Rose, Blanche, and Violet, Volume 2 (of 3)

by George Henry Lewes

BOOK III.

CHAPTER I.
ROSE VYNER TO FANNY WORSLEY.

WYTTON HALL, 14th Oct. 1840.

MY DEAR FANNY,

Since poor Blanche's unfortunate marriage—and yet why should I call it unfortunate? has she not married the man of her choice, and is not that the great ideal we maidens all aspire to? However, as it is the fashion here to speak of it as a "most unfortunate business," over which mama weeps (I don't clearly see why) and papa storms, I have caught the trick, and called it so to you.

To resume this broken sentence; or rather to begin it anew: since Blanche's fortunate marriage, our days have passed equably enough; but although not characterized by any "incidents," nor affording any "news," they have not been stupid. Life has not been stagnant. The slow growth of passions has proceeded without interruption. Marmaduke Ashley has become the devoted slave of Violet. I call him her Brazilian Othello. I made her very angry yesterday, by telling her that she should be less cruelly haughty to him, "for is he not," said I, "a man and a brother?" They would make a superb couple, for although I tease her with references to gentlemen of colour, and with congratulatory remarks respecting the chain being "broken, and Africa being free," you must know that his complexion is not really darker than that of a Spaniard. And you know how lovely she is—no you don't, you have not seen her since she shook off girlish things, and cannot imagine how she has altered.

Poor Marmaduke, although he has made some impression on her, will have, I fear, to languish a long while ere the haughty beauty condescends to step down from her pedestal. Almost as long as I shall have to wait before the modest Julius will understand, without my being forced to tell him, that he is not absolutely indifferent to a certain saucy girl at whom he makes sweet eyes.

You can't imagine how, every day, my admiration deepens for the little man. I am always finding some new illustration of his excellence; always hearing something which confirms my opinion of his nobility of soul. Yesterday, I found that he was studying hard for the bar, not because he was without fortune, but because he would not consent to his mother being poorer at the death of his father than she had been before. He was the heir to all the property, except a jointure; but he refused to enter into possession while his mother lived, and as every man ought, he says, to be able to gain his own livelihood, he has determined to gain his at the bar.

He has recently been exerting himself to procure a good subscription list to a volume of poems. Here is the title. "GLOOMS AND GLEAMS. By One who has suffered."

I am as a weed
Torn from the rock, on ocean's foam to sail,
Where'er the wave or tempest's breath prevail.
BYRON.

The mysterious one—the one who has suffered (what not specified!) is a newly discovered wonder—the Sappho of Walton—the daughter of a linen-draper.

According to Julius she is really a clever deserving girl, a little wild in her notions, but with all the generosity of genius, which redeems her affectations and her follies. She is too poor to venture on publication herself; and I have just found that Julius, unable to secure a sufficient sum by subscription, has undertaken to pay the printing expenses. He stipulated that this should be a secret; but her grateful father disclosed it to Mrs. Roberts (our housekeeper) who disclosed it to me. Imagine the gossip there will be in Walton over this publication! How the papas and mamas, the uncles and maiden aunts will moralize over the corruption of the age, and the wild audacious vanity of their townswoman! A poetess in Walton? Why a volume of poems—(unless they were low church effusions or the inspirations of "advanced Christians"—) is itself a rarity. You know how slightly tainted with literature the small towns of England usually are? I doubt if any are so colourless as Walton. Dickens penetrates here—where does not his genial sunshine penetrate?—but no other name of those blown from the brazenly impudent trumpet of fame has ever found an echo in Walton. A poetess is, consequently, looked upon as something short of a sorceress: a fearful and Appalling Illustration of the Reckless March of Intellect which Devastates the World!

Julius has already secured her an influential patron in Sir Chetsom Chetsom, and his brother Tom Chetsom. The baronet is possessor of the Dingles, a fine estate within three miles of Walton, and is looked up to as one of the great people of the county. Such a figure as he is! I must sketch him for your amusement.

Sir Chetsom Chetsom is not without considerable daring, for with the weight of six or seven and sixty years upon his shoulders, he makes a gallant dash at thirty. His whiskers are miraculously black, always well-oiled, and stiffly curled; his eyebrows are of another black in virtue of his inheritance from nature; and his hair is of a third black in virtue of Truefit's well directed efforts at wigmanity. This threefold darkness, unsuspicious of a gray hair, overshadows a sallow, wrinkled brow and cheeks, upon which a hare's foot imitates the ruddy glow of youth with a sort of Vauxhall-by-daylight-splendour. Under the genuine eyebrows, float two colourless eyes, between which a high and well-shaped nose rears its haughty form. Frightfully regular teeth, without a speck, without a gap, fill up the gash which represents his mouth. A well-padded chest, and well-stayed waist, ending in shrunken legs and excruciatingly tight-booted feet complete the physique of this Adonis. His dress is a perpetual book of fashions!

Of the morale I know little, except that he never plays cards—flatters himself he has not come to that yet—talks fluently of valtzing (particular about sounding the w as v, as a young gentleman after his first German lesson), adores Fanny Elssler, calls Grisi a naice leetle giarl enough, thinks himself, and wishes to be accepted as, a remorseless Lovelace, and is always afraid of talking too long with one woman, lest he should "compromise her."

This ferocious lady-killer, whom you will at once place amongst that very terrific and numerous class of men which I have christened Murders, has a brother, whom I wonder he does not disown, so frankly does that brother bear his age. Tom Chetsom, "jolly Tom Chetsom," as he is called, is "a tun of a man," with a bald, shiny pate fringed with straggling grey hair, a rubicund face, a vinous nose, and a moist, oystery eye, rolling in rheum. Yet this implacable exhibition of age in a younger brother is tolerated by the baronet, who is blind enough, or stupid enough, not to be aware of the comment it is on his own resplendent juvenility!

Tom Chetsom, careless bon vivant as he seems, and is, conceals beneath that rubicund jollity an astute selfishness, and a real knowledge of life and human nature, to which his elder brother makes great pretension. But that which the elder seems to be without being it, the younger is without seeming it, as Browning would say.

