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|J [*HK EIGHT OF TRANSLATION 13 RESERVED.] IE ART &SCIENCE STORY OF THE PRESENT TIME. BY WILKIE COLLINS. ¡ CHAPTER I. •w»e weary old nineteenth century had advanced "V the lasftwenty years of its life. Howards two o'clock in the afternoon, Ovid (of the Roval College of Surgeons) stood at Window of 4)is consulting room in London, "^Ug out at the summer sunshine, and the quiet "gy street. IP e 'la(i received a warning, familiar to the busy of our time—the warning froip overwrought which counsels rest after excessive work. oin ? Prosperous career before him, he had been only thirty-one years of age) to ask °lie;igue take charge of his practice, and to the brain which lie had cruelly wearied a te k°j s°we months to come. On the next day it „ r arr»nged to embark for the Mediterranean friend's yacht. a active man, devoted heart and soul to his '«ssi°n, is not a man who can learn the happy °f being idle at a moment's notice. Ovid tfonH mere of looking out of window, and Jeering what he should do next, more than he II Patience to endure. e turned to his study table. If he had pos- 1^7^* a wife to look after him, he would have reminded that he and his study table had j?\n& in common, under present circumstances, deprived of conjugal superintendence, broke through his own rules. His restless fcri^ Unlocked a drawer, and took out a manu- I QP- Work on medicine of his own writing. surety," he thought, I may finish a chapter, be- j|. R° to sea to-morrow." [oijf'8 head, steady enough while he was only J1"1!! out of window, began to swim before he i got to the bottom of a page. The last Ben- in of the unfinished chapter alluded to a ™*tter of fact which he had not yet verified. In of any sort, he was a. patient man toulri u1811 resource. The necessary verification SureLr8 accomPl'shed by a visit to the College of situated in the great square called Inn-fields. Here was a motive for a 0lll *T"With an occupation at the end of it, which fcXar*\nVo?ved a question to a Curator and an «Unation of a Specimen. He locked up his "^script, and set forth for Lincoln's Inn-fields. CHAPTER II. en two friends happen to meet in the street, ever look back along the procession of circumstances which has led them both, the starting point of their own houses, to the sP°t, at the same time ? Not one man in thousand has probably ever thought of making Qe .,a fantastic inquiry as this. And conse- nt!y lot one man in ten thousand, living in ^t of reality, lias discovered that he is also f ln the midst of romance. ^°8erTM moment when the young surgeon £ olj} the door of his house, he was walking blind- beta/?11 his way to a patient in the future, who was reach!!i«ly still a stranger to him. He never ri College of Surgeons. He never em- (Tn his friend's yacht. What were the 'hath which turned him aside from the course trtojj had in view ? Nothing but a series of exjw ^mstances, occurring in the everyday .If.e lence of a man who goes out for a walk. khet had only reached the next street, when ttje J^t of the circumstances presented itself in Kg jjj^Pe of a friend's carriage which drew up at Wshv • bright benevolent face, encircled by J white whiskers, looked out of the window, Gs a arty voice asked him if he had completed Uj. J^ngements for a long holiday. Having re- to this, Ovid had a question to put, on his «S°w is our patent, Sir Richard? <( Vut of danger." Si la? what do the other doctors say, now ? *'v hard laughed. They say it's my luck." « vt°t 9onvinced yet ?" °t in the least. Who has ever succeeded in tour fools ? Let's try another subject. Is «(»Mother reconciled to your new plans?" hardly tell you. My mother is in a ?* indescribable agitation. Her brother's has been found in Italy. And his may arrive in England at a moment's « ^nmarried ? Sir Richard asked slily. « don't know." Op^?y money ?" 3y smiled—not cheerfully. '"Do you think ble -r m.°ther would be in a state of indescrib- gi aptati°n if there was not money ?" era lchard was one of those obsolete elderly who quote Shaksj>eare. Ah, well," he ■ah'' ur niother is like Kent in 4 King Lear 8 too old to learn. Is she as fond as ever of and j 85 keen as ever after a bargain ?" He D v a eard out of the carriage window. "I _iUs(t seen an old patient of mine," he re- re?r>. in whom I feel a friendly interest. She wnng from business by my advice; and she We, of all the people m the world, to help » getting rid of some wonderful rem- IffJw! 'an alarniing sacrifice!' My kind fer ri^' your mother-and there's a chanje for • One last word, Ovid. Don't be in too great urry to return to work you have plenty of .re time before you. Look at my wise dog N orJ the front seat, and learn from liim to be lie and happy." • j6 S^ent physic:an had another companion, fhisdog. A friend, bound his way, had knff a sca' 'n the "carriage. Who is that M»me young man ?" the friend asked as they ^veaway. 15 is the only son of a relative of mine, dead ^ny years since," Sir Richard replied. Don't « £ v,that J'1'11 have seen him." «« Jfay I ask why ?" .116 has not yet reached the prime of life and is on the way—already far on the way—to be °f the foremoi-t men of his time. With a p i- '"rtune, he has worked as few surgeons K who have their bread to get by their ession. The money comes from his laf.e His mother has married again. The Ho husljand is a lazy, harmless, stupid old .j. ^nauied Gallilee possessed of one small ad l0"—Hfty thousand pounds, grubbed up in e* There are two little daughters, by the ly j^^rriuge. With such a stepfather as I «th and, between ourselves, with a tb er.ho ha; rather more than her fair share 'r> v ^ea'ous> envious, aud money-loving pro- 8 of humanity, my friend Ovid is not rted by family influences from the close pur- II of his profession. You will tell me, he may rry- Well if he gets a good wife she will be 'rcu^nstance in his favour. But, so far as I iW' he is not that sort of man. Cooler, a deal er, with women than I am—though I am old vi-r1 he his father. Let us get back to his •Sessional i.rosi.ccts. You heard him ask me <;u-t a patient ? eyy good. Denth was knocking hard at that leiit's door when I called Ovid into consultation h lnytelf and with two other doctors who °red with me. It was one of the very rare JQ which the old practice of bleeding was, to the only treatment to pursue. I never .a hjni that this was the point in dispute '.peen me and the other men-—and they said „/Ui"K, on their side, at my express request. He i time to exaaiiue and think and he saw e chance of saving the patient by venturing on 'e Use of the lancet, as plainly us I d.d—with my y years' experience to teach ms! A young aa with that capacity for discovering the of disease, and with that Priority to the trammels of routine in applying Ie treatment, has no common medical career be- re him. His holiday will set his health right in -xt to no time. I see nothing in his way, a e«ent—not even a woman But," said Sir •cnard, with the explanatory wink of one eye, 'Ciiliar (iike quotations from Shaksp-aare) to per ns of the ob-elete old time, we know better all to forcast the weather, if a petticoat infln- Ice appaare on the horizon. One prediction, IWever, I do not risk. If his mother buys any that l.-ice—J know who will get the best of the wgain 1" The conditions under which the old doctor was illing to assume the character of a prophet never curred. Ovid lemembered that he was going la.V on a long voyage—and Ovid was a. good n' He bought some of the lace, as a present to s mother at parting and, most assuredly,' he >t the wor.it of the bargain. His shortest way back to the straight course, )m which he had deviated 111 making his pur- lase, led him into a by-street, near the flower ld iruit market of Oovent-garden. Here, he et wiih the second in number of the circum- i\nce3 which attended his walk. H3 found him- If eLe uutered by an intolerably filthy smell. .-Tii j market was not out of the direct way to lnc<>!a"s lun-tields. He fled from the smell to le flo.very and frllitr perfumes IIf Cuvent-g-arden, 'd completed the disinfecting process by means •A basket of strawberries. hy did a poor ragged little girl, carrying a g. b.sby, look with such longing eyes at the diciom fruit that, as a kind-hearted man, he >io alternative but to make her a presenfof e strawberries ? Why did two dirty boy-friends hers appear immediately afterwards with news Punch in a neighbouring street, and le-td the tie girl away with them ? Why did these 'o ne ,v circumstances inspire him with a ir tlMt the boys might take the strawberries vay from the poor child, burdened as she ItS with a baby almost as big as heisjlf? When 5 suffer from overwrought nerves we are easily sturbed hy small misgivings. The idle man of varied mind followed the friends of the street ama to see what happened, forgetful of the allege of Surgeons and finding a. new fund of Ittseiuent in himself Arrived ill the neighbouring street, he dis- Vered that the Punch performance had oomo aa end—like some other dramatic performances higher pretensions—for want of a paying audi- ce. He waited at a certain distance, Watching « children. Tdis doubts had done them an in- sfcice. The boys only said, Give us a taste." nd the libet.al little girl rewarded their good uduct. An equitable and friendly division the strawberries was made in a quiet corner. VVhere—always excepting the case of a miser or Millionaire—is the man to be found who could •ve returned to the pursuit of his own affairs, 'der these circumstances, without encouraging e practice of the social virtnes by a present ef a w pennies ? Ovid was not that man. Pitting back in his breast pocket the bag in »icli he was accustomed to carry small eoins for *all charities, his hand touched something which It like the envelope of a letter. He took it out looked at it with an expression of annoyance id surprise—and once more turned aside from 6 direct way to Lincoln's Inn-fields. The envelope contained his last prescription. *Ving occasion to cousult the Pharmacopoeia," had written it at home, and had promised to lid it to the patient immediately. In e absorbing interest of making his prepara- ms for leaving England, it had remained for- ttán in his pocket tor nearly two days. The 18 means of setting this uulucky error right, Ibont further delay, was to deliver his pre- fij>tion himself, and to break through his own for the second time, by attending to a case illness—purely an act of atonement. the patient live nearly -o^pogitQ to I the British Museum. In this northward direction he now set his face. He made his apologies, rmd gave his advice- and, getting out again iuto the street, tried onco more to shape his course for the College of Sur- geons. Passing the walled garden of the British Museum, he looked towards it—and paused. What had stopped him this time ? Nothing but a tree, fluttering its bright leares in the faint summer air. A marked change showed itself in his face. 