron, just returned from the Continent, where he had
learnt to throw aside all prejudices about family feuds and everything
else, and he had just come over in a friendly way, to say as much to Sir
Anthony, when, as he crossed the drawbridge, he stumbled over the corpse
of his ancient enemy--well, the retainers had no sooner made mincemeat
of him, than they perceived that Sir Anthony was lying with an open
bottle in his hand, and that he had taken poison.'

'Having committed suicide?' asked Norman.

'No, not at all. The editor says that we must always have a slap at some
of the iniquities of the times. He gave me three or four to choose from;
there was the adulteration of food, and the want of education for the
poor, and street music, and the miscellaneous sale of poisons.'

'And so you chose poisons and killed the knight?'

'Exactly; at least I didn't kill him, for he comes all right again after
a bit. He had gone out to get something to do him good after a hard
night, a Seidlitz powder, or something of that sort, and an apothecary's
apprentice had given him prussic acid in mistake.'

'And how is it possible he should have come to life after taking prussic
acid?'

'Why, there I have a double rap at the trade. The prussic acid is so
bad of its kind, that it only puts him into a kind of torpor for a week.
Then we have the trial of the apothecary's boy; that is an excellent
episode, and gives me a grand hit at the absurdity of our criminal
code.'

'Why, Charley, it seems to me that you are hitting at everything.'

'Oh! ah! right and left, that's the game for us authors. The press is
the only _censor morum_ going now--and who so fit? Set a thief to catch
a thief, you know. Well, I have my hit at the criminal code, and then
Sir Anthony comes out of his torpor.'

'But how did it come to pass that the Baron's sword was all bloody?'

'Ah, there was the difficulty; I saw that at once. It was necessary to
bring in something to be killed, you know. I thought of a stray tiger
out of Wombwell's menagerie; but the editor says that we must not
trespass against the probabilities; so I have introduced a big dog. The
Baron had come across a big dog, and seeing that the brute had a wooden
log tied to his throat, thought he must be mad, and so he killed him.'

'And what's the end of it, Charley?'

'Why, the end is rather melancholy. Sir Anthony reforms, leaves off
drinking, and takes to going to church everyday. He becomes a Puseyite,
puts up a memorial window to the Baron, and reads the Tracts. At last
he goes over to the Pope, walks about in nasty dirty clothes all full
of vermin, and gives over his estate to Cardinal Wiseman. Then there are
the retainers; they all come to grief, some one way and some another. I
do that for the sake of the Nemesis.'

'I would not have condescended to notice them, I think,' said Norman.

'Oh! I must; there must be a Nemesis. The editor specially insists on a
Nemesis.'

The conclusion of Charley's novel brought them back to the boat. Norman,
when he started, had intended to employ the evening in giving good
counsel to his friend, and in endeavouring to arrange some scheme by
which he might rescue the brand from the burning; but he had not the
heart to be severe and sententious while Charley was full of his fun.
It was so much pleasanter to talk to him on the easy terms of equal
friendship than turn Mentor and preach a sermon.

'Well, Charley,' said he, as they were walking up from the boat
wharf--Norman to his club, and Charley towards his lodgings--from which
route, however, he meant to deviate as soon as ever he might be left
alone--'well, Charley, I wish you success with all my heart; I wish you
could do something--I won't say to keep you out of mischief.'

'I wish I could, Harry,' said Charley, thoroughly abashed; 'I wish I
could--indeed I wish I could--but it is so hard to go right when one has
begun to go wrong.'

'It is hard; I know it is.'

'But you never can know how hard, Harry, for you have never tried,' and
then they went on walking for a while in silence, side by side.

'You don't know the sort of place that office of mine is,' continued
Charley. 'You don't know the sort of fellows the men are. I hate the
place; I hate the men I live with. It is all so dirty, so disreputable,
so false. I cannot conceive that any fellow put in there as young as I
was should ever do well afterwards.'

'But at any rate you might try your best, Charley.'

'Yes, I might do that still; and I know I don't; and where should I have
been now, if it hadn't been for you?'

'Never mind about that; I sometimes think we might have done more for
each other if we had been more together. But remember the motto you
said you'd choose, Charley--Excelsior! We can none of us mount the hill
without hard labour. Remember that word, Charley--Excelsior! Remember it
now--now, to-night; remember how you dream of higher things, and begin
to think of them in your waking moments also;' and so they parted.





CHAPTER XX

A DAY WITH ONE OF THE NAVVIES.--EVENING

 'Excelsior!' said Charley to himself, as he walked on a few
steps towards his lodgings, having left Norman at the door of his club.
'Remember it now--now, to-night.'

Yes--now is the time to remember it, if it is ever to be remembered
to any advantage. He went on with stoic resolution to the end of the
street, determined to press home and put the last touch to 'Crinoline
and Macassar;' but as he went he thought of his interview with Mr.
M'Ruen and of the five sovereigns still in his pocket, and altered his
course.

Charley had not been so resolute with the usurer, so determined to get
£5 from him on this special day, without a special object in view. His
credit was at stake in a more than ordinary manner; he had about a week
since borrowed money from the woman who kept the public-house in Norfolk
Street, and having borrowed it for a week only, felt that this was a
debt of honour which it was incumbent on him to pay. Therefore, when he
had walked the length of one street on his road towards his lodgings, he
retraced his steps and made his way back to his old haunts.

The house which he frequented was hardly more like a modern London
gin-palace than was that other house in the city which Mr. M'Ruen
honoured with his custom. It was one of those small tranquil shrines
of Bacchus in which the god is worshipped perhaps with as constant a
devotion, though with less noisy demonstrations of zeal than in his
larger and more public temples. None absolutely of the lower orders
were encouraged to come thither for oblivion. It had about it nothing
inviting to the general eye. No gas illuminations proclaimed its
midnight grandeur. No huge folding doors, one set here and another
there, gave ingress and egress to a wretched crowd of poverty-stricken
midnight revellers. No reiterated assertions in gaudy letters, each a
foot long, as to the peculiar merits of the old tom or Hodge's cream of
the valley, seduced the thirsty traveller. The panelling over the window
bore the simple announcement, in modest letters, of the name of the
landlady, Mrs. Davis; and the same name appeared with equal modesty on
the one gas lamp opposite the door.

Mrs. Davis was a widow, and her customers were chiefly people who knew
her and frequented her house regularly. Lawyers' clerks, who were either
unmarried, or whose married homes were perhaps not so comfortable as the
widow's front parlour; tradesmen, not of the best sort, glad to get away
from the noise of their children; young men who had begun the cares of
life in ambiguous positions, just on the confines of respectability, and
who, finding themselves too weak in flesh to cling on to the round of
the ladder above them, were sinking from year to year to lower steps,
and depths even below the level of Mrs. Davis's public-house. To these
might be added some few of a somewhat higher rank in life, though
perhaps of a lower rank of respectability; young men who, like Charley
Tudor and his comrades, liked their ease and self-indulgence, and were
too indifferent as to the class of companions against whom they might
rub their shoulders while seeking it.

The 'Cat and Whistle,' for such was the name of Mrs. Davis's
establishment, had been a house of call for the young men of the
Internal Navigation long before Charley's time. What first gave rise to
the connexion it is not now easy to say; but Charley had found it, and
had fostered it into a close alliance, which greatly exceeded any amount
of intimacy which existed previously to his day.

It must not be presumed that he, in an ordinary way, took his place
among the lawyers' clerks, and general run of customers in the front
parlour; occasionally he condescended to preside there over the quiet
revels, to sing a song for the guests, which was sure to be applauded to
the echo, and to engage in a little skirmish of politics with a retired
lamp-maker and a silversmith's foreman from the Strand, who always
called him 'Sir,' and received what he said with the greatest respect;
but, as a rule, he quaffed his Falernian in a little secluded parlour
behind the bar, in which sat the widow Davis, auditing her accounts in
the morning, and giving out orders in the evening to Norah Geraghty, her
barmaid, and to an attendant sylph, who ministered to the front parlour,
taking in goes of gin and screws of tobacco, and bringing out the price
thereof with praiseworthy punctuality.

Latterly, indeed, Charley had utterly deserted the front parlour; for
there had come there a pestilent fellow, highly connected with the
Press, as the lamp-maker declared, but employed as an assistant
shorthand-writer somewhere about the Houses of Parliament, according to
the silversmith, who greatly interfered with our navvy's authority.
He would not at all allow that what Charley said was law, entertained
fearfully democratic principles of his own, and was not at all the
gentleman. So Charley drew himself up, declined to converse any further
on politics with a man who seemed to know more about them than himself,
and confined himself exclusively to the inner room.

On arriving at this elysium, on the night in question, he found Mrs.
Davis usefully engaged in darning a stocking, while Scatterall sat
opposite with a cigar in his mouth, his hat over his nose, and a glass
of gin and water before him.

'I began to think you weren't coming,' said Scatterall, 'and I was
getting so deuced dull that I was positively thinking of going home.'

'That's very civil of you, Mr. Scatterall,' said the widow.

'Well, you've been sitting there for the last half-hour without saying
a word to me; and it is dull. Looking at a woman mending stockings is
dull, ain't it, Charley?'

'That depends,' said Charley, 'partly on whom the woman may be, and
partly on whom the man may be. Where's Norah, Mrs. Davis?'

'She's not very well to-night; she has got a headache; there ain't many
of them here to-night, so she's lying down.'

'A little seedy, I suppose,' said Scatterall.

Charley felt rather angry with his friend for applying such an epithet
to his lady-love; however, he did not resent it, but sitting down,
lighted his pipe and sipped his gin and water.

And so they sat for the next quarter of an hour, saying very little to
each other. What was the nature of the attraction which induced two such
men as Charley Tudor and Dick Scatterall to give Mrs. Davis the benefit
of their society, while she was mending her stockings, it might be
difficult to explain. They could have smoked in their own rooms as well,
and have drunk gin and water there, if they had any real predilection
for that mixture. Mrs. Davis was neither young nor beautiful, nor more
than ordinarily witty. Charley, it is true, had an allurement to entice
him thither, but this could not be said of Scatterall, to whom the
lovely Norah was never more than decently civil. Had they been desired,
in their own paternal halls, to sit and see their mother's housekeeper
darn the family stockings, they would, probably, both of them have
rebelled, even though the supply of tobacco and gin and water should be
gratuitous and unlimited.

It must be presumed that the only charm of the pursuit was in its
acknowledged impropriety. They both understood that there was something
fast in frequenting Mrs. Davis's inner parlour, something slow in
remaining at home; and so they both sat there, and Mrs. Davis went on
with her darning-needle, nothing abashed.

'Well, I think I shall go,' said Scatterall, shaking off the last ash
from the end of his third cigar.

'Do,' said Charley; 'you should be careful, you know; late hours will
hurt your complexion.'

'It's so deuced dull,' said Scatterall.

'Why don't you go into the parlour, and have a chat with the gentlemen?'
suggested Mrs. Davis; 'there's Mr. Peppermint there now, lecturing about
the war; upon my word he talks very well.'

'He's so deuced low,' said Scatterall.

'He's a bumptious noisy blackguard too,' said Charley; 'he doesn't know
how to speak to a gentleman, when he meets one.'

Scatterall gave a great yawn. 'I suppose you're not going, Charley?'
said he.

'Oh yes, I am,' said Charley, 'in about two hours.'

'Two hours! well, good night, old fellow, for I'm off. Three cigars,
Mrs. Davis, and two goes of gin and water, the last cold.' Then, having
made this little commercial communication to the landlady, he gave
another yawn, and took himself away. Mrs. Davis opened her little book,
jotted down the items, and then, having folded up her stockings, and put
them into a basket, prepared herself for conversation.

But, though Mrs. Davis prepared herself for conversation, she did not
immediately commence it. Having something special to say, she probably
thought that she might improve her opportunity of saying it by allowing
Charley to begin. She got up and pottered about the room, went to a
cupboard, and wiped a couple of glasses, and then out into the bar and
arranged the jugs and pots. This done, she returned to the little room,
and again sat herself down in her chair.

'Here's your five pounds, Mrs. Davis,' said Charley; 'I wish you knew
the trouble I have had to get it for you.'

To give Mrs. Davis her due, this was not the subject on which she was
anxious to speak. She would have been at present well inclined that
Charley should remain her debtor. 'Indeed, Mr. Tudor, I am very sorry
you should have taken any trouble on such a trifle. If you're short of
money, it will do for me just as well in October.'

Charley looked at the sovereigns, and bethought himself how very short
of cash he was. Then he thought of the fight he had had to get them, in
order that he might pay the money which he had felt so ashamed of having
borrowed, and he determined to resist the temptation.

'Did you ever know me flush of cash? You had better take them while you
can get them,' and as he pushed them across the table with his stick, he
remembered that all he had left was ninepence.

'I don't want the money at present, Mr. Tudor,' said the widow. 'We're
such old friends that there ought not to be a word between us about such
a trifle--now don't leave yourself bare; take what you want and settle
with me at quarter-day.'

'Well, I'll take a sovereign,' said he, 'for to tell you the truth, I
have only the ghost of a shilling in my pocket.' And so it was settled;
Mrs. Davis reluctantly pocketed four of Mr. M'Ruen's sovereigns, and
Charley kept in his own possession the fifth, as to which he had had so
hard a combat in the lobby of the bank.

He then sat silent for a while and smoked, and Mrs. Davis again waited
for him to begin the subject on which she wished to speak. 'And what's
the matter with Norah all this time?' he said at last.

'What's the matter with her?' repeated Mrs. Davis. 'Well, I think you
might know what's the matter with her. You don't suppose she's made of
stone, do you?'

Charley saw that he was in for it. It was in vain that Norman's last
word was still ringing in his ears. 'Excelsior!' What had he to do with
'Excelsior?' What miserable reptile on God's earth was more prone to
crawl downwards than he had shown himself to be? And then again a vision
floated across his mind's eye of a young sweet angel face with large
bright eyes, with soft delicate skin, and all the exquisite charms of
gentle birth and gentle nurture. A single soft touch seemed to press
his arm, a touch that he had so often felt, and had never felt without
acknowledging to himself that there was something in it almost divine.
All this passed rapidly through his mind, as he was preparing to answer
Mrs. Davis's question touching Norah Geraghty.

'You don't think she's made of stone, do you?' said the widow, repeating
her words.

'Indeed I don't think she's made of anything but what's suitable to a
very nice young woman,' said Charley.

'A nice young woman! Is that all you can say for her? I call her a very
fine girl.' Miss Golightly's friends could not say anything more, even
for that young lady. 'I don't know where you'll pick up a handsomer, or
a better-conducted one either, for the matter of that.'

'Indeed she is,' said Charley.

'Oh! for the matter of that, no one knows it better than yourself, Mr.
Tudor; and she's as well able to keep a man's house over his head as
some others that take a deal of pride in themselves.'

'I'm quite sure of it,' said Charley.

'Well, the long and the short of it is this, Mr. Tudor.' And as she
spoke the widow got a little red in the face: she had, as Charley
thought, an unpleasant look of resolution about her--a roundness about
her mouth, and a sort of fierceness in her eyes. 'The long and the short
of it is this, Mr. Tudor, what do you mean to do about the girl?'

'Do about her?' said Charley, almost bewildered in his misery.

'Yes, do about her. Do you mean to make her your wife? That's plain
English. Because I'll tell you what: I'll not see her put upon any
longer. It must be one thing or the other; and that at once. And
if you've a grain of honour in you, Mr. Tudor--and I think you are
honourable--you won't back from your word with the girl now.'

'Back from my word?' said Charley.

'Yes, back from your word,' said Mrs. Davis, the flood-gates of whose
eloquence were now fairly opened. 'I'm sure you're too much of the
gentleman to deny your own words, and them repeated more than once in my
presence--Cheroots--yes, are there none there, child?--Oh, they are in
the cupboard.' These last words were not part of her address to Charley,
but were given in reply to a requisition from the attendant nymph
outside. 'You're too much of a gentleman to do that, I know. And so, as
I'm her natural friend--and indeed she's my cousin, not that far off--I
think it's right that we should all understand one another.'

'Oh, quite right,' said Charley.

'You can't expect that she should go and sacrifice herself for you, you
know,' said Mrs. Davis, who now that she had begun hardly knew how to
stop herself. 'A girl's time is her money. She's at her best now, and
a girl like her must make her hay while the sun shines. She can't go
on fal-lalling with you, and then nothing to come of it. You mustn't
suppose she's to lose her market that way.'

'God knows I should be sorry to injure her, Mrs. Davis.'

'I believe you would, because I take you for an honourable gentleman as
will be as good as your word. Now, there's Peppermint there.'

'What! that fellow in the parlour?'

'And an honourable gentleman he is. Not that I mean to compare him to
you, Mr. Tudor, nor yet doesn't Norah; not by no means. But there he is.
Well, he comes with the most honourablest proposals, and will make her
Mrs. Peppermint to-morrow, if so be that she'll have it.'

'You don't mean to say that there has been anything between them?' said
Charley, who in spite of the intense desire which he had felt a few
minutes since to get the lovely Norah altogether off his hands, now felt
an acute pang of jealousy.' You don't mean to say that there has been
anything between them?'

'Nothing as you have any right to object to, Mr. Tudor. You may be sure
I wouldn't allow of that, nor yet wouldn't Norah demean herself to it.'

'Then how did she get talking to him?'

'She didn't get talking to him. But he has eyes in his head, and you
don't suppose but what he can see with them. If a girl is in the public
line, of course any man is free to speak to her. If you don't like it,
it is for you to take her out of it. Not but what, for a girl that is in
the public line, Norah Geraghty keeps herself to herself as much as any
girl you ever set eyes on.'

'What the d---- has she to do with this fellow then?'

'Why, he's a widower, and has three young children; and he's looking
out for a mother for them; and he thinks Norah will suit. There, now you
have the truth, and the whole truth.'

'D---- his impudence!' said Charley.

'Well, I don't see that there's any impudence. He has a house of his
own and the means to keep it. Now I'll tell you what it is. Norah can't
abide him--'

Charley looked a little better satisfied when he heard this declaration.

'Norah can't abide the sight of him; nor won't of any man as long as you
are hanging after her. She's as true as steel, and proud you ought to
be of her.' Proud, thought Charley, as he again muttered to himself,
'Excelsior!'--'But, Mr. Tudor, I won't see her put upon; that's the long
and the short of it. If you like to take her, there she is. I don't say
she's just your equal as to breeding, though she's come of decent people
too; but she's good as gold. She'll make a shilling go as far as any
young woman I know; and if £100 or £150 are wanting for furniture or the
like of that, why, I've that regard for her, that that shan't stand in
the way. Now, Mr. Tudor, I've spoke honest; and if you're the gentleman
as I takes you to be, you'll do the same.'

To do Mrs. Davis justice, it must be acknowledged that in her way she
had spoken honestly. Of course she knew that such a marriage would be
a dreadful misalliance for young Tudor; of course she knew that all his
friends would be heart-broken when they heard of it. But what had she
to do with his friends? Her sympathies, her good wishes, were for her
friend. Had Norah fallen a victim to Charley's admiration, and then been
cast off to eat the bitterest bread to which any human being is ever
doomed, what then would Charley's friends have cared for her? There
was a fair fight between them. If Norah Geraghty, as a reward for her
prudence, could get a husband in a rank of life above her, instead of
falling into utter destruction as might so easily have been the case,
who could do other than praise her--praise her and her clever friend who
had so assisted her in her struggle?

  Dolus an virtus--

Had Mrs. Davis ever studied the classics she would have thus expressed
herself.

Poor Charley was altogether thrown on his beam-ends. He had altogether
played Mrs. Davis's game in evincing jealousy at Mr. Peppermint's
attentions. He knew this, and yet for the life of him he could not help
being jealous. He wanted to get rid of Miss Geraghty, and yet he could
not endure that anyone else should lay claim to her favour. He was very
weak. He knew how much depended on the way in which he might answer this
woman at the present moment; he knew that he ought now to make it plain
to her, that however foolish he might have been, however false he might
have been, it was quite out of the question that he should marry her
barmaid. But he did not do so. He was worse than weak. It was not only
the disinclination to give pain, or even the dread of the storm that
would ensue, which deterred him; but an absurd dislike to think that
Mr. Peppermint should be graciously received there as the barmaid's
acknowledged admirer.

'Is she really ill now?' said he.

'She's not so ill but what she shall make herself well enough to welcome
you, if you'll say the word that you ought to say. The most that ails
her is fretting at the long delay.--Bolt the door, child, and go to bed;
there will be no one else here now. Go up, and tell Miss Geraghty to
come down; she hasn't got her clothes off yet, I know.'

Mrs. Davis was too good a general to press Charley for an absolute,
immediate, fixed answer to her question. She knew that she had already
gained much, by talking thus of the proposed marriage, by setting it
thus plainly before Charley, without rebuke or denial from him. He
had not objected to receiving a visit from Norah, on the implied
understanding that she was to come down to him as his affianced bride.
He had not agreed to this in words; but silence gives consent, and
Mrs. Davis felt that should it ever hereafter become necessary to prove
anything, what had passed would enable her to prove a good deal.

Charley puffed at his cigar and sipped his gin and water. It was now
twelve o'clock, and he thoroughly wished himself at home and in bed. The
longer he thought of it the more impossible it appeared that he should
get out of the house without the scene which he dreaded. The girl had
bolted the door, put away her cups and mugs, and her step upstairs had
struck heavily on his ears. The house was not large or high, and he
fancied that he heard mutterings on the landing-place. Indeed he did not
doubt but that Miss Geraghty had listened to most of the conversation
which had taken place.

'Excuse me a minute, Mr. Tudor,' said Mrs. Davis, who was now smiling
and civil enough; 'I will go upstairs myself; the silly girl is
shamefaced, and does not like to come down'; and up went Mrs. Davis to
see that her barmaid's curls and dress were nice and jaunty. It would
not do now, at this moment, for Norah to offend her lover by any
untidiness. Charley for a moment thought of the front door. The enemy
had allowed him an opportunity for retreating. He might slip out before
either of the women came down, and then never more be heard of in
Norfolk Street again. He had his hand in his waistcoat pocket, with the
intent of leaving the sovereign on the table; but when the moment came
he felt ashamed of the pusillanimity of such an escape, and therefore
stood, or rather sat his ground, with a courage worthy of a better
purpose.

Down the two women came, and Charley felt his heart beating against
his ribs. As the steps came nearer the door, he began to wish that Mr.
Peppermint had been successful. The widow entered the room first, and at
her heels the expectant beauty. We can hardly say that she was blushing;
but she did look rather shamefaced, and hung back a little at the door,
as though she still had half a mind to think better of it, and go off to
her bed.

'Come in, you little fool,' said Mrs. Davis. 'You needn't be ashamed of
coming down to see him; you have done that often enough before now.'

Norah simpered and sidled. 'Well, I'm sure now!' said she. 'Here's a
start, Mr. Tudor; to be brought downstairs at this time of night; and
I'm sure I don't know what it's about'; and then she shook her curls,
and twitched her dress, and made as though she were going to pass
through the room to her accustomed place at the bar.

Norah Geraghty was a fine girl. Putting her in comparison with Miss
Golightly, we are inclined to say that she was the finer girl of the
two; and that, barring position, money, and fashion, she was qualified
to make the better wife. In point of education, that is, the effects
of education, there was not perhaps much to choose between them. Norah
could make an excellent pudding, and was willing enough to exercise her
industry and art in doing so; Miss Golightly could copy music, but she
did not like the trouble; and could play a waltz badly. Neither of them
had ever read anything beyond a few novels. In this respect, as to the
amount of labour done, Miss Golightly had certainly far surpassed her
rival competitor for Charley's affections.

Charley got up and took her hand; and as he did so, he saw that her
nails were dirty. He put his arms round her waist and kissed her; and as
he caressed her, his olfactory nerves perceived that the pomatum in her
hair was none of the best. He thought of those young lustrous eyes that
would look up so wondrously into his face; he thought of the gentle
touch, which would send a thrill through all his nerves; and then he
felt very sick.

'Well, upon my word, Mr. Tudor,' said Miss Geraghty, 'you're making very
free to-night.' She did not, however, refuse to sit down on his knee,
though while sitting there she struggled and tossed herself, and shook
her long ringlets in Charley's face, till he wished her--safe at home in
Mr. Peppermint's nursery.

'And is that what you brought me down for, Mrs. Davis?' said Norah.
'Well, upon my word, I hope the door's locked; we shall have all the
world in here else.'

'If you hadn't come down to him, he'd have come up to you,' said Mrs.
Davis.

'Would he though?' said Norah; 'I think he knows a trick worth two of
that;' and she looked as though she knew well how to defend herself, if
any over-zeal on the part of her lover should ever induce him to violate
the sanctum of her feminine retirement.

There was no over-zeal now about Charley. He ought to have been happy
enough, for he had his charmer in his arms; but he showed very little
of the ecstatic joy of a favoured lover. There he sat with Norah in his
arms, and as we have said, Norah was a handsome girl; but he would much
sooner have been copying the Kennett and Avon canal lock entries in Mr.
Snape's room at the Internal Navigation.

'Lawks, Mr. Tudor, you needn't hold me so tight,' said Norah.

'He means to hold you tight enough now,' said Mrs. Davis. 'He's very
angry because I mentioned another gentleman's name.'

'Well, now you didn't?' said Norah, pretending to look very angry.

'Well, I just did; and if you'd only seen him! You must be very careful
what you say to that gentleman, or there'll be a row in the house.'

'I!' said Norah. 'What I say to him! It's very little I have to say to
the man. But I shall tell him this; he'd better take himself somewhere
else, if he's going to make himself troublesome.'

All this time Charley had said nothing, but was sitting with his hat on
his head, and his cigar in his mouth. The latter appendage he had laid
down for a moment when he saluted Miss Geraghty; but he had resumed it,
having at the moment no intention of repeating the compliment.

'And so you were jealous, were you?' said she, turning round and looking
at him. 'Well now, some people might have more respect for other people
than to mix up their names that way, with the names of any men that
choose to put themselves forward. What would you say if I was to talk to
you about Miss----'

Charley stopped her mouth. It was not to be borne that she should be
allowed to pronounce the name that was about to fall from her lips.

'So you were jealous, were you?' said she, when she was again able to
speak. 'Well, my!'

'Mrs. Davis told me flatly that you were going to marry the man,' said
Charley; 'so what was I to think?'

'It doesn't matter what you think now,' said Mrs. Davis; 'for you must
be off from this. Do you know what o'clock it is? Do you want the house
to get a bad name? Come, you two understand each other now, so you may
as well give over billing and cooing for this time. It's all settled
now, isn't it, Mr. Tudor?'

'Oh yes, I suppose so,' said Charley.

'Well, and what do you say, Norah?'

'Oh, I'm sure I'm agreeable if he is. Ha! ha! ha! I only hope he won't
think me too forward--he! he! he!'

And then with another kiss, and very few more words of any sort, Charley
took himself off.

'I'll have nothing more to do with him,' said Norah, bursting into
tears, as soon as the door was well bolted after Charley's exit. 'I'm
only losing myself with him. He don't mean anything, and I said he
didn't all along. He'd have pitched me to Old Scratch, while I was
sitting there on his knee, if he'd have had his own way--so he would;'
and poor Norah cried heartily, as she went to her work in her usual way
among the bottles and taps.

'Why, you fool you, what do you expect? You don't think he's to jump
down your throat, do you? You can but try it on; and then if it don't
do, why there's the other one to fall back on; only, if I had the
choice, I'd rather have young Tudor, too.'

'So would I,' said Norah; 'I can't abide that other fellow.'

'Well, there, that's how it is, you know--beggars can't be choosers. But
come, make us a drop of something hot; a little drop will do yourself
good; but it's better not to take it before him, unless when he presses
you.'

So the two ladies sat down to console themselves, as best they might,
for the reverses which trade and love so often bring with them.

Charley walked off a miserable man. He was thoroughly ashamed of
himself, thoroughly acknowledged his own weakness; and yet as he went
out from the 'Cat and Whistle,' he felt sure that he should return there
again to renew the degradation from which he had suffered this night.
Indeed, what else could he do now? He had, as it were, solemnly plighted
his troth to the girl before a third person who had brought them
together, with the acknowledged purpose of witnessing that ceremony. He
had, before Mrs. Davis, and before the girl herself, heard her spoken
of as his wife, and had agreed to the understanding that such an
arrangement was a settled thing. What else had he to do now but to
return and complete his part of the bargain? What else but that, and
be a wretched, miserable, degraded man for the rest of his days; lower,
viler, more contemptible, infinitely lower, even than his brother
clerics at the office, whom in his pride he had so much despised?

He walked from Norfolk Street into the Strand, and there the world was
still alive, though it was now nearly one o'clock. The debauched misery,
the wretched outdoor midnight revelry of the world was there, streaming
in and out from gin-palaces, and bawling itself hoarse with horrid,
discordant, screech-owl slang. But he went his way unheeding and
uncontaminated. Now, now that it was useless, he was thinking of the
better things of the world; nothing now seemed worth his grasp, nothing
now seemed pleasurable, nothing capable of giving joy, but what was
decent, good, reputable, cleanly, and polished. How he hated now that
lower world with which he had for the last three years condescended to
pass so much of his time! how he hated himself for his own vileness! He
thought of what Alaric was, of what Norman was, of what he himself might
have been--he that was praised by Mrs. Woodward for his talent, he that
was encouraged to place himself among the authors of the day! He thought
of all this, and then he thought of what he was--the affianced husband
of Norah Geraghty!

He went along the Strand, over the crossing under the statue of Charles
on horseback, and up Pall Mall East till he came to the opening into
the park under the Duke of York's column. The London night world was
all alive as he made his way. From the Opera Colonnade shrill voices
shrieked out at him as he passed, and drunken men coming down from
the night supper-houses in the Haymarket saluted him with affectionate
cordiality. The hoarse waterman from the cabstand, whose voice had
perished in the night air, croaked out at him the offer of a vehicle;
and one of the night beggar-women who cling like burrs to those who roam
the street a these unhallowed hours still stuck to him, as she had done
ever since he had entered the Strand.

'Get away with you,' said Charley, turning at the wretched creature in
his fierce anger; 'get away, or I'll give you in charge.'

'That you may never know what it is to be in misery yourself!' said the
miserable Irishwoman.

'If you follow me a step farther I'll have you locked up,' said Charley.

'Oh, then, it's you that have the hard heart,' said she; 'and it's you
that will suffer yet.'

Charley looked round, threw her the odd halfpence which he had in his
pocket, and then turned down towards the column. The woman picked up her
prize, and, with a speedy blessing, took herself off in search of other
prey.

His way home would have taken him up Waterloo Place, but the space round
the column was now deserted and quiet, and sauntering there, without
thinking of what he did, he paced up and down between the Clubs and
the steps leading into the park. There, walking to and fro slowly, he
thought of his past career, of all the circumstances of his life since
his life had been left to his own control, and of the absence of all
hope for the future.

What was he to do? He was deeply, inextricably in debt. That wretch,
M'Ruen, had his name on bills which it was impossible that he should
ever pay. Tradesmen held other bills of his which were either now
over-due, or would very shortly become so. He was threatened with
numerous writs, any one of which would suffice to put him into gaol.
From his poor father, burdened as he was with other children, he knew
that he had no right to expect further assistance. He was in debt to
Norman, his best, he would have said his only friend, had it not been
that in all his misery he could not help still thinking of Mrs. Woodward
as his friend.

And yet how could his venture to think longer of her, contaminated as he
now was with the horrid degradation of his acknowledged love at the 'Cat
and Whistle!' No; he must think no more of the Woodwards; he must dream
no more of those angel eyes which in his waking moments had so often
peered at him out of heaven, teaching him to think of higher things,
giving him higher hopes than those which had come to him from the
working of his own unaided spirit. Ah! lessons taught in vain! vain
hopes! lessons that had come all too late! hopes that had been cherished
only to be deceived! It was all over now! He had made his bed, and he
must lie on it; he had sown his seed, and he must reap his produce;
there was now no 'Excelsior' left for him within the bounds of human
probability.

He had promised to go to Hampton with Harry Norman on Saturday, and
he would go there for the last time. He would go there and tell Mrs.
Woodward so much of the truth as he could bring himself to utter; he
would say farewell to that blest abode; he would take Linda's soft hand
in his for the last time; for the last time he would hear the young,
silver-ringing, happy voice of his darling Katie; for the last time look
into her bright face; for the last time play with her as with a child of
heaven--and then he would return to the 'Cat and Whistle.'

And having made this resolve he went home to his lodgings. It was
singular that in all his misery the idea hardly once occurred to him of
setting himself right in the world by accepting his cousin's offer of
Miss Golightly's hand and fortune.



CHAPTER XXI

HAMPTON COURT BRIDGE


Before the following Saturday afternoon Charley's spirits had somewhat
recovered their natural tone. Not that he was in a happy frame of mind;
the united energies of Mr. M'Ruen and Mrs. Davis had been too powerful
to allow of that; not that he had given over his projected plan of
saying a long farewell to Mrs. Woodward, or at any rate of telling her
something of his position; he still felt that he could not continue to
live on terms of close intimacy both with her daughters and with Norah
Geraghty. But the spirits of youth are ever buoyant, and the spirits of
no one could be endowed, with more natural buoyancy than those of the
young navvy. Charley, therefore, in spite of his misfortunes, was ready
with his manuscript when Saturday afternoon arrived, and, according to
agreement, met Norman at the railway station.

Only one evening had intervened since the night in which he had ratified
his matrimonial engagement, and in spite of the delicate nature of his
position he had for that evening allowed Mr. Peppermint to exercise his
eloquence on the heart of the fair Norah without interruption. He the
while had been engaged in completing the memoirs of 'Crinoline and
Macassar.'

'Well, Charley,' they asked, one and all, as soon as he reached the
Cottage, 'have you got the story? Have you brought the manuscript? Is it
all finished and ready for that dreadful editor?'

Charley produced a roll, and Linda and Katie instantly pounced upon it.

'Oh! it begins with poetry,' said Linda.

'I am so glad,' said Katie. 'Is there much poetry in it, Charley? I do
so hope there is.'

'Not a word of it,' said Charley; 'that which Linda sees is a song
that the heroine is singing, and it isn't supposed to be written by the
author at all.'

'I'm so sorry that there's no poetry,' said Katie. 'Can't you write
poetry, Charley?'

'At any rate there's lots of love in it,' said Linda, who was turning
over the pages.

'Is there?' said Katie. 'Well, that's next best; but they should go
together. You should have put all your love into verse, Charley, and
then your prose would have done for the funny parts.'

'Perhaps it's all fun,' said Mrs. Woodward. 'But come, girls, this
is not fair; I won't let you look at the story till it's read in full
committee.' And so saying, Mrs. Woodward took the papers from her
daughters, and tying them up, deposited them safe in custody. 'We'll
have it out when the tea-things are gone.'

But before the tea-things had come, an accident happened, which had been
like to dismiss 'Crinoline and Macassar' altogether from the minds of
the whole of the Woodward family. The young men had, as usual, dined in
town, and therefore they were all able to spend the long summer evening
out of doors. Norman's boat was down at Hampton, and it was therefore
determined that they should row down as far as Hampton Court Park
and back. Charley and Norman were to row; and Mrs. Woodward agreed to
accompany her daughters. Uncle Bat was left at home, to his nap and rum
and water.

Norman was so expert a Thames waterman, that he was quite able to manage
the boat without a steersman, and Charley was nearly his equal. But
there is some amusement in steering, and Katie was allowed to sit
between the tiller-ropes.

'I can steer very well, mamma: can't I, Harry? I always steer when we go
to the island, and we run the boat straight into the little creek, only
just broad enough to hold it.' Katie's visits to the island, however,
were not so frequent as they had heretofore been, for she was
approaching to sixteen years of age, and wet feet and draggled
petticoats had lost some of their charms. Mrs. Woodward, trusting more
to the experience of her two knights than to the skill of the lady at
the helm, took her seat, and they went off merrily down the stream.

All the world knows that it is but a very little distance from Hampton
Church to Hampton Court Bridge, especially when one has the stream with
one. They were very soon near to the bridge, and as they approached it,
they had to pass a huge barge, that was lazily making its way down to
Brentford.

'There's lots of time for the big arch,' said Charley.

'Pull away then,' said Harry.

They both pulled hard, and shot alongside and past the barge. But the
stream was strong, and the great ugly mass of black timber moved behind
them quicker than it seemed to do.

'It will be safer to take the one to the left,' said Harry.

'Oh! there's lots of time,' said Charley.

'No,' said Harry, 'do as I tell you and go to the left.--Pull your left
hand a little, Katie.'

Charley did as he was bid, and Katie intended to do the same; but
unfortunately she pulled the wrong hand. They were now very near the
bridge, and the barge was so close to them as to show that there might
have been danger in attempting to get through the same arch with her.

'Your left hand, Katie, your left,' shouted Norman; 'your left string.'
Katie was confused, and gave first a pull with her right, and then a
pull with her left, and then a strong pull with her right. The two men
backed water as hard as they could, but the effect of Katie's steering
was to drive the nose of the boat right into one of the wooden piers of
the bridge.

The barge went on its way, and luckily made its entry under the arch
before the little craft had swung round into the stream before it; as
it was, the boat, still clinging by its nose, came round with its stern
against the side of the barge, and as the latter went on, the timbers of
Norman's wherry cracked and crumpled in the rude encounter.

The ladies should all have kept their seats. Mrs. Woodward did do so.
Linda jumped up, and being next to the barge, was pulled up into it by
one of the men. Katie stood bolt upright, with the tiller-ropes still in
her hand, awe-struck at the misfortune she had caused; but while she was
so standing, the stern of the boat was lifted nearly out of the water
by the weight of the barge, and Katie was pitched, behind her mother's
back, head foremost into the water.

Norman, at the moment, was endeavouring to steady the boat, and shove
it off from the barge, and had also lent a hand to assist Linda in her
escape. Charley was on the other side, standing up and holding on by
the piers of the bridge, keeping his eyes on the ladies, so as to be of
assistance to them when assistance might be needed.

And now assistance was sorely needed, and luckily had not to be long
waited for. Charley, with a light and quick step, passed over the
thwarts, and, disregarding Mrs. Woodward's scream, let himself down,
over the gun-wale behind her seat into the water. Katie can hardly be
said to have sunk at all. She had, at least, never been so much under
the water as to be out of sight. Her clothes kept up her light body; and
when Charley got close to her, she had been carried up to the piers of
the bridge, and was panting with her head above water, and beating the
stream with her little hands.

She was soon again in comparative safety. Charley had her by one arm as
he held on with the other to the boat, and kept himself afloat with his
legs. Mrs. Woodward leaned over and caught her daughter's clothes; while
Linda, who had seen what had happened, stood shrieking on the barge, as
it made its way on, heedless of the ruin it left behind.

Another boat soon came to their assistance from the shore, and Mrs.
Woodward and Katie were got safely into it. Charley returned to
the battered wherry, and assisted Norman in extricating it from its
position; and a third boat went to Linda's rescue, who would otherwise
have found herself in rather an uncomfortable position the next morning
at Brentford.

The hugging and kissing to which Katie was subjected when she was
carried up to the inn, near the boat-slip on the Surrey side of
the river, may be imagined; as may also the faces she made at the
wineglassful of stiff brandy and water which she was desired to drink.
She was carried home in a fly, and by the time she arrived there, had so
completely recovered her life and spirits as to put a vehement negative
on her mother's proposition that she should at once go to bed.

'And not hear dear Charley's story?' said she, with tears in her eyes.
'And, mamma, I can't and won't go to bed without seeing Charley. I
didn't say one word yet to thank him for jumping into the water after
me.'

It was in vain that her mother told her that Charley's story would amuse
her twice as much when she should read it printed; it was in vain that
Mrs. Woodward assured her that Charley should come up to her room door;
and hear her thanks as he stood in the passage, with the door ajar.
Katie was determined to hear the story read. It must be read, if read
at all, that Saturday night, as it was to be sent to the editor in the
course of the week; and reading 'Crinoline and Macassar' out loud on
a Sunday was not to be thought of at Surbiton Cottage. Katie was
determined to hear the story read, and to sit very near the author too
during the reading; to sit near him, and to give him such praise as even
in her young mind she felt that an author would like to hear. Charley
had pulled her out of the river, and no one, as far as her efforts could
prevent it, should be allowed to throw cold water on him.

Norman and Charley, wet as the latter was, contrived to bring the
shattered boat back to Hampton. When they reached the lawn at Surbiton
Cottage they were both in high spirits. An accident, if it does no
material harm, is always an inspiriting thing, unless one feels that it
has been attributable to one's own fault. Neither of them could in this
instance attach any blame to himself, and each felt that he had done
what in him lay to prevent the possible ill effect of the mischance. As
for the boat, Harry was too happy to think that none of his friends were
hurt to care much about that.

As they walked across the lawn Mrs. Woodward ran out to them. 'My dear,
dear Charley,' she said, 'what am I to say to thank you?' It was the
first time Mrs. Woodward had ever called him by his Christian name. It
had hitherto made him in a certain degree unhappy that she never did so,
and now the sound was very pleasant to him.

'Oh, Mrs. Woodward,' said he, laughing, 'you mustn't touch me, for I'm
all mud.'

'My dear, dear Charley, what can I say to you? and dear Harry, I fear
we've spoilt your beautiful new boat.'

'I fear we've spoilt Katie's beautiful new hat,' said Norman.

Mrs. Woodward had taken and pressed a hand of each of them, in spite of
Charley's protestations about the mud.

'Oh! you're in a dreadful state,' said she; 'you had better take
something at once; you'll catch your death of cold.'

'I'd better take myself off to the inn,' said Charley, 'and get some
clean clothes; that's all I want. But how is Katie--and how is Linda?'

And so, after a multitude of such inquiries on both sides, and of all
manner of affectionate greetings, Charley went off to make himself dry,
preparatory to the reading of the manuscript.

During his absence, Linda and Katie came down to the drawing-room. Linda
was full of fun as to her journey with the bargeman; but Katie was a
little paler than usual, and somewhat more serious and quiet than she
was wont to be.

Norman was the first in the drawing-room, and received the thanks of the
ladies for his prowess in assisting them; and Charley was not slow to
follow him, for he was never very long at his toilet. He came in with a
jaunty laughing air, as though nothing particular had happened, and as
if he had not a care in the world. And yet while he had been dressing he
had been thinking almost more than ever of Norah Geraghty. O that she,
and Mrs. Davis with her, and Jabesh M'Ruen with both of them, could be
buried ten fathom deep out of his sight, and out of his mind!

When he entered the room, Katie felt her heart beat so strongly that she
hardly knew how to thank him for saving her life. A year ago she
would have got up and kissed him innocently; but a year makes a great
difference. She could not do that now, so she gave him her little hand,
and held his till he came and sat down at his place at the table.

'Oh, Charley, I don't know what to say to you,' said she; and he could
see and feel that her whole body was shaking with emotion.

'Then I'll tell you what to say: 'Charley, here is your tea, and some
bread, and some butter, and some jam, and some muffin,' for I'll tell
you what, my evening bath has made me as hungry as a hunter. I hope it
has done the same to you.'

Katie, still holding his hand, looked up into his face, and he saw that
her eyes were suffused with tears. She then left his side, and, running
round the room, filled a plate with all the things he had asked for,
and, bringing them to him, again took her place beside him. 'I wish I
knew how to do more than that,' said she.

'I suppose, Charley, you'll have to make an entry about that barge
on Monday morning, won't you?' said Linda. 'Mind you put in it how
beautiful I looked sailing through the arch.'

 'Yes, and how very gallant the bargeman was,' said Norman.

'Yes, and how much you enjoyed the idea of going down the river with
him, while, we came back to the Cottage,' said Charley. 'We'll put it
all down at the Navigation, and old Snape shall make a special minute
about it.'

Katie drank her tea in silence, and tried to eat, though without much
success. When chatting voices and jokes were to be heard at the Cottage,
the sound of her voice was usually the foremost; but now she sat demure
and quiet. She was realizing the danger from which she had escaped, and,
as is so often the case, was beginning to fear it now that it was over.

'Ah, Katie, my bonny bird,' said her mother, seeing that she was not
herself, and knowing that the excitement and overpowering feelings of
gratitude were too much for her--come here; you should be in bed, my
foolish little puss, should you not?'

'Indeed, she should,' said Uncle Bat, who was somewhat hard-hearted
about the affair of the accident, and had been cruel enough, after
hearing an account of it, to declare that it was all Katie's fault.

'Indeed, she should; and if she had gone to bed a little earlier in the
evening it would have been all the better for Master Norman's boat.'

'Oh! mamma, don't send me to bed,' said she, with tears in her eyes.
'Pray don't send me to bed now; I'm quite well, only I can't talk
because I'm thinking of what Charley did for me;' and so saying she got
up, and, hiding her face on her mother's shoulder, burst into tears.

'My dearest child,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'I'm afraid you'll make yourself
ill. We'll put off the reading, won't we, Charley? We have done enough
for one evening.'

'Of course we will,' said he. 'Reading a stupid story will be very slow
work after all we've gone through to-day.'

'No, no, no,' said Katie; 'it shan't be put off; there won't be any
other time for hearing it. And, mamma it must be read; and I know it
won't be stupid. Oh; mamma, dear mamma, do let us hear it read; I'm
quite well now.'

Mrs. Woodward found herself obliged to give way. She had not the heart
to bid her daughter go away to bed, nor, had she done so, would it have
been of any avail. Katie would only have lain and sobbed in her own
room, and very probably have gone into hysterics. The best thing for her
was to try to turn the current of her thoughts, and thus by degrees tame
down her excited feelings.

'Well, darling, then we will have the story, if Charley will let us. Go
and fetch it, dearest.' Katie raised herself from her mother's bosom,
and, going across the room, fetched the roll of papers to Charley. As
he prepared to take it she took his hand in hers, and, bending her
head over it, tenderly kissed it. 'You mustn't think,' said she, 'that
because I say nothing, I don't know what it is that you've done for me;
but I don't know how to say it.'

Charley was at any rate as ignorant what he ought to say as Katie was.
He felt the pressure of her warm lips on his hand, and hardly knew
where he was. He felt that he blushed and looked abashed, and dreaded,
fearfully dreaded, lest Mrs. Woodward should surmise that he estimated
at other than its intended worth, her daughter's show of affection for
him.

'I shouldn't mind doing it every night,' said he, 'in such weather as
this. I think it rather good fun going into the water with my clothes
on.' Katie looked up at him through her tears, as though she would say
that she well understood what that meant.

Mrs. Woodward saw that if the story was to be read, the sooner they
began it the better.

'Come, Charley,' said she, 'now for the romance. Katie, come and sit
by me.' But Katie had already taken her seat, a little behind Charley,
quite in the shade, and she was not to be moved.

'But I won't read it myself,' said Charley; 'you must read it, Mrs.
Woodward.'

'O yes, Mrs. Woodward, you are to read it,' said Norman.

'O yes, do read it, manna,' said Linda.

Katie said nothing, but she would have preferred that Charley should
have read it himself.

'Well, if I can,' said Mrs. Woodward.

'Snape says I write the worst hand in all Somerset House,' said Charley;
'but still I think you'll be able to manage it.'

'I hate that Mr. Snape,' said Katie, _sotto voce_. And then Mrs.
Woodward unrolled the manuscript and began her task.



CHAPTER XXII

CRINOLINE AND MACASSAR; OR, MY AUNT'S WILL


'Well, Linda was right,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'it does begin with
poetry.'

'It's only a song,' said Charley, apologetically--'and after all there
is only one verse of that'--and then Mrs. Woodward began

"CRINOLINE AND MACASSAR."

'Ladies and gentlemen, that is the name of Mr. Charles Tudor's new
novel.'

'Crinoline and Macassar!' said Uncle Bat. 'Are they intended for human
beings' names?'

'They are the heroine and the hero, as I take it,' said Mrs. Woodward,
'and I presume them to be human, unless they turn out to be celestial.'

'I never heard such names in my life,' said the captain.

'At any rate, uncle, they are as good as Sir Jib Boom and Captain
Hardaport,' said Katie, pertly.

'We won't mind about that,' said Mrs. Woodward; 'I'm going to begin, and
I beg I may not be interrupted.'

"CRINOLINE AND MACASSAR."

"The lovely Crinoline was sitting alone at a lattice window on a summer
morning, and as she sat she sang with melancholy cadence the first part
of the now celebrated song which had then lately appeared, from the
distinguished pen of Sir G-- H--,"

'Who is Sir G-- H--, Charley?'

'Oh, it wouldn't do for me to tell that,' said Charley. 'That must be
left to the tact and intelligence of my readers.'

'Oh, very well,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'we will abstain from all
impertinent questions'--'from the distinguished pen of Sir G-- H--. The
ditty which she sang ran as follows:--

  My heart's at my office, my heart is always there--
  My heart's at my office, docketing with care;
  Docketing the papers, and copying all day,
  My heart's at my office, though I be far away.

"'Ah me!' said the Lady Crinoline--"

'What--is she a peer's daughter?' said Uncle Bat.

'Not exactly,' said Charley, 'it's only a sort of semi-poetic way one
has of speaking of one's heroine.'

"'Ah me!' said the Lady Crinoline--'his heart! his heart!--I wonder
whether he has got a heart;' and then she sang again in low plaintive
voice the first line of the song, suiting the cadence to her own case:--

  His heart is at his office, his heart is _always_ there.

"'It was evident that the Lady Crinoline did not repeat the words in the
feeling of their great author, who when he wrote them had intended to
excite to high deeds of exalted merit that portion of the British youth
which is employed in the Civil Service of the country.

"Crinoline laid down her lute--it was in fact an accordion--and gazing
listlessly over the rails of the balcony, looked out at the green
foliage which adorned the enclosure of the square below.

"It was Tavistock Square. The winds of March and the showers of April
had been successful in producing the buds of May."

'Ah, Charley, that's taken from the old song,' said Katie, 'only you've
put buds instead of flowers.'

'That's quite allowable,' said Mrs. Woodward--"successful in producing
the buds of May. The sparrows chirped sweetly on the house-top, and the
coming summer gladdened the hearts of all--of all except poor Crinoline.

"'I wonder whether he has a heart, said she; 'and if he has, I wonder
whether it is at his office.'

"As she thus soliloquized, the door was opened by a youthful page, on
whose well-formed breast, buttons seemed to grow like mushrooms in the
meadows in August.

"'Mr. Macassar Jones,' said the page; and having so said, he discreetly
disappeared. He was in his line of life a valuable member of society.
He had brought from his last place a twelvemonth's character that
was creditable alike to his head and heart; he was now found to be a
trustworthy assistant in the household of the Lady Crinoline's mother,
and was the delight of his aged parents, to whom he regularly remitted
no inconsiderable portion of his wages. Let it always be remembered
that the life even of a page may be glorious. All honour to the true and
brave!"

'Goodness, Charley--how very moral you are!' said Linda.

'Yes,' said he; 'that's indispensable. It's the intention of the _Daily
Delight_ always to hold up a career of virtue to the lower orders as
the thing that pays. Honesty, high wages, and hot dinners. Those are our
principles.'

'You'll have a deal to do before you'll bring the lower orders to agree
with you,' said Uncle Bat.

'We have a deal to do,' said Charley, 'and we'll do it. The power of the
cheap press is unbounded.'

"As the page closed the door, a light, low, melancholy step was heard
to make its way across the drawing-room. Crinoline's heart had given one
start when she had heard the announcement of the well-known name. She
had once glanced with eager inquiring eye towards the door. But not in
vain to her had an excellent mother taught the proprieties of elegant
life. Long before Macassar Jones was present in the chamber she had
snatched up the tambour-frame that lay beside her, and when he entered
she was zealously engaged on the fox's head that was to ornament the toe
of a left-foot slipper. Who shall dare to say that those slippers were
intended to grace the feet of Macassar Jones?"

'But I suppose they were,' said Katie.

'You must wait and see,' said her mother; 'for my part I am not at all
so sure of that.'

'Oh, but I know they must be; for she's in love with him,' said Katie.

"'Oh, Mr. Macassar,' said the Lady Crinoline, when he had drawn nigh
to her, 'and how are you to-day?' This mention of his Christian name
betrayed no undue familiarity, as the two families were intimate, and
Macassar had four elder brothers. 'I am so sorry mamma is not at home;
she will regret not seeing you amazingly.'

"Macassar had his hat in his hand, and he stood a while gazing at the
fox in the pattern. 'Won't you sit down?' said Crinoline.

"'Is it very dusty in the street to-day?' asked Crinoline; and as
she spoke she turned upon him a face wreathed in the sweetest smiles,
radiant with elegant courtesy, and altogether expressive of extreme
gentility, unsullied propriety, and a very high tone of female
education. 'Is it very dusty in the street to-day?'

"Charmed by the involuntary grace of her action, Macassar essayed to
turn his head towards her as he replied; he could not turn it much, for
he wore an all-rounder; but still he was enabled by a side glance to see
more of that finished elegance than was perhaps good for his peace of
mind.

"'Yes,' said he, 'it is dusty;--it certainly is dusty, rather;--but not
very--and then in most streets they've got the water-carts.'

"'Ah, I love those water-carts!' said Crinoline; 'the dust, you know, is
so trying.'

"'To the complexion?' suggested Macassar, again looking round as best he
might over the bulwark of his collar.

"Crinoline laughed slightly; it was perhaps hardly more than a simper,
and turning her lovely eyes from her work, she said, 'Well, to the
complexion, if you will. What would you gentlemen say if we ladies were
to be careless of our complexions?'

"Macassar merely sighed gently--perhaps he had no fitting answer;
perhaps his heart was too full for him to answer. He sat with his eye
fixed on his hat, which still dangled in his hand; but his mind's eye
was far away.

"'Is it in his office?' thought Crinoline to herself; 'or is it here? Is
it anywhere?'

"'Have you learnt the song I sent you? said he at last, waking, as it
were, from a trance.

"'Not yet,' said she--'that is, not quite; that is, I could not sing it
before strangers yet.'

"'Strangers!' said Macassar; and he looked at her again with an energy
that produced results not beneficial either to his neck or his collar.

"Crinoline was delighted at this expression of feeling. 'At any rate
it is somewhere,' said she to herself; 'and it can hardly be all at his
office.'

"'Well, I will not say strangers,' she said out loud; 'it sounds--it
sounds--I don't know how it sounds. But what I mean is, that as yet I've
only sung it before mamma!'"

'I declare I don't know which is the biggest fool of the two,' said
Uncle Bat, very rudely.' As for him, if I had him on the forecastle of a
man-of-war for a day or two, I'd soon teach him to speak out.'

'You forget, sir,' said Charley,' he's not a sailor, he's only in the
Civil Service; we're all very bashful in the Civil Service.'

'I think he is rather spooney, I must say,' said Katie; whereupon Mrs.
Woodward went on reading.

"'It's a sweet thing, isn't it?' said Macassar.

"'Oh, very!' said Crinoline, with a rapturous expression which pervaded
her whole head and shoulders as well as her face and bust--'very sweet,
and so new.'

"'It quite comes home to me,' said Macassar, and he sighed deeply.

"'Then it is at his office,' said Crinoline to herself; and she sighed
also.

"They both sat silent for a while, looking into the square--Crinoline
was at one window, and Macassar at the other: 'I must go now,' said he:
'I promised to be back at three.'

"'Back where?' said she.

"'At my office,' said he.

"Crinoline sighed. After all, it was at his office; it was too evident
that it was there, and nowhere else. Well, and why should it not be
there? why should not Macassar Jones be true to his duty and to his
country? What had she to do with his heart? Why should she wish it
elsewhere? 'Twas thus she tried to console herself, but in vain. Had
she had an office of her own it might perhaps have been different; but
Crinoline was only a woman; and often she sighed over the degradation of
her lot.

"'Good morning, Miss Crinoline,' said he.

"'Good morning, Mr. Macassar,' said she; 'mamma will so regret that she
has lost the pleasure of seeing you.'

"And then she rung the bell. Macassar went downstairs perhaps somewhat
slower, with perhaps more of melancholy than when he entered. The page
opened the hall-door with alacrity, and shut it behind him with a slam.

"All honour to the true and brave!

"Crinoline again took up the note of her sorrow, and with her lute in
her hand, she warbled forth the line which stuck like a thorn in her
sweet bosom:--

His heart is in his office--his heart IS ALWAYS _there_."

'There,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'that's the end of the first chapter.'

'Well, I like the page the best,' said Linda, 'because he seems to know
what he is about.'

'Oh, so does the lady,' said Charley; 'but it wouldn't at all do if
we made the hero and heroine go about their work like humdrum people.
You'll see that the Lady Crinoline knows very well what's what.'

'Oh, Charley, pray don't tell us,' said Katie; 'I do so like Mr.
Macassar, he is so spooney; pray go on, mamma.'

'I'm ready,' said Mrs. Woodward, again taking up the manuscript.

"CHAPTER II

"The lovely Crinoline was the only daughter of fond parents; and though
they were not what might be called extremely wealthy, considering the
vast incomes of some residents in the metropolis, and were not perhaps
wont to mix in the highest circles of the Belgravian aristocracy, yet
she was enabled to dress in all the elegance of fashion, and contrived
to see a good deal of that society which moves in the highly respectable
neighbourhood of Russell Square and Gower Street.

"Her dresses were made at the distinguished establishment of Madame
Mantalini, in Hanover Square; at least she was in the habit of getting
one dress there every other season, and this was quite sufficient among
her friends to give her a reputation for dealing in the proper quarter.
Once she had got a bonnet direct from Paris, which gave her ample
opportunity of expressing a frequent opinion not favourable to the
fabricators of a British article. She always took care that her shoes
had within them the name of a French cordonnier; and her gloves were
made to order in the Rue Du Bac, though usually bought and paid for in
Tottenham Court Road."

'What a false creature!' said Linda.

'False!' said Charley; 'and how is a girl to get along if she be not
false? What girl could live for a moment before the world if she were to
tell the whole truth about the get-up of her wardrobe--the patchings and
make-believes, the chipped ribbons and turned silks, the little bills
here, and the little bills there? How else is an allowance of £20 a year
to be made compatible with an appearance of unlimited income? How else
are young men to be taught to think that in an affair of dress money is
a matter of no moment whatsoever?'

'Oh, Charley, Charley, don't be slanderous,' said Mrs. Woodward.

'I only repeat what the editor says to me--I know nothing about it
myself. Only we are requested 'to hold the mirror up to nature,'--and to
art too, I believe. We are to set these things right, you know.'

'We--who are we?' said Katie.

'Why, the _Daily Delight_,' said Charley.

'But I hope there's nothing false in patching and turning,' said Mrs.
Woodward; 'for if there be, I'm the falsest woman alive.

  To gar the auld claes look amaist as weel's the new

is, I thought, one of the most legitimate objects of a woman's
diligence.'

'It all depends on the spirit of the stitches,' said Charley the censor.

'Well, I must say I don't like mending up old clothes a bit better than
Charley does,' said Katie; 'but pray go on, mamma;' so Mrs. Woodward
continued to read.

"On the day of Macassar's visit in Tavistock Square, Crinoline was
dressed in a most elegant morning costume. It was a very light barege
muslin, extremely full; and which, as she had assured her friend, Miss
Manasseh, of Keppel Street, had been sent home from the establishment
in Hanover Square only the day before. I am aware that Miss Manasseh
instantly propagated an ill-natured report that she had seen the
identical dress in a milliner's room up two pairs back in Store Street;
but then Miss Manasseh was known to be envious; and had moreover seen
twelve seasons out in those localities, whereas the fair Crinoline,
young thing, had graced Tavistock Square only for two years; and her
mother was ready to swear that she had never passed the nursery door
till she came there. The ground of the dress was a light pea-green,
and the pattern was ivy wreaths entwined with pansies and tulips--each
flounce showed a separate wreath--and there were nine flounces, the
highest of which fairy circles was about three inches below the smallest
waist that ever was tightly girded in steel and whalebone.

"Macassar had once declared, in a moment of ecstatic energy, that a
small waist was the chiefest grace in woman. How often had the Lady
Crinoline's maid, when in the extreme agony of her labour, put a
malediction on his name on account of this speech!

"It is unnecessary to speak of the drapery of the arms, which showed
the elaborate lace of the sleeve beneath, and sometimes also the pearly
whiteness of that rounded arm. This was a sight which would almost
drive Macassar to distraction. At such moments as that the hopes of
the patriotic poet for the good of the Civil Service were not strictly
fulfilled in the heart of Macassar Jones. Oh, if the Lady Crinoline
could but have known!

"It is unnecessary also to describe the strange and hidden mechanism of
that mysterious petticoat which gave such full dimensions, such ample
sweeping proportions to the _tout ensemble_ of the lady's appearance.
It is unnecessary, and would perhaps be improper, and as far as I am
concerned, is certainly impossible."

Here Charley blushed, as Mrs. Woodward looked at him from over the top
of the paper.

"Let it suffice to say that she could envelop a sofa without the
slightest effort, throw her draperies a yard and a half from her on
either side without any appearance of stretching, completely fill a
carriage; or, which was more frequently her fate, entangle herself all
but inextricably in a cab.

"A word, however, must be said of those little feet that peeped out now
and again so beautifully from beneath the artistic constructions above
alluded to-of the feet, or perhaps rather of the shoes. But yet, what
can be said of them successfully? That French name so correctly spelt,
so elaborately accented, so beautifully finished in gold letters, which
from their form, however, one would say that the _cordonnier_ must have
imported from England, was only visible to those favoured knights who
were occasionally permitted to carry the shoes home in their pockets.

"But a word must be said about the hair dressed _à l'imperatrice_,
redolent of the sweetest patchouli, disclosing all the glories of that
ingenuous, but perhaps too open brow. A word must be said; but,
alas! how inefficacious to do justice to the ingenuity so wonderfully
displayed! The hair of the Lady Crinoline was perhaps more lovely than
abundant: to produce that glorious effect, that effect which has now
symbolized among English lasses the head-dress _à l'imperatrice_ as
the one idea of feminine beauty, every hair was called on to give its
separate aid. As is the case with so many of us who are anxious to put
our best foot foremost, everything was abstracted from the rear in order
to create a show in the front. Then to complete the garniture of
the head, to make all perfect, to leave no point of escape for the
susceptible admirer of modern beauty, some dorsal appendage was
necessary of mornings as well as in the more fully bedizened period of
evening society.

"Everything about the sweet Crinoline was wont to be green. It is the
sweetest and most innocent of colours; but, alas! a colour dangerous for
the heart's ease of youthful beauty. Hanging from the back of her head
were to be seen moss and fennel, and various grasses--rye grass and
timothy, trefoil and cinquefoil, vetches, and clover, and here and there
young fern. A story was told, but doubtless false, as it was traced to
the mouth of Miss Manasseh, that once while Crinoline was reclining in
a paddock at Richmond, having escaped with the young Macassar from the
heat of a neighbouring drawing-room, a cow had attempted to feed from
her head."

'Oh, Charley, a cow!' said Katie.

'Well, but you see I don't give it as true,' said Charley.

'I shall never get it done if Katie won't hold her tongue,' said Mrs.
Woodward.

"But perhaps it was when at the seaside in September, at Broadstairs,
Herne Bay, or Dover, Crinoline and her mamma invigorated themselves with
the sea-breezes of the ocean--perhaps it was there that she was enabled
to assume that covering for her head in which her soul most delighted.
It was a Tom and Jerry hat turned up at the sides, with a short but
knowing feather, velvet trimmings, and a steel buckle blinking brightly
in the noonday sun. Had Macassar seen her in this he would have yielded
himself her captive at once, quarter or no quarter. It was the most
marked, and perhaps the most attractive peculiarity of the Lady
Crinoline's face, that the end of her nose was a little turned up. This
charm, in unison with the upturned edges of her cruel-hearted hat, was
found by many men to be invincible.

"We all know how dreadful is the spectacle of a Saracen's head, as it
appears, or did appear, painted on a huge board at the top of Snow
Hill. From that we are left to surmise with what tremendous audacity of
countenance, with what terror-striking preparations of the outward
man, an Eastern army is led to battle. Can any men so fearfully bold in
appearance ever turn their backs and fly? They look as though they could
destroy by the glance of their ferocious eyes. Who could withstand the
hirsute horrors of those fiery faces?

"There is just such audacity, a courage of a similar description,
perhaps we may say an equal invincibility, in the charms of those
Tom and Jerry hats when duly put on, over a face of the proper
description--over such a face as that of the Lady Crinoline. They
give to the wearer an appearance of concentration of pluck. But as the
Eastern array does quail before the quiet valour of Europe, so, we may
perhaps say, does the open, quick audacity of the Tom and Jerry tend to
less powerful results than the modest enduring patience of the bonnet."

'So ends the second chapter--bravo, Charley,' said Mrs. Woodward. 'In
the name of the British female public, I beg to thank you for your
exertions.'

'The editor said I was to write down turned-up hats,' said Charley. 'I
rather like them myself.'

'I hope my new slouch is not an audacious Saracen's head,' said Linda.

'Or mine,' said Katie. 'But you may say what you like about them now;
for mine is drowned.'

'Come, girls, there are four more chapters, I see. Let me finish it, and
then we can discuss it afterwards.'

"CHAPTER III

"Having thus described the Lady Crinoline----"

'You haven't described her at all,' said Linda; 'you haven't got beyond
her clothes yet.'

'There is nothing beyond them,' said Charley.

'You haven't even described her face,' said Katie; 'you have only said
that she had a turned-up nose.'

'There is nothing further that one can say about it,' said Charley.

"Having thus described the Lady Crinoline,' continued Mrs. Woodward, 'it
now becomes our duty, as impartial historians, to give some account of
Mr. Macassar Jones.

"We are not prepared to give the exact name of the artist by whom Mr.
Macassar Jones was turned out to the world so perfectly dressed a man.
Were we to do so, the signal service done to one establishment by such
an advertisement would draw down on us the anger of the trade at
large, and the tailors of London would be in league against the _Daily
Delight_. It is sufficient to remark that the artist's offices are not
a hundred miles from Pall Mall. Nor need we expressly name the bootmaker
to whom is confided the task of making those feet 'small by degrees and
beautifully less.' The process, we understand, has been painful, but the
effect is no doubt remunerative.

"In three especial walks of dress has Macassar Jones been more than
ordinarily careful to create a sensation; and we believe we may assert
that he has been successful in all. We have already alluded to his feet.
Ascending from them, and ascending not far, we come to his coat. It is
needless to say that it is a frock; needless to say that it is a long
frock--long as those usually worn by younger infants, and apparently
made so for the same purpose. But look at the exquisitely small
proportions of the collar; look at the grace of the long sleeves, the
length of back, the propriety, the innate respectability, the perfect
decorum--we had almost said the high moral worth--of the whole. Who
would not willingly sacrifice any individual existence that he might
become the exponent of such a coat? Macassar Jones was proud to do so.

"But he had bestowed perhaps the greatest amount of personal attention
on his collar. It was a matter more within his own grasp than those
great and important articles to which attention has been already drawn;
but one, nevertheless, on which he was able to expend the whole amount
of his energy and genius. Some people may think that an all-rounder is
an all-rounder, and that if one is careful to get an all-rounder one has
done all that is necessary. But so thought not Macassar Jones. Some
men wear collars of two plies of linen, some men of three; but Macassar
Jones wore collars of four plies. Some men--some sensual, self-indulgent
men--appear to think that the collar should be made for the neck; but
Macassar Jones knew better. He, who never spared him self when the cause
was good, he knew that the neck had been made for the collar--it was at
any rate evident that such was the case with his own. Little can be said
of his head, except that it was small, narrow, and genteel; but his hat
might be spoken of, and perhaps with advantage. Of the loose but studied
tie of his inch-wide cravat a paragraph might be made; but we would fain
not be tedious.

"We will only further remark that he always carried with him a wonderful
representation of himself, like to him to a miracle, only smaller in its
dimensions, like as a duodecimo is to a folio--a babe, as it were, of
his own begetting--a little _alter ego_ in which he took much delight.
It was his umbrella. Look at the delicate finish of its lower extremity;
look at the long, narrow, and well-made coat in which it is enveloped
from its neck downwards, without speck, or blemish, or wrinkle; look at
the little wooden head, nicely polished, with the effigy of a human face
on one side of it--little eyes it has, and a sort of nose; look closer
at it, and you will perceive a mouth, not expressive indeed, but still
it is there--a mouth and chin; and is it, or is it not, an attempt at a
pair of whiskers? It certainly has a moustache.

"Such were Mr. Macassar Jones and his umbrella. He was an excellent
clerk, and did great credit to the important office to which he was
attached--namely, that of the Episcopal Audit Board. He was much beloved
by the other gentlemen who were closely connected with him in that
establishment; and may be said, for the first year or two of his
service, to have been, not exactly the life and soul, but, we may
perhaps say with more propriety, the pervading genius of the room in
which he sat.

"But, alas! at length a cloud came over his brow. At first it was but
a changing shadow; but it settled into a dark veil of sorrow which
obscured all his virtues, and made the worthy senior of his room shake
his thin grey locks once and again. He shook them more in sorrow than in
anger; for he knew that Macassar was in love, and he remembered the
days of his youth. Yes; Macassar was in love. He had seen the lovely
Crinoline. To see was to admire; to admire was to love; to love--that
is, to love her, to love Crinoline, the exalted, the sought-after, the
one so much in demand, as he had once expressed himself to one of
his bosom friends--to love her was to despair. He did despair; and
despairing sighed, and sighing was idle.

"But he was not all idle. The genius of the man had that within it
which did not permit itself to evaporate in mere sighs. Sighs, with the
high-minded, force themselves into the guise of poetry, and so it had
been with him. He got leave of absence for a week, and shut himself
up alone in his lodgings; for a week in his lodgings, during the long
evenings of winter, did he remain unseen and unheard of. His landlady
thought that he was in debt, and his friends whispered abroad that he
had caught scarlatina. But at the end of the seven days he came forth,
pale indeed, but with his countenance lighted up by ecstatic fire,
and as he started for his office, he carefully folded and put into
his pocket the elegantly written poem on which he had been so intently
engaged."

'I'm so glad we are to have more poetry,' said Katie. 'Is it another
song?'

'You'll see,' said Mrs. Woodward.

"Macassar had many bosom friends at his office, to all of whom, one by
one, he had confided the tale of his love. For a while he doubted to
which of them he should confide the secret of his inspiration; but
genius will not hide its head under a bushel; and thus, before long, did
Macassar's song become the common property of the Episcopal Audit Board.
Even the Bishops sang it, so Macassar was assured by one of his brother
clerks who was made of a coarser clay than his colleague--even the
Bishops sang it when they met in council together on their own peculiar
bench.

"It would be useless to give the whole of it here; for it contained
ten verses. The last two were those which Macassar was wont to sing to
himself, as he wandered lonely under the elms of Kensington Gardens.

  "'Oh, how she walks,
    And how she talks,
  And sings like a bird serene;
    But of this be sure
    While the world shall endure,
  The loveliest lady that'll ever be seen
  Will still be the Lady Crinoline,
  The lovely Lady Crinoline.

  "'With her hair done all _à l'impératrice_,
    Sweetly done with the best of grease,
  She looks like a Goddess or Queen,--
    And so I declare,
    And solemnly swear,
  That the loveliest lady that ever was seen
  Is still the Lady Crinoline,
  The lovely Lady Crinoline.'"

'And so ends the third chapter,' said Mrs. Woodward.

Both Katie and Linda were beginning to criticize, but Mrs. Woodward
repressed them sternly, and went on with

"CHAPTER IV

"'It was a lovely day towards the end of May that Macassar Jones,
presenting himself before the desk of the senior clerk at one o'clock,
begged for permission to be absent for two hours. The request was
preferred with meek and hesitating voice, and with downcast eyes.

"The senior clerk shook his grey locks sadly! sadly he shook his thin
grey locks, for he grieved at the sight which he saw. 'Twas sad to see
the energies of this young man thus sapped in his early youth by the
all-absorbing strength of a hopeless passion. Crinoline was now, as it
were, a household word at the Episcopal Audit Board. The senior clerk
believed her to be cruel, and as he knew for what object these two hours
of idleness were requested, he shook his thin grey locks in sorrow.

"'I'll be back at three, sir, punctual,' said Macassar.

"'But, Mr. Jones, you are absent nearly every day for the same period.'

"'To-day shall be the last; to-day shall end it all,' said Macassar,
with a look of wretched desperation.

"'What--what would Sir Gregory say?' said the senior clerk.

"Macassar Jones sighed deeply. Nature had not made the senior clerk a
cruel man; but yet this allusion _was_ cruel. The young Macassar
had drunk deeply of the waters that welled from the fountain of Sir
Gregory's philosophy. He had been proud to sit humbly at the feet of
such a Gamaliel; and now it rent his young heart to be thus twitted with
the displeasure of the great master whom he so loved and so admired.

"'Well, go, Mr. Jones,' said the senior clerk, 'go, but as you go,
resolve that to-morrow you will remain at your desk. Now go, and may
prosperity attend you!'

"'All shall be decided to-day,' said Macassar, and as he spoke an
unusual spark gleamed in his eye. He went, and as he went the senior
clerk shook his thin grey hairs. He was a bachelor, and he distrusted
the charms of the sex.

"Macassar, returning to his desk, took up his hat and his umbrella, and
went forth. His indeed was a plight at which that old senior clerk might
well shake his thin grey hairs in sorrow, for Macassar was the victim of
mysterious circumstances, which, from his youth upwards, had marked him
out for a fate of no ordinary nature. The tale must now be told."

'O dear!' said Linda; 'is it something horrid?'

'I hope it is,' said Katie; 'perhaps he's already married to some old
hag or witch.'

'You don't say who his father and mother are; but I suppose he'll turn
out to be somebody else's son,' said Linda.

'He's a very nice young man for a small tea-party, at any rate,' said
Uncle Bat.

"The tale must now be told," continued Mrs. Woodward. "In his early
years Macassar Jones had had a maiden aunt. This lady died--"

'Oh, mamma, if you read it in that way I shall certainly cry,' said
Katie.

'Well, my dear, if your heart is so susceptible you had better indulge
it.' "This lady died and left behind her----"

'What?' said Linda.

'A diamond ring?' said Katie.

'A sealed manuscript, which was found in a secret drawer?' suggested
Linda.

'Perhaps a baby,' said Uncle Bat.

"And left behind her a will----"

'Did she leave anything else?' asked Norman.