Well, these are the patrons selected for our Walton Sappho. They are to launch her into the "great world." Sir Chetsom has permitted the dedication of Glooms and Gleams to himself. He is to introduce the volume into the "first circles," while Tom Chetsom is to bruit its fame in all the clubs.

I have not yet seen the poetess herself; but propose to fall in with the general "rage," and pay a visit at the Grange some day when she is there. I will give you a full description.

And there is an end of my budget.

CHAPTER II.
THE WOMAN WITH A MISSION.

Ein starker Geist in einem zarten Leib
Ein zwitter zwischen Mann und Weib,
Gleich ungeschickt zum Herrschen und zum Lieben,
Ein kind mit eines Riesen Waffen
Ein Mittelding von Weisen und von Affen!
SCHILLER.—Die Berühmte Frau.

Marmaduke and Violet, "so justly formed to meet by nature," have not, it may be supposed, remained insensible to each other's charms. The elopement of Blanche gave him several opportunities of making eloquent remarks on the superiority of affection—the riches of the heart—to mere worldly wealth; and to utter several stinging sarcasms on those who gave up the worship of a loving heart, for the trumpery advantages of an establishment and a position.

These sarcasms were, of course, meant for Mrs. Meredith Vyner, who accepted them in bland silence, or made vague defences, saying that women were often misguided, because the whole of the facts were not known.

Violet so entirely responded to his sentiments, and, without knowing the previous connection between him and her mother, so unhesitatingly applied those sarcasms to her, that she became more and more attracted to him, from the fact that they alone seemed rightly to have read her mother's character.

Mrs. Meredith Vyner saw, with strangely mingled jealousy and pleasure, the growing attachment of these two. She did not love Marmaduke: she had never loved him in any high or generous sense of the term. But he had filled her girlish imagination, and he still exercised a certain fascination over her. She admired his beauty; she delighted in the sense of power exercised over so fiery and impetuous a creature; it was exquisite flattery. To see her place occupied in his heart was, therefore, singularly irritating. His anger was an avowal of his love. His threats of vengeance, much as she might dread them, were the threats of one who suffered in his love. And so clearly did she perceive this, that it occasioned no surprise to observe how, in the same measure as his attachment grew to Violet, his anger seemed to abate, his mind no longer to run upon its old topics of inconstancy and vengeance. No surprise, but great jealousy!

Other feelings mingled with this. She could not but be delighted to think that Marmaduke had ceased to harbour any schemes against her peace: the tiger was pacified, or attracted by other prey. This was not all. She hated Violet, and watched the development of this passion with curious eagerness, because in it she foresaw two sources of misery to her daughter. If they married, she thought they would be mutually wretched, and it was in her power at any time to make Violet horribly jealous, by informing her of Marmaduke's early attachment. That was one source; another was, with a little coquetry and cunning on her part, to bring him once more at her feet, which, she doubted not, she could still effect.

Under the "still life" of what seemed the most uneventful of country residences, under the smooth current of every-day occupations, such were the tempests rumbling in the deeps, and ready at an instant to burst forth! The drama was really there; it seemed to be elsewhere. The development and collision of passions, out of which the dramas of life are constructed, were circumscribed within the walls of the Hall and the Grange. But it was elsewhere that the noisy bustle of event—noisy because of its emptiness—attracted the attention of spectators, and seemed, by the talk occasioned, to have absorbed all the interest which could possibly lie in the elements afforded by the neighbourhood.

But, first, a word respecting one of the principal actors. I mean Hester Mason, the poetess. Had Rose's letter, in which, according to promise, she doubtless gave a detailed description of the Walton Sappho fallen into my hands, you should have been treated with her lively account of this important personage: her womanly acuteness and observation would have assuredly delighted you. As it is, my matter-of-fact pen must be the substitute.

Hester Mason was five and twenty, and still wrote Miss before her name; not because adorers were backward, but because they were Waltonians. They had no "spirituality;" they had no "imaginings;" they had no "mission." Life to them had no "earnestness;" they lived without a "purpose." Cowards, they humbled themselves before "conventionalities," and dared not tell society to its face that it was a lie. They went to church; they called themselves Christians, because they followed an antiquated routine, and did not comprehend the later "developements" of Christianity necessitated by the "wants of the age." Above all, they shuddered at the true doctrine of social regeneration, that, namely, of the emancipation of woman, and thought that marriage should be indissoluble. They were humdrums!

Not to one of those could she descend; her soul was too lofty, her passions too "devouring," to waste themselves on such "clods." Indeed, had she been less of a "priestess," she might have been equally exclusive; since the Waltonians were utterly without taste for literature, philosophy, or art; and were as ill looking as the inhabitants of small towns usually are. Hester had been thrice on a visit of a few days to London; she had seen Hyde Park and its brilliant company; she had walked down St. James's-street and Pall Mall, and on the doorsteps of the clubs had seen men who were gods compared with the dandies of Walton. She had feasted upon contemporary literature, and had written burning letters of wild enthusiasm to Bulwer, in imitation of his "Florence Lascelles." She had dreamed ambitious dreams, in which she held a sceptre in London society, and awoke to find herself in Walton!

Hester was handsome, but coarse-featured. Her black hair and eyes gave a certain éclat to a face ornamented with a nose which irredeemably betrayed her low birth, and surmounted by a forehead too high and large for beauty. She was about the middle height, and had a magnificent bust. Her hands were large and coarse; her legs were—to express them in one word, I should say they were Devonshire legs! In her dress, gait, and manner you saw something which, though not positively vulgar, was distinctly not ladylike; a certain brusquerie, almost pertness, and a dogmatism, which is at all times shocking in a woman.

About the time when Julius St. John first interested himself in the publication of her volume of poems, Hester, worn out with awaiting her "ideal," and almost despairing of ever reigning in London society, began so far to humble herself in her own eyes, as to admit the attentions of the surgeon's apprentice, newly arrived at Walton. True it is that James Stone, the foresaid apprentice, had a dash of London about him. He was not a Waltonian, he was not a humdrum; so far from it, that he had the character of a "rake!" He discoursed about the ballet; had been behind the scenes at the theatres; was well-versed in Jullien's promenade concerts (then a novelty); smoked a meerschaum; and when in full-dress turned his shirt-sleeve cuffs over his coat, much to the amazement of the Waltonians, who imagined he had just washed his hands, and had forgotten to turn back his cuffs, so little did they appreciate the dandyism!