'I The moment before, he had been passing in review the curious little interruptions which had attended his walk, and had wondered humorously what would happen next. Two women, meeting him, and seeing a smile on his lips, had said to each other, There is a happy man." If they had encountered him now, they might have reversed their opinion. They would have seen a man thinking of something once dear to him, in the far and uiiforgotten past. He crossed over the road to the side-street which faced the garden. His head dropped; he moved mechanically. Arrived in the street, he lifted his eyes, and stood (within nearer view of it) looking at the tree. Hundreds of miles away from London, under another tree of that gentle family, this man—so cold to women in after life—had made child-love, in the days of his boyhood, to a sweet little cousin long since numbered with the dead. The present time, with its interests and anxie- ties, passed away like the passing of a dream. Little by little, as the minutes followed each other, his sore heart felt a calming iinfluence, breathed mysteriously from those fluttering leaves. Still forgetful of the outward world, he wandered slowly up the street living in the old scenes; thinking, not unhappily now, the old thoughts. Where, in all London, could he have found a solitude more congenial to a dreamer in daylight ? The broad district, stretching northward and eastward from the British Museum, is like the (Quiet quarter of a country town set in the midst of the roaring activities of the largest city in the world. Here, you cross the road, without put- ting limb or life in peril. Here, when you are idle, you can saunter and look about, safe from collision with merciless straight-walkers whose time is money and whose destiny is business. Here, you may meet undisturbed cats on the pavement, in the full glare of noontide, and may watch through the railings: of the squares, children at play on grass that almost glows with the lustre of the Sussex Downs. This haven of rest is alike out of the way of fashion and business; and is yet within easy reach of the one and the other. Ovid paused in a vast and silent square. If his little cousin had lived, he might perhaps have seen his children at play in some such secluded spot as this. The birds were singing blithely in the trees. A tradesman's boy, delivering fish to the cook, and two girls watering flowers at a window, were the only living creatures near him, as he roused him- self and looked around. Where was the College ? Where were the Cu- rator and the Specimen ? Those questions brought with them no feeling of anxiety or surprise they crossed his mind like passing shadows. He turned, in a half-awakened way, without a wish or a purpose—turned and listlessly looked back. Two foot passengers, dressed in mourning gar- ments, were rapidly approaching him. One of them, as they came nearer, proved to be an aged woman. The other was a girl. He drew aside to let them pass. They looked at him with the lukewarm curiosity of strangers as they went by. The girl's eyes and his eyes met. Only the glance of an instant-and its influ- ence held him for life. She went swiftly on, as little impressed by the chance meeting as the old woman at her side. Without stopping to think—without being capable of thought—Ovid followed them. As a matter of absolute necessity, the magnet draws to it the steel. As a matter of absolute necessity, the girl drew to her the man. Never before had he done what he was doing now; he was, literally, out of himself. He saw them ahead of him; and he saw nothing else. Towards the middle of the square they turned aside into a street on the left. A concert-hall was in the street, with doors open for :an: afternoon performance. They entered the hall. Still out of himself, Ovid followed them. CHAPTER III. A room of magnificent size; furnished with every conventional luxury that money can buy lavishly provided with newspapers and books of reference; lighted by tall windows in the day- time, and by gorgeous chandeliers at night, may be, nevertheless, one of the dreariest places of rest and shelter that can be found on the civilised earth. Such places exist, by hundreds, in those hotels of monstrous proportions and pretensions which now engulf the traveller who ends his jour- ney on the pier or the platform. It may be that we feel ourselves to be strangers among strangers —it may be that there is something innately re- pellent in splendid carpets and curtains, chairs and tables, which have no social associations to recommend them—it may be that the mind loses its elasticity under the inevitable restraint on friendly communication, which expresses itself in lowered tone and instinctive distrust of our next neighbour—but this alone is certain life in the public drawing-room of a great hotel is life with all its liveliest emanations perishing miserably in an exhausted receiver. On the same day, and nearly at the same hour, when Ovid had leit his house, two women sat in a corner of a public room in one of the largest of the railway hotels latterly built in London. Without observing it themselves, they wereob- jects of curiosity to their fellow travellers. They spoke to each other in a foreign language. They were dressed in deep mourning—with an absence of fashion and a simplicity of material which at- tracted the notice of every other woman in the room. One of them wore a black veil over her grey hair. Her hands were brown, and knotty at the joints her eyes looked unnaturally bright for hef age. innumerable wrinkles crossed and re- crossed her skinny fac* and her aquiline nose (ae one of the ladies present took occasion to re- mark) was 110 disastrously like the nose of the great Duke of Wellington as to be an offensive feature in the face of a woman. The lady's companion, being a man, took a more merciful view. "She can't help being ugly," he whispered. But see how &h" looks at the girl with her. A good old creature, I say, if ever there Was one yet." The lady eye i him, as only a jealous woman can eye her husband, and whispered back, "Of course you're in love with thatalipofagirit" She was a slip of a girl—and not even a tall slip. At seventeen years of age, it was doubtful whether she would ever grow to a better height. But even a. girl who is too thin, and not quite so tall as the Venus de' Medici, may still be possessed of personal attractions. It was not altogether a matter of certainty in this case, that the attractions were sufficiently remark- able to excite general admiration. The fine colour and the plump healthy cheeks, the broad smiie, the regular teeth, the v. ell-developed mouth, and the promising bosom, which form altogether the average type of beauty found in the purely- bred English maiden, were not among the notice- able charms of the small creature in gloomy black shrinking into a corner of the big room. She had very little colour of any sort to boast of. Her hair was of so light a brown that it just escaped being flaxen but it had the negative merit of not being forced down to her eyebrows, and twisted into the hideous curly-wig which exhibits a liberal equality of ugliness on the heads of women in the present day. There was a delicacy of finish in her features—in the nose and the lips especially—a sensitive changefulnesa in the ex- pression of her eyes (too dark in themselves to be quite in harmony with her light hair); and a subtle yet simple witchery in her rare smile, which atoned, in some degree at least, for want of com- plexion in the face and of flesh in the figure. Men might dispute her claims to beauty-but no one could deny that slio wa;, in the common phrase, an iuterastiug person. Grace and refine- ment; a quickness of apprehension and a vivacity of movement, suggestive of some foreign origin a childish readiness of wonder, in the presence of new objects, and perhaps, under happier circum- stances, a childish playfulness with persons whom she loved, were all characteristic attractions of the modest stranger who was in charge of the ugly old woman, and was palpably the object of tha.t wrinkled duenna's devoted love. A travelling writing-case stood open on a table near them. In an interval of silence the girl looked at it reluctantly. They had been talking of family affaiw—and had spoken in Italian, so as to keelJ their domestic Plecrects from the eard of the strangers about them. The old woman was the first to resume the conversation. My Carmina, you rea/ty ought to write that letter," she said the illustrious Mrs Gallilee is waiting to hear of our arrival in London." Carolina took up the pen and put it down again with a sigh. "We only arrived last night," she pleaded. Dear old Teresa, let us have one day ill London by ourselves t" Teresa received this proposal with undisguised amazement and alarm. Jesu Maria! a day in London—and your aunt waiting for you an the time She is yonr seeond mother, my dear, by appointment and her house is your new home. And you propose to stop a whole day at an hotel, instead of going homo. Impossible Write, my Oarinina—write. See, here is the address on a card:—"Fairfield gardens." What a pretty place it must be to live in with such a name as that! And a sweet lady, no doubt. Come, come But Carmina still resisted. I have never even seen my aunt," she said. It is dreadful to pass my lite with a stranger. Remember, I was only a child when you came to lis after my mother's death. It is hardly six months yet since I lost my father. I hare no one bnt you, and when I go to this new home, you will leave me. I only ask for one more day to be together, before we part." The poor old duenna drew back, out of eight, in the shadow of a curtain—and began to cry. Carmina took her hand, under cover of a table- cloth Carmina knew how to Console her. u We will go and see sights," she wh" spared and, when dinner-time comes, you shall have a glass of tha Porto-porlo-wine." Teresa looked round oat of the shadow, as easily comforted as a child. Sights," she exclaimed— and dried her tears. Porto-porto-tfine !M she repeated—and smaoked her withered lips a.t the relishing words. c, Ah, my child, you have not forgotten the consolation* I told you of, when I lived in London in my young days. To think of you, with an English father, and never in London till now I used to go to museums and ooncerts sometimes, when my Eng- lish mistress was pleased with me. That gr.-vcious lady often gave me a glass of the flne strong purple wine. The Holy Virgin grant that Aunt Gal- lilee may be as kind a woman 1 Such a head of hair as the other one she vannot hope to have. It was a joy to dress it. Do you think I wouldn't stay here in England with yen if I could ? What is to beoome of my old man in Italy, with his cursed asthma, and nobody to nurse him t Oh, but those were dull days in London. The black endless streeta- the dreadfel Sundays — the hundreds of thousands of people, always ia a hurry, always with grim faces set on business, J business, business 1 1 was glad te get back and 1 be married in Italy. And here 1 am ) in London again, after God knows how many1 i years. No matter. We will enjoy ourselves to» • day j and when we sro tq Madame GallUpa'a to- I morrow, we will tell a little lie, and say we only I arrived on the evening that has not yet come." The duenna's sense of humour was so tickled by this prospective view of the little lie, that she leaned back in her chair and laughed. Carmina's rare smile showed itself faintly. The terrible first interview with the unknown aunt still op- pressed her. She took up a newspaper in despair. Oh, my old dear she said, let us get out of this dreadful room, and be reminded of Italy." Teresa lifted her ugly hands in bewilderment. Reminded of Italy—in London ?" "Is there no Italian music ill London?" Car- mina asked, suggestively. The duenna's bright eyes answered this in their own language. She snatched up the nearest news- paper. It was then the height of the London concert season. Morning performances of music were announced in rows. Reading the advertised pro- grammes, Carmina found them, in one remarkable respect, all alike. They would have led an ignorant stranger to wonder whether' any such persons as Italian composers, French