'Ladies and gentlemen, if I am to be interrupted in this way, I really
must resign my task,' said Mrs. Woodward; 'we shall never get to bed.'

'I won't say another word,' said Katie.

"In his early years Macassar had had a maiden aunt. This lady died and
left behind her a will, in which, with many expressions of the warmest
affection and fullest confidence, she left £3,000 in the three per
cents----"

'What are the three per cents?' said Katie.

'The three per cents is a way in which people get some of their money
to spend regularly, when they have got a large sum locked up somewhere,'
said Linda.

'Oh!' said Katie.

'Will you hold your tongue, miss?' said Mrs. Woodward.

"Left £3,000 in the three per cents to her nephew. But she left it on
these conditions, that he should be married before he was twenty-five,
and that he should have a child lawfully born in the bonds of wedlock
before he was twenty-six. And then the will went on to state that the
interest of the money should accumulate till Macassar had attained the
latter age; and that in the event of his having failed to comply with
the conditions and stipulations above named, the whole money, principal
and interest, should be set aside, and by no means given up to the said
Macassar, but applied to the uses, purposes, and convenience of that
excellent charitable institution, denominated the Princess Charlotte's
Lying-in Hospital.

"Now the nature of this will had been told in confidence by Macassar
to some of his brother clerks, and was consequently well known at
the Episcopal Audit Board. It had given rise there to a spirit of
speculation against which the senior clerk had protested in vain. Bets
were made, some in favour of Macassar, and some in that of the hospital;
but of late the odds were going much against our hero. It was well known
that in three short months he would attain that disastrous age, which,
if it found him a bachelor, would find him also denuded of his legacy.
And then how short a margin remained for the second event! The odds
were daily rising against Macassar, and as he heard the bets offered and
taken at the surrounding desks, his heart quailed within him.

"And the lovely Crinoline, she also had heard of this eccentric will;
she and her mother. £3,000 with interest arising for some half score
of years would make a settlement by no means despicable in Tavistock
Square, and would enable Macassar to maintain a house over which even
Crinoline need not be ashamed to preside. But what if the legacy should
be lost! She also knew to a day what was the age of her swain; she knew
how close upon her was that day, which, if she passed it unwedded, would
see her resolved to be deaf for ever to the vows of Macassar. Still, if
she managed well, there might be time--at any rate for the marriage.

"But, alas! Macassar made no vows; none at least which the most
attentive ear could consider to be audible. Crinoline's ear was
attentive, but hitherto in vain. He would come there daily to Tavistock
Square; daily would that true and valiant page lay open the path to his
mistress's feet; daily would Macassar sit there for a while and sigh.
But the envious hour would pass away, while the wished-for word was
still unsaid; and he would hurry back, and complete with figures, too
often erroneous, the audit of some diocesan balance.

"'You must help him, my dear,' said Crinoline's mamma.

"'But he says nothing, mamma,' said Crinoline in tears.

"'You must encourage him to speak, my dear.'

"'I do encourage him; but by that time it is always three o'clock, and
then he has to go away.'

"'You should be quicker, my dear. You should encourage him more at once.
Now try to-day; if you can't do anything to-day I really must get your
papa to interfere.'

"Crinoline had ever been an obedient child, and now, as ever, she
determined to obey. But it was a hard task for her. In three months he
would be twenty-five--in fifteen months twenty-six. She, however, would
do her best; and then, if her efforts were unavailing, she could only
trust to Providence and her papa.

"With sad and anxious heart did Macassar that day take up his new silk
hat, take up also his darling umbrella, and descend the sombre steps
of the Episcopal Audit Office. 'Seven to one on the Lying-in,' were the
last words which reached his ears as the door of his room closed behind
him. His was a dreadful position. What if that sweet girl, that angel
whom he so worshipped, what if she, melted by his tale of sorrow--that
is, if he could prevail on himself to tell it--should take pity, and
consent to be hurried prematurely to the altar of Hymen; and then if,
after all, the legacy should be forfeited! Poverty for himself he could
endure; at least he thought so; but poverty for her! could he bear that?
What if he should live to see her deprived of that green headdress,
robbed of those copious draperies, reduced to English shoes, compelled
to desert that shrine in Hanover Square, and all through him! His brain
reeled round, his head swam, his temples throbbed, his knees knocked
against each other, his blood stagnated, his heart collapsed, a cold
clammy perspiration covered him from head to foot; he could hardly
reach the courtyard, and there obtain the support of a pillar. Dreadful
thoughts filled his mind; the Thames, the friendly Thames, was running
close to him; should he not put a speedy end to all his misery? Those
horrid words, that 'seven to one on the Lying-in,' still rang in his
ears; were the chances really seven to one against his getting his
legacy? 'Oh!' said he, 'my aunt, my aunt, my aunt, my aunt, my aunt!'

"But at last he roused the spirit of the man within him. 'Faint heart
never won fair lady,' seemed to be whispered to him from every stone in
Somerset House. The cool air blowing through the passages revived him,
and he walked forth through the wide portals, resolving that he would
return a happy, thriving lover, or that he would return no more--that
night. What would he care for Sir Gregory, what for the thin locks of
the senior clerk, if Crinoline should reject him?

"It was his custom, as he walked towards Tavistock Square, to stop at a
friendly pastry-cook's in Covent Garden, and revive his spirits for the
coming interview with Banbury tarts and cherry-brandy. In the moments
of his misery something about the pastry-cook's girl, something that
reminded him of Crinoline, it was probably her nose, had tempted him
to confide to her his love. He had told her everything; the kind young
creature pitied him, and as she ministered to his wants, was wont to ask
sweetly as to his passion.

"'And how was the lovely Lady Crinoline yesterday?' asked she. He had
entrusted to her a copy of his poem.

"'More beauteous than ever,' he said, but somewhat indistinctly, for his
mouth was clogged with the Banbury tart.

"'And good-natured, I hope. Indeed, I don't know how she can resist,'
said the girl; 'I'm sure you'll make it all right to-day, for I see
you've got your winning way with you.'

"Winning way, with seven to one against him! Macassar sighed, and spilt
some of his cherry-brandy over his shirt front. The kind-hearted girl
came and wiped it for him. 'I think I'll have another glass,' said he,
with a deep voice. He did take another glass--and also ate another tart.

"'He'll pop to-day as sure as eggs, now he's taken them two glasses of
popping powder,' said the girl, as he went out of the shop. 'Well, it's
astonishing to me what the men find to be afraid of.'

"And so Macassar hastened towards Tavistock Square, all too quickly;
for, as he made his way across Great Russell Street, he found that he
was very hot. He leant against the rail, and, taking off his hat
and gloves, began to cool himself, and wipe away the dust with his
pocket-handkerchief. 'I wouldn't have minded the expense of a cab,' said
he to himself, 'only the chances are so much against me: seven to one!'

"But he had no time to lose. He had had but two precious hours at
his disposal, and thirty minutes were already gone. He hurried on to
Tavistock Square, and soon found that well-known door open before him.

"'The Lady Crinoline sits upstairs alone,' said the page, 'and is
a-thinking of you.' Then he added in a whisper, 'Do you go at her
straight, Mr. Macassar; slip-slap, and no mistake.'

"All honour to the true and brave!

"CHAPTER V

"As Macassar walked across the drawing-room, Crinoline failed to
perceive his presence, although his boots did creak rather loudly.
Such at least must be presumed to have been the case, for she made
no immediate sign of having noticed him. She was sitting at the open
window, with her lute in hand, gazing into the vacancy of the square
below; and as Macassar walked across the room, a deep sigh escaped from
her bosom. The page closed the door, and at the same moment Crinoline
touched her lute, or rather pulled it at the top and bottom, and threw
one wild witch note to the wind. As she did so, a line of a song escaped
from her lips with a low, melancholy, but still rapturous cadence--

  'His heart is at his office, his heart is _always_ there.'

"'Oh, Mr. Macassar, is that you?' she exclaimed. She struggled to rise,
but, finding herself unequal to the effort, she sank back again on a
chair, dropped her lute on a soft footstool, and then buried her face in
her hands. It was dreadful for Macassar to witness such agony.

"'Is anything the matter?' said he.

"'The matter!' said she. 'Ah! ah!'

"'I hope you are not sick?' said he.

"'Sick!' said she. 'Well, I fear I am very sick.'

"'What is it?' said he. 'Perhaps only bilious,' he suggested.

"'Oh! oh! oh!' said she.

"'I see I'm in the way; and I think I had better go,' and so he prepared
to depart. 'No! no! no!' said she, jumping up from her chair. 'Oh! Mr.
Macassar, don't be so cruel. Do you wish to see me sink on the carpet
before your feet?'

"Macassar denied the existence of any such wish; and said that he humbly
begged her pardon if he gave any offence.

"'Offence!' said she, smiling sweetly on him; sweetly, but yet sadly.
'Offence! no--no offence. Indeed, I don't know how you could--but never
mind--I am such a silly thing. One's feelings will sometimes get the
better of one; don't you often find it so?'

"'O yes! quite so,' said Macassar. 'I think it's the heat.'

"'He's a downright noodle,' said Crinoline's mamma to her sister-in-law,
who lived with them. The two were standing behind a chink in the door,
which separated the drawing-room from a chamber behind it.

"'Won't you sit down, Mr. Macassar?' Macassar sat down. 'Mamma will be
so sorry to miss you again. She's calling somewhere in Grosvenor Square,
I believe. She wanted me to go with her; but I could not bring myself to
go with her to-day. It's useless for the body to go out, when the heart
still remains at home. Don't you find it so?'

"'Oh, quite so,' said Macassar. The cherry-brandy had already evaporated
before the blaze of all that beauty, and he was bethinking himself how
he might best take himself off. Let the hospital have the filthy lucre!
He would let the money go, and would show the world that he loved for
the sake of love alone! He looked at his watch, and found that it was
already past two.

"Crinoline, when she saw that watch, knew that something must be done
at once. She appreciated more fully than her lover did the value of this
world's goods; and much as she doubtless sympathized with the wants of
the hospital in question, she felt that charity should begin at home. So
she fairly burst out into a flood of tears.

"Macassar was quite beside himself. He had seen her weep before, but
never with such frightful violence. She rushed up from her chair,
and passing so close to him as nearly to upset him by the waft of her
petticoats, threw herself on to an ottoman, and hiding her face on the
stump in the middle of it, sobbed and screeched, till Macassar feared
that the buttons behind her dress would crack and fly off.

"'Oh! oh! oh!' sobbed Crinoline.

"'It must be the heat,' said Macassar, knocking down a flower-pot in his
attempt to open the window a little wider. 'O dear, what have I done?'
said he. 'I think I'd better go.'

"'Never mind the flower-pot,' said Crinoline, looking up through her
tears. 'Oh! oh! oh! oh! me. Oh! my heart.'

"Macassar looked at his watch. He had only forty-five minutes left for
everything. The expense of a cab would, to be sure, be nothing if he
were successful; but then, what chance was there of that?

"'Can I do anything for you in the Strand?' said he. 'I must be at my
office at three.'

"'In the Strand!' she screeched. 'What could he do for me in the Strand?
Heartless--heartless--heartless! Well, go--go--go to your office, Mr.
Macassar; your heart is there, I know. It is always there. Go--don't let
me stand between you and your duties--between you and Sir Gregory. Oh!
how I hate that man! Go! why should I wish to prevent you? Of course I
have no such wish. To me it is quite indifferent; only, mamma will be
so sorry to miss you. You don't know how mamma loves you. She loves you
almost as a son. But go--go; pray go!'

"And then Crinoline looked at him. Oh! how she looked at him! It was
as though all the goddesses of heaven were inviting him to come and eat
ambrosia with them on a rosy-tinted cloud. All the goddesses, did we
say? No, but one goddess, the most beautiful of them all. His heart beat
violently against his ribs, and he felt that he was almost man enough
for anything. Instinctively his hand went again to his waistcoat pocket.

"'You shan't look at your watch so often,' said she, putting up her
delicate hand and stopping his. 'There, I'll look at it for you. It's
only just two, and you needn't go to your office for this hour;' and
as she squeezed it back into his pocket, he felt her fingers pressing
against his heart, and felt her hair--done all _à l'impératrice_--in
sweet contact with his cheek. 'There, I shall hold it there,' said she,
'so that you shan't look at it again.'

"'Will you stay till I bid you go?' said Crinoline.

"Macassar declared that he did not care a straw for the senior clerk, or
for Sir Gregory either. He would stay there for ever, he said.

"'What! for ever in mamma's drawing-room?' said Crinoline, opening wide
her lovely eyes with surprise.

"'For ever near to you,' said Macassar.

"'Oh, Mr. Macassar,' said Crinoline, dropping her hand from his
waistcoat, and looking bashfully towards the ground, 'what can you
mean?'

"Down went Macassar on his knees, and down went Crinoline into her
chair. There was perhaps rather too much distance between them, but
that did not much matter now. There he was on both knees, with his hands
clasped together as they were wont to be when he said his prayers, with
his umbrella beside him on one side, and his hat on the other, making
his declaration in full and unmistakable terms. A yard or two of floor,
more or less, between them, was neither here nor there. At first the
bashful Crinoline could not bring herself to utter a distinct consent,
and Macassar was very nearly up and away, in a returning fit of despair.
But her good-nature came to his aid; and as she quickly said, 'I will,
I will, I will,' he returned to his posture in somewhat nearer quarters,
and was transported into the seventh heaven by the bliss of kissing her
hand.

"'Oh, Macassar!' said she.

"'Oh, Crinoline!' said he.

"'You must come and tell papa to-morrow,' said she.

"He readily promised to do so.

"'You had better come to breakfast; before he goes into the city,' said
she.

"And so the matter was arranged, and the lovely Lady Crinoline became
the affianced bride of the happy Macassar.

"It was past three when he left the house, but what did he care for
that? He was so mad with joy that he did not even know whither he was
going. He went on straight ahead, and came to no check, till he found
himself waving his hat over his head in the New Road. He then began to
conceive that his conduct must have been rather wild, for he was brought
to a stand-still in a crossing by four or five cabmen, who were rival
candidates for his custom.

"'Somerset House, old brick!' he shouted out, as he jumped into a
hansom, and as he did so he poked one of the other cabbies playfully in
the ribs with his umbrella.

"'Is mamma don't know as 'ow 'e's hout, I shouldn't vonder,' said the
cabman--and away went Macassar, singing at the top of his voice as he
sat in the cab--

  'The loveliest lady that ever was seen
  Is the lovely Lady Crinoline.'

"The cab passed through Covent Garden on its way. 'Stop at the
pastry-cook's at the corner,' said Macassar up through the little
trap-door. The cab drew up suddenly. 'She's mine, she's mine!' shouted
Macassar, rushing into the shop, and disregarding in the ecstasy of the
moment the various customers who were quietly eating their ices. 'She's
mine, she's mine!

  With her hair done all _á l'impératrice_,
  Sweetly done with the best of grease.

And now for Somerset House.'

"Arrived at those ancient portals, he recklessly threw eighteenpence to
the cabman, and ran up the stone stairs which led to his office. As he
did so the clock, with iron tongue, tolled four. But what recked he
what it tolled? He rushed into his room, where his colleagues were
now locking their desks, and waving abroad his hat and his umbrella,
repeated the chorus of his song. 'She's mine, she's mine--

  The loveliest lady that ever was seen
  Is the lovely Lady Crinoline;

and she's mine, she's mine!'

"Exhausted nature could no more. He sank into a chair, and his brother
clerks stood in a circle around him. Soon a spirit of triumph seemed to
actuate them all; they joined hands in that friendly circle, and dancing
with joyful glee, took up with one voice the burden of the song--

    'Oh how she walks,
    And how she talks,
  And sings like a bird serene,
    But of this be sure,
    While the world shall endure,
  The loveliest lady that ever was seen
    Is still the Lady Crinoline--
    The lovely Lady Crinoline.'

"And that old senior clerk with the thin grey hair--was he angry at this
general ebullition of joy? O no! The just severity of his discipline was
always tempered with genial mercy. Not a word did he say of that broken
promise, not a word of the unchecked diocesan balance, not a word of Sir
Gregory's anger. He shook his thin grey locks; but he shook them neither
in sorrow nor in anger. 'God bless you, Macassar Jones,', said he, 'God
bless you!'

"He too had once been young, had once loved, had once hoped and feared,
and hoped again, and had once knelt at the feet of beauty. But alas! he
had knelt in vain.

"'May God be with you, Macassar Jones,' said he, as he walked out of the
office door with his coloured bandana pressed to his eyes. 'May God be
with you, and make your bed fruitful!'

  "'For the loveliest lady that ever was seen
    Is the lovely Lady Crinoline,'

shouted the junior clerks, still dancing in mad glee round the happy
lover.

"We have said that they all joined in this kindly congratulation to
their young friend. But no. There was one spirit there whom envy had
soured, one whom the happiness of another had made miserable, one whose
heart beat in no unison with these jocund sounds. As Macassar's joy was
at its height, in the proud moment of his triumph, a hated voice struck
his ears, and filled his soul with dismay once more.

"'There's two to one still on the Lying-in,' said this hateful Lucifer.

"And so Macassar was not all happy even yet, as he walked home to his
lodgings.

"CHAPTER VI

"We have but one other scene to record, but one short scene, and then
our tale will be told and our task will be done. And this last scene
shall not, after the usual manner of novelists, be that of the wedding,
but rather one which in our eyes is of a much more enduring interest.
Crinoline and Macassar were duly married in Bloomsbury Church. The
dresses are said to have come from the house in Hanover Square.
Crinoline behaved herself with perfect propriety, and Macassar went
through his work like a man. When we have said that, we have said all
that need be said on that subject.

"But we must beg our readers to pass over the space of the next twelve
months, and to be present with us in that front sitting-room of the
elegant private lodgings, which the married couple now prudently
occupied in Alfred Place. Lodgings! yes, they were only lodgings; for
not as yet did they know what might be the extent of their income.

"In this room during the whole of a long autumn day sat Macassar in a
frame of mind not altogether to be envied. During the greater portion of
it he was alone; but ever and anon some bustling woman would enter and
depart without even deigning to notice the questions which he asked. And
then after a while he found himself in company with a very respectable
gentleman in black, who belonged to the medical profession. 'Is it
coming?' asked Macassar. 'Is it, is it coming?'

"'Well, we hope so--we hope so,' said the medical gentleman. 'If not
to-day, it will be to-morrow. If I should happen to be absent, Mrs.
Gamp is all that you could desire. If not to-day, it will certainly be
to-morrow,'--and so the medical gentleman went his way.

"Now the coming morrow would be Macassar's birthday. On that morrow he
would be twenty-six.

"All alone he sat there till the autumn sun gave way to the shades of
evening. Some one brought him a mutton chop, but it was raw and he could
not eat; he went to the sideboard and prepared to make himself a glass
of negus, but the water was all cold. His water at least was cold,
though Mrs. Gamp's was hot enough. It was a sad and mournful evening. He
thought he would go out, for he found that he was not wanted; but a low
drizzling rain prevented him. Had he got wet he could not have changed
his clothes, for they were all in the wardrobe in his wife's room.
All alone he sat till the shades of evening were hidden by the veil of
night.

"But what sudden noise is that he hears within the house? Why do those
heavy steps press so rapidly against the stairs? What feet are they
which are so busy in the room above him? He opens the sitting-room door,
but he can see nothing. He has been left there without a candle. He
peers up the stairs, but a faint glimmer of light shining through the
keyhole of his wife's door is all that meets his eye. 'Oh, my aunt! my
aunt!' he says as he leans against the banisters. 'My aunt, my aunt, my
aunt!'

"What a birthday will this be for him on the morrow! He already hears
the sound of the hospital bells as they ring with joy at the acquisition
of their new wealth; he must dash from his lips, tear from his heart,
banish for ever from his eyes, that vision of a sweet little cottage at
Brompton, with a charming dressing-room for himself, and gas laid on all
over the house.

"'Lodgings! I hate, I detest lodgings!' he said to himself. 'Connubial
bliss and furnished lodgings are not compatible. My aunt, my aunt, for
what misery hast thou not to answer! Oh, Mrs. Gamp, could you be so
obliging as to tell me what o'clock it is?' The last question was asked
as Mrs. Gamp suddenly entered the room with a candle. Macassar's watch
had been required for the use of one of the servants.

"'It's just half-past heleven, this wery moment as is,' said Mrs. Gamp;
'and the finest boy babby as my heyes, which has seen a many, has ever
sat upon.'

"Up, up to the ceiling went the horsehair cushion of the lodging-house
sofa--up went the footstool after it, and its four wooden legs in
falling made a terrible clatter on the mahogany loo-table. Macassar in
his joy got hold of Mrs. Gamp, and kissed her heartily, forgetful of the
fumes of gin. 'Hurrah!' shouted he,' hurrah, hurrah, hurrah! Oh, Mrs.
Gamp, I feel so--so--so--I really don't know how I feel.'

"He danced round the room with noisy joy, till Mrs. Gamp made him
understand how very unsuited were such riotous ebullitions to the weak
state of his lady-love upstairs. He then gave over, not the dancing but
the noise, and went on capering round the room with suppressed steps,
ever and anon singing to himself in a whisper,

  'The loveliest lady that ever was seen
  Is still the Lady Crinoline.'

"A few minutes afterwards a knock at the door was heard, and the monthly
nurse entered. She held something in her embrace; but he could not see
what. He looked down pryingly into her arms, and at the first glance
thought that it was his umbrella. But then he heard a little pipe, and
he knew that it was his child.

"We will not intrude further on the first interview between Macassar and
his heir."


       *       *       *       *       *


'And so ends the romantic history of "Crinoline and Macassar",' said
Mrs. Woodward; 'and I am sure, Charley, we are all very much obliged to
you for the excellent moral lessons you have given us.'

'I'm so delighted with it,' said Katie; 'I do so like that Macassar.'

'So do I,' said Linda, yawning; 'and the old man with the thin grey
hair.'

'Come, girls, it's nearly one o'clock, and we'll go to bed,' said the
mother. 'Uncle Bat has been asleep these two hours.'

And so they went off to their respective chambers.



CHAPTER XXIII

SURBITON COLLOQUIES


All further conversation in the drawing-room was forbidden for that
night. Mrs. Woodward would have willingly postponed the reading of
Charley's story so as to enable Katie to go to bed after the accident,
had she been able to do so. But she was not able to do so without an
exercise of a species of authority which was distasteful to her, and
which was very seldom heard, seen, or felt within the limits of Surbiton
Cottage. It would moreover have been very ungracious to snub Charley's
manuscript, just when Charley had made himself such a hero; and she
had, therefore, been obliged to read it. But now that it was done, she
hurried Katie off to bed, not without many admonitions.

'Good night,' she said to Charley; 'and God bless you, and make you
always as happy as we are now. What a household we should have had
to-night, had it not been for you!'

Charley rubbed his eyes with his hand, and muttered something about
there not having been the slightest danger in the world.

'And remember, Charley,' she said, paying no attention to his
mutterings, 'we always liked you--liked you very much; but liking and
loving are very different things. Now you are a dear, dear friend--one
of the dearest.'

In answer to this, Charley was not even able to mutter; so he went his
way to the inn, and lay awake half the night thinking how Katie had
kissed his hand: during the other half he dreamt, first that Katie was
drowned, and then that Norah was his bride.

Linda and Katie had been so hurried off, that they had only been just
able to shake hands with Harry and Charley. There is, however, an old
proverb, that though one man may lead a horse to water, a thousand
cannot make him drink. It was easy to send Katie to bed, but very
difficult to prevent her talking when she was there.

'Oh, Linda,' she said, 'what can I do for him?'

'Do for him?' said Linda; 'I don't know that you can do anything for
him. I don't suppose he wants you to do anything.' Linda still looked
on her sister as a child; but Katie was beginning to put away childish
things.

'Couldn't I make something for him, Linda--something for him to keep as
a present, you know? I would work so hard to get it done.'

'Work a pair of slippers, as Crinoline did,' said Linda.

Katie was brushing her hair at the moment, and then she sat still with
the brush in her hand, thinking. 'No,' said she, after a while, 'not a
pair of slippers--I shouldn't like a pair of slippers.'

'Why not?' said Linda.

'Oh--I don't know--but I shouldn't.' Katie had said that Crinoline was
working slippers for Macassar because she was in love with him; and
having said so, she could not now work slippers for Charley. Poor Katie!
she was no longer a child when she thought thus.

'Then make him a purse,' said Linda.

'A purse is such a little thing.'

'Then work him the cover for a sofa, like what mamma and I are doing for
Gertrude.'

'But he hasn't got a house,' said Katie.

'He'll have a house by the time you've done the sofa, and a wife to sit
on it too.'

'Oh, Linda, you are so ill-natured.'

'Why, child, what do you want me to say? If you were to give him one
of those grand long tobacco pipes they have in the shop windows, that's
what he'd like the best; or something of that sort. I don't think he
cares much for girls' presents, such as purses and slippers.'

'Doesn't he?' said Katie, mournfully.

'No; not a bit. You know he's such a rake.'

'Oh! Linda; I don't think he's so very bad, indeed I don't; and mamma
doesn't think so; and you know Harry said on Easter Sunday that he was
much better than he used to be.'

'I know Harry is very good-natured to him.'

'And isn't Charley just as good-natured to Harry? I am quite sure he is.
Harry has only to ask the least thing, and Charley always does it.
Do you remember how Charley went up to town for him the Sunday before
last?'

'And so he ought,' said Linda. 'He ought to do whatever Harry tells
him.'

'Well, Linda, I don't know why he ought,' said Katie. 'They are not
brothers, you know, nor yet even cousins.'

'But Harry is very--so very--so very superior, you know,' said Linda.

'I don't know any such thing,' said Katie.

'Oh! Katie, don't you know that Charley is such a rake?'

'But rakes are just the people who don't do whatever they are told;
so that's no reason. And I am quite sure that Charley is much the
cleverer.'

'And I am quite sure he is not--nor half so clever; nor nearly so well
educated. Why, don't you know the navvies are the most ignorant young
men in London? Charley says so himself.'

'That's his fun,' said Katie: 'besides, he always makes little of
himself. I am quite sure Harry could never have made all that about
Macassar and Crinoline out of his own head.'

'No! because he doesn't think of such nonsensical things. I declare,
Miss Katie, I think you are in love with Master Charley.'

Katie, who was still sitting at the dressing-table, blushed up to her
forehead; and at the same time her eyes were suffused with tears. But
there was no one to see either of those tell-tale symptoms, for Linda
was in bed.

'I know he saved my life,' said Katie, as soon as she could trust
herself to speak without betraying her emotion--'I know he jumped into
the river after me, and very, very nearly drowned himself; and I don't
think any other man in the world would have done so much for me besides
him.'

'Oh, Katie! Harry would in a moment.'

'Not for me; perhaps he might for you--though I'm not quite sure that he
would.' It was thus that Katie took her revenge on her sister.

'I'm quite sure he would for anybody, even for Sally.' Sally was an
assistant in the back kitchen. 'But I don't mean to say, Katie, that you
shouldn't feel grateful to Charley; of course you should.'

'And so I do,' said Katie, now bursting out into tears, overdone by her
emotion and fatigue; 'and so I do--and I do love him, and will love him,
if he's ever so much a rake! But you know, Linda, that is very different
from being in love; and it was very ill-natured of you to say so, very.'

Linda was out of bed in a trice, and sitting with her arm round her
sister's neck.

'Why, you darling little foolish child, you! I was only quizzing,' said
she. 'Don't you know that I love Charley too?'

'But you shouldn't quiz about such a thing as that. If you'd fallen into
the river, and Harry had pulled you out, then you'd know what I mean;
but I'm not at all sure that he could have done it.'

Katie's perverse wickedness on this point was very nearly giving rise
to another contest between the sisters. Linda's common sense, however,
prevailed, and giving up the point of Harry's prowess, she succeeded at
last in getting Katie into bed. 'You know mamma will be so angry if she
hears us,' said Linda, 'and I am sure you will be ill to-morrow.'

'I don't care a bit about being ill to-tomorrow; and yet I do too,' she
added, after a pause, 'for it's Sunday. It would be so stupid not to be
able to go out to-morrow.'

'Well, then, try to go to sleep at once'--and Linda carefully tucked the
clothes around her sister.

'I think it shall be a purse,' said Katie.

'A purse will certainly be the best; that is, if you don't like the
slippers,' and Linda rolled herself up comfortably in the bed.

'No--I don't like the slippers at all. It shall be a purse. I can
do that the quickest, you know. It's so stupid to give a thing when
everything about it is forgotten, isn't it?'

'Very stupid,' said Linda, nearly asleep.

'And when it's worn out I can make another, can't I?'

'H'm'm'm,' said Linda, quite asleep.

And then Katie went asleep also, in her sister's arms.

Early in the morning--that is to say, not very early, perhaps between
seven and eight--Mrs. Woodward came into their room, and having
inspected her charges, desired that Katie should not get up for morning
church, but lie in bed till the middle of the day.

'Oh, mamma, it will be so stupid not going to church after tumbling into
the river; people will say that all my clothes are wet.'

'People will about tell the truth as to some of them,' said Mrs.
Woodward; 'but don't you mind about people, but lie still and go to
sleep if you can. Linda, do you come and dress in my room.'

'And is Charley to lie in bed too?' said Katie. 'He was in the river
longer than I was.'

'It's too late to keep Charley in bed,' said Linda, 'for I see him
coming along the road now with a towel; he's been bathing.'

'Oh, I do so wish I could go and bathe,' said Katie.

Poor Katie was kept in bed till the afternoon. Charley and Harry,
however, were allowed to come up to her bedroom door, and hear her
pronounce herself quite well.

'How d'ye do, Mr. Macassar?' said she.

'And how d'ye do, my Lady Crinoline?' said Harry. After that Katie never
called Charley Mr. Macassar again.

They all went to church, and Katie was left to sleep or read, or think
of the new purse that she was to make, as best she might.

And then they dined, and then they walked out; but still without Katie.
She was to get up and dress while they were out, so as to receive
them in state in the drawing-room on their return. Four of them walked
together; for Uncle Bat now usually took himself off to his friend at
Hampton Court on Sunday afternoon. Mrs. Woodward walked with Charley,
and Harry and Linda paired together.

'Now,' said Charley to himself, 'now would have been the time to have
told Mrs. Woodward everything, but for that accident of yesterday. Now
I can tell her nothing; to do so now would be to demand her sympathy and
to ask for assistance;' and so he determined to tell her nothing.

But the very cause which made Charley dumb on the subject of his own
distresses made Mrs. Woodward inquisitive about them. She knew that his
life was not like that of Harry--steady, sober, and discreet; but
she felt that she did not like him, or even love him the less on this
account. Nay, it was not clear to her that these failings of his did not
give him additional claims on her sympathies. What could she do for him?
how could she relieve him? how could she bring him back to the
right way? She spoke to him of his London life, praised his talents,
encouraged him to exertion, besought him to have some solicitude, and,
above all, some respect for himself. And then, with that delicacy which
such a woman, and none but such a woman, can use in such a matter, she
asked him whether he was still in debt.

Charley, with shame we must own it, had on this subject been false to
all his friends. He had been false to his father and his mother, and
had never owned to them the half of what he owed; he had been false to
Alaric, and false to Harry; but now, now, at such a moment as this, he
would not allow himself to be false to Mrs. Woodward.

'Yes,' he said, 'he was in debt--rather.'

Mrs. Woodward pressed him to say whether his debts were heavy--whether
he owed much.

'It's no use thinking of it, Mrs. Woodward,' said he; 'not the least. I
know I ought not to come down here; and I don't think I will any more.'

'Not come down here!' said Mrs. Woodward. 'Why not? There's very little
expense in that. I dare say you'd spend quite as much in London.'

'Oh--of course--three times as much, perhaps; that is, if I had it--but
I don't mean that.'

'What do you mean?' said she.

Charley walked on in silence, with melancholy look, very crestfallen,
his thumbs stuck into his waistcoat pockets.

'Upon my word I don't know what you mean,' said Mrs. Woodward. 'I should
have thought coming to Hampton might perhaps--perhaps have kept you--I
don't exactly mean out of mischief.' That, however, in spite of her
denial, was exactly what Mrs. Woodward did mean.

'So it does--but--' said Charley, now thoroughly ashamed of himself.

'But what?' said she.

'I am not fit to be here,' said Charley; and as he spoke his manly
self-control all gave way, and big tears rolled down his cheeks.

Mrs. Woodward, in her woman's heart, resolved, that if it might in any
way be possible, she would make him fit, fit not only to be there, but
to hold his head up with the best in any company in which he might find
himself.

She questioned him no further then. Her wish now was not to torment him
further, but to comfort him. She determined that she would consult with
Harry and with her uncle, and take counsel from them as to what steps
might be taken to save the brand from the burning. She talked to him as
a mother might have done, leaning on his arm, as she returned; leaning
on him as a woman never leans on a man whom she deems unfit for her
society. All this Charley's heart and instinct fully understood, and he
was not ungrateful.

But yet he had but little to comfort him. He must return to town on
Monday; return to Mr. Snape and the lock entries, to Mr. M'Ruen and
the three Seasons--to Mrs. Davis, Norah Geraghty, and that horrid Mr.
Peppermint. He never once thought of Clementina Golightly, to whom at
that moment he was being married by the joint energies of Undy Scott and
his cousin Alaric.

And what had Linda and Norman been doing all this time? Had they been
placing mutual confidence in each other? No; they had not come to that
yet. Linda still remembered the pang with which she had first heard of
Gertrude's engagement, and Harry Norman had not yet been able to open
his seared heart to a second love.

In the course of the evening a letter was brought to Captain Cuttwater,
which did not seem to raise his spirits.

'Whom is your letter from, uncle?' said Mrs. Woodward.

'From Alaric,' said he, gruffly, crumpling it up and putting it into his
pocket. And then he turned to his rum and water in a manner that showed
his determination to say nothing more on the matter.

In the morning Harry and Charley returned to town. Captain Cuttwater
went up with them; and all was again quiet at Surbiton Cottage.



CHAPTER XXIV

MR. M'BUFFER ACCEPTS THE CHILTERN HUNDREDS


It was an anxious hour for the Honourable Undecimus Scott when he first
learnt that Mr. M'Buffer had accepted the Stewardship of the Chiltern
Hundreds. The Stewardship of the Chiltern Hundreds! Does it never occur
to anyone how many persons are appointed to that valuable situation? Or
does anyone ever reflect why a Member of Parliament, when he wishes
to resign his post of honour, should not be simply gazetted in the
newspapers as having done so, instead of being named as the new Steward
of the Chiltern Hundreds? No one ever does think of it; resigning and
becoming a steward are one and the same thing, with this difference,
however, that one of the grand bulwarks of the British constitution is
thus preserved.

Well, Mr. M'Buffer, who, having been elected by the independent electors
of the Tillietudlem burghs to serve them in Parliament, could not, in
accordance with the laws of the constitution, have got himself out of
that honourable but difficult position by any scheme of his own, found
himself on a sudden a free man, the Queen having selected him to be her
steward for the district in question. We have no doubt but that the deed
of appointment set forth that her Majesty had been moved to this step
by the firm trust she had in the skill and fidelity of the said Mr.
M'Buffer; but if so her Majesty's trust would seem to have been somewhat
misplaced, as Mr. M'Buffer, having been a managing director of a
bankrupt swindle, from which he had contrived to pillage some thirty or
forty thousand pounds, was now unable to show his face at Tillietudlem,
or in the House of Commons; and in thus retreating from his membership
had no object but to save himself from the expulsion which he feared.
It was, however, a consolation for him to think that in what he had done
the bulwarks of the British constitution had been preserved.

It was an anxious moment for Undy. The existing Parliament had still
a year and a half, or possibly two years and a half, to run. He had
already been withdrawn from the public eye longer than he thought
was suitable to the success of his career. He particularly disliked
obscurity for he had found that in his case obscurity had meant
comparative poverty. An obscure man, as he observed early in life, had
nothing to sell. Now, Undy had once had something to sell, and a very
good market he had made of it. He was of course anxious that those
halcyon days should return. Fond of him as the electors of Tillietudlem
no doubt were, devoted as they might be in a general way to his
interests still, still it was possible that they might forget him, if he
remained too long away from their embraces. 'Out of sight out of mind'
is a proverb which opens to us the worst side of human nature. But even
at Tillietudlem nature's worst side might sometimes show itself.

Actuated by such feelings as these, Undy heard with joy the tidings of
M'Buffer's stewardship, and determined to rush to the battle at once.
Battle he knew there must be. To be brought in for the district of
Tillietudlem was a prize which had never yet fallen to any man's
lot without a contest. Tillietudlem was no poor pocket borough to be
disposed of, this way or that way, according to the caprice or venal
call of some aristocrat. The men of Tillietudlem knew the value of their
votes, and would only give them according to their consciences. The way
to win these consciences, to overcome the sensitive doubts of a free and
independent Tillietudlem elector, Undy knew to his cost.

It was almost a question, as he once told Alaric, whether all that he
could sell was worth all that he was compelled to buy. But having put
his neck to the collar in this line of life, he was not now going to
withdraw. Tillietudlem was once more vacant, and Undy determined to try
it again, undaunted by former outlays. To make an outlay, however, at
any rate, in electioneering matters, it is necessary that a man should
have in hand some ready cash; at the present moment Undy had very
little, and therefore the news of Mr. M'Buffer's retirement to the
German baths for his health was not heard with unalloyed delight.

He first went into the city, as men always do when they want money;
though in what portion of the city they find it, has never come to the
author's knowledge. Charley Tudor, to be sure, did get £5 by going to
the 'Banks of Jordan;' but the supply likely to be derived from such
a fountain as that would hardly be sufficient for Undy's wants. Having
done what he could in the city, he came to Alaric, and prayed for the
assistance of all his friend's energies in the matter. Alaric would not
have been, and was not unwilling to assist him to the extent of his own
immediate means; but his own immediate means were limited, and Undy's
desire for ready cash was almost unlimited.

There was a certain railway or proposed railway in Ireland, in which
Undy had ventured very deeply, more so indeed than he had deemed it
quite prudent to divulge to his friend; and in order to gain certain
ends he had induced Alaric to become a director of this line. The line
in question was the Great West Cork, which was to run from Skibbereen to
Bantry, and the momentous question now hotly debated before the Railway
Board was on the moot point of a branch to Ballydehob. If Undy could
carry the West Cork and Ballydehob branch entire, he would make a pretty
thing of it; but if, as there was too much reason to fear, his Irish
foes should prevail, and leave--as Undy had once said in an eloquent
speech at a very influential meeting of shareholders--and leave the
unfortunate agricultural and commercial interest of Ballydehob steeped
in Cimmerian darkness, the chances were that poor Undy would be well
nigh ruined.

Such being the case, he had striven, not unsuccessfully, to draw Alaric
into the concern. Alaric had bought very cheaply a good many shares,
which many people said were worth nothing, and had, by dint of Undy's
machinations, been chosen a director on the board. Undy himself
meanwhile lay by, hoping that fortune might restore him to Parliament,
and haply put him on that committee which must finally adjudicate as to
the great question of the Ballydehob branch.

Such were the circumstances under which he came to Alaric with the
view of raising such a sum of money as might enable him to overcome the
scruples of the Tillietudlem electors, and place himself in the shoes
lately vacated by Mr. M'Buffer.

They were sitting together after dinner when he commenced the subject.
He and Mrs. Val and Clementina had done the Tudors the honour of dining
with them; and the ladies had now gone up into the drawing-room, and
were busy talking over the Chiswick affair, which was to come off in
the next week, and after which Mrs. Val intended to give a small evening
party to the most _élite_ of her acquaintance.

'We won't have all the world, my dear,' she had said to Gertrude, 'but
just a few of our own set that are really nice. Clementina is dying to
try that new back step with M. Jaquêtanàpe, so we won't crowd the room.'
Such were the immediate arrangements of the Tudor and Scott party.

'So M'Buffer is off at last,' said Scott, as he seated himself and
filled his glass, after closing the dining-room door. 'He brought his
pigs to a bad market after all.'

'He was an infernal rogue,' said Alaric.

'Well, I suppose he was,' said Undy; 'and a fool into the bargain to be
found out.'

'He was a downright swindler,' said Alaric.

'After all,' said the other, not paying much attention to Alaric's
indignation, 'he did not do so very badly. Why, M'Buffer has been at it
now for thirteen years. He began with nothing; he had neither blood nor
money; and God knows he had no social merits to recommend him. He is
as vulgar as a hog, as awkward as an elephant, and as ugly as an ape.
I believe he never had a friend, and was known at his club to be the
greatest bore that ever came out of Scotland; and yet for thirteen
years he has lived on the fat of the land; for five years he has been
in Parliament, his wife has gone about in her carriage, and every man in
the city has been willing to shake hands with him.'

'And what has it all come to?' said Alaric, whom the question of
M'Buffer's temporary prosperity made rather thoughtful.

'Well, not so bad either; he has had his fling for thirteen years, and
that's something. Thirteen good years out of a man's life is more
than falls to the lot of every one. And then, I suppose, he has saved
something.'

'And he is spoken of everywhere as a monster for whom hanging is too
good.'

'Pshaw! that won't hang him. Yesterday he was a god; to-day he is a
devil; to-morrow he'll be a man again; that's all.'

'But you don't mean to tell me, Undy, that the consciousness of such
crimes as those which M'Buffer has committed must not make a man
wretched in this world, and probably in the next also?'

'Judge not, and ye shall not be judged,' said Undy, quoting Scripture as
the devil did before him; 'and as for consciousness of crime, I suppose
M'Buffer has none at all. I have no doubt he thinks himself quite as
honest as the rest of the world. He firmly believes that all of us
are playing the same game, and using the same means, and has no idea
whatever that dishonesty is objectionable.'

'And you, what do you think about it yourself?'

'I think the greatest rogues are they who talk most of their honesty;
and, therefore, as I wish to be thought honest myself, I never talk of
my own.'

They both sat silent for a while, Undy bethinking himself what arguments
would be most efficacious towards inducing Alaric to strip himself of
every available shilling that he had; and Alaric debating in his own
mind that great question which he so often debated, as to whether men,
men of the world, the great and best men whom he saw around him, really
endeavoured to be honest, or endeavoured only to seem so. Honesty was
preached to him on every side; but did he, in his intercourse with the
world, find men to be honest? Or did it behove him, a practical man like
him, a man so determined to battle with the world as he had determined,
did it behove such a one as he to be more honest than his neighbours?

He also encouraged himself by that mystic word, 'Excelsior!' To him it
was a watchword of battle, repeated morning, noon, and night. It was the
prevailing idea of his life. 'Excelsior'! Yes; how great, how grand, how
all-absorbing is the idea! But what if a man may be going down, down to
Tophet, and yet think the while that he is scaling the walls of heaven?

'But you wish to think yourself honest,' he said, disturbing Undy
just as that hero had determined on the way in which he would play his
present hand of cards.

'I have not the slightest difficulty about that,' said Undy; 'and I dare
say you have none either. But as to M'Buffer, his going will be a great
thing for us, if, as I don't doubt, I can get his seat.'

'It will be a great thing for you,' said Alaric, who, as well as Undy,
had his Parliamentary ambition.

'And for you too, my boy. We should carry the Ballydehob branch to a
dead certainty; and even if we did not do that, we'd bring it so near it
that the expectation of it would send the shares up like mercury in fine
weather. They are at £2 12s. 6d. now, and, if I am in the House next
Session, they'll be up to £7 10s. before Easter; and what's more, my
dear fellow, if we can't help ourselves in that way, they'll be worth
nothing in a very few months.'

Alaric looked rather blank; for he had invested deeply in this line, of
which he was now a director, of a week's standing, or perhaps we should
say sitting. He had sold out all his golden hopes in the Wheal Mary
Jane for the sake of embarking his money and becoming a director in this
Irish Railway, and in one other speculation nearer home, of which Undy
had a great opinion, viz.: the Limehouse Thames Bridge Company.
Such being the case, he did not like to hear the West Cork with the
Ballydehob branch spoken of so slightingly.

'The fact is, a man can do anything if he is in the House, and he can
do nothing if he is not,' said Undy. 'You know our old Aberdeen saying,
'You scratch me and I'll scratch you.' It is not only what a man may do
himself for himself, but it is what others will do for him when he is
in a position to help them. Now, there are those fellows; I am
hand-and-glove with all of them; but there is not one of them would
lift a finger to help me as I am now; but let me get my seat again, and
they'll do for me just anything I ask them. Vigil moves the new writ
to-night; I got a line from him asking me whether I was ready. There was
no good to be got by waiting, so I told him to fire away.'

'I suppose you'll go down at once?' said Alaric.

'Well, that as may be--at least, yes; that's my intention. But there's
one thing needful--and that is the needful.'

'Money?' suggested Alaric.

'Yes, money--cash--rhino--tin--ready--or by what other name the goddess
would be pleased to have herself worshipped; money, sir; there's the
difficulty, now as ever. Even at Tillietudlem money will have its
weight.'

'Can't your father assist you?' said Alaric.

'My father! I wonder how he'd look if he got a letter from me asking for
money. You might as well expect a goose to feed her young with blood out
of her own breast, like a pelican, as expect that a Scotch lord should
give money to his younger sons like an English duke. What would my
father get by my being member for Tillietudlem? No; I must look nearer
home than my father. What can you do for me?'

'I?'

'Yes, you,' said Undy; 'I am sure you don't mean to say you'll refuse to
lend me a helping hand if you can. I must realize by the Ballydehobs, if
I am once in the House; and then you'd have your money back at once.'

'It is not that,' said Alaric; 'but I haven't got it.'

'I am sure you could let me have a thousand or so,' said Undy. 'I think
a couple of thousand would carry it, and I could make out the other
myself.'

'Every shilling I have,' said Alaric, 'is either in the Ballydehobs or
in the Limehouse Bridge. Why don't you sell yourself?'

'So I have,' said Undy; 'everything that I can without utter ruin. The
Ballydehobs are not saleable, as you know.'

'What can I do for you, then?'

Undy set himself again to think. 'I have no doubt I could get a thousand
on our joint names. That blackguard, M'Ruen, would do it.'

'Who is M'Ruen?' asked Alaric.

'A low blackguard of a discounting Jew Christian. He would do it;
but then, heaven knows what he would charge, and he'd make so many
difficulties that I shouldn't have the money for the next fortnight.'

'I wouldn't have my name on a bill in such a man's hands on any
account,' said Alaric.

'Well, I don't like it myself,' said Undy; 'but what the deuce am I
to do? I might as well go to Tillietudlem without my head as without
money.'

'I thought you'd kept a lot of the Mary Janes,' said Alaric.

'So I had, but they're gone now. I tell you I've managed £1,000 myself.
It would murder me now if the seat were to go into other hands. I'd get
the Committee on the Limehouse Bridge, and we should treble our money.
Vigil told me he would not refuse the Committee, though of course the
Government won't consent to a grant if they can help it.'

'Well, Undy, I can let you have £250, and that is every shilling I have
at my banker's.'

'They would not let you overdraw a few hundreds?' suggested Undy.

'I certainly shall not try them,' said Alaric.

'You are so full of scruple, so green, so young,' said Undy, almost in
an enthusiasm of remonstrance. 'What can be the harm of trying them?'

'My credit.'

'Fal lal. What's the meaning of credit? How are you to know whether you
have got any credit if you don't try? Come, I'll tell you how you can do
it. Old Cuttwater would lend it you for the asking.'

To this proposition Alaric at first turned a deaf ear; but by degrees
he allowed Undy to talk him over. Undy showed him that if he lost the
Tillietudlem burghs on this occasion it would be useless for him
to attempt to stand for them again. In such case, he would have no
alternative at the next general election but to stand for the borough of
Strathbogy in Aberdeenshire; whereas, if he could secure Tillietudlem
as a seat for himself, all the Gaberlunzie interest in the borough
of Strathbogy, which was supposed to be by no means small, should be
transferred to Alaric himself. Indeed, Sandie Scott, the eldest hope of
the Gaberlunzie family, would, in such case, himself propose Alaric
to the electors. Ca'stalk Cottage, in which the Hon. Sandie lived, and
which was on the outskirts of the Gaberlunzie property, was absolutely
within the boundary of the borough.

Overcome by these and other arguments, Alaric at last consented to ask
from Captain Cuttwater the loan of £700. That sum Undy had agreed to
accept as a sufficient contribution to that desirable public object,
the re-seating himself for the Tillietudlem borough, and as Alaric on
reflection thought that it would be uncomfortable to be left penniless
himself, and as it was just as likely that Uncle Bat would lend him
£700 as £500, he determined to ask for a loan of the entire sum. He
accordingly did so, and the letter, as we have seen, reached the captain
while Harry and Charley were at Surbiton Cottage. The old gentleman was
anything but pleased. In the first place he liked his money, though not
with any overweening affection; in the next place, he had done a great
deal for Alaric, and did not like being asked to do more; and lastly,
he feared that there must be some evil cause for the necessity of such a
loan so soon after Alaric's marriage.

Alaric in making his application had not done so actually without making
any explanation on the subject. He wrote a long letter, worded very
cleverly, which only served to mystify the captain, as Alaric had
intended that it should do. Captain Cuttwater was most anxious that
Alaric, whom he looked on as his adopted son, should rise in the world;
he would have been delighted to think that he might possibly live to
see him in Parliament; would probably have made considerable pecuniary
sacrifice for such an object. With the design, therefore, of softening
Captain Cuttwater's heart, Alaric in his letter had spoken about
great changes that were coming, of the necessity that there was of his
stirring himself, of the great pecuniary results to be expected from a
small present expenditure; and ended by declaring that the money was
to be used in forwarding the election of his friend Scott for the
Tillietudlem district burghs.

Now, the fact was, that Uncle Bat, though he cared a great deal for
Alaric, did not care a rope's end for Undy Scott, and could enjoy his
rum-punch just as keenly if Mr. Scott was in obscurity as he could
possibly hope to do even if that gentleman should be promoted to be
a Lord of the Treasury. He was not at all pleased to think that his
hard-earned moidores should run down the gullies of the Tillietudlem
boroughs in the shape of muddy ale or vitriolic whisky; and yet this was
the first request that Alaric had ever made to him, and he did not like
to refuse Alaric's first request. So he came up to town himself on the
following morning with Harry and Charley, determined to reconcile all
these difficulties by the light of his own wisdom.

In the evening he returned to Surbiton Cottage, having been into the
city, sold out stock for £700, and handed over the money to Alaric
Tudor.

On the following morning Undy Scott set out for Scotland, properly
freighted, Mr. Whip Vigil having in due course moved for a new writ for
the Tillietudlem borough in the place of Mr. M'Buffer, who had accepted
the situation of Steward of the Chiltern Hundreds.



CHAPTER XXV

CHISWICK GARDENS


The following Thursday was as fine as a Chiswick flower-show-day ought
to be, and so very seldom is. The party who had agreed to congregate
there--the party, that is, whom we are to meet--was very select. Linda
and Katie had come up to spend a few days with their sister. Mrs. Val,
Clementina, Gertrude, and Linda were to go in a carriage, for which
Alaric was destined to pay, and which Mrs. Val had hired, having
selected it regardless of expense, as one which, by its decent exterior
and polished outward graces, conferred on its temporary occupiers an
agreeable appearance of proprietorship. The two Miss Neverbends, sisters
of Fidus, were also to be with them, and they with Katie followed
humbly, as became their station, in a cab, which was not only hired, but
which very vulgarly told the fact to all the world.

Slight as had been the intimacy between Fidus Neverbend and Alaric at
Tavistock, nevertheless a sort of friendship had since grown up between
them. Alaric had ascertained that Fidus might in a certain degree be
useful to him, that the good word of the Aristides of the Works and
Buildings might be serviceable, and that, in short, Neverbend was worth
cultivating. Neverbend, on the other hand, when he perceived that
Tudor was likely to become a Civil Service hero, a man to be named
with glowing eulogy at all the Government Boards in London, felt
unconsciously a desire to pay him some of that reverence which a mortal
always feels for a god. And thus there was formed between them a sort of
alliance, which included also the ladies of the family.

Not that Mrs. Val, or even Mrs. A. Tudor, encountered Lactimel and
Ugolina Neverbend on equal terms. There is a distressing habitual
humility in many unmarried ladies of an uncertain age, which at the
first blush tells the tale against them which they are so painfully
anxious to leave untold. In order to maintain their places but yet
a little longer in that delicious world of love, sighs, and dancing
partners, from which it must be so hard for a maiden, with all her
youthful tastes about her, to tear herself for ever away, they smile and
say pretty things, put up with the caprices of married women, and play
second fiddle, though the doing so in no whit assists them in their
task. Nay, the doing so does but stamp them the more plainly with that
horrid name from which they would so fain escape. Their plea is for
mercy--'Have pity on me, have pity on me; put up with me but for one
other short twelve months; and then, if then I shall still have failed,
I will be content to vanish from the world for ever.' When did such
plea for pity from one woman ever find real entrance into the heart of
another?

On such terms, however, the Misses Neverbend were content to follow Mrs.
Val to the Chiswick flower-show, and to feed on the crumbs which might
chance to fall from the rich table of Miss Golightly; to partake of
broken meat in the shape of cast-off adorers, and regale themselves with
lukewarm civility from the outsiders in the throng which followed that
adorable heiress.

And yet the Misses Neverbend were quite as estimable as the divine
Clementina, and had once been, perhaps, as attractive as she is now.
They had never waltzed, it is true, as Miss Golightly waltzes. It may
be doubted, indeed, whether any lady ever did. In the pursuit of that
amusement Ugolina was apt to be stiff and ungainly, and to turn herself,
or allow herself to be turned, as though she were made of wood; she
was somewhat flat in her figure, looking as though she had been
uncomfortably pressed into an unbecoming thinness of substance, and a
corresponding breadth of surface, and this conformation did not assist
her in acquiring a graceful flowing style of motion. The elder sister,
Lactimel, was of a different form, but yet hardly more fit to shine
in the mazes of the dance than her sister. She had her charms,
nevertheless, which consisted of a somewhat stumpy dumpy comeliness. She
was altogether short in stature, and very short below the knee. She had
fair hair and a fair skin, small bones and copious soft flesh. She had a
trick of sighing gently in the evolutions of the waltz, which young men
attributed to her softness of heart, and old ladies to her shortness
of breath. They both loved dancing dearly, and were content to enjoy
it whenever the chance might be given to them by the aid of Miss
Golightly's crumbs.

The two sisters were as unlike in their inward lights as in their
outward appearance. Lactimel walked ever on the earth, but Ugolina never
deserted the clouds. Lactimel talked prose and professed to read it;
Ugolina read poetry and professed to write it. Lactimel was utilitarian.
_Cui bono_?--though probably in less classic phrase--was the question
she asked as to everything. Ugolina was transcendental, and denied that
there could be real good in anything. Lactimel would have clothed and
fed the hungry and naked, so that all mankind might be comfortable.
Ugolina would have brought mankind back to their original nakedness, and
have taught them to feed on the grasses of the field, so that the claims
of the body, which so vitally oppose those of the mind, might remain
unheeded and despised. They were both a little nebulous in their
doctrines, and apt to be somewhat unintelligible in their discourse,
when indulged in the delights of unrestrained conversation. Lactimel had
a theory that every poor brother might eat of the fat and drink of
the sweet, might lie softly, and wear fine linen, if only some body
or bodies could be induced to do their duties; and Ugolina was equally
strong in a belief that if the mind were properly looked to,
all appreciation of human ill would cease. But they delighted in
generalizing rather than in detailed propositions; and had not probably,
even in their own minds, realized any exact idea as to the means by
which the results they desired were to be brought about.

They toadied Mrs. Val--poor young women, how little should they be
blamed for this fault, which came so naturally to them in their forlorn
position!--they toadied Mrs. Val, and therefore Mrs. Val bore with them;
they bored Gertrude, and Gertrude, for her husband's sake, bore with
them also; they were confidential with Clementina, and Clementina, of
course, snubbed them. They called Clementina 'the sweetest creature.'
Lactimel declared that she was born to grace the position of a wife and
mother, and Ugolina swore that her face was perfect poetry. Whereupon
Clementina laughed aloud, and elegantly made a grimace with her nose and
mouth, as she turned the 'perfect poetry' to her mother. Such were
the ladies of the party who went to the Chiswick flower-show, and who
afterwards were to figure at Mrs. Val's little evening 'the dansant,' at
which nobody was to be admitted who was not nice.

They were met at the gate of the Gardens by a party of young men, of
whom Victoire Jaquêtanàpe was foremost. Alaric and Charley were to come
down there when their office work was done. Undy was by this time on his
road to Tillietudlem; and Captain Val was playing billiards at his club.
The latter had given a promise that he would make his appearance--a
promise, however, which no one expected, or wished him to keep.

The happy Victoire was dressed up to his eyes. That, perhaps, is not
saying much, for he was only a few feet high; but what he wanted in
quantity he fully made up in quality. He was a well-made, shining,
jaunty little Frenchman, who seemed to be perfectly at ease with
himself and all the world. He had the smallest little pair of moustaches
imaginable, the smallest little imperial, the smallest possible pair of
boots, and the smallest possible pair of gloves. Nothing on earth could
be nicer, or sweeter, or finer, than he was. But he did not carry his
finery like a hog in armour, as an Englishman so often does when an
Englishman stoops to be fine. It sat as naturally on Victoire as though
he had been born in it. He jumped about in his best patent leather
boots, apparently quite heedless whether he spoilt them or not; and
when he picked up Miss Golightly's parasol from the gravel, he seemed to
suffer no anxiety about his gloves.

He handed out the ladies one after another, as though his life had been
passed in handing out ladies, as, indeed, it probably had--in handing
them out and handing them in; and when Mrs. Val's 'private' carriage
passed on, he was just as courteous to the Misses Neverbend and Katie in
their cab, as he had been to the greater ladies who had descended from
the more ambitious vehicle. As Katie said afterwards to Linda, when she
found the free use of her voice in their own bedroom, 'he was a darling
little duck of a man, only he smelt so strongly of tobacco.'

But when they were once in the garden, Victoire had no time for
anyone but Mrs. Val and Clementina. He had done his duty by the Misses
Neverbend and those other two insipid young English girls, and now he
had his own affairs to look after. He also knew that Miss Golightly had
£20,000 of her own!

He was one of those butterfly beings who seem to have been created that
they may flutter about from flower to flower in the summer hours of such
gala times as those now going on at Chiswick, just as other butterflies
do. What the butterflies were last winter, or what will become of them
next winter, no one but the naturalist thinks of inquiring. How they may
feed themselves on flower-juice, or on insects small enough to be their
prey, is matter of no moment to the general world. It is sufficient that
they flit about in the sunbeams, and add bright glancing spangles to the
beauty of the summer day.

And so it was with Victoire Jaquêtanàpe. He did no work. He made no
honey. He appeared to no one in the more serious moments of life. He was
the reverse of Shylock; he would neither buy with you nor sell with you,
but he would eat with you and drink with you; as for praying, he did
little of that either with or without company. He was clothed in purple
and fine linen, as butterflies should be clothed, and fared sumptuously
everyday; but whence came his gay colours, or why people fed him with
pate and champagne, nobody knew and nobody asked.

Like most Frenchmen of his class, he never talked about himself. He
understood life, and the art of pleasing, and the necessity that he
should please, too well to do so. All that his companions knew of him
was that he came from France, and that when the gloomy months came on in
England, the months so unfitted for a French butterfly, he packed up his
azure wings and sought some more genial climate, certain to return and
be seen again when the world of London became habitable.

If he had means of living no one knew it; if he was in debt no one ever
heard of it; if he had a care in the world he concealed it. He abounded
in acquaintances who were always glad to see him, and would have
regarded it as quite de trop to have a friend. Nevertheless time was
flying on with him as with others; and, butterfly as he was, the idea of
Miss Golightly's £20,000 struck him with delightful amazement--500,000
francs! 500,000 francs! and so he resolved to dance his very best, warm
as the weather undoubtedly was at the present moment.

'Ah, he was charmed to see madame and mademoiselle look so charmingly,'
he said, walking between mother and daughter, but paying apparently much
the greater share of attention to the elder lady. In this respect we
Englishmen might certainly learn much from the manners of our dear
allies. We know well enough how to behave ourselves to our fair young
countrywomen; we can be civil enough to young women--nature teaches us
that; but it is so seldom that we are sufficiently complaisant to be
civil to old women. And yet that, after all, is the soul of gallantry.
It is to the sex that we profess to do homage. Our theory is, that
feminine weakness shall receive from man's strength humble and
respectful service. But where is the chivalry, where the gallantry,
if we only do service in expectation of receiving such guerdon as rosy
cheeks and laughing eyes can bestow?

It may be said that Victoire had an object in being civil to Mrs. Val.
But the truth is, all French Victoires are courteous to old ladies. An
Englishman may probably be as forward as a Frenchman in rushing into
a flaming building to save an old woman's life; but then it so rarely
happens that occasion offers itself for gallantry such as that. A man,
however, may with ease be civil to a dozen old women in one day.

And so they went on, walking through parterres and glass-houses, talking
of theatres, balls, dinner-parties, picnics, concerts, operas, of ladies
married and single, of single gentlemen who should be married, and of
married gentlemen who should be single, of everything, indeed, except
the flowers, of which neither Victoire nor his companions took the
slightest notice.

'And madame really has a dance to-night in her own house?'

'O yes,' said Mrs. Val; 'that is, just a few quadrilles and waltzes for
Clementina. I really hardly know whether the people will take the carpet
up or no.' The people, consisting of the cook and housemaid--for the
page had, of course, come with the carriage--were at this moment hard at
work wrenching up the nails, as Mrs. Val was very well aware.

'It will be delightful, charming,' said Victoire.

'Just a few people of our own set, you know,' said Mrs. Val: 'no crowd,
or fuss, or anything of that sort; just a few people that we know are
nice, in a quiet homely way.'

'Ah, that is so pleasing,' said M. Victoire: 'that is just what I like;
and is mademoiselle engaged for--?'

No. Mademoiselle was not engaged either for--or for--or for--&c., &c.,
&c.; and then out came the little tablets, under the dome of a huge
greenhouse filled with the most costly exotics, and Clementina and her
fellow-labourer in the cause of Terpsichore went to work to make their
arrangements for the evening.

And the rest of the party followed them. Gertrude was accompanied by
an Englishman just as idle and quite as useless as M. Victoire, of the
butterfly tribe also, but not so graceful, and without colour.

And then came the Misses Neverbend walking together, and with them, one
on each side, two tall Frenchmen, whose faces had been remodelled in
that mould into which so large a proportion of Parisians of the present
day force their heads, in order that they may come out with some look
of the Emperor about them. Were there not some such machine as this in
operation, it would be impossible that so many Frenchmen should appear
with elongated, angular, hard faces, all as like each other as though
they were brothers! The cut of the beard, the long prickly-ended,
clotted moustache, which looks as though it were being continually
rolled up in saliva, the sallow, half-bronzed, apparently unwashed
colour--these may all, perhaps, be assumed by any man after a certain
amount of labour and culture. But how it has come to pass that every
Parisian has been able to obtain for himself a pair of the Emperor's
long, hard, bony, cruel-looking cheeks, no Englishman has yet been able
to guess. That having the power they should have the wish to wear this
mask is almost equally remarkable. Can it be that a political phase,
when stamped on a people with an iron hand of sufficient power of
pressure, will leave its impress on the outward body as well as on the
inward soul? If so, a Frenchman may, perhaps, be thought to have gained
in the apparent stubborn wilfulness of his countenance some recompense
for his compelled loss of all political wilfulness whatever.

Be this as it may, the two Misses Neverbend walked on, each with a
stubborn long-faced Frenchman at her side, looking altogether not ill
pleased at this instance of the excellence of French manners. After them
came Linda, talking to some acquaintance of her own, and then poor dear
little Katie with another Frenchman, sterner, more stubborn-looking,
more long-faced, more like the pattern after whom he and they had been
remodelled, than any of them.

Poor little Katie! This was her first day in public. With many imploring
caresses, with many half-formed tears in her bright eyes, with many
assurances of her perfect health, she had induced her mother to allow
her to come to the flower-show; to allow her also to go to Mrs. Val's
dance, at which there were to be none but such very nice people. Katie
was to commence her life, to open her ball with this flower-show. In
her imagination it was all to be one long bright flower-show, in which,
however, the sweet sorrowing of the sensitive plant would ever and anon
invite her to pity and tears. When she entered that narrow portal she
entered the world, and there she found herself walking on the well-mown
grass with this huge, stern, bearded Frenchman by her side! As to
talking to him, that was quite out of the question. At the gate some
slight ceremony of introduction had been gone through, which had
consisted in all the Frenchmen taking off their hats and bowing to the
two married ladies, and in the Englishmen standing behind and poking
the gravel with their canes. But in this no special notice had of course
been taken of Katie; and she had a kind of idea, whence derived she knew
not, that it would be improper for her to talk to this man, unless she
were actually and _bona fide_ introduced to him. And then, again, poor
Katie was not very confident in her French, and then her companion was
not very intelligible in his English; so when the gentleman asked, 'Is
it that mademoiselle lofe de fleurs?' poor little Katie felt herself
tremble, and tried in vain to mutter something; and when, again essaying
to do his duty, he suggested that 'all de beauté of Londres did delight
to valk itself at Chisveek,' she was equally dumb, merely turning on him
her large eyes for one moment, to show that she knew that he addressed
her. After that he walked on as silent as herself, still keeping close
to her side; and other ladies, who had not the good fortune to have male
companions, envied her happiness in being so attended.

But Alaric and Charley were coming, she knew; Alaric was her
brother-in-law now, and therefore she would be delighted to meet him;
and Charley, dear Charley! she had not seen him since he went away that
morning, now four days since; and four days was a long time, considering
that he had saved her life. Her busy little fingers had been hard at
work the while, and now she had in her pocket the purse which she had
been so eager to make, and which she was almost afraid to bestow.

'Oh, Linda,' she had said, 'I don't think I will, after all; it is such
a little thing.'

'Nonsense, child, you wouldn't give him a worked counterpane; little
things are best for presents.'

'But it isn't good enough,' she said, looking at her handiwork in
despair. But, nevertheless, she persevered, working in the golden beads
with constant diligence, so that she might be able to give it to Charley
among the Chiswick flowers. Oh! what a place it was in which to bestow a
present, with all the eyes of all the world upon her!

And then this dance to which she was going! The thought of what she
would do there troubled her. Would anyone ask her to dance? Would
Charley think of her when he had so many grown-up girls, girls quite
grown up, all around him? It would be very sad if at this London party
it should be her fate to sit down the whole evening and see others
dance. It would suffice for her, she thought, if she could stand up with
Linda, but she had an idea that this would not be allowed at a London
party; and then Linda, perhaps, might not like it. Altogether she had
much upon her mind, and was beginning to think that, perhaps, she might
have been happier to have stayed at home with her mamma. She had not
quite recovered from the effect of her toss into the water, or the
consequent excitement, and a very little misery would upset her. And so
she walked on with her Napoleonic companion, from whom she did not know
how to free herself, through one glass-house after another, across lawns
and along paths, attempting every now and then to get a word with Linda,
and not at all so happy as she had hoped to have been.

At last Gertrude came to her rescue. They were all congregated for a
while in one great flower-house, and Gertrude, finding herself near her
sister, asked her how she liked it all.

'Oh! it is very beautiful,' said Katie, 'only--'

'Only what, dear?'

'Would you let me come with you a little while! Look here'--and she
crept softly around to the other side of her sister, sidling with little
steps away from the Frenchman, at whom, however, she kept furtively
looking, as though she feared that he would detect her in the act. 'Look
here, Gertrude,' she said, twitching her sister's arm; 'that gentleman
there--you see him, don't you? he's a Frenchman, and I don't know how to
get away from him.'

'How to get away from him?' said Gertrude. 'That's M. Delabarbe de
l'Empereur, a great friend of Mrs. Val's, and a very quiet sort of man,
I believe; he won't eat you.'

'No, he won't eat me, I know; but I can't look at anything, because he
will walk so close to me! Mayn't I come with you?'

Gertrude told her she might, and so Katie made good her escape,
hiding herself from her enemy as well as she could behind her sister's
petticoats. He, poor man, was perhaps as rejoiced at the arrangement as
Katie herself; at any rate he made no attempt to regain his prey, but
went on by himself, looking as placidly stern as ever, till he was
absorbed by Mrs. Val's more immediate party, and then he devoted himself
to her, while M. Jaquêtanàpe settled with Clementina the properest
arrangement for the waltzes of the evening.

Katie was beginning to be tranquilly happy, and was listening to the
enthusiasm of Ugolina Neverbend, who declared that flowers were the
female poet's fitting food--it may be doubted whether she had ever
tried it--when her heart leaped within her on hearing a sharp, clear,
well-known voice, almost close behind her. It was Charley Tudor. After
her silent promenade with M. Delabarbe de l'Empereur, Katie had been
well pleased to put up with the obscure but yet endurable volubility of
Ugolina; but now she felt almost as anxious to get quit of Ugolina as
she had before been to shake off the Frenchman.

'Flowers are Nature's chef-d'oeuvre,' said Ugolina; 'they convey to me
the purest and most direct essence of that heavenly power of production
which is the sweetest evidence which Jehovah gives us of His presence.'

'Do they?' said Katie, looking over her shoulder to watch what Charley
was doing, and to see whether he was coming to notice her.

'They are the bright stars of His immediate handiwork,' said Ugolina;
'and if our dim eyes could read them aright, they would whisper to us
the secret of His love.'

'Yes, I dare say they would,' said Katie, who felt, perhaps, a little
disappointed because Charley lingered a while shaking hands with Mrs.
Val and Clementina Golightly.

It was, however, but for a moment. There was much shaking of hands to be
done, and a considerable taking off of hats to be gone through; and as
Alaric and Charley encountered the head of the column first, it was only
natural that they should work their way through it gradually. Katie,
however, never guessed--how could she?--that Charley had calculated that
by reaching her last he would be able to remain with her.

She was still listening to Ugolina, who was mounting higher and higher
up to heaven, when she found her hand in Charley's. Ugolina might now
mount up, and get down again as best she could, for Katie could no
longer listen to her.

Alaric had not seen her yet since her ducking. She had to listen to
and to answer his congratulations, Charley standing by and making his
comments.

'Charley says you took to the water quite naturally, and swam like a
duck,' said Alaric.

'Only she went in head foremost,' said Charley.

'All bathers ought to do that,' said Alaric; 'and tell me, Katie, did
you feel comfortable when you were in the water?'

'Indeed I don't recollect anything about it,' said she, 'only that I saw
Charley coming to me, just when I was going to sink for the last time.'

'Sink! Why, I'm told that you floated like a deal board.'

'The big hat and the crinoline kept her up,' said Charley; 'she had no
idea of sinking.'

'Oh! Charley, you know I was under the water for a long time; and that
if you had not come, just at that very moment, I should never have come
up again.'

And then Alaric went on, and Charley and Katie were left together.

How was she to give him the purse? It was burning a hole in her
pocket till she could do so; and yet how was she to get it out of her
possession into his, and make her little speech, here in the public
garden? She could have done it easily enough at home in the drawing-room
at Surbiton Cottage.

'And how do you like the gardens?' asked Charley.

'Oh! they are beautiful; but I have hardly been able to see anything
yet. I have been going about with a great big Frenchman--there, that
man there--he has such a queer name.'

'Did his name prevent your seeing?'

'No, not his name; I didn't know his name then.

But it seemed so odd to be walking about with such a man as that. But I
want to go back, and look at the black and yellow roses in that house,
there. Would you go with me? that is, if we may. I wonder whether we
may!'

Charley was clearly of opinion that they might, and should, and would;
and so away they sallied back to the roses, and Katie began to enjoy
the first instalment of the happiness which she had anticipated. In the
temple of the roses the crowd at first was great, and she could not get
the purse out of her pocket, nor make her speech; but after a while
the people passed on, and there was a lull before others filled their
places, and Katie found herself opposite to a beautiful black rose, with
no one close to her but Charley.

'I have got something for you,' she said; and as she spoke she felt
herself to be almost hot with blushing.

'Something for me!' said Charley; and he also felt himself abashed, he
did not know why.

'It's only a very little thing,' said Katie, feeling in her pocket, 'and
I am almost ashamed to ask you to take it. But I made it all myself; no
one else put a stitch in it,' and so saying, and looking round to see
that she was not observed, she handed her gift to Charley.

'Oh! Katie, dearest Katie,' said he, 'I am so much obliged to you--I'll
keep it till I die.'

'I didn't know what to make that was better,' said she.

'Nothing on earth could possibly be better,' said he.

'A plate of bread and butter and a purse are a very poor return for
saving one's life,' said she, half laughing, half crying.

He looked at her with his eyes full of love; and as he looked, he swore
within himself that come what might, he would never see Norah Geraghty
again, but would devote his life to an endeavour to make himself worthy
of the angel that was now with him. Katie the while was looking up
anxiously into his face. She was thinking of no other love than that
which it became her to feel for the man who had saved her life. She was
thinking of no other love; but her young heart was opening itself to a
very different feeling. She was sinking deep, deep in waters which were
to go near to drown her warm heart; much nearer than those other waters
which she fancied had all but closed for ever over her life.

She looked into his face and saw that he was pleased; and that, for
the present, was enough for her. She was at any rate happy now. So
they passed on through the roses, and then lost themselves among the
geraniums, and wondered at the gigantic rhododendrons, and beautiful
azaleas, and so went on from house to house, and from flower-bed to
flower-bed, Katie talking and Charley listening, till she began to
wonder at her former supineness, and to say both to herself and out loud
to her companion, how very, very, very glad she was that her mother had
let her come.

Poor Katie!--dear, darling, bonny Katie!--sweet sweetest, dearest
child! why, oh why, has that mother of thine, that tender-hearted loving
mother, put thee unguarded in the way of such peril as this? Has she not
sworn to herself that over thee at least she would watch as a hen does
over her young, so that no unfortunate love should quench thy young
spirit, or blanch thy cheek's bloom? Has she not trembled at the thought
of what would have befallen thee, had thy fate been such as Linda's?
Has she not often--oh, how often!--on her knees thanked the Almighty God
that Linda's spirit was not as thine; that this evil had happened to
the lamb whose temper had been fitted by Him to endure it? And yet--here
thou art--all unguarded, all unaided, left by thyself to drink of the
cup of sweet poison, and none near to warn thee that the draught is
deadly.