It may appear strange, but that little trait of elegance won more of Hester's admiration than all his personal charms, and they were not few, could have effected in a month. It gave him a London air. It made him so superior to the provincial bumpkins, who laughed with coarse ridicule at an elegance they could not understand. It was in vain Hester, bridling, told them that the "pink of fashion and the mould of form"—the all-accomplished Count D'Orsay—wore his cuffs in that way. They only laughed the more, and christened Stone—the Walton De Orsay.

As long as Stone held out against the ridicule which his innovation excited, Hester accorded him her sympathy, and almost her love. But when he yielded to public opinion, and turned back his cuffs to their original place, she suddenly cooled towards him. It was a submission to conventionalities. It was a truckling to society. It was cowardice.

He purchased his pardon, however, and by a speech so adroit that in Walton it must have appeared worthy at least of a Lauzun—had Lauzun's name ever been heard there.

"If I do not yield this trifle to public opinion they will force me to quit this place, and to quit the place would be quitting you."—She forgave him.

But her pardon availed him little. Invited by Mrs. St. John to the Grange, patronized by the "great people" round Walton, her volume on the eve of being launched into the wide sea of literature, she felt all her old ambition revive within her, and scarcely forgave herself for having idled away an hour with such a youth as Stone—too poor for a husband, too insignificant for a lover.

The patronage of Sir Chetsom Chetsom completed her intoxication. That graceless old Lovelace, struck with the beauty of his protégé, saw at once the facilities afforded him for an intrigue. He was constantly at her father's. Her poems made the pretext of his visits. Her charms formed the staple of his conversation; varied by accounts of London society, and visions of the brilliant career which awaited her if she only determined boldly to enter it.

A sorry figure, truly, was the wigged and whiskered baronet for a girl with "bright imaginings," and at five and twenty, to choose as her lover; and yet, if I have contrived to indicate her character properly, the reader will not be surprised at her lending a willing ear to the old boy's artful flatteries.

He was not young, but he was rich. He had no "imaginings," but he could tell of the splendours of the capital. He had no "mission," but he wore bottes vernies. He was without "earnestness," but he talked fluently of all the new works, and had met most of the literary lions in society.

More than all, he was Sir Chetsom Chetsom, and she was Hester Mason the linen-draper's daughter. Rank gives a lustre which dazzles even virtue; and Hester had very few scruples of virtue to struggle against; so that ambition found her an easy victim. She coquetted—she was "cruel" to her adorer; not because she was afraid to yield, but because she wished to sell her honour dearly.

CHAPTER III.
WHAT WAS SAID OF THE WALTON SAPPHO.

"Is it not shocking?" said Mrs. Ruddles, the curate's wife, to Mrs. Spedley, the surgeon's better half, as she sipped the smoking bohea, and commented on the ongoings of Walton, and its "muse" in particular,—"Is it not shocking to witness such depravity? To think of his taking up with such trumpery as Hester Mason!"

"And to think of her encouraging the wicked, old villain!" ejaculated the indignant Mrs. Spedley.

"And her father to shut his eyes!" suggested the post-mistress of Walton.

"What can she expect will be the end of it?"

"I'm sure, I can't say."

"He's married, too," said Stone, angrily; for Stone was now utterly neglected: he had even turned up his shirt cuffs, with D'Orsay magnificence, on the preceding Sunday; and still Hester had not vouchsafed him a look.

"Married! yes; but he could get nobody to live with him; and his wife has been separated many years," observed Mrs. Ruddles; "and no wonder!"

"So that Hester falls with her eyes open ... she can't expect him to marry her—the minx!" said Mrs. Spedley.

"Oh, no. Besides, she looks upon marriage as immoral."

"Ah!"

"Yes, yes: very comfortable notions those are for some people."

"Very. This comes of writing poetry!" gravely and philosophically remarked the surgeon's wife.

Her husband entered at that moment.

"Pretty poetry it is!" he said. "Hang me, if I can make head or tail of it. Long words and inflated sentiments—nothing else!"

"Such trash!" scornfully added Mrs. Ruddles.

"So frivolous!" chimed in Mrs. Spedley.

"As if there was anything in that, to cock up one's head about," pursued Mrs. Ruddles.

"And, to fancy herself so superior to every one else."

"Well, give me good, common sense in a woman," fervently ejaculated Spedley.

"And me."

"And me."

"Oh, and me."

"It was but last night," said Spedley, "that she took upon herself to set me right about the vote by ballot; and, instead of arguing the point, she told me that I was incapable of forming an opinion on it, ignorant as I was of the rapid developments of humanity. To be sure, I was,—how should I know what she meant by that?"

"He—he—he!" tittered Mrs. Spedley.—"Developments of humanity, indeed!"

"That is a philosophy she understands," said Stone, sarcastically; "and will certainly give us an illustration of it herself shortly——"

Stone chuckled immensely at this double entendre; and the ladies, forgetting their prudery in their spite, laughed too, and declared that nothing was more likely.

That is only a sample of what was said in Walton. The whole town was busy with the event. Envy aided tittle-tattle; and not a voice was raised in Hester's defence. Sir Chetsom to visit her! Sir Chetsom to drive up to her door! Sir Chetsom to send her game! Sir Chetsom to take her drives in his curricle. It was enough to make an English community, like that of Walton, mad. How she escaped lapidation is a mystery.

Hester knew the scandal she occasioned, and triumphed in it. To be the mark for jealousy, was a condition affixed to superiority. Detraction was the tribute impotence paid to power. She was hated—she knew it—how could it be otherwise?—was she not a genius? At their gossip she laughed; with society and its sophisms she was at open war.

Having had this one glimpse of the state of opinion in Walton, let us now turn our attention to the Hall. The St. Johns, Marmaduke, Tom Wincot, and the family, are in the drawing room. Julius holds the volume of Hester's poems in his hands, having just finished reading it aloud:—

"Now, Mr. Vyner," said Julius, "do you rescind your harsh judgment; will you not admit that there is at least great facility in these poems?"

"Facility?" replied Vyner. "Yes, yes,

Nempe incomposito dixi pede currere versus.