composers, and English composers had ever existed. The music offered to the English public was music of exclusively Ger- man (and for the most part modern German) origin. Carmina held the opinion—in common with Mozart and Rossini, as well as other people —that music without melody is not music at all. She laid aside the newspaper. The plan of going to a concert being thus aban- doned, the idea occurred to them of seeing pictures. Teresa, in search of information, tried her luck at a great table in the middle of the room, on which useful books were liberally displayed. She returned with a catalogue of the Royal Academy Exhibition (which someone bad left on the table), and with the most universally well informed book, on a small scale, that has ever enlightened humanity— modestly described on the title-page as an Almanac. Carmina opened the catalogue at the first page, and discovered a list of Hoyal Academicians. Were all these gentlemen celebrated painters ? Out of forty names, three only had made them- selves generally known beyond the limits of Eng- land. She turned to the last page. The works of art on show numbered more than fifteen hundred. Teresa, looking over her shoulder, made the same discovery. Our heads will ache and our feet will ache," she remarked, before we get out of that place." Carmina laid aside the catalogue. Teresa opened the almanac at hazard, and hit on the page devoted to Amusements. Her next discovery led her to the section inscribed Mu- seums." She scored an approving mark at that place with her thumb-nail—and read the list in fluent broken English. The British Museum? Teresa's memory of that magnificent building recalled it vividly in one re- spect. She shook her head. "More headache and footache there Bethnal Green; Indian Museum; College of Surgeons; Practical Geo- logy South Kensington; Patent Museum—all unknown to Teresa. The saints preserve us what headaches and footaches in all these, if they are as big as that other one She went on with the list, and astonished everybody in the room by suddenly clapping her hands. Sir John Soane's Museum, Lincoln's-inn Fields. Ah, but I re- member that! A nice little easy museum in a private house, and all sorts of pretty things to see. My dear love, trust your old Teresa. Come to Soane In ten minutes more they were dressed, and on the steps 01 the hotel. The bright sunlight, the pleasant air, invited them to walk. On the same afternoon, when Ovid had set forth on foot for Lincoln's Inn-fields, Carmina and Teresa set forth on foot for Lincoln's Inn-fields. Trivial obstacles had kept the man away from the College. Would trivial obstacles keep the women away from the Museum ? They crossed the Strand, and entered a street which led out of it towards the North Teresa's pride in her memory forbidding her thus far to ask their way. Their talk—dwelling at first on Italy, and on the memory of Carmina's Italian mother—reverted to the formidable subject of Mrs Gallilee. Teresa's hopeful view of the future turned to the cousins, and drew the picture of two charming little girls, eagerly waiting to give their innocent hearts to their young relative from Italy. Are there only two?" she said. "Surely you, told me there was a boy, besides the girls ?" Carmina set her right. My cousin Ovid is a great doctor," she answered with an air of importance. Poor papa used to say that our family would have reason to be proud of him." "Does he live at home?" asked simple Teresa. "Oh, dear, no He has a grand house of his own. Hundreds of sick people go there to be cured, and give hundreds of golden guineas." Hundreds of golden guineas gained by only cur- ing sick people, represented to Teresa's mind something in the nature of a miracle: she solemnly raised her eyes to heaven. What a eousin to have! Is he young ? is he handsome? is he mar- ried 1" Instead of answering these questions, Carmina looked over her shoulder. "Is this poor creature following us ?" she asksd. They had now turned to the right, and had entered a busy street leading directly to Covent- garden. The creature," who was undoubtedly following them. was one of the starved and vaga- bond dogs of London. Every now and then the sympathiesof their rase lead these inveterate wan- derers to attach themselves, for the time, to some human companion, whom their mysterious in- sight chooses from the crowd. Teresa, with the hard feeling towards animals which is one of the serious defects of the Italian character, cried, Ah, the mangy beast I" and lifted her umbrella. The dog started back, waited a moment, and fol- lowed them again as they went on. Carmina's gentle heart gave its pity to this lost and huugry creature. "1 must buy that poor dog something to eat," she said, and stopped suddenly as the idea struck her. The dog, accustomed to kicks and curses, was ignorant of kindness. Following close behind her, when she checked herself, he darted a .iay in terror into the road. A cab was driven by rapidly at the moment. The wheels passed over the dog's neck. And there was an end, as a man remarked looking on, of the troubles of a cur. This common accident struck the girl's sensitive nature with horror. Helpless and .speechless, she trembled piteously. The nearest open door was the door of a music-seller's shop. Teresa led her in, and asked for a chair and a glass of wator. The proprietor, feeling the interest in Carmina which she seldom failed toinspire among strangers, went the length of offering her a glass of wine. Prefeiring water, she soon recovered herself sum- ciently to be able to leave the chair. "May I change my mind about going to the museum?" sshe said to her companion. "After what has happened, I hardly feel equal to looking at curiosities." Teresa's ready sympathy tried to find some acceptable alternative. "Music would be better, wouldn't it?" she suggested. The so-called Italian Opera was open that night; and the printed announcement of the per- formance was in the shop. They both looked at it. Fortune was still against them. A German opera appeared on the bill. Carmina turned to the music-seller in despair. "Is there no music, sir, but German music to be heard in London?" she a:;ked. The hospitable shopkeeper produced a concert programme for that afternoon-the modest enterprise of an obscure pianoforte teacher who could only venture to address pupils, patrons, and friends. What did h6 promise? Among other tilings, music from "Lucia," music from "Norma," music from "Ermmi." Teresa made another approving remark with her thumb-nail; and Carmina purchased tickets. The music-seller hurried to the door to stop the first empty cab that might pass. Carmina showed a deplorable ignorance of the law of chances. She shrank from the bare idea of getting into a cab. We may run over some other poor creature," she said. "If it isn't a dog, it may be a child next time." Teresa and the music-seller suggested a more reasonable view as gravely as they could. Carmina humbly submitted to the claims of com- mon sense—without yielding, for all that. I know I'm wrong, she confessed. Don't spoil my pleasure I can't do it t" The strange parallel was now complete. Bound for the same destination, Garmina and Ovid had failed to reach it alike. And Carmina had stopped to look at the garden of the British Museum, be- fore she overtook Ovid in the quiet square. CHAPTER IV. If, on entering the hall, Ovid had noticed the placards, he would have found himself confronted by a coincidence. The person who gave the con- cert was also the person who taught music to his half-sisters. Not many days since he had himself assisted the enterprise, by taking a ticket at his mother's request. Seeing nothing, remembering nothing—hurried by the lear of losing sight of the two strangers; if there was a large audlènce-he impatiently paid for another ticket at the doors. The room was little more than half-full, and so insulliciently ventilated that the atmosphere was oppressive even under those circumstances. He easily discovered the two central chairs, in the midway row of seats, which she and her com- panion had chosen. There was a vacant chair (among many others) at one extremity of the row in front of them. He took tttat place. To look at her, without being discovered—there, so far, was the beginning and the end of his utmost de- sire. The performance had already begun. So long as her attention was directed to the singers and players on the platfoim, he oould feast his eyes on her with impunity. In an unoccupied inter- val, she looked at the audience—and discovered him. Had he offended her? If appearances were te be trusted, he had pro- duced no iitipression of any sort. She quietly looked away, towards the other side of the room. The mere turning of her head was misinterpreted by Ovid as an implied rebuke. He moved to the row of seats behind her. She was now nearer te him than she had yet been. He was agaia con- tent, and more than content. <Jhe next performance was a sold on the piano. A round of applauap welcomed the played Ovid looked at the platform for the first time. In the bowing man, with a prematurely bald head and a servile smile, he recognised Mrs Gallilee'a musie- inaster. The inevitable infereace followed. His mother might be in the room. After careful examination of the scanty aedi- ence, he failed to discover her—thus far. She would certainly arrive, nevertheless. My i&oaey'it- worth for my money was a leading principle in Airs Gallilee'* lite. He sighed at he looked towards the door of en- trance. Not for long had be revelled in the luxury of A new happiness. He had openly avowed hIS dislike of concerts when his mother bad made him take a ticket for ihit concert. With her quickness of apprehension what might she net suspect, if she found him among the audieaeet •Come what might of it, fee still kept his place; he still feasted his eyes vm the elim figure of the young girl, on the gentle yet spirited carriage of her head. But the pleasure was ne longer plea- sure without alloy. His mother bad got b&tw&en t them now. The sole on tlte pianft eatn$to an end. In the interval that foUotred, he turn^J tmce more towaids the entrance. ns be was look- ing away again. Lie heard' Mrs ufallilee's loud toice. She ndtninistoring a maternal caution" to oris t)T the children. Behav6 better here than you behave4 & carriage, or Ij&aU take mswaxJi. I If she found him in his present place—if she put her own clever construction on what she saw—her opinion would assuredly express itself in some way. She was one of those women who can insult another woman (and safely disguise it) by an inquiring look. For the girl's sake Ovid instantly moved away from her to the seats at the back of the hall. Mrs Gallilee made a striking entrance—dressed to perfection powdered and painted to perfec- tion leading her daughters with grace followed by her governess with humility. The usher courteously indicated places near the platform. Mrs Gallilee astonished him by a little lecture on acoustics delivered with the sweetest condescen- sion. Her Christian humility smiled, and called the usher, Sir, Sound, sir, is most perfectly heard towards the centre of the auditorium." She led the way towards the centre. Vacant places invited her to the row of seats occupied by Carmina and Teresa. She, the unknown aunt, seated herself next to the unknown niece. They looked at each other. Perhaps, it was the heat of the room- Perhaps, she had not perfectly recovered the nervous shock of seeing the dog killed. Carmina's head sank on Teresa's shoulder. She had fainted. (To be continued.)
[ALL RIGHTS RESKRVED.].