Alas!--'twould be useless to warn thee now. The false god has been
placed upon the altar, the temple all shining with gems and gold has
been built around him, the incense-cup is already swinging; nothing will
now turn the idolater from her worship, nothing short of a miracle.

Our Katie's childish days are now all gone. A woman's passion glows
within her breast, though as yet she has not scanned it with a woman's
intelligence. Her mother, listening to a child's entreaty, had suffered
her darling to go forth for a child's amusement. It was doomed that the
child should return no more; but in lieu of her, a fair, heart-laden
maiden, whose every fondest thought must henceforth be of a stranger's
welfare and a stranger's fate.

But it must not be thought that Charley abused the friendship of Mrs.
Woodward, and made love to Katie, as love is usually made--with warm
words, assurances of affection, with squeezing of the hand, with sighs,
and all a lover's ordinary catalogue of resources. Though we have said
that he was a false god, yet he was hardly to be blamed for the temple,
and gems, and gold, with which he was endowed; not more so, perhaps,
than the unconscious bud which is made so sacred on the banks of the
Egyptian river. He loved too, perhaps as warmly, though not so fatally
as Katie did; but he spoke no word of his love. He walked among
the flowers with her, laughing and listening to her in his usual
light-hearted, easy manner; every now and again his arm would thrill
with pleasure, as he felt on it the touch of her little fingers, and his
heart would leap within him as he gazed on the speaking beauty of her
face; but he was too honest-hearted to talk to the young girl, to Mrs.
Woodward's child, of love. He talked to her as to a child--but she
listened to him and loved him as a woman.

And so they rambled on till the hour appointed for quitting this Elysium
had arrived. Every now and again they had a glimpse of some one of
their party, which had satisfied Katie that they were not lost. At first
Clementina was seen tracing with her parasol on the turf the plan of
a new dance. Then Ugolina passed by them describing the poetry of the
motion of the spheres in a full flow of impassioned eloquence to M.
Delabarbe de l'Empereur: '_C'est toujours vrai; ce que mademoiselle dit
est toujours vrai_,' was the Frenchman's answer, which they heard thrice
repeated. And then Lactimel and Captain Val were seen together, the
latter having disappointed the prophecies which had been made respecting
him. Lactimel had an idea that as the Scotts were great people, they
were all in Parliament, and she was endeavouring to persuade Captain Val
that something ought to be done for the poor.

'Think,' said she, 'only think, Captain Scott, of all the money that
this _fête_ must cost.'

'A doosed sight,' said the captain, hardly articulating from under his
thick, sandy-coloured moustache, which, growing downwards from his
nose, looked like a heavy thatch put on to protect his mouth from the
inclemency of the clouds above. 'A doosed sight,' said the captain.

'Now suppose, Captain Scott, that all this money could be collected. The
tickets, you know, and the dresses, and----'

'I wish I knew how to do it,' said the captain.

Lactimel went on with her little scheme for expending the cost of the
flower-show in bread and bacon for the poor Irish of Saffron Hill; but
Charley and Katie heard no more, for the mild philosopher passed out of
hearing and out of sight.

At last Katie got a poke in her back from a parasol, just as Charley had
expended half a crown, one of Mr. M'Ruen's last, in purchasing for her
one simple beautiful flower, to put into her hair that night.

'You naughty puss!' said Gertrude, 'we have been looking for you all
over the gardens. Mrs. Val and the Miss Neverbends have been waiting
this half-hour.' Katie looked terribly frightened. 'Come along, and
don't keep them waiting any longer. They are all in the passage. This
was your fault, Master Charley.'

'O no, it was not,' said Katie; 'but we thought----'

'Never mind thinking,' said Gertrude, 'but come along.' And so they
hurried on, and were soon replaced in their respective vehicles, and
then went back to town.

'Well, I do think the Chiswick Gardens is the nicest place in all the
world,' said Katie, leaning back in the cab, and meditating on her past
enjoyment.

'They are very pretty--very,' said Lactimel Neverbend. 'I only wish
every cottar had such a garden behind his cottage. I am sure we might
manage it, if we set about it in the right way.'

'What! as big as Chiswick?' said Katie.

'No; not so big,' said Lactimel; 'but quite as nicely kept.'

'I think the pigs would get in,' said Katie.

'It would be much easier, and more important too, to keep their minds
nicely,' said Ugolina; and there the pigs could never get in.'

'No; I suppose not,' said Katie.

'I don't know that,' said Lactimel.



CHAPTER XXVI

KATIE'S FIRST BALL


In spite of Mrs. Val's oft-repeated assurance that they would have
none but nice people, she had done her best to fill her rooms, and not
unsuccessfully. She had, it is true, eschewed the Golightly party, who
resided some north of Oxford Street, in the purlieus of Fitzroy Square,
and some even to the east of Tottenham Court Road. She had eschewed the
Golightlys, and confined herself to the Scott connexion; but so great
had been her success in life, that, even under these circumstances, she
had found herself able to fill her rooms respectably. If, indeed,
there was no absolute crowding, if some space was left in the front
drawing-room sufficient for the operations of dancers, she could still
attribute this apparent want of fashionable popularity to the selections
of the few nice people whom she had asked. The Hon. Mrs. Val was no
ordinary woman, and understood well how to make the most of the goods
with which the gods provided her.

The Miss Neverbends were to dine with the Tudors, and go with them
to the dance in the evening, and their brother Fidus was to meet them
there. Charley was, of course, one of the party at dinner; and as there
was no other gentleman there, Alaric had an excellent opportunity,
when the ladies went up to their toilets, to impress on his cousin the
expediency of his losing no time in securing to himself Miss Golightly's
twenty thousand pounds. The conversation, as will be seen, at last
became rather animated.

'Well, Charley, what do you think of the beautiful Clementina?' said
Alaric, pushing over the bottle to his cousin, as soon as they found
themselves alone. 'A 'doosed' fine girl, as Captain Val says, isn't
she?'

'A 'doosed' fine girl, of course,' said Charley, laughing. 'She has too
much go in her for me, I'm afraid.'

'Marriage and children will soon pull that down. She'd make an excellent
wife for such a man as you; and to tell you the truth, Charley, if
you'll take my advice, you'll lose no time in making up to her. She has
got that d---- French fellow at her heels, and though I don't suppose
she cares one straw about him, it may be well to make sure.'

'But you don't mean in earnest that you think that Miss Golightly would
have me?'

'Indeed I do--you are just the man to get on with girls; and, as far as
I can see, you are just the man that will never get on in any other way
under the sun.'

Charley sighed as he thought of his many debts, his poor prospects, and
his passionate love. There seemed, indeed, to be little chance that he
ever would get on at all in the ordinary sense of the word. 'I'm sure
she'd refuse me,' said he, still wishing to back out of the difficulty.
'I'm sure she would--I've not got a penny in the world, you know.'

'That's just the reason--she has got lots of money, and you have got
none.'

'Just the reason why she should refuse me, you should say.'

'Well--what if she does? There's no harm done. 'Faint heart never won
fair lady.' You've everything to back you--Mrs. Val is led by Undy
Scott, and Undy is all on your side.'

'But she has got guardians, hasn't she?'

'Yes--her father's first cousin, old Sam Golightly. He is dying; or dead
probably by this time; only Mrs. Val won't have the news brought to her,
because of this party. He had a fit of apoplexy yesterday. Then there's
her father's brother-in-law, Figgs; he's bedridden. When old Golightly
is off the hooks altogether, another will be chosen, and Undy talks of
putting in my name as that of a family friend; so you'll have everything
to assist you.'

Charley looked very grave. He had not been in the habit of discussing
such matters, but it seemed to him, that if Alaric was about to become
in any legal manner the guardian of Miss Golightly's fortune, that that
in itself was reason enough why he, Alaric, should not propose such a
match as this. Needy men, to be sure, did often marry rich ladies, and
the world looked on and regarded it only as a matter of course; but
surely it would be the duty of a guardian to protect his ward from such
a fate, if it were in his power to do so.

Alaric, who saw something of what was going on in his cousin's mind,
essayed to remove the impression which was thus made. 'Besides, you
know, Clementina is no chicken. Her fortune is at her own disposal. All
the guardians on earth cannot prevent her marrying you if she makes up
her mind to do so.'

Charley gulped down his glass of wine, and then sat staring at the fire,
saying nothing further. It was true enough that he was very poor--true
enough that Miss Golightly's fortune would set him on his legs, and make
a man of him--true enough, perhaps, that no other expedient of which he
could think would do so. But then there were so many arguments that were
'strong against the deed.' In the first place, he thought it impossible
that he should be successful in such a suit, and then again it would
hardly be honest to obtain such success, if it were possible; then,
thirdly, he had no sort of affection whatsoever for Miss Golightly; and
fourthly, lastly, and chiefly, he loved so dearly, tenderly, loved poor
Katie Woodward.

As he thought of this, he felt horror-stricken with himself at allowing
the idea of his becoming a suitor to another to dwell for an instant on
his mind, and looking up with all the resolution which he was able to
summon, he said--'It's impossible, Alaric, quite impossible! I couldn't
do it.'

'Then what do you mean to do?' said Alaric, who was angry at having his
scheme thus thwarted; 'do you mean to be a beggar?--or if not, how do
you intend to get out of your difficulties?'

'I trust not a beggar,' said Charley, sadly.

'What other hope have you? what rational hope of setting yourself
right?'

'Perhaps I may do something by writing,' said Charley, very bashfully.

'By writing! ha, ha, ha,' and Alaric laughed somewhat cruelly at the
poor navvy--' do something by writing! what will you do by writing? will
you make £20,000--or 20,000 pence? Of all trades going, that, I should
say, is likely to be the poorest for a poor man--the poorest and the
most heart-breaking. What have you made already to encourage you?'

'The editor says that 'Crinoline and Macassar' will come to £4 10s.'

'And when will you get it?'

'The editor says that the rule is to pay six months after the date of
publication. The _Daily Delight_ is only a new thing, you know. The
editor says that, if the sale comes up to his expectations, he will
increase the scale of pay.'

'A prospect of £4 10s. for a fortnight's hard work! That's a bad
look-out, my boy; you had better take the heiress.'

'It may be a bad look-out,' said Charley, whose spirit was raised by his
cousin's sneers--'but at any rate it's honest. And I'll tell you what,
Alaric, I'd sooner earn £50 by writing for the press, than get £1,000 in
any other way you can think of. It may be a poor trade in one way; and
authors, I believe, are poor; but I am sure it has its consolations.'

'Well, Charley, I hope with all my heart that you may find them. For my
own part, seeing what a place the world is, seeing what are the general
aspirations of other men, seeing what, as it appears to me, the Creator
has intended for the goal of our labours, I look for advancement,
prosperity, and such rank and station as I may be able to win for
myself. The labourer is worthy of his hire, and I do not mean to refuse
such wages as may come in my way.'

'Yes,' said Charley, who, now that his spirit was roused, determined to
fight his battle manfully, 'yes, the labourer is worthy of his hire;
but were I to get Miss Golightly's fortune I should be taking the hire
without labour.'

'Bah!' said Alaric.

'It would be dishonest in every way, for I do not love her, and should
not love her at the moment that I married her.'

'Honesty!' said Alaric, still sneering; 'there is no sign of the
dishonesty of the age so strong as the continual talk which one hears
about honesty!' It was quite manifest that Alaric had not sat at the
feet of Undy Scott without profiting by the lessons which he had heard.

'With what face,' continued he, 'can you pretend to be more honest than
your neighbours?'

'I know that it is wrong, and unmanly too, to hunt a girl down merely
for what she has got.'

'There are a great many wrong and unmanly men about, then,' said Alaric.
'Look through the Houses of Parliament, and see how many men there have
married for money; aye, and made excellent husbands afterwards. I'll
tell you what it is, Charley, it is all humbug in you to pretend to be
better than others; you are not a bit better;--mind, I do not say you
are worse. We have none of us too much of this honesty of which we are
so fond of prating. Where was your honesty when you ordered the coat for
which you know you cannot pay? or when you swore to the bootmaker that
he should have the amount of his little bill after next quarter-day,
knowing in your heart at the time that he wouldn't get a farthing of it?
If you are so honest, why did you waste your money to-day in going to
Chiswick, instead of paying some portion of your debts? Honest! you are,
I dare say, indifferently honest as the world goes, like the rest of
us. But I think you might put the burden of Clementina's fortune on your
conscience without feeling much the worse for it after what you have
already gone through.'

Charley became very red in the face as he sat silent, listening to
Alaric's address--nor did he speak at once at the first pause, so Alaric
went on. 'The truth, I take it, is, that at the present moment you have
no personal fancy for this girl.'

'No, I have not,' said Charley.

'And you are so incredibly careless as to all prudential considerations
as to prefer your immediate personal fancies to the future welfare
of your whole life. I can say no more. If you will think well of my
proposition, I will do all I can to assist you. I have no doubt you
would make a good husband to Miss Golightly, and that she would be very
happy with you. If you think otherwise there is an end of it; but pray
do not talk so much about your honesty--your tailor would arrest you
to-morrow if he heard you.'

'There are two kinds of honesty, I take it,' said Charley, speaking with
suppressed anger and sorrow visible in his face, 'that which the world
sees and that which it does not see. For myself, I have nothing to say
in my own defence. I have made my bed badly, and must lie on it as it
is. I certainly will not mend it by marrying a girl that I can never
love. And as for you, Alaric, all who know you and love you watch your
career with the greatest hope. We know your ambition, and all look to
see you rise in the world. But in rising, as you will do, you should
remember this--that nothing that is wrong can become right because other
people do it.'

'Well, Charley,' said the other, 'thank you for the lecture. I did not
certainly expect it from you; but it is not on that account the less
welcome. And now, suppose we go upstairs and dress for Mrs. Val;' and so
they went upstairs.

Katie's heart beat high as she got out of the carriage--Mrs. Val's
private carriage had been kept on for the occasion--and saw before and
above her on the stairs a crowd of muslin crushing its way on towards
the room prepared for dancing. Katie had never been to a ball before. We
hope that the word ball may not bring down on us the adverse criticism
of the _Morning Post_. It was probably not a ball in the strictly
fashionable sense of the word, but it was so to Katie to all intents
and purposes. Her dancing had hitherto been done either at children's
parties, or as a sort of supplemental amusement to the evening
tea-gatherings at Hampton or Hampton Court. She had never yet seen the
muse worshipped with the premeditated ceremony of banished carpets,
chalked floors, and hired musicians. Her heart consequently beat high as
she made her way upstairs, linked arm-in-arm with Ugolina Neverbend.

'Shall you dance much?' said Ugolina.

'Oh, I hope so,' said Katie.

'I shall not. It is an amusement of which I am peculiarly fond, and
for which my active habits suit me.' This was probably said with some
allusion to her sister, who was apt to be short of breath. 'But in the
dances of the present day conversation is impossible, and I look upon
any pursuit as barbaric which stops the "feast of reason and the flow of
soul."'

Katie did not quite understand this, but she thought in her heart that
she would not at all mind giving up talking for the whole evening if she
could only get dancing enough. But on this matter her heart misgave
her. To be sure, she was engaged to Charley for the first quadrille and
second waltz; but there her engagements stopped, whereas Clementina, as
she was aware, had a whole book full of them. What if she should get no
more dancing when Charley's good nature should have been expended? She
had an idea that no one would care to dance with her when older partners
were to be had. Ah, Katie, you do not yet know the extent of your
riches, or half the wealth of your own attractions!

And then they all heard another little speech from Mrs. Val. 'She was
really quite ashamed--she really was--to see so many people; she could
not wish any of her guests away, that would be impossible--though
perhaps one or two might be spared,' she said in a confidential whisper
to Gertrude. Who the one or two might be it would be difficult to
decide, as she had made the same whisper to every one; 'but she really
was ashamed; there was almost a crowd, and she had quite intended that
the house should be nearly empty. The fact was, everybody asked had
come, and as she could not, of course, have counted on that, why, she
had got, you see, twice as many people as she had expected.' And then
she went on, and made the same speech to the next arrival.

Katie, who wanted to begin the play at the beginning, kept her eye
anxiously on Charley, who was still standing with Lactimel Neverbend
on his arm. 'Oh, now,' said she to herself, 'if he should forget me and
begin dancing with Miss Neverbend!' But then she remembered how he had
jumped into the water, and determined that, even with such provocation
as that, she must not be angry with him.

But there was no danger of Charley's forgetting. 'Come,' said he, 'we
must not lose any more time, if we mean to dance the first set. Alaric
will be our _vis-à-vis_--he is going to dance with Miss Neverbend,' and
so they stood up. Katie tightened her gloves, gave her dress a little
shake, looked at her shoes, and then the work of the evening began.

'I shouldn't have liked to have sat down for the first dance,' she said
confidentially to Charley, 'because it's my first ball.'

'Sit down! I don't suppose you'll be let to sit down the whole evening.
You'll be crying out for mercy about three or four o'clock in the
morning.'

'It's you to go on now,' said Katie, whose eyes were intent on the
figure, and who would not have gone wrong herself, or allowed her
partner to do so, on any consideration. And so the dance went on right
merrily.

'I've got to dance the first polka with Miss Golightly,' said Charley.

'And the next with me,' said Katie.

'You may be sure I shan't forget that.'

'You lucky man to get Miss Golightly for a partner. I am told she is the
most beautiful dancer in the world.'

'O no--Mademoiselle ---- is much better,' said Charley, naming the
principal stage performer of the day. 'If one is to go the whole hog,
one had better do it thoroughly.'

Katie did not quite understand then what he meant, and merely replied
that she would look at the performance. In this, however, she was
destined to be disappointed, for Charley had hardly left her before Miss
Golightly brought up to her the identical M. Delabarbe de l'Empereur who
had so terribly put her out in the gardens. This was done so suddenly,
that Katie's presence of mind was quite insufficient to provide her
with any means of escape. The Frenchman bowed very low and said nothing.
Katie made a little curtsy, and was equally silent. Then she felt her
own arm gathered up and put within his, and she stood up to take her
share in the awful performance. She felt herself to be in such a nervous
fright that she would willingly have been home again at Hampton if
she could; but as this was utterly impossible, she had only to bethink
herself of her steps, and get through the work as best she might.

Away went Charley and Clementina leading the throng; away went M.
Jaquêtanàpe and Linda; away went another Frenchman, clasping in his
arms the happy Ugolina. Away went Lactimel with a young Weights and
Measures--and then came Katie's turn. She pressed her lips together,
shut her eyes, and felt the tall Frenchman's arms behind her back, and
made a start. 'Twas like plunging into cold water on the first bathing
day of the season--'_ce n'est que le premier pas que coute._' When once
off Katie did not find it so bad. The Frenchman danced well, and Katie
herself was a wicked little adept. At home, at Surbiton, dancing with
another girl, she had with great triumph tired out the fingers both of
her mother and sister, and forced them to own that it was impossible to
put her down. M. de l'Empereur, therefore, had his work before him, and
he did it like a man--as long as he could.

Katie, who had not yet assumed the airs or will of a grown-up young
lady, thought that she was bound to go on as long as her grand partner
chose to go with her. He, on the other hand, accustomed in his gallantry
to obey all ladies' wishes, considered himself bound to leave it to
her to stop when she pleased. And so they went on with apparently
interminable gyrations. Charley and the heiress had twice been in
motion, and had twice stopped, and still they were going on; Ugolina
had refreshed herself with many delicious observations, and Lactimel had
thrice paused to advocate dancing for the million, and still they went
on; the circle was gradually left to themselves, and still they went
on; people stood round, some admiring and others pitying; and still they
went on. Katie, thinking of her steps and her business, did not perceive
that she and her partner were alone; and ever and anon, others of course
joined in--and so they went on--and on--and on.

M. Delabarbe de l'Empereur was a strong and active man, but he began to
perceive that the lady was too much for him. He was already melting away
with his exertions, while his partner was as cool as a cucumber. She,
with her active young legs, her lightly filled veins, and small agile
frame, could have gone on almost for ever; but M. de l'Empereur was more
encumbered. Gallantry was at last beat by nature, his overtasked muscles
would do no more for him, and he was fain to stop, dropping his partner
into a chair, and throwing himself in a state of utter exhaustion
against the wall.

Katie was hardly out of breath as she received the congratulations of
her friends; but at the moment she could not understand why they were
quizzing her. In after times, however, she was often reproached with
having danced a Frenchman to death in the evening, in revenge for his
having bored her in the morning. It was observed that M. Delabarbe de
l'Empereur danced no more that evening. Indeed, he very soon left the
house.

Katie had not been able to see Miss Golightly's performance, but it had
been well worth seeing. She was certainly no ordinary performer, and if
she did not quite come up to the remarkable movements which one sees on
the stage under the name of dancing, the fault was neither in her will
nor her ability, but only in her education. Charley also was peculiarly
well suited to give her 'ample verge and room enough' to show off all
her perfections. Her most peculiar merit consisted, perhaps, in her
power of stopping herself suddenly, while going on at the rate of a hunt
one way, and without any pause or apparent difficulty going just as fast
the other way. This was done by a jerk which must, one would be inclined
to think, have dislocated all her bones and entirely upset her internal
arrangements. But no; it was done without injury, or any disagreeable
result either to her brain or elsewhere. We all know how a steamer is
manoeuvred when she has to change her course, how we stop her and ease
her and back her; but Miss Golightly stopped and eased and backed all at
once, and that without collision with any other craft. It was truly very
wonderful, and Katie ought to have looked at her.

Katie soon found occasion to cast off her fear that her evening's
happiness would be destroyed by a dearth of partners. Her troubles began
to be of an exactly opposite description. She had almost envied Miss
Golightly her little book full of engagements, and now she found herself
dreadfully bewildered by a book of her own. Some one had given her a
card and a pencil, and every moment she could get to herself was taken
up in endeavouring to guard herself from perfidy on her own part. All
down the card, at intervals which were not very far apart, there were
great C's, which stood for Charley, and her firmest feeling was that
no earthly consideration should be allowed to interfere with those
landmarks. And then there were all manner of hieroglyphics--sometimes,
unfortunately, illegible to Katie herself--French names and English
names mixed together in a manner most vexatious; and to make matters
worse, she found that she had put down both Victoire Jaquêtanàpe and Mr.
Johnson of the Weights, by a great I, and she could not remember with
whom she was bound to dance the lancers, and to which she had promised
the last polka before supper. One thing, however, was quite fixed: when
supper should arrive she was to go downstairs with Charley.

'What dreadful news, Linda!' said Charley; 'did you hear it?' Linda was
standing up with Mr. Neverbend for a sober quadrille, and Katie also was
close by with her partner. 'Dreadful news indeed!'

'What is it?' said Linda.

'A man can die but once, to be sure; but to be killed in such a manner
as that, is certainly very sad.'

'Killed! who has been killed?' said Neverbend.

'Well, perhaps I shouldn't say killed. He only died in the cab as he
went home.'

'Died in a cab! how dreadful!' said Neverbend. 'Who? who was it, Mr.
Tudor?'

'Didn't you hear? How very odd! Why M. de l'Empereur, to be sure. I
wonder what the coroner will bring it in.'

'How can you talk such nonsense, Charley?' said Linda.

'Very well, Master Charley,' said Katie. 'All that comes of being a
writer of romances. I suppose that's to be the next contribution to the
_Daily Delight_.'

Neverbend went off on his quadrille not at all pleased with the joke.
Indeed, he was never pleased with a joke, and in this instance he
ventured to suggest to his partner that the idea of a gentleman expiring
in a cab was much too horrid to be laughed at.

'Oh, we never mind Charley Tudor,' said Linda; 'he always goes on in
that way. We all like him so much.'

Mr. Neverbend, who, though not very young, still had a susceptible heart
within his bosom, had been much taken by Linda's charms. He already
began to entertain an idea that as a Mrs. Neverbend would be a desirable
adjunct to his establishment at some future period, he could not do
better than offer himself and his worldly goods to the acceptance of
Miss Woodward; he therefore said nothing further in disparagement of the
family friend; but he resolved that no such alliance should ever induce
him to make Mr. Charles Tudor welcome at his house. But what could he
have expected? The Internal Navigation had ever been a low place, and
he was surprised that the Hon. Mrs. Val should have admitted one of the
navvies inside her drawing-room.

And so the ball went on. Mr. Johnson came duly for the lancers, and M.
Jaquêtanàpe for the polka. Johnson was great at the lancers, knowing
every turn and vagary in that most intricate and exclusive of dances;
and it need hardly be said that the polka with M. Jaquêtanàpe was
successful. The last honour, however, was not without evil results, for
it excited the envy of Ugolina, who, proud of her own performance,
had longed, but hitherto in vain, to be whirled round the room by that
wondrously expert foreigner.

'Well, my dear,' said Ugolina, with an air that plainly said that Katie
was to be treated as a child, 'I hope you have had dancing enough.'

'Oh, indeed I have not,' said Katie, fully appreciating the purport and
cause of her companion's remark; 'not near enough.'

'Ah--but, my dear--you should remember,' said Ugolina; 'your mamma will
be displeased if you fatigue yourself.'

'My mamma is never displeased because we amuse ourselves, and I am not a
bit fatigued;' and so saying Katie walked off, and took refuge with her
sister Gertrude. What business had any Ugolina Neverbend to interfere
between her and her mamma?

Then came the supper. There was a great rush to get downstairs, but
Charley was so clever that even this did not put him out. Of course
there was no sitting down; which means that the bashful, retiring,
and obedient guests were to stand on their legs; while those who were
forward, and impudent, and disobedient, found seats for themselves
wherever they could. Charley was certainly among the latter class, and
he did not rest therefore till he had got Katie into an old arm-chair in
one corner of the room, in such a position as to enable himself to eat
his own supper leaning against the chimney-piece.

'I say, Johnson,' said he, 'do bring me some ham and chicken--it's for a
lady--I'm wedged up here and can't get out--and, Johnson, some sherry.'

The good-natured young Weights obeyed, and brought the desired
provisions.

'And Johnson--upon my word I'm sorry to be so troublesome--but one more
plateful if you please--for another lady--a good deal, if you please,
for this lady, for she's very hungry; and some more sherry.'

Johnson again obeyed--the Weights are always obedient--and Charley of
course appropriated the second portion to his own purposes.

'Oh, Charley, that was a fib--now wasn't it? You shouldn't have said it
was for a lady.'

'But then I shouldn't have got it.'

'Oh, but that's no reason; according to that everybody might tell a fib
whenever they wanted anything.'

'Well, everybody does--everybody except you, Katie.'

'O no,' said Katie--'no they don't--mamma, and Linda, and Gertrude never
do; nor Harry Norman, he never does, nor Alaric.'

'No, Harry Norman never does,' said Charley, with something like
vexation in his tone. He made no exception to Katie's list of
truth-tellers, but he was thinking within himself whether Alaric had a
juster right to be in the catalogue than himself. 'Harry Norman never
does, certainly. You must not compare me with them, Katie. They are
patterns of excellence. I am all the other way, as everybody knows.' He
was half laughing as he spoke, but Katie's sharp ear knew that he was
more than half in earnest, and she felt she had pained him by what she
had said.

'Oh, Charley, I didn't mean that; indeed I did not. I know that in all
serious things you are as truthful as they are--and quite as good--that
is, in many ways.' Poor Katie! she wanted to console him, she wanted to
be kind, and yet she could not be dishonest.

'Quite as good! no, you know I am not.'

'You are as good-hearted, if not better; and you will be as steady,
won't you, Charley? I am sure you will; and I know you are more clever,
really more clever than either of them.'

'Oh! Katie.'

'I am quite sure you are. I have always said so; don't be angry with me
for what I said.'

'Angry with you! I couldn't be angry with you.'

'I wouldn't, for the world, say anything to vex you. I like you better
than either of them, though Alaric is my brother-in-law. Of course I do;
how could I help it, when you saved my life?'

'Saved your life! Pooh! I didn't save your life. Any boy could have done
the same, or any waterman about the place. When you fell in, the person
who was nearest you pulled you out, that was all.'

There was something almost approaching to ferocity in his voice as he
said this; and yet when Katie timidly looked up she saw that he had
turned his back to the room, and that his eyes were full of tears. He
had felt that he was loved by this child, but that he was loved from a
feeling of uncalled-for gratitude. He could not stop to analyse this,
to separate the sweet from the bitter; but he knew that the latter
prevailed. It is so little flattering to be loved when such love is the
offspring of gratitude. And then when that gratitude is unnecessary,
when it has been given in mistake for supposed favours, the acceptance
of such love is little better than a cheat!

'That was not all,' said Katie, very decidedly. 'It never shall be all
in my mind. If you had not been with us I should now have been drowned,
and cold, and dead; and mamma! where would she have been? Oh! Charley, I
shall think myself so wicked if I have said anything to vex you.'

Charley did not analyse his feelings, nor did Katie analyse hers. It
would have been impossible for her to do so. But could she have done it,
and had she done it, she would have found that her gratitude was but the
excuse which she made to herself for a passionate love which she could
not have excused, even to herself, in any other way.

He said everything he could to reassure her and make her happy, and she
soon smiled and laughed again.

'Now, that's what my editor would call a Nemesis,' said Charley.

'Oh, that's a Nemesis, is it?'

'Johnson was cheated into doing my work, and getting me my supper; and
then you scolded me, and took away my appetite, so that I couldn't eat
it; that's a Nemesis. Johnson is avenged, only, unluckily, he doesn't
know it, and wickedness is punished.'

'Well, mind you put it into the _Daily Delight_. But all the girls are
going upstairs; pray let me get out,' and so Katie went upstairs again.

It was then past one. About two hours afterwards, Gertrude, looking for
her sister that she might take her home, found her seated on a bench,
with her feet tucked under her dress. She was very much fatigued, and
she looked to be so; but there was still a bright laughing sparkle in
her eye, which showed that her spirits were not even yet weary.

'Well, Katie, have you had enough dancing?'

'Nearly,' said Katie, yawning.

'You look as if you couldn't stand.'

'Yes, I am too tired to stand; but still I think I could dance a little
more, only--'

'Only what?'

'Whisper,' said Katie; and Gertrude put down her ear near to her
sister's lips. 'Both my shoes are quite worn out, and my toes are all
out on the floor.'

It was clearly time for them to go home, so away they all went.



CHAPTER XXVII

EXCELSIOR


The last words that Katie spoke as she walked down Mrs. Val's hall,
leaning on Charley's arm, as he led her to the carriage, were these--

'You will be steady, Charley, won't you? you will try to be steady,
won't you, dear Charley?' and as she spoke she almost imperceptibly
squeezed the arm on which she was leaning. Charley pressed her little
hand as he parted from her, but he said nothing. What could he say, in
that moment of time, in answer to such a request? Had he made the reply
which would have come most readily to his lips, it would have been this:
'It is too late, Katie--too late for me to profit by a caution, even
from you--no steadiness now will save me.' Katie, however, wanted no
other answer than the warm pressure which she felt on her hand.

And then, leaning back in the carriage, and shutting her eyes, she
tried to think quietly over the events of the night. But it was, alas! a
dream, and yet so like reality that she could not divest herself of the
feeling that the ball was still going on. She still seemed to see the
lights and hear the music, to feel herself whirled round the room, and
to see others whirling, whirling, whirling on every side of her. She
thought over all the names on her card, and the little contests that
had taken place for her hand, and all Charley's jokes, and M. de
l'Empereur's great disaster; and then as she remembered how long she had
gone on twisting round with the poor unfortunate ill-used Frenchman, she
involuntarily burst out into a fit of laughter.

'Good gracious, Katie, what is the matter? I thought you were asleep,'
said Gertrude.

'So did I,' said Linda. 'What on earth can you be laughing at now?'

'I was laughing at myself,' said Katie, still going on with her
half-suppressed chuckle, 'and thinking what a fool I was to go on
dancing so long with that M. de l'Empereur. Oh dear, Gertrude, I am so
tired: shall we be home soon?' and then she burst out crying.

The excitement and fatigue of the day had been too much for her, and
she was now completely overcome. Ugolina Neverbend's advice, though not
quite given in the kindest way, had in itself been good. Mrs. Woodward
would, in truth, have been unhappy could she have seen her child at this
moment. Katie made an attempt to laugh off her tears, but she failed,
and her sobs then became hysterical, and she lay with her head on her
married sister's shoulder, almost choking herself in her attempts to
repress them.

'Dear Katie, don't sob so,' said Linda--'don't cry, pray don't cry, dear
Katie.'

'She had better let it have its way,' said Gertrude; 'she will be better
directly, won't you, Katie?'

In a little time she was better, and then she burst out laughing again.
'I wonder why the man went on when he was so tired. What a stupid man he
must be!'

Gertrude and Linda both laughed in order to comfort her and bring her
round.

'Do you know, I think it was because he didn't know how to say 'stop' in
English;' and then she burst out laughing again, and that led to another
fit of hysterical tears.

When they reached home Gertrude and Linda soon got her into bed. Linda
was to sleep with her, and she also was not very long in laying her head
on her pillow. But before she did so Katie was fast asleep, and twice in
her sleep she cried out, 'Oh, Charley! Oh, Charley!' Then Linda guessed
how it was with her sister, and in the depths of her loving heart she
sorrowed for the coming grief which she foresaw.

When the morning came Katie was feverish, and had a headache. It was
thought better that she should remain in town, and Alaric took Linda
down to Hampton. The next day Mrs. Woodward came up, and as the invalid
was better she took her home. But still she was an invalid. The doctor
declared that she had never quite recovered from her fall into the
river, and prescribed quiet and cod-liver oil. All the truth about the
Chiswick fête and the five hours' dancing, and the worn-out shoes, was
not told to him, or he might, perhaps, have acquitted the water-gods of
the injury. Nor was it all, perhaps, told to Mrs. Woodward.

'I'm afraid she tired herself at the ball,' said Mrs. Woodward.

'I think she did a little,' said Linda.

'Did she dance much?' said Mrs. Woodward, looking anxiously.

'She did dance a good deal,' said Linda.

Mrs. Woodward was too wise to ask any further questions.

As it was a fine night Alaric had declared his intention of walking home
from Mrs. Val's party, and he and Charley started together. They soon
parted on their roads, but not before Alaric had had time to notice
Charley's perverse stupidity as to Miss Golightly.

'So you wouldn't take my advice about Clementina?' said he.

'It was quite impossible, Alaric,' said Charley, in an apologetic voice.
'I couldn't do it, and, what is more, I am sure I never shall.'

'No, not now; you certainly can't do it now. If I am not very much
mistaken, the chance is gone. I think you'll find she engaged herself to
that Frenchman to-night.'

'Very likely,' said Charley.

'Well--I did the best I could for you. Good night, old fellow.'

'I'm sure I'm much obliged to you. Good night,' said Charley.

Alaric's suggestion with reference to the heiress was quite correct: M.
Jaquêtanàpe had that night proposed, and been duly accepted. He was to
present himself to his loved one's honourable mother on the following
morning as her future son-in-law, comforted and supported in his task of
doing so by an assurance from the lady that if her mother would not
give her consent the marriage should go on all the same without it. How
delightful to have such a dancer for her lover! thought Clementina. That
was her 'Excelsior.'

Charley walked home with a sad heart. He had that day given a pledge
that he would on the morrow go to the 'Cat and Whistle,' and visit his
lady-love. Since the night when he sat there with Norah Geraghty on his
knee, now nearly a fortnight since, he had spent but little of his
time there. He had, indeed, gone there once or twice with his friend
Scatterall, but had contrived to avoid any confidential intercourse
with either the landlady or the barmaid, alleging, as an excuse for his
extra-ordinary absence, that his time was wholly occupied by the demands
made on it by the editor of the _Daily Delight_. Mrs. Davis, however,
was much too sharp, and so also we may say was Miss Geraghty, to be
deceived. They well knew that such a young man as Charley would go
wherever his inclination led him. Till lately it had been all but
impossible to get him out of the little back parlour at the 'Cat and
Whistle'; now it was nearly as difficult to get him into it. They both
understood what this meant.

'You'd better take up with Peppermint and have done with it,' said the
widow. 'What's the good of your shilly-shallying till you're as thin as
a whipping-post? If you don't mind what you're after he'll be off too.'

'And the d---- go along with him,' said Miss Geraghty, who had still
about her a twang of the County Clare, from whence she came.

'With all my heart,' said Mrs. Davis; 'I shall save my hundred pounds:
but if you'll be led by me you'll not throw Peppermint over till you're
sure of the other; and, take my word for it, you're----'

'I hate Peppermint.'

'Nonsense; he's an honest good sort of man, and a deal more likely to
keep you out of want than the other.'

Hereupon Norah began to cry, and to wipe her beautiful eyes with the
glass-cloth. Hers, indeed, was a cruel position. Her face was her
fortune, and her fortune she knew was deteriorating from day to day. She
could not afford to lose the lover that she loved, and also the lover
that she did not love. Matrimony with her was extremely desirable, and
she was driven to confess that it might very probably be either now or
never. Much as she hated Peppermint, she was quite aware that she would
take him if she could not do better. But then, was it absolutely certain
that she must lose the lover that so completely suited her taste? Mrs.
Davis said it was. Norah herself, confiding, as it is so natural that
ladies should do, a little too much in her own beauty, thought that she
couldn't but have a chance left. She also had her high aspirations; she
desired to rise in the world, to leave goes of gin and screws of tobacco
behind her, and to reach some position more worthy of the tastes of a
woman. 'Excelsior,' translated doubtless into excellent Irish, was
her motto also. It would be so great a thing to be the wife of Charles
Tudor, Esq., of the Civil Service, and more especially as she dearly and
truly loved the same Charles Tudor in her heart of hearts.

She knew, however, that it was not for her to indulge in the luxury of
a heart, if circumstances absolutely forbade it. To eat and drink and
clothe herself, and, if possible, to provide eating and drinking and
clothes for her future years, this was the business of life, this was
the only real necessity. She had nothing to say in opposition to Mrs.
Davis, and therefore she went on crying, and again wiped her eyes with
the glass-cloth.

Mrs. Davis, however, was no stern monitor, unindulgent to the weakness
of human nature. When she saw how Norah took to heart her sad fate, she
resolved to make one more effort in her favour. She consequently dressed
herself very nicely, put on her best bonnet, and took the unprecedented
step of going off to the Internal Navigation, and calling on Charley in
the middle of his office.

Charley was poking over the Kennett and Avon lock entries, with his
usual official energy, when the office messenger came up and informed
him that a lady was waiting to see him.

'A lady!' said Charley: 'what lady?' and he immediately began thinking
of the Woodwards, whom he was to meet that afternoon at Chiswick.

'I'm sure I can't say, sir: all that she said was that she was a lady,'
answered the messenger, falsely, for he well knew that the woman was
Mrs. Davis, of the 'Cat and Whistle.'

Now the clerks at the Internal Navigation were badly off for a
waiting-room; and in no respect can the different ranks of different
public offices be more plainly seen than in the presence or absence of
such little items of accommodation as this. At the Weights and
Measures there was an elegant little chamber, carpeted, furnished
with leathern-bottomed chairs, and a clock, supplied with cream-laid
note-paper, new pens, and the _Times_ newspaper, quite a little Elysium,
in which to pass half an hour, while the Secretary, whom one had called
to see, was completing his last calculation on the matter of the decimal
coinage. But there were no such comforts at the Internal Navigation.
There was, indeed, a little room at the top of the stairs, in which
visitors were requested to sit down; but even here two men were always
at work--at work, or else at play.

Into this room Mrs. Davis was shown, and there Charley found her. Long
and intimately as the young navvy had been acquainted with the landlady
of the 'Cat and Whistle,' he had never before seen her arrayed for the
outer world. It may be doubted whether Sir John Falstaff would, at the
first glance, have known even Dame Quickly in her bonnet, that is, if
Dame Quickly in those days had had a bonnet. At any rate Charley was at
fault for a moment, and was shaking hands with the landlady before he
quite recognized who she was.

The men in the room, however, had recognized her, and Charley well knew
that they had done so.

'Mr. Tudor,' she began, not a bit abashed, 'I want to know what it is
you are a-going to do?'

Though she was not abashed, Charley was, and very much so. However,
he contrived to get her out of the room, so that he might speak to her
somewhat more privately in the passage. The gentlemen at the Internal
Navigation were well accustomed to this mode of colloquy, as their
tradesmen not unfrequently called, with the view of having a little
conversation, which could not conveniently be held in the public room.

'And, Mr. Tudor, what are you a-going to do about that poor girl there?'
said Mrs. Davis, as soon as she found herself in the passage, and saw
that Charley was comfortably settled with his back against the wall.

'She may go to Hong-Kong for me.' That is what Charley should have said.
But he did not say it. He had neither the sternness of heart nor the
moral courage to enable him to do so. He was very anxious, it is true,
to get altogether quit of Norah Geraghty; but his present immediate care
was confined to a desire of getting Mrs. Davis out of the office.

'Do!' said Charley. 'Oh, I don't know; I'll come and settle something
some of these days; let me see when--say next Tuesday.'

'Settle something,' said Mrs. Davis. 'If you are an honest man, as I
take you, there is only one thing to settle; when do you mean to marry
her?'

'Hush!' said Charley; for, as she was speaking, Mr. Snape came down
the passage leading from Mr. Oldeschole's room. 'Hush!' Mr. Snape as he
passed walked very slowly, and looked curiously round into the widow's
face. 'I'll be even with you, old fellow, for that,' said Charley to
himself; and it may be taken for granted that he kept his word before
long.

'Oh! it is no good hushing any more,' said Mrs. Davis, hardly waiting
till Mr. Snape's erect ears were out of hearing. 'Hushing won't do no
good; there's that girl a-dying, and her grave'll be a-top of your head,
Mr. Tudor; mind I tell you that fairly; so now I want to know what it to
you're a-going to do.' And then Mrs. Davis lifted up the lid of a market
basket which hung on her left arm, took out her pocket-handkerchief, and
began to wipe her eyes.

Unfortunate Charley! An idea occurred to him that he might bolt and
leave her. But then the chances were that she would make her way into
his very room, and tell her story there, out before them all. He well
knew that this woman was capable of many things if her temper were
fairly roused. And yet what could he say to her to induce her to go out
from that building, and leave him alone to his lesser misfortunes?

'She's a-dying, I tell you, Mr. Tudor,' continued the landlady, 'and if
she do die, be sure of this, I won't be slow to tell the truth about it.
I'm the only friend she's got, and I'm not going to see her put upon.
So just tell me this in two words--what is it you're a-going to do?' And
then Mrs. Davis replaced her kerchief in the basket, stood boldly erect
in the middle of the passage, waiting for Charley's answer.

Just at this moment Mr. Snape again appeared in the passage, going
towards Mr. Oldeschole's room. The pernicious old man! He hated Charley
Tudor; and, to tell the truth, there was no love lost between them.
Charley, afflicted and out of spirits as he was at the moment, could not
resist the opportunity of being impertinent to his old foe: 'I'm afraid
you'll make yourself very tired, Mr. Snape, if you walk about so much,'
said he. Mr. Snape merely looked at him, and then hard at Mrs. Davis,
and passed on to Mr. Oldeschole's room.

'Well, Mr. Tudor, will you be so good as to tell me what it is you're
going to do about this poor girl?'

'My goodness, Mrs. Davis, you know how I am situated--how can you expect
me to give an answer to such a question in such a place as this? I'll
come to the 'Cat and Whistle' on Tuesday.'

'Gammon!' said the eloquent lady. 'You know you means gammon.'

Charley, perhaps, did mean gammon; but he protested that he had never
been more truthfully in earnest in his life. Mr. Oldeschole's door
opened, and Mrs. Davis perceiving it, whipped out her handkerchief
in haste, and again began wiping her eyes, not without audible sobs.
'Confound the woman!' said Charley to himself; 'what on earth shall I do
with her?'

Mr. Oldeschole's door opened, and out of it came Mr. Oldeschole, and Mr.
Snape following him. What means the clerk had used to bring forth the
Secretary need not now be inquired. Forth they both came, and passed
along the passage, brushing close by Charley and Mrs. Davis; Mr.
Oldeschole, when he saw that one of the clerks was talking to a woman
who apparently was crying, looked very intently on the ground, and
passed by with a quick step; Mr. Snape looked as intently at the woman,
and passed very slowly. Each acted according to his lights.

'I don't mean gammon at all, Mrs. Davis--indeed, I don't--I'll be there
on Tuesday night certainly, if not sooner--I will indeed--I shall be in
a desperate scrape if they see me here talking to you any longer; there
is a rule against women being in the office at all.'

'And there's a rule against the clerks marrying, I suppose,' said Mrs.
Davis.

The colloquy ended in Charley promising to spend the Saturday evening at
the 'Cat and Whistle,' with the view of then and there settling what
he meant to do about 'that there girl'; nothing short of such an
undertaking on his part would induce Mrs. Davis to budge. Had she known
her advantage she might have made even better terms. He would almost
rather have given her a written promise to marry her barmaid, than have
suffered her to remain there till Mr. Oldeschole should return and see
her there again. So Mrs. Davis, with her basket and pocket-handkerchief,
went her way about her marketing, and Charley, as he returned to his
room, gave the strictest injunctions to the messenger that not, on any
ground or excuse whatever, was any woman to be again allowed to see him
at the office.

When, therefore, on the fine summer morning, with the early daylight
all bright around him, Charley walked home from Mrs. Val's party, he
naturally felt sad enough. He had one sixpence left in his pocket;
he was engaged to spend the evening of the following day with the
delightful Norah at the 'Cat and Whistle,' then and there to plight her
his troth, in whatever formal and most irretrievable manner Mrs. Davis
might choose to devise; and as he thought of these things he had ringing
in his ears the last sounds of that angel voice, 'You will be steady,
Charley, won't you? I know you will, dear Charley--won't you now?'

Steady! Would not the best thing for him be to step down to Waterloo
Bridge and throw himself over? He still had money enough left to pay the
toll--though not enough to hire a pistol. And so he went home and got
into bed.

On that same day, the day that was to witness Charley's betrothal to
Miss Geraghty, and that of M. Jaquêtanàpe with Miss Golightly, Alaric
Tudor had an appointment with Sir Gregory Hardlines at the new office
of the Civil Service Examination Board. Alaric had been invited to wait
upon the great man, in terms which made him perfectly understand that
the communication to be made was one which would not be unpleasing or
uncomplimentary to himself. Indeed, he pretty well guessed what was to
be said to him. Since his promotion at the Weights and Measures he had
gone on rising in estimation as a man of value to the Civil Service at
large. Nearly two years had now passed since that date, and in these
pages nothing has been said of his official career during the time. It
had, however, been everything that he or his friends could have wished
it to be. He had so put himself forward as absolutely to have satisfied
the actual chief clerk of his office, and was even felt by some of the
secretaries to be treading very closely on their heels.

And yet a great portion of his time had been spent, not at the Weights
and Measures, but in giving some sort of special assistance to Sir
Gregory's Board. The authorities at the Weights and Measures did not
miss him; they would have been well content that he should have remained
for ever with Sir Gregory.

He had also become somewhat known to the official world, even beyond the
confines of the Weights and Measures, or the Examination Board. He had
changed his club, and now belonged to the Downing. He had there been
introduced by his friend Undy to many men, whom to know should be the
very breath in the nostrils of a rising official aspirant. Mr. Whip
Vigil, of the Treasury, had more than once taken him by the hand, and
even the Chancellor of the Exchequer usually nodded to him whenever that
o'ertasked functionary found a moment to look in at the official club.

Things had not been going quite smoothly at the Examination Board.
Tidings had got about that Mr. Jobbles was interfering with Sir Gregory,
and that Sir Gregory didn't like it. To be sure, when this had been
indiscreetly alluded to in the House by one of those gentlemen who
pass their leisure hours in looking out for raws in the hide of the
Government carcass, some other gentleman, some gentleman from the
Treasury bench, had been able to give a very satisfactory reply. For
why, indeed, should any gentleman sit on the Treasury bench if he be
not able, when so questioned, to give very satisfactory replies? Giving
satisfactory replies to ill-natured questions is, one may say, the
constitutional work of such gentlemen, who have generally well learned
how to do so, and earned their present places by asking the selfsame
questions themselves, when seated as younger men in other parts of the
House.

But though the answer given in this instance was so eminently
satisfactory as to draw down quite a chorus of triumphant acclamations
from the official supporters of Government, nevertheless things had not
gone on at the Board quite as smoothly as might have been desirable. Mr.
Jobbles was enthusiastically intent on examining the whole adult male
population of Great Britain, and had gone so far as to hint that
female competitors might, at some future time, be made subject to his
all-measuring rule and compass. Sir Gregory, however, who, having passed
his early days in an office, may, perhaps, be supposed to have had
some slight prejudice remaining in favour of ancient customs, was not
inclined to travel so quickly. Moreover, he preferred following his own
lead, to taking any other lead whatever that Mr. Jobbles might point out
as preferable.

Mr. Jobbles wanted to crush all patronage at a blow; any system of
patronage would lamentably limit the number of candidates among whom his
examination papers would be distributed. He longed to behold, crowding
around him, an attendance as copious as Mr. Spurgeon's, and to see every
head bowed over the posing questions which he should have dictated. No
legion could be too many for him. He longed to be at this great work;
but his energies were crushed by the opposition of his colleagues. Sir
Gregory thought--and Sir Warwick, though he hardly gave a firm support
to Sir Gregory, would not lend his countenance to Mr. Jobbles--Sir
Gregory thought that enough would be done for the present, if they
merely provided that every one admitted into the Service should be
educated in such a manner as to be fit for any profession or calling
under the sun; and that, with this slight proviso, the question of
patronage might for the present remain untouched. 'Do you,' he would
have said to the great officers of Government, 'appoint whom you like.
In this respect remain quite unfettered. I, however, I am the St. Peter
to whom are confided the keys of the Elysium. Do you send whatever
candidates you please: it is for me merely to say whether or not they
shall enter.' But Mr. Jobbles would have gone much farther. He would
have had all mankind for candidates, and have selected from the whole
mass those most worthy of the high reward. And so there was a split
at the Examination Board, which was not to be healed even by the very
satisfactory reply given by the Treasury gentleman in the House of
Commons.

Neither Sir Gregory nor his rival were men likely to give way, and it
soon appeared manifest to the powers that be, that something must be
done. It therefore came to light that Mr. Jobbles had found that his
clerical position was hardly compatible with a seat at a lay board, and
he retired to the more congenial duties of a comfortable prebendal stall
at Westminster. 'So that by his close vicinity,' as was observed by a
newspaper that usually supported the Government, 'he might be able to be
of material use, whenever his advice should be required by the Board of
Commissioners.' Sir Gregory in the meantime was instructed to suggest
the name of another colleague; and, therefore, he sent for Alaric Tudor.

Alaric, of course, knew well what had been going on at the Board. He had
been Sir Gregory's confidential man all through; had worked out cases
for him, furnished him with arguments, backed his views, and had
assisted him, whenever such a course had been necessary, in holding Mr.
Jobbles' head under the pump. Alaric knew well on which side his
bread was buttered, and could see with a glance which star was in the
ascendant; he perfectly understood the points and merits of the winning
horse. He went in to win upon Sir Gregory, and he won. When Mr. Jobbles
made his last little speech at the Board, and retired to his house in
the Dean's yard, Alaric felt tolerably certain that he himself would be
invited to fill the vacant place.

And he was so invited. 'That is £1,200 a year, at any rate,' said he
to himself, as with many words of submissive gratitude he thanked his
patron for the nomination. 'That is £1,200 a year. So far, so good.
And now what must be the next step? Excelsior! It is very nice to be a
Commissioner, and sit at a Board at Sir Gregory's right hand: much
nicer than being a junior clerk at the Weights and Measures, like Harry
Norman. But there are nicer things even than that; there are greater men
even than Sir Gregory; richer figures than even £1,200 a year!'

So he went to his old office, wrote his resignation, and walked home
meditating to what next step above he should now aspire to rise.
'Excelsior!' he still said to himself, 'Excelsior!'

At the same moment Charley was leaving the Internal Navigation, and as
he moved with unusual slowness down the steps, he bethought himself how
he might escape from the fangs of his Norah; how, if such might still
be possible, he might fit himself for the love of Katie Woodward.
Excelsior! such also was the thought of his mind; but he did not dare to
bring the word to utterance. It was destined that his thoughts should be
interrupted by no very friendly hand.



CHAPTER XXVIII

OUTERMAN _v_ TUDOR


Charley sat at his office on the Saturday afternoon, very meditative and
unlike himself. What was he to do when his office hours were over? In
the first place he had not a shilling in the world to get his dinner.
His habit was to breakfast at home at his lodgings with Harry, and
then to dine, as best he might, at some tavern, if he had not the good
fortune to be dining out. He had a little dinner bill at a house which
he frequented in the Strand; but the bill he knew had reached its
culminating point. It would, he was aware, be necessary that it should
be decreased, not augmented, at the next commercial transaction which
might take place between him and the tavern-keeper.

This was not the first time by many in which he had been in a similar
plight--but his resource in such case had been to tell the truth
gallantly to his friend Mrs. Davis; and some sort of viands, not at all
unprepossessing to him in his hunger, would always be forthcoming for
him at the 'Cat and Whistle.' This supply was now closed to him. Were
he, under his present circumstances, to seek for his dinner from the
fair hands of Norah Geraghty, it would be tantamount to giving himself
up as lost for ever.

This want of a dinner, however, was a small misfortune in comparison
with others which afflicted him. Should or should he not keep his
promise to Mrs. Davis, and go to the 'Cat and Whistle' that evening?
That was the question which disturbed his equanimity, and hindered him
from teasing Mr. Snape in his usual vivacious manner.

And here let it not be said that Charley must be altogether despicable
in being so weak; that he is not only a vulgar rake in his present
habits, but a fool also, and altogether spiritless, and of a low
disposition. Persons who may so argue of him, who so argue of those
whom they meet in the real living world, are ignorant of the twists and
turns, and rapid changes in character which are brought about by outward
circumstances. Many a youth, abandoned by his friends to perdition on
account of his folly, might have yet prospered, had his character not
been set down as gone, before, in truth, it was well formed. It is not
one calf only that should be killed for the returning prodigal. Oh,
fathers, mothers, uncles, aunts, guardians, and elderly friends in
general, kill seven fatted calves if seven should unfortunately be
necessary!

And then there was a third calamity. Charley had, at this moment, in his
pocket a certain document, which in civil but still somewhat peremptory
language invited him to meet a very celebrated learned pundit, being
no less than one of Her Majesty's puisne judges, at some court in
Westminster, to explain why he declined to pay to one Nathaniel
Outerman, a tailor, the sum of &c., &c., &c.; and the document then
went on to say, that any hesitation on Charley's part to accept this
invitation would be regarded as great contempt shown to the said learned
pundit, and would be treated accordingly. Now Charley had not paid the
slightest attention to this requisition from the judge. It would, he
conceived, have been merely putting his head into the lion's mouth to do
so. But yet he knew that such documents meant something; that the day of
grace was gone by, and that Mr. Nathaniel Outerman would very speedily
have him locked up.

So Charley sat meditative over his lock entries, and allowed even his
proposed vengeance on Mr. Snape to be delayed.

'I say, Charley,' said Scatterall, coming over and whispering to him,
'you couldn't lend me half a crown, could you?'

Charley said nothing, but looked on his brother navvy in a manner that
made any other kind of reply quite unnecessary.

'I was afraid it was so,' said Scatterall, in a melancholy voice. And
then, as if by the brilliance of his thought he had suddenly recovered
his spirits, he made a little proposition.

'I'll tell you what you might do, Charley. I put my watch up the spout
last week. It's a silver turnip, so I only got fifteen shillings;
yours is a Cox and Savary, and it's gold. I'm sure you'd get £3 for it
easily--perhaps £3 3s. Now, if you'll do that, and take my turnip
down, I'll let you have the turnip to wear, if you'll let me have ten
shillings of the money. You see, you'd get clear--let me see how much.'
And Scatterall went to work with a sheet of foolscap paper, endeavouring
to make some estimate of what amount of ready cash Charley might have in
his pocket on completion of this delicate little arrangement.

'You be d----,' said Charley.

'You'll not do it, then?' said Dick.

Charley merely repeated with a little more emphasis the speech which he
had just before made.

'Oh, very well,' said Scatterall; 'there couldn't have been a fairer
bargain; at least it was all on your side; for you would have had the
watch to wear, and nearly all the money too.'

Charley still repeated the same little speech. This was uncivil; for it
had evidently been looked on by Scatterall as unsatisfactory.

'Oh, very well,' said that gentleman, now in a state of mild anger--'only
I saw that you had a fine new purse, and I thought you'd wish to
have something to put in it.'

Charley again repeated his offensive mandate; but he did it in a spirit
of bravado, in order to maintain his reputation. The allusion to the
purse made him sadder than ever. He put his hand into his breast-pocket,
and felt that it was near his heart: and then he fancied that he again
heard her words--'You will be steady; won't you, dear Charley?'

At four o'clock, he was by no means in his usual hurry to go away, and
he sat there drawing patterns on his blotting-paper, and chopping up
a stick of sealing-wax with his penknife, in a very disconsolate way.
Scatterall went. Corkscrew went. Mr. Snape, having carefully brushed his
hat and taken down from its accustomed peg the old cotton umbrella, also
took his departure; and the fourth navvy, who inhabited the same room,
went also. The iron-fingered hand of time struck a quarter past four
on the Somerset House clock, and still Charley Tudor lingered at his
office. The maid who came to sweep the room was thoroughly amazed, and
knew that something must be wrong.

Just as he was about to move, Mr. Oldeschole came bustling into
the room. 'Where is Corkscrew?' said he. 'Gone,' said Charley. 'And
Scatterall?' asked Oldeschole. 'Gone, sir,' said Charley. 'And Mr.
Snape?' said the Secretary. 'Oh, he is gone, of course,' said Charley,
taking his revenge at last.

'Then, Mr. Tudor, I must trouble you to copy these papers for me at
once. They are wanted immediately for Sir Gregory Hardlines.' It was
quite clear that Mr. Oldeschole was very much in earnest about the job,
and that he was rejoiced to find that he still had one clerk to aid him.

Charley sat down and did the required work. On any other day he would
greatly have disliked such a summons, but now he did not care much about
it. He made the copies, however, as quickly as he could, and then took
them in to Mr. Oldeschole.

The worthy Secretary rewarded him by a lecture; a lecture, however,
which, as Charley well understood, was intended all in kindness. He told
him how Mr. Snape complained of him, how the office books told against
him, how the clerks talked, and all Somerset House made stories of
his grotesque iniquities. With penitential air Charley listened and
promised. Mr. Oldeschole promised also that bygones should be bygones.
'I wonder whether the old cock would lend me a five-pound note! I
dare say he would,' said Charley to himself, as he left the office. He
abstained, however, from asking for it.

Returning to his room, he took his hat and went downstairs. As he was
sauntering forth through the archway into the Strand, a man with a
decent coat but a very bad hat came up to him.

'I'm afraid I must trouble you to go with me, Mr. Tudor,' said the man.

'All right,' said Charley; 'Outerman, I suppose; isn't it?'

'All right,' said the bailiff.

And away the two walked together to a sponging-house in Cursitor Street.

Charley had been arrested at the suit of Mr. Outerman, the tailor.
He perfectly understood the fact, and made no special objection to
following the bailiff. One case was at any rate off his mind; he could
not now, be his will to do so ever so good, keep his appointment with
Norah Geraghty. Perhaps it was quite as well for him to be arrested
just at this moment, as be left at liberty. It must have come sooner
or later. So he walked on with the bailiff not without some feeling of
consolation.

The man had suggested to him a cab; but Charley had told him, without
the slightest _mauvaise honte_, that he had not about him the means of
paying for a cab. The man again suggested that perhaps he had better
go home and get some money, as he would find it in Cursitor Street very
desirable to have some. To this Charley replied that neither had he any
money at home.

'That's blue,' said the man.

'It is rather blue,' said Charley; and on they went very amicably
arm-in-arm.

We need not give any detailed description of Charley's prison-house. He
was luckily not detained there so long as to make it necessary that we
should become acquainted with his fellow-captives, or even have much
intercourse with his jailers. He was taken to the sponging-house, and it
was there imparted to him that he had better send for two things--first
of all for money, which was by far the more desirable of the two; and
secondly, for bail, which even if forthcoming was represented as being
at best but a dubious advantage.

'There's Mrs. Davis, she'd bail you, of course, and willing,' said the
bailiff.

'Mrs. Davis!' said Charley, surprised that the man should know aught of
his personal acquaintances.

'Yes, Mrs. Davis of the 'Cat and Whistle.' She'd do it in course, along
of Miss Geraghty.'

Charley perceived with a shudder that his matrimonial arrangements were
known and talked of even in the distant world of Cursitor Street. He
declined, however, the assistance of the landlady, which no doubt would
have been willingly forthcoming, and was divided between his three
friends, Alaric, Harry, and Mr. M'Ruen. Alaric was his cousin and his
natural resource in such a position, but he had lately rejected
Alaric's advice, and now felt a disinclination to call upon him in
his difficulty. Harry he knew would assist him, would at once pay Mr.
Outerman's bill, and relieve him from all immediate danger; but the
sense of what he already owed to Norman made him unwilling to incur
further obligations;--so he decided on sending for Mr. M'Ruen. In spite
of his being so poorly supplied with immediate cash, it was surmised
from his appearance, clothes, and known rank, that any little outlay
made in his behalf would be probably repaid, and he was therefore
furnished with a messenger on credit. This man was first to call at Mr.
M'Ruen's with a note, and then to go to Charley's lodgings and get his
brushes, razors, &c., these being the first necessaries of life for
which a man naturally looks when once overtaken by such a misfortune as
that with which Charley was now afflicted.

In the process of time the brushes and razors came, and so did Mr.
M'Ruen.

'This is very kind of you,' said Charley, in rather a doleful voice, for
he was already becoming tired of Cursitor Street.

Mr. M'Ruen twisted his head round inside his cravat, and put out three
fingers by way of shaking hands with the prisoner.

'You seem pretty comfortable here,' said M'Ruen. Charley dissented to
this, and said that he was extremely uncomfortable.

'And what is it that I can do for you, Mr. Tudor?' said M'Ruen.

'Do for me! Why, bail me, to be sure; they won't let me out unless
somebody bails me. You know I shan't run away.'

'Bail you!' said M'Ruen.

'Yes, bail me,' said Charley. 'You don't mean to say that you have any
objection?'

Mr. M'Ruen looked very sharply at his young client from head to foot. 'I
don't know about bail,' he said: 'it's very dangerous, very; why didn't
you send for Mr. Norman or your cousin?'

'Because I didn't choose,' said Charley--'because I preferred sending to
some one I could pay for the trouble.'

'Ha--ha--ha,' laughed M'Ruen; 'but that's just it--can you pay? You owe
me a great deal of money, Mr. Tudor. You are so unpunctual, you know.'

'There are two ways of telling that story,' said Charley; 'but come, I
don't want to quarrel with you about that now--you go bail for me now,
and you'll find your advantage in it. You know that well enough.'

'Ha--ha--ha,' laughed the good-humoured usurer; 'ha--ha--ha--well, upon
my word I don't know. You owe me a great deal of money, Mr. Tudor. Now,
what o'clock is it by you, I wonder?'

Charley took out his watch--the Cox and Savary, before alluded to--and
said that it was past seven.

'Aye; you've a very nice watch, I see. Come, Mr. Tudor, you owe me a
great deal of money, and you are the most unpunctual young man I know;
but yet I don't like to see you distressed. I'll tell you what, now--do
you hand over your watch to me, just as a temporary loan--you can't want
it here, you know; and I'll come down and bail you out to-morrow.'

Charley declined dealing on these terms; and then Mr. M'Ruen at last
went away, leaving Charley to his fate, and lamenting quite pathetically
that he was such an unpunctual young man, so very unpunctual that it
was impossible to do anything to assist him. Charley, however, manfully
resisted the second attack upon his devoted watch.

'That's very blue, very blue indeed,' said the master of the house, as
Mr. M'Ruen took his departure--'ha'n't you got no huncles nor hants, nor
nothin' of that sort?'

Charley declared that he had lots of uncles and aunts, grandfathers and
grandmothers, and a perfect wealth of cousins, and that he would send
for some of the leading members of his family to-morrow. Satisfied with
this, the man supplied him with bread and cheese, gin and water, and
plenty of tobacco; and, fortified with these comforts, Charley betook
himself at last very lugubriously, to a filthy, uninviting bed.

He had, we have seen, sent for his brushes, and hence came escape; but
in a manner that he had little recked of, and of which, had he been
asked, he would as little have approved. Mrs. Richards, his landlady,
was not slow in learning from the messenger how it came to pass that
Charley wanted the articles of his toilet so suddenly demanded. 'Why,
you see, he's just been quodded,' said the boy.

Mrs. Richards was quite enough up to the world, and had dealt with
young men long enough, to know what this meant; nor indeed was she
much surprised. She had practical knowledge that Charley had no strong
propensity to pay his debts, and she herself was not unaccustomed to
answer the emissaries of Mr. Outerman and other greedy tradesmen who
were similarly situated. To Mrs. Richards herself Charley was not in
debt, and she had therefore nothing to embitter her own feelings against
him. Indeed, she had all that fondness for him which a lodging-house
keeper generally has for a handsome, dissipated, easy-tempered young
man; and when she heard that he had been 'quodded,' immediately made up
her mind that steps must be taken for his release.

But what was she to do? Norman, who she was aware would 'unquod' him
immediately, if he were in the way, was down at Hampton, and was
not expected to be at his lodgings for two or three days. After some
cogitation, Mrs. Richards resolved that there was nothing for it but to
go down to Hampton herself, and break the news to his friends. Charley
would not have been a bit obliged to her had he known it, but Mrs.
Richards acted for the best. There was a train down to Hampton Court
that night, and a return train to bring her home again--so off she
started.

Mrs. Woodward had on that same afternoon taken down Katie, who was still
an invalid;--Norman had gone down with them, and was to remain there
for some few days--going up and down every morning and evening. Mrs.
Woodward was sitting in the drawing-room; Linda and Katie were with her,
the latter lying in state on her sofa as invalid young ladies should
do; Captain Cuttwater was at Hampton Court, and Norman was on the water;
when a fly from the railway made its way up to the door of the Cottage.

'Mrs. Richards, ma'am,' said the demure parlour-maid, ushering in the
lodging-house keeper, who in her church-going best made a very decent
appearance.

'Oh, Mrs. Richards, how are you?' said Mrs. Woodward, who knew the woman
very well--'pray sit down--are there any news from London?'

'Oh, ma'am, such news--such bad news--Mister Charley--.' Up jumped Katie
from her sofa and stood erect upon the floor. She stood there, with her
mouth slightly open, with her eyes intently fixed on Mrs. Richards, with
her little hands each firmly clenched, drawing her breath with hard,
short, palpitating efforts. There she stood, but said nothing.

'Oh, Mrs. Richards--what is it?' said Mrs. Woodward; 'for Heaven's sake
what is the matter?'

'Oh, ma'am; he's been took,' said Mrs. Richards.

'Took!' repeated Mrs. Woodward. 'Katie, dear Katie--sit down, my
child--sit down.'

'Oh, mamma! oh, mamma!' said she, apparently unable to move, and
certainly all but unable to stand.

'Tell us, Mrs. Richards, what is it--what has happened to Mr. Tudor?'
and as she spoke Mrs. Woodward got up and passed her arm around her
younger daughter's waist--Linda also got up and joined the group.

'Why, ma'am,' said Mrs. Richards, 'he's been took by the bailiffs, and
now he's in prison.'

Katie did not faint. She never had fainted, and probably did not know
the way; but she clenched her hands still tighter, breathed harder than
before, and repeated her appeal to her mother in a voice of agony. 'Oh,
mamma! oh, mamma!'

Katie had no very accurate conception of what an arrest for debt meant.
She knew that next to death imprisonment was the severest punishment
inflicted on erring mortals, and she now heard that Charley was in
prison. She did not stop to think whether it was for his life, or for
some more limited period. It was enough for her to know, that this
terrible misfortune had come upon him, to him who, to her young fancy,
was so bright, so good, so clever, so excellent, upon him who had saved
her life--upon him whom she so dearly loved.

'Oh, mamma! oh, mamma!' she said, and then in agony she shut her eyes
and shuddered violently.

Mrs. Woodward was greatly afflicted. She was indeed sorry to hear such
tidings of Charley Tudor; but her grief was now deeper even than that.
She could not be longer blind to the sort of feeling which her child
evinced for this young man; she could not think that these passionate
bursts of overpowering sorrow were the result of mere childish
friendship; she could not but see that her Katie's bosom now held a
woman's heart, and that that heart was no longer her own.

And then Mrs. Woodward reflected of what nature, of what sort, was this
man whom she had allowed to associate with her darling, almost as a
brother does with his sister; whom she had warmed in her bosom till he
had found an opportunity of inflicting this deadly wound. With terrible
bitterness she upbraided herself as she sat down and bade Mrs. Richards
go on with her tale. She knew that nothing which could now be said would
add to Katie's anguish.

Mrs. Richards' story was soon told. It simply amounted to this--that
'Mister Charley,' as she always called him, had been arrested for debt
at the suit of a tailor, and that she had learnt the circumstances from
the fact of the prisoner having sent for his brushes.

'And so I thought the best thing was to come and tell Mr. Norman,' said
Mrs. Richards, concluding her speech.

Nothing could be done till Norman came in. Linda went out with Mrs.
Richards to get some refreshment in the dining-room, and Mrs. Woodward
sat with her arm round Katie's neck on the sofa, comforting her with
kisses and little caressing touches, but saying nothing. Katie, still
unconscious of her passion, gave way to spasmodic utterance of her own
grief.

'Oh, mamma!' she said--' what can be done? What can we do? You will do
something, mamma, won't you? Poor Charley! Dear Charley! Harry will do
something--won't he? Won't Harry go to London, and do something?'

Mrs. Woodward did what she could to quiet her. Something should be done,
she said. They must wait till Harry came in, and then settle what was
best. Nothing could be done till Harry came in. 'You must be patient,
Katie, or else you will make yourself really ill.'

Katie became afraid that she would be sent off to bed on the score
of her illness before Harry had come, and thus lose the advantage of
hearing what was the step decided on. So she sat silent in the corner of
her sofa feigning to be asleep, but pondering in her mind what sort
of penalties were the penalties of imprisonment, how dreadful, how
endurable, or how unendurable. Would they put chains on him? would they
starve him? would they cut off his beautiful brown hair?

Mrs. Woodward sat silent waiting for Harry's return. When first she had
watched Katie's extreme misery, and guessed the secret of her child's
heart, she had felt something like hard, bitter anger against Charley.
But by degrees this feeling softened down. It was by no means natural to
her, nor akin to her usual tenderness. After all, the fault hitherto was
probably more her own than his.

Mrs. Richards was sent back to town. She was thanked for the trouble she
had taken, and told that Mr. Norman would do in the matter all that was
necessary to be done. So she took her departure, and Linda returned to
the drawing-room.

Unfortunately Captain Cuttwater came in first. They none of them
mentioned Charley's misfortune to him. Charley was no favourite with
Uncle Bat, and his remarks would not have been of the most cheering
tendency.

At last Norman came also. He came, as was his wont, through the
drawing-room window, and, throwing himself into a chair, began to tell
the girls how much they had lost by not joining him on the river.

'Harry,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'step into the dining-room with me for a
moment.'

Harry got up to follow her. Katie and Linda also instantly jumped from
their seats to do the same. Mrs. Woodward looked round, and motioned
to them to stay with their uncle. Linda obediently, though reluctantly,
remained; but Katie's impulse was too strong for her. She gave
one imploring look at her mother, a look which Mrs. Woodward well
understood, and then taking silence for consent, crept into the
dining-room.

'Harry,' said Mrs. Woodward, as soon as the dining-room door was closed,
'Charley has been arrested;' and then she told him how Mrs. Richards
had been at the Cottage, and what was the nature of the tidings she had
brought.

Norman was not much surprised, nor did he feign to be so. He took
the news so coolly that Katie almost hated him. 'Did she say who had
arrested him, or what was the amount?' he asked.

Mrs. Woodward replied that she knew no more than what she had already
told. Katie stood in the shade with her eyes fixed upon her cousin, but
as yet she said nothing. How cruel, how stony-hearted must he be to hear
such dreadful tidings and remain thus undisturbed! Had Charley heard
that Norman was arrested, he would have been half way to London by this
time. So, at least, thought Katie.

'Something can be done for him, Harry, can there not? We must contrive
to do something--eh, Harry?' said Mrs. Woodward.

'I fear it is too late to do anything to-night,' said Harry, looking at
his watch. 'The last train is gone, and I could not possibly find him
out before twelve.'

'And to-morrow is Sunday,' said Mrs. Woodward.

'Oh, Harry, pray do something!' said Katie, 'pray, pray, pray, do! Oh,
Harry, think of Charley being in prison! Oh, Harry, he would do anything
for you!' and then she burst into tears, and caught hold of Harry's arm
and the front of his coat to add force to her entreaty.

'Katie,' said her mother, 'don't be so foolish. Harry will, of course,
do whatever is best.'

'But, mamma, he says he will do nothing; why does he not go at once?'

'I will go at once, dear Katie,' said he; 'I will go now directly. I
don't know whether we can set him free to-night, or even to-morrow, as
to-morrow is Sunday; but it certainly shall be done on Monday, you may
be sure of that at any rate. Whatever can be done shall be done;' and,
without further talk upon the subject, he took his hat and went his way.

'May God Almighty bless him!' said Mrs. Woodward. 'How infinitely
greater are truth and honesty than any talent, however brilliant!' She
spoke only to herself and no one even guessed what was the nature of the
comparison which she thus made.

As soon as Norman was gone, Katie went to bed: and in the morning she
was pronounced to be too unwell to get up. And, indeed, she was far from
well. During the night she only slept by short starts, and in her sleep
she was restless and uneasy; then, when she woke, she would burst out
into fits of tears, and lie sobbing hysterically till she slept again.
In the morning, Mrs. Woodward said something about Charley's misconduct,
and this threw her into a wretched state of misery, from which nothing
would rouse her till her mother promised that the prodigal should not be
thrown over and abandoned.