I find too much of it: fatal facility, betraying the want of that labor limæ, without which no work can have value."

"She will learn the difficult 'art to blot' in time," suggested Julius; "at present she is all exuberance."

"Is not over luxuriance," said Violet, "rather the property of weeds than of flowers?"

"Certainly," said Vyner. "The volume wants weeding sadly. You know what 'Horace' says?—

Ut brevitate opus, ut currat sententia, neu se
Impediat verbis lassas onerantibus aures."

"Well," interrupted Rose; "but not to be so critical, do you not think the volume shows great power?"

"Rather the will to be great than the power," said Marmaduke. "It is daring and extravagant, but it does not seem to me to have the daring and extravagance of genius."

"Doesn't it stwike you as vewy stwange that a young woman should wite in such twemendous misewy? Nothing but seductions, delusions, bwoken hearts, pwostwated spiwits, agonies of wemorse, tewible pwedictions, wetched wevewies, and all that sort of thing! Besides, what does she pwopose when she wepeatedly weitewates the necessity of some better and more weflective Chwistianity?"

"Those are the extravagances I speak of."

"I confess," said Violet, "I do not like the tricks she plays with language: surely all those uncouth compounds, and those obtrusive vowels which everybody else consents to drop, are useless affectations?"

"Those are the conquests of the New School," said Marmaduke.

"I thought that our great poets had found the language harmonious and flexible enough."

"You see, Mr. St. John," said Rose, laughing, "they are determined to pull your poetess to pieces. Don't hear any more. I will admire her with you, and we shall form the fit audience, though few."

The conversation did not cease here; but we have heard enough. Let us hurry, therefore, to Belgravia, where resides Sir Chetsom Chetsom, who has been forced to run up to town for a few days, and is now seated opposite his brother, his hand upon the claret decanter, listening to a brotherly remonstrance.

"I tell you, Chet, she is une intriguante: underneath all that romance and extravagance, I see a very cool calculation. In the letter you have just read me, I divine her character."

"What is there in that to make you suspicious?"

"Oh! no single passage, but the whole tone. Do but consider for a moment. Here are you, a married man, writing love-letters to an unmarried girl; she does not repulse you—she does not even pretend to be offended—she says nothing about your wife, nothing about the unmistakeable nature of your intentions."

"But I tell you, Tom, the giarl is decidedly fond of me."

"Humph."

"You doubt it?"

"Considerably."

"Very well, very well. I, who see her, who watch her, and who flatter myself know something of women—I think so, and that is enough."

"Do you ever look in the glass, Chet?"

"Often."

"And the result is?"

"Very different from what must occur in your case, Tom, if ever you venture on such a piece of temerity."

"And you think yourself still capable of inspiring a passion?"

"The thing is done."

"And you are done, Chet," said Tom Chetsom, placing one bulbous finger at the side of his vinous nose, and closing one oystery eye, by way of pantomimic comment on his words.

"You don't know women, Tom."

"Well, let us grant for a moment that you have made an impression; don't you see the imprudence of having an intrigue so near your home, in a little place where every action is noticed and discussed?"

"I don't care a fig what they discuss. That's the giarl's look out, not mine, damme! If neither she nor her father object to my visits, why should I be squeamish?"

"Why? Because you will be the laughter of the county."

"Thank ye, Tom."

"I'm serious, Chet. Your age is tolerably well known there, and you may imagine the gossip and the ridicule which will attach to any affair of yours with a young girl. It will be the talk of the whole county."

Sir Chetsom knew that quite as well as his knowing brother; but what his brother did not know, was that the great attraction in this intrigue consisted in the very fact so distinctly enunciated: "It will be the talk of the whole county!" He wished it to be so. He anticipated the scandal, and rejoiced thereat. He heard the chorus of virtuous matrons declaiming against his "wickedness," and the sound was exquisitely flattering. He shook his head with an air of knowing satisfaction as he read (in his mind's eye) the paragraphs in the local papers upbraiding him for his villainy. The phrase "The wretch! at his age to be seducing women!" flattered his anticipative ear more sweetly than any strain from Beethoven or Mozart could lull the spirit of a musician.

Tom Chetsom, frank old fellow, never once attempting to conceal a wrinkle, or to disguise a bald patch, could not comprehend his brother's secret pride in being made a butt. He understood the vanity of his brother's dandyism and juvenility: he saw specimens enough of that at his club. But knowing how all men, and above all men Sir Chetsom, shrunk from ridicule, it was a puzzle to him that the inevitable ridicule of his intrigue with Hester should not be a bugbear to frighten him away. He forgot that amidst all the ridicule and reprobation, there would be a tacit acknowledgment of Sir Chetsom's lady-killing powers; and for that acknowledgment he could scarcely pay too dearly.

As a mere safeguard for his vanity, and not out of any illiberality, he had from the first determined upon making no settlement on Hester, in case she should consent to live with him. If his intrigue cost him anything, the laugh would justly be turned against him as a dupe. If it cost him nothing, the world would storm at his meanness, but they would believe in his power.

CHAPTER IV.
PROPHECIES FULFILLED.

"What makes you so serious to-day, Mrs. St. John?" said Violet, about a week afterwards.

"I am getting anxious about my protégé. It was my Julius who introduced her to the notice of Sir Chetsom Chetsom; and I fear no good will come of it."

"Are you, then, of the Walton party?" asked Violet. "And do you lend an ear to all the scandal of that miserable place? Consider Sir Chetsom's age."

"Yes," said Rose; "but consider also his pretensions. We knew Sir Chetsom is old; but he wants to be thought young."

"I assure you," said Mrs. St. John, "it makes me very uneasy. Julius has already taken the liberty of speaking to him on the subject, as strongly as he could; but Sir Chetsom only laughed at what he called virtuous scruples. My only hope is, that Hester looks upon their difference of age and station as a sufficient warrant for an intimacy which she would not otherwise allow. And yet I fear it is not so. I hope I may wrong her. I do not wish to think uncharitably; but from what I have observed of late, I think she is ambitious and unscrupulous."