[ALL RIGHTS RESKRVED.] GIDEON FLEYCE. 't APOLITICAL NOVEL. BY HENRY W. LUCY. CHAPTER XIII.—GIDEON^S GUESTS. Gideon had not run up to town solely for the purpose of calling to see his father. Being in London he had thought the opportunity favorable for paying a visit to the old man, and he was a little crestfallen at the result. It was quite a new light that had flashed forth in the outburst of passion. Nothing of this kind had previously passed between the two, and Gideon had been altogether misled as to the view taken by his father of his ambitious pursuits. The old gentle- man hitherto maintained the merry mood which sat upon him so quaintly. He had said nothing when Gideon changed the family patronymic for one that had struck his fancy. It is true he always ignored the change in such written com- munication as he held with his son, always ad- dressing him as Isaac Gideons. Now Gideon had learned how bitterly the old man resented the slight, and what animosity he nourished towards the son who, according to his view, had cast him off. To do Gideon justice he was not especially pained by the prospect of being cut off from enjoy- ment of his father's wealth. There were times when the ability to go to a safe like that in Fulbam-road would have been highly convenient. But Gideon had before him the prospect of quite sufficient wealth of bis own making. It was, as be sometimes said to himself, all a question of holding on. His property, it was true, was mortgaged, but well within its real value. As long as he had the interest forthcoming all was well, and as the months passed on the time was visibly approaching when he should be able to sell his holding at great profit. Therefore the Spider's evident intention of cutting him off did not hurt him nearly so much as the feeling that he had fatally wounded his father's pride, and that recon- ciliation was hopeless. The old man had been kind to him in his way. He had made room for him in the business ia Carlton-street at an age which imposed on him no necessity to retire. Gideon would have been glad if he had taken in his new pursuits an ordinary measure of interest, and had displayed in his prosperity that pride which he felt they justly merited. But he knew it was no use trying to argue the matter out. The old man must go his way, and Gideon would go his. This now led him to Carlton-street, where, in the same room where we first met him in company, with Captain O'Brien, he had another interview with that estimable and indefatigable gentleman. Since things were going on swimmingly at Sax- ton, and his prospect of presently entering the House of Commons appeared certain, Gideon began to think that he would like to have a fore- taste of the joys of that society he yearned to enter. The difficulty was that with the exception of O'Brien he knew nobody, and though a good many men in society knew his family name, and had a personal acquaintance with his father, the circumstanccs relating thereto were not of a char- acter that would induce them to force their hospit- ality upon the Spider's progeny, albeit disguised and renamed. Gideon had great faith in giving a dinner. His first proposal to O'Brien was that he should issue, l11 name> invitations to a carefully-selected body of well-known members inviting them to dme with him at the Cottage. O'Brien was able to show him that this would not do, and at last it was arranged that O'Brien was to give a little dinner at his club, which Gideon of course was to pay for, and at which he was to make his dibut as a political personage. I have got all settled at last," said O'Brien, but it's been rather a tough job, of course not in the matter of soup, or fish, or wines. They're all right, and will be of a quality suitable to your high hopes. The difficulty was to get fellows to come. Everybody's engaged three deep just now, and scarcely anyone is to be bad under six weeks' notice. But I've done pretty well, and have got a fairly good company." How many shall we be ? asked Gideon, twenty ?" I should hope not. You don't suppose this is going to be an agricultural dinner or a mid-day debauch by one of the committees of the Corpora- tion ot London. It's not dining to get twenty men into a room it's feeding. What you want is an opportunity of meeting a few men who may be useful to you, and having a quiet talk all round the table. If I'd done exactly what I wanted I would havo left us eight all told. But knowing your weakuess for numbers I've stretched a point and made it ten. "And who are they:" Gideon asked, "meekly accepting this rebuke of his hospitable intent. First of all, giving due precedence to her Majesty's judges, there's Belsey. He's a very good fellow, and has not been on the bench long enough to get spoiled. I don't frequent that part of Westminster much, and never was at an assize court in the country; but I read sometimes of the goings oil of the judges, and am surprised people stand it. The way they bully the public all round, from the sheriff in his gilt carriage to the witness who ia driven in a tram car is incredible besides being nousensical. I sometimes feel in- clined, if I had a six months' leisure, to get sub- pujnaed as a witness where Spotsam is judge. I wouldn't have to do very much to bring about an explosion from the bench, whereupon a few words quietly spoken from the witness-box might have a useful effect ill calling attention to an abuse of authority, which exists only because the ordinary public when dragged into the witness-box are so belated with the strangeness of the place, the pomp of the proceedings, and the bullying which begins with the usher, that they don't say a word." Why do you want six months' leisure? A week or even a day would do if you could chose your time." That would do for the proceedings in court, but for the rest of the time I should be in prison. However, you needn't be afraid of meeting Bel- sey; he has^not yet got innoculated with the bump- tiousness of the bench. He was a very good fellow in the House, and would have made a better Solicitor-General than more than one who has been chosen over his head. Still, he's done pretty well, though I fancy he often hankers after the husks of Parliamentary debate. Then Gilbert will come, which is awfully good of him, seeing the pressure upon him. But he takes a strong interest in your case, and will do any- thing to further it. It will be an immense ad- vantage for you to be found in his company, Then there's Mockett. You've heard of him, I dwe say. ie's getting up in years now, and is quite out of the hunt; but he bears his disappointment pluekily, acknowledging that he played his own game, and if he lost he had no one to blame but himself. Was in the Ministry, and seei-ied to have a future before him, but dif- fered with Gladstone on the question of the quality of paper to be used in the Blue Books, or something of that kind, and heroically resigned .»is post. The newspapers cracked him up a good deal, more especially the Conservative journals, who had long articles extolling his patriotism, and applauding the honesty of a man who, on a matter of principle preferred his Conscience to his place. I rather fancy Mockett thought Glad- stone would beg him to withdraw his resignation, but G. was very busy at the time, didn't think anything of it, scarcely missed Mockett from the Treasury Bench, and so the thing drifted on, and a successor was appointed. It was a'delicate and a dangerous game to play, and turned out a bad job for Mockett." Has he been in the shade long f 1 It happened many years ago now, and rQ1ad- stone has had more than one chance of bringing him back, but when new ministries have been formed, or vacancies have occurred, Mockett has never been thought of. He's shelved absolutely, though ho serves a public use by presenting a fear- ful example to ambitious and restless young Ministers. Since his failure he has shown a good deal of Sense. Of course he feels the position bitterly, but he has not angled with the other side, nor posed as a candid friend—at least not often, and never seriously. He is well informed, well connected, has travelled much, Tcnows people and places, and is a capital fellow at a dinner table. Denbam you've not heard of yet, though you will if both of you live a few years longer. He's a lawyer, very sound, and in rising practice, but what is more unusual, a favourite speaker in the House of Commons—the best of his cloth I should say, being able most fully to divest himself of wig and gown when ho rises to discuss matters of general policy. He has no Ocmnections, and nothing tehefp him except his own ability; but he'll get on." "Now that's cheeirng, "said Gideon. <f I Ske to hear that a man may get on in the House of Comn.ons simply by his own merit." There's nothing else that will get him en there. He may bo the 808 of a Duke and yet a blockhead. In private intercourse membeN will < never forget his father the Duke, but in their; aggregate oapacity they are absolutely insensible to the Subtle attraction of the parentage, and will howl him down as impertinently as if his mother were a washerwoman. Look at Blissendien, who is also coming on Wednesday. There's a man that started in life certainly with lea adYaDlal,1J than I possessed. He is, or was something in tlie wool line, and has a big factory at iBradfteld, his first taste of public life Was in the Town Council of his native town, and his finst essay ia statesmanship related to the carrying out plan of sewering the town. I hare been told by a man who lives in Bradfield that the quiet, yet resist- less, way in which Blissendoa came to tbe fore was something marvellous to see. At that time it is possible me ambition did &1M go beyond the folds of the aldennanie gown or the length M the mayor's chair. But -be worked tremendously, eegtectingnedeta.il, shrinking fr<afc no labour, and pfaotwing all thtiBB ar&iftthe management of public affairs which v-iifaoBfte day be used by him OA a very liffersut SOE 1ft, Hee made his mart; in PurliaiMBnt already, and tit J»e very Way that will Ctynfhtn the opinion bf those titost *arrg«iB« for lite future. The House, whieh Itad beard gw»d -deal of him, and expected something truculent and ag- W 8W tii« aaiet* dressed, almost boyish-looking man, who didn't talk broad Yorkshire, as had been expected who didn't appear in his shirt sleeves, as had been ap- Erehended and who, above all, refrained from eaving half a brick at the Speaker on the ground that, seated in Ithe chair, he was a convenient I cockshy. Blissenden is only just beginning, and f will go a long way before he's pulled up. Goymer is a man of another type, equally ambitious, hard- working, and in his way capable. It just depends on the humour of the man who forms the next Liberal Ministery whether he gets a place in it or not. That's what he is trying for in an awkward, heavy style, which contracts painfully with Blissenden's forward and incisive motion. Goymer is a wonderfully learned fellow, distills some of his surplus information through the news- papers, and wants to pour it in buckets on the Honse. The House won't have it, and then Goy- mer storms at it, insisting that whether it likes it or not it shall be instructed. Of course, he might as well run his head against a stone'wall. Having tried it on once or twice, the House now won't listen to him, even when he may have something to say. But he is an honest man, though heavy and somewhat given to crochets, and I need not tell a man of your genal information that there is nothing more fatal to success in public life than the taint of a crochet." If he writes for the newspapers," said Gideon, •Til get him to do me a few articles for my paper, when it is started." I think I wouldn't ask him just now, at least not at the dinner. I am not quite sure that he writes the sort of thing that would go down at Saxton. Now I am nearly through the list, though there's no opportunity of omitting Wratten. I'm not quite sure how it comes about that Wratten will be one of UR. I'm by no means clear whether I asked him or whether he invited himself. How- ever, he's coming, and we must make the best of him. He is the man of whom Starcourt said that ■ he ought to be nailed on the door of the House of Commons, as a bat is nailed on a stable door as a warning to whom it may concern. Starcourt, you know, is a pretty good judge of Parliamentary demeanour, though not himself a successful practitioner, and he didn't too strongly put the general view about poor Wratten. I said poor because the man must lead a miserable life. He came into the House determined to take it by storm, and he is constantly being snubbed. It is said, but this of course is a libel, that the ink was not dry where he had signed his name at the table before he was on his legs giving notice of a resolution on a ques- tion of high imperial policy. He is not without a method, but the plans he has are much of the same kind as those the ostrich is accustomed to carry out when it has its head comfortably buried in the sand, and thinks no one can see it. Wrat- ten's one notion is to keep his name before the public—if in conjuction with that of a dis- tinguished man so much the better. With this object, whenever any great event; happens during the sitting of the House, he breathlessly rushes down, and seizes the first opportunity