Poor Mrs. Woodward was in a dreadful state of doubt as to what it now
behoved her to do. She felt that, however anxious she might be to assist
Charley for his own sake, it was her bounden duty to separate him
from her child. Whatever merits he might have--and in her eyes he had
many--at any rate he had not those which a mother would desire to see
in the future husband of her daughter. He was profligate, extravagant,
careless, and idle; his prospects in life were in every respect bad;
he had no self-respect, no self-reliance, no moral strength. Was it not
absolutely necessary that she should put a stop to any love that might
have sprung up between such a man as this and her own young bright-eyed
darling?

Put a stop to it! Yes, indeed, most expedient; nay, absolutely
necessary--if it were only possible. Now, when it was too late, she
began to perceive that she had not known of what material her own child
was formed. At sixteen, Gertrude and Linda had in reality been little
more than children. In manner, Katie had been more childish even than
them, and yet--Mrs. Woodward, as she thought of these things, felt her
heart faint within her.

She was resolved that, cost what it might, Charley must be banished
from the Cottage. But at the first word of assumed displeasure that she
uttered, Katie fell into such an agony of grief that her soft heart gave
way, and she found herself obliged to promise that the sinner should be
forgiven. Katie the while was entirely unconscious of the state of her
own feelings. Had she thought that she loved him as women love, had
any thought of such love and of him together even entered her mind, she
could not have talked of him as she now talked. Had he been her brother,
she could not have been less guarded in her protestations of affection,
or more open in her appeals to her mother that he might be forgiven.
Such was her present state; but it was doomed that her eyes should soon
be opened, and that she should know her own sorrow.

On the Sunday afternoon, Norman returned to Hampton with the tidings
that Charley was once more a free man. The key of gold which he had
taken with him had been found potent enough to open all barriers, even
those with which the sanctity of Sunday had surrounded the prisoner. Mr.
Outerman, and the bailiff, and the messenger, had all been paid their
full claims, and Charley, with his combs and brushes, had returned to
the more benign custody of Mrs. Richards.

'And why didn't he come down with you?' said Katie to Norman, who had
gone up to her bedroom to give her the good tidings.

Norman looked at Mrs. Woodward, but made no reply.

'He would probably prefer remaining in town at present,' said Mrs.
Woodward. 'It will be more comfortable for him to do so.'

And then Katie was left alone to meditate why Charley should be more
comfortable after his arrest in London than at Hampton; and after
a while she thought that she had surmised the truth. 'Poor Charley!
perhaps he is ashamed. He need not be ashamed to come at any rate to
me.'



CHAPTER XXIX

EASY IS THE SLOPE OF HELL


The electors for the Tillietudlem district burghs, disgusted by the
roguery of Mr. M'Buffer, and anxiously on the alert to replace him by a
strictly honest man, returned our friend Undy by a glorious majority.
He had no less than 312 votes, as opposed to 297, and though threatened
with the pains and penalties of a petition, he was not a little elated
by his success. A petition with regard to the Tillietudlem burghs was
almost as much a matter of course as a contest; at any rate the threat
of a petition was so. Undy, however, had lived through this before, and
did not fear but that he might do so again. Threatened folks live long;
parliamentary petitions are very costly, and Undy's adversaries were, if
possible, even in more need of money than himself.

He communicated his good fortune to his friend Alaric in the following
letter:--

'Bellenden Arms, Tillietudlem, July, 185-.

'My DEAR DIRECTOR,

'Here I am once more a constituent part of the legislative wisdom of the
United Kingdom, thanks to the patriotic discretion of the pot-wallopers,
burgage-tenants, and ten-pound freeholders of these loyal towns. The
situation is a proud one; I could only wish that it had been less
expensive. I am plucked as clean as ever was pigeon; and over and above
the loss of every feather I carried, old M'Cleury, my agent here, will
have a bill against me that will hardly be settled before the next
election. I do not complain, however; a man cannot have luxuries without
paying for them; and this special luxury of serving one's country in
Parliament is one for which a man has so often to pay, without the
subsequent fruition of the thing paid for, that a successful candidate
should never grumble, however much he may have been mulcted. They
talk of a petition; but, thank God, there are still such things as
recognizances; and, moreover, to give M'Cleury his due, I do not think
he has left a hole open for them to work at. He is a thorough rascal,
but no man does better work.

'I find there is already a slight rise in the West Corks. Keep your eye
open. If you find you can realize £4 4s. or even £4, sell, and let the
West of Cork and Ballydehob go straight to the devil. We should then
be able to do better with our money. But I doubt of such a sale with
so large a stock as we hold. I got a letter yesterday from that Cork
attorney, and I find that he is quite prepared to give way about the
branch. He wants his price, of course; and he must have it. When once we
have carried that point, then it will be plain sailing; our only regret
then will be that we didn't go further into it. The calls, of course,
must be met; I shall be able to do something in October, but shall not
have a shilling sooner--unless I sell, which I will not do under 80s.

'I was delighted to hear of your promotion; not that you'll remain in
the shop long, but it gives you a better name and a better claim. Old
Golightly was buried yesterday, as of course you have heard. Mrs. Val
quite agrees with me that your name had better be put in as that of
Clem's trustee. She's going to marry that d---- Frenchman. What an
unmitigated ass that cousin of yours must be! I can't say I admire her
taste; but nevertheless she is welcome for me. It would, however, be
most scandalous if we were to allow him to get possession of her money.
He would, as a matter of course, make ducks and drakes of it in no time.
Speculate probably in some Russian railway, or Polish mine, and lose
every shilling. You will of course see it tied up tight in the hands of
the trustees, and merely pay him, or if possible her, the interest of
it. Now that I am once more in, I hope we shall be able to do something
to protect the fortunes of married women.

'You will be quite safe in laying out Clem's money, or a portion of it,
in the West Corks. Indeed, I don't know how you could well do better
with it. You will find Figgs a mere shadow. I think we can pull through
in this manner. If not we must get--to take our joint bill. He would
sooner do that than have the works stopped. But then we should have to
pay a tremendous price for it.

'So we were well out of the Mary Janes at last. The take last month was
next to nothing, and now she's full of water. Manylodes hung on till
just the last, and yet got out on his feet after all. That fellow will
make a mint of money yet. What a pity that he should be such a rogue!
If he were honest, honest enough I mean to be trusted, he might do
anything.

'I shall leave this on Wednesday night, take the oaths on Thursday, and
will see you in the evening. M'Carthy Desmond will at once move that I
be put on the West Cork Committee, in place of Nogo, who won't act. My
shares are all at present registered in Val's name. It will be well,
however, to have them all transferred to you.

'Yours ever,

'U.S.

'M'Cleury has pledged himself to put me in again without further
expense, if I have to stand before the next general election, in
consequence of taking place under Government. I earnestly hope his
sincerity may be tried.'

During the month of July, Alaric was busy enough. He had to do the work
of his new office, to attend to his somewhat critical duties as director
of the West Cork Railway, to look after the interests of Miss
Golightly, whose marriage was to take place in August, and to watch the
Parliamentary career of his friend Undy, with whose pecuniary affairs he
was now bound up in a manner which he could not avoid feeling to be very
perilous.

July passed by, and was now over, and members were looking to be
relieved from their sultry labours, and to be allowed to seek air and
exercise on the mountains. The Ballydehob branch line had received the
sanction of Parliament through the means which the crafty Undy had
so well understood how to use; but from some cause hitherto not
sufficiently fathomed, the shares had continued to be depressed in value
in spite of that desirable event. It was necessary, however, that calls
should be paid up to the amount of £5 a share, and as Undy and Alaric
held nearly a thousand shares between them, a large amount of money
was required. This, however, was made to be forthcoming from Miss
Golightly's fortune.

On the first of August that interesting young lady was married to the
man--shall we say of her heart or of her feet? The marriage went off
very nicely, but as we have already had one wedding, and as others
may perhaps be before us, we cannot spare much time or many pages to
describe how Miss Golightly became Madame Jaquêtanàpe. The lady seemed
well pleased with everything that was done, and had even in secret
but one care in the world. There was to be a dance after she and her
Victoire were gone, and she could not join in it!

We, however, are in the position, as regards Clementina, in which needy
gentlemen not unfrequently place themselves with reference to rich
heiresses. We have more concern with her money than herself. She was
married, and M. Jaquêtanàpe became the happy possessor of an income of
£800 a year. Everybody conceived him to behave well on the occasion.
He acknowledged that he had very little means of his own--about 4,000
francs a year, from rents in Paris. He expressed himself willing to
agree to any settlement, thinking, perhaps with wisdom, that he might in
this way best make sure of his wife's income, and was quite content
when informed that he would receive his quarterly payments from so
respectable a source as one of Her Majesty's Commissioners for the
regulation of the Civil Service. The Bank of France could not have
offered better security.

Thus Alaric obtained full control of Miss Golightly's fortune: for
Figgs, his co-trustee, was, as has been said, a shadow. He obtained the
full control of £20,000, and out of it he paid the calls due upon the
West Cork shares, held both by himself and Undy Scott. But he put a
salve upon his conscience, and among his private memoranda, appertaining
to that lady's money affairs he made an entry, intelligible to any who
might read it, that he had so invested this money on her behalf. The
entry was in itself a lie--a foolish, palpable lie--and yet he found in
it something to quiet remorse and stupefy his conscience.

Undy Scott had become tyrannical in his logic as soon as he had
persuaded Alaric to make use of a portion of Madame Jaquêtanàpe's
marriage portion. 'You have taken part of the girl's money,' was Undy's
argument; 'you have already converted to your own purposes so much of
her fortune; it is absurd for you now to talk of conscience and honesty,
of your high duties as a trustee, of the inviolable distinction between
meum and tuum. You have already shown that the distinction is not
inviolable; let us have no more such nonsense; there are still
left £15,000 on which we can trade; open the till, and let us go on
swimmingly with the business.'

Alaric was not addressed absolutely in these words; he would not
probably have allowed the veil with which he still shrouded his
dishonesty to be withdrawn with so rough a hand; but that which was said
was in effect the same. In September he left town for a few weeks and
went down to Scotland, still with Undy Scott. He had at first much
liked this man's society, for Scott was gay, lively, clever, and a good
companion at all points. But latterly he had become weary of him. He
now put up with him as men in business have to put up with partners whom
they may not like; or, perhaps, to speak the truth openly, he bore with
him as a rogue bears with his confederate, though he absolutely hates
his brother rogue on account of his very roguery. Alaric Tudor was now
a rogue; despite his high office, his grand ideas, his exalted ambition;
despite his talent, zeal, and well-directed official labours, he was a
rogue; a thief, a villain who had stolen the money of the orphan, who
had undertaken a trust merely that he might break it; a robber, doubly
disgraced by being a robber with an education, a Bill Sykes without any
of those excuses which a philanthropist cannot but make for wretches
brought up in infamy.

Alas, alas! how is it that in these days such men become rogues? How is
it that we see in such frightful instances the impotency of educated men
to withstand the allurements of wealth? Men are not now more keen after
the pleasures which wealth can buy than were their forefathers. One
would rather say that they are less so. The rich labour now, and work
with an assiduity that often puts to shame the sweat in which the poor
man earns his bread. The rich rogue, or the rogue that would be rich,
is always a laborious man. He allows himself but little recreation, for
dishonest labour admits of no cessation. His wheel is one which cannot
rest without disclosing the nature of the works which move it. It is not
for pleasure that men

  Put rancours in the vessel of their peace;

nor yet primarily for ambition. Men do not wish to rise by treachery,
or to become great through dishonesty. The object, the ultimate object,
which a man sets before himself, is generally a good one. But he sets
it up in so enviable a point of view, his imagination makes it so richly
desirable, by being gazed at it becomes so necessary to existence,
that its attainment is imperative. The object is good, but the means of
attaining it--the path to the object--ah! there is the slip. Expediency
is the dangerous wind by which so many of us have wrecked our little
boats.

And we do so more now than ever, because great ships, swimming in
deepest waters, have unluckily come safe to haven though wafted there
by the same pernicious wind. Every great man, who gains a great end
by dishonest means, does more to deteriorate his country and lower the
standard of his countrymen than legions of vulgar thieves, or nameless
unaspiring rogues. Who has injured us so much in this way as he whose
name still stands highest among modern politicians? Who has given so
great a blow to political honesty, has done so much to banish from men's
minds the idea of a life-ruling principle, as Sir Robert Peel?

It would shock many were we to attribute to him the roguery of the
Sadleirs and Camerons, of the Robsons and Redpaths of the present day;
but could we analyse causes and effects, we might perhaps do so with no
injustice. He has taught us as a great lesson, that a man who has before
him a mighty object may dispense with those old-fashioned rules of truth
to his neighbours and honesty to his own principles, which should guide
us in ordinary life. At what point ordinary life ends, at what
crisis objects may be considered great enough to justify the use of a
dispensing power, that he has not taught us; that no Sir Robert Peel
can teach us; that must unfortunately be left to the judgement of the
individual. How prone we are, each of us, to look on our own object as
great, how ready to make excuses for receiving such a lesson for
our guide; how willing to think that we may be allowed to use this
dispensing power ourselves--this experience teaches us in very plain
language.

Thrice in his political life did Sir Robert Peel change his
political creed, and carry, or assist to carry, with more or less of
self-gratulation, the measures of his adversaries. Thrice by doing so
he kept to himself that political power which he had fairly forfeited
by previous opposition to the requirements of his country. Such an
apposition of circumstances is at any rate suspicious. But let us give
him credit for the expression of a true belief; of a belief at first
that the corn-laws should be maintained, and then of a belief that they
should not; let us, with a forced confidence in his personal honesty,
declare so much of him; nevertheless, he should surely have felt, had he
been politically as well as personally honest, that he was not the man
to repeal them.

But it was necessary, his apologist will say, that the corn-laws should
be repealed; he saw the necessity, and yielded to it. It certainly was
necessary, very necessary, very unavoidable; absolutely necessary one
may say; a fact, which the united efforts of all the Peels of the day
could in nowise longer delay, having already delayed it to the utmost
extent of their power. It was essential that the corn-laws should be
repealed; but by no means essential that this should be done by Sir
Robert Peel.

It was a matter of indifference to us Englishmen who did the deed. But
to Sir Robert Peel it was a matter of great moment that he should do
it. He did it, and posterity will point at him as a politician without
policy, as a statesman without a principle, as a worshipper at the altar
of expediency, to whom neither vows sworn to friends, nor declarations
made to his country, were in any way binding. Had Sir Robert Peel lived,
and did the people now resolutely desire that the Church of England
should be abandoned, that Lords and Commons should bow the neck, that
the Crown should fall, who can believe that Sir Robert Peel would not
be ready to carry out their views? Readers, it may be that to you such
deeds as those are horrible even to be thought of or expressed; to me
I own that they are so. So also to Sir Robert Peel was Catholic
Emancipation horrible, so was Reform of Parliament, so was the Corn Law
Repeal. They were horrible to him, horrible to be thought of, horrible
to be expressed. But the people required these measures, and therefore
he carried them, arguing on their behalf with all the astuteness of a
practised statesman.

That Sir Robert Peel should be a worshipper of expediency might be
matter of small moment to any but his biographer, were it not that we
are so prone to copy the example of those whose names are ever in our
mouths. It has now become the doctrine of a large class of politicians
that political honesty is unnecessary, slow, subversive of a man's
interests, and incompatible with quick onward movement. Such a doctrine
in politics is to be deplored; but alas! who can confine it to politics?
It creeps with gradual, but still with sure and quick motion, into all
the doings of our daily life. How shall the man who has taught himself
that he may be false in the House of Commons, how shall he be true in
the Treasury chambers? or if false there, how true on the Exchange? and
if false there, how shall he longer have any truth within him?

And thus Alaric Tudor had become a rogue, and was obliged, as it were in
his own defence, to consort with a rogue. He went down to Scotland with
Undy, leaving his wife and child at home, not because he could thus
best amuse his few leisure days, but because this new work of his,
this laborious trade of roguery, allowed him no leisure days. When can
villany have either days or hours of leisure?

Among other things to be done in the north, Alaric was to make
acquaintance with the constituents of the little borough of Strathbogy,
which it was his ambition to represent in the next Parliament.
Strathbogy was on the confines of the Gaberlunzie property; and indeed
the lord's eldest son, who was the present member, lived almost within
the municipal boundary. Ca'stocks Cottage, as his residence was called,
was but a humble house for a peer's eldest son; but Mr. Scott was not
ashamed to live there, and there for a while he entertained his brother
Undy and Alaric Tudor. Mr. Scott intended, when the present session was
over, to retire from the labours of parliamentary life. It may be that
he thought that he had done enough for his country; it may be that the
men of Strathbogy thought that he had not done enough for them; it may
be that there was some family understanding between him and his brother.
This, however, was clear, that he did not intend to stand again himself,
and that he professed himself ready to put forward Alaric Tudor as a
worthy successor, and to give him the full benefit and weight of the
Gaberlunzie interest.

But not for nothing was Alaric to receive such important assistance.

'There are but 312 electors altogether,' said Undy one morning as
they went out shooting, 'and out of these we can command a hundred and
twenty. It must be odd if you cannot get enough outsiders to turn them
into a majority. Indeed you may look on it as a certain seat. No man in
England or Scotland could give you one more certain.'

This was not the first occasion on which Undy had spoken of all that he
was doing for his friend, and Alaric therefore, somewhat disgusted with
the subject, made no reply.

'I never had things made so easy for me when I wasn't in,' continued
Undy; 'nor have I ever found them so easy since. I don't suppose it will
cost you above £500, or at most £600, altogether.'

'Well, that will be a comfort,' said Alaric.

'A comfort! why I should say it would. What with the election and
petition together, Tillietudlem never cost me less than £2,000. It cost
me just as much, too, when I was thrown out.'

'That was a bore for you,' said Alaric.

'Upon my word you take it rather coolly,' said Undy; 'another man would
thank a fellow for putting such a nice thing in his way.'

'If the obligation be so deep,' said Alaric, becoming very red in the
face, 'I would rather not accept it. It is not too late for you to
take the cheaper seat to yourself, if you prefer it; and I will look
elsewhere.'

'Oh, of course; perhaps at Tillietudlem; but for Heaven's sake, my dear
fellow, don't let us quarrel about it. You are perfectly welcome to
whatever assistance we can give you at Strathbogy. I only meant to say
that I hope it will be efficacious. And on the score of expense I'll
tell you what we'll do--that is, if you think that fair; we'll put the
cost of the two elections together, and share and share alike.'

'Considering that the election will not take place for at least more
than twelve months, there will be time enough to settle that,' said
Alaric.

'Well, that's true, too,' said Undy; and then they went on, and for some
time separated on the mountain, complaining, when they met again, of
the game being scarce and the dogs wild, as men always do. But as they
walked home, Undy, who regretted the loss of good time, again began
about money matters.

'How many of those bridge shares will you take?' said he. This was a
projected bridge from Poplar to Rotherhithe, which had been got up by
some city gentlemen, and as to which Undy Scott was, or pretended to be,
very sanguine.

'None,' said Alaric. 'Unless I can get rid of those confounded West Cork
and Ballydehobs, I can buy nothing more of anything.'

'Believe me, my dear fellow, the Ballydehobs are no such confounded
things at all. If you are ever a rich man it will be through the
Ballydehobs. But what you say about the bridge shares is nonsense. You
have a large command of capital, and you cannot apply it better.'

Alaric winced, and wished in his heart that Clementina Jaquêtanàpe,
_née_ Golightly, with all her money, was buried deep in the bogs of
Ballydehob. Though he was a rogue, he could not yet bear his roguery
with comfort to himself. It sat, however, as easy on Undy as though he
had been to the manner born.

'I have no capital now at my disposal,' said he; 'and I doubt whether I
should be doing right to lay out a ward's money in such a manner.'

A slight smile came over Undy's gay unconcerned features; it was very
slight, but nevertheless it was very eloquent and very offensive also.
Alaric understood it well; it made him hate the owner of it, but it made
him hate himself still more.

'It is as well to be hung for a sheep as for a lamb,' said Undy's smile;
'and, moreover,' continued the smile, 'is it not ridiculous enough for
you, Alaric Tudor, rogue as you are, to profess to me, Undy Scott, rogue
as I am, any solicitude as to your ward's welfare, seeing that you
have already taken to yourself, for your own dishonest purposes, a
considerable slice of the fortune that has been trusted to your keeping?
You have done this, and yet you talk to me of not having capital at your
disposal! You have capital, and you will dispose of that capital for
your own purposes, as long as a shilling remains uninvested of your
ward's money. We are both rogues. God knows it, and you and I know it;
but I am not such a hypocritical rogue as to make mock boasts of my
honesty to my brother rogue.'

This was certainly a long speech to have been made by a smile which
crossed Mr. Scott's face but for a moment, but every word of it was
there expressed, and every word of it was there read. Alaric did not at
all like being addressed so uncivilly. It seemed to tend but little to
that 'Excelsior' for which his soul panted; but what could he do? how
could he help himself? Was it not all true? could he contradict the
smile? Alas! it was true; it was useless for him now to attempt even
to combat such smiles. 'Excelsior,' indeed! his future course might now
probably be called by some very different designation. Easy, very easy,
is the slope of hell.

Before they had returned to Ca'stocks Cottage, Undy had succeeded in
persuading his friend that the game must be played on--on and on, and
out. If a man intends to make a fortune in the share-market he
will never do it by being bold one day and timid the next. No turf
betting-book can be made up safely except on consistent principles.
Half-measures are always ruinous. In matters of speculation one attempt
is made safe by another. No man, it is true, can calculate accurately
what may be the upshot of a single venture; but a sharp fellow may
calculate with a fair average of exactness what will be the aggregate
upshot of many ventures. All mercantile fortunes have been made by the
knowledge and understanding of this rule. If a man speculates but once
and again, now and then, as it were, he must of course be a loser. He
will be playing a game which he does not understand, and playing it
against men who do understand it. Men who so play always lose. But he
who speculates daily puts himself exactly in the reversed position. He
plays a game which experience teaches him to play well, and he plays
generally against men who have no such advantage. Of course he wins.

All these valuable lessons did Undy Scott teach to Alaric Tudor, and
the result was that Alaric agreed to order--for self and partner--a
considerable number of shares in the Limehouse Bridge Company. Easy,
very easy, is the slope of hell.

And then in the evening, on this evening and other evenings, on all
evenings, they talked over the prospects of the West Cork and Ballydehob
branch, and of the Limehouse Bridge, which according to Undy's theory
is destined to work quite a revolution in the East-end circles of the
metropolis. Undy had noble ideas about this bridge. The shares at the
present moment were greatly at a discount--so much the better, for they
could be bought at a cheaper rate; and they were sure to rise to some
very respectable figure as soon as Undy should have played out with
reference to them the parliamentary game which he had in view.

And so from morning to morning, and from night to night, they talked
over their unholy trade till the price of shares and the sounds of sums
of money entered into Alaric's soul. And this, perhaps, is one of the
greatest penalties to which men who embark in such trade are doomed,
that they can never shake off the remembrance of their calculations;
they can never drop the shop; they have no leisure, no ease; they can
never throw themselves with loose limbs and vacant mind at large upon
the world's green sward, and call children to come and play with them.
At the Weights and Measures Alaric's hours of business had been from ten
to five. In Undy's office they continued from one noon till the next,
incessantly; even in his dreams he was working in the share market.

On his return to town Alaric found a letter from Captain Cuttwater,
pressing very urgently for the repayment of his money. It had been lent
on the express understanding that it was to be repaid when Parliament
broke up. It was now the end of October, and Uncle Bat was becoming
uneasy.

Alaric, when he received the letter, crushed it in his hand, and cursed
the strictness of the man who had done so much for him. On the next day
another slice was taken from the fortune of Madame Jaquêtanàpe; and his
money, with the interest, was remitted to Captain Cuttwater.



CHAPTER XXX

MRS. WOODWARD'S REQUEST


We will now go back for a while to Hampton. The author, for one, does
so with pleasure. Though those who dwell there be not angels, yet it is
better to live with the Woodwards and Harry Norman, with Uncle Bat, or
even with the unfortunate Charley, than with such as Alaric and Undy
Scott. The man who is ever looking after money is fitting company only
for the devils, of whom, indeed, he is already one.

But Charley cannot any longer be called one of the Cottage circle. It
was now the end of October, and since the day of his arrest, he had not
yet been there. He had not been asked; nor would he go uninvited, as
after what had passed at Hampton Court Bridge he surely might have done.

And consequently they were all unhappy. No one was more so than Charley.
When the prospect of the happy evening with Norah had been so violently
interrupted by his arrest, he had, among his other messages, sent word
to the 'Cat and Whistle,' excusing his absence by a statement of the
true cause. From that day to this of which we are now speaking he had
seen neither Mrs. Davis nor her fair protégée.

Nor were they better contented at the Cottage. Mrs. Woodward was
harassed by different feelings and different fears, which together made
her very unhappy. Her Katie was still ill; not ill indeed so that she
was forced to keep her bed and receive daily visits from pernicious
doctors, but, nevertheless, so ill as to make a mother very anxious.

She had never been quite strong, quite herself, from the night of Mrs.
Val's dance. The doctor who had attended her declared that her ducking
in the river had given her cold: and that this, not having been duly
checked, still hung about her. Then she had been taken to a physician in
London, who poked her on the back and tapped her on the breast, listened
to her lungs through a wooden pipe--such was the account which Katie
gave herself when she returned home--and prescribed rum and milk and
cod-liver oil, declaring, with an authoritative nod, that there was no
organic disease--as yet.

'And what shall we do with her, doctor?' asked Mrs. Woodward.

'Go on with the rum and milk and cod-liver oil, you can't do better.'

'And the cough, doctor?'

'Why, if that doesn't go before the cold weather begins, you may as well
take her to Torquay for the winter.'

Oh! consumption, thou scourge of England's beauty! how many mothers,
gasping with ill-suppressed fears, have listened to such words as
these--have listened and then hoped; listened again and hoped again with
fainter hopes; have listened again, and then hoped no more!

But there was much on Mrs. Woodward's mind which she could not bring
herself to tell to any doctor, but which still left in her breast an
impression that she was perhaps keeping back the true cause of Katie's
illness. Charley had not been at Hampton since his arrest, and it was
manifest to all that Katie was therefore wretched.

'But why do you not ask him, mamma?' she had urged when her mother
suggested that he stayed away because he did not like to show himself
after what had occurred. 'What will he think of us? he that saved my
life, mamma! Oh, mamma! you promised to forgive him. Do ask him. You
know he will come if you ask him.'

Mrs. Woodward could not explain to her--could not explain to any
one--why she did not invite him. Norman guessed it all, and Mrs.
Woodward saw that he had done so; but still she could not talk to him
of Katie's feelings, could not tell him that she feared her child was
heart-laden with so sad a love. So Mrs. Woodward had no confidant in
her sorrow, no counsel which she could seek to aid her own wavering
judgement. It was prudent, she thought, that Katie and Charley should be
kept apart. Prudent! was it not even imperative on her to save her child
from such a fate? But then, when she saw the rosy cheek grow pale by
degrees, as she watched the plump little arms grow gradually thin and
wan, as those high spirits fell, and that voice which had ever been so
frequent in the house and so clear,--when the sound of it became low and
rare, then her heart would misgive her, and she would all but resolve
to take the only step which she knew would bring a bright gleam on her
child's face, and give a happy tone to her darling's voice.

During the earlier portion of these days, Katie had with eager constancy
reiterated her request that Charley should be asked to Hampton; but of a
sudden her prayers ceased. She spoke no more of Charley, asked no longer
after his coming, ceased even to inquire frequently of his welfare. But
yet, when his name was mentioned, she would open wide her bright eyes,
would listen with all her ears, and show only too plainly to one who
watched her as a mother only can watch, what were the thoughts which
filled her heart.

'Linda,' she had said one night, as they sat in their room, preparing
themselves for bed, 'Linda, why does not mamma invite Charley to come
down to Hampton?'

'Oh! I don't know,' said Linda; who, however, if she did not know,
was not far wrong in the guess she made. 'I suppose she thinks he'd be
ashamed to show himself after having been in prison.'

'Ashamed! Why should he be ashamed after so long? Didn't you hear Harry
say that the same thing often happens to young men? Is he never to come
here again? Dear Linda, I know you know; do tell me.'

'Well, I'm sure I do not know, if that's not the reason.'

'Oh! Linda, dear Linda, yes, you do,' said Katie, throwing herself
on her knees, resting her arms on her sister's lap, and looking up
wistfully into her sister's face. Her long hair was streaming down her
back; her white, naked feet peeped out from beneath her bedroom dress,
and large tears glistened in her eyes. Who could have resisted the
prayers of such a suppliant? Certainly not Linda, the soft-hearted
Linda.

'Do tell me,' continued Katie, 'do tell me--I am sure you know; and,
Linda, if it is wrong to ask mamma about it, I'll never, never ask her
again. I know mamma is unhappy about it. If my asking is wrong, I'll not
make her unhappy any more in that way.'

Linda, for a while, did not know what to answer. Her hesitating manner
immediately revealed to Katie that there was a secret, and that her
sister could tell it if she would.

'Oh! Linda, do tell me, do tell me, dear Linda; you ought to tell me for
mamma's sake.'

At last, with much hesitation, Linda told her the whole tale.

'Perhaps mamma thinks that you are too fond of Charley.'

An instant light flashed across Katie's heart--across her heart, and
brain, and senses. Not another word was necessary to explain to her the
whole mystery, to tell the whole tale, to reveal to her the secret of
her own love, of her mother's fears, and of his assumed unwillingness.
She got up slowly from her knees, kissed her sister's cheek and neck,
smiled at her so sweetly, so sadly, and then sitting on her old seat,
began playing with her long hair, and gazing at vacancy.

'It is only what I guess, you know, Katie--you would make me tell you,
but I am sure there is nothing in it.'

'Dear Linda,' said she, 'you are so good; I am so much obliged to you.'

After that Katie spoke no further of Charley. But it was evident to them
all, that though she said nothing, she had not ceased to think of him.
Nor did her cheek again become rosy, nor her arms round, nor her voice
happy. She got weaker than ever, and poor Mrs. Woodward was overcome
with sorrow.

Nor was this the only cause of grief at Surbiton Cottage. During
the last few weeks a bitter estrangement had taken place between the
Woodwards and the Tudors, Alaric Tudor, that is, and Gertrude. Two
years had now passed since Norman had chosen to quarrel with Alaric,
and during all that period the two had never spoken amicably together,
though they had met on business very frequently; on all such occasions
Alaric had been unperturbed and indifferent, whereas Norman had been
gloomy, and had carried a hostile brow and angry eye. At their period
of life, two years generally does much to quiet feelings of ill-will and
pacify animosity; but Norman's feelings had by no means been quieted,
nor his animosity pacified. He had loved Alaric with a close and manly
love; now he hated him with a close and, I fear I may say, a manly
hatred. Alaric had, as he thought, answered his love by treachery; and
there was that in Norman's heart which would not allow him to forgive
one who had been a traitor to him. He had that kind of selfishness so
common to us, but of which we are so unconscious, which will not allow
us to pardon a sin against our own _amour propre_. Alaric might have
been forgiven, though he had taken his friend's money, distanced him in
his office, though he had committed against him all offences which one
friend can commit against another, all but this. Norman had been proud
of his love, and yet ashamed of it--proud of loving such a girl as
Gertrude, and ashamed of being known to be in love at all. He had
confided his love to Alaric, and Alaric had robbed him of his love, and
wounded both his pride and his shame.

Norman lacked the charity which should have been capable of forgiving
even this. He now looked at all Alaric's doings through a different
glass from that which he had used when Alaric had been dear to him.
He saw, or thought that he saw, that his successful rival was false,
ambitious, treacherous, and dishonest; he made no excuses for him, gave
him no credit for his industry, accorded no admiration to his talent.
He never spoke ill of Alaric Tudor, to others; but he fed his own heart
with speaking and thinking ill of him to himself.

Of Gertrude he thought very differently. He had taught himself to
disconnect her from the treachery of her husband--or rather her memory;
for, from the day on which he had learnt that she was engaged to Alaric,
he had never seen her. He still loved the remembrance of her. In his
solitary walks with Mrs. Woodward he would still speak of her as he
might of one in some distant clime, for whose welfare he was deeply
interested. He had seen and caressed her baby at Hampton. She was still
dear to him. Had Alaric been called to his long account, it would have
been his dearest wish to have become at some future time the husband of
his widow.

To all these feelings on Norman's part Alaric was very indifferent; but
their existence operated as a drawback on his wife's comfort, and, to a
certain degree, on his own. Mrs. Woodward would not banish Norman from
the Cottage, even for her daughter's sake, and it came by degrees to
be understood that the Tudors, man and wife, should not go there unless
they were aware that Norman was absent. Norman, on the other hand, did
absent himself when it was understood that Alaric and Gertrude were
coming; and thus the Woodwards kept up their intercourse with both.

But this was a bore. Alaric thought it most probable that Norman would
marry one of the younger sisters, and he knew that family quarrels are
uncomfortable and injudicious. When therefore he became a Civil Service
Commissioner, and was thus removed from business intercourse with
Norman, he conceived that it would be wise to arrange a reconciliation.
He discussed the matter with Gertrude, and she, fully agreeing with him,
undertook the task of making the proposal through her mother. This
she did with all the kindness and delicacy of a woman. She desired her
mother to tell Harry how much she had valued his friendship, how greatly
she regretted the loss of it, how anxious her husband was to renew, if
possible, their former terms of affection. Mrs. Woodward, by no means
sanguine, undertook the commission. She undertook it, and utterly
failed; and when Gertrude, in her disappointment, spoke bitterly of
Norman's bitterness, both mother and sister, both Mrs. Woodward and
Linda, took Norman's part.

'I wish it could be otherwise,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'I wish it for all
our sakes; but he is a man not easily to be turned, and I cannot blame
him. He has suffered very much.'

Gertrude became very red. Her mother's words contained a reproach
against herself, tacit and unintended indeed, but not the less keenly
felt.

'I am not aware that Mr. Norman has any cause of just complaint,' she
said, 'against any one, unless it be himself. For the sake of charity
and old associations we have wished that all ideas of injury should be
forgiven and forgotten. If he chooses still to indulge his rancour, he
must do so. I had taken him to be a better Christian.'

More words had sprung from these. Mrs. Woodward, who, in truth, loved
Norman the better for the continuance of his sorrow, would not give
up his part; and so the mother and child parted, and the two sisters
parted, not quarrelling indeed, not absolutely with angry words, but in
a tone of mind towards each other widely differing from that of former
years. Mrs. Woodward had lost none of the love of the parent; but
Gertrude had forgotten somewhat of the reverence of the child.

All this had added much to the grief created by Katie's illness.

And then of a sudden Katie became silent, as well as sad and ill--silent
and sad, but so soft, so loving in her manner. Her gentle
little caresses, the tender love ever lying in her eye, the constant
pressure of her thin small hand, would all but break her mother's heart.
Katie would sit beside her on the sofa in the drawing-room for hours;
a book, taken up as an excuse, would be in her lap, and she would sit
there gazing listlessly into the vacant daylight till the evening would
come; and then, when the room was shaded and sombre, when the light of
the fire merely served to make the objects indistinct, she would lean
gently and by degrees upon her mother's bosom, would coax her mother's
arm round her neck, and would thus creep as it were into her mother's
heart of hearts. And then slow tears would trickle down her cheeks,
very slow, one by one, till they would fall as telltales on her mother's
hand.

'Katie, my darling Katie,' the mother would say.

'I'm only tired, mamma,' would be her answer. 'Don't move, mamma; pray
don't move. I am so comfortable.'

And then at night she would put herself to rest close circled in Linda's
arms. She would twist up her little feet, and lie so quiet there, that
Linda would remain motionless that she might not disturb her Katie's
sleep; but soon warm tears would be running on her bosom, and she would
know that Katie was still thinking of her love.

Linda, among all her virtues, had not that of reticence, and her mother
had soon learnt from her what had been said that night in their bedroom
about Charley. But this violation of confidence, if it was a violation,
was hardly necessary to make Mrs. Woodward aware of what was passing
in her daughter's bosom. When Katie ceased to ask that Charley might
be sent for, when she ceased to plead for his pardon and to praise his
virtues, Mrs. Woodward knew well the cause of her silence. It was not
that others suspected her love, but that she had learned to suspect it
herself. It was not that she was ashamed of loving Charley, but that she
felt at once that such love would distress her mother's heart.

As she sat there that night fingering her silken hair, she had asked
herself whether in truth this man was master of her heart; she had
probed her young bosom, which now, by a sudden growth, became quick with
a woman's impulse, and she had owned to herself that she did love him.
He was dearer to her, she found, than all in the world beside. Fondly as
she loved her sister, sweet to her as were her mother's caresses, their
love was not as precious to her as his might be. And then she remembered
what he was, what was the manner of his life, what his character; how
different he was from Alaric or Harry Norman; she remembered this,
and knew that her love was an unhappy passion. Herself she would
have sacrificed: prisoner as he had been, debtor as he was, drunkard,
penniless, and a spendthrift, she would not have hesitated to take him
for her guide through life, and have done what a woman might to guide
him in return. But she would not sacrifice her mother. She saw now why
Charley was not asked, and silently acquiesced in his banishment.

She was not yet quite seventeen. Not yet seventeen! the reader will say.
She was still such a child, and yet arguing to herself about spendthrift
debtors and self-sacrifice! All this bombast at sixteen and a half.
No, my ungentle reader, not all this bombast at sixteen and a half. The
bombast is mine. It is my fault if I cannot put into fitting language
the thoughts which God put into her young heart. In her mind's
soliloquy, Charley's vices were probably all summed up in the one word,
unsteady. 'Why is he so unsteady? Why does he like these wicked things?'
And then as regarded Mrs. Woodward, she did but make a resolve that
not even for her love would she add to the unhappiness of that loving,
tenderest mother. There was no bombast in Katie, either expressed or
unexpressed.

After much consideration on the matter, Mrs. Woodward determined that
she should ask Charley down to the Cottage. In the first place, she
felt bitterly her apparent ingratitude to him. When last they had been
together, the day after Katie's escape at the bridge, when his tale had
just been read, she had told him, with the warmth of somewhat more
than friendly affection, that henceforth they must be more than common
friends. She had promised him her love, she had almost promised him the
affection and care of a mother; and now how was she keeping her promise?
He had fallen into misfortune, and she had immediately deserted him.
Over and over again she said to herself that her first duty was to her
own child; but even with this reflection, she could hardly reconcile
herself to her neglect of him.

And then, moreover, she felt that it was impossible that all their
friendship, all their mutual regard, should die away suddenly without
any explanation. An attempt to bring about this would not cure Katie's
love. If this were done, would not Katie always think of Charley's
wrong?

And, lastly, it was quite clear that Katie had put a check on her own
heart. A meeting now might be the reverse of dangerous. It would be well
that Katie should use herself to be with him now again; well, at any
rate, that she should see him once before their proposed journey to
Torquay; for, alas, the journey to Torquay was now insisted on by the
London physician--insisted on, although he opined with a nod, somewhat
less authoritative than his former nod, that the young lady was touched
by no organic disease.

'And then,' said Mrs. Woodward to herself, 'his heart is good, and
I will speak openly to him.' And so Charley was again invited to the
cottage. After some demurring between him and Norman, he accepted the
invitation.

Mrs. Val's dance had taken place in June, and it was now late in
October. Four months had intervened, and during that period Charley had
seen none of the Woodwards. He had over and over again tried to convince
himself that this was his own fault, and that he had no right to accuse
Mrs. Woodward of ingratitude. But he was hardly successful. He did feel,
in spite of himself, that he had been dropped because of the disgrace
attaching to his arrest; that Mrs. Woodward had put him aside as
being too bad to associate with her and her daughters; and that it was
intended that henceforth they should be strangers.

He still had Katie's purse, and he made a sort of resolve that as long
as he kept that in his possession, as long as he had that near his
heart, he would not go near Norah Geraghty. This resolution he had kept;
but though he did not go to the 'Cat and Whistle,' he frequented other
places which were as discreditable, or more so. He paid many very
fruitless visits to Mr. M'Ruen; contrived to run up a score with the
proprietor of the dancing saloon in Holborn; and was as negligent as
ever in the matter of the lock entries.

'It is no use now,' he would say to himself, when some aspirations for
higher things came across his heart; 'it is too late now to go back.
Those who once cared for me have thrown me over.' And then he would
again think of Waterloo Bridge, and the Monument, and of what might be
done for threepence or fourpence in a pistol gallery.

And then at last came the invitation to Hampton. He was once more to
talk to Mrs. Woodward, and associate with Linda--to see Katie once more.
When he had last left the house he had almost been as much at home
as any one of the family; and now he was to return to it as a perfect
stranger. As he travelled down with Norman by the railway, he could not
help feeling that the journey was passing over too quickly. He was like
a prisoner going to his doom. As he crossed the bridge, and remembered
how Katie had looked when she lay struggling in the water, how he had
been fêted and caressed after pulling her out, he made a bitter contrast
between his present position and that which he then enjoyed. Were it not
for very shame, he would have found it in his heart to return to London.

And then in a moment they were at the Cottage door. The road had never
been so short. Norman, who had not fathomed Charley's feelings, was
happy and light-hearted--more so than was usual with him, for he was
unaffectedly glad to witness Charley's return to Hampton. He rang
sharply at the door, and when it was opened, walked with happy
confidence into the drawing-room. Charley was bound to follow him, and
there he found himself again in the presence of Mrs. Woodward and her
daughters. Katie would fain have absented herself, but Mrs. Woodward
knew that the first meeting could take place in no more favourable
manner.

Mrs. Woodward bade him welcome with a collected voice, and assured,
if not easy manner. She shook hands with him cordially, and said a few
words as to her pleasure of seeing him again. Then he next took Linda's
hand, and she too made a little speech, more awkwardly than her mother,
saying something mal à propos about the very long time he had been away;
and then she laughed with a little titter, trying to recover herself.
And at last he came to Katie. There was no getting over it. She
also stretched out her now thin hand, and Charley, as he touched it,
perceived how altered she was. Katie looked up into his face, and tried
to speak, but she could not articulate a word. She looked into his face,
and then at Mrs. Woodward, as though imploring her mother's aid to tell
her how to act or what to say; and then finding her power of utterance
impeded by rising sobs, she dropped back again on her seat, and hid her
face upon the arm of the sofa.

'Our Katie is not so well as when you last saw her--is she, Charley?'
said Mrs. Woodward. 'She is very weak just now; but thank God she has,
we believe, no dangerous symptoms about her. You have heard, perhaps,
that we are going to Torquay for the winter?'

And so they went on talking. The ice was broken and the worst was
over. They did not talk, it is true, as in former days; there was no
confidence between them now, and each of them felt that there was none;
but they nevertheless fell into a way of unembarrassed conversation, and
were all tolerably at their ease.

And then they went to dinner, and Charley was called on to discuss
Admiralty matters with Uncle Bat; and then he and Norman sat after
dinner a little longer than usual; and then they had a short walk,
during which Katie remained at home; but short as it was, it was quite
long enough, for it was very dull; and then there was tea; and then more
constrained conversation, in which Katie took no part whatever; and then
Mrs. Woodward and the girls took their candles, and Charley went over to
the inn on the other side of the road. Oh! how different was this from
the former evenings at Surbiton Cottage.

Charley had made no plan for any special interview with Katie; had,
indeed, not specially thought about it at all; but he could not but feel
an intense desire to say one word to her in private, and learn whether
all her solicitude for him was over. 'Dear Charley, you will be steady;
won't you?' Those had been her last words to him. Nothing could have
been sweeter; although they brought before his mind the remembrance
of his own unworthy career, they had been inexpressibly sweet, as
testifying the interest she felt in him. And was that all over now? Had
it all been talked away by Mrs. Woodward's cautious wisdom, because he
had lain for one night in a sponging-house?

But the next day came, and as it passed, it appeared to him that no
opportunity of speaking one word to her was to be allowed to him.

She did not, however, shun him. She was not up at breakfast, but she sat
next to him at lunch, and answered him when he spoke to her.

In the evening they again went out to walk, and then Charley found that
Linda and Norman went one way, and that he was alone with Mrs. Woodward.
It was manifest to him that this arrangement had been made on purpose,
and he felt that he was to undergo some private conversation, the nature
of which he dreaded. He dreaded it very much; when he heard it, it made
him very wretched; but it was not the less full of womanly affection and
regard for him.

'I cannot let you go from us, Charley,' began Mrs. Woodward, 'without
telling you how deep a sorrow it has been to me to be so long without
seeing you. I know you have thought me very ungrateful.'

'Ungrateful, Mrs. Woodward! 'O no! I have done nothing to make gratitude
necessary.'

'Yes, Charley, you have--you have done much, too much. You have saved my
child's life.'

'O no, I did not,' said he; 'besides, I hate gratitude. I don't want any
one to be grateful to me. Gratitude is almost as offensive as pity. Of
course I pulled Kate out of the water when she fell in; and I would have
done as much for your favourite cat.' He said this with something of
bitterness in his tone; it was not much, for though he felt bitterly he
did not intend to show it; but Mrs. Woodward's ear did not fail to catch
it.

'Don't be angry with us, Charley; don't make us more unhappy than we
already are.'

'Unhappy!' said he, as though he thought that all the unhappiness in the
world was at the present moment reserved for his own shoulders.

'Yes, we are not so happy now as we were when you were last with us.
Poor Katie is very ill.'

'But you don't think there is any danger, Mrs. Woodward?'

There are many tones in which such a question may be asked--and is
asked from day to day--all differing widely from each other, and
giving evidence of various shades of feeling in the speaker. Charley
involuntarily put his whole heart into it. Mrs. Woodward could not but
love him for feeling for her child, though she would have given so much
that the two might have been indifferent to each other.

'I do not know,' she said. 'We hope not. But I should not be sent with
her to Torquay if she were not very ill. She is very ill, and it is
absolutely essential that nothing should be allowed to excite her
painfully. I tell you this, Charley, to excuse our apparent unkindness
in not having you here sooner.'

Charley walked by her in silence. Why should his coming excite her more
than Norman's? What could there be painful to her in seeing him? Did
the fact of his having been arrested attach to his visit any peculiar
probability of excitement?

'Do not suppose that we have not thought of you,' continued Mrs.
Woodward.' We have all done so daily. Nay, I have done so myself all but
hourly. Ah, Charley, you will never know how truly I love you.'

Charley's heart was as soft as it was inflammable. He was utterly unable
to resist such tenderness as Mrs. Woodward showed to him. He had made
a little resolution to be stiff and stern, to ask for no favour and to
receive none, not to palliate his own conduct, or to allow Mrs. Woodward
to condemn it. He had felt that as the Woodwards had given him up, they
had no longer any right to criticize him. To them at least, one and
all, to Mrs. Woodward and her daughters, his conduct had been _sans
reproche_. They had no cause to upbraid him on their own account; and
they had now abandoned the right to do so on his own. With such assumed
sternness he began his walk; but now it had all melted before the warmth
of one tender word from a woman's mouth.

'I know I am not worth thinking about,' said he.

'Do not say so; pray do not say so. Do not think that we say so to
ourselves. I grieve for your faults. Charley; I know they are grievous
and wicked; but I know how much there is of good in you. I know how
clever you are, how excellent your heart is, how sweet your disposition.
I trust, I trust in God, you may reform, and be the pride of your
friends. I trust that I yet may be proud of knowing you----'

'No one will ever be proud of me,' said Charley.

'We shall all be proud of you, if you will resolve to turn away from
childish things now that you are no longer a child--your faults are
faults which as yet may be so easily relinquished. But, oh, Charley----'
and then Mrs. Woodward paused and looked wistfully into his face. She
had now come to the point at which she had to make her prayer to him.
She had resolved to tell him the cause of her fears, and to trust to his
honour to free her from them. Now was the moment for her to speak out;
but now that the moment was come, the words were wanting.

She looked wistfully into his face, but he did not even guess what was
her meaning. He knew the secret of his own love; but he did not know
that Katie also had her secret. He had never dreamt that his faults,
among all their ill effects, had paled her cheek, made wan her arm,
silenced her voice, and dimmed her eye. When he had heard Katie cough,
he had in nowise connected the hated sound with his own arrest. He had
thought only of his own love.

'Oh! Charley--I know I can trust you,' said Mrs. Woodward. 'I know you
are gentle and good. You will be gentle and good to us, will you not?
you will not make us all wretched?'

Charley declared that he would not willingly do anything to cause pain
to any of them.

'No--I am sure you will not. And therefore, Charley, you must not see
Katie any more.'

At this time they had turned off the road into a shady lane, in which
the leaves of autumn were beginning to fall. A path led over a stile
away from the lane into the fields, and Mrs. Woodward had turned towards
it, as though intending to continue their walk in that direction. But
when she had reached the stile, she had sat down upon the steps of it,
and Charley had been listening to her, standing by, leaning on the top
rail.

'And therefore, Charley, you must not see Katie any more.' So much she
said, and then she looked into his face with imploring eyes.

It was impossible that he should answer her at once. He had to realize
so much that had hitherto not been expressed between them, before he
could fully understand what she meant; and then he was called on to give
up so much that he now learnt for the first time was within his reach!
Before he could answer her he had to assure himself that Katie loved
him; he had to understand that her love for one so abandoned was
regarded as fatal; and he had to reply to a mother's prayer that he
would remove himself from the reach of a passion which to him was worth
all the world beside.

He turned his face away from her, but still stood leaning on the stile,
with his arms folded on it. She watched him for a while in silence, and
at last she saw big tears drop from his face on to the dust of the path
on the farther side. There they came rolling down, large globules of
sorrow. Nothing is so painful to a woman as a man in tears, and Mrs.
Woodward's heart was wrung to its very core. Why was he not like Alaric
or Norman, so that she might make him welcome to her daughter's heart?

She leant towards him and put her hand caressingly on his arm. 'It shall
be so, shall it not, Charley?'

'Oh, of course, if you say so.'

'I have your word, then? If I have your word, that will be a perfect
bond. I have your word, have I not, Charley?'

'What!--never see her in my life?' said he, turning almost fiercely on
Mrs. Woodward.

'That, you know, is more than you can promise,' said she, very gently.
'It is not to the letter of the promise that I would bind you, but to
its spirit. You understand well what I mean; you know what I wish, and
why I wish it. Say that you will obey my wish, and I will leave the mode
of doing it to your own honour. Have I your promise?'

He shook her hand off his arm almost roughly, though unintentionally,
and turning sharply round leant with his back against the stile. The
traces of tears were still on his cheeks, but he was no longer crying;
there was, however, a look on his face of heart-rending sorrow which
Mrs. Woodward could hardly endure.

'I do understand you,' said he, 'and since you demand it, I will
promise;' and then they walked home side by side, without interchanging
a single word.

When they reached the house, Mrs. Woodward went to her room, and Charley
found himself alone with Katie.

'I hope you find yourself better this evening,' said he.

'Oh, I am quite well,' she answered, with her sweetest, kindest voice;
'I am quite well, only sometimes I am a little weak.'

He walked up to the window as though to pass on to the lawn; but the
season was too far advanced for that, and the window was locked. He
retraced his steps, therefore, and passing out of the drawing-room into
the hall, stood at the open front door till he heard Mrs. Woodward come
down. Then he followed her into the room.

'Good-bye,' he said to her suddenly; 'I shall start by the early train
to-morrow, and shall not see you.' She pressed his hand, but he in
nowise returned the pressure. 'Good-bye, Linda; good-bye, Katie; good
night, Captain Cuttwater.' And so he went his way, as Adam did when he
was driven out of Paradise.

Early on the following morning, the cook, while engaged in her most
matutinal duties, was disturbed by a ring at the front door. She, and
she only of the household, was up, and as she had not completed her
toilet with much minuteness, she was rather embarrassed when, on opening
the door, she saw Mr. Charles Tudor.

'I beg your pardon, cook, for troubling you so early; but I have left
something in the drawing-room. I can find it myself;' and, so saying, he
hurried into the room, so as to prevent the servant from following him.

Katie had a well-worn, well-known little workbox, which, in years now
long past; had been given to her either by Alaric or Harry. Doubtless
she had now work-boxes grander both in appearance and size; but,
nevertheless, whether from habit or from choice, her custom was, in her
daily needlework, to use this old friend. Often and often had Charley
played with it many wicked pranks. Once, while Katie had as yet no
pretension to be grown up, he had put a snail into it, and had incurred
her severe displeasure. He had stuffed it full of acorns, and been
rewarded by being pelted with them round the lawn; and had filled it
with nuts, for which he had not found it so difficult to obtain pardon.
He knew every hole and corner in it! he was intimate with all her little
feminine nicknacks--her silver thimble, her scissors, her bit of wax,
and the yard-measure, which twisted itself in and out of an ivory
cottage--he knew them all, as well as though they were his own; and he
knew also where the workbox stood.

He closed the door behind him, and then, with his quickest motion,
raised the lid and put within the box, just under the bit of work on
which she was employed, a light small paper parcel. It contained the
purse which she had worked for him, and had given to him with such sweet
affection at the Chiswick flower-show.



CHAPTER XXXI

HOW APOLLO SAVED THE NAVVY


About the middle of November, the Woodwards went to Torquay, and
remained there till the following May. Norman went with them to see them
properly settled in their new lodgings, and visited them at Christmas,
and once again during their stay there. He then went down to fetch them
home, and when they all returned, informed Charley, with whom he was
still living, that he was engaged to Linda. It was arranged, he said,
that they were to be married in August.

On the whole, the journey to Torquay was considered to have been
successful. Katie's health had been the only object in going there, and
the main consideration while they remained. She returned, if not well,
at any rate not worse. She had got through the winter, and her lungs
were still pronounced to be free from those dreadful signs of decay, the
name of which has broken so many mothers' hearts, and sent dismay into
the breasts of so many fathers. During her sojourn at Torquay she had
grown much, and, as is often the case with those who grow quickly, she
had become weak and thin. People at Torquay are always weak and thin,
and Mrs. Woodward had not, therefore, been greatly frightened at this.
Her spirits, though by no means such as they had been in former days,
had improved, she had occupied herself more than she had done during the
last two months at Hampton, and had, at least so Mrs. Woodward fondly
flattered herself, ceased to be always thinking of Charley Tudor. It was
quite clear that she had firmly made up her mind to some certain line of
conduct with reference to him; she never mentioned his name, nor was
it mentioned in her hearing by either her mother or sister during
their stay at Torquay. When Norman came down, she always found some
opportunity of inquiring from him as to Charley's health and welfare;
but she did this in a manner which showed that she had succeeded in
placing her feelings wonderfully under control.

On that Monday morning, on which Charley had returned to town after his
early visit to her workbox, she had not failed to find the purse. Linda
was with her when she did so, but she had contrived so to conceal her
emotion, that nothing was seen and nothing suspected. She felt at once
that it was intended that all intercourse should be broken off between
them. She knew instinctively that this was the effect of some precaution
on her mother's part, and with a sad bosom and a broken heart, she
acquiesced in it. She said nothing, even to herself, of the truth and
constancy of her love; she made no mental resolution against any other
passion; she did not even think whether or not she might ever be tempted
to love another; but she felt a dumb aching numbness about her heart;
and, looking round about her, she seemed to feel that all was dark and
dismal.

And so they sojourned through the winter at Torquay. The effort which
Katie made was undoubtedly salutary to her. She took again to her work
and her lessons--studies we should probably now call them--and before
she left Torquay, she had again learned how to smile; but not to laugh
with that gay ringing silver laughter, ringing, but yet not loud, which
to Charley's ear had been as sweet as heavenly music. During this time
Uncle Bat remained at Hampton, keeping bachelor's house by himself.

And then while they were at Torquay, Linda and Norman became engaged
to each other. Their loves were honest, true, and happy; but not of a
nature to give much scope to a novelist of a romantic turn. Linda knew
she was not Norman's first love, and requited Norman, of course, by
telling him something, not much, of Alaric's falseness to her. Norman
made but one ungenerous stipulation. It was this: that in marrying him
Linda must give up all acquaintance with her brother-in-law. He would
never, he said, be the means of separating two sisters; she and Gertrude
might have such intercourse together as their circumstances might render
possible; but it was quite out of the question that either he, Harry
Norman, or his wife, should ever again associate with Alaric Tudor.

In such matters Linda had always been guided by others; so she sighed
and promised, and the engagement was duly ratified by all the parties
concerned.

We must now return to Charley. When he got back to town, he felt that he
had lost his amulet; his charm had gone from him, and he had nothing now
left whereby to save himself from ruin and destruction. He was utterly
flung over by the Woodwards; that now was to him an undoubted fact. When
Mrs. Woodward told him that he was never again to see Katie, that was,
of course, tantamount to turning him out of the Cottage. It might be
all very well to talk to him of affection and friendship; but it was
manifest that no further signs of either were to be shown to him. He had
proved himself to be unworthy, and was no more to be considered as
one of the circle which made the drawing-room at Surbiton Cottage its
centre. He could not quite explain all this to Norman, as he could not
tell him what had passed between him and Mrs. Woodward; but he said
enough to make his friend know that he intended to go to Hampton no
more.

It would be wrong, perhaps, to describe Charley as being angry with Mrs.
Woodward. He knew that she was only doing her duty by her child; he knew
that she was actuated by the purest and best of motives; he was not able
to say a word against her even to himself; but, nevertheless, he desired
to be revenged on her--not by injuring her, not by injuring Katie--but
by injuring himself. He would make Mrs. Woodward feel what she had done,
by rushing, himself, on his own ruin. He would return to the 'Cat and
Whistle'--he would keep his promise and marry Norah Geraghty--he would
go utterly to destruction, and then Mrs. Woodward would know and feel
what she had done in banishing him from her daughter's presence!

Having arrived at this magnanimous resolution after a fortnight's doubt
and misery, he proceeded to put his purpose into execution. It was now
some considerable time since he had been at the 'Cat and Whistle;' he
had had no further visit from Mrs. Davis, but he had received one or
two notes both from her and Norah, to which, as long as he had Katie's
purse, he was resolute in not replying; messages also had reached him
from the landlady through Dick Scatterall, in the last of which he was
reminded that there was a trifle due at the bar, and another trifle for
money lent.

One night, having lashed himself up to a fit state of wretched
desperation, he found himself at the well-known corner of the street
leading out of the Strand. On his journey thither he had been trying to
realize to himself what it would be to be the husband of Norah Geraghty;
what would be the joy of returning to a small house in some dingy suburb
and finding her to receive him. Could he really love her when she would
be bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh, the wife of his bosom and
the mother of his children? In such a case would he ever be able to
forget that he had known Katie Woodward? Would those words of hers ever
ring in his ears, then as now--'You will be steady, dear Charley; won't
you?'

There are those who boast that a gentleman must always be a gentleman;
that a man, let him marry whom he will, raises or degrades his wife to
the level of his own condition, and that King Cophetua could share his
throne with a beggar-woman without sullying its splendour or diminishing
its glory. How a king may fare in such a condition, the author, knowing
little of kings, will not pretend to say; nor yet will he offer an
opinion whether a lowly match be fatally injurious to a marquess,
duke, or earl; but this he will be bold to affirm, that a man from
the ordinary ranks of the upper classes, who has had the nurture of a
gentleman, prepares for himself a hell on earth in taking a wife from
any rank much below his own--a hell on earth, and, alas! too often
another hell elsewhere also. He must either leave her or loathe her.
She may be endowed with all those moral virtues which should adorn all
women, and which, thank God, are common to women in this country; but
he will have to endure habits, manners, and ideas, which the close
contiguity of married life will force upon his disgusted palate,
and which must banish all love. Man by instinct desires in his wife
something softer, sweeter, more refined than himself; and though in
failing to obtain this, the fault may be all his own, he will not on
that account the more easily reconcile himself to the want.

Charley knew that he was preparing such misery for himself. As he went
along, determined to commit a moral suicide by allying himself to the
barmaid, he constrained himself to look with his mind's eye 'upon this
picture and on that.'

He had felt of what nature was the sort of love with which Katie
Woodward had inspired his heart; and he felt also what was that other
sort of love to which the charms of Norah Geraghty had given birth.

Norah was a fine girl, smart enough in her outward apparel, but apt
occasionally to disclose uncomfortable secrets, if from any accident
more than her outward apparel might momentarily become visible. When
dressed up for a Sunday excursion she had her attractions, and even on
ordinary evenings, a young man such as Charley, after imbibing two or
three glasses of spirits and water, and smoking two or three cigars,
might find her to be what some of her friends would have called 'very
good company.' As to her mind, had Charley been asked about it, he would
probably have said that he was ignorant whether she had any; but this
he did know, that she was sharp and quick, alert in counting change, and
gifted with a peculiar power of detecting bad coin by the touch. Such
was Norah Geraghty, whom Charley was to marry.

And then that other portrait was limned with equal accuracy before his
eyes. Katie, with all her juvenile spirit, was delightfully feminine;
every motion of hers was easy, and every form into which she could twist
her young limbs was graceful. She had all the nice ideas and ways which
a girl acquires when she grows from childhood to woman's stature, under
the eye of a mother who is a lady. Katie could be untidy on occasions;
but her very untidiness was inviting. All her belongings were nice; she
had no hidden secrets, the chance revealing of which would disgrace her.
She might come in from her island palaces in a guise which would call
down some would-be-censorious exclamation from her mother; but all
others but her mother would declare that Katie in such moments was more
lovely than ever. And Katie's beauty pleased more than the eye--it came
home to the mind and heart of those who saw her. It spoke at once to the
intelligence, and required, for its full appreciation, an exercise of
the mental faculties, as well as animal senses. If the owner of that
outward form were bad or vile, one would be inclined to say that Nature
must have lied when she endowed her with so fair an index. Such was
Katie Woodward, whom Charley was not to marry.

As he turned down Norfolk Street, he thought of all this, as the
gambler, sitting with his razor before him with which he intends to cut
his throat, may be supposed to think of the stakes which he has failed
to win, and the fortune he has failed to make. Norah Geraghty was
Charley's razor, and he plunged boldly into the 'Cat and Whistle,'
determined to draw it at once across his weasand, and sever himself for
ever from all that is valuable in the world.

It was now about eleven o'clock, at which hour the 'Cat and Whistle'
generally does its most stirring trade. This Charley knew; but he also
knew that the little back parlour, even if there should be an inmate
in it at the time of his going in, would soon be made private for his
purposes.

When he went in, Mrs. Davis was standing behind the counter, dressed in
a cap of wonderful grandeur, and a red tabinet gown, which rustled among
the pots and jars, sticking out from her to a tremendous width, inflated
by its own magnificence and a substratum of crinoline. Charley had never
before seen her arrayed in such royal robes. Her accustomed maid was
waiting as usual on the guests, and another girl also was assisting; but
Norah did not appear to Charley's first impatient glance.

He at once saw that something wonderful was going on. The front parlour
was quite full, and the ministering angel was going in and out quickly,
with more generous supplies of the gifts of Bacchus than were usual
at the 'Cat and Whistle.' Gin and water was the ordinary tipple in the
front parlour; and any one of its denizens inclined to cut a dash above
his neighbours generally did so with a bottom of brandy. But now Mrs.
Davis was mixing port-wine negus as fast as her hands could make it.

And then there were standing round the counter four or five customers,
faces well known to Charley, all of whom seemed to be dressed with a
splendour second only to that of the landlady. One man had on an almost
new brown frock coat with a black velvet collar, and white trousers.
Two had blue swallow-tailed coats with brass buttons; and a fourth, a
dashing young lawyer's clerk from Clement's Inn, was absolutely stirring
a mixture, which he called a mint julep, with a yellow kid glove
dangling out of his hand.

They all stood back when Charley entered; they had been accustomed to
make way for him in former days, and though he had latterly ceased to
rule at the 'Cat and Whistle' as he once did, they were too generous to
trample on fallen greatness. He gave his hand to Mrs. Davis across the
counter, and asked her in the most unconcerned voice which he could
assume what was in the wind. She tittered and laughed, told him he
had come too late for the fun, and then retreated into the little back
parlour, whither he followed her. She was at any rate in a good humour,
and seemed quite inclined to forgive his rather uncivil treatment of her
notes and messages.

In the back parlour Charley found more people drinking, and among them
three ladies of Mrs. Davis's acquaintance. They were all very fine in
their apparel, and very comfortable as to their immediate employment,
for each had before her a glass of hot tipple. One of them, a
florid-faced dame about fifty, Charley had seen before, and knew to
be the wife of a pork butcher and sausage maker in the neighbourhood.
Directly he entered the room, Mrs. Davis formally introduced him to them
all. 'A very particular friend of mine, Mrs. Allchops; and of Norah's
too, I can assure you,' said Mrs. Davis.

'Ah, Mr. Tudor, and how be you? A sight of you is good for sore eyes,'
said she of the sausages, rising with some difficulty from her chair,
and grasping Charley's hand with all the pleasant cordiality of old
friendship.

'The gen'leman seems to be a little too late for the fair,' said a
severe lodging-house keeper from Cecil Street.

  'Them as wills not, when they may,
   When they wills they shall have nay,'

said a sarcastic rival barmaid from a neighbouring public, to whom all
Norah's wrongs and all Mr. Tudor's false promises were fully known.

Charley was not the fellow to allow himself to be put down, even by
feminine raillery; so he plucked up his spirit, sad as he was at heart,
and replied to them all _en masse_.

'Well, ladies, what's in the wind now? You seem to be very cosy here,
all of you; suppose you allow me to join you.'

'With a 'eart and a 'alf,' said Mrs. Allchops, squeezing her corpulence
up to the end of the horsehair sofa, so as to make room for him between
herself and the poetic barmaid. 'I'd sooner have a gentleman next to me
nor a lady hany day of the week; so come and sit down, my birdie.'

But Charley, as he was about to accept the invitation of his friend Mrs.
Allchops, caught Mrs. Davis's eye, and followed her out of the room into
the passage. 'Step up to the landing, Mr. Tudor,' said she; and Charley
stepped up. 'Come in here, Mr. Tudor--you won't mind my bedroom for
once.' And Charley followed her in, not minding her bedroom.

'Of course you know what has happened, Mr. Tudor?' said she.

'Devil a bit,' said Charley.

'Laws, now--don't you indeed? Well, that is odd.'

'How the deuce should I know? Where's Norah?'

'Why--she's at Gravesend.'

'At Gravesend--you don't mean to say she's----'

'I just do then; she's just gone and got herself spliced to Peppermint
this morning. They had the banns said these last three Sundays; and this
morning they was at St. Martin's at eight o'clock, and has been here
junketing ever since, and now they're away to Gravesend.'

'Gravesend!' said Charley, struck by the suddenness of his rescue, as
the gambler would have been had some stranger seized the razor at the
moment when it was lifted to his throat.

'Yes, Gravesend,' said Mrs. Davis; 'and they'll come up home to his own
house by the first boat to-morrow.'

'So Norah's married!' said Charley, with a slight access of sentimental
softness in his voice.

'She's been and done it now, Mr. Tudor, and no mistake; and it's better
so, ain't it? Why, Lord love you, she'd never have done for you, you
know; and she's the very article for such a man as Peppermint.'

There was something good-natured in this, and so Charley felt it. As
long as Mrs. Davis could do anything to assist her cousin's views, by
endeavouring to seduce or persuade her favourite lover into a marriage,
she left no stone unturned, working on her cousin's behalf. But now,
now that all those hopes were over, now that Norah had consented to
sacrifice love to prudence, why should Mrs. Davis quarrel with an old
friend any longer?--why should not things be made pleasant to him as to
the others?

'And now, Mr. Tudor, come down, and drink a glass to their healths, and
wish 'em both well, and don't mind what them women says to you. You're
well out of a mess; and now it's all over, I'm glad it is as it is.'

Charley went down and took his glass and drank 'prosperity to the bride
and bridegroom.' The sarcastic rival barmaid said little snappish things
to him, offered him a bit of green ribbon, and told him that if he
'minded hisself,' somebody might, perhaps, take him yet. But Charley was
proof against this.

He sat there about half an hour, and then went his way, shaking hands
with all the ladies and bowing to the gentlemen. On the following day,
as soon as he left his office, he called at the 'Cat and Whistle,' and
paid his little bill there, and said his last farewell to Mrs. Davis. He
never visited the house again. Now that Norah was gone the attractions
were not powerful. Reader, you and I will at the same time say our
farewells to Mrs. Davis, to Mr. Peppermint also, and to his bride. If
thou art an elegant reader, unaccustomed to the contamination of pipes
and glasses, I owe thee an apology in that thou hast been caused to
linger a while among things so unsavoury. But if thou art one who of
thine own will hast taken thine ease in thine inn, hast enjoyed the
freedom of a sanded parlour, hast known 'that ginger is hot in the
mouth,' and made thyself light-hearted with a yard of clay, then thou
wilt confess there are worse establishments than the 'Cat and Whistle,'
less generous landladies than Mrs. Davis.

When all this happened the Woodwards had not been long at Torquay. Mr.
Peppermint was made a happy man before Christmas; and therefore Charley
was left to drift before the wind without the ballast of any lady's love
to keep him in sailing trim. Poor fellow! he had had wealth on one side,
beauty and love on another, and on the third all those useful qualities
which Miss Geraghty has been described as possessing. He had been thus
surrounded by feminine attractions, and had lost them all. Two of those,
from whom he had to choose, had married others, and he was banished from
the presence of the third. Under such circumstances what could he do but
drift about the gulfs and straits of the London ocean without compass or
rudder, and bruise his timbers against all the sunken rocks that might
come in his way?

And then Norman told him of his coming marriage, and Charley was more
sad than ever. And thus matters went on with him till the period at
which our story will be resumed at the return of the Woodwards to
Hampton.

In the meantime another winter and another spring had passed over
Alaric's head, and now the full tide of the London season found him
still rising, and receiving every day more of the world's homage. Sir
Gregory Hardlines had had every reason to praise his own judgement in
selecting Mr. Tudor for the vacant seat among the Magi.

From that moment all had gone smooth with Sir Gregory; there was no one
to interfere with his hobby, or run counter to his opinion. Alaric
was all that was conciliatory and amiable in a colleague. He was not
submissive and cringing; and had he been so, Sir Gregory, to do him
justice, would have been disgusted; but neither was he self-opinionated
nor obstinate like Mr. Jobbles. He insisted on introducing no crotchets
of his own, and allowed Sir Gregory all the credit of the Commission.

This all went on delightfully for a while; but on one morning, early
in May, Alaric somewhat disturbed the equanimity of his chief by
communicating to him his intention of becoming a candidate for the
representation of the borough of Strathbogy, at the next general
election, which was to take place very shortly after the close of the
session. Sir Gregory was dumbfounded, and expressed himself as incapable
of believing that Tudor really meant to throw up £1,200 a year on
the mere speculation of its being possible that he should get into
Parliament. Men in general, as Sir Gregory endeavoured to explain with
much eloquence, go into Parliament for the sake of getting places of
£1,200 a year. For what earthly reason should Alaric again be going to
the bottom of the ladder, seeing that he had already attained a rung of
such very respectable altitude? Alaric said to himself, 'Excelsior!' To
Sir Gregory he suggested that it might be possible that he should get
into Parliament without giving up his seat at the Board. Earth and
heaven, it might be hoped, would not come together, even though so great
a violence as this should be done to the time-honoured practices of
the Government. Sir Gregory suggested that it was contrary to the
constitution. Alaric replied that the constitution had been put upon to
as great an extent before this, and had survived. Sir Gregory regarded
it as all but impossible, and declared it to be quite unusual. Alaric
rejoined that something of the same kind had been done at the Poor Law
Board. To this Sir Gregory replied, gently pluming his feathers with
conscious greatness, that at the Poor Law Board the chief of the
Commission was the Parliamentary officer. Alaric declared that he was
perfectly willing to give way if Sir Gregory would go into the House
himself. To this Sir Gregory demurred; not feeling himself called on to
change the sphere of his utility. And so the matter was debated between
them, till at last Sir Gregory promised to consult his friend the
Chancellor of the Exchequer. The ice was thus broken, and Alaric was
quite contented with the part which he had taken in the conversation.

With his own official prospects, in spite of the hazardous step which he
now meditated, he was quite contented. He had an idea that in the public
service of the Government, as well as in all other services, men who
were known to be worth their wages would find employment. He was worth
his wages. Men who could serve their country well, who could adapt
themselves to work, who were practical, easy in harness, able to drive
and patient to be driven, were not, unfortunately, as plentiful as
blackberries. He began to perceive that a really useful man could not
be found miscellaneously under every hat in Pall Mall. He knew his own
value, and did not fear but that he should find a price for it in some
of the world's markets. He would not, therefore, allow himself to be
deterred from further progress by any fear that in doing so he risked
the security of his daily bread; no, not though the risk extended to
his wife; she had taken him for better or worse; if the better came she
should share it; if the worse, why let her share that also, with such
consolation as his affection might be able to offer.

There was something noble in this courage, in this lack of prudence. It
may be a question whether men, in marrying, do not become too prudent.
A single man may risk anything, says the world; but a man with a wife
should be sure of his means. Why so? A man and a woman are but two
units. A man and a woman with ten children are but twelve units. It is
sad to see a man starving--sad to see a woman starving--very sad to see
children starving. But how often does it come to pass that the man who
will work is seen begging his bread? we may almost say never--unless,
indeed, he be a clergyman. Let the idle man be sure of his wife's bread
before he marries her; but the working man, one would say, may generally
trust to God's goodness without fear.

With his official career Alaric was, as we have said, well contented;
in his stock-jobbing line of business he also had had moments of great
exaltation, and some moments of considerable depression. The West Corks
had vacillated. Both he and Undy had sold and bought and sold again;
and on the whole their stake in that stupendous national line of
accommodation was not so all-absorbing as it had once been. But if money
had been withdrawn from this, it had been invested elsewhere, and the
great sum borrowed from Madame Jaquêtanàpe's fortune had been in no
part replaced--one full moiety of it had been taken--may one not say
stolen?--to enable Alaric and Undy to continue their speculations.

The undertaking to which they were now both wedded was the Limehouse
and Rotherhithe Bridge. Of this Undy was chairman, and Alaric was a
director, and at the present moment they looked for ample fortune, or
what would nearly be ample ruin, to the decision of a committee of the
House of Commons which was about to sit with the view of making inquiry
as to the necessity of the bridge in question.