"We must remember," said Violet, "that her very opinions on the emancipation of woman would lead her to adopt a freedom of manner, which, though it might be very innocent, would be so unlike the conduct of well-educated girls, that we, judging her by the ordinary rules, should be guilty of great injustice."

Mrs. St. John shook her head.

"Mrs. St. John demurs," said Rose.

"I do, indeed. I look with suspicion on those opinions. When I see a woman disdaining the ordinary notions of society, I expect to see her follow out her own opinions, and disdain the ordinary practices of society."

Meredith Vyner joined them.

"We are discussing the old subject, Hester Mason," said Mrs. St. John.

"And giving her all the virtues under the sun, poetry included," said Vyner. "Well, you have chosen a good subject. We don't often meet with such a paragon. Where, indeed, in this prosaic place should we look for such another

Cui Pudor, et Justitiæ soro
Incorrupta Fides, nudaque Veritas,
Quando ullum inveniet parem?

"By the irony of your tone," said Mrs. St. John, "I suspect you have heard something new about her."

"No, nothing new; at least nothing unexpected."

"What is it? Pray, let us hear it."

"The most natural thing in the world she last night went off with Sir Chetsom Chetsom. Interdum deliramus senes, as Plautus saith."

This information was received in silence. Mrs. St. John coloured deeply, and then turned pale. She was greatly hurt, because she considered herself in some measure the cause of this misfortune, by having first brought Hester into notice, and then having introduced her to Sir Chetsom.

It was too true. Hester had gone off; and Sir Chetsom had taken good care that it should not be a secret.

It would need a more graphic brush than mine to paint the tumult of scandalized virtue in Walton at this outrage upon public morals. To paint the swelling indignation of Mrs. Ruddles, the vehemence of offended purity in Mrs. Spedley, the uplifted hands and eyes of the mute but expressive post-mistress, the sarcasms of Stone, the brutal jests of Spedley, the moral declamation of the Rev. Richard Ruddles, the sneers, the epithets of abuse, the prophecies of what "her end would be," the homilies on infidelity, poetry, and "new-fangled notions," and the constantly-reiterated but never-too-old reflections which each and all made upon their own sagacity in having "all along foreseen it."

The howl of Walton reached not Hester's ears; and if it had, it would only have sounded like the shouts of triumph in an ovation.

CHAPTER V.
THE ASTUTE MRS. VYNER.

L'epoux retint cette leçon par cœur.
Onc il ne fut une plus forte dupe
Que ce vieillard, bon homme au demeurant.
LAFONTAINE.—Contes.

On returning to the hall, Meredith Vyner found a letter from Cecil. He retired into his study; for he was one of those who fancy that you cannot possibly read anything with attention elsewhere than in a study. Having deliberately adjusted his spectacles, and taken a liberal pinch, he began the perusal.

Its contents may easily be guessed. It was very penitent, very clever, contained two adroit quotations from 'Horace,' and a well-worked-up petition for pardon. Blanche signed it with him, and added a pretty little postscript of her own.

Mrs. Meredith Vyner having learned from Rose that a letter had arrived, the handwriting of which looked like Cecil's, hastened to join her husband, whom she found not only in his own study, but in what is usually termed a "brown study." He was sitting in an easy-chair. His body slightly bent forward; the spectacles shifted from his nose to his forehead, one arm resting on the inner part of his thigh, the pendent hand grasping the opened letter, the other arm resting on the table, the hand caressing his snuff-box.

"So you have had a letter from your son-in-law?" she said, as she entered.

He handed it to her. She read it slowly. On looking into his face as she returned it to him, she saw that he had forgiven them.

"A very clever epistle," she said; "very clever. And of course you grant the pardon. They know that very well. They were quite sure of that when they ran away, otherwise Cecil would not have been such a fool; but he knew your weakness—knew how easily you were to be managed, and was quite sure that I should never oppose him."

Meredith Vyner took a pinch, angrily.

"Shall we have them to live with us? I dare say that is what they expect—and, perhaps, it would be the best. Or do you intend making them an allowance?"

Meredith Vyner took three pinches, rapidly.

"Do you know, dear, I think, perhaps, it would be as well not to relent at once, because it will be such a precedent. Keep them waiting a little. They will be all the more grateful when it does come."

"And who said it was to come at all?" asked the indignant Vyner.

"I took that for granted."

"Yes, yes, of course, for granted. Everybody seems to take things in my house for granted. I'm not to be considered. My wishes are not to be consulted. And yet I believe I am master here—I may be wrong—but I fancy this house is mine."

His wife smiled inwardly, as she added, "And your children's."

"How my children's?" he sharply asked. "It is none of theirs; it will not even be theirs at my death. Theirs, indeed!"

Mrs. Meredith Vyner knew perfectly well the effect to be produced by her apparently careless phrases, and played upon her husband's mind with a certainty of touch highly creditable to her skill.

"I am surprised, my dear Mary, to hear you talk so. For granted, indeed! No; it shall not be for granted; it shall not be at all. I will be master in my own house. I have already submitted too much to my daughters; and they shall find I will do so no more. A pretty thing, indeed, to brave her father, to bring a slur upon her name by running away with a penniless adventurer: a man I don't like; a mere superficial dabbler, who pretends to understand 'Horace,' and is quite at sea with respect to the Horatian metres. He'll never do anything; never be anything. And yet he expects that he has only to write me a whining letter, and all will be forgotten. He doesn't think it possible I can refuse. No, no; takes my pardon for granted. But it is not granted. It shall not be."

"This will soon blow over, I'm not at all afraid for my dear Blanche. You will not be able to hold out long."

"There is your mistake."

"We shall see, we shall see," said she, with a tone of most expressive certainty of the truth of what she said, and left the room.

Meredith Vyner was seldom angry; but the provoking confidence of his wife, in what he chose to consider her opinion of his weakness, made him furious against the cause thereof—the offending Cecil.

From what impulses spring human actions! Here is a man delighted by the opportunity afforded him of forgiving his offending child, and ready to clasp her to his bosom. That is the natural instinct of his heart. His wife comes; and, by pretending to urge the very act he is about to perform, by choosing to assume it as a settled thing, and insinuating thereby, that, from his known weakness, everybody must also assume it, she stifles the parental feeling, awakens his miserable vanity, and makes him exhibit his weakness by the very action which he intends as a proof of his fortitude and decision.