to put a question to Ministers on the matter, You can see him sitting on the edge of the bench anxiously looking round the House, guessing whether anyone wishes to get before him. The thing being of importance, his name figures prominently in th# report the next morning, and the name of Wratten looms large among the constituencies. This is one of his minor arts. A more serious undertaking is when he gives notice to bring in a. bill, or move a reso- lution on a subject which the Ministry have undertaken to deal with. Of course he has to withdraw in their favour, but when he meets his constituents he is able to say, 4 See what a good boy am I, and what a powerful influence for good. The moment I moved in this matter, the Treasury Bench saw the time had come, and now are going to deal with the abuse.' I believe Wratten is a perfect nuisance in the newspaper f offices, always sending them paragraphs about himself, or carefully prepared reports of speeches which he is about to deliver. He is not a desir- able companion, but I don't think we need regret his getting the invitation however it was obtained. He will be useful for you as a study of what you should avoid. There you are, Fleyce; there's the last of your guests. By the way we must not forget to keep up the little fiction that they are mine." 1 only make nine of it," said Gideon, who had been a wrapt listener to this somewhat candid dis- cussion of his guests. Oh, I forgot Gosley, the dear old Gosley I did ask him, though, to tell the truth, it was be- cause Pennyfatber couldn't come. Gosley is a bore, though of a different type from Goymer or Wratten. He has the largest views of his duties* as a member of Parliament, and a quite cosmo- politan range of subjects. From Greenland's icy mountains to India's coral strand Gosley is quite at home. He's always buzzing round like a blue- bottle on a hot summer day. A thorough Liberal, conscientious and useful to the extent of his powers; but he likes to think he is directing forces, like old what d'ye call it, Addison wrote about, who was seated in the whirlwind directing the storm. At critical moments he gets in the tea room with one or two old women of his own mind, and they with their mouths full of muffin declare We can't stand this sort of thing any longer.' So they draw up resolutions and promote cabals which, ridiculous in their inception, are not without their influence on public affairs. To see old Gosley marching about the lobbies after one of these portentous meetings is a sight full of en- joyment for persons not immediately concerned. In moments of melancholy he will descant on the absence of appreciation on the part of successive Prime Ministers who have not invited him to join their Cabinets. Gosley could do anything. Foreign Affairs, the Colonial Office, the Home Office, any of these he would prefer. But he would not be above looking tfter the Navy or caring for the Army if the Premier p-rci&od him to take office in connection with either of these ser- vices. His is a good old sonl of a much larger nature than Wratten, and though a bore, at least amusing. Now we have gone through the list of guests. Perhaps youll leave the management and the wines to me, and don't forget eight on Wednesday next." CHAPTER XIV.—Ai Dinner. O'Brien's final difficulty in respect to the dinner was the arrangemeut of the guests at the table. He had fought his way successfully through all earlier obstacles, but felt that this was not to be slighted. He wished that the party should be useful to his client and agreeable to his friends. Gideon was, as he said ta hnnaetf, "such a duffer," that he felt he had no night to thrust him upon men like the Judge or Blissenden, or even Mockett. It was another thing with Gilbert. What is a Whip for if he ill not able to put up with an hour or two's boring company ? But O'Brien had a heart, and felt that Gilbert had done enough by promising to come, and he was determined that the evening should be made as agreeable for himVis possible. At first he had the notion of planting Blissenden next to Gideon. These Radicals are too cock-a-whoop," he had said to himself, and a little bringing down won't do them any harm." Finally there burst upon him a happy thought, which was carried out when with moderate punc- tuality the company found themselves at d nner, anJ Gideon was seated between Wratten and Gosley. All this anxiety on the part of O'Brien was perhaps a little unnecessary. He had formed certain fixed ideas about Gideon which induced him to treat with hasty contempt his pretensions to take his place in the political world. With his wide experience O'Brien might have been expec- ted to know better than to regard this as an ex- ceptional weakness. Gideon was quite as well informed and more capable of acquiring informa- tion in politics than many men who sat in the House for important constituencies, and looked monstrous wise on the strength of the position. The difference in Gideon's case was that, being bent upon carrying out a certain undertaking, he had very wisely, when seeking ad vice from a business man, admitted his total ignorance. Gideon looked very well as he sat among the men who, without their knowing it, were his guests. He w s better dressed than some of them, notably the Judge or Mockett. As a rule tbe House of Commons is a bad place to look for models of good dress, more especially if they be sought on the Liberal benches. The Judge had already brought h'6 shirt front into a woefully crumpled state, whilst Gideon smiled above a fair and uncru.npled expanse of cambric. "How do you like your new dignity, Belssyt" asked Gilbert. Not at all," said the Judge, in his hasty, ahnl- eric manner. If I were a man of fortune I would give up the post at once and return to the old cattle ground. I would aM soon, having to make the choice over again, be a cherubim as a judge. They are, I suppose, cut off from free and unceremonious intercourse with the world around them, just as we sitting on our bench are. 1 am fond of politics, and have been ever since 1 was a lad. Now I dare no more open my month in public thereupon than I dare swear at the Lord Chancellor. I am not supposed to have any opinion on current affairs, whereas I have very strong ones, and never have been a good hand at disguising them. More than that, one is o-it off from cheerful conversation and companionship. I tried to get over this, at first perhaps a little spasmodically. There's Wenham, for example, an old chum of mine ever since we both went to the bar together. I often meet him walking down to Westminster Hall, and fall in for a chat. But it's no use I have given it up. Perhaps if I were to meet him on an iceberg in the Arctic Ocean, or in a moor in Scotland, it might be all right. But so near Westminster Hall, he evidently cannot get over his associations, or forget that pre- sently 1 will be on the bench and he pleadiug before me. I give you my word of honour, I'm afraid to say when I meet him: f A fine morning, Wenham,' for fear he should reply, As your lordship pleases. YOIl are misanthropic, gloomy, and pre- judice. I. Yoa ate neif to the business, and take a one-sided view of it. But look at the other side look at the salary, the dignity, and the oppor- « tunitios of quietly amassing & fortune without killing yourself with work.* "The dignity is all right, but in- sufficient. There ie, t believe, a vulgar notion abroad that judges going circuit travel at the expense of the State, and are entertained at the charge of the Exchequer. That makes the real facts more aggravating. I was sitting at dinner next to John Bright the other night, and in hit sneering atrabilious way ho said, What a nice lot of fellows you judges are when you can't travel about without a good cook.' New that's ignorance, sheer iguorance, Madame,' as John- son said when the lady asked why, in his diction- ary, he had defined the pastern of a horse as its fetlock. Only Bright is so confoundedly self- satisfied thatyau ard not 'ikely to get aa admis- sion of ignorance from bin* Then don't you have a cook ? asked Gideon, gratefully striking in, feeling that the conversa- tion was now coming to his level. No, sir," said the judge, wrathfully, appar- ently disposed to make the matter a personal ?uestion with tbe company. What we nave is a ellow whom we call a contractor. He undertakes to feed the judges and their suites aH through the circuit, and a pretty stiff suiA it comes to. Our bill on the Oxford circuit last time came to £362, (tad that did not include -wine or beer. One of the odd yhings about it is that eMfeealStt is ex- cepted. Ton way have acup of tea, but if you ask fur a oup of coffee its extra." U This ia really shocking," 81.id Cf Brien, 44 and io my uuntl yrvveo uiwa otaKiy tftftu wear that the country is going to the dogs. But then you have lodgement. Yes, we have lodgings of one kind or another. At Carlisle they are infamous, at Liverpool ex- cellent, at Manchester uncomfortably gorgeous. Perhaps, as I see I am exciting your profoundest sympathy and chilling Denham's professional enthusiasm, causing him to consider his deter- mination to mount the bench, I should say that there are two towns on circuit where judges are received right royally and entertained at the charges of the municipality. One is Bristol and the other Newcastle-on-Tyne. At Bristol, some years ago, they tried to shuffle off the coil of hos- pitality, and took an opinion from Selborne, who was then Roundell Palmer. He advised them that they certainly might drop the custom, only, on the other hand, the judges would then not be bound to perform certain antique and graceful forms for the municipality, so they decided to hold on by the ancient customs. Then there's the buck. As Fitz said to me when we arrived in Exeter, The Western Circuit would be endur- able only for its venison. Tell us about the buck. I never heard of that." No one half of the world never knows how the other half lives. There's a great earl down near Exeter whose forefathers have been in the the habit of welcoming the arrival of the judges at the county town by the present of a fine buck. I daresay it began in the time of Judge Jeffreys, who went the Western Circuit, and loved venison. I don't care for it myself, being of the opinion of Coningsby's friend, the great Lord Everingham, who thought the breeds of sheep must have been very inferior in the old days as they made such a noise about their venison. All I know is that the judges have to give two guineas to the man who brings the buck, and two guineas to the con- tractor, together with two bottles of port wine to assist in the cooking. Why this should be is wholly incomprehensible, particu- larly in the case of the contractor, who generally gets the buck. This is bad, but I hear it is worse at Lincoln, where.there are two noble- men who send a buck apiece for the delectation of her Majesty's judges, and tHese little formulas have to be gone through twice." Pity the sorrows of a poor judge But they don't seem to dim the spirits of Dorkings." No, those are irrepressible, especially during a good black assize. Wilton says Dorkings would sit at the Old Bailey day after day without salary if he might only pass per diem sentences amount- ing to a hundred years penal servitude. We never have any difficulty in arranging who's to do the hard work at the Old Bailey. Dorkings, like Barkis, is always willing." But I don't know about his permitting him- self pleasure without pay," said Denham. He was when at the Bar always pretty keen about the fees." Yes, and he managed to roll up a pretty good lump before he consented to face those calls upon the purse which Belsey has so pathetically de- scanted upon." Mr Mockett, chimed in 4<I suppose you have heard of his conversation with the Duchess of Mull the other day. She came up to him, and with the atrocious bad manner which duchesses sometimes permit themselves, said: 'Well, Sir Albert, I have head that you are a very rich man.' 'Yes, Duchess,' said Dorkings a little taken aback and horribly afraid she was going to ask him for a subscription. 4 I have worked hard and have been paid regularly.' 