Mr. Nogo, the member for Mile End, was the parent of this committee. He
asserted that the matter was one of such vital importance not only to
the whole metropolis, but to the country at large, that the Government
were bound in the first place to give a large subsidy towards building
the bridge, and afterwards to pay a heavy annual sum towards the amount
which it would be necessary to raise by tolls. Mr. Whip Vigil, on the
other hand, declared on the part of Government that the bridge was
wholly unnecessary; that if it were built it ought to be pulled down
again; and that not a stiver could be given out of the public purse with
such an object.

On this they joined issue. Mr. Nogo prayed for a committee, and Mr.
Vigil, having duly consulted his higher brethren in the Government,
conceded this point. It may easily be conceived how high were now the
hopes both of Undy Scott and Alaric Tudor. It was not at all necessary
for them that the bridge should ever be built; that, probably, was
out of the question; that, very likely, neither of them regarded as a
possibility. But if a committee of the House of Commons could be got to
say that it ought to be built, they might safely calculate on selling
out at a large profit.

But who were to sit on the committee? That was now the all-momentous
question.



CHAPTER XXXII

THE PARLIAMENTARY COMMITTEE


There is a sport prevalent among the downs in Hampshire to which, though
not of a high degree, much interest is attached. Men and boys, with
social glee and happy boyish shouts, congregate together on a
hill-side, at the mouth of a narrow hole, and proceed, with the aid of
a well-trained bull-dog, to draw a badger. If the badger be at all
commendable in his class this is by no means an easy thing to do. He is
a sturdy animal, and well fortified with sharp and practised teeth; his
hide is of the toughest; his paws of the strongest, and his dead power
of resistance so great as to give him more than an equal chance with the
bull-dog. The delighted sportsmen stand round listening to the growls
and snarls, the tearings, gnawings, and bloody struggles of the
combatants within.--'Well done, badger!--Well done, bull-dog!--Draw him,
bulldog!--Bite him, badger!' Each has his friends, and the interest of
the moment is intense. The badger, it is true, has done no harm. He has
been doing as it was appointed for him to do, poor badger, in that hole
of his. But then, why were badgers created but to be drawn? Why, indeed,
but to be drawn, or not to be drawn, as the case may be? See! the
bull-dog returns minus an ear, with an eye hanging loose, his nether
lip torn off, and one paw bitten through and through. Limping, dejected,
beaten, glaring fearfully from his one remaining eye, the dog comes out;
and the badger within rolls himself up with affected ease, hiding his
bloody wounds from the public eye.

So it is that the sport is played in Hampshire; and so also at
Westminster--with a difference, however. In Hampshire the two brutes
retain ever their appointed natures. The badger is always a badger,
and the bull-dog never other than a bull-dog. At Westminster there is
a juster reciprocity of position. The badger when drawn has to take his
place outside the hole, and fight again for the home of his love; while
the victorious bull-dog assumes a state of badgerdom, dons the skin of
his enemy, and, in his turn, submits to be baited.

The pursuit is certainly full of interest, but it is somewhat deficient
in dignity.

The parliamentary committee, which was to sit with reference to the
Limehouse and Rotherhithe Bridge, had been one of the effects of a
baiting-match such as that above described. In this contest the enemies
of the proud occupier of the den on the mountain-side had not been
contented to attempt to expel him with a single bull-dog. A whole pack
had been let loose at his devoted throat. Bull-dogs had been at him, and
terriers, mastiffs, blood-hounds, lurchers, and curs; but so accustomed
was he to the contest, so knowing in his fence, so ready with all the
weapons given to him by nature, that, in spite of the numbers and venom
of his enemies, he had contrived to hold his own. Some leading hounds
had fallen to rise no more; others had retreated, yelping to their
kennels, to lie quiet for a while, till time might give them courage
for a new attack. The country round was filled with the noise of their
plaints, and the yowling and howling of canine defeat. The grey old
badger meanwhile sat proud in his hole, with all his badger kin around
him, and laughed his well-known badger laugh at his disconsolate foes.
Such a brock had not for years been seen in the country-side; so cool,
so resolute, so knowing in his badger ways, so impregnable in his badger
hole, and so good-humoured withal. He could bite full sore with those
old teeth of his, and yet he never condescended to show them. A badger
indeed of whom the country might well be proud!

But in the scramble of the fight some little curs had been permitted to
run away with some little bones; and, in this way, Mr. Nogo, the member
for Mile End, had been allowed to carry his motion for a committee to
inquire as to the expediency of the Government's advancing a quarter of
a million towards the completion of that momentous national undertaking,
the building of a bridge from Limehouse to Rotherhithe.

Very much had been said about this bridge, till men living out of the
light of parliamentary life, nine hundred and ninety-nine men, that is,
out of every thousand in the Queen's dominions, had begun to think
that it was the great want of the age. Men living in the light, the
supporters of the bridge as well as its enemies, knew very well that
such an erection was quite unneeded, and would in all probability never
be made. But then the firm of Blocks, Piles, and Cofferdam, who held a
vast quantity of the bridge shares, and who were to be the contractors
for building it, had an all-powerful influence in the borough of
Limehouse. Where would Mr. Nogo be if he did not cultivate the
friendship of such men as Blocks, Piles, and Cofferdam?

And so Mr. Nogo, and those who acted with Mr. Nogo--men, that is, who
had little jobs of their own to do, and in the doing of which Mr. Nogo
occasionally assisted, Undy Scott, for instance, and such-like--these
men, I say, had talked much about the bridge; and gentlemen on the
Treasury bench, who could have afforded to show up the folly of the
scheme, and to put Mr. Nogo down at once, had he been alone, felt
themselves under the necessity of temporizing. As to giving a penny
of the public money for such a purpose, that they knew was out of the
question; that Mr. Nogo never expected; that they all knew Mr. Nogo
never expected. But as Mr. Nogo's numbers were so respectable, it was
necessary to oppose him in a respectable parliamentary steady manner.
He had fifteen with him! Had he been quite alone, Mr. Vigil would have
sneered him off; had he had but four to back him, the old badger would
have laughed them out of face with a brace of grins. But fifteen--! Mr.
Whip Vigil thought that the committee would be the most safe. So would
the outer world be brought to confess that the interests of Limehouse
and Poplar, Rotherhithe and Deptford, had not been overlooked by a
careful Government.

But of whom was the committee to be made up? That was now the question
which to Mr. Nogo, in his hour of temporary greatness, was truly
momentous. He of course was to be the chairman, and to him appertained
the duty of naming the other members; of naming them indeed--so much he
could undoubtedly do by the strength of his own privilege. But of what
use to name a string of men to whom Mr. Vigil would not consent? Mr.
Nogo, did he do so, would have to divide on every name, and be beaten
at every division. There would be no triumph in that. No; Mr. Nogo fully
understood that his triumph must be achieved--if he were destined to a
triumph--by an astute skill in his selection, not by an open choice
of friends. He must obtain a balance on his side, but one in which the
scale would lean so slightly to his side that Mr. Vigil's eyes might be
deceived. Those who knew Mr. Vigil best were inclined to surmise that
such an arrangement was somewhat beyond Mr. Nogo's political capacity.
There is a proverb which goes to show that a certain little lively
animal may be shaved if he be caught napping; but then the difficulty of
so catching him is extreme.

Mr. Nogo, at the head of the list, put Mr. Vigil himself. This, of
course, was a necessity to him--would that he could have dispensed with
it! Then he named sundry supporters of the Government, sundry members
also of the opposition; and he filled up the list with certain others
who could not be regarded as sure supporters of one side or the
other, but with whom, for certain reasons, he thought he might in this
particular case be safe. Undy Scott was of course not among the number,
as Mr. Nogo would only have damaged his cause by naming a man known to
have a pecuniary interest in the concern.

The member for Mile End was doubtless sharp, but Mr. Vigil was sharper.
His object was, in fact, merely to do his duty to the country by
preventing a profuse and useless expenditure of money. His anxiety was
a perfectly honest one--to save the Exchequer namely. But the
circumstances of the case required that he should fight the battle
according to the tactics of the House, and he well understood how to do
so.

When the list was read he objected to two or three names--only to two or
three. They were not those of staunch enemies of the Government; nor did
he propose in their places the names of staunch supporters. He suggested
certain gentlemen who, from their acquaintance with bridges, tolls,
rivers, &c., would, as he said, be probably of use. He, also, was sure
of his men, and as he succeeded with two of them, he was also pretty
sure of his committee.

And then the committee met, and a lot of witnesses were in attendance.
The chairman opened his case, and proceeded to prove, by the evidence
of sundry most respectable men connected with Limehouse, and with the
portions of Surrey and Kent lying immediately opposite to it, that the
most intense desire for friendly and commercial intercourse was felt;
but that, though absolutely close to each other, the districts were so
divided by adverse circumstances, circumstances which were monstrous
considering the advance of science in the nineteenth century, that
the dearest friends were constrained to perpetual banishment from each
other; and that the men of Kent were utterly unable to do any trade at
Limehouse, and the Limehousians equally unable to carry on traffic in
Surrey.

It was wonderful that the narrow river should be so effective for
injury. One gentleman from Poplar proved that, having given his daughter
in marriage to a man of Deptford two years since, he had not yet been
able to see her since that day. Her house, by the crow's flight, was but
seven furlongs from his own; but, as he kept no horse, he could not get
to her residence without a four hours' walk, for which he felt himself
to be too old. He was, however, able to visit his married daughter at
Reading, and be back to tea. The witness declared that his life was made
miserable by his being thus debarred from his child, and he wiped his
eyes with his pocket-handkerchief piteously, sitting there in front of
the committee. In answer to Mr. Vigil he admitted that there might be a
ferry, but stated that he did not know. Having had, from childhood, an
aversion to the water, he had not inquired. He was aware that some rash
people had gone through the Tunnel, but for himself he did not think the
Tunnel a safe mode of transit.

Another gentleman belonging to Rotherhithe, who was obliged to be almost
daily at Blackwall, maintained two horses for the express purpose of
going backwards and forwards, round by London Bridge. They cost him
£70 per annum each. Such a bridge as that now proposed, and which the
gentleman declared that he regarded as an embryo monument of national
glory, would save him £140 per annum. He then proceeded to make a little
speech about the spirit of the age, and the influence of routine, which
he described as a gloomy gnome. But his oratory was cruelly cut short by
Mr. Vigil, who demanded of him whether he ever used the river steamers.
The witness shuddered fearfully as he assured the committee that he
never did, and referred to the _Cricket_, whose boilers burst in the
year 1842; besides, he had, he said, his things to carry with him.

Another witness told how unsafe was the transit of heavy goods by barge
from one side of the river to another. He had had a cargo of marine
stores which would go to sea before their time. The strong ebb of the
tide, joined to the river current, had positively carried the barge
away, and its course had not been stopped till it had drifted on shore
at Purfleet. He acknowledged that something had transpired of the
bargemen being drunk, but he had no knowledge himself that such had been
the case. No other cargoes of his own had been carried away, but he
had heard that such was often the case. He thought that the bridge
was imperatively demanded. Would the tolls pay? He felt sure that
they would. Why, then, should not the bridge be built as a commercial
speculation, without Government aid? He thought that in such cases a
fostering Government was bound to come forward and show the way. He had
a few shares in the bridge himself. He had paid up £1 a share. They were
now worth 2s. 6d. each. They had been worth nothing before the committee
had been ordered to sit. He declined to give any opinion as to what the
shares would be worth if the money were granted.

Ladies at Limehouse proved that if there were a bridge they could save
30s. a year each, by buying their tea and sugar at Rotherhithe; and so
singular are the usages of trade, that the ladies of Rotherhithe would
benefit their husbands equally, and return the compliment, by consuming
the bread of Limehouse. The shores of Kent were pining for the beef of
the opposite bank, and only too anxious to give in return the surplus
stock of their own poultry.

'Let but a bridge be opened,' as was asserted by one animated vendor of
rope, 'and Poplar would soon rival Pimlico. Perhaps that might not be
desirable in the eyes of men who lived in the purlieus of the Court,
and who were desirous to build no new bridge, except that over
the ornamental water in St. James's Park.' Upon uttering which the
rope-vendor looked at Mr. Vigil as though he expected him to sink at
once under the table.

Mr. Blocks, of the great firm of Blocks, Piles, and Cofferdam, then came
forward. He declared that a large sum of money was necessary before
this great national undertaking could be begun in a spirit worthy of the
nineteenth century. It was intended to commence the approaches on each
side of the river a quarter of a mile from the first abutment of the
bridge, in order to acquire the necessary altitude without a steep
ascent. He then described what a glorious bridge this bridge would
be; how it would eclipse all bridges that had ever been built; how the
fleets of all nations would ride under it; how many hundred thousand
square feet of wrought iron would be consumed in its construction; how
many tons of Portland stone in the abutments, parapets, and supporting
walls; how much timber would be buried twenty fathoms deep in the mud of
the river; how many miles of paving-stone would be laid down. Mr. Blocks
went on with his astonishing figures till the committee were bewildered,
and even Mr. Vigil, though well used to calculations, could hardly raise
his mind to the dimensions of the proposed undertaking.

The engineer followed, and showed how easily this great work could be
accomplished. There was no difficulty, literally none. The patronage of
the Crown was all that was required. The engineer was asked whether by
the word patronage he meant money, and after a little laughing and a few
counter questions, he admitted that, in his estimation, patronage and
money did mean the same thing.

Such was the case made out by the promoters of the bridge, and the
chairman and his party were very sanguine of success. They conceived
that Mr. Blocks' figures had completely cowed their antagonists.

Mr. Vigil then took his case in hand, and brought forward his witnesses.
It now appeared that the intercourse between the people living on each
side of the river was immense, and ever on the increase. Limehouse, it
would seem, had nothing to do but to go to Deptford, and that Deptford
consumed all its time in returning the visit. Little children were sent
across continually on the most trifling errands, going and coming for
one halfpenny. An immense income was made by the owners of the ferry. No
two adjacent streets in London had more to do with each other than had
the lanes of Rotherhithe and the lanes of Limehouse. Westminster and
Lambeth were further apart, and less connected by friendly intercourse.
The frequenters of the ferry were found to outnumber the passengers over
Waterloo Bridge by ten to one.

Indeed, so lamentable a proposition as this of building a bridge across
the river had never before been mooted by the public. Men conversant
with such matters gave it as their opinion that no amount of tolls that
could reasonably be expected would pay one per cent on the money which
it was proposed to expend; that sum, however, they stated, would not
more than half cover the full cost of the bridge. Traffic would be
prohibited by the heavy charges which would be necessary, and the
probability would be that the ferry would still continue to be the
ordinary mode of crossing the river.

A gentleman, accustomed to use strong figures of speech, declared that
if such a bridge were built, the wisest course would be to sow the
surface with grass, and let it out for grazing. This witness was taken
specially in hand by Mr. Nogo, and targed very tightly. Mr. Vigil had
contrived to prove, out of the mouths of inimical witnesses, the very
reverse of that which they had been summoned thither to assert. The
secret of the ferry had been first brought to the light by the gentleman
who could not visit his daughter at Deptford, and so on. These triumphs
had evidently been very pleasant to Mr. Vigil, and Mr. Nogo thought that
he might judiciously take a leaf out of the Treasury book. Actuated
by this ambition, he, with the assistance of his friend, the M'Carthy
Desmond, put no less than 2,250 questions to the gentleman who suggested
the grazing, in order to induce him to say, that if there were a bridge,
men would probably walk over it. But they could not bring him to own to
a single passenger, unless they would abandon the tolls. The most that
they could get from him was, that perhaps an old woman, with more money
than wit, might go over it on a Sunday afternoon, if--which he did not
believe--any old woman existed, _in that part of the world_, who had
more money than wit.

This witness was kept in the chair for three days, during which Mr.
Vigil was nearly driven wild by the loss of his valuable time. But he
did not complain. Nor would he have complained, though he might have
absented himself, had the witness been kept in the chair three
weeks instead of three days. The expense of the committee, including
witnesses, shorthand-writers, and printing, was about £60 a day, but
it never occurred to any one of the number to get up and declare with
indignation, that such a waste of money and time on so palpably absurd a
scheme was degrading, and to demand an immediate close of their labours.
It all went smoothly to the end, and Mr. Nogo walked off from his task
with the approving conscience of a patriotic legislator.

At the close the members met to prepare their report. It was then the
first week in August, and they were naturally in a hurry to finish their
work. It was now their duty to decide on the merits of what they had
heard, to form a judgement as to the veracity of the witnesses, and
declare, on behalf of the country which they represented, whether or no
this bridge should be built at the expense of the nation.

With his decision each was ready enough; but not one of them dreamed of
being influenced by anything which had been said before them. All the
world--that is, all that were in any way concerned in the matter--knew
that the witnesses for the bridge were anxious to have it built, and
that the witnesses against the bridge were anxious to prevent the
building. It would be the worst of ignorance, ignorance of the usage of
the world we live in, to suppose that any member of Parliament could
be influenced by such manoeuvres. Besides, was not the mind of each man
fully known before the committee met?

Various propositions were made by the members among themselves, and
various amendments moved. The balance of the different parties had been
nearly preserved. A decided victory was not to be expected on either
side. At last the resolution to which the committee came was this:
'That this committee is not prepared, under existing circumstances, to
recommend a grant of public money for the purpose of erecting a bridge
at Limehouse; but that the committee consider that the matter is still
open to consideration should further evidence be adduced.'

Mr. Vigil was perfectly satisfied. He did not wish to acerbate the
member for Mile End, and was quite willing to give him a lift towards
keeping his seat for the borough, if able to do so without cost to the
public exchequer. At Limehouse the report of the committee was declared
by certain persons to be as good as a decision in their favour; it was
only postponing the matter for another session. But Mr. Vigil knew that
he had carried his point, and the world soon agreed with him. He at
least did his work successfully, and, considering the circumstances of
his position, he did it with credit to himself.

A huge blue volume was then published, containing, among other things,
all Mr. Nogo's 2,250 questions and their answers; and so the Limehouse
and Rotherhithe bridge dropped into oblivion and was forgotten.



CHAPTER XXXIII

TO STAND, OR NOT TO STAND


Sir Gregory Hardlines had been somewhat startled by Alaric's
announcement of his parliamentary intentions. It not unnaturally
occurred to that great man that should Mr. Tudor succeed at Strathbogy,
and should he also succeed in being allowed to hold his office and seat
together, he, Tudor, would very soon become first fiddle at the Civil
Service Examination Board. This was a view of the matter which was by
no means agreeable to Sir Gregory. Not for this had he devoted his time,
his energy, and the best powers of his mind to the office of which he
was at present the chief; not for this had he taken by the hand a young
clerk, and brought him forward, and pushed him up, and seated him in
high places. To have kept Mr. Jobbles would have been better than this;
he, at any rate, would not have aspired to parliamentary honours.

And when Sir Gregory came to look into it, he hardly knew whether those
bugbears with which he had tried to frighten Tudor were good serviceable
bugbears, such as would stand the strain of such a man's logic and
reason. Was there really any reason why one of the commissioners
should not sit in Parliament? Would his doing so be subversive of the
constitution? Or would the ministers of the day object to an additional
certain vote? This last point of view was one in which it did not at all
delight Sir Gregory to look at the subject in question. He determined
that he would not speak on the matter to the Chancellor of the
Exchequer, or to any of the Government wigs who might be considered to
be bigger wigs than himself.

And Alaric thought over the matter coolly also. He looked at it till the
bugbears shrank into utter insignificance; till they became no more
than forms of shreds and patches put up to frighten birds out of
cherry-orchards.

Why should the constitution be wounded by the presence of one more
commissioner in Parliament? Why should not he do his public duty and
hold his seat at the same time, as was done by so many others? But
he would have to go out if the ministry went out. That was another
difficulty, another bugbear, more substantial perhaps than the others;
but he was prepared to meet even that. He was a poor man; his profession
was that of the Civil Service; his ambition was to sit in Parliament. He
would see whether he could not combine his poverty with his profession,
and with his ambition also. Sir Gregory resolved in his fear that
he would not speak to the Chancellor of the Exchequer on the matter;
Alaric, on the other hand, in his audacity, resolved that he would do
so.

It was thus that Sir Gregory regarded the matter. 'See all that I have
done for this man,' said he to himself; 'see how I have warmed him in
my bosom, how I have lifted him to fortune and renown, how I have heaped
benefits on his head! If gratitude in this world be possible, that man
should be grateful to me; if one man can ever have another's interest at
heart, that man should have a heartfelt anxiety as to my interest. And
yet how is it? I have placed him in the chair next to my own, and now he
is desirous of sitting above me!'

'Twas thus Sir Gregory communed with himself. But Alaric's soliloquy was
very different. A listener who could have overheard both would hardly
have thought that the same question was being discussed by the two. 'I
have got so high,' said Alaric, 'by my own labour, by my own skill and
tact; and why should I stop here? I have left my earliest colleagues far
behind me; have distanced those who were my competitors in the walk of
life; why should I not still go on and distance others also? why stop
when I am only second or third? It is very natural that Sir Gregory
should wish to keep me out of Parliament; I cannot in the least blame
him; let us all fight as best each may for himself. He does not wish a
higher career; I do. Sir Gregory will now do all that he can to impede
my views, because they are antagonistic to his own; very well; I must
only work the harder to overcome his objections.' There was no word in
all this of gratitude; there was no thought in Alaric's mind that it
behoved him to be grateful to Sir Gregory. It was for his own sake,
not for his pupil's, that Sir Gregory had brought this pupil forward.
Grateful, indeed! In public life when is there time for gratitude? Who
ever thinks of other interest than his own?

Such was Alaric's theory of life. But not the less would he have
expected gratitude from those whom he might serve. Such also very
probably was Sir Gregory's theory when he thought of those who had
helped him, instead of those whom he himself had helped.

And so they met, and discussed Alaric's little proposition.

'Since I saw you yesterday,' said Sir Gregory, 'I have been thinking
much of what you were saying to me of your wish to go into Parliament.'

'I am very much obliged to you,' said Alaric.

'I need hardly tell you, Tudor, how anxious I am to further your
advancement. I greatly value your ability and diligence, and have shown
that I am anxious to make them serviceable to the public.'

'I am fully aware that I owe you a great deal, Sir Gregory.'

'Oh, I don't mean that; that's nothing; I am not thinking of myself. I
only want you to understand that I am truly anxious to see you take that
line in public matters which may make your services most valuable to
the public, and which may redound the most to your own advantage. I have
thought of what you said to me with the most mature deliberation, and I
am persuaded that I shall best do my duty to you, and to the service,
by recommending you to abandon altogether your idea of going into
Parliament.'

Sir Gregory said this in his weightiest manner. He endeavoured to assume
some of that authority with which he had erst cowed the young Tudor at
the Weights and Measures, and as he finished his speech he assumed a
profound look which ought to have been very convincing.

But the time was gone by with Alaric when such tricks of legerdemain
were convincing to him. A grave brow, compressed lips, and fixed eyes,
had no longer much effect upon him. He had a point to gain, and he was
thinking of that, and not of Sir Gregory's grimaces.

'Then you will not see the Chancellor of the Exchequer on the subject?'

'No,' said Sir Gregory; 'it would be useless for me to do so. I could
not advocate such a scheme, feeling certain that it would be injurious
both to yourself and to the service; and I would not desire to see the
Chancellor with the view of opposing your wishes.'

'I am much obliged to you for that, at any rate,' said Alaric.

'But I do hope that you will not carry your plan any farther. When I
tell you, as I do with the utmost sincerity, that I feel certain that an
attempt to seat yourself in Parliament can only lead to the ruin of
your prospects as a Civil servant--prospects which are brighter now than
those of any other young man in the service--I cannot but think that you
must hesitate before you take any step which will, in my opinion, render
your resignation necessary.'

'I shall be sorry to resign, Sir Gregory, as I have such true pleasure
in serving with you.'

'And, I presume, a salary of £1,200 a year is not unacceptable?' said
Sir Gregory, with the very faintest of smiles.

'By no means,' said Alaric; 'I am a poor man, depending altogether on my
own exertions for an income. I cannot afford to throw away a chance.'

'Then take my word for it, you should give up all idea of Parliament,'
said Sir Gregory, who thought that he had carried his point.

'But I call a seat in Parliament a chance,' said Alaric; 'the best
chance that a man, circumstanced as I am, can possibly have. I have the
offer of a seat, Sir Gregory, and I can't afford to throw it away.'

'Then it is my duty to tell you, as the head of your office, that it
will be your duty to resign before you offer yourself as a candidate.'

'That you mean is your present opinion, Sir Gregory?'

'Yes, Mr. Tudor, that is my opinion--an opinion which I shall be forced
to express to the Chancellor of the Exchequer, if you persist in this
infatuation.'

Alaric looked very grave, but not a whit angry. 'I am sorry for it, Sir
Gregory, very sorry; I had hoped to have had your countenance.'

'I would give it you, Mr. Tudor, if I could consistently with my duty as
a public servant; but as I cannot, I am sure you will not ask for it.'
How Fidus Neverbend would have admired the chief commissioner could he
have seen and heard him at this moment! 'But,' he continued, relaxing
for a while the muscles of his face, 'I hope, I do hope, you will think
better of this. What are you to gain? Come, Tudor, think of it that way.
What are you to gain? You, with a wife and young family coming up about
your heels, what are you to gain by going into Parliament? That is
what I ask you. What are you to gain?' It was delightful to see how
pleasantly practical Sir Gregory could become when he chose to dismount
from his high horse.

'It is considered a high position in this country, that of a member of
Parliament,' said Alaric. 'A man in gaining that is generally supposed
to have gained something.'

'True, quite true. It is a desirable position for a rich man, or a rich
man's eldest son, or even for a poor man, if by getting into Parliament
he can put himself in the way of improving his income. But, my dear
Tudor, you are in none of these positions. Abandon the idea, my dear
Tudor--pray abandon it. If not for your own sake, at any rate do so for
that of your wife and child.'

Sir Gregory might as well have whistled. Not a word that he said had the
slightest effect on Alaric. How was it possible that his words should
have any effect, seeing that Alaric was convinced that Sir Gregory was
pleading for his own advantage, and not for that of his listener? Alaric
did listen. He received all that Sir Gregory said with the most profound
attention; schooled his face into a look of the most polite deference;
and then, with his most cruel tone, informed Sir Gregory that his mind
was quite made up, and that he did intend to submit himself to the
electors of Strathbogy.

'And as to what you say about my seat at the board, Sir Gregory, you
may probably be right. Perhaps it will be as well that I should see the
Chancellor of the Exchequer myself.'

'"Who will to Cupar maun to Cupar,"' said Sir Gregory; 'I can only
say, Mr. Tudor, that I am very sorry for you, and very sorry for your
wife--very sorry, very sorry indeed.'

'And who will to Strathbogy maun to Strathbogy,' said Alaric, laughing;
'there is certainly an air of truth about the proverb as applied to
myself just at present. But the fact is, whether for good or for bad, I
maun to Strathbogy. That is my present destiny. The fact that I have
a wife and a child does make the step a most momentous one. But, Sir
Gregory, I should never forgive myself were I to throw away such an
opportunity.'

'Then I have nothing more to say, Mr. Tudor.'

'Of course I shall try to save my place,' continued Alaric.

'I look upon that as quite impossible,' said Sir Gregory.

'It can do me no harm at any rate to see the Chancellor of the
Exchequer. If he tells me that a seat in Parliament and a seat at
the board are incompatible, and that as one of the Civil Service
Commissioners I am not free to stand for the borough, I will in that
case, Sir Gregory, put my resignation in your hands before I publish my
address.'

And so they parted, each determined to do all that in him lay to thwart
the wishes of the other. Alaric was not in the least influenced by
anything that Sir Gregory had said to him; he had made up his mind, and
was determined to be turned from it by no arguments that his colleague
could use; but nevertheless he could not but be meditative, as, walking
home across the Parks, he thought of his wife and child. It is true that
he had a second trade; he was a stock-jobber as well as a Civil Service
Commissioner; but he already perceived how very difficult it was to
realize an income to which he could trust from that second precarious
pursuit. He had also lived in a style considerably beyond that which his
official income would have enabled him to assume. He had on the whole,
he thought, done very well; but yet it would be a dreadful thing to have
to trust to so precarious a livelihood. He had realized nothing; he had
not yet been able to pay back the money which he had so fraudulently
taken, and to acquit himself of a debt which now lay daily heavier and
heavier on his soul. He felt that he must repay not only that but Undy's
share also, before he could again pass a happy day or a quiet night.
This plan of throwing up £1,200 a year would badly assist him in getting
rid of this incubus.

But still that watchword of his goaded him on--'Excelsior!' he still
said to himself; 'Excelsior!' If he halted now, now when the ball was at
his foot, he might never have another chance. Very early in life before
a beard was on his chin, before he could style himself a man according
to the laws of his country, he had determined within himself that a seat
in Parliament was the only fitting ambition for an Englishman. That was
now within his reach. Would he be such a dastard as to draw back his
hand, and be deterred from taking it, by old women's tales of prudence,
and the self-interested lectures of Sir Gregory Hardlines?

'Excelsior!' There was not much that could be so styled in that debt of
his to M. and Madame Jaquêtanàpe. If he could only pay that off he felt
that he could brave the world without a fear. Come what come might he
would sell out and do so. The bridge committee was sitting, and his
shares were already worth more than he had paid for them. Mr. Blocks had
just given his evidence, and the commercial world was willing enough to
invest in the Limehouse bridge. He would sell out and put his conscience
at rest.

But then to do so successfully, he must induce Undy to do so too; and
that he knew would not at present be an easy task. Who had ever been
successful in getting back money from Undy Scott? He had paid the last
half-year's interest with most commendable punctuality, and was not that
a great deal from Undy Scott?

But what if this appropriation of another's money, what if this fraud
should be detected and exposed before he had succeeded in paying back
the £10,000. What if he should wake some morning and find himself in the
grip of some Newgate myrmidon? A terrible new law had just been passed
for the protection of trust property; a law in which he had not felt the
slightest interest when he had first seen in the daily newspapers some
tedious account of the passing of the various clauses, but which was now
terrible to his innermost thoughts.

His walk across the Parks was not made happy by much self-triumph. In
spite of his commissionership and coming parliamentary honours, his
solitary moments were seldom very happy. It was at his club, when living
with Undy and Undy's peers, that he was best able to throw off his
cares and enjoy himself. But even then, high as he was mounted on his
fast-trotting horse, black Care would sit behind him, ever mounted on
the same steed.

And bitterly did poor Gertrude feel the misery of these evenings which
her husband passed at his club; but she never reviled him or complained;
she never spoke of her sorrow even to her mother or sister. She did not
even blame him in her own heart. She knew that he had other business
than that of his office, higher hopes than those attached to his board;
and she taught herself to believe that his career required him to be
among public men.

He had endeavoured to induce her to associate constantly with Mrs. Val,
so that her evenings might not be passed alone; but Gertrude, after
trying Mrs. Val for a time, had quietly repudiated the closeness of this
alliance. Mrs. Val had her ideas of 'Excelsior,' her ambition to rule,
and these ideas and this ambition did not at all suit Gertrude's temper.
Not even for her husband's sake could she bring herself to be patronized
by Mrs. Val. They were still very dear friends, of course; but they did
not live in each other's arms as Alaric had intended they should do.

He returned home after his interview with Sir Gregory, and found his
wife in the drawing-room with her child. He usually went down from his
office to his club, and she was therefore the more ready to welcome him
for having broken through his habit on the present occasion.

She left her infant sprawling on the floor, and came up to greet him
with a kiss.

'Ger,'--said he, putting his arm round her and embracing her--'I have
come home to consult you on business;' and then he seated himself on the
sofa, taking her with him, and still in his arms. There was but little
doubt that she would consent to anything which he could propose to her
after such a fashion, in such a guise as this; that he knew full well.

'Well, love,' said she, 'and what is the business about? You know that I
always think that to be best which you think to be best.'

'Yes, Ger; but this is a very important matter;' and then he looked
grave, but managed at the same time to look happy and contented. 'This
is a matter of vital importance to you, and I will do nothing in it
without your consent.'

'What is best for you must be best for me,' said Gertrude, kissing his
forehead.

Then he explained to her what had passed between himself and Sir
Gregory, and what his own ideas were as regarded the borough of
Strathbogy. 'Sir Gregory,' said he, 'is determined that I shall not
remain at the board and sit in Parliament at the same time; but I do not
see why Sir Gregory is to have his own way in everything. If you are not
afraid of the risk, I will make up my mind to stand it at all events,
and to resign if the Minister makes it imperative. If, however, you
fear the result, I will let the matter drop, and tell the Scotts to find
another candidate. I am anxious to go into Parliament, I confess; but I
will never do so at the expense of your peace of mind.'

The way in which he put upon her the whole weight of the decision was
not generous. Nor was the mode he adopted of inducing her to back his
own wishes. If there were risk to her--and in truth there was fearful
risk--it was his duty to guard her from the chance, not hers to say
whether such danger should be encountered or no. The nature of her
answer may be easily surmised. She was generous, though he was not.
She would never retard his advance, or be felt as a millstone round his
neck. She encouraged him with all her enthusiasm, and bade him throw
prudence to the winds. If he rose, must she not rise also? Whatever step
in life was good for him, must it not be good for her as well? And so
that matter was settled between them--pleasantly enough.

He endured a fortnight of considerable excitement, during which he and
Sir Gregory did not smile at each other, and then he saw the Chancellor
of the Exchequer. That gentleman promised to speak to the Prime
Minister, feeling himself unable to answer the question put to him,
definitely out of his own head; and then another fortnight passed on.
At the end of that time the Chancellor of the Exchequer sent for Alaric,
and they had a second interview.

'Well, Mr. Tudor,' said the great man, 'this is a matter of very
considerable importance, and one on which I am not even yet prepared to
give you a positive answer.'

This was very good news for Alaric. Sir Gregory had spoken of the matter
as one on which there could be no possible doubt. He had asserted that
the British lion would no longer sleep peaceably in his lair, if such
a violence were put on the constitution as that meditated by the young
commissioner. It was quite clear that the Chancellor of the Exchequer,
and the Prime Minister also, looked at it in a very different light.
They doubted, and Alaric was well aware that their doubt was as good as
certainty to him.

The truth was that the Prime Minister had said to the Chancellor of the
Exchequer, in a half-serious, half-jocular way, that he didn't see why
he should reject a vote when offered to him by a member of the Civil
Service. The man must of course do his work--and should it be found that
his office work and his seat in Parliament interfered with each other,
why, he must take the consequences. And if--or--or--made a row about it
in the House and complained, why in that case also Mr. Tudor must take
the consequences. And then, enough having been said on that matter, the
conversation dropped.

'I am not prepared to give a positive answer,' said the Chancellor of
the Exchequer, who of course did not choose to commit himself.

Alaric assured the great man that he was not so unreasonable as to
expect a positive answer. Positive answers, as he well knew, were not
often forthcoming among official men; official men, as he had already
learnt, prefer to do their business by answers which are not positive.
He himself had become adverse to positive answers since he had become
a commissioner, and was quite prepared to dispense with them in the
parliamentary career which he hoped that he was now about to commence.
This much, however, was quite clear, that he might offer himself as a
candidate to the electors of Strathbogy without resigning; and that Sir
Gregory's hostile remonstrance on the subject, should he choose to make
one, would not be received as absolute law by the greater powers.

Accordingly as Alaric was elated, Sir Gregory was depressed. He had
risen high, but now this young tyro whom he had fostered was about to
climb above his head. O the ingratitude of men!

Alaric, however, showed no triumph. He was more submissive, more
gracious than ever to his chief. It was only to himself that he muttered
'Excelsior!



CHAPTER XXXIV

WESTMINSTER HALL


The parliamentary committee pursued their animated inquiries respecting
the Limehouse bridge all through the sultry month of July. How Mr. Vigil
must have hated Mr. Nogo, and the M'Carthy Desmond! how sick he must
have been of that eternal witness who, with imperturbable effrontery,
answered the 2,250 questions put to him without admitting anything! To
Mr. Vigil it was all mere nonsense, sheer waste of time. Had he been
condemned to sit for eight days in close contiguity to the clappers of
a small mill, he would have learnt as much as he did from the witnesses
before the committee. Nevertheless he went through it and did not lose
his temper. He smiled sweetly on Mr. Nogo every morning, and greeted
the titled Irishman with his easy familiar nod, as though the continued
sitting of this very committee was of all things to him the most
desirable. Such is Mr. Vigil's peculiar tact, such his special talent;
these are the gifts--gifts by no means ordinary--which have made him
Right Honourable, and recommended him to the confidence of successive
badgers.

But though the committee was uninteresting to Mr. Vigil, it was not
so to the speculative inhabitants of Limehouse, or to the credulous
shopkeepers of Rotherhithe. On the evening of the day on which Mr.
Blocks was examined, the shares went up 20 per cent; and when his
evidence was published _in extenso_ the next Saturday morning by the
_Capel Court Share-buyer_, a periodical which served for Bible and
Prayer-book, as well as a Compendium of the Whole Duty of Man, to Undy
Scott and his friends, a further rise in the price of this now valuable
property was the immediate consequence.

Now, then, was the time for Alaric to sell and get out of his
difficulties if ever he could do so. Shares which he bought for 30s.
were now worth nearly £2 10s. He was strongly of opinion that they would
fall again, and that the final result of the committee would leave
them of a less value than their original purchase-money, and probably
altogether valueless. He could not, however, act in the matter without
consulting Undy, so closely linked were they in the speculation; and
even at the present price his own shares would not enable him to pay
back the full amount of what he had taken.

The joint property of the two was, however, at its present market price,
worth £12,000--£10,000 would make him a free man. He was perfectly
willing to let Undy have the full use of the difference in amount; nay,
he was ready enough to give it to him altogether, if by so doing he
could place the whole of his ward's money once more in safety. With the
power of offering such a douceur to his friend's rapacity, he flattered
himself that he might have a chance of being successful. He was thus
prepared to discuss the matter with his partner.

It so happened that at the same moment Undy was desirous of discussing
the same subject, their joint interest, namely, in the Limehouse bridge;
there was no difficulty therefore in their coming together. They met
at the door of the committee-room when Mr. Nogo had just put his 999th
question to the adverse witness; and as the summons to prayers prevented
the 1,000th being proceeded with at that moment, Undy and Alaric
sauntered back along the passages, and then walking up and down the
immense space of Westminster Hall, said each to the other what he had to
say on the matter mooted between them.

Undy was in great glee, and seemed to look on his fortune as already
made. They had at first confined their remarks to the special evidence
of the witness who had last been in the chair; and Undy, with the
volubility which was common to him when he was in high spirits, had
been denouncing him as an ass who was injuring his own cause by his over
obstinacy.

'Nothing that he can say,' said Undy, 'will tell upon the share-market.
The stock is rising from hour to hour; and Piles himself told me that
he knew from sure intelligence that the Chancellor of the Exchequer
is prepared to give way, whatever Vigil may say to the contrary. Their
firm, Piles says, is buying every share they can lay their hands on.'

'Then in God's name let them buy ours,' said Alaric.

'Buy ours!' said Undy. 'You don't mean to tell me that you wish to sell
now? You don't mean to say that you want to back out, now that the game
is all going our own way?'

'Indeed I do, and I intend to do so; just listen to me, Undy----'

'I tell you fairly, Tudor, I will not sell a share; what you may choose
to do with your own I cannot say. But if you will be guided by me you
will keep every share you have got. Instead of selling we should both
add to our stock. I at any rate am resolved to do so.'

'Listen to me, Undy,' said Alaric.

'The truth is,' said Undy--who at the present moment preferred talking
to listening--'the truth is, you do not understand buying and selling
shares. We should both be ruined very quickly were I to allow myself to
be led by you; you are too timid, too much afraid of risking your money;
your speculative pluck hardly rises higher than the Three per cents, and
never soars above a first-class mortgage on land.'

'I could be as sanguine as you are, and as bold,' said Alaric, 'were I
venturing with my own money.'

'In the name of goodness get that bugbear out of your head,' said Undy.
'Whatever good it might have done you to think of that some time ago,
it can do you no good now.' There was a bitter truth in this which made
Alaric's heart sink low within his breast. 'Wherever the money came
from, whose property it may have been or be, it has been used; and now
your only safety is in making the best use of it. A little daring, a
little audacity--it is that which ruins men. When you sit down to play
brag, you must brag it out, or lose your money.'

'But, my dear fellow, there is no question here of losing money. If we
sell now we shall realize about £2,000.'

'And will that, or the half of that, satisfy you? Is that your idea of
a good thing? Will that be sufficient to pay for the dozen of bad things
which a fellow is always putting his foot into? It won't satisfy me. I
can tell you that, at any rate.'

Alaric felt very desirous of keeping Undy in a good humour. He wished,
if possible, to persuade him rather than to drive him; to coax him into
repaying this money, and not absolutely to demand the repayment. 'Come,'
said he, 'what do you call a good thing yourself?'

'I call cent per cent a good thing, and I'll not sell a share till they
come up to that.'

'They'll never do that, Undy.'

'That's your opinion. I think differently. And I'm sure you will own I
have had more experience of the share-market than you have. When I see
such men as Blocks and Piles buying fast, I know very well which way the
wind blows. A man may be fishing a long time, Tudor, in these waters,
before he gets such a haul as this; but he must be a great fool to let
go his net when he does get it.'

They both then remained silent for a time, for each was doubtful how
best to put forward the view which he himself wished to urge. Their
projects were diametrically different, and yet neither could carry his
own without the assistance of the other.

'I tell you what I propose,' said Undy.

'Wait a moment, Undy,' said Alaric; 'listen to me for one moment. I can
hear nothing till you do so, and then I will hear anything.'

'Well, what is it?'

We have each of us put something near to £5,000 into this venture.'

'I have put more,' said Scott.

'Very well. But we have each of us withdrawn a sum equal to that I have
named from my ward's fortune for this purpose.'

'I deny that,' said Undy. 'I have taken nothing from your ward's
fortune. I have had no power to do so. You have done as you pleased with
that fortune. But I am ready to admit that I have borrowed £5,000--not
from your ward, but from you.'

Alaric was nearly beside himself; but he still felt that he should have
no chance of carrying his point if he lost his temper.

'That is ungenerous of you, Scott, to say the least of it; but we'll let
that pass. To enable me to lend you the £5,000, and to enable me to join
you in this speculation, £10,000 has been withdrawn from Clementina's
fortune.'

'I know nothing about that,' said Scott.

'Know nothing about it!' said Alaric, looking at him with withering
scorn. But Undy was not made of withering material, and did not care a
straw for his friend's scorn.

'Nothing whatever,' said he.

'Well, so be it,' said Alaric; 'but the fact is, the money has been
withdrawn.'

'I don't doubt that in the least,' said Undy. 'I am not now going to
argue whether the fault has been most mine or yours,' continued Alaric.

'Well, that is kind of you,' said Undy, 'considering that you are the
girl's trustee, and that I have no more to do with it than that fellow
in the wig there.'

'I wish at any rate you would let me explain myself,' said Alaric, who
felt that his patience was fast going, and who could hardly resist the
temptation of seizing his companion by the throat, and punishing him on
the spot for his iniquity.

'I don't prevent you, my dear fellow--only remember this: I will not
permit you to assert, without contradicting you, that I am responsible
for Clem's fortune. Now, go on, and explain away as hard as you like.'

Alaric, under these circumstances, found it not very easy to put what
he had to say into any words that his companion would admit. He fully
intended at some future day to thrust Scott's innocence down his throat,
and tell him that he was not only a thief, but a mean, lying, beggarly
thief. But the present was not the time. Too much depended on his
inducing Undy to act with him.

'Ten thousand pounds has at any rate been taken.'

'That I won't deny.'

'And half that sum has been lent to you.'

'I acknowledge a debt of £5,000.'

'It is imperative that £10,000 should at once be repaid.'

'I have no objection in life.'

'I can sell my shares in the Limehouse bridge,' continued Alaric, 'for
£6,000, and I am prepared to do so.'

'The more fool you,' said Undy,' if you do it; especially as £6,000
won't pay £10,000, and as the same property, if overheld another month
or two, in all probability will do so.'

'I am ready to sacrifice that and more than that,' said Alaric. 'If you
will sell out £4,000, and let me at once have that amount, so as to make
up the full sum I owe, I will make you a free present of the remainder
of the debt. Come, Undy, you cannot but call that a good thing. You will
have pocketed two thousand pounds, according to the present market value
of the shares, and that without the slightest risk.'

Undy for a while seemed staggered by the offer. Whether it was Alaric's
extreme simplicity in making it, or his own good luck in receiving
it, or whether by any possible chance some all but dormant remnant of
feeling within his heart was touched, we will not pretend to say. But
for a while he walked on silent, as though wavering in his resolution,
and looking as if he wished to be somewhat more civil, somewhat less of
the bully, than he had been.

There was no one else to whom Alaric could dare to open his heart on
this subject of his ward's fortune; there was none other but this ally
of his to whom he could confide, whom he could consult. Unpromising,
therefore, though Undy was as a confederate, Alaric, when he thought he
saw this change in his manner, poured forth at once the full tide of his
feelings.

'Undy,' said he, 'pray bear with me a while. The truth is, I cannot
endure this misery any longer. I do not now want to blame anyone but
myself. The thing has been done, and it is useless now to talk of blame.
The thing has been done, and all that now remains for me is to undo it;
to put this girl's money back again, and get this horrid weight from off
my breast.'

'Upon my word, my dear fellow, I did not think that you took it in such
a light as that,' said Undy.

'I am miserable about it,' said Alaric. 'It keeps me awake all night,
and destroys all my energy during the day.'

'Oh, that's all bile,' said Undy. 'You should give up fish for a few
days, and take a blue pill at night.'

'Scott, this money must be paid back at once, or I shall lose my senses.
Fortune has so far favoured me as to enable me to put my hand at once on
the larger portion of it. You must let me have the remainder. In God's
name say that you will do so.'

Undy Scott unfortunately had not the power to do as he was asked.
Whether he would have done so, had he had the power, may be doubtful. He
was somewhat gravelled for an answer to Alaric's earnest supplication,
and therefore made none till the request was repeated.

'In God's name let me have this money,' repeated Alaric. 'You will then
have made two thousand pounds by the transaction.'

'My dear Tudor,' said he, 'your stomach is out of order, I can see it as
well as possible from the way you talk.'

Here was an answer for a man to get to the most earnest appeal which he
could make! Here was comfort for a wretch suffering from fear, remorse,
and shame, as Alaric was suffering. He had spoken of his feelings and
his heart, but these were regions quite out of Undy Scott's cognizance.
'Take a blue pill,' said he, 'and you'll be as right as a trivet in a
couple of days.'

What was Alaric to say? What could he say to a man who at such a crisis
could talk to him of blue pills? For a while he said nothing; but the
form of his face changed, a darkness came over his brow which Scott
had never before seen there, the colour flew from his face, his eyes
sparkled, and a strange appearance of resolute defiance showed itself
round his mouth. Scott began to perceive that his medical advice would
not be taken in good part.

'Scott,' said he, stopping short in his walk and taking hold of the
collar of his companion's coat, not loosely by the button, but with
a firm grip which Undy felt that it would be difficult to shake
off--'Scott, you will find that I am not to be trifled with. You have
made a villain of me. I can see no way to escape from my ruin without
your aid; but by the living God, if I fall, you shall fall with me. Tell
me now; will you let me have the sum I demand? If you do not, I will go
to your brother's wife and tell her what has become of her daughter's
money.'

'You may go to the devil's wife if you like it,' said Undy, 'and tell
her whatever you please.'

'You refuse, then?' said Alaric, still keeping hold of Undy's coat.

'Come, take your hand off,' said Undy. 'You will make me think your head
is wrong as well as your stomach, if you go on like this. Take your hand
off and listen to me. I will then explain to you why I cannot do what
you would have me. Take your hand away, I say; do you not see that
people are looking at us.'

They were now standing at the upper end of the hall--close under the
steps which lead to the Houses of Parliament; and, as Undy said, the
place was too public for a display of physical resentment. Alaric took
his hand away. 'Well,' said he, 'now tell me what is to hinder you from
letting me have the money you owe me?'

'Only this,' said Undy, 'that every share I have in the concern is made
over by way of security to old M'Cleury, and he now holds them. Till I
have redeemed them, I have no power of selling.'

Alaric, when he heard these words, could hardly prevent himself from
falling in the middle of the hall. All his hopes were then over; he had
no chance of shaking this intolerable burden from his shoulders; he
had taken the woman's money, this money which had been entrusted to his
honour and safe-keeping, and thrown it into a bottomless gulf.

'And now listen to me,' said Undy, looking at his watch. 'I must be in
the House in ten or fifteen minutes, for this bill about married women
is on, and I am interested in it: listen to me now for five minutes. All
this that you have been saying is sheer nonsense.'

'I think you'll find that it is not all nonsense,' said Alaric.

'Oh, I am not in the least afraid of your doing anything rash. You'll be
cautious enough I know when you come to be cool; especially if you
take a little physic. What I want to say is this--Clem's money is
safe enough. I tell you these bridge shares will go on rising till the
beginning of next session. Instead of selling, what we should do is to
buy up six or seven thousand pounds more.'

'What, with Clementina's money?'

'It's as well to be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Besides, your doing so
is your only safety. My brother Val insists upon having 250 shares.'

'Your brother Val!' said Alaric.

'Yes, Val; and why shouldn't he? I would give them to him if I could,
but I can't. M'Cleury, as I tell you, has every share of mine in his
possession.'

'Your brother Val wants 250 shares! And does he expect me to give them
to him?'

'Well--I rather think he does. That is, not to give them, of course; you
don't suppose he wants you to make him a present of money. But he wants
you to accommodate him with the price of them. You can either do that,
or let him have so many of your own; it will be as broad as it is long;
and he'll give you his note of hand for the amount.'

Now it was well known among the acquaintance of the Scott family, that
the note of hand of the Honourable Captain Val was not worth the paper
on which it was written.

Alaric was so astonished at this monstrous request, coming as it did
after such a conversation, that he did not well know how to take it.

Was Undy mad, or was he in joke? What man in his senses would think of
lending six or seven hundred pounds to Val Scott! 'I suppose you are in
jest,' said he, somewhat bitterly.

'I never was more in earnest in my life,' said Undy. 'I'll just explain
how the matter is; and as you are sharp enough, you'll see at once that
you had better oblige him. Val, you know, is always hard up; he can't
touch a shilling of that woman's money, and just at present he has none
of his own. So he came to me this morning to raise the wind.'

'And you are kind enough to pass him on to me.'

'Listen a moment. I did not do anything of the kind. I never lend money
to Val. It's a principle with me not to do so, and he knows it.'

'Then just tell him that my principles in this respect are identical
with your own.'

'That's all very well; and you may tell him so yourself, if you like
it; but hear first of all what his arguments are. Of course I told him I
could do nothing for him. 'But,' said he, 'you can get Tudor to do it.'
I told him, of course, that I could do nothing of the kind. 'Oh!' said
Val, 'I know the game you are both playing. I know all about Clem's
money.' Val, you know, never says much. He was playing pool at the
time, at the club; but he came back after his stroke, and whispered to
me--'You and Tudor must let me have 250 of those shares, and then it'll
be all right.' Now Val, you know, is a most determined fellow.

Alaric, when he heard this, looked up into his companion's face to see
whether he was talking to the Evil One himself. Oh, what a net of ruin
was closing round him!--how inextricable were the toils into which he
had fallen!

'After all,' continued Undy,' what he asks is not much, and I really
think you should do it for him. He is quite willing to give you his
assistance at Strathbogy, and he is entitled to some accommodation.'

'Some accommodation!' repeated Alaric, almost lost in the consideration
of his own misery.

'Yes; I really think he is. And, Tudor, you may be sure of this, you
know; you will be quite safe with him. Val is the very soul of honour.
Do this for him, and you'll hear no more about it. You may be quite sure
he'll ask for nothing further, and that he'll never say a word to annoy
you. He's devilish honourable is Val; no man can be more so; though,
perhaps, you wouldn't think it.'

'Devilish honourable!' said Alaric. 'Only he would like to have a
bribe.'

'A bribe!' said Scott. 'Come, my dear fellow, don't you make an ass of
yourself. Val is like the rest of us; when money is going, he likes to
have a share of it. If you come to that, every man who is paid either
for talking or for not talking is bribed.'

'I don't know that I ever heard of a much clearer case of a bribe than
this which you now demand for your brother.'

'Bribe or no bribe,' said Undy, looking at his watch, 'I strongly advise
you to do for him what he asks; it will be better for all of us. And let
me give you another piece of advice: never use hard words among friends.
Do you remember the Mary Janes which Manylodes brought for you in his
pocket to the hotel at Tavistock?' Here Alaric turned as pale as a
spectre. 'Don't talk of bribes, my dear fellow. We are all of us giving
and taking bribes from our cradles to our graves; but men of the world
generally call them by some prettier names. Now, if you are not desirous
to throw your cards up altogether, get these shares for Val, and let him
or me have them to-morrow morning.' And so saying Undy disappeared into
the House, through the side door out of the hall, which is appropriated
to the use of honourable members.

And then Alaric was left alone. He had never hitherto realized the true
facts of the position in which he had placed himself; but now he did so.
He was in the hands of these men, these miscreants, these devils; he was
completely at their mercy, and he already felt that they were as devoid
of mercy as they were of justice. A cold sweat broke out all over him,
and he continued walking up and down the hall, ignorant as to where he
was and what he was doing, almost thoughtless, stunned, as it were, by
his misery and the conviction that he was a ruined man. He had remained
there an hour after Undy had left him, before he roused himself
sufficiently to leave the hall and think of returning home. It was then
seven o'clock, and he remembered that he had asked his cousin to dine
with him. He got into a cab, therefore, and desired to be driven home.

What was he to do? On one point he instantly made up his mind. He would
not give one shilling to Captain Val; he would not advance another
shilling to Undy; and he would at once sell out his own shares, and make
such immediate restitution as might now be in his power. The mention
of Manylodes and the mining shares had come home to him with frightful
reality, and nearly stunned him. What right, indeed, had he to talk of
bribes with scorn--he who so early in his own life had allowed himself
to be bought? How could he condemn the itching palm of such a one as Val
Scott--he who had been so ready to open his own when he had been tempted
by no want, by no poverty?

He would give nothing to Captain Val to bribe him to silence. He knew
that if he did so, he would be a slave for ever. The appetite of such a
shark as that, when once he has tasted blood, is unappeasable. There is
nothing so ruinous as buying the silence of a rogue who has a secret.

What you buy you never possess; and the price that is once paid must
be repaid again and again, as often as the rogue may demand it. Any
alternative must be better than this.

And yet what other alternative was there? He did not doubt that Val,
when disappointed of his prey, would reveal whatever he might know to
his wife, or to his stepson. Then there would be nothing for Alaric but
confession and ruin. And how could he believe what Undy Scott had told
him? Who else could have given information against him but Undy himself?
Who else could have put up so heavily stupid a man as Captain Scott to
make such a demand? Was it not clear that his own colleague, his own
partner, his own intimate associate, Undy Scott himself, was positively
working out his ruin? Where were now his high hopes, where now his seat
in Parliament, his authority at the board, his proud name, his soaring
ambition, his constant watchword? 'Excelsior'--ah me--no! no longer
'Excelsior'; but he thought of the cells of Newgate, of convict prisons,
and then of his young wife and of his baby.

He made an effort to assume his ordinary demeanour, and partially
succeeded. He went at once up to his drawing-room, and there he found
Charley and Gertrude waiting dinner for him; luckily he had no other
guests.

'Are you ill, Alaric?' said Gertrude, directly she saw him.

'Ill! No,' said he; 'only fagged, dearest; fagged and worried, and
badgered and bored; but, thank God, not ill;' and he endeavoured to put
on his usual face, and speak in his usual tone. 'I have kept you waiting
most unmercifully for your dinner, Charley; but then I know you navvies
always lunch on mutton chops.'

'Oh, I am not particularly in a hurry,' said Charley; 'but I deny the
lunch. This has been a bad season for mutton chops in the neighbourhood
of Somerset House; somehow they have not grown this year.'

Alaric ran up to prepare for dinner, and his wife followed him.

'Oh! Alaric,' said she, 'you are so pale: what is the matter? Do tell
me,' and she put her arm through his, took hold of his hand, and looked
up into his face.

'The matter! Nothing is the matter--a man can't always be grinning;'
and he gently shook her off, and walked through their bedroom to his
own dressing-room. Having entered it he shut the door, and then, sitting
down, bowed his head upon a small table and buried it in his hands. All
the world seemed to go round and round with him; he was giddy, and he
felt that he could not stand.

Gertrude paused a moment in the bedroom to consider, and then followed
him. 'What is it you want?' said he, as soon as he heard the handle
turn, 'do leave me alone for one moment. I am fagged with the heat, and
I want one minute's rest.'

'Oh, Alaric, I see you are ill,' said she. 'For God's sake do not send
me from you,' and coming into the room she knelt down beside his chair.
'I know you are suffering, Alaric; do let me do something for you.'

He longed to tell her everything. He panted to share his sorrows with
one other bosom; to have one near him to whom he could speak openly of
everything, to have one counsellor in his trouble. In that moment he all
but resolved to disclose everything to her, but at last he found that he
could not do it. Charley was there waiting for his dinner; and were he
now to tell his secret to his wife, neither of them, neither he nor she,
would be able to act the host or hostess. If done at all, it could not
at any rate be done at the present moment.

'I am better now,' said he, giving a long and deep sigh; and then he
threw his arms round his wife and passionately embraced her. 'My own
angel, my best, best love, how much too good or much too noble you are
for such a husband as I am!'

'I wish I could be good enough for you,' she replied, as she began to
arrange his things for dressing. 'You are so tired, dearest; wash your
hands and come down--don't trouble yourself to dress this evening;
unless, indeed, you are going out again.'

'Gertrude,' said he, 'if there be a soul on earth that has not in it a
spark of what is good or generous, it is the soul of Undy Scott;' and so
saying he began the operations of his toilet.

Now Gertrude had never liked Undy Scott; she had attributed to him
whatever faults her husband might have as a husband; and at the present
moment she was not inclined to fight for any of the Scott family.

'He is a very worldly man, I think,' said she.

'Worldly!--no--but hellish,' said Alaric; 'hellish, and damnable, and
fiendish.'

'Oh, Alaric, what has he done?'

'Never mind; I cannot tell you; he has done nothing. It is not that he
has done anything, or can do anything to me--but his heart--but never
mind--I wish--I wish I had never seen him.'

'Alaric, if it be about money tell me the worst, and I'll bear it
without a murmur. As long as you are well I care for nothing else--have
you given up your place?'

'No, dearest, no; I can keep my place. It is nothing about that. I have
lost no money; I have rather made money. It is the ingratitude of
that man which almost kills me. But come, dearest, we will go down to
Charley. And Gertrude, mind this, be quite civil to Mrs. Val at present.
We will break from the whole set before long; but in the meantime I
would have you be very civil to Mrs. Val.'

And so they went down to dinner, and Alaric, after taking a glass of
wine, played his part almost as though he had no weight upon his soul.
After dinner he drank freely, and as he drank his courage rose. 'Why
should I tell her?' he said to himself as he went to bed. 'The chances
are that all will yet go well.'



CHAPTER XXXV

MRS. VAL'S NEW CARRIAGE


On the next morning Alaric went to his office without speaking further
as to the trouble on his mind, and endeavoured to comfort himself as
best he might as he walked down to his office. Then he had also to
decide whether it would better suit his purpose to sell out at once and
pay up every shilling that he could, or whether he would hold on, and
hope that Undy's predictions would be fulfilled, and that the bridge
shares would go on rising till they would sell for all that was required
of him.

Unfortunate man! what would he have given now to change his position for
Norman's single clerkship, or even for Charley's comparative poverty!

Gertrude stayed within all day; but not all day in solitude. About
four in the afternoon the Hon. Mrs. Val called, and with her came her
daughter Clem, now Madame Jaquêtanàpe, and the two Misses Neverbend. M.
Jaquêtanàpe had since his marriage made himself very agreeable to his
honourable mother-in-law, so much so that he now occupied the place in
her good graces which Undy had formerly filled, and which after Undy's
reign had fallen to Alaric's lot. Mrs. Val liked to have about her
some confidential gentleman; and as she never thought of placing her
confidence in her husband, she was prone to select first one man and
then another as her taste and interest dictated. Immediately after their
marriage, Victoire and Clem had consented to join housekeeping with
their parent. Nothing could be more pleasant than this; their income was
unembarrassed, and Mrs. Val, for the first time in her life, was able
to set up her carriage. Among the effects arising from this cause, the
female Neverbends, who had lately been worshippers of Gertrude, veered
round in their idolatry, and paid their vows before Mrs. Val's new
yellow panels. In this new carriage now came the four ladies to pay
a morning visit to Mrs. Tudor. It was wonderful to see into how small
dimensions the Misses Neverbend had contrived to pack, not themselves,
but their crinoline.

As has before been hinted, Gertrude did not love Mrs. Val; nor did she
love Clem the danseuse; nor did she specially love the Misses Neverbend.
They were all of a class essentially different from that in which she
had been brought up; and, moreover, Mrs. Val was not content to
allow Gertrude into her set without ruling over her, or at any rate
patronizing her. Gertrude had borne with them all for her husband's
sake; and was contented to do so yet for a while longer, but she thought
in her heart that she would be able to draw some consolation from her
husband's misfortune if it should be the means of freeing her from Mrs.
Val.

'Oh, my dear,' said Mrs. Val, throwing herself down into a sofa as
though she were exhausted--'what a dreadful journey it is to you up
here! How those poor horses will stand it this weather I don't know, but
it nearly kills me; it does indeed.' The Tudors, as has been said, lived
in one of the quiet streets of Westbournia, not exactly looking into
Hyde Park, but very near to it; Mrs. Val, on the other hand, lived
in Ebury Street, Pimlico; her house was much inferior to that of the
Tudors; it was small, ill built, and afflicted with all the evils which
bad drainage and bad ventilation can produce; but then it was reckoned
to be within the precincts of Belgravia, and was only five minutes'
walk from Buckingham Palace. Mrs. Val, therefore, had fair ground for
twitting her dear friend with living so far away from the limits of
fashion. 'You really must come down somewhat nearer to the world; indeed
you must, my dear,' said the Hon. Mrs. Val.

'We are thinking of moving; but then we are talking of going to St.
John's Wood, or Islington,' said Gertrude, wickedly.

'Islington!' said the Honourable Mrs. Val, nearly fainting.

'Is not Islington and St. Giles' the same place?' asked the innocent
Clem, with some malice, however, to counterbalance her innocence.

'O no!' said Lactimel. 'St Giles' is where the poor wretched starving
Irish dwell. Their utter misery in the middle of this rich metropolis is
a crying disgrace to the Prime Minister.' Poor Badger, how much he has
to bear! 'Only think,' continued Lactimel, with a soft pathetic drawl,
'they have none to feed them, none to clothe them, none to do for them!'

'It is a great question,' said Ugolina, 'whether promiscuous charity is
a blessing or a curse. It is probably the greatest question of the age.
I myself am inclined to think--'

'But, ma,' said Madame Jaquêtanàpe, 'Mrs. Tudor doesn't really mean that
she is going to live at St. Giles', does she?'

'I said Islington,' said Gertrude. 'We may go to St. Giles' next,
perhaps.' Had she known all, how dreadful would such jokes have been to
her!

Mrs. Val saw that she was being quizzed, and, not liking it, changed the
conversation. 'Ugolina,' said she, 'might I trouble you to look out of
the front window? I hope those stupid men of mine are not letting the
horses stand still. They were so warm coming here, that they will be
sure to catch cold.' The stupid men, however, were round the corner at
the public-house, and Ugolina could only report that as she did not see
them she supposed the horses were walking about.

'And so,' said Mrs. Val, 'Mr. Tudor is thinking of resigning his place
at the Civil Service Board, and standing for that borough of Lord
Gaberlunzie's, in Aberdeenshire?'

'I really cannot say,' said Gertrude; 'but I believe he has some idea
of going into Parliament. I rather believe he will continue to hold his
place.'

'Oh, that I know to be impossible! I was told that by a gentleman who
has been much longer in the service than Mr. Tudor, and who understands
all its bearings.' She here alluded to Fidus Neverbend.

'I cannot say,' said Gertrude. 'I do not think Mr. Tudor has quite made
up his mind yet.'

'Well, my dear, I'll tell you fairly what I think about it. You know the
regard I have for you and Mr. Tudor. He, too, is Clementina's trustee;
that is to say, her fortune is partly consigned to his care; so I cannot
but have a very great interest about him, and be very anxious that he
should do well. Now, my dear, I'll tell you fairly what I think, and
what all the world is saying. He ought not to think of Parliament. He
ought not, indeed, my dear. I speak for your sake, and your child's. He
is not a man of fortune, and he ought not to think of Parliament. He has
a very fine situation, and he really should be contented.'

This was intolerable to Gertrude. She felt that she must put Mrs. Val
down, and yet she hardly knew how to do it without being absolutely
rude; whereas her husband had specially begged her to be civil to this
woman at present. 'Oh,' said she, with a slight smile, 'Mr. Tudor will
be able to take care of himself; you will find, I hope, that there is no
cause for uneasiness.'

'Well, I hope not, I am sure I hope not,' said Mrs. Val, looking very
grave. 'But I tell you fairly that the confidence which we all have in
your husband will be much shaken if he does anything rash. He should
think of this, you know. He has no private fortune to back him; we must
remember that.'

Gertrude became very red in the face; but she would not trust herself to
answer Mrs. Val at the spur of the moment.

'It makes such a difference, when one has got no private fortune,' said
Madame Jaquêtanàpe, the heiress. 'Does it not, Lactimel?'

'Oh, indeed it does,' said Lactimel. 'I wish every one had a private
fortune; it would be so nice, wouldn't it?'

'There would be very little poetry in the world if you were to banish
poverty,' said Ugolina. 'Poverty may be called the parent of poetry.
Look at Milton, how poor he was; and Homer, he begged his bread.'

'But Lord Byron was not a beggar,' said Clem, contemptuously.

'I do hope Mr. Tudor will think of what he is doing,' continued Mrs.
Val. 'It is certainly most good-natured and most disinterested of
my dear father-in-law, Lord Gaberlunzie, to place his borough at Mr.
Tudor's disposal. It is just like him, dear good old nobleman. But, my
dear, it will be a thousand pities if Mr. Tudor should be led on by his
lordship's kindness to bring about his own ruin.'

Mrs. Val had once in her life seen his good-natured lordship. Soon after
her marriage she had insisted on Captain Val taking her down to the
family mansion. She stayed there one night, and then left it, and since
that had shown no further desire to visit Cauldkail Castle. She did not
the less delight to talk about her dear good father-in-law, the lord.
Why should she give his son Val board and lodging, but that she might be
enabled to do so? She was not the woman to buy an article, and not make
of it all the use of which it might be capable.

'Pray do not concern yourself,' said Gertrude. 'I can assure you Mr.
Tudor will manage very well for himself--but should any misfortune
happen to him he will not, you may be certain, attribute it to Lord
Gaberlunzie.'

'I am told that Sir Gregory is most opposed to it,' continued Mrs. Val.
'I heard that from Mr. Neverbend, who is altogether in Sir Gregory's
confidence--did not you, my dears?' and she turned round to the sisters
of Fidus for confirmation.

'I heard my brother say that as Mr. Tudor's office is not parliamentary
but permanent, and as he has to attend from ten till four----'

'Alaric has not to attend from ten till four,' said Gertrude, who
could not endure the idea that her husband should be ranked with common
clerks, like Fidus Neverbend.

'Oh, I didn't know,' said Lactimel, meekly. 'Perhaps Fidus only meant
that as it is one of those offices where the people have something to
do, the commissioners couldn't be in their offices and in Parliament at
the same time.'

'I did understand,' said Ugolina, 'that Sir Gregory Hardlines had put
his veto upon it; but I must confess that it is a subject which I have
not sufficiently studied to enable me----'

'It's £1,200 a year, isn't it?' asked the bride.

'Twelve hundred pounds a year,' said her mother--'a very serious
consideration when there is no private fortune to back it, on either
side. Now if it were Victoire----'

'He couldn't sit in Parliament, ma, because he's an alien--only for that
I shouldn't think of his doing anything else.'

'Perhaps that may be altered before long,' said Lactimel, graciously.

'If Jews are to be admitted,' said Ugolina, 'who certainly belong to
an alien nation; a nation expressly set apart and separated from all
people--a peculiar nation distinct from all others, I for one cannot
discern----'

What Ugolina could or could not discern about the Jews was communicated
perhaps to Madame Jaquêtanàpe or to Lactimel, but not to Gertrude or to
Mrs. Val; for the latter, taking Gertrude apart into a corner as it were
of the sofa, began confidentially to repeat to her her fears about her
husband.

'I see, my dear,' said she, 'that you don't like my speaking about it.'

'Upon my word,' said Gertrude, 'I am very indifferent about it. But
would it not be better if you said what you have to say to my husband?'

'I intend to do so. I intend to do that also. But I know that a wife
ought to have influence over her husband, and I believe that you have
influence over yours.'

'Not the least,' said Gertrude, who was determined to contradict Mrs.
Val in everything.

'I am sorry to hear it,' said Mrs. Val, who among all her excellent
acquirements, did not possess that specially excellent one of
understanding repartee. 'I am very sorry to hear it, and I shall
certainly speak to him the more seriously on that account. I think I
have some influence over him; at any rate I ought to have.'

'I dare say you have,' said Gertrude; 'Alaric always says that no
experience is worth anything that is not obtained by years.'

Mrs. Val at least understood this, and continued her lecture with some
additional severity. 'Well, my dear, I am glad he has so much wisdom.
But what I was going to say is this: you know how much we have at stake
with Mr. Tudor--what a very large sum of Clementina's money lies in his
hands. Now I really should not have consented to the arrangement had I
thought it possible that Mr. Tudor would have given up his income
with the idea of going into Parliament. It wouldn't have been right or
prudent of me to do so. I have the greatest opinion of your husband's
talents and judgement, or I should not of course have entrusted him
with the management of Clementina's fortune; but I really shall think it
right to make some change if this project of his goes on.'

'Why, what is it you suspect?' said Gertrude. 'Do you think that Mr.
Tudor intends to use your daughter's income if he loses a portion of his
own? I never heard such a thing in my life.'

'Hush! my dear--gently--I would not for worlds let Clementina hear a
word of this; it might disturb her young happiness. She is so charmed
with her husband; her married life is so fortunate; Victoire is
so--so--so everything that we all wish, that I would not for the world
breathe in her hearing a shadow of a suspicion.'

'Good gracious! Mrs. Scott, what do you mean? Suspicion!--what
suspicion? Do you suspect my husband of robbing you?' Oh, Gertrude; poor
Gertrude! she was doomed to know it all before long.

'Oh dear, no,' said Mrs. Val; 'nothing of the kind, I assure you. Of
course we suspect nothing of the sort. But one does like to have one's
money in safe hands. Of course Mr. Tudor wouldn't have been chosen as
trustee if he hadn't had a good income of his own; and look here, my
dear,'--and Mrs. Val whispered very confidentially--'Mr. Tudor we all
know is greatly concerned in this bridge that the committee is sitting
about; and he and my brother-in-law, Undecimus, are always dealing in
shares. Gentlemen do, I know; and therefore I don't say that there is
anything against it. But considering all, I hope Mr. Tudor won't take it
ill if we propose to change our trustee.'

'I am very certain he will not,' said Gertrude. 'It is a laborious
business, and he will be glad enough to be rid of it. When he was
asked to accept it, he thought it would be ill-natured to refuse; I am
certain, however, he will be very glad to give up the work to any other
person who may be appointed. I will be sure to tell him this evening
what you have said.'

'You need not trouble yourself to do that,' said Mrs. Val. 'I shall see
him myself before long.'

'It will be no trouble,' said Gertrude, very indignantly, for she was
very angry, and had, as she thought, great cause for anger. 'I shall
certainly think it my duty to do so after what has passed. Of course you
will now take steps to relieve him as soon as possible.'

'You have taken me up a great deal too quick, my dear,' said Mrs. Val.
'I did not intend----'

'Oh--one can't be too quick on such a matter as this,' said Gertrude.
'When confidence is once lost between two persons it is better that the
connexion which has grown out of confidence should be put an end to as
soon as possible.'

'Lost confidence! I said nothing about lost confidence!'

'Alaric will so understand it, I am quite sure; at any rate I will tell
him what you have said. Suspicion indeed! who has dared to suspect him
of anything not honest or upright?'

Gertrude's eyes flashed with anger as she vindicated her absent lord.
Mrs. Val had been speaking with bated breath, so that no one had heard
her but she to whom she was speaking; but Gertrude had been unable so to
confine her answers, and as she made her last reply Madame Jaquêtanàpe
and the Misses Neverbend were all ears.

'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed Mrs. Val. 'Upon my word, my dear, it is amusing to
hear you take it up. However, I assure you I meant nothing but what was
kind and friendly. Come, Clementina, we have been sitting here a
most unconscionable time. Will you allow me, my dear, to ring for my
carriage?'

'Mamma,' said Clem, 'have you asked Mrs. Tudor to our little dance?'

'No, my dear; I have left that for you to do. It's your party, you
know--but I sincerely hope Mrs. Tudor will come.'

'Oh yes,' said Clementina, the tongue of whose eloquence was now
loosened. 'You must come, Mrs. Tudor; indeed you must. It will be so
charming; just a few nice people, you know, and nothing more.'

'Thank you,' said Gertrude; 'but I never dance now.' She had inwardly
resolved that nothing should ever induce her again to enter Mrs. Val's
house.

'Oh, but you must come,' said Clementina. 'It will be so charming. We
only mean to dance one kind of dance--that new thing they have just
brought over from Spain--the Contrabandista. It is a polka step, only
very quick, and you take every other turn by yourself; so you have to
take your partner up and let him go as quick as possible. You don't
know how charming it is, and it will be all the rage. We are to have the
music out in the street, just as they have in Spain.'

'It would be much too difficult for me,' said Gertrude.

'It is difficult,' said the enthusiastic Clem; 'but Victoire gives us
lessons in it everyday from twelve to two--doesn't he, Ugolina?'

'I'm afraid I shouldn't have time to go to school,' said Gertrude.

'Oh, it doesn't take much time--six or seven or eight lessons will do it
pretty well. I have almost learnt it already, and Ugolina is coming on
very fast. Lactimel is not quite so perfect. She has learnt the step,
but she cannot bring herself to let Victoire go quick enough. Do come,
and bring Mr. Tudor with you.'