Resolved to show how mistaken those were who fancied that he was to be led by the nose, he sat down, and wrote this brief, and, as he thought, crushing reply:—

"WYTTON HALL, 10th Nov. 1840.

"SIR,

"You have made an error in your calculations, I am not so easily bamboozled as you imagine. You are very clever, I have no doubt; but,—

Vix illigatum te triformi
Pegasus expediet chimæræ.

And with this I close all correspondence between us.

"Yours truly,
"H. S. MEREDITH VYNER."

"That quotation is rather happy," he said to himself, as he folded the letter. Indeed, so pleased was he at its felicity, that it would now have cost him some pangs not to send the letter; he could not afford to lose such an effect.

Mrs. Meredith Vyner was very shortly after found sobbing in her room, by Rose. To the anxious inquiries of the affectionate girl, at first no other reply could be elicited than—

"Oh, my poor Blanche! poor Blanche!" accompanied by fresh sobs.

After about five minutes of this irritating and inexplicit grief, Rose managed to ascertain that Blanche was not to be forgiven.

"Impossible!" she exclaimed. "Oh, I will go this instant, and intercede for her!"

"Do, my dear—do—lose no time! And, Rose, don't mention that you have seen me. Pretend to know nothing, except that Cecil has written; and ask your papa when we are to see them, just as if it were a matter of course that he would forgive them."

"I will."

She went. Her success may be imagined; Vyner stormed at her; said, she was just like her sister, and had been so long accustomed to regard him as a cipher, that she could not even suppose him capable of punishing such an act of wretched disobedience.

On going to bed that night, Meredith Vyner seemed to have become greatly pacified by the day's reflections.

"It is rather a good letter that, of Cecil's," he said. "Well expressed."

"Very," answered his wife. "Perhaps rather too well expressed for sincerity. But he's a clever fellow. I always liked him. He is so gay and rattling."

"Better qualities in a guest than a son-in-law!"

"Humph! That depends——"

"His first quotation from Horace, too, is very well chosen—pat and pointed. Not so good, though, as mine to him! Egad! that was a stinger. Still, his deserves praise."

"I rather suspect, dear, that he made Horace a go-between. He pretended to be very interested in the poet, in order that he might woo the editor's daughter."

"No, indeed, there you wrong him. He came to me at first purely out of love for Horace. He took great interest in my commentary—I must do myself the justice to say that it is a little out of the common—and he seemed to think so. He was never tired of it, till his head got stuffed full of foolish love nonsense. When he began hankering after Blanche, he left off reading my commentary. Still I cannot deny that the great attraction first was the study of my notes and emendations."

She saw that he was getting on dangerous ground, and therefore threw out this lasso:

"Well, well, he knows your weak point, and by that he will gain the day. You won't long be able to disown a son-in-law who can quote Horace àpropos. So that if your natural goodness doesn't make you relent, Horace will!"

"You think so; but you are greatly mistaken."

In this way she from time to time restored his faltering resolution. Whenever symptoms of relenting exhibited themselves, she contrived to banish them by irritating his vanity. Shakspeare, that great master of the human heart, has, in the third act of Othello, anticipated the scenes which are perpetually recurring between a cool, calculating scoundrel and his writhing, unsuspecting victim. With consummate art, Iago always manages to keep before Othello's mind, the very idea he pretends to banish or to palliate; and directly he sees his victim relenting, as thoughts of tenderness for Desdemona arise, Iago contrives that the very tenderness shall add intensity to his sense of wrong. For instance, Othello says:—

I do not think but Desdemona's honest.

Whereupon Iago, with brutal-seeming frankness, says:—

Long live she so! and long live you to think so!
Oth. And yet how nature erring from itself.
Iago. Ay, there's the point—As—to be bold with you—
Not to affect many proposed matches, &c.

With somewhat of the diabolical art Iago used, did the sylph-like humpback play upon her husband. And when she began to fear that, after all, she might lose the game, she adroitly changed her tactics and said:—

"It has occurred to me that there is a way of settling this difficulty. Do not countenance Blanche's disobedience—do not see her husband—but we can from time to time assist them secretly. I can give them money, as if from my own funds. You will not appear in the matter at all, and yet you will have the satisfaction of knowing they are not in want."

This seemed so admirably calculated to save his dignity, and yet to preserve Blanche from the more serious consequences of his refusal, that he gladly adopted the suggestion.

Having gained this point, Mrs. Meredith Vyner sallied forth to pay some visits to her poor.

The devil is not so black as he is painted. Mrs. Vyner had her good qualities: and she was worshipped in her village. No one was so liberal to the poor; no one looked after the schools with greater or more judicious care; no one was more active in benevolence. She not only did kind things, she said them also; and that is an element in benevolence many charitable people omit. She attended upon the sick; she comforted the sorrowing; she listened to their long stories; she gave them advice; she interested herself in their joys and sorrows.

From what we know of her, we shall not be altogether dupes of this benevolence: we shall not suppose it pure, unmixed kindness. But it would perhaps be grossly wronging her to believe that it was hypocrisy, that it had not some real good feeling at the bottom. Although we may, and not uncharitably, suppose there was some selfishness and ostentation in this care for the poor; we may also believe that she felt some of the real glow of generosity and delight in doing good. In the ordinary sense of the word, she had no "interest" in her conduct. She might have done her duty to the poor without going so far as she did. Their good opinion was of no "use" to her. Examine it how you will, you can discover none of the "interested motives" usually supposed to influence the benevolence of selfish people.

Such a character is a paradox; but only a paradox, because we are so prone to regard human nature as very simple and all of a piece, when, in truth, it is, as I have remarked before, marvellously complex. Mrs. Meredith Vyner was wicked, cruel, unloving, and selfish; it would be a contradiction in terms, to add that she was also kind, generous, and benevolent; but it is perfectly true that she would occasionally perform kind, generous, and benevolent actions perfectly disinterested. The secret I take to be this. Her cruelty was not wanton: it always had reference to some selfish object. But on occasions completely alien to her interest or her vanity, she could be kind; and being an impulsive, imaginative woman where she was kind, she was strikingly so, thereby turning it into a thing of éclat, and so gratifying her vanity.