'Well, now tell me how much are you worth y 4 About ten miffions said Dorkings, with his gravest bow, and the Duchess retreated defeated." U Dorkings," said .the Judge, has the complete way of growing rich. He earns a great deal and spends nothing he never entertains company. I never met a man who had been in his house. There's some mystery about him." You may be sure it's a woman," said O'Brien. Is it true what one hears, about the bangle that he never takes off his left ankle ?" It's not a bangle, it's a bracelet, and it's worn on his arm, a bracelet of solid gold welded to- gether and immovable." An affair of the heart, you may be sure," said Denham, « though the thought of Dorkings with a heart is a new sensation." The Judge having, in addition to his high posi- tion, a loud voice and an energetic manner, had managed pretty well to hold the company together whilst he thus discussed upon his learned brother. But the ice once broken everybody made haste to fall in, and Gidecfti, who had meant to shine a little himself, had the greatest difficulty even in following any consecutive course of conversation. Mr Gosley and Mr Wratten, when they failed in their attempts to speak across the table, person- ally addressed themselves to him, concluded long- winded naratives in which they themselves formed the hero. I went to Gladstone and told him that this would not do. We had had a meeting in the Tea Room, at which the whole thing had been dis- cussed-at least, I made a speech, and so did Blenheim-after which the meeting was ad- journed, our time being up. But it was very clear that the party would go to pieces if this thing went on." Mr Gosley, whilst he thus discoursed, had settled his elbow upon the table with his head leaning upon it, his face turned towards Gideon, who was looking across the table where the clear, well- balanced voice of Mockett rose above the din in discussion on fly-fishing. I know a man, a first-rate fisher, who has the most extraordinary collection of flies I ever saw. They are made for fishing in all parts of the world except these islands. One he's rather proud of is made from a feather of a cock pheasant, reared in Central Hungary, a thing no British fish would touch, however enticingly thrown. Of course he never uses any of them, but generally carries them about with him on his fishing ex- peditions, for, as he truly says, you never know what may happen. I always make a point when I meet him of asking him whether he has yet tried his fly made from the feather of the Central Hungarian pheasant. But he admits it has never been on the water yet." "The oddest fly I ever saw fished with," said Gilbert, tymself no 'prentice hand with the rod, was a part of the beard of a famous R.A., a man who, by the way, handles the rod with as much picturesque effect as he does the brush. I never saw a man cast a fly so prettily. He was fishing one day near Ardrishag, and had oaught nothing. He tried all he could, and all the flies in his book with the same result. At last he, in his wrath, caught hold of his red beard, nipped a bit off the end, and made a fly which, as sure as I'm an honest fisherman, filled his basket with trout." They called upon me to ask if I would use my influence with my friend Hartington," Wrat- ten said in Gideon's other ear. "I went very carefully into the matter, and I said I would see what I could do. I was, of course, very glad to assist in any object which I thought was for what seemed to me the general good. I remember a similar case when I was in Persia. I was dining with the Shah, who said to me, Could I do any- thing for the Grand Vizier's aunt. 1-' Wratten's conversation always reminds me of the French orator who, being interrupted, and losing the thread of his discourse, recommenced with the observation, Where was 1?' 4 Vous disiez, moi,' cried a voice from the crowd/4 This was a whispered remark from Denham in the ear of Blissenden, who sat watching the company, but contributed nothing to their conversation. None of the guests interested Gideon so much as this silent one. He had made a terrible blunder on entering the room, which he had done a little late, thinking it desirable that his entrance should appear as important as possible. Having been introduced to Mockett, whom he found talking to a boyish- looking individual, and misunderstanding some referenoe Mockett made to him, he had thought that the lad was his son, and he greatly feared that he had let this impression appear. He prided himself, as we know, on his judgment of men. But it was a puzzle to him to see this terrible Radical, this controller of more or less secret societies in populous places, so absolutely free from self assertiveness, and displaying even a pleasing bashfulness. Mockett had one of those useful Voices which I can be heard above any sound less than a water- fall. Through the growing din, with Gosley in- creasingly confidential on his right side, and Wratten more than ever self-laudatory on his left, Gideon could make out that at that end of the table they were discussing Art and artists. He may have his faults, but he's one of the few men who can draw a face—above all a woman's face. He gels the eyes in the right place—quite a novelty, I assure you, in that kind of drawing. I have seen in the work of some great men eves put in such a position that it would be perfectly impossible for the owner to see out of them. Now, Mardyn gives iiis faces a good human eye-one that you could wink with." Mardyn was a name which Gideon knew. He drew pictures for Punch and illustrated books. Gideon felt it was time for him to begin to shine if he meant to do it at all. He was getting on famously with his companions on either side, turning upon each at well-regulated intervals with a face displaying the profoundest interest in their narratives, though for all he understood they might have been recitingthe names of the ships in Homer. O'Brien saw him, and began to have a much higher opinion of his abilities than he I had brought to tibe table with him. Gideon would try a shot about Mardyn, and get the stream of conversation turned towards him. Just as he was moistening his lips and prepar- ing for the plunge, Gilbert dashed in with an en- quiry fired across the table to the judge, which set all the company by the ears. Belsey, you are row an outsider, besides being a judge. What is your judicial opinion on our chances at the general election ?" I think they are good," said the judge empha- tically. 44 I go about the ^country a good deal and get a better view of things than you fellows, who stop in town and think tlie re is no world out- side the four mile radius from Cbaring Cross. I think the country sounder than it appears to be when surveyed from St. Paul's or the Clock Tower,* c, So do I," said Gilbert. "So don't I," cried Mockeifc. "Depend upon it Dizzy's right in the view be takes of foreign politics. The people like to hear the drum and the shrill ear-piercing pipe." 44 Yes," said Blissenden, in his quiet way, now for the first time joining in the conversation, but they don't like to pay the pi per. They have had the melodies played in music-halls and elsewhere, and now they have got not only weary of the tune, but are growing uneasy about the cost." let my opinion," said Mr Grogley, H that if we do get in again Gladstone will hav& to pay more attention to the views of men below the gangway. We are not going to stand snubbing. We made the party what it is, and we shall want to have our claims recognised." Well, the party's in a dreadful mess now and has been for some tinhe," said Denham, "and if you made it what it is, Gosley, I wouldn't say anything about it. The thing is are you ready to take office ? To tell the truth," said Gilbert, with a weary leek, I sometimes wish to heavens we may never get back to power, or at all events that I may never live to see the day. If there's one thing Worse than the Liberal party in opposition it is the Liberal party in power. Our enemies are those of our own household. We pull six different ways at the same time. There-* not a man amongst us, except perhaps Gosley, who doesn't think he'd tnako a bettor route Minister than, tbe obitf) i We're all so fatally honest, so confuondedly con scientious, so infuriately independent, that w< constantly play into the hands of the enemy, We've got our private nostrums or saving th< State, and are not only certain that they will cure, but are ready to affirm that anybody else's will kill. I often think that since, for some great crime committed in the dark ages by an unknown ancestor, I must needs have been con- demned to be a Whip, that mercy should have been tempered with justice, and I might have been brought up on the other side. There the relative positions of Whip and party are thoroughly understood." "You mean," said Goymer, "that one is the Whip and the other is the pack of hounds to go hither and thither at the bidding of the huntsman, I hope that is a state of affairs that will never be found possible with the Liberal party." It certainly won't so long as you have a say," said Gilbert, good humouredly. The only way I ever manage with you is on the principle by which a party is sometimes driven. If I want you to vote aye,' I implore you to vote no,' and when I want you to keep out of a debate I send you a note, trebly underlined, begging you to be in your place at a particular time. For my part I think I may say I have never- Wratten, who had been very uneasy at his inability to strike in, had got thus far when the worthy judge broke in, without meaning to be rude, but his highly-trained mind instinctively ignored immaterial issues. "Things have been very badly managed from the first. Gladstone is both the strength and the weakness of the party. His feminine discom- posure after the election of 1374 upset everything, and but for Hartington, who behaved nobly, the party would have been so wrecked that twenty years wouldn't have served to repair its fortune. 44 You've only dealt with one aspect of the proposition you started with," said Blissenden. 44 Gladstone made a mistake about himself in 1874, perhaps not inexcusable in a man of his temperament, with his nerves unstrung by over- work and his temper loosened by a sudden and astounding rebuff. But you're all mistaken if you don't see that he's the only man who can place the Liberal party where it was. He's the one man who can move the country, and the country's quite ready to be moved when he puts his hand to the lever." u Blisseaden is right," said Gilbert, and all you town-bred men are wrong. I know what the answer of the country will be at the General Election, and I see behind that a woeful time for the Whip. The old, old story of a triumphant Liberal partv exercising its spare energy in pull- ing its own nair and scratching its own face, Gosley triumphant in the tea-room, Goymer shaking a wise head and looking unutterable things from a bench below the gangway, and all the men who've got nothing glaring at those who havegot something." 44 Belsey," said O'Brien, this conversation is getting a little too serious. We shall have Goy- mer moving to have Gilbert's words- taken down, to avoid which let's go and have a cigar." In the smoking room Gideon managed to get away from Wratten who was in a desperate ill- humour reflecting that, whether accidently or de- signedly, he had not been permitted to complete a single sentence. Gosley was harder to deal with since he was bent on rebutting Gilbert's, insinua- tions, and shewing if his views had been adopted in 1873 the issue of the general election would have been different. Gideon had so far adapted himself to the company of the good man that he could let him talk on without disturbing his reflec- tions, and even managed to get brief cnats with Sir Henry Gilbert and Blissenden. He was much drawn towards the latter, and would have liked to improve on his acquaintance, but he felt that he would have plenty of opportunity by and by. In the meantime what he wanted to think over, if Mr Gosley would only let him, was whether on the whole it was better for him to come in as one of a troop of triumphant Liberals, or to temper a general defeat of the Liberal party by winning Saxton from^the enemy ? On the whole he con- cluded that the latter would be more to his per- sonal credit, and was not so pleased as he should have been to hear these confident predictions of victory all along the line. (To be continued.)
,CRCESUgwiDOW.
[AIX RIGHTS RESERVED.] CRCESUgwiDOW. BY DORA RUSSELL, Auth or of FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW," 44 THE VICAR'S GOVKRNESS &C., &C. CHAPTER LII.