'As he has not to attend from ten till four, he could come and take
lessons too,' said Lactimel, who, now that she was no longer a hanger-on
of Gertrude's, could afford to have her little revenge.

'That would be delightful,' said Clem. 'Mr. Charles Tudor does come in
sometimes at twelve o'clock, and I think he does it almost as well as
Victoire.'

Gertrude, however, would go neither to the rehearsals nor to the
finished performance; and as Mrs. Val's men had by this time been
induced to leave the beershop, the whole party went away, leaving
Gertrude to her meditations.



CHAPTER XXXVI

TICKLISH STOCK


Alaric returned from his office worn and almost as wretched as he had
been on the day before. He had spent a miserable day. In the morning Sir
Gregory had asked him whether he had finally made up his mind to address
the electors of Strathbogy. 'No, not finally,' said Alaric, 'but I think
I shall do so.'

'Then I must tell you, Tudor,' said Sir Gregory, speaking more in sorrow
than in anger, 'that you will not have my countenance. I cannot but
think also that you are behaving with ingratitude.' Alaric prepared to
make some petulant answer, but Sir Gregory, in the meantime, left the
room.

Every one was falling away from him. He felt inclined to rush after Sir
Gregory, and promise to be guided in this matter solely by him, but his
pride prevented him: though he was no longer sanguine and confident as
he had been a week ago, still his ambition was high. 'Those who play
brag must brag it out, or they will lose their money.' This had been
said by Undy; but it was not the less true on that account. Alaric felt
that he was playing brag, and that his only game was to brag it out.

He walked home slowly through the Parks. His office and house were so
circumstanced that, though they were some two miles distant, he could
walk from one to the other almost without taking his feet off the grass.
This had been the cause of great enjoyment to him; but now he sauntered
on with his hands behind his back, staring straight before him, with
fixed eyes, going by his accustomed route, but never thinking for a
moment where he was. The time was gone when he could watch the gambols
of children, smile at the courtships of nursery-maids, watch the changes
in the dark foliage of the trees, and bend from his direct path hither
and thither to catch the effects of distant buildings, and make for his
eye half-rural landscapes in the middle of the metropolis. No
landscapes had beauty for him now; the gambols even of his own baby were
unattractive to him; leaves might bud forth and nourish and fall without
his notice. How went the share-market? that was the only question that
had an interest for him. The dallyings of Capel Court were the only
courtships that he now cared to watch.

And with what a terribly eager eye had he now to watch them! If his
shares went up quickly, at once, with an unprecedented success, he might
possibly be saved. That was all. But if they did not--! Such was the
phase of life under which at the present moment it behoved him to exist.

And then, when he reached his home, how was he welcomed? With all the
fond love which a loving wife can show; so much at least was his;
but before he had felt the sweetness of her caresses, before he had
acknowledged how great was the treasure that he possessed, forth from
her eager lips had come the whole tale of Mrs. Val's impertinence.

'I will never see her again, Alaric! never; she talked of her daughter's
money, and said something of suspicion!' Suspicion! Gertrude's eye again
flashed fire with anger; and she all but stamped with her little foot
upon the ground. Suspicion! suspect him, her husband, the choice of her
heart, her Alaric, the human god whom she worshipped! suspect him of
robbery! her lord, her heart, her soul, the strong staff on which she
leaned so securely, with such true feminine confidence! Suspect him of
common vile dishonesty!--'You will never ask me to see her again--will
you, Alaric?'

What was he to say to her? how was he to bear this? His heart yearned
to tell her all; he longed for the luxury of having one bosom to whom
he could entrust his misery, his slight remaining hope. But how could he
himself, at one blow, by one word, destroy the high and polished shaft
on which she whom he loved had placed him? He could not do it. He would
suffer by himself; hope by himself, cease to hope by himself, and endure
all, till either his sufferings or his hopes should be over.

He had to pretend that he was indignant at Mrs. Val's interference; he
had to counterfeit the feelings of outraged honour, which was so natural
to Gertrude. This he failed to do well. Had he been truly honest--had
that woman's suspicion really done him injustice--he would have received
his wife's tidings with grave displeasure, and have simply resolved to
acquit himself as soon as possible of the disagreeable trust which had
been reposed in him. But such was not now his conduct. He contented
himself by calling Mrs. Val names, and pretended to laugh at her
displeasure.

'But you will give up this trust, won't you?' said Gertrude.

'I will think about it,' said he. 'Before I do anything I must consult
old Figgs. Things of that kind can't be put out of their course by the
spleen of an old woman like Mrs. Val.'

'Oh, Alaric, I do so wish you had had nothing to do with these Scotts!'

'So do I,' said he, bitterly; 'I hate them--but, Gertrude, don't talk
about them now; my head aches, and I am tired.'

He sat at home the whole evening; and though he was by no means gay, and
hardly affectionate in his demeanour to her, yet she could not but feel
that some good effect had sprung from his recent dislike to the Scotts,
since it kept him at home with her. Lately he had generally spent his
evenings at his club. She longed to speak to him of his future career,
of his proposed seat in Parliament, of his office-work; but he gave her
no encouragement to speak of such things, and, as he pleaded that he was
ill, she left him in quiet on the sofa.

On the next morning he again went to his office, and in the course of
the morning a note was brought to him from Undy. It ran as follows:--

'MY DEAR TUDOR,

'Is Val to have the shares? Let me have a line by the bearer.

'Yours ever,

'U. S.'

To this he replied by making an appointment to meet Undy before dinner
at his own office.

At the time fixed Undy came, and was shown by the sole remaining
messenger into Alaric's private room. The two shook hands together in
their accustomed way. Undy smiled good-humouredly, as he always did; and
Alaric maintained his usual composed and uncommunicative look.

'Well,' said Undy, sitting down, 'how about those shares?'

'I am glad you have come,' said Alaric, 'because I want to speak to you
with some earnestness.'

'I am quite in earnest myself,' said Undy; 'and so, by G--, is Val. I
never saw a fellow more in earnest--nor yet apparently more hard up. I
hope you have the shares ready, or else a cheque for the amount.'

'Look here, Undy; if my doing this were the only means of saving both
you and me from rotting in gaol, by the Creator that made me I would not
do it!'

'I don't know that it will have much effect upon me, one way or the
other,' said Undy, coolly; 'but it seems to me to be the only way that
can save yourself from some such fate. Shall I tell you what the clauses
are of this new bill about trust property?'

'I know the clauses well enough; I know my own position; and I know
yours also.'

'D---- your impudence!' said Undy; 'how do you dare to league me with
your villany? Have I been the girl's trustee? have I drawn, or could I
have drawn, a shilling of her money? I tell you, Tudor, you are in the
wrong box. You have one way of escape, and one only. I don't want to
ruin you; I'll save you if I can; I think you have treated the girl in
a most shameful way, nevertheless I'll save you if I can; but mark this,
if this money be not at once produced I cannot save you.'

Alaric felt that he was covered with cold perspiration. His courage did
not fail him; he would willingly have taken Undy by the throat, could
his doing so have done himself or his cause any good; but he felt that
he was nearly overset by the cool deep villany of his companion.

'I have treated the girl badly--very badly,' he said, after a pause;
'whether or no you have done so too I leave to your own conscience, if
you have a conscience. I do not now mean to accuse you; but you may know
this for certain--my present anxiety is to restore to her that which I
have taken from her; and for no earthly consideration--not to save my
own wife--will I increase the deficiency.'

'Why, man, what nonsense you talk--as if I did not know all the time
that you have your pocket full of these shares.'

'Whatever I have, I hold for her. If I could succeed in getting out of
your hands enough to make up the full sum that I owe her--'

'You will succeed in getting nothing from me. When I borrowed £5,000
from you, it was not understood that I was to be called upon for the
money in three or four months' time.'

'Now look here, Scott; you have threatened me with ruin and a prison,
and I will not say but your threats may possibly prove true. It may be
that I am ruined; but, if I fall, you shall share my fall.'

'That's false,' said Undy. 'I am free to hold my head before the world,
which you are not. I have done nothing to bring me to shame.'

'Nothing to bring you to shame, and yet you would now have me give you a
further portion of this girl's money!'

'Nothing! I care nothing about the girl's money. I have not touched it,
nor do I want to touch it. I bring you a message from my brother; you
have ample means of your own to comply with his request.'

'Then tell your brother,' said Alaric, now losing all control over
his temper--'tell your brother, if indeed he have any part in this
villany--tell your brother that if it were to save me from the gallows,
he should not have a shilling. I have done very badly in this matter; I
have acted shamefully, and I am ashamed, but----'

'Oh, I want to hear none of your rhapsodies,' said Undy. 'If you will
not now do what I ask you, I may as well go, and you may take the
consequences;' and he lifted his hat as though preparing to take his
leave.

'But you shall hear me,' said Alaric, rising quickly from his seat, and
standing between Undy and the door. Undy very coolly walked to the bell
and rang it. 'I have much to answer for,' continued Alaric, 'but I
would not have your sin on my soul, I would not be as black as you are,
though, by being so, I could save myself with certainty from all earthly
punishment.'

As he finished, the messenger opened the door. 'Show Mr. Scott out,'
said Alaric.

'By, by,' said Undy. 'You will probably hear from Mrs. Val and her
daughter to-morrow,' and so saying he walked jauntily along the
passage, and went jauntily to his dinner at his club. It was part of
his philosophy that nothing should disturb the even tenor of his way,
or interfere with his animal comforts. He was at the present moment
over head and ears in debt; he was playing a game which, in all human
probability, would end in his ruin; the ground was sinking beneath his
feet on every side; and yet he thoroughly enjoyed his dinner. Alaric
could not make such use of his philosophy. Undy Scott might be the worse
man of the two, but he was the better philosopher.

Not on the next day, or on the next, did Alaric hear from Mrs. Val, but
on the following Monday he got a note from her begging him to call in
Ebury Street. She underscored every line of it once or twice, and added,
in a postscript, that he would, she was sure, at once acknowledge the
NECESSITY of her request, as she wished to communicate with him on the
subject of her DAUGHTER'S FORTUNE.

Alaric immediately sent an answer to her by a messenger. 'My dear Mrs.
Scott,' said he, 'I am very sorry that an engagement prevents my going
to you this evening; but, as I judge by your letter, and by what I have
heard from Gertrude, that you are anxious about this trust arrangement,
I will call at ten to-morrow morning on my way to the office.'

Having written and dispatched this, he sat for an hour leaning with
his elbows on the table and his hands clasped, looking with apparent
earnestness at the rows of books which stood inverted before him, trying
to make up his mind as to what step he should now take.

Not that he sat an hour undisturbed. Every five minutes some one would
come knocking at the door; the name of some aspirant to the Civil
Service would be brought to him, or the card of some influential
gentleman desirous of having a little job perpetrated in favour of his
own peculiarly interesting, but perhaps not very highly-educated, young
candidate. But on this morning Alaric would see no one; to every such
intruder he sent a reply that he was too deeply engaged at the present
moment to see any one. After one he would be at liberty, &c., &c.

And so he sat and looked at the books; but he could in nowise make up
his mind. He could in nowise bring himself even to try to make up his
mind--that is, to make any true effort towards doing so. His thoughts
would run off from him, not into the happy outer world, but into a
multitude of noisy, unpleasant paths, all intimately connected with his
present misery, but none of which led him at all towards the conclusions
at which he would fain arrive. He kept on reflecting what Sir Gregory
would think when he heard of it; what all those clerks would say at
the Weights and Measures, among whom he had held his head so high; what
shouts there would be among the navvies and other low pariahs of the
service; how Harry Norman would exult--(but he did not yet know Harry
Norman);--how the Woodwards would weep; how Gertrude--and then as he
thought of that he bowed his head, for he could no longer endure the
open light of day. At one o'clock he was no nearer to any decision than
he had been when he reached his office.

At three he put himself into a cab, and was taken to the city. Oh, the
city, the weary city, where men go daily to look for money, but find
none; where every heart is eaten up by an accursed famishing after gold;
where dark, gloomy banks come thick on each other, like the black,
ugly apertures to the realms below in a mining district, each of them
a separate little pit-mouth into hell. Alaric went into the city, and
found that the shares were still rising. That imperturbable witness was
still in the chair at the committee, and men said that he was disgusting
the members by the impregnable endurance of his hostility. A man who
could answer 2,250 questions without admitting anything must be a liar!
Such a one could convince no one! And so the shares went on rising,
rising, and rising, and Messrs. Blocks, Piles, and Cofferdam were buying
up every share; either doing that openly--or else selling on the sly.

Alaric found that he could at once realize £7,600. Were he to do this,
there would be at any rate seven-eighths of his ward's fortune secure.

Might he not, in such a case, calculate that even Mrs. Val's heart would
be softened, and that time would be allowed him to make up the small
remainder? Oh, but in such case he must tell Mrs. Val; and could he
calculate on her forbearance? Might he not calculate with much more
certainty on her love of triumphing? Would he not be her slave if she
had the keeping of his secret? And why should he run so terrible a risk
of destroying himself? Why should he confide in Mrs. Val, and deprive
himself of the power of ever holding up his head again, when, possibly,
he might still run out his course with full sails, and bring his vessel
into port, giving no knowledge to the world of the perilous state in
which she had been thus ploughing the deep? He need not, at any rate,
tell everything to Mrs. Val at his coming visit on the morrow.

He consulted his broker with his easiest air of common concern as to his
money; and the broker gave him a dubious opinion. 'They may go a little
higher, sir; indeed I think they will. But they are ticklish stock,
sir--uncommon ticklish. I should not like to hold many myself, sir.'
Alaric knew that the man was right; they were ticklish stock: but
nevertheless he made up his mind to hold on a little longer.

He then got into another cab and went back to his office; and as he went
he began to bethink himself to whom of all his friends he might apply
for such a loan as would enable him to make up this sum of money, if he
sold his shares on the morrow. Captain Cuttwater was good for £1,000,
but he knew that he could not get more from him. It would be bad
borrowing, he thought, from Sir Gregory. Intimate as he had been with
that great man, he knew nothing of his money concerns; but he had
always heard that Sir Gregory was a close man. Sir Warwick, his other
colleague, was in easy circumstances; but then he had never been
intimate with Sir Warwick. Norman--ah, if he had known Norman now,
Norman would have pulled him through; but hope in that quarter there
was, of course, none. Norman was gone, and Norman's place had been
filled by Undy Scott! What could be done with Undy Scott he had already
tried. Fidus Neverbend! he had a little money saved; but Fidus was not
the man to do anything without security. He, he, Alaric Tudor, he, whose
credit had stood, did stand, so high, did not know where to borrow, how
to raise a thousand pounds; and yet he felt that had he not wanted it so
sorely, he could have gotten it easily.

He was in a bad state for work when he got back to the office on
that day. He was flurried, ill at ease, wretched, all but distracted;
nevertheless he went rigidly to it, and remained there till late in the
evening. He was a man generally blessed with excellent health; but now
he suddenly found himself ill, and all but unable to accomplish the
task which he had prescribed to himself. His head was heavy and his eyes
weak, and he could not bring himself to think of the papers which lay
before him.

Then at last he went home, and had another sad and solitary walk across
the Parks, during which he vainly tried to rally himself again, and
collect his energies for the work which he had to do. It was in such
emergencies as this that he knew that it most behoved a man to fall back
upon what manliness there might be within him; now was the time for
him to be true to himself; he had often felt proud of his own energy of
purpose; and now was the opportunity for him to use such energy, if his
pride in this respect had not been all in vain.

Such were the lessons with which he endeavoured to strengthen himself,
but it was in vain; he could not feel courageous--he could not feel
hopeful--he could not do other than despair. When he got home, he again
prostrated himself, again declared himself ill, again buried his face in
his hands, and answered the affection of his wife by saying that a man
could not always be cheerful, could not always laugh. Gertrude, though
she was very far indeed from guessing the truth, felt that something
extraordinary was the matter, and knew that her husband's uneasiness was
connected with the Scotts.

He came down to dinner, and though he ate but little, he drank glass
after glass of sherry. He thus gave himself courage to go out in the
evening and face the world at his club. He found Undy there as he
expected, but he had no conversation with him, though they did not
absolutely cut each other. Alaric fancied that men stared at him, and
sat apart by himself, afraid to stand up among talking circles, or to
put himself forward as it was his wont to do. He himself avoided other
men, and then felt that others were avoiding him. He took up one evening
paper after another, pretending to read them, but hardly noticing a word
that came beneath his eye: at last, however, a name struck him which
riveted his attention, and he read the following paragraph, which was
among many others, containing information as to the coming elections.

'STRATHBOGY.--We hear that Lord Gaberlunzie's eldest son will retire
from this borough, and that his place will be filled by his brother,
the Honourable Captain Valentine Scott. The family have been so long
connected with Strathbogy by ties of friendship and near neighbourhood,
and the mutual alliance has been so much to the taste of both parties,
that no severance need be anticipated.'

Alaric's first emotion was one of anger at the whole Scott tribe, and
his first resolve was to go down to Strathbogy and beat that inanimate
fool, Captain Val, on his own ground; but he was not long in reflecting
that, under his present circumstances, it would be madness in him to
bring his name prominently forward in any quarrel with the Scott family.
This disappointment he might at any rate bear; it would be well for him
if this were all. He put the paper down with an affected air of easy
composure, and walked home through the glaring gas-lights, still trying
to think--still trying, but in vain, to come to some definite resolve.

And then on the following morning he went off to call on Mrs. Val. He
had as yet told Gertrude nothing. When she asked him what made him start
so early, he merely replied that he had business to do on his road. As
he went, he had considerable doubt whether or no it would be better for
him to break his word to Mrs. Val, and not go near her at all. In such
event he might be sure that she would at once go to work and do her
worst; but, nevertheless, he would gain a day, or probably two, and one
or two days might do all that he required; whereas he could not see
Mrs. Val without giving her some explanation, which if false would
be discovered to be false, and if true would be self-condemnatory. He
again, however, failed to decide, and at last knocked at Mrs. Val's door
merely because he found himself there.

He was shown up into the drawing-room, and found, of course, Mrs. Val
seated on a sofa; and he also found, which was not at all of course,
Captain Val, on a chair on one side of the table, and M. Victoire
Jaquêtanàpe on the other. Mrs. Val shook hands with him much in
her usual way, but still with an air of importance in her face; the
Frenchman was delighted to see M. Tudere, and the Honourable Val got up
from his chair, said 'How do?' and then sat down again.

'I requested you to call, Mr. Tudor,' said Mrs. Val, opening her tale
in a most ceremonious manner, 'because we all think it necessary to know
somewhat more than has yet been told to us of the manner in which my
daughter's money has been invested.'

Captain Val wiped his moustache with the middle finger of his right
hand, by way of saying that he quite assented to his wife's proposition;
and Victoire remarked that 'Madame was a leetle anxious, just a leetle
anxious; not that anything could be wrong with M. Tudere, but because
she was one excellent mamma.'

'I thought you knew, Mrs. Scott,' said Alaric, 'that your daughter's
money is in the funds.'

'Then I may understand clearly that none of the amount so invested has
been sold out or otherwise appropriated by you.' said Mrs. Val.

'Will you allow me to inquire what has given rise to these questions
just at the present moment?' asked Alaric.

'Yes, certainly,' said Mrs. Val; 'rumours have reached my
husband--rumours which, I am happy to say, I do not believe--that my
daughter's money has been used for purposes of speculation.' Whereupon
Captain Val again wiped his upper lip, but did not find it necessary to
speak.

'May I venture to ask Captain Scott from what source such rumours have
reached him!'

'Ah-ha-what source? d---- lies, very likely; d---- lies, I dare say; but
people do talk--eh--you know,' so much the eloquent embryo member for
Strathbogy vouchsafed.

 'And therefore, Mr. Tudor, you mustn't be surprised that we
should ask you this question.'

'It is one simple, simple question,' said Victoire, 'and if M. Tudere
will say that it is all right, I, for myself, will be satisfied.' The
amiable Victoire, to tell the truth, was still quite satisfied to leave
his wife's income in Alaric's hands, and would not have been at all
satisfied to remove it to the hands of his respected step-papa-in-law,
or even his admired mamma-in-law.

'When I undertook this trust,' said Alaric, 'which I did with
considerable hesitation, I certainly did not expect to be subjected
to any such cross-examination as this. I consider such questions as
insults, and therefore I shall refuse to answer them. You, Mrs. Scott,
have of course a right to look after your daughter's interests, as
has M. Jaquêtanàpe to look after those of his wife; but I will not
acknowledge that Captain Scott has any such right whatsoever, nor can I
think that his conduct in this matter is disinterested;' and as he spoke
he looked at Captain Val, but he might just as well have looked at the
door; Captain Val only wiped his moustache with his finger once
more. 'My answer to your inquiries, Mrs. Scott, is this--I shall not
condescend to go into any details as to Madame Jaquêtanàpe's fortune
with anyone but my co-trustee. I shall, however, on Saturday next,
be ready to give up my trust to any other person who may be legally
appointed to receive it, and will then produce all the property that has
been entrusted to my keeping:' and so saying, Alaric got up and took his
hat as though to depart.

'And do you mean to say, Mr. Tudor, that you will not answer my
question?' said Mrs. Scott.

'I mean to say, most positively, that I will answer no questions,' said
Alaric.

'Oh, confound, not do at all; d----,' said the captain. 'The girl's
money all gone, and you won't answer questions!'

'No!' shouted Alaric, walking across the room till he closely confronted
the captain. 'No--no--I will answer no questions that may be asked in
your hearing. But that your wife's presence protects you, I would kick
you down your own stairs before me.'

Captain Val retreated a step--he could retreat no more--and wiped his
moustache with both hands at once. Mrs. Val screamed. Victoire took hold
of the back of a chair, as though he thought it well that he should
be armed in the general battle that was to ensue; and Alaric, without
further speech, walked out of the room, and went away to his office.

'So you have given up Strathbogy?' said Sir Gregory to him, in the
course of the day.

'I think I have,' said Alaric; 'considering all things, I believe it
will be the best for me to do so.'

'Not a doubt of it,' said Sir Gregory--'not a doubt of it, my dear
fellow;' and then Sir Gregory began to evince, by the cordiality of his
official confidence, that he had fully taken Alaric back into his
good graces. It was nothing to him that Strathbogy had given up Alaric
instead of Alaric giving up Strathbogy. He was sufficiently pleased at
knowing that the danger of his being supplanted by his own junior was
over.

And then Alaric again went into the weary city, again made inquiries
about his shares, and again returned to his office, and thence to his
home.

But on his return to his office, he found lying on his table a note in
Undy's handwriting, but not signed, in which he was informed that things
would yet be well, if the required shares should be forthcoming on the
following day.

He crumpled the note tight in his hand, and was about to fling it among
the waste paper, but in a moment he thought better of it, and smoothing
the paper straight, he folded it, and laid it carefully on his desk.

That day, on his visit into the city, he had found that the
bridge shares had fallen to less than the value of their original
purchase-money; and that evening he told Gertrude everything. The author
does not dare to describe the telling.



CHAPTER XXXVII

TRIBULATION


We must now return for a short while to Surbiton Cottage. It was not so
gay a place as it once had been; merry laughter was not so often heard
among the shrubbery walks, nor was a boat to be seen so often glancing
in and out between the lawn and the adjacent island. The Cottage had
become a demure, staid abode, of which Captain Cuttwater was in general
the most vivacious inmate; and yet there was soon to be marrying, and
giving in marriage.

Linda's wedding-day had twice been fixed. That first-named had been
postponed in consequence of the serious illness of Norman's elder
brother. The life of that brother had been very different in its course
from Harry's; it had been dissipated at college in riotous living, and
had since been stained with debauchery during the career of his early
manhood in London. The consequence had been that his health had been
broken down, and he was now tottering to an early grave.

Cuthbert Norman was found to be so ill when the day first named for
Linda's marriage approached, that it had been thought absolutely
necessary to postpone the ceremony. What amount of consolation Mrs.
Woodward might have received from the knowledge that her daughter, by
this young man's decease, would become Mrs. Norman of Normansgrove, we
need not inquire; but such consolation, if it existed at all, did not
tend to dispel the feeling of sombre disappointment which such delay was
sure to produce. The heir, however, rallied, and another day, early in
August, was fixed.

Katie, the while, was still an invalid; and, as such, puzzled all the
experience of that very experienced medical gentleman, who has the best
aristocratic practice in the neighbourhood of Hampton Court. He, and the
London physician, agreed that her lungs were not affected; but yet she
would not get well. The colour would not come to her cheeks, the flesh
would not return to her arms, nor the spirit of olden days shine forth
in her eyes. She did not keep her bed, or confine herself to her room,
but she went about the house with a slow, noiseless, gentle tread, so
unlike the step of that Katie whom we once knew.

But that which was a mystery to the experienced medical gentleman, was
no mystery to her mother. Mrs. Woodward well knew why her child was
no longer rosy, plump, and _débonnaire_. As she watched her Katie move
about so softly, as she saw her constant attempt to smile whenever her
mother's eye was on her, that mother's heart almost gave way; she almost
brought herself to own that she would rather see her darling the wife
of an idle, ruined spendthrift, than watch her thus drifting away to an
early grave. These days were by no means happy days for Mrs. Woodward.

When that July day was fixed for Linda's marriage, certain invitations
were sent out to bid the family friends to the wedding. These calls were
not so numerous as they had been when Gertrude became a bride. No Sir
Gregory was to come down from town, no gallant speech-makers from London
clubs were to be gathered there, to wake the echoes of the opposite
shore with matrimonial wit. Mrs. Woodward could not bear that her
daughter should be married altogether, as it were, in the dark; but for
many considerations the guests were to be restricted in numbers, and the
mirth was to be restrained and quiet.

When the list was made out, Katie saw it, and saw that Charley's name
was not there.

'Mamma,' she said, touching her mother's arm in her sweet winning way,
'may not Charley come to Linda's wedding? You know how fond Harry is of
him: would not Harry wish that he should be here?'

Mrs. Woodward's eyes immediately filled with tears, and she looked at
her daughter, not knowing how to answer her. She had never spoken to
Katie of her love; no word had ever passed between them on the subject
which was now always nearest to the hearts of them both. Mrs. Woodward
had much in her character, as a mother, that was excellent, nay, all but
perfect; but she could not bring herself to question her own children
as to the inward secrets of their bosoms. She knew not at once how to
answer Katie's question; and so she looked up at her with wistful eyes,
laden with tears.

'You may do so, mamma,' said Katie. Katie was already a braver woman
than her mother. 'I think Harry would like it, and poor Charley will
feel hurt at being left out; you may do it, mamma, if you like; it will
not do any harm.'

Mrs. Woodward quite understood the nature of the promise conveyed in her
daughter's assurance, and replied that Charley should be asked. He
was asked, and promised, of course, to come. But when the wedding was
postponed, when the other guests were put off, he also was informed that
his attendance at Hampton was not immediately required; and so he still
remained a stranger to the Cottage.

And then after a while another day was named, the guests, and Charley
with them, were again invited, and Norman was again assured that he
should be made happy. But, alas! his hopes were again delusive. News
arrived at Surbiton Cottage which made it indispensable that the
marriage should be again postponed, news worse than any which had ever
yet been received there, news which stunned them all, and made it
clear to them that this year was no time for marrying. Alaric had been
arrested. Alaric, their own Gertrude's own husband, their son-in-law and
brother-in-law, the proud, the high, the successful, the towering man of
the world, Alaric had been arrested, and was to be tried for embezzling
the money of his ward.

These fatal tidings were brought to Hampton by Harry Norman himself; how
they were received we must now endeavour to tell.

But that it would be tedious we might describe the amazement with which
that news was received at the Weights and Measures. Though the great men
at the Weights were jealous of Alaric, they were not the less proud of
him. They had watched him rise with a certain amount of displeasure, and
yet they had no inconsiderable gratification in boasting that two of the
Magi, the two working Magi of the Civil Service, had been produced by
their own establishment. When therefore tidings reached them that Tudor
had been summoned in a friendly way to Bow Street, that he had there
passed a whole morning, and that the inquiry had ended in his temporary
suspension from his official duties, and in his having to provide two
bailsmen, each for £1,000, as security that he would on a certain day
be forthcoming to stand his trial at the Old Bailey for defrauding his
ward--when, I say, these tidings were carried from room to room at the
Weights and Measures, the feelings of surprise were equalled by those of
shame and disappointment.

No one knew who brought this news to the Weights and Measures. No one
ever does know how such tidings fly; one of the junior clerks had heard
it from a messenger, to whom it had been told downstairs; then another
messenger, who had been across to the Treasury Chambers with an
immediate report as to a projected change in the size of the authorized
butter-firkin, heard the same thing, and so the news by degrees was
confirmed.

But all this was not sufficient for Norman. As soon as the rumour
reached him, he went off to Bow Street, and there learnt the actual
truth as it has been above stated. Alaric was then there, and the
magistrates had decided on requiring bail; he had, in fact, been
committed.

It would be dreadful that the Woodwards should first hear all this from
the lips of a stranger, and this reflection induced Norman at once to go
to Hampton; but it was dreadful, also, to find himself burdened with the
task of first telling such tidings. When he found himself knocking at
the Cottage door he was still doubtful how he might best go through the
work he had before him.

He found that he had a partial reprieve; but then it was so partial that
it would have been much better for him to have had no such reprieve at
all. Mrs. Woodward was at Sunbury with Linda, and no one was at home
but Katie. What was he to do? was he to tell Katie? or was he to
pretend that all was right, that no special business had brought him
unexpectedly to Hampton?

'Oh, Harry, Linda will be so unhappy,' said Katie as soon as she saw
him. 'They have gone to dine at Sunbury, and they won't be home till
ten or eleven. Uncle Bat dined early with me, and he has gone to Hampton
Court. Linda will be so unhappy. But, good gracious, Harry, is there
anything the matter?'

'Mrs. Woodward has not heard from Gertrude to-day, has she?'

'No--not a word--Gertrude is not ill, is she? Oh, do tell me,' said
Katie, who now knew that there was some misfortune to be told.

'No; Gertrude is not ill.'

'Is Alaric ill, then? Is there anything the matter with Alaric?'

'He is not ill,' said Norman, 'but he is in some trouble. I came down as
I thought your mother should be told.'

So much he said, but would say no more. In this he probably took the
most unwise course that was open to him. He might have held his tongue
altogether, and let Katie believe that love alone had brought him down,
as it had done so often before; or he might have told her all, feeling
sure that all must be told her before long. But he did neither; he left
her in suspense, and the consequence was that before her mother's return
she was very ill.

It was past eleven before the fly was heard in which Linda and her
mother returned home. Katie had then gone upstairs, but not to bed. She
had seated herself in the arm-chair in her mother's dressing-room, and
sitting there waited till she should be told by her mother what had
occurred. When the sound of the wheels caught her ears, she came to
the door of the room and held it in her hand that she might learn what
passed. She heard Linda's sudden and affectionate greeting; she heard
Mrs. Woodward's expression of gratified surprise; and then she heard
also Norman's solemn tone, by which, as was too clear, all joy, all
gratification, was at once suppressed. Then she heard the dining-room
door close, and she knew that he was telling his tale to Linda and her
mother.

O the misery of that next hour! For an hour they remained there talking,
and Katie knew nothing of what they were talking; she knew only that
Norman had brought unhappiness to them all. A dozen different ideas
passed across her mind. First she thought that Alaric was dismissed,
then that he was dead; was it not possible that Harry had named Alaric's
name to deceive her? might not this misfortune, whatever it was, be with
Charley? might not he be dead? Oh! better so than the other. She knew,
and said as much to herself over and over again; but she did not the
less feel that his death must involve her own also.

At last the dining-room door opened, and she heard her mother's step on
the stairs. Her heart beat so that she could hardly support herself. She
did not get up, but sat quite quiet, waiting for the tidings which she
knew that she should now hear. Her mother's face, when she entered
the room, nearly drove her to despair; Mrs. Woodward had been crying,
bitterly, violently, convulsively crying; and when one has reached the
age of forty, the traces of such tears are not easily effaced even from
a woman's cheek.

'Mamma, mamma, what is it? pray, pray tell me; oh! mamma, what is it?'
said Katie, jumping up and rushing into her mother's arms.

'Oh! Katie,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'why are you not in bed? Oh! my
darling, I wish you were in bed; I do so wish you were in bed--my child,
my child!' and, seating herself in the nearest chair, Mrs. Woodward
again gave herself up to uncontrolled weeping.

Then Linda came up with the copious tears still streaming down her face.
She made no effort to control them; at her age tears are the easiest
resource in time of grief. Norman had kept her back a moment to whisper
one word of love, and she then followed her mother into the room.

Katie was now kneeling at her mother's feet. 'Linda,' she said, with
more quietness than either of the others was able to assume, 'what has
happened? what makes mamma so unhappy? Has anything happened to Alaric?'
But Linda was in no state to tell anything.

'Do tell me, mamma,' said Katie; 'do tell me all at once. Has
anything--anything happened to--to Charley?'

'Oh, it is worse than that, a thousand times worse than that!' said Mrs.
Woodward, who, in the agony of her own grief, became for the instant
ungenerous.

Katie's blood rushed back to her heart, and for a moment her own hand
relaxed the hold which she had on that of her mother. She had never
spoken of her love; for her mother's sake she had been silent; for her
mother's sake she had determined to suffer and be silent--now, and ever!
Well; she would bear this also. It was but for a moment she relaxed her
hold; and then again she tightened her fingers round her mother's hand,
and held it in a firmer grasp. 'It is Alaric, then?' she said.

'God forgive me,' said Mrs. Woodward, speaking through her sobs--'God
forgive me! I am a brokenhearted woman, and say I know not what. My
Katie, my darling, my best of darlings--will you forgive me?'

'Oh, mamma,' said Katie, kissing her mother's hands, and her arms, and
the very hem of her garment, 'oh, mamma, do not speak so. But I wish I
knew what this sorrow is, so that I might share it with you; may I not
be told, mamma? is it about Alaric?'

'Yes, Katie. Alaric is in trouble.'

'What trouble--is he ill?'

'No--he is not ill. It is about money.'

'Has he been arrested?' asked Katie, thinking of Charley's misfortune.
'Could not Harry get him out? Harry is so good; he would do anything,
even for Alaric, when he is in trouble.'

'He will do everything for him that he can,' said Linda, through her
tears.

'He has not been arrested,' said Mrs. Woodward; 'he is still at home;
but he is in trouble about Miss Golightly's money--and--and he is to be
tried.'

'Tried,' said Katie; 'tried like a criminal!'

Katie might well express herself as horrified. Yes, he had to be tried
like a criminal; tried as pickpockets, housebreakers, and shoplifters
are tried, and for a somewhat similar offence; with this difference,
however, that pickpockets, housebreakers, and shoplifters, are seldom
educated men, and are in general led on to crime by want. He was to be
tried for the offence of making away with some of Miss Golightly's money
for his own purposes. This was explained to Katie, with more or less
perspicuity; and then Gertrude's mother and sisters lifted up their
voices together and wept.

He might, it is true, be acquitted; they would none of them believe
him to be guilty, though they all agreed that he had probably been
imprudent; but then the public shame of the trial! the disgrace which
must follow such an accusation! What a downfall was here! 'Oh, Gertrude!
oh, Gertrude!' sobbed Mrs. Woodward; and indeed, at that time, it did
not fare well with Gertrude.

It was very late before Mrs. Woodward and her daughters went to bed that
night; and then Katie, though she did not specially complain, was
very ill. She had lately received more than one wound, which was still
unhealed; and now this additional blow, though she apparently bore it
better than the others, altogether upset her. When the morning came, she
complained of headache, and it was many days after that before she left
her bed.

But Mrs. Woodward was up early. Indeed, she could hardly be said to have
been in bed at all; for though she had lain down for an hour or two,
she had not slept. Early in the morning she knocked at Harry's door, and
begged him to come out to her. He was not long in obeying her summons,
and soon joined her in the little breakfast parlour.

'Harry, said she, 'you must go and see Alaric.'

Harry's brow grew black. On the previous evening he had spoken of Alaric
without bitterness, nay, almost with affection; of Gertrude he had
spoken with the truest brotherly love; he had assured Mrs. Woodward
that he would do all that was in his power for them; that he would spare
neither his exertions nor his purse. He had a truer idea than she had of
what might probably be the facts of the case, and was prepared, by all
the means at his disposal, to help his sister-in-law, if such aid would
help her. But he had not thought of seeing Alaric.

'I do not think it would do any good,' said he.

'Yes, Harry, it will; it will do the greatest good; whom else can I
get to see him? who else can find out and let us know what really is
required of us, what we ought to do? I would do it myself, but I could
not understand it; and he would never trust us sufficiently to tell me
all the truth.'

'We will make Charley go to him. He will tell everything to Charley, if
he will to anyone.'

'We cannot trust Charley; he is so thoughtless, so imprudent. Besides,
Harry, I cannot tell everything to Charley as I can to you. If there be
any deficiency in this woman's fortune, of course it must be made good;
and in that case I must raise the money. I could not arrange all this
with Charley.'

'There cannot, I think, be very much wanting,' said Norman, who had
hardly yet realized the idea that Alaric had actually used his ward's
money for his own purposes. 'He has probably made some bad investment,
or trusted persons that he should not have trusted. My small property
is in the funds, and I can get the amount at a moment's notice. I do not
think there will be any necessity to raise more money than that. At any
rate, whatever happens, you must not touch your own income; think of
Katie.'

'But, Harry--dear, good, generous Harry--you are so good, so generous!
But, Harry, we need not talk of that now. You will see him, though,
won't you?'

'It will do no good,' said Harry; 'we have no mutual trust in each
other.'

'Do not be unforgiving, Harry, now that he requires forgiveness.'

'If he does require forgiveness, Mrs. Woodward, if it shall turn out
that he has been guilty, God knows that I will forgive him. I trust this
may not be the case; and it would be useless for me to thrust myself
upon him now, when a few days may replace us again in our present
relations to each other.'

'I don't understand you, Harry; why should there always be a quarrel
between two brothers, between the husbands of two sisters? I know you
mean to be kind, I know you are most kind, most generous; but why should
you be so stern?'

'What I mean is this--if I find him in adversity, I shall be ready to
offer him my hand; it will then be for him to say whether he will take
it. But if the storm blow over, in such case I would rather that we
should remain as we are.'

Norman talked of forgiveness, and accused himself of no want of charity
in this respect. He had no idea that his own heart was still hard as the
nether millstone against Alaric Tudor. But yet such was the truth. His
money he could give; he could give also his time and mind, he could lend
his best abilities to rescue his former friend and his own former love
from misfortune. He could do this, and he thought therefore that he was
forgiving; but there was no forgiveness in such assistance. There was
generosity in it, for he was ready to part with his money; there was
kindness of heart, for he was anxious to do good to his fellow-creature;
but there were with these both pride and revenge. Alaric had out-topped
him in everything, and it was sweet to Norman's pride that his hand
should be the one to raise from his sudden fall the man who had soared
so high above him. Alaric had injured him, and what revenge is so
perfect as to repay gross injuries by great benefits? Is it not thus
that we heap coals of fire on our enemies' heads? Not that Norman
indulged in thoughts such as these; not that he resolved thus to gratify
his pride, thus to indulge his revenge. He was unconscious of his own
sin, but he was not the less a sinner.

'No,' said he, 'I will not see him myself; it will do no good.'

Mrs. Woodward found that it was useless to try to bend him. That,
indeed, she knew from a long experience. It was then settled that she
should go up to Gertrude that morning, travelling up to town together
with Norman, and that when she had learned from her daughter, or from
Alaric--if Alaric would talk to her about his concerns--what was really
the truth of the matter, she should come to Norman's office, and tell
him what it would be necessary for him to do.

And then the marriage was again put off. This, in itself, was a great
misery, as young ladies who have just been married, or who may now be
about to be married, will surely own. The words 'put off' are easily
written, the necessity of such a 'put off' is easily arranged in the
pages of a novel; an enforced delay of a month or two in an affair which
so many folk willingly delay for so many years, sounds like a slight
thing; but, nevertheless, a matrimonial 'put off' is, under any
circumstances, a great grief. To have to counter-write those halcyon
notes which have given glad promise of the coming event; to pack up and
put out of sight, and, if possible, out of mind, the now odious finery
with which the house has for the last weeks been strewed; to give the
necessary information to the pastry-cook, from whose counter the sad
tidings will be disseminated through all the neighbourhood; to annul the
orders which have probably been given for rooms and horses for the happy
pair; to live, during the coming interval, a mark for Pity's unpitying
finger; to feel, and know, and hourly calculate, how many slips there
may be between the disappointed lip and the still distant cup; all these
things in themselves make up a great grief, which is hardly lightened by
the knowledge that they have been caused by a still greater grief.

These things had Linda now to do, and the poor girl had none to help her
in the doing of them. A few hurried words were spoken on that morning
between her and Norman, and for the second time she set to work to put
off her wedding. Katie, the meantime, lay sick in bed, and Mrs. Woodward
had gone to London to learn the worst and to do the best in this dire
affliction that had come upon them.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

ALARIC TUDOR TAKES A WALK


There is, undoubtedly, a propensity in human love to attach itself
to excellence; but it has also, as undoubtedly, a propensity directly
antagonistic to this, and which teaches it to put forth its strongest
efforts in favour of inferiority. Watch any fair flock of children in
which there may be one blighted bud, and you will see that that blighted
one is the mother's darling. What filial affection is ever so strong
as that evinced by a child for a parent in misfortune? Even among the
rough, sympathies of schoolboys, the cripple, the sickly one, or the
orphan without a home, will find the warmest friendship and a stretch
of kindness. Love, that must bow and do reverence to superiority, can
protect and foster inferiority; and what is so sweet as to be able to
protect?

Gertrude's love for her husband had never been so strong as when
she learnt that that love must now stand in the place of all other
sympathies, of all other tenderness. Alaric told her of his crime, and
in his bitterness he owned that he was no longer worthy of her love.
She answered by opening her arms to him with more warmth than ever, and
bidding him rest his weary head upon her breast. Had they not taken
each other for better or for worse? had not their bargain been that they
would be happy together if such should be their lot, or sad together if
God should so will it?--and would she be the first to cry off from such
a bargain?

It seldom happens that a woman's love is quenched by a man's crime.
Women in this respect are more enduring than men; they have softer
sympathies, and less acute, less selfish, appreciation of the misery of
being joined to that which has been shamed. It was not many hours since
Gertrude had boasted to herself of the honour and honesty of her lord,
and tossed her head with defiant scorn when a breath of suspicion had
been muttered against his name. Then she heard from his own lips the
whole truth, learnt that that odious woman had only muttered what she
soon would have a right to speak out openly, knew that fame and honour,
high position and pride of life, were all gone; and then in that bitter
hour she felt that she had never loved him as she did then.

He had done wrong, he had sinned grievously; but no sooner did she
acknowledge so much than she acknowledged also that a man may sin and
yet not be all sinful; that glory may be tarnished, and yet not utterly
destroyed; that pride may get a fall, and yet live to rise again. He had
sinned, and had repented; and now to her eyes he was again as pure as
snow. Others would now doubt him, that must needs be the case; but
she would never doubt him; no, not a whit the more in that he had once
fallen. He should still be the cynosure of her eyes, the pride of her
heart, the centre of her hopes. Marina said of her lord, when he came to
her shattered in limb, from the hands of the torturer--

  'I would not change
  My exiled, mangled, persecuted husband,
  Alive or dead, for prince or paladin,
  In story or in fable, with a world
  To back his suit.'

Gertrude spoke to herself in the same language. She would not have
changed her Alaric, branded with infamy as he now was, or soon would be,
for the proudest he that carried his head high among the proud ones of
the earth. Such is woman's love; such is the love of which a man's heart
is never capable!

Alaric's committal had taken place very much in the manner in which it
was told at the Weights and Measures. He had received a note from one of
the Bow Street magistrates, begging his attendance in the private room
at the police-office. There he had passed nearly the whole of one day;
and he was also obliged to pass nearly the whole of another in the same
office. On this second day the proceedings were not private, and he was
accompanied by his own solicitor.

It would be needless to describe how a plain case was, as usual, made
obscure by the lawyers, how Acts of Parliament were consulted, how the
magistrate doubted, how indignant Alaric's attorney became when it was
suggested that some insignificant piece of evidence should be admitted,
which, whether admitted or rejected, could have no real bearing on
the case. In these respects this important examination was like other
important examinations of the same kind, such as one sees in the
newspapers whenever a man above the ordinary felon's rank becomes
amenable to the outraged laws. It ended, however, in Alaric being
committed, and giving bail to stand his trial in about a fortnight's
time; and in his being assured by his attorney that he would most
certainly be acquitted. That bit of paper on which he had made an entry
that certain shares bought by him had been bought on behalf of his ward,
would save him; so said the attorney: to which, however, Alaric answered
not much. Could any acutest lawyer, let him be made of never so fine an
assortment of forensic indignation, now whitewash his name and set
him again right before the world? He, of course, communicated with Sir
Gregory, and agreed to be suspended from his commissionership till the
trial should be over. His two colleagues then became bail for him.

So much having been settled, he got into a cab with his attorney,
and having dropped that gentleman on the road, he returned home. The
excitement of the examination and the necessity for action had sustained
him? but now--what was to sustain him now? How was he to get through
the intervening fortnight, banished as he was from his office, from his
club, and from all haunts of men? His attorney, who had other rogues to
attend to besides him, made certain set appointments with him--and for
the rest, he might sit at home and console himself as best he might with
his own thoughts. 'Excelsior!' This was the pass to which 'Excelsior'
had brought _Sic itur ad astro!_--Alas, his road had taken him hitherto
in quite a different direction.

He sent for Charley, and when Charley came he made Gertrude explain to
him what had happened. He had confessed his own fault once, to his
own wife, and he could not bring himself to do it again. Charley
was thunderstruck at the greatness of the ruin, but he offered what
assistance he could give. Anything that he could do, he would. Alaric
had sent for him for a purpose, and that purpose at any rate Charley
could fulfil. He went into the city to ascertain what was now the price
of the Limehouse bridge shares, and returned with the news that they
were falling, falling, falling.

No one else called at Alaric's door that day. Mrs. Val, though she did
not come there, by no means allowed her horses to be idle; she went
about sedulously among her acquaintance, dropping tidings of her
daughter's losses. 'They will have enough left to live upon, thank
God,' said she; 'but did you ever hear of so barefaced, so iniquitous
a robbery? Well, I am not cruel; but my own opinion is that he should
certainly be hanged.'

To this Ugolina assented fully, adding, that she had been so shocked
by the suddenness and horror of the news, as to have become perfectly
incapacitated ever since for any high order of thought.

Lactimel, whose soft bosom could not endure the idea of putting an end
to the life of a fellow-creature, suggested perpetual banishment to the
penal colonies; perhaps Norfolk Island. 'And what will she do?' said
Lactimel.

'Indeed I cannot guess,' said Ugolina; 'her education has been sadly
deficient.'

None but Charley called on Alaric that day, and he found himself shut up
alone with his wife and child. His own house seemed to him a prison.
He did not dare to leave it; he did not dare to walk out and face the
public as long as daylight continued; he was ashamed to show himself,
and so he sat alone in his dining-room thinking, thinking, thinking. Do
what he would, he could not get those shares out of his mind; they had
entered like iron into his soul, as poison into his blood; they might
still rise, they might yet become of vast value, might pay all his
debts, and enable him to begin again. And then this had been a committee
day; he had had no means of knowing how things had gone there, of
learning the opinions of the members, of whispering to Mr. Piles, or
hearing the law on the matter laid down by the heavy deep voice of the
great Mr. Blocks. And so he went on thinking, thinking, thinking, but
ever as though he had a clock-weight fixed to his heart and pulling at
its strings. For, after all, what were the shares or the committee to
him? Let the shares rise to ever so fabulous a value, let the Chancellor
of the Exchequer be ever so complaisant in giving away his money, what
avail would it be to him? what avail now? He must stand his trial for
the crime of which he had been guilty.

With the utmost patience Gertrude endeavoured to soothe him, and to
bring his mind into some temper in which it could employ itself. She
brought him their baby, thinking that he would play with his child, but
all that he said was--'My poor boy! I have ruined him already;' and
then turning away from the infant, he thrust his hands deep into his
trousers-pockets, and went on calculating about the shares.

When the sun had well set, and the daylight had, at last, dwindled out,
he took up his hat and wandered out among the new streets and rows of
houses which lay between his own house and the Western Railway. He got
into a district in which he had never been before, and as he walked
about here, he thought of the fate of other such swindlers as
himself;--yes, though he did not speak the word, he pronounced it as
plainly, and as often, in the utterance of his mind, as though it was
being rung out to him from every steeple in London; he thought of the
fate of such swindlers as himself; how one had been found dead in the
streets, poisoned by himself; how another, after facing the cleverest
lawyers in the land, was now dying in a felon's prison; how a third had
vainly endeavoured to fly from justice by aid of wigs, false whiskers,
painted furrows, and other disguises. Should he try to escape also,
and avoid the ignominy of a trial? He knew it would be in vain; he knew
that, at this moment, he was dogged at the distance of some thirty yards
by an amiable policeman in mufti, placed to watch his motions by his two
kind bailsmen, who preferred this small expense to the risk of losing a
thousand pounds a-piece.

As he turned short round a corner, into the main road leading from the
railway station to Bayswater, he came close upon a man who was walking
quickly in the opposite direction, and found himself face to face
with Undy Scott. How on earth should Undy Scott have come out there to
Bayswater, at that hour of the night, he, the constant denizen of clubs,
the well-known frequenter of Pall Mall, the member for the Tillietudlem
burghs, whose every hour was occupied in the looking after things
political, or things commercial? Who could have expected him in a back
road at Bayswater? There, however, he was, and Alaric, before he knew of
his presence, had almost stumbled against him.

'Scott!' said Alaric, starting back.

'Hallo, Tudor, what the deuce brings you here? but I suppose you'll ask
me the same question?' said Undy.

Alaric Tudor could not restrain himself. 'You scoundrel,' said he,
seizing Undy by the collar; 'you utterly unmitigated scoundrel! You
premeditated, wilful villain!' and he held Undy as though he intended to
choke him.

But Undy Scott was not a man to be thus roughly handled with impunity;
and in completing the education which he had received, the use of his
fists had not been overlooked. He let out with his right hand, and
struck Alaric twice with considerable force on the side of his jaw, so
that the teeth rattled in his mouth.

But Alaric, at the moment, hardly felt it. 'You have brought me and mine
to ruin,' said he; 'you have done it purposely, like a fiend. But, low
as I have fallen, I would not change places with you for all that the
earth holds. I have been a villain; but such villany as yours--ugh--'
and so saying, he flung his enemy from him, and Undy, tottering back,
saved himself against the wall.

In a continued personal contest between the two men, Undy would probably
have had the best of it, for he would certainly have been the cooler of
the two, and was also the more skilful in such warfare; but he felt in
a moment that he could gain nothing by thrashing Tudor, whereas he might
damage himself materially by having his name brought forward at the
present moment in connexion with that of his old friend.

'You reprobate!' said he, preparing to pass on; 'it has been my
misfortune to know you, and one cannot touch pitch and not be defiled.
But, thank God, you'll come by your deserts now. If you will take my
advice you'll hang yourself;' and so they parted.

The amiable policeman in mufti remained at a convenient distance during
this little interview, having no special mission to keep the peace,
pending his present employment; but, as he passed by, he peered into
Undy's face, and recognized the honourable member for the Tillietudlem
burghs. A really sharp policeman knows every one of any note in London.
It might, perhaps, be useful that evidence should be given at the
forthcoming trial of the little contest which we have described. If so,
our friend in mufti was prepared to give it.

On the following morning, at about eleven, a cab drove up to the door,
and Alaric, standing at the dining-room window, saw Mrs. Woodward get
out of it.

'There's your mother,' said Alaric to his wife. 'I will not see her--let
her go up to the drawing-room.'

'Oh! Alaric, will you not see mamma?'

'How can I, with my face swollen as it is now? Besides, what would be
the good? What can I say to her? I know well enough what she has to say
to me, without listening to it.'

'Dear Alaric, mamma will say nothing to you that is not kind; do see
her, for my sake, Alaric.'

But misery had not made him docile. He merely turned from her, and shook
his head impatiently. Gertrude then ran out to welcome her mother, who
was in the hall.

And what a welcoming it was! 'Come upstairs, mamma, come into the
drawing-room,' said Gertrude, who would not stop even to kiss her mother
till they found themselves secured from the servants' eyes. She knew
that one word of tenderness would bring her to the ground.

'Mamma, mamma!' she almost shrieked, and throwing herself into her
mother's arms wept convulsively. Mrs. Woodward wanted no more words to
tell her that Alaric had been guilty.

'But, Gertrude, how much is it?' whispered the mother, as, after a few
moments of passionate grief, they sat holding each other's hands on the
sofa. 'How much money is wanting? Can we not make it up? If it be all
paid before the day of trial, will not that do? will not that prevent
it?'

Gertrude could not say. She knew that £10,000 had been abstracted. Mrs.
Woodward groaned as she heard the sum named. But then there were those
shares, which had not long since been worth much more than half that
sum, which must still be worth a large part of it.

'But we must know, dearest, before Harry can do anything,' said Mrs.
Woodward.

Gertrude blushed crimson when Harry Norman's name was mentioned. And had
it come to that--that they must look to him for aid?

'Can you not ask him, love?' said Mrs. Woodward. 'I saw him in the
dining-room; go and ask him; when he knows that we are doing our best
for him, surely he will help us.'

Gertrude, with a heavy heart, went down on her message, and did not
return for fifteen or twenty minutes. It may easily be conceived that
Norman's name was not mentioned between her and her husband, but she
made him understand that an effort would be made for him if only the
truth could be ascertained.

'It will be of no use,' said he.

'Don't say so, Alaric; we cannot tell what may be of use. But at any
rate it will be weight off your heart to know that this money has been
paid. It is that which overpowers you now, and not your own misfortune.'

At last he suffered her to lead him, and she put down on paper such
figures as he dictated to her. It was, however, impossible to say what
was the actual deficiency; that must depend upon the present value
of the shares; these he said he was prepared to give over to his own
attorney, if it was thought that by so doing he should be taking the
best steps towards repairing the evil he had done; and then he began
calculating how much the shares might possibly be worth, and pointing
out under what circumstances they should be sold, and under what again
they should be overheld till the market had improved. All this was worse
than Greek to Gertrude; but she collected what facts she could, and then
returned to her mother.

And they discussed the matter with all the wit and all the volubility
which women have on such occasions. Paper was brought forth, and
accounts were made out between them, not such as would please the eyes
of a Civil Service Examiner, but yet accurate in their way. How they
worked and racked their brains, and strained their women's nerves in
planning how justice might be defeated, and the dishonesty of the loved
one covered from shame! Uncle Bat was ready with his share. He had
received such explanation as Mrs. Woodward had been able to give, and
though when he first heard the news he had spoken severely of Alaric,
still his money should be forthcoming for the service of the family. He
could produce some fifteen hundred pounds; and would if needs be that
he should do so. Then Harry--but the pen fell from Gertrude's fingers as
she essayed to write down Harry Norman's contribution to the relief of
her husband's misery.

'Remember, Gertrude, love, in how short a time he will be your brother.'

'But when will it be, mamma? Is it to be on Thursday, as we had planned?
Of course, mamma, I cannot be there.'

And then there was a break in their accounts, and Mrs. Woodward
explained to Gertrude that they had all thought it better to postpone
Linda's marriage till after the trial; and this, of course was
the source of fresh grief. When men such as Alaric Tudor stoop to
dishonesty, the penalties of detection are not confined to their own
hearthstone. The higher are the branches of the tree and the wider, the
greater will be the extent of earth which its fall will disturb.

Gertrude's pen, however, again went to work. The shares were put down
at £5,000. 'If they can only be sold for so much, I think we may
manage it,' said Mrs. Woodward; 'I am sure that Harry can get the
remainder--indeed he said he could have more than that.'

'And what will Linda do?'

'Linda will never want it, love; and if she did, what of that? would she
not give all she has for you?'

And then Mrs. Woodward went her way to Norman's office, without having
spoken to Alaric. 'You will come again soon, mamma,' said Gertrude. Mrs.
Woodward promised that she would.

'And, mamma,' and she whispered close into her mother's ear, as she made
her next request; 'and, mamma, you will be with me on that day?'

We need not follow Norman in his efforts to have her full fortune
restored to Madame Jaquêtanàpe. He was daily in connexion with Alaric's
lawyer, and returned sometimes with hope and sometimes without it. Mrs.
Val's lawyer would receive no overtures towards a withdrawal of the
charge, or even towards any mitigation in their proceedings, unless the
agent coming forward on behalf of the lady's late trustee, did so with
the full sum of £20,000 in his hands.

We need not follow Charley, who was everyday with Alaric, and who was,
unknown to Alaric, an agent between him and Norman. 'Well, Charley, what
are they doing to-day?' was Alaric's constant question to him, even up
to the very eve of his trial.

If any spirit ever walks it must be that of the stock-jobber, for how can
such a one rest in its grave without knowing what shares are doing?



CHAPTER XXXIX

THE LAST BREAKFAST


And that day was not long in coming; indeed, it came with terrible
alacrity; much too quickly for Gertrude, much too quickly for Norman;
and much too quickly for Alaric's lawyer. To Alaric only did the time
pass slowly, for he found himself utterly without employment.

Norman and Uncle Bat between them had raised something about £6,000; but
when the day came on which they were prepared to dispose of the shares,
the Limehouse bridge was found to be worth nothing. They were, as the
broker had said, ticklish stock; so ticklish that no one would have them
at any price. When Undy, together with his agent from Tillietudlem,
went into the market about the same time to dispose of theirs, they were
equally unsuccessful. How the agent looked and spoke and felt may
be imagined; for the agent had made large advances, and had no other
security; but Undy had borne such looks and speeches before, and merely
said that it was very odd--extremely odd; he had been greatly deceived
by Mr. Piles. Mr. Piles also said it was very odd; but he did not appear
to be nearly so much annoyed as the agent from Tillietudlem; and it was
whispered that, queer as things now looked, Messrs. Blocks, Piles, and
Cofferdam, had not made a bad thing of the bridge.

Overture after overture was made to the lawyer employed by Mrs. Val's
party. Norman first offered the £6,000 and the shares; then when the
shares were utterly rejected by the share-buying world, he offered to
make himself personally responsible for the remainder of the debt, and
to bind himself by bond to pay it within six months. At first these
propositions were listened to, and Alaric's friends were led to believe
that the matter would be handled in such a way that the prosecution
would fall to the ground. But at last all composition was refused. The
adverse attorney declared, first, that he was not able to accept any
money payment short of the full amount with interest, and then he
averred, that as criminal proceedings had been taken they could not now
be stayed. Whether or no Alaric's night attack had anything to do
with this, whether Undy had been the means of instigating this rigid
adherence to justice, we are not prepared to say.

That day for which Gertrude had prayed her mother's assistance came
all too soon. They had become at last aware that the trial must go on.
Charley was with them on the last evening, and completed their despair
by telling them that their attorney had resolved to make no further
efforts at a compromise.

Perhaps the most painful feeling to Gertrude through the whole of the
last fortnight had been the total prostration of her husband's energy,
and almost of his intellect; he seemed to have lost the power of judging
for himself, and of thinking and deciding what conduct would be best for
him in his present condition. He who had been so energetic, so full of
life, so ready for all emergencies, so clever at devices, so able to
manage not only for himself but for his friends, he was, as it were,
paralysed and unmanned. He sat from morning to night looking at the
empty fire-grate, and hardly ventured to speak of the ordeal that he had
to undergo.

His lawyer was to call for him on the morning of the trial, and Mrs.
Woodward was to be at the house soon after he had left it. He had not
yet seen her since the inquiry had commenced, and it was very plain that
he did not wish to do so. Mrs. Woodward was to be there and to remain
till his fate had been decided, and then-- Not a word had yet been said
as to the chance of his not returning; but Mrs. Woodward was aware that
he would probably be unable to do so, and felt, that if such should be
the case, she could not leave her daughter alone.

And so Alaric and his wife sat down to breakfast on that last morning.
She had brought their boy down; but as she perceived that the child's
presence did not please his father, he had been sent back to the
nursery, and they were alone. She poured out his tea for him, put bread
upon his plate, and then sat down close beside him, endeavouring to
persuade him to eat. She had never yet found fault with him, she had
never even ventured to give him counsel, but now she longed to entreat
him to collect himself and take a man's part in the coming trial. He
sat in the seat prepared for him, but, instead of eating, he thrust his
hands after his accustomed manner into his pockets and sat glowering at
the tea-cups.

'Come, Alaric, won't you eat your breakfast?' said she.

'No; breakfast! no-how can I eat now? how can you think that I could eat
at such a time as this? Do you take yours; never mind me.'

'But, dearest, you will be faint if you do not eat; think what you have
to go through; remember how many eyes will be on you to-day.'

He shuddered violently as she spoke, and motioned to her with his hand
not to go on with what she was saying.

'I know, I know,' said she passionately, 'dearest, dearest love--I know
how dreadful it is; would that I could bear it for you! would that I
could!'

He turned away his head, for a tear was in his eye. It was the first
that had come to his assistance since this sorrow had come upon him.

'Don't turn from me, dearest Alaric; do not turn from me now at our
last moments. To me at least you are the same noble Alaric that you ever
were.'

'Noble!' said he, with all the self-scorn which he so truly felt.

'To me you are, now as ever; but, Alaric, I do so fear that you will
want strength, physical strength, you know, to go through all this. I
would have you bear yourself like a man before them all.'

'It will be but little matter,' said he.

'It will be matter. It will be matter to me. My darling, darling
husband, rouse yourself,' and she knelt before his knees and prayed to
him; 'for my sake do it; eat and drink that you may have the power of a
man when all the world is looking at you. If God forgives us our sins,
surely we should so carry ourselves that men may not be ashamed to do
so.'

He did not answer her, but he turned to the table and broke the bread,
and put his lips to the cup. And then she gave him food as she would
give it to a child, and he with a child's obedience ate and drank what
was put before him. As he did so, every now and again a single tear
forced itself beneath his eyelid and trickled down his face, and in some
degree Gertrude was comforted.

He had hardly finished his enforced breakfast when the cab and the
lawyer came to the door. The learned gentleman had the good taste not to
come in, and so the servant told them that Mr. Gitemthruet was there.

'Say that your master will be with him in a minute,' said Gertrude,
quite coolly; and then the room door was again closed, and the husband
and wife had now to say adieu.

Alaric rose from his chair and made a faint attempt to smile. 'Well,
Gertrude,' said he, 'it has come at last.'

She rushed into his embrace, and throwing her arms around him, buried
her face upon his breast. 'Alaric, Alaric, my husband! my love, my best,
my own, my only love!'

'I cannot say much now, Gertrude, but I know how good you are; you will
come and see me, if they will let you, won't you?'

'See you!' said she, starting back, but still holding him and looking
up earnestly into his face. 'See you!' and then she poured out her love
with all the passion of a Ruth: '"Whither thou goest, I will go; and
where thou lodgest, I will lodge.... Where thou diest, will I die, and
there will I be buried; the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught
but death part thee and me." See you, Alaric; oh, it cannot be that they
will hinder the wife from being with her husband. But, Alaric,' she went
on, 'do not droop now, love--will you?'

'I cannot brazen it out,' said he. 'I know too well what it is that I
have done.'

'No, not that, Alaric; I would not have that. But remember, all is not
over, whatever they may do. Ah, how little will really be over, whatever
they can do! You have repented, have you not, Alaric?'

'I think so, I hope so,' said Alaric, with his eyes upon the ground.

'You have repented, and are right before God; do not fear then what man
can do to you. I would not have you brazen, Alaric; but be manly, be
collected, be your own self, the man that I have loved, the man that I
do now love so well, better, better than ever;' and she threw herself
on him and kissed him and clung to him, and stroked his hair and put her
hand upon his face, and then holding him from her, looked up to him as
though he were a hero whom she all but worshipped.

'Gertrude, Gertrude--that I should have brought you to this!'

'Never mind,' said she; 'we will win through it yet--we will yet be
happy together, far, far away from here--remember that--let that support
you through all. And now, Alaric, you will come up for one moment and
kiss him before you go.'

'The man will be impatient.'

'Never mind; let him be impatient--you shall not go away without blessing
your boy; come up, Alaric.' And she took him by the hand and led him
like a child into the nursery.

'Where is the nurse? bring him here--papa is going away-- Alley, boy,
give papa a big kiss.'

Alaric, for the first time for the fortnight, took the little fellow
into his arms and kissed him. 'God bless you, my bairn,' said he,
'and grant that all this may never be visited against you, here or
hereafter!'

'And now go,' said Gertrude, as they descended the stairs together, 'and
may God in His mercy watch over and protect you and give you back to me!
And, Alaric, wherever you are I will be close to you, remember that. I
will be quite, quite close to you. Now, one kiss--oh, dearest, dearest
Alaric--there--there--now go.' And so he went, and Gertrude shutting
herself into her room threw herself on to the bed, and wept aloud.



CHAPTER XL

MR. CHAFFANBRASS


We must now follow Alaric to his trial. He was, of course, much too soon
at court. All people always are, who are brought to the court perforce,
criminals for instance, and witnesses, and other such-like unfortunate
wretches; whereas many of those who only go there to earn their bread
are very often as much too late. He was to be tried at the Old Bailey.
As I have never seen the place, and as so many others have seen it, I
will not attempt to describe it. Here Mr. Gitemthruet was quite at
home; he hustled and jostled, elbowed and ordered, as though he were the
second great man of the place, and the client whom he was to defend was
the first. In this latter opinion he was certainly right. Alaric was
the hero of the day, and people made way for him as though he had won a
victory in India, and was going to receive the freedom of the city in a
box. As he passed by, a gleam of light fell on him from a window, and
at the instant three different artists had him photographed,
daguerreotyped, and bedevilled; four graphic members of the public press
took down the details of his hat, whiskers, coat, trousers, and boots;
and the sub-editor of the _Daily Delight_ observed that 'there was a
slight tremor in the first footstep which he took within the precincts
of the prison, but in every other respect his demeanour was dignified
and his presence manly; he had light-brown gloves, one of which was on
his left hand, but the other was allowed to swing from his fingers.
The court was extremely crowded, and some fair ladies appeared there to
grace its customarily ungracious walls. On the bench we observed Lord
Killtime, Sir Gregory Hardlines, and Mr. Whip Vigil. Mr. Undecimus
Scott, who had been summoned as a witness by the prisoner, was also
accommodated by the sheriffs with a seat.' Such was the opening
paragraph of the seven columns which were devoted by the _Daily Delight_
to the all-absorbing subject.

But Mr. Gitemthruet made his way through artists, reporters, and the
agitated crowd with that happy air of command which can so easily be
assumed by men at a moment's notice, when they feel themselves to be for
that moment of importance. 'Come this way, Mr. Tudor; follow me and
we will get on without any trouble; just follow me close,' said Mr.
Gitemthruet to his client, in a whisper which was audible to not a few.
Tudor, who was essaying, and not altogether unsuccessfully, to bear the
public gaze undismayed, did as he was bid, and followed Mr. Gitemthruet.

'Now,' said the attorney, 'we'll sit here--Mr. Chaffanbrass will be
close to us, there; so that I can touch him up as we go along; of
course, you know, you can make any suggestion, only you must do it
through me. Here's his lordship; uncommon well he looks, don't he? You'd
hardly believe him to be seventy-seven, but he's not a day less, if he
isn't any more; and he has as much work in him yet as you or I, pretty
nearly. If you want to insure a man's life, Mr. Tudor, put him on the
bench; then he'll never die. We lawyers are not like bishops, who are
always for giving up, and going out on a pension.'

But Alaric was not at the moment inclined to meditate much on the long
years of judges. He was thinking, or perhaps trying to think, whether
it would not be better for him to save this crowd that was now gathered
together all further trouble, and plead guilty at once. He knew he was
guilty, he could not understand that it was possible that any juryman
should have a doubt about it; he had taken the money that did not belong
to him; that would be made quite clear; he had taken it, and had not
repaid it; there was the absolute _corpus delicti_ in court, in the
shape of a deficiency of some thousands of pounds. What possible doubt
would there be in the breast of anyone as to his guilt? Why should he
vex his own soul by making himself for a livelong day the gazing-stock
for the multitude? Why should he trouble all those wigged counsellors,
when one word from him would set all at rest?

'Mr. Gitemthruet, I think I'll plead guilty,' said he.

'Plead what!' said Mr. Gitemthruet, turning round upon his client with a
sharp, angry look. It was the first time that his attorney had shown any
sign of disgust, displeasure, or even disapprobation since he had taken
Alaric's matter in hand. 'Plead what! Ah, you're joking, I know; upon my
soul you gave me a start.'

Alaric endeavoured to explain to him that he was not joking, nor in
a mood to joke; but that he really thought the least vexatious course
would be for him to plead guilty.

'Then I tell you it would be the most vexatious proceeding ever I heard
of in all my practice. But you are in my hands, Mr. Tudor, and you can't
do it. You have done me the honour to come to me, and now you must be
ruled by me. Plead guilty! Why, with such a case as you have got, you
would disgrace yourself for ever if you did so. Think of your friends,
Mr. Tudor, if you won't think of me or of yourself.'

His lawyer's eloquence converted him, and he resolved that he would run
his chance. During this time all manner of little legal preliminaries
had been going on; and now the court was ready for business; the jury
were in their box, the court-keeper cried silence, and Mr. Gitemthruet
was busy among his papers with frantic energy. But nothing was yet seen
of the great Mr. Chaffanbrass.

'I believe we may go on with the trial for breach of trust,' said the
judge. 'I do not know why we are waiting.'

Then up and spoke Mr. Younglad, who was Alaric's junior counsel. Mr.
Younglad was a promising common-law barrister, now commencing his
career, of whom his friends were beginning to hope that he might, if
he kept his shoulders well to the collar, at some distant period make a
living out of his profession. He was between forty and forty-five years
of age, and had already overcome the natural diffidence of youth in
addressing a learned bench and a crowded court.

'My lud,' said Younglad, 'my learned friend, Mr. Chaffanbrass, who leads
for the prisoner, is not yet in court. Perhaps, my lud, on behalf of my
client, I may ask for a few moments' delay.'

'And if Mr. Chaffanbrass has undertaken to lead for the prisoner, why
is he not in court?' said the judge, looking as though he had uttered a
poser which must altogether settle Mr. Younglad's business.

But Mr. Younglad had not been sitting, and walking and listening, let
alone talking occasionally, in criminal courts, for the last twenty
years, to be settled so easily.

'My lud, if your ludship will indulge me with five minutes' delay--we
will not ask more than five minutes--your ludship knows, no one better,
the very onerous duties--'

'When I was at the bar I took no briefs to which I could not attend,'
said the judge.

'I am sure you did not, my lud; and my learned friend, should he ever
sit in your ludship's seat, will be able to say as much for himself,
when at some future time he may be--; but, my lud, Mr. Chaffanbrass is
now in court.' And as he spoke, Mr. Chaffanbrass, carrying in his hand a
huge old blue bag, which, as he entered, he took from his clerk's hands,
and bearing on the top of his head a wig that apparently had not been
dressed for the last ten years, made his way in among the barristers,
caring little on whose toes he trod, whose papers he upset, or whom he
elbowed on his road. Mr. Chaffanbrass was the cock of this dunghill, and
well he knew how to make his crowing heard there.

'And now, pray, let us lose no more time,' said the judge.

'My lord, if time has been lost through me, I am very sorry; but if your
lordship's horse had fallen down in the street as mine did just now----'

'My horse never falls down in the street, Mr. Chaffanbrass.'

'Some beasts, my lord, can always keep their legs under them, and others
can't; and men are pretty much in the same condition. I hope the former
may be the case with your lordship and your lordship's cob for many
years.' The judge, knowing of old that nothing could prevent Mr.
Chaffanbrass from having the last word, now held his peace, and the
trial began.

There are not now too many pages left to us for the completion of our
tale; but, nevertheless, we must say a few words about Mr. Chaffanbrass.
He was one of an order of barristers by no means yet extinct, but of
whom it may be said that their peculiarities are somewhat less often
seen than they were when Mr. Chaffanbrass was in his prime. He confined
his practice almost entirely to one class of work, the defence, namely,
of culprits arraigned for heavy crimes, and in this he was, if not
unrivalled, at least unequalled. Rivals he had, who, thick as the skins
of such men may be presumed to be, not unfrequently writhed beneath
the lashes which his tongue could inflict. To such a perfection had he
carried his skill and power of fence, so certain was he in attack, so
invulnerable when attacked, that few men cared to come within the reach
of his forensic flail. To the old stagers who were generally opposed to
him, the gentlemen who conducted prosecutions on the part of the Crown,
and customarily spent their time and skill in trying to hang those
marauders on the public safety whom it was the special business of Mr.
Chaffanbrass to preserve unhung, to these he was, if not civil, at least
forbearing; but when any barrister, who was comparatively a stranger
to him, ventured to oppose him, there was no measure to his impudent
sarcasm and offensive sneers.

Those, however, who most dreaded Mr. Chaffanbrass, and who had most
occasion to do so, were the witnesses. A rival lawyer could find a
protection on the bench when his powers of endurance were tried too
far; but a witness in a court of law has no protection. He comes there
unfeed, without hope of guerdon, to give such assistance to the State
in repressing crime and assisting justice as his knowledge in this
particular case may enable him to afford; and justice, in order to
ascertain whether his testimony be true, finds it necessary to subject
him to torture. One would naturally imagine that an undisturbed thread
of clear evidence would be best obtained from a man whose position was
made easy and whose mind was not harassed; but this is not the fact: to
turn a witness to good account, he must be badgered this way and that
till he is nearly mad; he must be made a laughingstock for the court;
his very truths must be turned into falsehoods, so that he may be
falsely shamed; he must be accused of all manner of villany, threatened
with all manner of punishment; he must be made to feel that he has
no friend near him, that the world is all against him; he must be
confounded till he forget his right hand from his left, till his mind be
turned into chaos, and his heart into water; and then let him give his
evidence. What will fall from his lips when in this wretched collapse
must be of special value, for the best talents of practised forensic
heroes are daily used to bring it about; and no member of the Humane
Society interferes to protect the wretch. Some sorts of torture are,
as it were, tacitly allowed even among humane people. Eels are skinned
alive, and witnesses are sacrificed, and no one's blood curdles at the
sight, no soft heart is sickened at the cruelty.