It was said of himself, by Benjamin Constant, "Je puis faire de bonnes et fortes actions; je ne puis avoir de bons precédés." This is a revelation of the profound depths of certain minds; and Mrs. Vyner belonged to that class. In a moment of enthusiasm she might even have forgotten her selfishness—or rather have staked all the gratification of her selfishness on the triumph of one moment; but she could not have completed her sacrifice, she could not have gone through with any line of conduct after it had lost its éclat; above all, she could not, in the ordinary transactions of life, have been generous, thoughtful, kind—she could not go through "the little nameless unremembered acts of kindness and of love" which constitute real goodness.

Her conduct towards the poor seems to be thus explained: they did not stand in her light; nothing she could do, or omit to do for them could influence her interests. But they were picturesque objects which struck her imagination, and appealed to her protection. A little trouble and a little money made her their benefactress. The pleasure of doing good was a pleasure she could appreciate, and it could be purchased for so little.

If any one supposes from the foregoing remarks, that I have what is called explained away her benevolence, he is mistaken. There are hundreds quite as selfish, who cannot appreciate the pleasure of doing good; and she is so far their superior.

CHAPTER VI.
FAINT HEARTS AND FAIR LADIES.

On this old beach
For hours she sat; and evermore her eye
Was busy in the distance, shaping things
That made her heart beat quick.
WORDSWORTH.—Excursion.

Autumn was deepening fast. The green tints were rapidly disappearing, and the advancing year "breathed a browner horror o'er the woods." Wytton still looked lovely; the great variety of tints, from the dark brown of the copper beech, to the delicate yellow of the cut-leaved hornbeam, made the grounds as splendid as a setting sun. The paths strewed with fallen leaves, spoke feelingly of the approaching change, when the huge trees would be stretching their melancholy branches out into the air, in gaunt loneliness.

Preparations were being made to quit Wytton for town, and both Marmaduke and Julius looked with regret upon the approaching separation. Town would never replace the country for them. They would see their idols there, it is true; but they would no longer see them in the charming ease and abandon of Wytton Hall, or the Grange.

The country is the place for a nascent love! It affords endless opportunities of tête-à-têtes, and the scenery gives a tone to the whole mind. London is very well for a flirtation, or when you cannot have the country. But its riot and bustle, its endless dissipation of your time and distraction of your thoughts, would alone make it greatly inferior to the country. Shut up in a country-house you have nothing to prevent an eternal brooding over your own thoughts; and those thoughts, can they be more sweetly employed than in hovering round the image of the beloved?

One bright, sunny, brisk, autumnal afternoon, six horses stood saddled at the door of the hall. A ride to the sea-shore, about eight miles distant, had been determined on, Rose having expressed a desire for a good childish ramble on the sands to pick up shells, and crack the seaweed pops.

Meredith Vyner, Mrs. St. John, Marmaduke and Violet, Julius and Rose, formed the party. Mrs. Vyner stayed at home. All the visitors had left the Hall, so that the present party was as large as could be mustered. They formed three pleasant couples.

"I think the young people behind understand each other," said Meredith Vyner to Mrs. St. John, as they rode ahead.

"I wish they did," she replied.

"Do you then doubt it? I fancy Mr. Ashley's attentions are unmistakeable, and Violet does not seem to look coldly on them. She is less haughty to him than to most people. Don't you think she's improved? Ah! I forgot, you did not know her then. She used to be a devil: such a temper! My poor little Mary, who, you know, is the timidest, mildest creature alive, used to be frightened out of her wits at her. She never dared to suggest anything that was not perfectly agreeable, for Violet would burst out upon her—it was quite fearful! I never saw any of it myself. Violet was always well behaved enough before me. But I used constantly to find Mary in hysterics, or in tears; and although she always wished to spare Violet, and refused to specify what had been said and done, yet she could not conceal from me that my daughter's conduct was the cause of her emotion. However, thank God! sending her away from home seems to have tamed her. She is not very violent now, is she?"

"Violent! I think she is entirely charming. I know no girl possessing so much dignity and directness of mind. I quite love her."

"And what do you think of Mr. Ashley?"

"That he would make her an excellent husband. Julius, whose judgment is so good, has the highest opinion of him."

"And I," said Vyner,—"not to flatter you—have the highest opinion of your son Julius. Upon my word, madam, you have a son to be proud of, as Horace says—

Micat inter omnes
Julium sidus, velut inter ignes
Luna minores.

A rare fellow; and one who, as a son-in-law—— Do you think there is anything there?"

"With Rose? I am puzzled. Julius is somewhat secret on such matters, and although he admires Rose, I do not feel certain how far his admiration goes."

"Well, you may tell him that he has not only my consent, but that nothing would please me more than to call him my son. Rose is a good girl; somewhat saucy in her wit, which does not even respect her mother at all times, but there is no malice in her. Mary, who doats upon all my children as if they were her own, says she cannot wonder that such girls should exercise such empire over me; for you must know, Mary fancies I am led by the nose by my affection for the girls, and that they have the whip hand, which is by no means the case. I may have indulged them, perhaps, too much when they were younger; but I flatter myself no one ever was able to lead me."

It may be supposed, that during this ride, neither Marmaduke and Violet, nor Julius and Rose, were very silent; but their talk was made up of those delicious nothings to which time, place, and circumstance give significance, and tones and looks give eloquence: what George Sand finely calls tous les riens immenses d'un amour naissant. Haughty and impetuous as Violet was, she had great playfulness, and could unbend with bewitching ease. Marmaduke was also lively, and his animal spirits were stimulated by his desire to please. He was charming.

Chamfort—who has written some of the wittiest and profoundest aphorisms in the French language—has said—"Un homme amoureux est un homme qui veut être plus aimable qu'il ne pent, et voilà pourquoi presque tous les amoureux sont ridicules."

True enough: lovers do appear ridiculous to lookers-on; but that desire to please which prompts their words and actions, makes them loveable in the eyes of their mistresses. After all, the great secret of being pleasant is the wish to be so. It needs no grace of manner, no splendour of beauty or talent, to make all around you pleased at your approach. It only needs the honest wish to please.