—QUITE WASTED. By Vyner's express wish Nellie was buried by her fatner's side in Kensal Green Cemetery. Mr Marchmont and Yvner arranged iiis, for Mar- garet suggested that poor Nellie should be laid in the family vault of the long-descended Seaforths. But Greystock was a journey from London and Vyner forcibly pointed out the extreme folly of such a proceeding. Let her sleep," be said, by the side of her poor father—who broke his heart for her loss— more than the other man will do I'm pretty certain." Walter, dear, please do not speak in that way of Lord Seaforth now," advised Margaret re- member he is one of the family, and if we do not speak well of him people will be sure to say he behaved ill to poor, dear, Nellie." And didn't he behave ill ? asked Vyner, sharply. Well, dear, we must not speak of the dead, except very kindly and tenderly—but if poor, dear Nellie had only trusted her own sister—a sister whom you know, Walter dear, was devoted to her, I have not the slightest doubt she would have been alive now, and acknowledged a? Lady Seaforth,and perhaps goiag to be presented at the next Drawing-room." She made an unfortunate omission, then," scoffed Vyner. You need not sneer, Walter dear-ask Mrs Saunders, ask everyone, if I did not devote my- self to Neilie from our earliest childhood ? I never thought of myself, and perhaps, poor dear darling, she thus learned to be selfish—for it was selfish, you know, Walter, of her never to tell poor father and myself, and to leave us to suffer such con- stant anxiety on her account when she might have relieved it with a word." "She had promised the man she called her husband, I suppose—the man you wish me to be civil to, but I won't," answered Vyner, and he kept his word and would have nothing to say to Lord Seaforth. The funeral arrangements were therefore settled by Mr Marchmont and Vyner. But Seaforth followed Nellie to her grave. He looked pale, haggard, and deeply affected, and seemed to feel his position very acutely. As they were leaving the open grave he said a few words to Vyner, but the painter made no answer. He could not forget as Mai-garet wished him to do, that Seaforth had been the cause of Nellie's sad and early death. Another man also followed the hapless girl to her la-st resting-place. This iniii did not join the mourners round the grave, nor approach it until the service was over and ths mourners gone. Then when no one was left but the grave-diggers, who were commencing to shovel back the earth, Strat- hearn drew near, and went and stood looking down into the open grave, and read the words in- scribed on the coffin-lid. Ellinor,wife of Murray, seventh Viscount Sea- forth. Died 3rd Maich, aged 19 years." Strath earn stood quite still until the grave was filled in, and the sods laid down, and the men, who had been busy, had'lifted their tools and gone awa). Then, when he was alone, he suddenly flung himself on the grave and laid his head on the newly-cut sods. i Good-bye, little woman," he said, "it has been quite wated-all w.tsted,—but yau know now how well I have loved you, and I love no other." He was her truest mourner. All the others were gone away; gone back to the world, to their everyday life, but Stratheam's he^ri lay buried in Nellie's grave, and yet he knew as he had said, that it was quite wasted." Some days after the funeral he went to see Jo nmah lire wis. Well," he said in his brusque way, I've come to bid you good-bye, and to pay you what I owe you." You owe me nothing," answered Joannah sturdily. Why, Mr Campbell," she continued, looking cnriously at the tall Scotchman, on whoso head at that moment the sun was shining, why Mr Campbell, I declare you are turning srey "You must get inesome patent dye, then, Miss Brewis," said Strathearu with a harsh, little laugh, 14 it will never do for a young man like me to lose my looks." And he laughed again. But Joazinah did not laugh. She knew well enough what had changed him, and how his secret grief had been bitter and strong. 44 Ay," she said, still looking at him, she chose the worst man And how is the f worst man then?" scoffed Stratheam. 44 Never seen the face of him again," answered Joannah. "The old gentleman they call Air Marchmont arranged everything and paid every- thing—and I'm to]d--mind I know nothing of the truth of it, that Lord Seaforth has gone back with the old gentleman—he's a kind of relation, I think-to the place where you went to fetoh Lord Seaforth from. Ryecourt?" said Stratheam. Yes, Ryecourt—that's the na.me-and rm told, too, that thit rich widow lady is U 1 there with old Lady Seaforth-since I suppose we must call the dear lamb who is gone young Lady Set- forth now—at least that sister of hers has dinned her new name pretty often in my ears. But as I was spying the young lord has gone back with Mr Marchmont" This news of Joannah's was quite correct. Hugh Marchmont had felt sony for Seaortb Sorry for a weak man tempted be ye-nd his strength -and he believed (though Joannah did not) m the truth of his repentance. And for another reason also Hugh Marchmont wished Seafortn t6 go back with hun to Ryeeourt. This reason was that Seaforth had assured him on his word of honour that no letter of Nellie's had ever reached his hands after she had disappeared from Bel- grave-road. Mr Marchmont made enquk-ies upon this and found that Mn. Benson, Lady Sea- forth's late lady's maid, had orders te forward all letters that arrived at the houxe in South Keneingtoa to Ryecourt. Then he saw MM Benson, who admitted having forwarded two letters for my lord," under cover to 4* my lady." If these were Nellie's letters-the letters Mrs Bertrim declared she knew Nellie had lIent- it was but right that it should be discovered what had become of them and that Seaforth should be exonerated so far in the eyes of Nellie's family by it -being proved that he had never received them. It will do no good now," esi4 -Seaforth, moodily casting down his eyes, as his kia.«nan, ttogh, thus proaoenced his views on the subject. 44 it is right that it should be known what has beoome of them,"answered.Hugh Marehmont.if they were sent on to my house i wiH learn if they ever arrived there." Seaforth did not speak. He could not quarrel with Hugh Marchmont, because he was «eU»ally at this moment indebted to him far the means of at this moment indebted to him for the means of v huuriuK hk wiffe 4i&afortiu ill fAeWfcnw be w#A,) I a ruined man, and his real misery and regret abon 5 Nellie was rendered more bitter by his" own dt ¡i plorable difficulties. ( He could not stay in town, and he had n money to go abroad and no credit anywhere The story of liS secret marriage had got wlusperef about, and Mr Cairns, with whom he had ai interview, advised him to keep out of the wai for the present, and make the best of thing, afterwards. I understand," added the lawyei with a hard smile, that the lady, who writl w some justice bears the name of Croesus' Widow, is still with Lady Seaforth at Ryecourt, and 1 advise you to go there." And Mr Cairns again smiled. Seaforth felt utterly downcast at the prospect before him. He had loved Nellie as deeply as it was in his nature to love-loved her selfishly foi the sake of the fair face that had waned as his love had waned-but he had felt her early and melancholy death very bitterly. He was touched, he was cut to the heart, and yet had she lived what would she have been to him ? A burden, a worry; and perhaps sitting there gloomily oppo- site to Hugh Martemont, he knew this—knew that his love had never been strong enough to cars for another better than himself. And a day or two after Nellie had been laid by her father's side a letter came to Seaforth from his mother, embodying in words the thoughts which he dare scarcely think. Dear Murray," he read, in the fine, clear handwriting of Lady Seaforth, "I am told the unhappy tie which you had the great misfortune to contract is now ended by death. I will not preach to you, I will not be hypocrite enough to pretend to condole with you. The wretched mar- riage into which you were forced could have only brought you misery, as unequal marriages always do. Therefore, I will not pretend to be sorry that all this is ended now, and that you are free to form a new and, I pray and trust, a happier alli- ance. Murray, you know what I mean-you know whom I mean. After that wretched Scotch- man, Mr Campbell, who seems to have taken certainly a remarkable interest in the unfortnnate young woman now iu her grave—after this wretched man then was gone; after you and Hugh Marchmont weregone, I felt utterly prostrated. I re- fused to see Mrs Trelawn-I was too much ashamed and upset by the whole scene to see her. But she was very good. She wrote me a little note to tell me not to distress myself—she said everything a delicate-minded woman could say-then came the news that you were free—and once more some hope, some comfort, stole into my miserable heart. Murray, shall I appeal to you in vain? You know the circumstances, you know the whole wretched position. But you will say this unhappy affair has changed your relationship with Airs Trelawn, No doubt, to a certain extent, it has done so—but she is a peculiar woman-the fact, I believe, that you went and acknowledged this un- happy girl on her death-bed as your wife (though I do not believe actually in the marriage) has, I am sure, told in your favour—and, then, I have made the best of the affair to her—an old en- tanglement, long before you ever saw her—you understand. 44 She is romantic; has bad some foolish love of her own, no doubt (not the late Croesus, I sup- pose), and I believe she is ready to forgive you- ready to believe that your love for her led you into acting as you have done. 44 Forgrve me if I hurt your feelings by thus imtaag plainly. I am your mother, you are my dear, dear son, aad no tie can be so near and so etroagasouM. I write in my love for you-a love which you know has never ehauged-" There were a few more lines in this letter-lines of mingled advice and tenderness—advice to keep fast friends with Hugh Marchmont, and to avoid any quarrel or meeting with Mr Campbell, of Stratheam. The sooner you eeaM here the better," wrote Lady Seaforth, and Seaforth, after reading her letter twice, sat moodily thinking over his position. CHAPTER LIII.—THI HIDDEN LETTERS. Seaforth's moody cogitations ended in his de- ciding to go to Ryecourt. Mr Marchmont wished this, and his mother wished it—and though shamed and unhappy, Seaforth knew there was truth in his mother's letter-knew that her esti- mate of Nora's character was probably a just one. But it was a bitter thing for the man to do—to meet Nora again-to stana before her at best as a dishonourable and unprincipled man. But on the other hand, if she would foTgive him; if all this dreary past could be hushed up and forgotten, it would be well—yes, Seaforth knew it would be well—and so he went back to Ryeoourt prepared to ask Nora again to be his wife. And Lady Seaforth's estimate of Nora's char- acter had been a just one. The mother we may be sure had cast the best and most becoming light upon her son's misdemeanours. She had talked to Nora of 4'this sad affair;" told her how Sea- forth had fallen into it when almost a boy—44 long before he met you "—and how the tie had worried him into a hundred follies. 44 His great fault is that his heart is too kind pleaded the mother; "this wretched girl bad per- suaded him to give her some promise or other in Scotland, and then this Mr Campbell, of Strath- earn, who, I think, is partly mad, met her, and formed, it appears to me, a very extraordinary intimacy and friendship with her, considering her relationship to Seaforth; and when the girl took ill, they planned together, I suppose, to induce Seaforth to say she was his wife. This is how I understand the story however, she is dead, and you must forgive poor Murray." Nora cast down her eyes. "I am sorry for Lord Seaforth," she said, 41 most sorry, for I am eape he has a good heart, and if he thinks he wronged this poor girl her death will be a terrible blow for him." For the moment, perhaps," answered Lady Seaforth; 44 but ah! my dear Mrs Trelawu, a woman, to retain the affection of a refined man like Murray, must have something more than a pretty face. Her death is a blessing. I can look on it iu no other light, (or if she had lived, fancy the misery Munay must have endured. Bound to a woman be did not love-to a woman totally unfitted for his position—ignorant, low-born—oh poor Murray, it would have killed him I" Then ahe was not a lady ?" asked Nora, in her gentle, pitiful way. 41 Of course not—what lady would have acted as she did ? No; he has had an escape—but he is so unhappy about you—he feels, be says, ashamed to meet you, because you naturally do not know all the circumstances of the case, and Murray is t )o generous to speak against the girl now that she is dead." "I am sorry for Lord Seaforth," again said Nora, and she really felt so. And when she saw him, pale, haggard, and looking really wretchedly ill, she felt yet more sorry. She pressed his hand with sympathetic pressure; she thought she understood all the sliame, the self-reproach, overwhelming his soul. In judging of the feelings of those around us we may understond some of them, but, as a rule there are other feelings that we certainly do not understand. That complex and revolving machine, the human heart, is rarely fully known by its owner's friends. Noia felt sorry for Lord Seaforth, because she believed that he had done what was right, when to do so was to fling his fortune to the wind. She thought vanity did not bliud her, because she knew that it was her for- tune that had first attracted Lord Seaforth but he had given up that fortune—for he could not tell this unhappy girl would die, argued Nora to herself-for a sense of right, a sense of honour. Nora naturally believed Lady Seaforth's story about her son. He had given this poor girl a foolish promise in Scotland to marry her-).Jer- haps called her his wife before this rough Scotch- man, Mr Campbell-and when she was very ill he had fulfilled that promise, though it was bring- ing absolute ruin on himself. Nora knew, of course, of the almost desperate condition of Sea- forth's fortunes. But she was too generous to think of this her enormous wealth made it abso- lutely of no consequence to her whether the man she married was poor or rich. She therefore received Seaforth kindly when he returned to Ryeoourt, and approachel her with his eyes cast down, and with shame and discom- fort in his heart. His ordinary easy manner was quite changed, and he was grave and silent, and dressed in deep mourning. This mourning made Lady Seaforth feel very angry, for Hugh Marchmont also wore black as a token of respect to his kinsman s dead wife. Yet not a word was spoken of the dead wife the day that Hugh Marchmont and Lord Seaforth returned to Ryecourt, nor yet for two days after- wards. Hugh Marchmont generously wished to allow the first strain and annoyance of the situa- tion to pass away before he approached it, for he was still determined to learn what had become of Nellie's letters. He sought a quiet opportunity, therefore, of speaking to his old love, Lady Seaforth, about them, and he placed the circumstances in this light before her. I am going to ask you a question," he said, with his quiet smile, addressing Lady Seaforth on the terrace at Ryecourt on the third morning after his return do not answer without think- ing it over, for it is a serious question as regards So.) forth." What is it ?" asked Lady Seaforth, and she coloured and moved her hands uneasily. It is this—two letters were written by the unfortunate girl who is now dead to Seaforth after ——" "Oh, Hugh!" interrupted Lady Seaforth, de- precatingly, do not open out again this wretchad subject. The girl isdead, her child is dead, what Object tj ve you in doing so?" 