To apply the thumbscrew, the boot, and the rack to the victim before him
was the work of Mr. Chaffanbrass's life. And it may be said of him that
the labour he delighted in physicked pain. He was as little averse to
this toil as the cat is to that of catching mice. And, indeed, he was
not unlike a cat in his method of proceeding; for he would, as it were,
hold his prey for a while between his paws, and pat him with gentle taps
before he tore him. He would ask a few civil little questions in his
softest voice, glaring out of his wicked old eye as he did so at those
around him, and then, when he had his mouse well in hand, out would come
his envenomed claw, and the wretched animal would feel the fatal wound
in his tenderest part.

Mankind in general take pleasure in cruelty, though those who are
civilized abstain from it on principle. On the whole Mr. Chaffanbrass
is popular at the Old Bailey. Men congregate to hear him turn a witness
inside out, and chuckle with an inward pleasure at the success of his
cruelty. This Mr. Chaffanbrass knows, and, like an actor who is kept up
to his high mark by the necessity of maintaining his character, he never
allows himself to grow dull over his work. Therefore Mr. Chaffanbrass
bullies when it is quite unnecessary that he should bully; it is a
labour of love; and though he is now old, and stiff in his joints,
though ease would be dear to him, though like a gladiator satiated with
blood, he would as regards himself be so pleased to sheathe his sword,
yet he never spares himself. He never spares himself, and he never
spares his victim.

As a lawyer, in the broad and high sense of the word, it may be presumed
that Mr. Chaffanbrass knows little or nothing. He has, indeed, no
occasion for such knowledge. His business is to perplex a witness and
bamboozle a jury, and in doing that he is generally successful. He
seldom cares for carrying the judge with him: such tactics, indeed, as
his are not likely to tell upon a judge. That which he loves is, that
a judge should charge against him, and a jury give a verdict in his
favour. When he achieves that he feels that he has earned his money.
Let others, the young lads and spooneys of his profession, undertake
the milk-and-water work of defending injured innocence; it is all but
an insult to his practised ingenuity to invite his assistance to such
tasteless business. Give him a case in which he has all the world
against him; Justice with her sword raised high to strike; Truth with
open mouth and speaking eyes to tell the bloody tale; outraged humanity
shrieking for punishment; a case from which Mercy herself, with averted
eyes, has loathing turned and bade her sterner sister do her work; give
him such a case as this, and then you will see Mr. Chaffanbrass in his
glory. Let him, by the use of his high art, rescue from the gallows and
turn loose upon the world the wretch whose hands are reeking with
the blood of father, mother, wife, and brother, and you may see Mr.
Chaffanbrass, elated with conscious worth, rub his happy hands with
infinite complacency. Then will his ambition be satisfied, and he will
feel that in the verdict of the jury he has received the honour due
to his genius. He will have succeeded in turning black into white, in
washing the blackamoor, in dressing in the fair robe of innocence the
foulest, filthiest wretch of his day; and as he returns to his home, he
will be proudly conscious that he is no little man.

In person, however, Mr. Chaffanbrass is a little man, and a very dirty
little man. He has all manner of nasty tricks about him, which make
him a disagreeable neighbour to barristers sitting near to him. He
is profuse with snuff, and very generous with his handkerchief. He
is always at work upon his teeth, which do not do much credit to his
industry. His wig is never at ease upon his head, but is poked about by
him, sometimes over one ear, sometimes over the other, now on the back
of his head, and then on his nose; and it is impossible to say in which
guise he looks most cruel, most sharp, and most intolerable. His linen
is never clean, his hands never washed, and his clothes apparently never
new. He is about five feet six in height, and even with that stoops
greatly. His custom is to lean forward, resting with both hands on the
sort of desk before him, and then to fix his small brown basilisk eye
on the victim in the box before him. In this position he will remain
unmoved by the hour together, unless the elevation and fall of his
thick eyebrows and the partial closing of his wicked eyes can be called
motion. But his tongue! that moves; there is the weapon which he knows
how to use!

Such is Mr. Chaffanbrass in public life; and those who only know him in
public life can hardly believe that at home he is one of the most easy,
good-tempered, amiable old gentlemen that ever was pooh-poohed by his
grown-up daughters, and occasionally told to keep himself quiet in a
corner. Such, however, is his private character. Not that he is a fool
in his own house; Mr. Chaffanbrass can never be a fool; but he is so
essentially good-natured, so devoid of any feeling of domestic tyranny,
so placid in his domesticities, that he chooses to be ruled by his own
children. But in his own way he is fond of hospitality; he delights in
a cosy glass of old port with an old friend in whose company he may be
allowed to sit in his old coat and old slippers. He delights also in his
books, in his daughters' music, and in three or four live pet dogs,
and birds, and squirrels, whom morning and night he feeds with his
own hands. He is charitable, too, and subscribes largely to hospitals
founded for the relief of the suffering poor.

Such was Mr. Chaffanbrass, who had been selected by the astute Mr.
Gitemthruet to act as leading counsel on behalf of Alaric. If any human
wisdom could effect the escape of a client in such jeopardy, the
wisdom of Mr. Chaffanbrass would be likely to do it; but, in truth, the
evidence was so strong against him, that even this Newgate hero almost
feared the result.

I will not try the patience of anyone by stating in detail all the
circumstances of the trial. In doing so I should only copy, or, at
any rate, might copy, the proceedings at some of those modern _causes
célèbres_ with which all those who love such subjects are familiar. And
why should I force such matters on those who do not love them? The usual
opening speech was made by the chief man on the prosecuting side, who,
in the usual manner, declared 'that his only object was justice; that
his heart bled within him to see a man of such acknowledged public
utility as Mr. Tudor in such a position; that he sincerely hoped that
the jury might find it possible to acquit him, but that--' And then went
into his 'but' with so much venom that it was clearly discernible
to all, that in spite of his protestations, his heart was set upon a
conviction.

When he had finished, the witnesses for the prosecution were called--the
poor wretches whose fate it was to be impaled alive that day by Mr.
Chaffanbrass. They gave their evidence, and in due course were impaled.
Mr. Chaffanbrass had never been greater. The day was hot, and he thrust
his wig back till it stuck rather on the top of his coat-collar than on
his head; his forehead seemed to come out like the head of a dog from
his kennel, and he grinned with his black teeth, and his savage eyes
twinkled, till the witnesses sank almost out of sight as they gazed at
him.

And yet they had very little to prove, and nothing that he could
disprove. They had to speak merely to certain banking transactions, to
say that certain moneys had been so paid in and so drawn out, in stating
which they had their office books to depend on. But not the less on this
account were they made victims. To one clerk it was suggested that
he might now and then, once in three months or so, make an error in
a figure; and, having acknowledged this, he was driven about until he
admitted that it was very possible that every entry he made in the bank
books in the course of the year was false. 'And you, such as you,'
said Mr. Chaffanbrass, 'do you dare to come forward to give evidence on
commercial affairs? Go down, sir, and hide your ignominy.' The wretch,
convinced that he was ruined for ever, slunk out of court, and was
ashamed to show himself at his place of business for the next three
days.

There were ten or twelve witnesses, all much of the same sort, who
proved among them that this sum of twenty thousand pounds had been
placed at Alaric's disposal, and that now, alas! the twenty thousand
pounds were not forthcoming. It seemed to be a very simple case; and, to
Alaric's own understanding, it seemed impossible that his counsel should
do anything for him. But as each impaled victim shrank with agonized
terror from the torture, Mr. Gitemthruet would turn round to Alaric
and assure him that they were going on well, quite as well as he had
expected. Mr. Chaffanbrass was really exerting himself; and when Mr.
Chaffanbrass did really exert himself he rarely failed.

And so the long day faded itself away in the hot sweltering court,
and his lordship, at about seven o'clock, declared his intention of
adjourning. Of course a _cause célèbre_ such as this was not going to
decide itself in one day. Alaric's guilt was clear as daylight to all
concerned; but a man who had risen to be a Civil Service Commissioner,
and to be entrusted with the guardianship of twenty thousand pounds, was
not to be treated like a butcher who had merely smothered his wife in an
ordinary way, or a housebreaker who had followed his professional career
to its natural end; more than that was due to the rank and station
of the man, and to the very respectable retaining fee with which
Mr. Gitemthruet had found himself enabled to secure the venom of Mr.
Chaffanbrass. So the jury retired to regale themselves _en masse_ at a
neighbouring coffee-house; Alaric was again permitted to be at large on
bail (the amiable policeman in mufti still attending him at a distance);
and Mr. Chaffanbrass and his lordship retired to prepare themselves by
rest for the morrow's labours.

But what was Alaric to do? He soon found himself under the guardianship
of the constant Gitemthruet in a neighbouring tavern, and his cousin
Charley was with him. Charley had been in court the whole day, except
that he had twice posted down to the West End in a cab to let Gertrude
and Mrs. Woodward know how things were going on. He had posted down and
posted back again, and, crowded as the court had been, he had
contrived to make his way in, using that air of authority to which
the strongest-minded policeman will always bow; till at last the very
policemen assisted him, as though he were in some way connected with the
trial.

On his last visit at Gertrude's house he had told her that it was very
improbable that the trial should be finished that day. She had then
said nothing as to Alaric's return to his own house; it had indeed not
occurred to her that he would be at liberty to do so: Charley at once
caught at this, and strongly recommended his cousin to remain where he
was. 'You will gain nothing by going home,' said he; 'Gertrude does
not expect you; Mrs. Woodward is there; and it will be better for all
parties that you should remain.' Mr. Gitemthruet strongly backed his
advice, and Alaric, so counselled, resolved to remain where he was.
Charley promised to stay with him, and the policeman in mufti, without
making any promise at all, silently acquiesced in the arrangement.
Charley made one more visit to the West, saw Norman at his lodgings, and
Mrs. Woodward and Gertrude in Albany Place, and then returned to make a
night of it with Alaric. We need hardly say that Charley made a night
of it in a very different manner from that to which he and his brother
navvies were so well accustomed.



CHAPTER XLI

THE OLD BAILEY


The next morning, at ten o'clock, the court was again crowded. The
judge was again on his bench, prepared for patient endurance; and Lord
Killtime and Sir Gregory Hardlines were alongside of him. The jury were
again in their box, ready with pen and paper to give their brightest
attention--a brightness which will be dim enough before the long day be
over; the counsel for the prosecution were rummaging among their papers;
the witnesses for the defence were sitting there among the attorneys,
with the exception of the Honourable Undecimus Scott, who was
accommodated with a seat near the sheriff, and whose heart, to tell the
truth, was sinking somewhat low within his breast, in spite of the glass
of brandy with which he had fortified himself. Alaric was again present
under the wings of Mr. Gitemthruet; and the great Mr. Chaffanbrass was
in his place. He was leaning over a slip of paper which he held in
his hand, and with compressed lips was meditating his attack upon his
enemies; on this occasion his wig was well over his eyes, and as he
peered up from under it to the judge's face, he cocked his nose with an
air of supercilious contempt for all those who were immediately around
him.

It was for him to begin the day's sport by making a speech, not so much
in defence of his client as in accusation of the prosecutors. 'It had
never,' he said, 'been his fate, he might say his misfortune, to hear a
case against a man in a respectable position, opened by the Crown with
such an amount of envenomed virulence.' He was then reminded that the
prosecution was not carried on by the Crown. 'Then,' said he, 'we
may attribute this virulence to private malice; that it is not to be
attributed to any fear that this English bride should lose her fortune,
or that her French husband should be deprived of any portion of his
spoil, I shall be able to prove to a certainty. Did I allow myself that
audacity of denunciation which my learned friend has not considered
incompatible with the dignity of his new silk gown? Could I permit
myself such latitude of invective as he has adopted?'--a slight laugh
was here heard in the court, and an involuntary smile played across the
judge's face--'yes,' continued Mr. Chaffanbrass, 'I boldly aver that I
have never forgotten myself, and what is due to humanity, as my learned
friend did in his address to the jury. Gentlemen of the jury, you
will not confound the natural indignation which counsel must feel when
defending innocence from the false attacks, with the uncalled-for, the
unprofessional acerbity which has now been used in promoting such an
accusation as this. I may at times be angry, when I see mean falsehood
before me in vain assuming the garb of truth--for with such juries as
I meet here it generally is in vain--I may at times forget myself in
anger; but, if we talk of venom, virulence, and eager hostility, I yield
the palm, without a contest, to my learned friend in the new silk gown.'

He then went on to dispose of the witnesses whom they had heard on the
previous day, and expressed a regret that an _exposé_ should have been
made so disgraceful to the commercial establishments of this
great commercial city. It only showed what was the effect on such
establishments of that undue parsimony which was now one of the crying
evils of the times. Having thus shortly disposed of them, he came to
what all men knew was the real interest of the day's doings. 'But,' said
he, 'the evidence in this case, to which your attention will be chiefly
directed, will be, not that for the accusation, but that for the
defence. It will be my business to show to you, not only that my client
is guiltless, but to what temptations to be guilty he has been purposely
and wickedly subjected. I shall put into that bar an honourable member
of the House of Commons, who will make some revelations as to his
own life, who will give us an insight into the ways and means of a
legislator, which will probably surprise us all, not excluding his
lordship on the bench. He will be able to explain to us--and I trust I
may be able to induce him to do so, for it is possible that he may be a
little coy--he will be able to explain to us why my client, who is in no
way connected either with the Scotts, or the Golightlys, or the Figgs,
or the Jaquêtanàpes, why he was made the lady's trustee; and he will
also, perhaps, tell us, after some slight, gentle persuasion, whether he
has himself handled, or attempted to handle, any of this lady's money.'

Mr. Chaffanbrass then went on to state that, as the forms of the court
would not give him the power of addressing the jury again, he must now
explain to them what he conceived to be the facts of the case. He then
admitted that his client, in his anxiety to do the best he could with
the fortune entrusted to him, had invested it badly. The present fate
of these unfortunate bridge shares, as to which the commercial world
had lately held so many different opinions, proved that: but it had
nevertheless been a _bona fide_ investment, made in conjunction with,
and by the advice of, Mr. Scott, the lady's uncle, who thus, for his own
purposes, got possession of money which was in truth confided to him for
other purposes. His client, Mr. Chaffanbrass acknowledged, had behaved
with great indiscretion; but the moment he found that the investment
would be an injurious one to the lady whose welfare was in his hands, he
at once resolved to make good the whole amount from his own pocket. That
he had done so, or, at any rate, would have done so, but for this trial,
would be proved to them. Nobler conduct than this it was impossible to
imagine. Whereas, the lady's uncle, the honourable member of Parliament,
the gentleman who had made a stalking-horse of his, Mr. Chaffanbrass's,
client, refused to refund a penny of the spoil, and was now the
instigator of this most unjust proceeding.

As Mr. Chaffanbrass thus finished his oration, Undy Scott tried to smile
complacently on those around him. But why did the big drops of
sweat stand on his brow as his eye involuntarily caught those of Mr.
Chaffanbrass? Why did he shuffle his feet, and uneasily move his hands
and feet hither and thither, as a man does when he tries in vain to be
unconcerned? Why did he pull his gloves on and off, and throw himself
back with that affected air which is so unusual to him? All the court
was looking at him, and every one knew that he was wretched. Wretched!
aye, indeed he was; for the assurance even of an Undy Scott, the
hardened man of the clubs, the thrice elected and twice rejected of
Tillietudlem, fell prostrate before the well-known hot pincers of
Chaffanbrass, the torturer!

The first witness called was Henry Norman. Alaric looked up for a moment
with surprise, and then averted his eyes. Mr. Gitemthruet had concealed
from him the fact that Norman was to be called. He merely proved
this, that having heard from Mrs. Woodward, who was the prisoner's
mother-in-law, and would soon be his own mother-in-law, that a
deficiency had been alleged to exist in the fortune of Madame
Jaquêtanàpe, he had, on the part of Mrs. Woodward, produced what he
believed would cover this deficiency, and that when he had been informed
that more money was wanting, he had offered to give security that the
whole should be paid in six months. Of course, on him Mr. Chaffanbrass
exercised none of his terrible skill, and as the lawyers on the other
side declined to cross-examine him, he was soon able to leave the court.
This he did speedily, for he had no desire to witness Alaric's misery.

And then the Honourable Undecimus Scott was put into the witness-box. It
was suggested, on his behalf, that he might give his evidence from the
seat which he then occupied, but this Mr. Chaffanbrass would by no means
allow. His intercourse with Mr. Scott, he said, must be of a nearer,
closer, and more confidential nature than such an arrangement as that
would admit. A witness, to his way of thinking, was never an efficient
witness till he had his arm on the rail of a witness-box. He must
trouble Mr. Scott to descend from the grandeur of his present position;
he might return to his seat after he had been examined--if he then
should have a mind to do so. Our friend Undy found that he had to obey,
and he was soon confronted with Mr. Chaffanbrass in the humbler manner
which that gentleman thought so desirable.

'You are a member of the House of Commons, I believe, Mr. Scott?' began
Mr. Chaffanbrass.

Undy acknowledged that he was so.

'And you are the son of a peer, I believe?'

'A Scotch peer,' said Undy.

'Oh, a Scotch peer,' said Mr. Chaffanbrass, bringing his wig forward
over his left eye in a manner that was almost irresistible--'a Scotch
peer--a member of Parliament, and son of a Scotch peer; and you have
been a member of the Government, I believe, Mr. Scott?'

Undy confessed that he had been in office for a short time.

'A member of Parliament, a son of a peer, and one of the Government of
this great and free country. You ought to be a proud and a happy man.
You are a man of fortune, too, I believe, Mr. Scott?'

'That is a matter of opinion,' said Undy; 'different people have
different ideas. I don't know what you call fortune.'

'Why I call £20,000 a fortune--this sum that the lady had who married
the Frenchman. Have you £20,000?'

'I shall not answer that question.'

'Have you £10,000? You surely must have as much as that, as I know you
married a fortune yourself,--unless, indeed, a false-hearted trustee has
got hold of your money also. Come, have you got £10,000?'

'I shall not answer you.'

'Have you got any income at all? Now, I demand an answer to that on your
oath, sir.'

'My lord, must I answer such questions?' said Undy.

'Yes, sir; you must answer them, and many more like them,' said Mr.
Chaffanbrass. 'My lord, it is essential to my client that I should prove
to the jury whether this witness is or is not a penniless adventurer; if
he be a respectable member of society, he can have no objection to let
me know whether he has the means of living.'

'Perhaps, Mr. Scott,' said the judge, 'you will not object to state
whether or no you possess any fixed income.'

'Have you, or have you not, got an income on which you live?' demanded
Mr. Chaffanbrass.

'I have an income,' said Undy, not, however, in a voice that betokened
much self-confidence in the strength of his own answer.

'You have an income, have you? And now, Mr. Scott, will you tell us what
profession you follow at this moment with the object of increasing your
income? I think we may surmise, by the tone of your voice, that your
income is not very abundant.'

'I have no profession,' said Undy.

'On your oath, you are in no profession?'

'Not at present.'

'On your oath, you are not a stock-jobber?'

Undy hesitated for a moment.

'By the virtue of your oath, sir, are you a stock-jobber, or are you
not?'

'No, I am not. At least, I believe not.'

'You believe not!' said Mr. Chaffanbrass--and it would be necessary to
hear the tone in which this was said to understand the derision which
was implied. 'You believe you are not a stock-jobber! Are you, or
are you not, constantly buying shares and selling shares--railway
shares--bridge shares--mining shares--and such-like?'

'I sometimes buy shares.'

'And sometimes sell them?'

'Yes--and sometimes sell them.'

Where Mr. Chaffanbrass had got his exact information, we cannot say;
but very exact information he had acquired respecting Undy's
little transactions. He questioned him about the Mary Janes and Old
Friendships, about the West Corks and the Ballydehob Branch, about
sundry other railways and canals, and finally about the Limehouse
bridge; and then again he asked his former question. 'And now,' said he,
'will you tell the jury whether you are a stock-jobber or no?'

'It is all a matter of opinion,' said Undy. 'Perhaps I may be, in your
sense of the word.'

'My sense of the word!' said Mr. Chaffanbrass. 'You are as much a
stock-jobber, sir, as that man is a policeman, or his lordship is
a judge. And now, Mr. Scott, I am sorry that I must go back to your
private affairs, respecting which you are so unwilling to speak. I fear
I must trouble you to tell me this--How did you raise the money with
which you bought that latter batch--the large lump of the bridge
shares--of which we were speaking?'

'I borrowed it from Mr. Tudor,' said Undy, who had prepared himself to
answer this question glibly.

'You borrowed it from Mr. Alaric Tudor--that is, from the gentleman now
upon his trial. You borrowed it, I believe, just at the time that he
became the lady's trustee?'

'Yes,' said Undy; 'I did so.'

'You have not repaid him as yet?'

'No--not yet,' said Undy.

'I thought not. Can you at all say when Mr. Tudor may probably get his
money?'

'I am not at present prepared to name a day. When the money was lent it
was not intended that it should be repaid at an early day.'

'Oh! Mr. Tudor did not want his money at an early day--didn't he? But,
nevertheless, he has, I believe, asked for it since, and that very
pressingly?'

'He has never asked for it,' said Undy.

'Allow me to remind you, Mr. Scott, that I have the power of putting my
client into that witness-box, although he is on his trial; and, having
so reminded you, let me again beg you to say whether he has not asked
you for repayment of this large sum of money very pressingly.'

'No; he has never done so.'

'By the value of your oath, sir--if it has any value--did not my
client beseech you to allow these shares to be sold while they were yet
saleable, in order that your niece's trust money might be replaced in
the English funds?'

'He said something as to the expediency of selling them, and I differed
from him.'

'You thought it would be better for the lady's interest that they should
remain unsold?'

'I made no question of the lady's interest. I was not her trustee.'

'But the shares were bought with the lady's money.'

'What shares?' asked Undy.

'What shares, sir? Those shares which you had professed to hold on the
lady's behalf, and which afterwards you did not scruple to call your
own. Those shares of yours--since you have the deliberate dishonesty
so to call them--those shares of yours, were they not bought with the
lady's money?'

'They were bought with the money which I borrowed from Mr. Tudor.'

'And where did Mr. Tudor get that money?'

'That is a question you must ask himself,' said Undy.

'It is a question, sir, that just at present I prefer to ask you. Now,
sir, be good enough to tell the jury, whence Mr. Tudor got that money;
or tell them, if you dare do so, that you do not know.'

Undy for a minute remained silent, and Mr. Chaffanbrass remained silent
also. But if the fury of his tongue for a moment was at rest, that of
his eyes was as active as ever. He kept his gaze steadily fixed upon the
witness, and stood there with compressed lips, still resting on his two
hands, as though he were quite satisfied thus to watch the prey that was
in his power. For an instant he glanced up to the jury, and then allowed
his eyes to resettle on the face of the witness, as though he might have
said, 'There, gentlemen, there he is--the son of a peer, a member of
Parliament; what do you think of him?'

The silence of that minute was horrible to Undy, and yet he could hardly
bring himself to break it. The judge looked at him with eyes which
seemed to read his inmost soul; the jury looked at him, condemning him
one and all; Alaric looked at him with fierce, glaring eyes of hatred,
the same eyes that had glared at him that night when he had been
collared in the street; the whole crowd looked at him derisively; but
the eyes of them all were as nothing to the eyes of Mr. Chaffanbrass.

'I never saw him so great; I never did,' said Mr. Gitemthruet,
whispering to his client; and Alaric, even he, felt some consolation in
the terrible discomfiture of his enemy.

'I don't know where he got it,' said Undy, at last breaking the terrible
silence, and wiping the perspiration from his brow.

'Oh, you don't!' said Mr. Chaffanbrass, knocking his wig back, and
coming well out of his kennel. 'After waiting for a quarter of an
hour or so, you are able to tell the jury at last that you don't know
anything about it. He took the small trifle of change out of his pocket,
I suppose?'

'I don't know where he took it from.'

'And you didn't ask?'

'No.'

'You got the money; that was all you know. But this was just at the
time that Mr. Tudor became the lady's trustee; I think you have admitted
that.'

'It may have been about the time.'

'Yes; it may have been about the time, as you justly observe, Mr. Scott.
Luckily, you know, we have the dates of the two transactions. But it
never occurred to your innocent mind that the money which you got into
your hands was a part of the lady's fortune; that never occurred to your
innocent mind--eh, Mr. Scott?'

'I don't know that my mind is a more innocent mind than your own,' said
Undy.

'I dare say not. Well, did the idea ever occur to your guilty mind?'

'Perhaps my mind is not more guilty than your own, either.'

'Then may God help me,' said Mr. Chaffanbrass, 'for I must be at a bad
pass. You told us just now, Mr. Scott, that some time since Mr. Tudor
advised you to sell these shares--what made him give you this advice?'

'He meant, he said, to sell his own.'

'And he pressed you to sell yours?'

'Yes.'

'He urged you to do so more than once?'

'Yes; I believe he did.'

'And now, Mr. Scott, can you explain to the jury why he was so
solicitous that you should dispose of your property?'

'I do not know why he should have done so, unless he wanted back his
money.'

'Then he did ask for his own money?'

'No; he never asked for it. But if I had sold the shares perhaps he
might have asked for it.'

'Oh!' said Mr. Chaffanbrass; and as he uttered the monosyllable he
looked up at the jury, and gently shook his head, and gently shook his
hands. Mr. Chaffanbrass was famous for these little silent addresses to
the jury-box.

But not even yet had he done with this suspicious loan. We cannot follow
him through the whole of his examination; for he kept our old friend
under the harrow for no less than seven hours. Though he himself made no
further statement to the jury, he made it perfectly plain, by Undy's own
extracted admissions, or by the hesitation of his denials, that he had
knowingly received this money out of his niece's fortune, and that he
had refused to sell the shares bought with this money, when pressed to
do so by Tudor, in order that the trust-money might be again made up.

There were those who blamed Mr. Chaffanbrass for thus admitting that his
client had made away with his ward's money by lending it to Undy; but
that acute gentleman saw clearly that he could not contend against the
fact of the property having been fraudulently used; but he saw that he
might induce the jury to attach so much guilt to Undy, that Tudor would,
as it were, be whitened by the blackness of the other's villany. The
judge, he well knew, would blow aside all this froth; but then the judge
could not find the verdict.

Towards the end of the day, when Undy was thoroughly worn out--at which
time, however, Mr. Chaffanbrass was as brisk as ever, for nothing ever
wore him out when he was pursuing his game--when the interest of those
who had been sweltering in the hot court all the day was observed to
flag, Mr. Chaffanbrass began twisting round his finger a bit of paper,
of which those who were best acquainted with his manner knew that he
would soon make use.

'Mr. Scott,' said he, suddenly dropping the derisive sarcasm of his
former tone, and addressing him with all imaginable courtesy, 'could you
oblige me by telling me whose handwriting that is?' and he handed to him
the scrap of paper. Undy took it, and saw that the writing was his own;
his eyes were somewhat dim, and he can hardly be said to have read it.
It was a very short memorandum, and it ran as follows: 'All will yet be
well, if those shares be ready to-morrow morning.'

'Well, Mr. Scott,' said the lawyer, 'do you recognize the handwriting?'

Undy looked at it, and endeavoured to examine it closely, but he could
not; his eyes swam, and his head was giddy, and he felt sick. Could he
have satisfied himself that the writing was not clearly and manifestly
his own, he would have denied the document altogether; but he feared to
do this; the handwriting might be proved to be his own.

'It is something like my own,' said he.

'Something like your own, is it?' said Mr. Chaffanbrass, as though he
were much surprised. 'Like your own! Well, will you have the goodness to
read it?'

Undy turned it in his hand as though the proposed task were singularly
disagreeable to him. Why, thought he to himself, should he be thus
browbeaten by a dirty old Newgate lawyer? Why not pluck up his courage,
and, at any rate, show that he was a man? 'No,' said he, 'I will not
read it.'

'Then I will. Gentlemen of the jury, have the goodness to listen to me.'
Of course there was a contest then between him and the lawyers on the
other side whether the document might or might not be read; but equally
of course the contest ended in the judge's decision that it should be
read. And Mr. Chaffanbrass did read it in a voice audible to all men.
'All will yet be well, if those shares be ready to-morrow morning.' We
may take it as admitted, I suppose, that this is in your handwriting,
Mr. Scott?'

'It probably may be, though I will not say that it is.'

'Do you not know, sir, with positive certainty that it is your writing?'

To this Undy made no direct answer. 'What is your opinion, Mr. Scott?'
said the judge; 'you can probably give an opinion by which the jury
would be much guided.'

'I think it is, my lord,' said Undy.

'He thinks it is, said Mr. Chaffanbrass, addressing the jury. 'Well,
for once I agree with you. I think it is also--and how will you have the
goodness to explain it. To whom was it addressed?'

'I cannot say.'

'When was it written?'

'I do not know.'

'What does it mean?'

'I cannot remember.'

'Was it addressed to Mr. Tudor?'

'I should think not.'

'Now, Mr. Scott, have the goodness to look at the jury, and to speak a
little louder. You are in the habit of addressing a larger audience than
this, and cannot, therefore, be shamefaced. You mean to tell the jury
that you think that that note was not intended by you for Mr. Tudor?'

'I think not,' said Undy.

'But you can't say who it was intended for?'

'No.'

'And by the virtue of your oath, you have told us all that you know
about it?' Undy remained silent, but Mr. Chaffanbrass did not press
him for an answer. 'You have a brother, named Valentine, I think.' Now
Captain Val had been summoned also, and was at this moment in court.
Mr. Chaffanbrass requested that he might be desired to leave it, and,
consequently, he was ordered out in charge of a policeman.

'And now, Mr. Scott--was that note written by you to Mr. Tudor, with
reference to certain shares, which you proposed that Mr. Tudor should
place in your brother's hands? Now, sir, I ask you, as a member of
Parliament, as a member of the Government, as the son of a peer, to give
a true answer to that question.' And then again Undy was silent;
and again Mr. Chaffanbrass leant on the desk and glared at him. 'And
remember, sir, member of Parliament and nobleman as you are, you shall
be indicted for perjury, if you are guilty of perjury.'

'My lord,' said Undy, writhing in torment, 'am I to submit to this?'

'Mr. Chaffanbrass,' said the judge, 'you should not threaten your
witness. Mr. Scott--surely you can answer the question.'

Mr. Chaffanbrass seemed not to have even heard what the judge said, so
intently were his eyes fixed on poor Undy. 'Well, Mr. Scott,' he said at
last, very softly, 'is it convenient for you to answer me? Did that note
refer to a certain number of bridge shares, which you required Mr. Tudor
to hand over to the stepfather of this lady?'

Undy had no trust in his brother. He felt all but sure that, under
the fire of Mr. Chaffanbrass, he would confess everything. It would be
terrible to own the truth, but it would be more terrible to be indicted
for perjury. So he sat silent.

'My lord, perhaps you will ask him,' said Mr. Chaffanbrass.

'Mr. Scott, you understand the question--why do you not answer it?'
asked the judge. But Undy still remained silent.

'You may go now,' said Mr. Chaffanbrass. 'Your eloquence is of the
silent sort; but, nevertheless, it is very impressive. You may go now,
and sit on that bench again, if, after what has passed, the sheriff
thinks proper to permit it.'

Undy, however, did not try that officer's complaisance. He retired
from the witness-box, and was not again seen during the trial in any
conspicuous place in the court.

It was then past seven o'clock; but Mr. Chaffanbrass insisted on going
on with the examination of Captain Val. It did not last long. Captain
Val, also, was in that disagreeable position, that he did not know what
Undy had confessed, and what denied. So he, also, refused to answer
the questions of Mr. Chaffanbrass, saying that he might possibly damage
himself should he do so. This was enough for Mr. Chaffanbrass, and then
his work was done.

At eight o'clock the court again adjourned; again Charley posted
off--for the third time that day--to let Gertrude know that, even
as yet, all was not over; and again he and Alaric spent a melancholy
evening at the neighbouring tavern; and then, again, on the third
morning, all were re-assembled at the Old Bailey.

Or rather they were not all re-assembled. But few came now, and they
were those who were obliged to come. The crack piece of the trial, that
portion to which, among the connoisseurs, the interest was attached,
that was all over. Mr. Chaffanbrass had done his work. Undy Scott,
the member of Parliament, had been gibbeted, and the rest was, in
comparison, stale, flat, and unprofitable. The judge and jury, however,
were there, so were the prosecuting counsel, so were Mr. Chaffanbrass
and Mr. Younglad, and so was poor Alaric. The work of the day was
commenced by the judge's charge, and then Alaric, to his infinite
dismay, found how all the sophistry and laboured arguments of his very
talented advocate were blown to the winds, and shown to be worthless.
'Gentlemen,' said the judge to the jurors, after he had gone through
all the evidence, and told them what was admissible, and what was
not--'gentlemen, I must especially remind you, that in coming to a
verdict in the matter, no amount of guilt on the part of any other
person can render guiltless him whom you are now trying, or palliate his
guilt if he be guilty. An endeavour has been made to affix a deep stigma
on one of the witnesses who has been examined before you; and to induce
you to feel, rather than to think, that Mr. Tudor is, at any rate,
comparatively innocent--innocent as compared with that gentleman. That
is not the issue which you are called on to decide; not whether Mr.
Scott, for purposes of his own, led Mr. Tudor on to guilt, and then
turned against him; but whether Mr. Tudor himself has, or has not, been
guilty under this Act of Parliament that has been explained to you.

'As regards the evidence of Mr. Scott, I am justified in telling you,
that if the prisoner's guilt depended in any way on that evidence, it
would be your duty to receive it with the most extreme caution, and
to reject it altogether if not corroborated. That evidence was not
trustworthy, and in a great measure justified the treatment which the
witness encountered from the learned barrister who examined him. But Mr.
Scott was a witness for the defence, not for the prosecution. The case
for the prosecution in no way hangs on his evidence.

'If it be your opinion that Mr. Tudor is guilty, and that he was
unwarily enticed into guilt by Mr. Scott; that the whole arrangement of
this trust was brought about by Mr. Scott or others, to enable him or
them to make a cat's-paw of this new trustee, and thus use the lady's
money for their own purposes, such an opinion on your part may justify
you in recommending the prisoner to the merciful consideration of the
bench; but it cannot justify you in finding a verdict of not guilty.'

As Alaric heard this, and much more to the same effect, his hopes, which
certainly had been high during the examination of Undy Scott, again sank
to zero, and left him in despair. He had almost begun to doubt the fact
of his own guilt, so wondrously had his conduct been glossed over by
Mr. Chaffanbrass, so strikingly had any good attempt on his part been
brought to the light, so black had Scott been made to appear. Ideas
floated across his brain that he might go forth, not only free of the
law, but whitewashed also in men's opinions, that he might again sit on
his throne at the Civil Service Board, again cry to himself 'Excelsior,'
and indulge the old dreams of his ambition.

But, alas! the deliberate and well-poised wisdom of the judge seemed to
shower down cold truth upon the jury from his very eyes. His words
were low in their tone, though very clear, impassive, delivered without
gesticulation or artifice, such as that so powerfully used by Mr.
Chaffanbrass; but Alaric himself felt that it was impossible to doubt
the truth of such a man; impossible to suppose that any juryman should
do so. Ah me! why had he brought himself thus to quail beneath the gaze
of an old man seated on a bench? with what object had he forced himself
to bend his once proud neck? He had been before in courts such as this,
and had mocked within his own spirit the paraphernalia of the horsehair
wigs, the judges' faded finery, and the red cloth; he had laughed at
the musty, stale solemnity by which miscreants were awed, and policemen
enchanted; now, these things told on himself heavily enough; he felt now
their weight and import.

And then the jury retired from the court to consider their verdict, and
Mr. Gitemthruet predicted that they would be hungry enough before they
sat down to their next meal. 'His lordship was dead against us,' said
Mr. Gitemthruet; 'but that was a matter of course; we must look to the
jury, and the city juries are very fond of Mr. Chaffanbrass; I am not
quite sure, however, that Mr. Chaffanbrass was right: I would not have
admitted so much myself; but then no one knows a city jury so well as
Mr. Chaffanbrass.'

Other causes came on, and still the jury did not return to court. Mr.
Chaffanbrass seemed to have forgotten the very existence of Alaric
Tudor, and was deeply engaged in vindicating a city butcher from
an imputation of having vended a dead ass by way of veal. All his
indignation was now forgotten, and he was full of boisterous fun,
filling the court with peals of laughter. One o'clock came, two, three,
four, five, six, seven, and still no verdict. At the latter hour, when
the court was about to be adjourned, the foreman came in, and assured
the judge that there was no probability that they could agree; eleven of
them thought one way, while the twelfth was opposed to them. 'You must
reason with the gentleman,' said the judge. 'I have, my lord,' said the
foreman, 'but it's all thrown away upon him.' 'Reason with him again,'
said the judge, rising from his bench and preparing to go to his dinner.

And then one of the great fundamental supports of the British
constitution was brought into play. Reason was thrown away upon this
tough juryman, and, therefore, it was necessary to ascertain what effect
starvation might have upon him. A verdict, that is, a unanimous decision
from these twelve men as to Alaric's guilt, was necessary; it might be
that three would think him innocent, and nine guilty, or that any other
division of opinion might take place; but such divisions among a jury
are opposed to the spirit of the British constitution. Twelve men must
think alike; or, if they will not, they must be made to do so. 'Reason
with him again,' said the judge, as he went to his own dinner. Had the
judge bade them remind him how hungry he would soon be if he remained
obstinate, his lordship would probably have expressed the thought which
was passing through his mind. 'There is one of us, my lord,' said the
foreman, 'who will I know be very ill before long; he is already so bad
that he can't sit upright.'

There are many ludicrous points in our blessed constitution, but perhaps
nothing so ludicrous as a juryman praying to a judge for mercy. He has
been caught, shut up in a box, perhaps, for five or six days together,
badgered with half a dozen lawyers till he is nearly deaf with their
continual talking, and then he is locked up until he shall die or find a
verdict. Such at least is the intention of the constitution. The death,
however, of three or four jurymen from starvation would not suit the
humanity of the present age, and therefore, when extremities are nigh
at hand, the dying jurymen, with medical certificates, are allowed to
be carried off. It is devoutly to be wished that one juryman might be
starved to death while thus serving the constitution; the absurdity then
would cure itself, and a verdict of a majority would be taken.

But in Alaric's case, reason or hunger did prevail at the last moment,
and as the judge was leaving the court, he was called back to
receive the verdict. Alaric, also, was brought back, still under Mr.
Gitemthruet's wing, and with him came Charley. A few officers of
the court were there, a jailer and a policeman or two, those whose
attendance was absolutely necessary, but with these exceptions the place
was empty. Not long since men were crowding for seats, and the policemen
were hardly able to restrain the pressure of those who pushed forward;
but now there was no pushing; the dingy, dirty benches, a few inches of
which had lately been so desirable, were not at all in request, and were
anything but inviting in appearance; Alaric sat himself down on the
very spot which had lately been sacred to Mr. Chaffanbrass, and Mr.
Gitemthruet, seated above him, might also fancy himself a barrister.
There they sat for five minutes in perfect silence; the suspense of the
moment cowed even the attorney, and Charley, who sat on the other side
of Alaric, was so affected that he could hardly have spoken had he
wished to do so.

And then the judge, who had been obliged to re-array himself before he
returned to the bench, again took his seat, and an officer of the court
inquired of the foreman of the jury, in his usual official language,
what their finding was.

'Guilty on the third count,' said the foreman. 'Not guilty on the four
others. We beg, however, most strongly to recommend the prisoner to your
lordship's merciful consideration, believing that he has been led into
this crime by one who has been much more guilty than himself.'

'I knew Mr. Chaffanbrass was wrong,' said Mr. Gitemthruet. 'I knew he
was wrong when he acknowledged so much. God bless my soul! in a court of
law one should never acknowledge anything! what's the use?'

And then came the sentence. He was to be confined at the Penitentiary
at Millbank for six months. 'The offence,' said the judge, 'of which
you have been found guilty, and of which you most certainly have been
guilty, is one most prejudicial to the interests of the community. That
trust which the weaker of mankind should place in the stronger, that
reliance which widows and orphans should feel in their nearest and
dearest friends, would be destroyed, if such crimes as these were
allowed to pass unpunished. But in your case there are circumstances
which do doubtless palliate the crime of which you have been guilty; the
money which you took will, I believe, be restored; the trust which you
were courted to undertake should not have been imposed on you; and in
the tale of villany which has been laid before us, you have by no
means been the worst offender. I have, therefore, inflicted on you the
slightest penalty which the law allows me. Mr. Tudor, I know what
has been your career, how great your services to your country, how
unexceptionable your conduct as a public servant; I trust, I do trust, I
most earnestly, most hopefully trust, that your career of utility is not
over. Your abilities are great, and you are blessed with the power
of thinking; I do beseech you to consider, while you undergo that
confinement which you needs must suffer, how little any wealth is worth
an uneasy conscience.'

And so the trial was over. Alaric was taken off in custody; the
policeman in mufti was released from his attendance; and Charley, with a
heavy heart, carried the news to Gertrude and Mrs. Woodward.

'And as for me,' said Gertrude, when she had so far recovered from the
first shock as to be able to talk to her mother--'as for me, I will have
lodgings at Millbank.'



CHAPTER XLII

A PARTING INTERVIEW


Mrs. Woodward remained with her eldest daughter for two days after the
trial, and then she was forced to return to Hampton. She had earnestly
entreated Gertrude to accompany her, with her child; but Mrs. Tudor was
inflexible. She had, she said, very much to do; so much, that she could
not possibly leave London; the house and furniture were on her hands,
and must be disposed of; their future plans must be arranged; and
then nothing, she said, should induce her to sleep out of sight of her
husband's prison, or to omit any opportunity of seeing him which the
prison rules would allow her.

Mrs. Woodward would not have left one child in such extremity, had
not the state of another child made her presence at the Cottage
indispensable. Katie's anxiety about the trial had of course been
intense, so intense as to give her a false strength, and somewhat to
deceive Linda as to her real state. Tidings of course passed daily
between London and the Cottage, but for three days they told nothing. On
the morning of the fourth day, however, Norman brought the heavy news,
and Katie sank completely under it. When she first heard the result
of the trial she swooned away, and remained for some time nearly
unconscious. But returning consciousness brought with it no relief, and
she lay sobbing on her pillow, till she became so weak, that Linda in
her fright wrote up to her mother begging her to return at once. Then,
wretched as it made her to leave Gertrude in her trouble, Mrs. Woodward
did return.

For a fortnight after this there was an unhappy household at Surbiton
Cottage. Linda's marriage was put off till the period of Alaric's
sentence should be over, and till something should be settled as to his
and Gertrude's future career. It was now August, and they spoke of the
event as one which perhaps might occur in the course of the following
spring. At this time, also, they were deprived for a while of the
comfort of Norman's visits by his enforced absence at Normansgrove.
Harry's eldest brother was again ill, and at last the news of his death
was received at Hampton. Under other circumstances such tidings as those
might, to a certain extent, have brought their own consolation with
them. Harry would now be Mr. Norman of Normansgrove, and Linda would
become Mrs. Norman of Normansgrove; Harry's mother had long been dead,
and his father was an infirm old man, who would be too glad to give up
to his son the full management of the estate, now that the eldest son
was a man to whom that estate could be trusted. All those circumstances
had, of course, been talked over between Harry and Linda, and it was
understood that Harry was now to resign his situation at the Weights
and Measures. But Alaric's condition, Gertrude's misery, and Katie's
illness, threw all such matters into the background. Katie became no
better; but then the doctors said that she did not become any worse, and
gave it as their opinion that she ought to recover. She had youth, they
said, on her side; and then her lungs were not affected. This was the
great question which they were all asking of each other continually. The
poor girl lived beneath a stethoscope, and bore all their pokings and
tappings with exquisite patience. She herself believed that she was
dying, and so she repeatedly told her mother. Mrs. Woodward could
only say that all was in God's hands, but that the physicians still
encouraged them to hope the best.

One day Mrs. Woodward was sitting with a book in her usual place at the
side of Katie's bed; she looked every now and again at her patient, and
thought that she was slumbering; and at last she rose from her chair to
creep away, so sure was she that she might be spared for a moment. But
just as she was silently rising, a thin, slight, pale hand crept out
from beneath the clothes, and laid itself on her arm.

'I thought you were asleep, love,' said she.

'No, mamma, I was not asleep. I was thinking of something. Don't go
away, mamma, just now. I want to ask you something.'

Mrs. Woodward again sat down, and taking her daughter's hand in her own,
caressed it.

'I want to ask a favour of you, mamma,' said Katie.

'A favour, my darling! what is it? you know I will do anything in my
power that you ask me.'

'Ah, mamma, I do not know whether you will do this.'

'What is it, Katie? I will do anything that is for your good. I am sure
you know that, Katie.'

'Mamma, I know I am going to die. Oh, mamma, don't say anything now,
don't cry now--dear, dear mamma; I don't say it to make you unhappy;
but you know when I am so ill I ought to think about it, ought I not,
mamma?'

'But, Katie, the doctor says that he thinks you are not so dangerously
ill; you should not, therefore, despond; it will increase your illness,
and hinder your chance of getting well. That would be wrong, wouldn't
it, love?'

'Mamma, I feel that I shall never again be well, and therefore--' It was
useless telling Mrs. Woodward not to cry; what else could she do? 'Dear
mamma, I am so sorry to make you unhappy, but you are my own mamma, and
therefore I must tell you. I can be happy still, mamma, if you will let
me talk to you about it.'

'You shall talk, dearest; I will hear what you say; but oh, Katie, I
cannot bear to hear you talk of dying. I do not think you are dying. If
I did think so, my child, my trust in your goodness is so strong that I
should tell you.'

'You know, mamma, it might have been much worse; suppose I had been
drowned, when he, when Charley, you know, saved me;' and as she
mentioned his name a tear for the first time ran down each cheek; 'how
much worse that would have been! think, mamma, what it would be to be
drowned without a moment for one's prayers.'

'It is quite right we should prepare ourselves for death. Whether we
live, or whether we die, we shall be better for doing that.'

Katie still held her mother's hand in hers, and lay back against the
pillows which had been placed behind her back. 'And now, mamma,' she
said at last, 'I am going to ask you this favour--I want to see Charley
once more.'

Mrs. Woodward was so much astonished at the request that at first she
knew not what answer to make. 'To see Charley!' she said at last.

'Yes, mamma; I want to see Charley once more; there need be no secrets
between us now, mamma.'

'There have never been any secrets between us,' said Mrs. Woodward,
embracing her. 'You have never had any secrets from me?'

'Not intentionally, mamma; I have never meant to keep anything secret
from you. And I know you have known what I felt about Charley.'

'I know that you have behaved like an angel, my child; I know your want
of selfishness, your devotion to others, has been such as to shame me; I
know your conduct has been perfect: oh, my Katie, I have understood it,
and I have so loved you, so admired you.'

Katie smiled through her tears as she returned her mother's embrace.
'Well, mamma,' she said, 'at any rate you know that I love him. Oh,
mamma, I do love him so dearly. It is not now like Gertrude's love, or
Linda's. I know that I can never be his wife. I did know before, that
for many reasons I ought not to wish to be so; but now I know I never,
never can be.'

Mrs. Woodward was past the power of speaking, and so Katie went on.

'But I do not love him the less for that reason; I think I love him the
more. I never, never, could have loved anyone else, mamma; never, never;
and that is one reason why I do not so much mind being ill now.'

Mrs. Woodward bowed forward, and hid her face in the counterpane, but
she still kept hold of her daughter's hand.

'And, mamma,' she continued, 'as I do love him so dearly, I feel that
I should try to do something for him. I ought to do so; and, mamma, I
could not be happy without seeing him. He is not just like a brother
or a brother-in-law, such as Harry and Alaric; we are not bound to each
other as relations are; but yet I feel that something does bind me to
him. I know he doesn't love me as I love him; but yet I think he loves
me dearly; and if I speak to him now, mamma, now that I am--that I am so
ill, perhaps he will mind me. Mamma, it will be as though one came unto
him from the dead.'

Mrs. Woodward did not know how to refuse any request that Katie might
now make to her, and felt herself altogether unequal to the task of
refusing this request. For many reasons she would have done so, had
she been able; in the first place she did not think that all chance of
Katie's recovery was gone; and then at the present moment she felt no
inclination to draw closer to her any of the Tudor family. She could not
but feel that Alaric had been the means of disgracing and degrading one
child; and truly, deeply, warmly, as she sympathized with the other, she
could not bring herself to feel the same sympathy for the object of her
love. It was a sore day for her and hers, that on which the Tudors had
first entered her house.

Nevertheless she assented to Katie's proposal, and undertook the task of
asking Charley down to Hampton.

Since Alaric's conviction Charley led a busy life; and as men who have
really something to do have seldom time to get into much mischief, he
had been peculiarly moral and respectable. It is not surprising that at
such a moment Gertrude found that Alaric's newer friends fell off
from him. Of course they did; nor is it a sign of ingratitude or
heartlessness in the world that at such a period of great distress new
friends should fall off. New friends, like one's best coat and polished
patent-leather dress boots, are only intended for holiday wear. At other
times they are neither serviceable nor comfortable; they do not answer
the required purposes, and are ill adapted to give us the ease we seek.
A new coat, however, has this advantage, that it will in time become old
and comfortable; so much can by no means be predicted with certainty of
a new friend. Woe to those men who go through the world with none but
new coats on their backs, with no boots but those of polished leather,
with none but new friends to comfort them in adversity.

But not the less, when misfortune does come, are we inclined to grumble
at finding ourselves deserted. Gertrude, though she certainly wished to
see no Mrs. Val and no Miss Neverbends, did feel lonely enough when
her mother left her, and wretched enough. But she was not altogether
deserted. At this time Charley was true to her, and did for her all
those thousand nameless things which a woman cannot do for herself.
He came to her everyday after leaving his office, and on one excuse or
another remained with her till late every evening.

He was not a little surprised one morning on receiving Mrs. Woodward's
invitation to Hampton. Mrs. Woodward in writing had had some difficulty
in wording her request. She hardly liked asking Charley to come because
Katie was ill; nor did she like to ask him without mentioning Katie's
illness. 'I need not explain to you,' she said in her note, 'that we are
all in great distress; poor Katie is very ill, and you will understand
what we must feel about Alaric and Gertrude. Harry is still at
Normansgrove. We shall all be glad to see you, and Katie, who never
forgets what you did for her, insists on my asking you at once. I am
sure you will not refuse her, so I shall expect you to-morrow.' Charley
would not have refused her anything, and it need hardly be said that he
accepted the invitation.

Mrs. Woodward was at a loss how to receive him, or what to say to him.
Though Katie was so positive that her own illness would be fatal--a
symptom which might have confirmed those who watched her in their
opinion that her disease was not consumption--her mother was by no means
so desponding. She still thought it not impossible that her child might
recover, and so thinking could not but be adverse to any declaration on
Katie's part of her own feelings. She had endeavoured to explain this
to her daughter; but Katie was so carried away by her enthusiasm, was
at the present moment so devoted, and, as it were, exalted above her
present life, that all that her mother said was thrown away upon her.
Mrs. Woodward might have refused her daughter's request, and have run
the risk of breaking her heart by the refusal; but now that the petition
had been granted, it was useless to endeavour to teach her to repress
her feelings.

'Charley,' said Mrs. Woodward, when he had been some little time in the
house, 'our dear Katie wants to see you; she is very ill, you know.'

Charley said he knew she was ill.

'You remember our walk together, Charley.'

'Yes,' said Charley, 'I remember it well. I made you a promise then, and
I have kept it. I have now come here only because you have sent for me.'
This he said in the tone which a man uses when he feels himself to have
been injured.

'I know it, Charley; you have kept your promise; I knew you would, and
I know you will. I have the fullest trust in you; and now you shall come
and see her.'

Charley was to return to town that night, and they had not therefore
much time to lose; they went upstairs at once, and found Linda and
Uncle Bat in the patient's room. It was a lovely August evening, and the
bedroom window opening upon the river was unclosed. Katie, as she sat
propped up against the pillows, could look out upon the water and see
the reedy island, on which in happy former days she had so delighted to
let her imagination revel.

'It is very good of you to come and see me, Charley,' said she, as he
made his way up to her bedside.

He took her wasted hand in his own and pressed it, and, as he did so, a
tear forced itself into each corner of his eyes. She smiled as though to
cheer him, and said that now she saw him she could be quite happy, only
for poor Alaric and Gertrude. She hoped she might live to see Alaric
again; but if not, Charley was to give him her best-best love.

'Live to see him! of course you will,' said Uncle Bat.

'What's to hinder you?' Uncle Bat, like the rest of them, tried to cheer
her, and make her think that she might yet live.

After a while Uncle Bat went out of the room, and Linda followed him.
Mrs. Woodward would fain have remained, but she perfectly understood
that it was part of the intended arrangement with Katie, that Charley
should be alone with her. 'I will come back in a quarter of an hour,'
she said, rising to follow the others. 'You must not let her talk too
much, Charley: you see how weak she is.'

'Mamma, when you come, knock at the door, will you?' said Katie. Mrs.
Woodward, who found herself obliged to act in complete obedience to her
daughter, promised that she would; and then they were left alone.

'Sit down, Charley,' said she; he was still standing by her bedside,
and now at her bidding he sat in the chair which Captain Cuttwater
had occupied. 'Come here nearer to me,' said she; 'this is where mamma
always sits, and Linda when mamma is not here.' Charley did as he was
bid, and, changing his seat, came and sat down close to her bed-head.

'Charley, do you remember how you went into the water for me?' said she,
again smiling, and pulling her hand out and resting it on his arm which
lay on the bed beside her.

'Indeed I do, Katie--I remember the day very well.'

'That was a very happy day in spite of the tumble, was it not, Charley?
And do you remember the flower-show, and the dance at Mrs. Val's?'

Charley did remember them all well. Ah me! how often had he thought of
them!

'I think of those days so often--too often,' continued Katie. 'But, dear
Charley, I cannot remember too often that you saved my life.'

Charley once more tried to explain to her that there was nothing worthy
of notice in his exploit of that day.

'Well, Charley, I may think as I like, you know,' she said, with
something of the obstinacy of old days. 'I think you did save my life,
and all the people in the world won't make me think anything else; but,
Charley, I have something now to tell you.'

He sat and listened. It seemed to him as though he were only there
to listen; as though, were he to make his own voice audible, he would
violate the sanctity of the place. His thoughts were serious enough,
but he could not pitch his voice so as to suit the tone in which she
addressed him.

'We were always friends, were we not?' said she; 'we were always good
friends, Charley. Do you remember how you were to build a palace for me
in the dear old island out there? You were always so kind, so good to
me.'

Charley said he remembered it all--they were happy days; the happiest
days, he said, that he had ever known.

'And you used to love me, Charley?'

'Used!' said he, 'do you think I do not love you now?'

'I am sure you do. And, Charley, I love you also. That it is that I want
to tell you. I love you so well that I cannot go away from this world
in peace without wishing you farewell. Charley, if you love me, you will
think of me when I am gone; and then for my sake you will be steady.'

Here were all her old words over again--'You will be steady, won't you,
Charley? I know you will be steady, now.' How much must she have thought
of him! How often must his career have caused her misery and pain! How
laden must that innocent bosom have been with anxiety on his account!
He had promised her then that he would reform; but he had broken his
promise. He now promised her again, but how could he hope that she would
believe him?

'You know how ill I am, don't you? You know that I am dying, Charley?'

Charley of course declared that he still hoped that she would recover.

'If I thought so,' said she, 'I should not say what I am now saying; but
I feel that I may tell the truth. Dear Charley, dearest Charley, I love
you with all my heart--I do not know how it came so; I believe I have
always loved you since I first knew you; I used to think it was because
you saved my life; but I know it was not that. I was so glad it was you
that came to me in the water, and not Harry; so that I know I loved you
before that.'

'Dear Katie, you have not loved me, or thought of me, more than I have
loved and thought of you.'

'Ah, Charley,' she said, smiling in her sad sweet way--'I don't think
you know how a girl can love; you have so many things to think of, so
much to amuse you up in London; you don't know what it is to think of
one person for days and days, and nights and nights together. That is
the way I have thought of you, I don't think there can be any harm,' she
continued, 'in loving a person as I have loved you. Indeed, how could I
help it? I did not love you on purpose. But I think I should be wrong
to die without telling you. When I am dead, Charley, will you think of
this, and try--try to give up your bad ways? When I tell you that I love
you so dearly, and ask you on my deathbed, I think you will do this.'

Charley went down on his knees, and bowing his head before her and
before his God, he made the promise. He made it, and we may so far
anticipate the approaching end of our story as to declare that the
promise he then made was faithfully kept.

'Katie, Katie, my own Katie, my own, own, own Katie--oh, Katie, you must
not die, you must not leave me! Oh, Katie, I have so dearly loved you!
Oh, Katie, I do so dearly love you! If you knew all, if you could know
all, you would believe me.'

At this moment Mrs. Woodward knocked at the door, and Charley rose from
his knees. 'Not quite yet, mamma,' said Katie, as Mrs. Woodward opened
the door. 'Not quite yet; in five minutes, mamma, you may come.' Mrs.
Woodward, not knowing how to refuse, again went away.

'Charley, I never gave you anything but once, and you returned it to me,
did you not?'

'Yes,' said he, 'the purse--I put it in your box, because----'

And then he remembered that he could not say why he had returned it
without breaking in a manner that confidence which Mrs. Woodward had put
in him.

'I understand it all. You must not think I am angry with you. I know how
good you were about it. But Charley, you may have it back now; here it
is;' and putting her hand under the pillow, she took it out, carefully
folded up in new tissue paper. 'There, Charley, you must never part with
it again as long as there are two threads of it together; but I know
you never will; and Charley, you must never talk of it to anybody but to
your wife; and you must tell her all about it.'

He took the purse, and put it to his lips, and then pressed it to his
heart. 'No,' said he, 'I will never part with it again. I think I can
promise that.' 'And now, dearest, good-bye,' said she; 'dearest, dearest
Charley, good-bye; perhaps we shall know each other in heaven. Kiss me,
Charley, before you go,' So he stooped down over her, and pressed his
lips to hers.

Charley, leaving the room, found Mrs. Woodward at the other end of the
passage, standing at the door of her own dressing-room. 'You are to go
to her now,' he said. 'Good-bye,' and without further speech to any of
them he hurried out of the house.

None but Mrs. Woodward had seen him; but she saw that the tears were
streaming down his cheeks as he passed her, and she expressed no
surprise that he had left the Cottage without going through the
formality of making his adieux.

And then he walked up to town, as Norman once had done after a parting
interview with her whom he had loved. It might be difficult to say which
at the moment suffered the bitterest grief.



CHAPTER XLIII

MILLBANK


The immediate neighbourhood of Millbank Penitentiary is not one which we
should, for its own sake, choose for our residence, either on account of
its natural beauty, or the excellence of its habitations. That it is
a salubrious locality must be presumed from the fact that it has been
selected for the site of the institution in question; but salubrity,
though doubtless a great recommendation, would hardly reconcile us to
the extremely dull, and one might almost say, ugly aspect which this
district bears.

To this district, however, ugly as it is, we must ask our readers
to accompany us, while we pay a short visit to poor Gertrude. It
was certainly a sad change from her comfortable nursery and elegant
drawing-room near Hyde Park. Gertrude had hitherto never lived in an
ugly house. Surbiton Cottage and Albany Place were the only two homes
that she remembered, and neither of them was such as to give her much
fitting preparation for the melancholy shelter which she found at No. 5,
Paradise Row, Millbank.

But Gertrude did not think much of this when she changed her residence.
Early one morning, leaning on Charley's arm, she had trudged down across
the Park, through Westminster, and on to the close vicinity of the
prison; and here they sought for and obtained such accommodation as she
thought fitting to her present situation. Charley had begged her to get
into a cab, and when she refused that, had implored her to indulge in
the luxury of an omnibus; but Gertrude's mind was now set upon economy;
she would come back, she said, in an omnibus when the day would be
hotter, and she would be alone, but she was very well able to walk the
distance once.

She procured, for seven shillings a week, a sitting-room and bedroom,
from whence she could see the gloomy prison walls, and also a
truckle-bed for the young girl whom she was to bring with her as her
maid. This was a little Hampton maiden, whom she had brought from the
country to act as fag and deputy to her grand nurse; but the grand nurse
was now gone, and the fag was promoted to the various offices of nurse,
lady's-maid, and parlour servant. The rest of the household in Albany
Place had already dispersed with the discreet view of bettering their
situations.

Everything in the house was given up to pay what Alaric owed.
Independently of his dreadful liability to Madame Jaquêtanàpe, he could
not have been said to be in debt; but still, like most other men who
live as he had done, when his career was thus brought to a sudden close,
it was found that there were many people looking for money. There were
little bills, as the owners said of them, which had been forgotten,
of course, on account of their insignificance, but which being so very
little might now be paid, equally of course, without any trouble. It is
astonishing how easy it is to accumulate three or four hundred pounds'
worth of little bills, when one lives before the world in a good house
and in visible possession of a good income.

At the moment of Alaric's conviction, there was but a slender stock of
money forthcoming for these little bills. The necessary expense of his
trial,--and it had been by no means trifling,--he had, of course, been
obliged to pay. His salary had been suspended, and all the money that
he could lay his hands on had been given up towards making restitution
towards the dreadful sum of £20,000 that had been his ruin. The bills,
however, did not come in till after his trial, and then there was but
little left but the furniture.

As the new trustees employed on behalf of Madame Jaquêtanàpe and
Mr. Figgs were well aware that they had much more to expect from
the generosity of Tudor's friends than from any legal seizure of his
property, they did not interfere in the disposal of the chairs and
tables. But not on that account did Gertrude conceive herself entitled
to make any use on her own behalf of such money as might come into her
hands. The bills should be paid, and then every farthing that could be
collected should be given towards lessening the deficiency. Six thousand
pounds had already been made up by the joint efforts of Norman and
Captain Cuttwater. Undy Scott's acknowledgement for the other four
thousand had been offered, but the new trustees declined to accept it as
of any value whatsoever. They were equally incredulous as to the bridge
shares, which from that day to this have never held up their heads, even
to the modest height of half a crown a share.

Gertrude's efforts to make the most of everything had been unceasing.
When her husband was sentenced, she had in her possession a new dress
and some finery for her baby, which were not yet paid for; these she
took back with her own hand, offering to the milliners her own trinkets
by way of compensation for their loss. When the day for removal came,
she took with her nothing that she imagined could be sold. She would
have left the grander part of her own wardrobe, if the auctioneers
would have undertaken to sell it. Some few things, books and trifling
household articles, which she thought were dear to Alaric, she packed
up; and such were sent to Hampton. On the day of her departure she
dressed herself in a plain dark gown, one that was almost mourning,
and then, with her baby in her lap, and her young maid beside her, and
Charley fronting her in the cab, she started for her new home.

I had almost said that her pride had left her. Such an assertion would
be a gross libel on her. No; she was perhaps prouder than ever, as she
left her old home. There was a humility in her cheap dress, in her large
straw bonnet coming far over her face, in her dark gloves and little
simple collar; nay, there was a humility in her altered voice, and
somewhat chastened mien; but the spirit of the woman was wholly
unbroken. She had even a pride in her very position, in her close and
dear tie with the convicted prisoner. She was his for better and for
worse; she would now show him what was her idea of the vow she had
made. To the men who came to ticket and number the furniture, to the
tradesmen's messengers who called for money, to the various workmen with
whom the house was then invaded, she was humble enough; but had Mrs. Val
come across her with pity, or the Miss Neverbends with their sententious
twaddlings, she would have been prouder than ever. Fallen indeed!
She had had no fall; nor had he; he was still a man, with a greater
aggregate of good in him than falls to the average lot of mortals. Who
would dare to tell her that he had fallen? 'Twas thus that her pride was
still strong within her; and as it supported her through this misery,
who can blame her for it?

She was allowed into the prison twice a week; on Tuesdays and Fridays
she was permitted to spend one hour with her husband, and to take her
child with her. It is hardly necessary to say that she was punctual to
the appointed times. This, however, occupied but a short period, even
of those looked-for days; and in spite of her pride, and her constant
needle, the weary six months went from her all too slowly.

Nor did they pass with swifter foot within the prison. Alaric was
allowed the use of books and pens and paper, but even with these he
found a day in prison to be almost an unendurable eternity. This was the
real punishment of his guilt; it was not that he could not eat well,
and lie soft, or enjoy the comforts which had always surrounded him;
but that the day would not pass away. The slowness of the lagging hours
nearly drove him mad. He made a thousand resolutions as to reading,
writing, and employment for his mind. He attempted to learn whole pages
by rote, and to fatigue himself to rest by exercise of his memory. But
his memory would not work; his mind would continue idle; he was impotent
over his own faculties. Oh, if he could only sleep while these horrid
weeks were passing over him!

All hope of regaining his situation had of course passed from him, all
hope of employment in England. Emigration must now be his lot; and hers
also, and the lot of that young one that was already born to them, and
of that other one who was, alas! now coming to the world, whose fate
it would be first to see the light under the walls of its father's
prison.--Yes, they must emigrate.--But there was nothing so very
terrible in that. Alaric felt that even his utter poverty would be no
misfortune if only his captivity were over. Poverty!--how could any man
be poor who had liberty to roam the world?

We all of us acknowledge that the educated man who breaks the laws
is justly liable to a heavier punishment than he who has been born
in ignorance, and bred, as it were, in the lap of sin; but we hardly
realize how much greater is the punishment which, when he be punished,
the educated man is forced to undergo. Confinement to the man whose mind
has never been lifted above vacancy is simply remission from labour.
Confinement, with labour, is simply the enforcement of that which has
hitherto been his daily lot. But what must a prison be to him whose
intellect has received the polish of the world's poetry, who has known
what it is to feed more than the belly, to require other aliment than
bread and meat?

And then, what does the poor criminal lose? His all, it will be said;
and the rich can lose no more. But this is not so. No man loses his
all by any sentence which a human judge can inflict. No man so loses
anything approaching to his all, however much he may have lost before.
But the one man has too often had no self-respect to risk; the other
has stood high in his own esteem, has held his head proudly before
the world, has aspired to walk in some way after the fashion of a god.
Alaric had so aspired, and how must he have felt during those prison
days! Of what nature must his thoughts have been when they turned to
Gertrude and his child! His sin had indeed been heavy, and heavy was
the penalty which he suffered. When they had been thus living for about
three months, Gertrude's second child was born. Mrs. Woodward was with
her at the time, and she had suffered but little except that for three
weeks she was unable to see her husband; then, in the teeth of all
counsel, and in opposition to all medical warning, she could resist no
longer, and carried the newborn stranger to his father.

'Poor little wretch!' said Alaric, as he stooped to kiss him.

'Wretch!' said Gertrude, looking up to him with a smile upon her
face--'he is no wretch. He is a sturdy little man, that shall yet live
to make your heart dance with joy.'

Mrs. Woodward came often to see her. She did not stay, for there was
no bed in which she could have slept; but the train put her down at
Vauxhall, and she had but to pass the bridge, and she was close to
Gertrude's lodgings. And now the six months had nearly gone by, when, by
appointment, she brought Norman with her. At this time he had given
up his clerkship at the Weights and Measures, and was about to go to
Normansgrove for the remainder of the winter. Both Alaric and Norman had
shown a great distaste to meet each other. But Harry's heart softened
towards Gertrude. Her conduct during her husband's troubles had been
so excellent, that he could not but forgive her the injuries which he
fancied he owed to her.

Everything was now prepared for their departure. They were to sail
on the very day after Alaric's liberation, so as to save him from the
misery of meeting those who might know him. And now Harry came with Mrs.
Woodward to bid farewell, probably for ever on this side the grave, to
her whom he had once looked on as his own. How different were their lots
now! Harry was Mr. Norman of Normansgrove, immediately about to take his
place as the squire of his parish, to sit among brother magistrates, to
decide about roads and poachers, parish rates and other all-absorbing
topics, to be a rural magistrate, and fill a place among perhaps the
most fortunate of the world's inhabitants. Gertrude was the wife of a
convicted felon, who was about to come forth from his prison in utter
poverty, a man who, in such a catalogue as the world makes of its
inhabitants, would be ranked among the very lowest.

And did Gertrude even now regret her choice? No, not for a moment! She
still felt certain in her heart of hearts that she had loved the one who
was the most worthy of a woman's love. We cannot, probably, all agree in
her opinion; but we will agree in this, at least, that she was now right
to hold such opinion. Had Normansgrove stretched from one boundary of
the county to the other, it would have weighed as nothing. Had Harry's
virtues been as bright as burnished gold--and indeed they had been
bright--they would have weighed as nothing. A nobler stamp of manhood
was on her husband--so at least Gertrude felt;--and manhood is the one
virtue which in a woman's breast outweighs all others.

They had not met since the evening on which Gertrude had declared to him
that she never could love him; and Norman, as he got out of the cab with
Mrs. Woodward, at No. 5, Paradise Row, Millbank, felt his heart beat
within him almost as strongly as he had done when he was about to
propose to her. He followed Mrs. Woodward into the dingy little house,
and immediately found himself in Gertrude's presence.

I should exaggerate the fact were I to say that he would not have known
her; but had he met her elsewhere, met her where he did not expect to
meet her, he would have looked at her more than once before he felt
assured that he was looking at Gertrude Woodward. It was not that she
had grown pale, or worn, or haggard; though, indeed, her face had on it
that weighty look of endurance which care will always give; it was not
that she had lost her beauty, and become unattractive in his eyes; but
that the whole nature of her mien and form, the very trick of her gait
was changed. Her eye was as bright as ever, but it was steady, composed,
and resolved; her lips were set and compressed, and there was no
playfulness round her mouth. Her hair was still smooth and bright, but
it was more brushed off from her temples than it had been of yore, and
was partly covered by a bit of black lace, which we presume we must call
a cap; here and there, too, through it, Norman's quick eye detected
a few grey hairs. She was stouter too than she had been, or else she
seemed to be so from the changes in her dress. Her step fell heavier
on the floor than it used to do, and her voice was quicker and more
decisive in its tones. When she spoke to her mother, she did so as
one sister might do to another; and, indeed, Mrs. Woodward seemed to
exercise over her very little of the authority of a parent. The truth
was that Gertrude had altogether ceased to be a girl, had altogether
become a woman. Linda, with whom Norman at once compared her, though but
one year younger, was still a child in comparison with her elder sister.
Happy, happy Linda!

Gertrude had certainly proved herself to be an excellent wife; but
perhaps she might have made herself more pleasing to others if she had
not so entirely thrown off from herself all traces of juvenility. Could
she, in this respect, have taken a lesson from her mother, she would
have been a wiser woman. We have said that she consorted with Mrs.
Woodward as though they had been sisters; but one might have said that
Gertrude took on herself the manners of the elder sister. It is true
that she had hard duties to perform, a stern world to overcome, an
uphill fight before her with poverty, distress, and almost, nay,
absolutely, with degradation. It was well for her and Alaric that she
could face it all with the true courage of an honest woman. But yet
those who had known her in her radiant early beauty could not but regret
that the young freshness of early years should all have been laid aside
so soon.

'Linda, at any rate, far exceeds her in beauty,' was Norman's first
thought, as he stood for a moment to look at her--'and then Linda too is
so much more feminine.' 'Twas thus that Harry Norman consoled himself in
the first moment of his first interview with Alaric's wife. And he was
right in his thoughts. The world would now have called Linda the more
lovely of the two, and certainly the more feminine in the ladylike
sense of the word. If, however, devotion be feminine, and truth to one
selected life's companion, if motherly care be so, and an indomitable
sense of the duties due to one's own household, then Gertrude was not
deficient in feminine character.

'You find me greatly altered, Harry, do you not?' said she, taking his
hand frankly, and perceiving immediately the effect which she had made
upon him. 'I am a steady old matron, am I not?--with a bairn on each
side of me,' and she pointed to her baby in the cradle, and to her other
boy sitting on his grandmother's knee.

Harry said he did find her altered. It was her dress, he said, and the
cap on her head.

'Yes, Harry; and some care and trouble too. To you, you know, to a
friend such as you are, I must own that care and trouble do tell upon
one. Not, thank God, that I have more than I can bear; not that I have
not blessings for which I cannot but be too thankful.'

'And so these are your boys, Gertrude?'

'Yes,' said she, cheerfully; 'these are the little men, that in the good
times coming will be managing vast kingdoms, and giving orders to this
worn-out old island of yours. Alley, my boy, sing your new song
about the 'good and happy land.' But Alley, who had got hold of his
grandmother's watch, and was staring with all his eyes at the stranger,
did not seem much inclined to be musical at the present moment.

'And this is Charley's godson,' continued Gertrude, taking up the baby.
'Dear Charley! he has been such a comfort to me.'

'I have heard all about you daily from him,' said Harry.

'I know you have--and he is daily talking of you, Harry. And so he
should do; so we all should do. What a glorious change this is for him!
is it not, Harry?'

Charley by this time had torn himself away from Mr. Snape and the
navvies, and transferred the whole of his official zeal and energies to
the Weights and Measures. The manner and reason of this must, however,
be explained in a subsequent chapter.

'Yes,' said Harry, 'he has certainly got into a better office.'

'And he will do well there?'

'I am sure he will. It was impossible he should do well at that other
place. No man could do so. He is quite an altered man now. The only
fault I find with him is that he is so full of his heroes and heroines.'

'So he is, Harry; he is always asking me what he is to do with some
forlorn lady or gentleman, 'Oh, smother her!' I said the other day.
'Well,' said he, with a melancholy gravity, 'I'll try it; but I fear it
won't answer.' Poor Charley! what a friend you have been to him, Harry!'

'A friend!' said Mrs. Woodward, who was still true to her adoration of
Norman. 'Indeed he has been a friend--a friend to us all. Who is there
like him?'

Gertrude could have found it in her heart to go back to the subject of
old days, and tell her mother that there was somebody much better
even than Harry Norman. But the present was hardly a time for such an
assertion of her own peculiar opinion.

'Yes, Harry,' she said, 'we have all much, too much, to thank you for. I
have to thank you on his account.'