'This," said Hugh Marchmont firmly, 44 that if Seaforth received these letters, which were un- doubtedly sent to him he.e, he is quite unworthy to be—what I presume you still wish him to be— the husband of a good woman like Mrs Trelawn." Lady Seaforth was terribly annoyed. She grew pale and red by turns, she bit her lips, and glanced uneasily at Mr Marchmont. 44 You would not surely," she said at last, tell her anything about these letters? Surely, Hugh, you have more regard for us-some little remem- brance of old times. Surely you would never try to interfere and prevent a marriage which would absolutely save Murray from ruin ?" 44 Not willingly," answered Hugh Marchmont, 44 but there is something due to this lady. Sea- forth positively, and on his honour as a gentleman, denies he ever received these letters, which, if he had received, would probably have saved his young wife's life. If he did not receive them I can view his conduct in a different light; but if he did reoeive them, and they no doubt were for- warded to him by Mrs Benson, then I repeat he is utterly unworthy to marry Mrs Trelawn, and it is my duty to tell her that he is unworthy." t, And you would do this r asked Lady Sea- forth, bitterly, turning round, and facing her old lover. Yes," said Hugh Marchmont, I would do this-from a sense of right, a sense of honour, to la defenceless woman." 11 What is Mrs Trelawn to you. ?" asked Lady Seaforth, passionately. You take a wonderful interest in her t" "I do take an interest in her-the friendly interest of a middle-aged man in a very charming young womMt —bat it is not from this interest I would act in this matter-for your son's srvko, for Seaforth's sake, I wish to clear his name from so foul a stain." Lady Seaforth clasped her hands—she grew pale—he stood there looking at the calm deter- mined face of her old lover. mined face of hor old lover. L- y Hugh—j," she tlO,(aa. wbftt will you say- a; t I Yim know how I have loved Murray-he was all I have- had to love in a long wretched life—" And Jjady fcseaforfch burst into tears. ) "Do not distress yourself," said Huo-h March- u t # '°6S ahiUr tIlafc you W* these 1 letters back from Seaforth." "j knew nothing about this marriage, or sol called marriage," continued Lady Seaforth in a voice broken with sobs. I knew of some wretched entanglement that was all—and—-and two letterf from—and—inay~I g"eSi<ed wliere they cam* You destroyed them?''asked Hugh March mont, quickly. "No 1 locked them away — it made m« rmseraUe enough-but I did it for Murray'. Will you give me these letters ?" 4 Why ? What good can they do now ? I havtf confessed the truth to you, Hugh-lowered my- self m your eyes. 3 No," said Hugh Marchmont, and he smiled-1 tie meant she could not now lower herself anw. further in his eyes, but Lady Seaforth never quite understood her old lover, and she now beean ta dry her tears. B I am glad you do not judge me harshly*, she said it was for Murray's sake-my only, 44 Yes," said Hugh Marchmont, and again he- smiled. 44 And now, for that only child's sake* will you give me the letters ?" You will not show them to Mrs Trelawn t You will not mention them to her ?" f, not—* simply want them to satufy my* II Very well, you shall have them. Ah Hugh- times are changed indeed when you can speak to me thus 1" 44 Yes, times are changed," answered Hugh Marchmont, though not unkindly and now will you bring me the letters ?" And Lady Seaforth was obliged to bring them. She placed them in Hugh Marchmont's hands without another word, and Hugh Marchmont put them into Seaforth's. 44 Your mother had hidden them," he said. 44 X am glad for your sake this matter is cleared up, and I shall write to Mr Vyner and tell him how it was you did not receive them." Seaforth took the letters his hand trembled- the letters from the dead-and then he began to think of the living. 44 If he writes to Vyner," he thought, casting QOWB bis eyes, somehow we can never tell how- it may reach Mrs Trelawn'e ears that poor, pool Nellie was Vyner's sister-in-law. Mrs Trelawn used to be intimate with Vyner-better hush up up the whole thing-they think as ill of me as they can I dare say already. What is the good of saying anything now? If it could bring back Nellie — And he honestly believed that if he could bring back Nellie he would sacrifice anything to do so. But as he could not- 441 think," he said, hesitating, and still keeping his eyes fixed on the ground, "that I would rather you did not write to Mr Vyner-you see it can do no good now Except remove a very disgraceful impression of you from Mr Vyner's mind." rather sharply interrupted Hugh Marchmont. I must bear that—I am willing to bear it—• there is my mother to consider," still hesitated Seaforth. I advise you to let me write," said Mr March- mont gravely. I would rather you [did not," said Seaforth, I "as Isaid before, it can do no good now —<L" The truth is always good," answered Hugh Marchniont yet more gravely. 44 You are a younjf man—take an old man's advice—tell the truth, and face the consequences of any evil that yoi have done manfully, and you will never regret it. I would rather you did not write," again said Seaforth, and Mr Marchmont nodded his head and left him. He will regret this," he thought and the day was not far distant when Seaforth had bittew reason to remember his kinsman's neglected advice. But in the meantime, as regards Nora, every. thing seemed to be going fairly smooth for him. His evident depression and shame—his remorse even-more favourably impressed her than if he had endeavoured to seem indifferent or heartless under such exceptionably painful circumstances. Some days passed away without him seeking any private conversation with Nora, or making any allusion to what had passed between them before Strathearn's sudden appearance at Rye- court. But after some days Nora (who had stayed on in Dorsetshire at Lady Seaforth's earnest entreaty, and from a feeling of delicacy and kindness) thought that it was quite time now that she should return home, and she accordingly told her hostess this. Lady Seaforth pressed her to remain, but Nora named a day when she would leave, and she de- termined to avoid, if possible, giving Seaforth an opportunity of speaking to her alone before she went. She wished, in fact, to test her own feel- ings on the subject. She was sorry for and inte- rested in a young, good-looking man, whom ad- verse fate seemed so relentlessly to pursue. But pity is not love, though it may be akin to it. But while Nora was in this undecided state of mind, Lady Seaforth was urging her son to speak to her, to have the affair settled when he had so favour- able a chance. But shame, partly, and partly the bitter regret that he had truly felt for the girl-wife whose hap- less fate still perpetually haunted him, held Sea- forth back. It was too soon to say anything," he told his mother moodily, and he probably might not have done so if an accident had not unexpectedly thrown him with her alone. (To be concluded in our next.)
NORTHUMBERLAND MINERS' DEMONSTRATION.
NORTHUMBERLAND MINERS' DEMONSTRATION. The annual demonstration and gala in oonnee- tion with the Northumberland Miners' Associa tion was held at Blyth, a coal shipping town on the Northumbrian coast, on Saturday. Rain fell heavily in the early portion of the day, but ia spite of this drawback fully 4,000 miners were present. Amongst the speakers at the meeting were Mr Burt, M.P., Mr W. Crawford, secretary of the Durham Miners' Association, and Mr Sea- ley Taylor, M.A.-Mr Taylor spoke at consider- able length in advocacy of a method of .assigning to workpeople a portion of the net profits realinei by the establishments or mines in which they work. — Mr Burt said that since 1862, the year in which their association was forttiedt their position as miners had very much im. proved, but, although thankful for this, they .should not rest satisfied with what they had at. tained. He urged that it was wroner that labour, which produced all wealth, shou.d get a very poor share of the wealth it produced. (Hear, licar.) No man could make a fortune by mere hand labour; indeed, he was lucky if he got the bare necessaries of life. The great difficulty was how to solve this great social problem. He agreec with all that had been and could be said in favuui of organisation, which had done much and would have done more had it been perfect. As to -the over-production oLcoal, do not let them lay all the responsibility mi the employers. 150,000 men were added to the coal miners of the United Kingdom during the four or five prosperous years, aud they now had those men in competition with them for their scant wages. He thought parti- cipation or profit sharing would do some- thing, but he* believed that, the vital question which lay beyond and beneath all others, so far as this labour problem was con- cerned, was a more complete and lyrol)er and thorough utilisation of the land of the country. (Applause). What was to be done was to aweep away the fetters that clog the land and prevent its cultivation, and to do whatever was (tossible to get those who till the land to be, not only the tillers, but also the owners of the land. (Loud applause). We were coming very fast to a solu- tion of this question, but its solution must be pre- ceded by another reform—not a greater, but ona antecedent—and that was an extension of the franchise. (Applause.) He was as thoroughly satisfied as he was of his own existence that, un- less some unforeseen event occurred, the present Government would extend the franchise to the counties before long. (Applause). What they had to do was to speak out, and say that they were not satisfied with their exclusion. He believed that the great problem he had spoken of—to which some of tlie best intellects of the day were devoting their attention—would have to be solved by a moral and an educational method. History taucrht that people could not be raised by simply improving their material condition. He wanted more leisure for the working man, in order that he may im- prove the powers with which he is endowed, and better wages in order that he and his family may li\e well and comfortably but it was not only a question of the possession of those privileges, it was a question of who possessed. Those privilege? could not help them unless they were men of character, honesty, bravery, and moral worth. They, the fathers and mothers of to-day, by the education of their children, decided the destinies of countless generations to come. He, for one, had faith in the masses—faith in the honesty, intelligence, and judgment of the people and ha believed they would make for us better days than we have ever had before.
-.. iA CAT IN A CHURCH ORGAN.
A CAT IN A CHURCH ORGAN. The morning services at St Matthew's, Sheffield, on Sunday, were, a local pa j tor states, marked by an incident of an extraordinary and amusing character. Shortly before the service began Mr Eo Hobbis, the organist, was greatly puzzled to, find some of the keys on the "great organ firmly fastened down, as though the "Grwkers had been cut. Having obtained professional assistance, Mi examination of the organ was made, when a cat was discovered in the interior of the instrument. All attempts to coax the animal from its place were unavailing, and it was not until a lighted match had been applied to its tail that the in- truder could be persuaded. to quit. The servica proceeded smoothly, but when Mr Hobbfe at- tempted to play the accompaniment to tlio "Amen" following the ascription at the CIAV* of the Mrmon, and draw two soft stojia, 00 the 611'.11" without a note being touched the most discordant and piercing strains were emitted from the mslrur ment. The last hymn was sung without ooom-t. paniment other than those produced by the atone- ments of the frightened animal inside the organ. Just as the hymn finished "puss" made hor osoajie, and bounding al »ng the middle aisle gained thft street..
NEW DEPUTY-LIEUTENANT8 FOR…
NEW DEPUTY-LIEUTENANT8 FOR MONMOUTHSHIRE. The London Gazette of Tuesday night contains the following Commissions, signed by the Lord-. Lieutenant of Monmouth:—The Hon. Arthur Morgan, to be deputy-lieutenant; dated 16th inst. Sir \Vm. Henry Marsham Style, Bart., to be deputy lieu tenant; dated 10th in-.il I Oeiur. tl:r>rpe Bcsaiiquet, Esq., to be deputy-lieutenant; dated 10th inet. Goorge William Elliot, fcisq., M.P., to be deputy-lieutenant: dated 10th ittst. James Graham, Esq., to be delmty-lie-ateltaot; dated 10th illst. Joseph Charles Parkinson, fts-i to be deputy-lieu tenant; datad l$th inst. Partridge, Ksq., to be deputy-lieu tenant t 10th inst. Joseph Richards, C, sq, to be dep j lieutoBABt j dated 19th