'Oh no,' said he, ungraciously; 'there is nothing to thank me for,--not
on his account. Your mother and Captain Cuttwater----' and then he
stopped himself. What he meant was that he had sacrificed his little
fortune--for at the time his elder brother had still been living--not to
rescue, or in attempting to rescue, his old friend from misfortune--not,
at least, because that man had been his friend; but because he was the
husband of Gertrude Woodward, and of Mrs. Woodward's daughter. Could he
have laid bare his heart, he would have declared that Alaric Tudor owed
him nothing; that he had never forgiven, never could forgive, the wrongs
he had received from him; but that he had forgiven Alaric's wife; and
that having done so in the tenderness of his heart, he had been ready to
give up all that he possessed for her protection. He would have spared
Gertrude what pain he could; but he would not lie, and speak of Alaric
Tudor with affection.

'But there is, Harry; there is,' said Gertrude; 'much--too much
--greatly too much. It is that now weighs me down more than anything.
Oh! Harry, how are we to pay to you all this money?'

'It is with Mrs. Woodward,' said he coldly, 'and Captain Cuttwater, not
with me, that you should speak of that. Mr. Tudor owes me nothing.'

'Oh, Harry, Harry,' said she, 'do not call him Mr. Tudor--pray, pray;
now that we are going--now that we shall never wound your sight again!
do not call him Mr. Tudor.

He has done wrong; I do not deny it; but which of us is there that has
not?'

'It was not on that account,' said he; 'I could forgive all that.'

Gertrude understood him, and her cheeks and brow became tinged with red.
It was not from shame, nor yet wholly from a sense of anger, but mingled
feelings filled her heart; feelings which she could in nowise explain.
'If you have forgiven him that'--she would have said, had she thought it
right to speak out her mind--'if you have forgiven him that, then there
is nothing left for further forgiveness.'

Gertrude had twice a better knowledge of the world than he had, twice a
quicker perception of how things were going, and should be made to go.
She saw that it was useless to refer further to her husband. Norman had
come there at her request to say adieu to her; that she and he, who had
been friends since she was a child, might see each other before they
were separated for ever by half a world, and that they might part in
love and charity. She would be his sister-in-law, he would be son to her
mother, husband to her Linda; he had been, though he now denied it, her
husband's staunchest friend in his extremity; and it would have added
greatly to the bitterness of her departure had she been forced to go
without speaking to him one kindly word. The opportunity was given to
her, and she would not utterly mar its sweetness by insisting on his
injustice to her husband.

They all remained silent for a while, during which Gertrude fondled her
baby, and Norman produced before the elder boy some present that he had
brought for him.

'Now, Alley,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'you're a made man; won't that do
beautifully to play with on board the big ship?'

'And so, Harry, you have given up official life altogether,' said
Gertrude.

'Yes,' said he--'the last day of the last year saw my finale at the
Weights and Measures. I did not live long--officially--to enjoy my
promotion. I almost wish myself back again.'

'You'll go in on melting days, like the retired tallow-chandler,'
said Gertrude; 'but, joking apart, I wish you joy on your freedom from
thraldom; a government office in England is thraldom. If a man were to
give his work only, it would be well. All men who have to live by labour
must do that; but a man has to give himself as well as his work;
to sacrifice his individuality; to become body and soul a part of a
lumbering old machine.'

This hardly came well from Gertrude, seeing that Alaric at any rate had
never been required to sacrifice any of his individuality. But she was
determined to hate all the antecedents of his life, as though those
antecedents, and not the laxity of his own principles, had brought about
his ruin. She was prepared to live entirely for the future, and to look
back on her London life as bad, tasteless, and demoralizing. England
to her was no longer a glorious country; for England's laws had made a
felon of her husband. She would go to a new land, new hopes, new ideas,
new freedom, new work, new life, and new ambition. 'Excelsior!' there
was no longer an excelsior left for talent and perseverance in this
effete country. She and hers would soon find room for their energies in
a younger land; and as she went she could not but pity those whom she
left behind. Her reasoning was hardly logical, but, perhaps, it was not
unfortunate.

'For myself,' said Norman, not quite following all this--'I always liked
the Civil Service, and now I leave it with a sort of regret. I am quite
glad that Charley has my old desk; it will keep up a sort of tie between
me and the place.'

'What does Linda say about it, mamma?'

'Linda and I are both of Harry's way of thinking,' said Mrs. Woodward,
'because Normansgrove is such a distance.'

'Distance!' repeated Gertrude, with something of sorrow, but more of
scorn in her tone. 'Distance, mamma! why you can get to her between
breakfast and dinner. Think where Melbourne is, mamma!'

'It has nearly broken my heart to think of it,' said Mrs. Woodward.

'And you will still have Linda, mamma, and our darling Katie, and Harry,
and dear Charley. If the idea of distance should frighten anyone it is
me. But nothing shall frighten me while I have my husband and children.
Harry, you must not let mamma be too often alone when some other knight
shall have come and taken away Katie.'

'We will take her to Normansgrove for good and all, if she will let us,'
said Harry.

And now the time came for them to part. Harry was to say good-bye
to her, and then to see her no more. Early on the following morning
Gertrude was to go to Hampton and see Katie for the last time; to see
Katie for the last time, and the Cottage, and the shining river, and
all the well-known objects among which she had passed her life. To Mrs.
Woodward, to Linda, and Katie, all this was subject of inexpressible
melancholy; but with Gertrude every feeling of romance seemed to have
been absorbed by the realities of life. She would, of course, go to
Katie and give her a farewell embrace, since Katie was still too weak to
come to her; she would say farewell to Uncle Bat, to whom she and Alaric
owed so much; she would doubtless shed a tear or two, and feel some
emotion at parting, even from the inanimate associations of her youth;
but all this would now impress no lasting sorrow on her.

She was eager to be off, eager for her new career, eager that he should
stand on a soil where he could once more face his fellow-creatures
without shame. She panted to put thousands of leagues of ocean between
him and his disgrace.

On the following morning Gertrude was to go to Hampton for two hours,
and then to return to Millbank, with her mother and sister, for whose
accommodation a bed had been hired in the neighbourhood. On that evening
Alaric would be released from his prison; and then before daybreak on
the following day they were to take their way to the far-off docks, and
place themselves on board the vessel which was to carry them to their
distant home.

'God bless you, Gertrude,' said Norman, whose eyes were not dry.

'God Almighty bless you, Harry, you and Linda--and make you happy. If
Linda does not write constantly very constantly, you must do it for her.
We have delayed the happiness of your marriage, Harry--you must forgive
us that, as well as all our other trespasses. I fear Linda will never
forgive that.'

'You won't find her unmerciful on that score,' said he. 'Dear Gertrude,
good-bye.'

She put up her face to him, and he kissed her, for the first time in his
life. 'He bade me give you his love,' said she, in her last whisper; 'I
must, you know, do his bidding.'

Norman's heart palpitated so that he could hardly compose his voice for
his last answer; but even then he would not be untrue to his inexorable
obstinacy; he could not send his love to a man he did not love. 'Tell
him,' said he, 'that he has my sincerest wishes for success wherever
he may be; and Gertrude, I need hardly say----' but he could get no
further.

And so they parted.



CHAPTER XLIV

THE CRIMINAL POPULATION IS DISPOSED OF


Before we put Alaric on board the ship which is to take him away from
the land in which he might have run so exalted a career, we must say
one word as to the fate and fortunes of his old friend Undy Scott.
This gentleman has not been represented in our pages as an amiable or
high-minded person. He has indeed been the bad spirit of the tale, the
Siva of our mythology, the devil that has led our hero into temptation,
the incarnation of evil, which it is always necessary that the novelist
should have personified in one of his characters to enable him to
bring about his misfortunes, his tragedies, and various requisite
catastrophes. Scott had his Varney and such-like; Dickens his Bill Sykes
and such-like; all of whom are properly disposed of before the end of
those volumes in which are described their respective careers.

I have ventured to introduce to my readers, as my devil, Mr. Undy Scott,
M.P. for the Tillietudlem district burghs; and I also feel myself bound
to dispose of him, though of him I regret I cannot make so decent an end
as was done with Sir Richard Varney and Bill Sykes.

He deserves, however, as severe a fate as either of those heroes. With
the former we will not attempt to compare him, as the vices and devilry
of the days of Queen Elizabeth are in no way similar to those in which
we indulge; but with Bill Sykes we may contrast him, as they flourished
in the same era, and had their points of similitude, as well as their
points of difference.

They were both apparently born to prey on their own species; they both
resolutely adhered to a fixed rule that they would in nowise earn their
bread, and to a rule equally fixed that, though they would earn no
bread, they would consume much. They were both of them blessed with
a total absence of sensibility and an utter disregard to the pain of
others, and had no other use for a heart than that of a machine for
maintaining the circulation of the blood. It is but little to say that
neither of them ever acted on principle, on a knowledge, that is, of
right and wrong, and a selection of the right; in their studies of the
science of evil they had progressed much further than this, and had
taught themselves to believe that that which other men called virtue
was, on its own account, to be regarded as mawkish, insipid, and useless
for such purposes as the acquisition of money or pleasure; whereas vice
was, on its own account, to be preferred, as offering the only road to
those things which they were desirous of possessing.

So far there was a great resemblance between Bill Sykes and Mr. Scott;
but then came the points of difference, which must give to the latter
a great pre-eminence in the eyes of that master whom they had both so
worthily served. Bill could not boast the merit of selecting the course
which he had run; he had served the Devil, having had, as it were, no
choice in the matter; he was born and bred and educated an evil-doer,
and could hardly have deserted from the colours of his great Captain,
without some spiritual interposition to enable him to do so. To Undy
a warmer reward must surely be due: he had been placed fairly on the
world's surface, with power to choose between good and bad, and had
deliberately taken the latter; to him had, at any rate, been explained
the theory of _meum_ and _tuum_, and he had resolved that he liked
_tuum_ better than _meum_; he had learnt that there is a God ruling over
us, and a Devil hankering after us, and had made up his mind that he
would belong to the latter. Bread and water would have come to him
naturally without any villany on his part, aye, and meat and milk,
and wine and oil, the fat things of the world; but he elected to be a
villain; he liked to do the Devil's bidding.--Surely he was the better
servant; surely he shall have the richer reward.

And yet poor Bill Sykes, for whom here I would willingly say a word or
two, could I, by so saying, mitigate the wrath against him, is always
held as the more detestable scoundrel. Lady, you now know them both. Is
it not the fact, that, knowing him as you do, you could spend a pleasant
hour enough with Mr. Scott, sitting next to him at dinner; whereas your
blood would creep within you, your hair would stand on end, your voice
would stick in your throat, if you were suddenly told that Bill Sykes
was in your presence?

Poor Bill! I have a sort of love for him, as he walks about wretched
with that dog of his, though I know that it is necessary to hang him.
Yes, Bill; I, your friend, cannot gainsay that, must acknowledge that.
Hard as the case may be, you must be hung; hung out of the way of
further mischief; my spoons, my wife's throat, my children's brains,
demand that. You, Bill, and polecats, and such-like, must be squelched
when we can come across you, seeing that you make yourself so
universally disagreeable. It is your ordained nature to be disagreeable;
you plead silently. I know it; I admit the hardship of your case; but
still, my Bill, self-preservation is the first law of nature. You
must be hung. But, while hanging you, I admit that you are more sinned
against than sinning. There is another, Bill, another, who will surely
take account of this in some way, though it is not for me to tell you
how.

Yes, I hang Bill Sykes with soft regret; but with what a savage joy,
with what exultation of heart, with what alacrity of eager soul, with
what aptitude of mind to the deed, would I hang my friend, Undy Scott,
the member of Parliament for the Tillietudlem burghs, if I could but get
at his throat for such a purpose! Hang him! aye, as high as Haman! In
this there would be no regret, no vacillation of purpose, no doubt as to
the propriety of the sacrifice, no feeling that I was so treating him,
not for his own desert, but for my advantage.

We hang men, I believe, with this object only, that we should deter
others from crime; but in hanging Bill we shall hardly deter his
brother. Bill Sykes must look to crime for his bread, seeing that he has
been so educated, seeing that we have not yet taught him another trade.

But if I could hang Undy Scott, I think I should deter some others. The
figure of Undy swinging from a gibbet at the broad end of Lombard Street
would have an effect. Ah! my fingers itch to be at the rope.

Fate, however, and the laws are averse. To gibbet him, in one sense,
would have been my privilege, had I drunk deeper from that Castalian
rill whose dark waters are tinged with the gall of poetic indignation;
but as in other sense I may not hang him, I will tell how he was driven
from his club, and how he ceased to number himself among the legislators
of his country.

Undy Scott, among his other good qualities, possessed an enormous
quantity of that which schoolboys in these days call 'cheek.' He was not
easily browbeaten, and was generally prepared to browbeat others.
Mr. Chaffanbrass certainly did get the better of him; but then Mr.
Chaffanbrass was on his own dunghill. Could Undy Scott have had Mr.
Chaffanbrass down at the clubs, there would have been, perhaps, another
tale to tell.

Give me the cock that can crow in any yard; such cocks, however, we know
are scarce. Undy Scott, as he left the Old Bailey, was aware that he had
cut a sorry figure, and felt that he must immediately do something to
put himself right again, at any rate before his portion of the world. He
must perform some exploit uncommonly cheeky in order to cover his late
discomfiture. To get the better of Mr. Chaffanbrass at the Old Bailey
had been beyond him; but he might yet do something at the clubs to set
aside the unanimous verdict which had been given against him in the
city. Nay, he must do something, unless he was prepared to go to the
wall utterly, and at once.

Going to the wall with Undy would mean absolute ruin; he lived but
on the cheekiness of his gait and habits; he had become member of
Parliament, Government official, railway director, and club aristocrat,
merely by dint of cheek. He had now received a great blow; he had
stood before a crowd, and been annihilated by the better cheek of Mr.
Chaffanbrass, and, therefore, it behoved him at once to do something.
When the perfume of the rose grows stale, the flower is at once thrown
aside, and carried off as foul refuse. It behoved Undy to see that his
perfume was maintained in its purity, or he, too, would be carried off.

The club to which Undy more especially belonged was called the Downing;
and of this Alaric was also a member, having been introduced into it by
his friend. Here had Alaric spent by far too many of the hours of his
married life, and had become well known and popular. At the time of
his conviction, the summer was far advanced; it was then August;
but Parliament was still sitting, and there were sufficient club men
remaining in London to create a daily gathering at the Downing.

On the day following that on which the verdict was found, Undy convened
a special committee of the club, in order that he might submit to it a
proposition which he thought it indispensable should come from him; so,
at least, he declared. The committee did assemble, and when Undy met it,
he saw among the faces before him not a few with whom he would willingly
have dispensed. However, he had come there to exercise his cheek; no
one there should cow him; the wig of Mr. Chaffanbrass was, at any rate,
absent.

And so he submitted his proposition. I need not trouble my readers with
the neat little speech in which it was made. Undy was true to himself,
and the speech was neat. The proposition was this: that as he had
unfortunately been the means of introducing Mr. Alaric Tudor to the
club, he considered it to be his duty to suggest that the name of
that gentleman should be struck off the books. He then expressed his
unmitigated disgust at the crime of which Tudor had been found guilty,
uttered some nice little platitudes in the cause of virtue, and
expressed a hope 'that he might so far refer to a personal matter as
to say that his father's family would take care that the lady, whose
fortune had been the subject of the trial, should not lose one penny
through the dishonesty of her trustee.'

Oh, Undy, as high as Haman, if I could! as high as Haman! and if not in
Lombard Street, then on that open ground where Waterloo Place bisects
Pall Mall, so that all the clubs might see thee!

'He would advert,' he said, 'to one other matter, though, perhaps, his
doing so was unnecessary. It was probably known to them all that he had
been a witness at the late trial; an iniquitous attempt had been made
by the prisoner's counsel to connect his name with the prisoner's guilt.
They all too well knew the latitude allowed to lawyers in the criminal
courts, to pay much attention to this. Had he' (Undy Scott) 'in any way
infringed the laws of his country, he was there to answer for it. But he
would go further than this, and declare that if any member of that club
doubted his probity in the matter, he was perfectly willing to submit to
such member documents which would,' &c., &c.

He finished his speech, and an awful silence reigned around him. No
enthusiastic ardour welcomed the well-loved Undy back to his club, and
comforted him after the rough usage of the unpolished Chaffanbrass. No
ten or twenty combined voices expressed, by their clamorous negation of
the last-proposed process, that their Undy was above reproach. The eyes
around looked into him with no friendly alacrity. Undy, Undy, more cheek
still, still more cheek, or you are surely lost.

'If,' said he, in a well-assumed indignant tone of injured innocence,
'there be any in the club who do suspect me of anything unbecoming a
gentleman in this affair, I am willing to retire from it till the
matter shall have been investigated; but in such case I demand that the
investigation be immediate.'

Oh, Undy, Undy, the supply of cheek is not bad; it is all but unlimited;
but yet it suffices thee not. 'Can there be positions in this modern
West End world of mine,' thought Undy to himself, 'in which cheek,
unbounded cheek, will not suffice?' Oh, Undy, they are rare; but still
there are such, and this, unfortunately for thee, seemeth to be one of
them.

And then got up a discreet old baronet, one who moveth not often in the
affairs around him, but who, when he moveth, stirreth many waters; a man
of broad acres, and a quiet, well-assured fame which has grown to him
without his seeking it, as barnacles grow to the stout keel when it has
been long a-swimming; him, of all men, would Undy have wished to see
unconcerned with these matters.

Not in many words, nor eloquent did Sir Thomas speak. 'He felt it his
duty,' he said, 'to second the proposal made by Mr. Scott for removing
Mr. Tudor from amongst them. He had watched this trial with some care,
and he pitied Mr. Tudor from the bottom of his heart. He would not have
thought that he could have felt so strong a sympathy for a man convicted
of dishonesty. But, Mr. Tudor had been convicted, and he must incur the
penalties of his fault. One of these penalties must, undoubtedly, be his
banishment from this club. He therefore seconded Mr. Scott's proposal.'

He then stood silent for a moment, having finished that task; but yet he
did not sit down. Why, oh, why does he not sit down? why, O Undy,
does he thus stand, looking at the surface of the table on which he is
leaning?

'And now,' he said, 'he had another proposition to make; and that was
that Mr. Undecimus Scott should also be expelled from the club,' and
having so spoken, in a voice of unusual energy, he then sat down.

And now, Undy, you may as well pack up, and be off, without further
fuss, to Boulogne, Ostend, or some such idle Elysium, with such
money-scrapings as you may be able to collect together. No importunity
will avail thee anything against the judges and jurymen who are now
trying thee. One word from that silent old baronet was worse to thee
than all that Mr. Chaffanbrass could say. Come! pack up; and begone.

But he was still a Member of Parliament. The Parliament, however, was
about to be dissolved, and, of course, it would be useless for him
to stand again; he, like Mr. M'Buffer had had his spell of it, and he
recognized the necessity of vanishing. He at first thought that his life
as a legislator might be allowed to come to a natural end, that he might
die as it were in his bed, without suffering the acute pain of applying
for the Chiltern Hundreds. In this, however, he found himself wrong.
The injured honour of all the Tillietudlemites rose against him with one
indignant shout; and a rumour, a horrid rumour, of a severer fate met
his ears. He applied at once for the now coveted sinecure,--and was
refused. Her Majesty could not consent to entrust to him the duties of
the situation in question--; and in lieu thereof the House expelled him
by its unanimous voice.

And now, indeed, it was time for him to pack and begone. He was now
liable to the vulgarest persecution from the vulgar herd; his very
tailor and bootmaker would beleaguer him, and coarse unwashed bailiffs
take him by the collar. Yes, now indeed, it was time to be off.

And off he was. He paid one fleeting visit to my Lord at Cauldkail
Castle, collecting what little he might; another to his honourable wife,
adding some slender increase to his little budget, and then he was off.
Whither, it is needless to say--to Hamburg perhaps, or to Ems, or the
richer tables of Homburg. How he flourished for a while with ambiguous
success; how he talked to the young English tourists of what he had done
when in Parliament, especially for the rights of married women; how
he poked his 'Honourable' card in every one's way, and lugged Lord
Gaberlunzie into all conversations; how his face became pimply and his
wardrobe seedy; and how at last his wretched life will ooze out from
him in some dark corner, like the filthy juice of a decayed fungus
which makes hideous the hidden wall on which it bursts, all this is
unnecessary more particularly to describe. He is probably still living,
and those who desire his acquaintance will find him creeping round some
gambling table, and trying to look as though he had in his pocket ample
means to secure those hoards of money which men are so listlessly raking
about. From our view he has now vanished.

It was a bitter February morning, when two cabs stood packing themselves
at No. 5, Paradise Row, Millbank. It was hardly yet six o'clock, and
Paradise Row was dark as Erebus; that solitary gas-light sticking out
from the wall of the prison only made darkness visible; the tallow
candles which were brought in and out with every article that was
stuffed under a seat, or into a corner, would get themselves blown out;
and the sleet which was falling fast made the wicks wet, so that they
could with difficulty be relighted.

But at last the cabs were packed with luggage, and into one got Gertrude
with her husband, her baby, and her mother; and into the other Charley
handed Linda, then Alley, and lastly, the youthful maiden, who humbly
begged his pardon as she stepped up to the vehicle; and then, having
given due directions to the driver, he not without difficulty squeezed
himself into the remaining space.

Such journeys as these are always made at a slow pace. Cabmen know very
well who must go fast, and who may go slow. Women with children going
on board an emigrant vessel at six o'clock on a February morning may be
taken very slowly. And very slowly Gertrude and her party were taken.
Time had been--nay, it was but the other day--when Alaric's impatient
soul would have spurned at such a pace as this. But now he sat tranquil
enough. His wife held one of his hands, and the other he pressed against
his eyes, as though shading them from the light. Light there was none,
but he had not yet learnt to face Mrs. Woodward even in the darkness.

He had come out of the prison on the day before, and had spent an
evening with her. It is needless to say that no one had upbraided him,
that no one had hinted that his backslidings had caused all this present
misery, had brought them all to that wretched cabin, and would on the
morrow separate, perhaps for ever, a mother and a child who loved each
other so dearly. No one spoke to him of this; perhaps no one thought of
it; he, however, did so think of it that he could not hold his head up
before them.

'He was ill,' Gertrude said; 'his long confinement had prostrated him;
but the sea air would revive him in a day or two.' And then she made
herself busy, and got the tea for them, and strove, not wholly in vain,'
to drive dull care away!'

But slowly as the cabs went in spite of Charley's vocal execrations,
they did get to the docks in time. Who, indeed, was ever too late at
the docks? Who, that ever went there, had not to linger, linger, linger,
till every shred of patience was clean worn out? They got to the
docks in time, and got on board that fast-sailing, clipper-built,
never-beaten, always-healthy ship, the _Flash of Lightning_, 5,600 tons,
A 1. Why, we have often wondered, are ships designated as A 1, seeing
that all ships are of that class? Where is the excellence, seeing that
all share it? Of course the _Flash of Lightning_ was A 1. The author has
for years been looking out, and has not yet found a ship advertised as A
2, or even as B 1. What is this catalogue of comparative excellence, of
which there is but one visible number?

The world, we think, makes a great mistake on the subject of saying, or
acting, farewell. The word or deed should partake of the suddenness
of electricity; but we all drawl through it at a snail's pace. We are
supposed to tear ourselves from our friends; but tearing is a process
which should be done quickly. What is so wretched as lingering over
a last kiss, giving the hand for the third time, saying over and over
again, 'Good-bye, John, God bless you; and mind you write!' Who has
not seen his dearest friends standing round the window of a railway
carriage, while the train would not start, and has not longed to say to
them, 'Stand not upon the order of your going, but go at once!' And
of all such farewells, the ship's farewell is the longest and the most
dreary. One sits on a damp bench, snuffing up the odour of oil and
ropes, cudgelling one's brains to think what further word of increased
tenderness can be spoken. No tenderer word can be spoken. One returns
again and again to the weather, to coats and cloaks, perhaps even to
sandwiches and the sherry flask. All effect is thus destroyed, and a
trespass is made even on the domain of feeling.

I remember a line of poetry, learnt in my earliest youth, and which I
believe to have emanated from a sentimental Frenchman, a man of genius,
with whom my parents were acquainted. It is as follows:--

  Are you go?--Is you gone?--And I left?--Vera vell!

Now the whole business of a farewell is contained in that line. When the
moment comes, let that be said; let that be said and felt, and then let
the dear ones depart.

Mrs. Woodward and Gertrude--God bless them!--had never studied the
subject. They knew no better than to sit in the nasty cabin, surrounded
by boxes, stewards, porters, children, and abominations of every kind,
holding each other's hands, and pressing damp handkerchiefs to their
eyes. The delay, the lingering, upset even Gertrude, and brought her for
a moment down to the usual level of leave-taking womanhood. Alaric, the
meanwhile, stood leaning over the taffrail with Charley, as mute as the
fishes beneath him.

'Write to us the moment you get there,' said Charley. How often had the
injunction been given! 'And now we had better get off--you'll be better
when we are gone, Alaric,'--Charley had some sense of the truth about
him--'and, Alaric, take my word for it, I'll come and set the Melbourne
Weights and Measures to rights before long--I'll come and weigh your
gold for you.'

'We had better be going now,' said Charley, looking down into the cabin;
'they may let loose and be off any moment now.'

'Oh, Charley, not yet, not yet,' said Linda, clinging to her sister.

'You'll have to go down to the Nore, if you stay; that's all,' said
Charley.

And then again began the kissing and the crying. Yes, ye dear ones--it
is hard to part--it is hard for the mother to see the child of her bosom
torn from her for ever; it is cruel that sisters should be severed: it
is a harsh sentence for the world to give, that of such a separation as
this. These, O ye loving hearts, are the penalties of love! Those that
are content to love must always be content to pay them.

'Go, mamma, go,' said Gertrude; 'dearest, best, sweetest mother--my
own, own mother; go, Linda, darling Linda. Give my kindest love to
Harry--Charley, you and Harry will be good to mamma, I know you will.
And mamma'--and then she whispered to her mother one last prayer in
Charley's favour--'she may love him now, indeed she may.'

Alaric came to them at the last moment--'Mrs. Woodward,' said he, 'say
that you forgive me.'

'I do,' said she, embracing him--'God knows that I do;--but, Alaric,
remember what a treasure you possess.'

And so they parted. May God speed the wanderers!



CHAPTER XLV

THE FATE OF THE NAVVIES


And now, having dispatched Alaric and his wife and bairns on their
long journey, we must go back for a while and tell how Charley had been
transformed from an impudent, idle young Navvy into a well-conducted,
zealous young Weights.

When Alaric was convicted, Charley had, as we all know, belonged to the
Internal Navigation; when the six months' sentence had expired, Charley
was in full blow at the decorous office in Whitehall; and during the
same period Norman had resigned and taken on himself the new duties of a
country squire. The change which had been made had affected others
than Charley. It had been produced by one of those far-stretching,
world-moving commotions which now and then occur, sometimes twice or
thrice in a generation, and, perhaps, not again for half a century,
causing timid men to whisper in corners, and the brave and high-spirited
to struggle with the struggling waves, so that when the storm subsides
they may be found floating on the surface. A moral earthquake had been
endured by a portion of the Civil Service of the country.

The Internal Navigation had--No, my prognostic reader, it had not been
reformed; no new blood had been infused into it; no attempt had been
made to produce a better discipline by the appointment of a younger
secretary; there had been no carting away of decayed wood in the shape
of Mr. Snape, or gathering of rank weeds in the form of Mr. Corkscrew;
nothing of the kind had been attempted. No--the disease had gone too far
either for phlebotomy, purging, or cautery. The Internal Navigation had
ceased to exist! Its demise had been in this wise.--It may be remembered
that some time since Mr. Oldeschole had mentioned in the hearing of Mr.
Snape that things were going wrong. Sir Gregory Hardlines had expressed
an adverse opinion as to the Internal Navigation, and worse, ten times
worse than that, there had been an article in the _Times_. Now, we all
know that if anything is ever done in any way towards improvement in
these days, the public press does it. And we all know, also, of what the
public press consists. Mr. Oldeschole knew this well, and even Mr.
Snape had a glimmering idea of the truth. When he read that article,
Mr. Oldeschole felt that his days were numbered, and Mr. Snape, when he
heard of it, began to calculate for the hundredth time to what
highest amount of pension he might be adjudged to be entitled by a
liberal-minded Treasury minute.

Mr. Oldeschole began to set his house in order, hopelessly; for any such
effort the time was gone by. It was too late for the office to be so
done by, and too late for Mr. Oldeschole to do it. He had no aptitude
for new styles and modern improvements; he could not understand Sir
Gregory's code of rules, and was dumbfounded by the Civil Service
requisitions that were made upon him from time to time. Then came
frequent calls for him to attend at Sir Gregory's office. There a new
broom had been brought in, in the place of our poor friend Alaric, a
broom which seemed determined to sweep all before it with an unmitigable
energy. Mr. Oldeschole found that he could not stand at all before this
young Hercules, seeing that his special stall was considered to be the
foulest in the whole range of the Augean stables. He soon saw that
the river was to be turned in on him, and that he was to be officially
obliterated in the flood.

The civility of those wonder-doing demigods--those Magi of the Civil
Service office--was most oppressive to him. When he got to the board, he
was always treated with a deference which he knew was but a prelude to
barbaric tortures. They would ask him to sit down in a beautiful new
leathern arm-chair, as though he were really some great man, and then
examine him as they would a candidate for the Custom House, smiling
always, but looking at him as though they were determined to see through
him.

They asked him all manner of questions; but there was one question which
they put to him, day after day, for four days, that nearly drove him
mad. It was always put by that horrid young lynx-eyed new commissioner,
who sat there with his hair brushed high from off his forehead,
peering out of his capacious, excellently-washed shirt-collars, a
personification of conscious official zeal.

'And now, Mr. Oldeschole, if you have had leisure to consider
the question more fully, perhaps you can define to us what is
the--hum--hm--the use--hm--hm--the exact use of the Internal Navigation
Office?'

And then Sir Warwick would go on looking through his millstone as though
now he really had a hope of seeing something, and Sir Gregory would lean
back in his chair, and rubbing his hands slowly over each other, like a
great Akinetos as he was, wait leisurely for Mr. Oldeschole's answer, or
rather for his no answer.

What a question was this to ask of a man who had spent all his life in
the Internal Navigation Office! O reader! should it chance that thou art
a clergyman, imagine what it would be to thee, wert thou asked what is
the exact use of the Church of England; and that, too, by some stubborn
catechist whom thou wert bound to answer; or, if a lady, happy in a
husband and family, say, what would be thy feelings if demanded to
define the exact use of matrimony? Use! Is it not all in all to thee?

Mr. Oldeschole felt a hearty inward conviction that his office had
been of very great use. In the first place, had he not drawn from it
a thousand a year for the last five-and-twenty years? had it not given
maintenance and employment to many worthy men who might perhaps have
found it difficult to obtain maintenance elsewhere? had it not always
been an office, a public office of note and reputation, with proper work
assigned to it? The use of it--the exact use of it? Mr. Oldeschole at
last declared, with some indignation in his tone, that he had been there
for forty years and knew well that the office was very useful; but that
he would not undertake to define its exact use. 'Thank you, thank you,
Mr. Oldeschole--that will do, I think,' said the very spruce-looking new
gentleman out of his shirt-collars.

In these days there was a kind of prescience at the Internal Navigation
that something special was going to be done with them. Mr. Oldeschole
said nothing openly; but it may be presumed that he did whisper somewhat
to those of the seniors around him in whom he most confided. And
then, his frequent visits to Whitehall were spoken of even by the most
thoughtless of the navvies, and the threatenings of the coming storm
revealed themselves with more or less distinctness to every mind.

At last the thunder-cloud broke and the bolt fell. Mr. Oldeschole was
informed that the Lords of the Treasury had resolved on breaking up the
establishment and providing for the duties in another way. As the word
duties passed Sir Gregory's lips a slight smile was seen to hover
round the mouth of the new commissioner. Mr. Oldeschole would, he
was informed, receive an official notification to this effect on the
following morning; and on the following morning accordingly a dispatch
arrived, of great length, containing the resolution of my Lords, and
putting an absolute extinguisher on the life of every navvy.

How Mr. Oldeschole, with tears streaming down his cheeks, communicated
the tidings to the elder brethren; and how the elder brethren, with
palpitating hearts and quivering voices, repeated the tale to the
listening juniors, I cannot now describe. The boldest spirits were then
cowed, the loudest miscreants were then silenced, there were but few
gibes, but little jeering at the Internal Navigation on that day; though
Charley, who had already other hopes, contrived to keep up his spirits.
The men stood about talking in clusters, and old animosities were at an
end. The lamb sat down with the wolf, and Mr. Snape and Dick Scatterall
became quite confidential.

'I knew it was going to happen,' said Mr. Snape to him. 'Indeed, Mr.
Oldeschole has been consulting us about it for some time; but I must own
I did not think it would be so sudden; I must own that.'

'If you knew it was coming,' said Corkscrew, 'why didn't you tell a
chap?'

'I was not at liberty,' said Mr. Snape, looking very wise.

'We shall all have liberty enough now,' said Scatterall; 'I wonder what
they'll do with us; eh, Charley?'

'I believe they will send the worst of us to Spike Island or Dartmoor
prison,' said Charley; 'but Mr. Snape, no doubt, has heard and can tell
us.'

'Oh, come, Charley! It don't do to chaff now,' said a young navvy, who
was especially down in the mouth. 'I wonder will they do anything for a
fellow?'

'I heard my uncle, in Parliament Street, say, that when a chap has
got any _infested_ interest in a thing, they can't turn him out,' said
Corkscrew; 'and my uncle is a parliamentary agent.'

'Can't they though!' said Scatterall. 'It seems to me that they mean
to, at any rate; there wasn't a word about pensions or anything of that
sort, was there, Mr. Snape?'

'Not a word,' said Snape. 'But those who are entitled to pensions can't
be affected injuriously. As far as I can see they must give me my whole
salary. I don't think they can do less.'

'You're all serene then, Mr. Snape,' said Charley; 'you're in the right
box. Looking at matters in that light, Mr. Snape, I think you ought to
stand something handsome in the shape of lunch. Come, what do you say to
chops and stout all round? Dick will go over and order it in a minute.'

'I wish you wouldn't, Charley,' said the navvy who seemed to be most
affected, and who, in his present humour, could not endure a joke,
As Mr. Snape did not seem to accede to Charley's views, the liberal
proposition fell to the ground.

'Care killed a cat,' said Scatterall. 'I shan't break my heart about it.
I never liked the shop--did you, Charley?'

'Well, I must say I think we have been very comfortable here, under
Mr. Snape,' said Charley. But if Mr. Snape is to go, why the office
certainly would be deuced dull without him.'

'Charley!' said the broken-hearted young navvy, in a tone of reproach.

Sorrow, however, did not take away their appetite, and as Mr. Snape did
not see fitting occasion for providing a banquet, they clubbed together,
and among them managed to get a spread of beefsteaks and porter.
Scatterall, as requested, went across the Strand to order it at the
cookshop, while Corkscrew and Charley prepared the tables. 'And now
mind it's the thing,' said Dick, who, with intimate familiarity, had
penetrated into the eating-house kitchen; 'not dry, you know, or too
much done; and lots of fat.'

And then, as the generous viands renewed their strength, and as the
potent stout warmed their blood, happier ideas came to them, and they
began to hope that the world was not all over. 'Well, I shall try for
the Customs,' said the unhappy one, after a deep pull at the pewter. 'I
shall try for the Customs; one does get such stunning feeds for tenpence
at that place in Thames Street.' Poor youth! his ideas of earning his
bread did not in their wildest flight spread beyond the public offices
of the Civil Service.

For a few days longer they hung about the old office, doing nothing--how
could men so circumstanced do anything?--and waiting for their fate.
At last their fate was announced. Mr. Oldeschole retired with his full
salary. Secretaries and such-like always retire with full pay, as it
is necessary that dignity should be supported. Mr. Snape and the
other seniors were pensioned, with a careful respect to their years of
service; with which arrangement they all of them expressed themselves
highly indignant, and loudly threatened to bring the cruelty of their
treatment before Parliament, by the aid of sundry members, who were
supposed to be on the look out for such work; but as nothing further was
ever heard of them, it may be presumed that the members in question
did not regard the case as one on which the Government of the day
was sufficiently vulnerable to make it worth their while to trouble
themselves. Of the younger clerks, two or three, including the unhappy
one, were drafted into other offices; some others received one or more
years' pay, and then tore themselves away from the fascinations of
London life; among those was Mr. R. Scatterall, who, in after years,
will doubtless become a lawgiver in Hong-Kong; for to that colony has he
betaken himself. Some few others, more unfortunate than the rest, among
whom poor Screwy was the most conspicuous, were treated with a more
absolute rigour, and were sent upon the world portionless. Screwy
had been constant in his devotion to pork chops, and had persisted in
spelling blue without the final 'e.' He was therefore, declared unworthy
of any further public confidence whatever. He is now in his uncle's
office in Parliament Street; and it is to be hoped that his peculiar
talents may there be found useful.

And so the Internal Navigation Office came to an end, and the dull,
dingy rooms were vacant. Ruthless men shovelled off as waste paper
all the lock entries of which Charley had once been so proud; and the
ponderous ledgers, which Mr. Snape had delighted to haul about, were
sent away into Cimmerian darkness, and probably to utter destruction.
And then the Internal Navigation was no more.

Among those who were drafted into other offices was Charley, whom
propitious fate took to the Weights and Measures. But it must not be
imagined that chance took him there. The Weights and Measures was an
Elysium, the door of which was never casually open.

Charley at this time was a much-altered man; not that he had become a
good clerk at his old office--such a change one may say was impossible;
there were no good clerks at the Internal Navigation, and Charley had
so long been among navvies the most knavish or navviest, that any such
transformation would have met with no credence--but out of his office he
had become a much-altered man. As Katie had said, it was as though
some one had come to him from the dead. He could not go back to his old
haunts, he could not return like a dog to his vomit, as long as he had
that purse so near his heart, as long as that voice sounded in his ear,
while the memory of that kiss lingered in his heart.

He now told everything to Gertrude, all his debts, all his love, and
all his despair. There is no relief for sorrow like the sympathy of a
friend, if one can only find it. But then the sympathy must be real;
mock sympathy always tells the truth against itself, always fails to
deceive. He told everything to Gertrude, and by her counsel he told much
to Norman. He could not speak to him, true friend as he was, of Katie
and her love. There was that about the subject which made it too sacred
for man's ears, too full of tenderness to be spoken of without feminine
tears. It was only in the little parlour at Paradise Row, when the
evening had grown dark, and Gertrude was sitting with her baby in her
arms, that the boisterous young navvy could bring himself to speak of
his love.

During these months Katie's health had greatly improved, and as she
herself had gained in strength, she had gradually begun to think that
it was yet possible for her to live. Little was now said by her about
Charley, and not much was said of him in her hearing; but still she did
learn how he had changed his office, and with his office his mode of
life; she did hear of his literary efforts, and of his kindness to
Gertrude, and it would seem as though it were ordained that his moral
life and her physical life were to gain strength together.



CHAPTER XLVI

MR. NOGO'S LAST QUESTION


But at this time Charley was not idle. The fate of 'Crinoline and
Macassar' has not yet been told; nor has that of the two rival
chieftains, the 'Baron of Ballyporeen and Sir Anthony Allan-a-dale.'
These heart-rending tales appeared in due course, bit by bit, in the
pages of the _Daily Delight_. On every morning of the week, Sundays
excepted, a page and a half of Charley's narrative was given to the
expectant public; and though I am not prepared to say that the public
received the offering with any violent acclamations of applause, that
his name became suddenly that of a great unknown, that literary cliques
talked about him to the exclusion of other topics, or that he rose
famous one morning as Byron did after the publication of the 'Corsair,'
nevertheless something was said in his praise. The _Daily Delight_, on
the whole, was rather belittled by its grander brethren of the press;
but a word or two was said here and there to exempt Charley's
fictions from the general pooh-poohing with which the remainder of the
publication was treated.

Success, such as this even, is dear to the mind of a young author,
and Charley began to feel that he had done something. The editor was
proportionably civil to him, and he was encouraged to commence a third
historiette.

'We have polished off poison and petticoats pretty well,' said the
editor; 'what do you say to something political?'

Charley had no objection in life.

'This Divorce Bill, now--we could have half a dozen married couples
all separating, getting rid of their ribs and buckling again,
helter-skelter, every man to somebody else's wife; and the parish parson
refusing to do the work; just to show the immorality of the thing.'

Charley said he'd think about it.

'Or the Danubian Principalities and the French Alliance--could you
manage now to lay your scene in Constantinople?'

Charley doubted whether he could.

'Or perhaps India is the thing? The Cawnpore massacre would work up into
any lengths you pleased. You could get a file of the _Times_, you know,
for your facts.'

But while the editor was giving these various valuable hints as to
the author's future subjects, the author himself, with base mind, was
thinking how much he should be paid for his past labours. At last he
ventured, in the mildest manner, to allude to the subject.

'Payment!' said the editor.

Charley said that he had understood that there was to be some fixed
scale of pay; so much per sheet, or something of that sort.

'Undoubtedly there will,' said the editor; 'and those who will have the
courage and perseverance to work through with us, till the publication
has obtained that wide popularity which it is sure to achieve, will
doubtless be paid,--be paid as no writers for any periodical in this
metropolis have ever yet been paid. But at present, Mr. Tudor, you
really must be aware that it is quite out of the question.'

Charley had not the courage and perseverance to work through with
the _Daily Delight_ till it had achieved its promised popularity, and
consequently left its ranks like a dastard. He consulted both Gertrude
and Norman on the subject, and on their advice set himself to work on
his own bottom. 'You may perhaps manage to fly alone,' said Gertrude;
'but you will find it very difficult to fly if you tie the whole weight
of the _Daily Delight_ under your wings.' So Charley prepared himself
for solitary soaring.

While he was thus working, the time arrived at which Norman was to leave
his office, and it occurred to him that it might be possible that he
should bequeath his vacancy to Charley. He went himself to Sir Gregory,
and explained, not only his own circumstances, and his former friendship
with Alaric Tudor, but also the relationship between Alaric and Charley.
He then learnt, in the strictest confidence of course, that the doom
of the Internal Navigation had just been settled, and that it would be
necessary to place in other offices those young men who could in any way
be regarded as worth their salt, and, after considerable manoeuvring,
had it so arranged that the ne'er-do-well young navvy should recommence
his official life under better auspices.

Nor did Charley come in at the bottom of his office, but was allowed,
by some inscrutable order of the great men who arranged those things,
to take a position in the Weights and Measures equal in seniority and
standing to that which he had held at the Navigation, and much higher,
of course, in pay. There is an old saying, which the unenlightened
credit, and which declares that that which is sauce for the goose is
sauce also for the gander. Nothing put into a proverb since the days of
Solomon was ever more untrue. That which is sauce for the goose is not
sauce for the gander, and especially is not so in official life. Poor
Screwy was the goose, and certainly got the sauce best suited to him
when he was turned adrift out of the Civil Service. Charley was the
gander, and fond as I am of him for his many excellent qualities, I am
fain to own that justice might fairly have demanded that he should be
cooked after the same receipt. But it suited certain potent personages
to make a swan of him; and therefore, though it had long been an assured
fact through the whole service that no man was ever known to enter
the Weights and Measures without the strictest examination, though the
character of aspirants for that high office was always subjected to a
rigid scrutiny, though knowledge, accomplishments, industry, morality,
outward decency, inward zeal, and all the cardinal virtues were
absolutely requisite, still Charley was admitted, without any
examination or scrutiny whatever, during the commotion consequent upon
the earthquake above described.

Charley went to the Weights some time during the recess. In the process
of the next session Mr. Nogo gave notice that he meant to ask the
Government a question as to a gross act of injustice which had been
perpetrated--so at least the matter had been represented to him--on the
suppression of the Internal Navigation Office.

Mr. Nogo did not at first find it very easy to get a fitting opportunity
for asking his question. He had to give notice, and inquiries had to
be made, and the responsible people were away, and various customary
accidents happened, so that it was late in June before the question was
put. Mr. Nogo, however, persevered ruthlessly, and after six months'
labour, did deliver himself of an indignant, and, as his friends
declared to him, a very telling speech.

It was reported at the time by the opposition newspapers, and need not
therefore be given here. But the upshot was this: two men bearing
equal character--Mr. Nogo would not say whether the characters of the
gentlemen were good or bad; he would only say equal characters--sat in
the same room at this now defunct office; one was Mr. Corkscrew and the
other Mr. Tudor. One had no friends in the Civil Service, but the other
was more fortunate. Mr. Corkscrew had been sent upon the world a ruined,
blighted man, without any compensation, without any regard for his
interests, without any consideration for his past services or future
prospects. They would be told that the Government had no further need of
his labours, and that they could not dare to saddle the country with a
pension for so young a man. But what had been done in the case of the
other gentleman? Why, he had been put into a valuable situation, in the
best Government office in London, had been placed over the heads of a
dozen others, who had been there before him, &c., &c., &c. And then Mr.
Nogo ended with so vehement an attack on Sir Gregory, and the Government
as connected with him, that the dogs began to whet their teeth and
prepare for a tug at the great badger.

But circumstances were mischancy with Mr. Nogo, and all he said
redounded only to the credit of our friend Charley. His black
undoubtedly was black; the merits of Charley and Mr. Corkscrew, as
public servants, had been about equal; but Mr. Whip Vigil turned the
black into white in three minutes.

As he got upon his legs, smiling after the manner of his great exemplar,
he held in his hand a small note and a newspaper. 'A comparison,' he
said, 'had been instituted between the merits of two gentlemen formerly
in the employment of the Crown, one of them had been selected for
further employment, and the other rejected. The honourable member for
Mile End had, he regretted to say, instituted this comparison. They all
knew what was the proverbial character of a comparison. It was, however,
ready made to his hands, and there was nothing left for him, Mr. Whip
Vigil, but to go on with it. This, however, he would do in as light a
manner as possible. It had been thought that the one gentleman would not
suit the public service, and that the other would do so. It was for him
merely to defend this opinion. He now held in his hand a letter written
by the protégé of the honourable member for Limehouse; he would not
read it--' (cries of 'Read, read!') 'no, he would not read it, but the
honourable member might if he would--and could. He himself was prepared
to say that a gentleman who chose to express himself in such a style
in his private notes--this note, however, was not private in the usual
sense--could hardly be expected to command a proper supply of wholesome
English, such as the service of the Crown demanded!' Then Mr. Vigil
handed across to Mr. Nogo poor Screwy's unfortunate letter about the
pork chops. 'As to the other gentleman, whose name was now respectably
known in the lighter walks of literature, he would, if permitted,
read the opinion expressed as to his style of language by a literary
publication of the day; and then the House would see whether or no
the produce of the Civil Service field had not been properly winnowed;
whether the wheat had not been garnered, and the chaff neglected.' And
then the right honourable gentleman read some half-dozen lines, highly
eulogistic of Charley's first solitary flight.

Poor Mr. Nogo remained in silence, feeling that his black had become
white to all intents and purposes; and the big badger sat by and
grinned, not deigning to notice the dogs around him. Thus it may be seen
that that which is sauce for the goose is not sauce for the gander.

Early in the spring Norman was married; and then, as had been before
arranged, Charley once more went to Surbiton Cottage. The marriage was
a very quiet affair. The feeling of disgrace which had fallen upon them
all since the days of Alaric's trial had by no means worn itself away.
There were none of them yet--no, not one of the Cottage circle, from
Uncle Bat down to the parlour-maid--who felt that they had a right to
hold up their faces before the light of day as they had formerly done.
There was a cloud over their house, visible perhaps with more or less
distinctness to all eyes, but which to themselves appeared black as
night. That evil which Alaric had done to them was not to be undone in a
few moons. We are all of us responsible for our friends, fathers-in-law
for their sons-in-law, brothers for their sisters, husbands for their
wives, parents for their children, and children even for their parents.
We cannot wipe off from us, as with a wet cloth, the stains left by the
fault of those who are near to us. The ink-spot will cling. Oh! Alaric,
Alaric, that thou, thou who knewest all this, that thou shouldest have
done this thing! They had forgiven his offence against them, but they
could not forget their own involuntary participation in his disgrace. It
was not for them now to shine forth to the world with fine gala doings,
and gay gaudy colours, as they had done when Gertrude had been married.

But still there was happiness--quiet, staid happiness--at the Cottage.
Mrs. Woodward could not but be happy to see Linda married to Harry
Norman, her own favourite, him whom she had selected in her heart
for her son-in-law from out of all the world. And now, too, she was
beginning to be conscious that Harry and Linda were better suited for
each other than he and Gertrude would have been. What would have been
Linda's fate, how unendurable, had she been Alaric's wife, when Alaric
fell? How would she have borne such a fall? What could she have done,
poor lamb, towards mending the broken thread or binding the bruised
limbs? What balm could she have poured into such wounds as those which
fate had inflicted on Gertrude and her household? But at Normansgrove,
with a steady old housekeeper at her back, and her husband always by
to give her courage, Linda would find the very place for which she was
suited.

And then Mrs. Woodward had another source of joy, of liveliest joy, in
Katie's mending looks. She was at the wedding, though hardly with her
mother's approval.

As she got better her old spirit returned to her, and it became
difficult to refuse her anything. It was in vain that her mother talked
of the cold church, and easterly winds, and the necessary lightness of
a bridesmaid's attire. Katie argued that the church was only two hundred
yards off, that she never suffered from the cold, and that though
dressed in light colours, as became a bridesmaid, she would, if allowed
to go, wear over her white frock any amount of cloaks which her mother
chose to impose on her. Of course she went, and we will not say how
beautiful she looked, when she clung to Linda in the vestry-room, and
all her mother's wrappings fell in disorder from her shoulders.

So Linda was married and carried off to Normansgrove, and Katie remained
with her mother and Uncle Bat.

'Mamma, we will never part--will we, mamma?' said she, as they comforted
each other that evening after the Normans were gone, and when Charley
also had returned to London.

'When you go, Katie, I think you must take me with you,' said her
mother, smiling through her tears. 'But what will poor Uncle Bat do? I
fear you can't take him also.'

'I will never go from you, mamma.'

Her mother knew what she meant. Charley had been there, Charley to whom
she had declared her love when lying, as she thought, on her bed of
death--Charley had been there again, and had stood close to her, and
touched her hand, and looked--oh, how much handsomer he was than Harry,
how much brighter than Alaric!--he had touched her hand, and spoken
to her one word of joy at her recovered health. But that had been all.
There was a sort of compact, Katie knew, that there should be no other
Tudor marriage. Charley was not now the scamp he had been, but still--it
was understood that her love was not to win its object.

'I will never go from you, mamma.'

But Mrs. Woodward's heart was not hard as the nether millstone. She drew
her daughter to her, and as she pressed her to her bosom, she whispered
into her ears that she now hoped they might all be happy.



CHAPTER XLVII

CONCLUSION


Our tale and toils have now drawn nigh to an end; our loves and our
sorrows are over; and we are soon to part company with the three clerks
and their three wives. Their three wives? Why, yes. It need hardly be
told in so many words to an habitual novel-reader that Charley did get
his bride at last.

Nevertheless, Katie kept her promise to Mrs. Woodward. What promise did
she ever make and not keep? She kept her promise, and did not go from
her mother. She married Mr. Charles Tudor, of the Weights and Measures,
that distinguished master of modern fiction, as the _Literary Censor_
very civilly called him the other day; and Mr. Charles Tudor became
master of Surbiton Cottage.

Reader! take one last leap with me, and presume that two years have
flown from us since the end of the last chapter; or rather somewhat more
than two years, for we would have it high midsummer when we take our
last farewell of Surbiton Cottage.

But sundry changes had taken place at the Cottage, and of such a nature,
that were it not for the old name's sake, we should now find ourselves
bound to call the place Surbiton Villa, or Surbiton Hall, or Surbiton
House. It certainly had no longer any right to the title of a cottage;
for Charley, in anticipation of what Lucina might do for him, had added
on sundry rooms, a children's room on the ground floor, and a nursery
above, and a couple of additional bedrooms on the other side, so that
the house was now a comfortable abode for an increasing family.

At the time of which we are now speaking Lucina had not as yet done
much; for, in truth, Charley had been married but little over twelve
months; but there appeared every reason to believe that the goddess
would be propitious. There was already one little rocking shrine, up in
that cosy temple opening out of Katie's bedroom--we beg her pardon, we
should have said Mrs. Charles Tudor's bedroom--one precious tabernacle
in which was laid a little man-deity, a young Charley, to whom was daily
paid a multitude of very sincere devotions.

How precious are all the belongings of a first baby; how dear are the
cradle, the lace-caps, the first coral, all the little duds which are
made with such punctilious care and anxious efforts of nicest needlework
to encircle that small lump of pink humanity! What care is taken that
all shall be in order! See that basket lined with crimson silk, prepared
to hold his various garments, while the mother, jealous of her nurse,
insists on tying every string with her own fingers. And then how soon
the change comes; how different it is when there are ten of them, and
the tenth is allowed to inherit the well-worn wealth which the ninth, a
year ago, had received from the eighth. There is no crimson silk basket
then, I trow.

'Jane, Jane, where are my boots?' 'Mary, I've lost my trousers!' Such
sounds are heard, shouted through the house from powerful lungs.

'Why, Charley,' says the mother, as her eldest hope rushes in to
breakfast with dishevelled hair and dirty hands, 'you've got no
handkerchief on your neck--what have you done with your handkerchief?'

'No, mamma; it came off in the hay-loft, and I can't find it.'

'Papa,' says the lady wife, turning to her lord, who is reading his
newspaper over his coffee--'papa, you really must speak to Charley; he
will not mind me. He was dressed quite nicely an hour ago, and do see
what a figure he has made himself.'

'Charley,' says papa, not quite relishing this disturbance in the midst
of a very interesting badger-baiting--'Charley, my boy, if you don't
mind your P's and Q's, you and I shall fall out; mind that;' and he
again goes on with his sport; and mamma goes on with her teapot, looking
not exactly like Patience on a monument.

Such are the joys which await you, Mr. Charles Tudor; but not to such
have you as yet arrived. As yet there is but the one little pink deity
in the rocking shrine above; but one, at least, of your own. At the
moment of which we are now speaking there were visitors at Surbiton
Cottage, and the new nursery was brought into full use. Mr. and Mrs.
Norman of Normansgrove were there with their two children and two maids,
and grandmamma Woodward had her hands quite full in the family nursery
line.

It was a beautiful summer evening, and the two young mothers were
sitting with Mrs. Woodward and Uncle Bat in the drawing-room, waiting
for their lords' return from London. As usual, when they stayed late,
the two men were to dine at their club and come down to tea. The
nursemaids were walking on the lawn before the window with their
charges, and the three ladies were busily employed with some
fairly-written manuscript pages, which they were cutting carefully into
shape, and arranging in particular form.

'Now, mamma,' said Katie, 'if you laugh once while you are reading it,
you'll spoil it all.'

'I'll do the best I can, my dear, but I'm sure I shall break down; you
have made it so very abusive,' said Mrs. Woodward.

'Mamma, I think I'll take out that about official priggism--hadn't I
better, Linda?'

'Indeed, I think you had; I'm sure mamma would break down there,' said
Linda. 'Mamma, I'm sure you would never get over the official priggism.'

'I don't think I should, my dear,' said Mrs. Woodward.

'What is it you are all concocting?' said Captain Cuttwater; 'some
infernal mischief, I know, craving your pardons.'

'If you tell, Uncle Bat, I'll never forgive you,' said Katie.

'Oh, you may trust me; I never spoil sport, if I can't make any; but the
fun ought to be very good, for you've been a mortal long time about it.'

And then the two younger ladies again went on clipping and arranging
their papers, while Mrs. Woodward renewed her protest that she would do
her best as to reading their production. While they were thus employed
the postman's knock was heard, and a letter was brought in from the
far-away Australian exiles. The period at which these monthly missives
arrived were moments of intense anxiety, and the letter was seized upon
with eager avidity. It was from Gertrude to her mother, as all these
letters were; but in such a production they had a joint property, and it
was hardly possible to say who first mastered its contents.

It will only be necessary here to give some extracts from the letter,
which was by no means a short one. So much must be done in order that
our readers may know something of the fate of those who perhaps may be
called the hero and heroine of the tale. The author does not so call
them; he professes to do his work without any such appendages to his
story--heroism there may be, and he hopes there is--more or less of it
there should be in a true picture of most characters; but heroes and
heroines, as so called, are not commonly met with in our daily walks of
life.

Before Gertrude's letter had been disposed of, Norman and Charley came
in, and it was therefore discussed in full conclave. Alaric's path in
the land of his banishment had not been over roses. The upward struggle
of men, who have fallen from a high place once gained, that second
mounting of the ladder of life, seldom is an easy path. He, and with him
Gertrude and his children, had been called on to pay the full price of
his backsliding. His history had gone with him to the Antipodes; and,
though the knowledge of what he had done was not there so absolute a
clog upon his efforts, so overpowering a burden, as it would have been
in London, still it was a burden and a heavy one.

It had been well for Gertrude that she had prepared herself to give up
all her luxuries by her six months' residence in that Millbank Paradise
of luxuries: for some time she had little enough in the 'good and happy
land,' to which she had taught herself and her children to look forward.
That land of promise had not flowed with milk and honey when first she
put her foot upon its soil; its produce for her had been gall and bitter
herbs for many a weary month after she first landed. But her heart had
never sunk within her. She had never forgotten that he, if he were to
work well, should have at least one cheerful companion by his side. She
had been true to him, then as ever. And yet it is so hard to be true to
high principles in little things. The heroism of the Roman, who, for his
country's sake, leapt his horse into a bottomless gulf, was as nothing
to that of a woman who can keep her temper through poverty, and be
cheerful in adversity.

Through poverty, scorn, and bad repute, under the privations of a hard
life, separated from so many that she had loved, and from everything
that she had liked, Gertrude had still been true to her ideas of her
marriage vow; true, also, to her pure and single love. She had entwined
herself with him in sunny weather; and when the storm came she did her
best to shelter the battered stem to which she had trusted herself.

By degrees things mended with them; and in this letter, which is now
passing from eager hand to hand in Katie's drawing-room, Gertrude spoke
with better hope of their future prospects.

'Thank God, we are once more all well,' she said; 'and Alaric's spirits
are higher than they were. He has, indeed, had much to try them. They
think, I believe, in England, that any kind of work here is sure to
command a high price; of this I am quite sure, that in no employment in
England are people so tasked as they are here. Alaric was four months in
these men's counting-house, and I am sure another four months would have
seen him in his grave. Though I knew not then what other provision might
be made for us, I implored him, almost on my knees, to give up that.
He was expected to be there for ten, sometimes twelve, hours a day; and
they thought he should always be kept going like a steam-engine. You
know Alaric never was afraid of work; but that would have killed him.
And what was it for? What did they give him for that--for all his
talent, all his experience, all his skill? And he did give them all. His
salary was two pounds ten a week! And then, when he told them of all he
was doing for them, they had the baseness to remind him of----. Dearest
mother, is not the world hard? It was that that made me insist that he
should leave them.'

Alaric's present path was by no means over roses. This certainly was a
change from those days on which he had sat, one of a mighty trio, at the
Civil Service Examination Board, striking terror into candidates by
a scratch of his pen, and making happy the desponding heart by his
approving nod. His ambition now was not to sit among the magnates of
Great Britain, and make his voice thunder through the columns of the
_Times_; it ranged somewhat lower at this period, and was confined for
the present to a strong desire to see his wife and bairns sufficiently
fed, and not left absolutely without clothing. He inquired little as to
the feeling of the electors of Strathbogy.

And had he utterly forgotten the stirring motto of his early days? Did
he ever mutter 'Excelsior' to himself, as, with weary steps, he dragged
himself home from that hated counting-house? Ah! he had fatally mistaken
the meaning of the word which he had so often used. There had been the
error of his life. 'Excelsior!' When he took such a watchword for his
use, he should surely have taught himself the meaning of it.

He had now learnt that lesson in a school somewhat of the sternest; but,
as time wore kindly over him, he did teach himself to accept the lesson
with humility. His spirit had been wellnigh broken as he was carried
from that court-house in the Old Bailey to his prison on the river-side;
and a broken spirit, like a broken goblet, can never again become whole.
But Nature was a kind mother to him, and did not permit him to be wholly
crushed. She still left within the plant the germ of life, which enabled
it again to spring up and vivify, though sorely bruised by the heels
of those who had ridden over it. He still repeated to himself the old
watchword, though now in humbler tone and more bated breath; and it may
be presumed that he had now a clearer meaning of its import.

'But his present place,' continued Gertrude, 'is much--very much more
suited to him. He is corresponding clerk in the first bank here, and
though his pay is nearly double what it was at the other place, his
hours of work are not so oppressive. He goes at nine and gets away at
five--that is, except on the arrival or dispatch of the English mails.'
Here was a place of bliss for a man who had been a commissioner,
attending at the office at such hours as best suited himself, and having
clerks at his beck to do all that he listed. And yet, as Gertrude said,
this was a place of bliss to him. It was a heaven as compared with that
other hell.

'Alley is such a noble boy,' said Gertrude, becoming almost joyous as
she spoke of her own immediate cares. 'He is most like Katie, I think,
of us all; and yet he is very like his papa. He goes to a day-school
now, with his books slung over his back in a bag. You never saw such
a proud little fellow as he is, and so manly. Charley is just like
you--oh! so like. It makes me so happy that he is. He did not talk so
early as Alley, but, nevertheless, he is more forward than the other
children I see here. The little monkeys! they are neither of them the
least like me. But one can always see oneself, and it don't matter if
one does not.'

'If ever there was a brick, Gertrude is one,' said Norman.

'A brick!' said Charley--'why you might cut her to pieces, and build
another Kensington palace out of the slices. I believe she is a brick.'

'I wonder whether I shall ever see her again?' said Mrs. Woodward, not
with dry eyes.

'Oh yes, mamma,' said Katie. 'She shall come home to us some day, and we
will endeavour to reward her for it all.'

Dear Katie, who will not love you for such endeavour? But, indeed, the
reward for heroism cometh not here.

There was much more in the letter, but enough has been given for our
purpose. It will be seen that hope yet remained both for Alaric and his
wife; and hope not without a reasonable base. Bad as he had been, it had
not been with him as with Undy Scott. The devil had not contrived to put
his whole claw upon him. He had not divested himself of human affections
and celestial hopes. He had not reduced himself to the present level
of a beast, with the disadvantages of a soul and of an eternity, as
the other man had done. He had not put himself beyond the pale of true
brotherhood with his fellow-men. We would have hanged Undy had the law
permitted us; but now we will say farewell to the other, hoping that he
may yet achieve exaltation of another kind.

And to thee, Gertrude--how shall we say farewell to thee, excluded as
thou art from that dear home, where those who love thee so well are now
so happy? Their only care remaining is now thy absence. Adversity has
tried thee in its crucible, and thou art found to be of virgin gold,
unalloyed; hadst thou still been lapped in prosperity, the true ring of
thy sterling metal would never have been heard. Farewell to thee, and
may those young budding flowerets of thine break forth into golden fruit
to gladden thy heart in coming days!

The reading of Gertrude's letter, and the consequent discussion,
somewhat put off the execution of the little scheme which had been
devised for that evening's amusement; but, nevertheless, it was still
broad daylight when Mrs. Woodward consigned the precious document to
her desk; the drawing-room windows were still open, and the bairns were
still being fondled in the room. It was the first week in July, when
the night almost loses her dominion, and when those hours which she
generally claims as her own, become the pleasantest of the day.

'Oh, Charley,' said Katie, at last, 'we have great news for you, too.
Here is another review on "The World's Last Wonder."'

Now 'The World's Last Wonder' was Charley's third novel; but he was
still sensitive enough on the subject of reviews to look with much
anxiety for what was said of him. These notices were habitually sent
down to him at Hampton, and his custom was to make his wife or her
mother read them, while he sat by in lordly ease in his arm-chair,
receiving homage when homage came to him, and criticizing the critics
when they were uncivil.

'Have you?' said Charley. 'What is it? Why did you not show it me
before?'

'Why, we were talking of dear Gertrude,' said Katie; 'and it is not so
pleasant but that it will keep. What paper do you think it is?'

'What paper? how on earth can I tell?--show it me.'

'No; but do guess, Charley; and then mamma will read it--pray guess
now.'

'Oh, bother, I can't guess. _The Literary Censor_, I suppose--I know
they have turned against me.'

'No, it's not that,' said Linda; 'guess again.'

'_The Guardian Angel_,' said Charley.

'No--that angel has not taken you under his wings as yet,' said Katie.

'I know it's not the _Times_,' said Charley, 'for I have seen that.'

'O no,' said Katie, seriously; 'if it was anything of that sort, we
would not keep you in suspense.'

'Well, I'll be shot if I guess any more--there are such thousands of
them.'

'But there is only one _Daily Delight_,' said Mrs. Woodward.

'Nonsense!' said Charley. 'You don't mean to tell me that my dear old
friend and foster-father has fallen foul of me--my old teacher and
master, if not spiritual pastor; well--well--well! The ingratitude of
the age! I gave him my two beautiful stories, the first-fruits of my
vine, all for love; to think that he should now lay his treacherous axe
to the root of the young tree--well, give it here.'

'No--mamma will read it--we want Harry to hear it.'

'O yes--let Mrs. Woodward read it,' said Harry. 'I trust it is severe.
I know no man who wants a dragging over the coals more peremptorily than
you do.'

'Thankee, sir. Well, grandmamma, go on; but if there be anything very
bad, give me a little notice, for I am nervous.'

And then Mrs. Woodward began to read, Linda sitting with Katie's baby in
her arms, and Katie performing a similar office for her sister.

"'The World's Last Wonder,' by Charles Tudor, Esq."

'He begins with a lie,' said Charley, 'for I never called myself
Esquire.'

'Oh, that was a mistake,' said Katie, forgetting herself.

'Men of that kind shouldn't make such mistakes,' said Charley. 'When one
fellow attempts to cut up another fellow, he ought to take special care
that he does it fairly.'

"By the author of 'Bathos.'"

'I didn't put that in,' said Charley, 'that was the publisher. I only
put Charles Tudor.'

'Don't be so touchy, Charley, and let me go on,' said Mrs. Woodward.

'Well, fire away--it's good fun to you, I dare say, as the fly said to
the spider.'

'Well, Charley, at any rate we are not the spiders,' said Linda. Katie
said nothing, but she could not help feeling that she must look rather
spiderish.

'Mr. Tudor has acquired some little reputation as a humorist, but as is
so often the case with those who make us laugh, his very success will
prove his ruin.'

'Then upon my word the _Daily Delight_ is safe,' said Charley. 'It will
never be ruined in that way.'

'There is an elaborate jocosity about him, a determined eternity of most
industrious fun, which gives us the idea of a boy who is being rewarded
for having duly learnt by rote his daily lesson out of Joe Miller.'

'Now, I'll bet ten to one he has never read the book at all--well, never
mind--go on.'

"'The World's Last Wonder' is the description of a woman who kept a
secret under certain temptations to reveal it, which, as Mr. Tudor
supposes, might have moved any daughter of Eve to break her faith."

'I haven't supposed anything of the kind,' said Charley.

'This secret, which we shall not disclose, as we would not wish to be
thought less trustworthy than Mr. Tudor's wonderful woman--'

'We shall find that he does disclose it, of course; that is the way with
all of them.'

--'Is presumed to permeate the whole three volumes.'

'It is told at full length in the middle of the second,' said Charley.

'And the effect upon the reader of course is, that he has ceased to
interest himself about it, long before it is disclosed to him!

'The lady in question is engaged to be married to a gentleman, a
circumstance which in the pages of a novel is not calculated to attract
much special attention. She is engaged to be married, but the gentleman
who has the honour of being her intended sposo----'

'Intended sposo!' said Charley, expressing by his upturned lip a
withering amount of scorn--'how well I know the fellow's low attempts at
wit! That's the editor himself--that's my literary papa. I know him as
well as though I had seen him at it.'

Katie and Mrs. Woodward exchanged furtive glances, but neither of them
moved a muscle of her face.

'But the gentleman who has the honour of being her intended sposo,'
continued Mrs. Woodward.

'What the devil's a sposo?' said Uncle Bat, who was sitting in an
arm-chair with a handkerchief over his head.

'Why, you're not a sposo, Uncle Bat,' said Linda; 'but Harry is, and so
is Charley.'

'Oh, I see,' said the captain; 'it's a bird with his wings clipped.'

'But the gentleman who has the honour of being her intended sposo----'
again read Mrs. Woodward.

'Now I'm sure I'm speaking by the card,' said Charley, 'when I say that
there is not another man in London who could have written that line, and
who would have used so detestable a word. I think I remember his using
it in one of his lectures to me; indeed I'm sure I do. Sposo! I should
like to tweak his nose oh!'

'Are you going to let me go on?' said Mrs. Woodward--'her intended
sposo'--Charley gave a kick with his foot and satisfied himself with
that--'is determined to have nothing to say to her in the matrimonial
line till she has revealed to him this secret which he thinks concerns
his own honour.'

'There, I knew he'd tell it.'

'He has not told it yet,' said Norman.

'The lady, however, is obdurate, wonderfully so, of course, seeing that
she is the world's last wonder, and so the match is broken off. But
the secret is of such a nature that the lady's invincible objection to
revealing it is bound up with the fact of her being a promised bride.'

'I wonder he didn't say sposa,' said Charley.

'I never thought of that,' said Katie.

Mrs. Woodward and Linda looked at her, but Charley did not, and her
blunder passed by unnoticed.

'Now that she is free from her matrimonial bonds, she is free also to
tell the secret; and indeed the welfare both of the gentleman and of the
lady imperiously demands that it should be told. Should he marry her, he
is destined to learn it after his marriage; should he not marry her, he
may hear it at any time. She sends for him and tells him, not the first
of these facts, by doing which all difficulty would have at once been
put an end to--'

'It is quite clear he has never read the story, quite clear,' said
Charley.

'She tells him only the last, viz., that as they are now strangers he
may know the secret; but that when once known it will raise a barrier
between them that no years, no penance, no sorrow on his part, no
tenderness on hers, can ever break down. She then asks him--will he hear
the secret?'

'She does not ask any such thing,' said Charley; 'the letter that
contains it has been already sent to him. She merely gives him an
opportunity of returning it unopened.'

'The gentleman, who is not without a grain of obstinacy in his own
composition and many grains of curiosity, declares it to be impossible
that he can go to the altar in ignorance of facts which he is bound
to know, and the lady, who seems to be of an affectionate disposition,
falls in tenderness at his feet. She is indeed in a very winning mood,
and quite inclined to use every means allowable to a lady for retaining
her lover; every means that is short of that specially feminine one of
telling her secret.

'We will give an extract from this love scene, partly for the sake of
its grotesque absurdity--'

Charley kicked out another foot, as though he thought that the editor of
the _Daily Delight_ might perhaps be within reach.

'--And partly because it gives a fair example of the manner in which
Mr. Tudor endeavours to be droll even in the midst of his most tender
passages.

'Leonora was at this time seated--'

'Oh, skip the extract,' said Charley; 'I suppose there are three or four
pages of it?'

'It goes down to where Leonora says that his fate and her own are in his
hands.'

'Yes, about three columns,' said Charley; 'that's an easy way of making
an article--eh, Harry?'

'_Aliter non fit, amice, liber_,' said the classical Norman.

'Well, skip the extract, grandmamma.'

'Now, did anyone ever before read such a mixture of the bombastic and
the burlesque? We are called upon to cry over every joke, and, for the
life of us, we cannot hold our sides when the catastrophes occur. It is
a salad in which the pungency of the vinegar has been wholly subdued
by the oil, and the fatness of the oil destroyed by the tartness of the
vinegar.'

'His old simile,' said Charley; 'he was always talking about literary
salads.'

'The gentleman, of course, gives way at the last minute,' continued Mrs.
Woodward. 'The scene in which he sits with the unopened letter lying on
his table before him has some merit; but this probably arises from the
fact that the letter is dumb, and the gentleman equally so.'

'D----nation!' said Charley, whose patience could not stand such
impudence at this.

'The gentleman, who, as we should have before said, is the eldest son of
a man of large reputed fortune----'

'There--I knew he'd tell it.'

'Oh, but he hasn't told it,' said Norman.

'Doesn't the word 'reputed' tell it?'

'--The eldest son of a man of large reputed fortune, does at last marry
the heroine; and then he discovers--But what he discovers, those who
feel any interest in the matter may learn from the book itself; we must
profess that we felt none.

'We will not say there is nothing in the work indicative of talent.
The hero's valet, Jacob Brush, and the heroine's lady's-maid, Jacintha
Pintail, are both humorous and good in their way. Why it should be so,
we do not pretend to say; but it certainly does appear to us that Mr.
Tudor is more at home in the servants' hall than in the lady's boudoir.'

'Abominable scoundrel!' said Charley.

'But what we must chiefly notice,' continued the article, 'in the
furtherance of those views by which we profess that we are governed--'

'Now, I know, we are to have something very grandiloquent and very
false,' said Charley.

'--Is this: that no moral purpose can be served by the volumes before
us. The hero acts wrongly throughout, but nevertheless he is rewarded at
last. There is no Nemesis--'

'No what?' said Charley, jumping up from his chair and looking over the
table.

'No Nemesis,' said Mrs. Woodward, speaking with only half-sustained
voice, and covering with her arms the document which she had been
reading.

Charley looked sharply at his wife, then at Linda, then at Mrs.
Woodward. Not one of them could keep her face. He made a snatch at the
patched-up manuscript, and as he did so, Katie almost threw out of her
arms the baby she was holding.

'Take him, Harry, take him,' said she, handing over the child to his
father. And then gliding quick as thought through the furniture of the
drawing-room, she darted out upon the lawn, to save herself from the
coming storm.

Charley was quickly after her; but as he made his exit, one chair fell
to the right of him, and another to the left. Mrs. Woodward followed
them, and so did Harry and Linda, each with a baby.

And then Captain Cuttwater, waking from his placid nap, rubbed his eyes
in wondering amazement.

'What the devil is all the row about?' said he. But there was nobody to
answer him.