Marmaduke was therefore charming in the eyes of Violet, although he said nothing during the whole of the ride, which could possibly be read with interest. His conversation was frivolous or commonplace enough, but it had the particular seal of amiability.

So also Rose, the witty, sparkling Rose, laughed and made them laugh, without having uttered a single joke fit to be repeated; because if its wit happened to be undeniable, it would, nevertheless, ill bear transplanting.

This is the dilemma into which a novelist is forced if he chance to select a lively girl for a heroine: either he must consent to suppress her conversation, or else to give the impression of a vulgar, personal, flippant, disagreeable creature. In real life, vivacity gives point to a poor joke, and carries off the coarseness from a personal witticism. A laughing girl, with roguish eyes, and unmistakeable hilarity of manner, may utter almost anything—commonplace or personality—not only with impunity, but with positive applause. But I am certain that if the conversation of lively young ladies were printed, it would be scouted as the coarse daubing of one who knew not what ladies were. Simply because a narrator can only give the words; he cannot give tone and manner.

Be good enough to understand, therefore, that Rose was provokingly witty, though I cannot repeat what she said. Take my word for it. Repose upon the "easier-to-be-imagined-than-described" belief. Represent to yourself a young and lively girl during a delightful canter, with her lover by her side, whom she likes to tease, and then "imagine" what conversation must have passed: there can be no difficulty about the wit, as you have to draw from your own stores.

A happy day they passed. The ride to the sea-shore was through pleasant lanes, strewed with fallen leaves; and the sea-shore itself presented a magnificent view. The tide was very low, and the distant sands and sea had the appearance of the early dawn of a summer's day. The sails of a fishing-smack or two dotted the horizon. A fresh, salt sea-weed fragrance saluted their nostrils; the scrunch (beautiful word!) of small shells and pebbles followed their footsteps; small stranded crabs, with incoherent efforts, were hurrying here and there; huge entangled masses of weed offered their pops to Rose's delicate fingers; and a basketful of beautiful shells was soon the result of their search.

In this extremely primitive occupation, the time fled on. Meredith Vyner had wandered a long way down the shore, talking to Mrs. St. John respecting the virtues and accomplishments of his wife, and the manner in which his girls repaid her affection; which was followed up by a circumstantial history of his commentary on Horace: how the idea first came to him in reading a variorum edition: how the more he learned to know the commentators, the more he had learned to despise them, and to feel that a new edition was imperatively called for: how he had worked for years at this edition, and how, in short, he had finally got together the materials from which his monument would be built.

The tide was fast returning, and a rolling sea poured its restless waters, like the plunging of a powerful steed. Violet, seated on a rock, was contemplating it in silence; in silence Marmaduke dropped little pebbles into a tiny pool of water left in the rock. Both were sad, but with the sadness which is sweeter than joy. Both were silent, but with the silence which is more eloquent than speech. The breeze was playing with their hair, the music of "old ocean's roar" was sounding in their ears; the declining rays of an autumnal sun gave a poetic splendour to the scene, which was disturbed by no sound save the ceaseless wash of the advancing tide as it rolled upon the shingle.

It was one of those exquisite moments when the soul seems to tremble with delight at every thought which crosses it, when the susceptibility to external influences is so keen that the veriest trifles are robed in the splendour of imagination, and a scene which at other times would attract, perhaps, but little attention, has the enchantment of Armida's gardens. There are moments when the soul, with a vague but irresistible yearning, seems anxious to burst its earthly bonds, and to identify itself with the great spirit of beauty which hovers over the world—moments when the desire to love is so imperious, when the soul so eagerly seeks communion with some other soul, that the being, whom at other times we have perhaps regarded as indifferent, suddenly becomes the idol to whom a heart is offered as a sacrifice. The halo of mysterious feelings is around that being's head, and we mistake it for the luminous glory which encircles the Chosen. Just as the feeling of the moment sheds its lustre over a common-place scene, will it make an idol out of a common-place person.

How many fatal mistakes in love are attributable to such illusions?

Marmaduke and Violet were both under the spell of such a feeling. Yet neither spoke; words were too imperfect to express what passed within them. He rolled his pebbles one after the other into the pool, with mechanical precision; she watched the broad advancing sea, and listened to its music.

Had he declared his passion at that moment, he would assuredly have been accepted; and the whole course of their lives would have been altered. But he paused; he "dallied with the faint surmise;" he played with his own heart, and waited for her to break the silence.

But she kept her eyes upon the advancing sea, and a sigh, a gentle sigh heaved her bosom, for by some accidental association the current of her thoughts had become changed: she ceased to think of Marmaduke, and was communing in spirit with her departed mother. Perhaps it was the dash of the waters on the shore which brought back to her recollection those days of her unhappy childhood, when having lost her mother, she was wont to sit upon a rock, and hear the ocean speak to her wild words of comfort. There were voices in the waves then; and those voices faintly sounding through the past, spoke to her mysteriously now. The image of her dear, kind, much-loved mother, stood before her. A tear rolled over her cheek; and Marmaduke, whose attention had been attracted by her sigh, looked up and saw it. His heart was proud, for he thought that sigh and that tear were for him.

"What are you thinking of?" he tenderly asked.

She turned her full large eyes, glistening with grief, upon him, and said gently,—

"My poor mother!"

And again her eyes were fixed upon the sea.

Marmaduke was hurt; and with a movement of impatience resumed his pebble rolling. His self-love shrank, offended at this unexpected avowal, and he mentally reproached Violet with her coldness.

"She loves me not," he said. "Will she ever love me? Am I wasting my affections here as I wasted them before? Well, she shall see that I can be as cold and proud as herself."

In this frame of mind he remained seated by her side, making no attempt to withdraw her from the reverie in which she was indulging, and with the sullen bitterness of a lover, refusing to enter upon a conversation which would have dissipated all his doubts, and made him the happiest of men.

Julius and Rose having finished their collection of shells, and having immensely enjoyed each other's society, though not a word of love had crossed their lips, came up to the rock and found the silent lovers not unwilling to prepare for the ride home. As they all four walked to the spot where the servants were with the horses, Marmaduke took Julius by the arm, and falling a few paces in the rear, said hurriedly,—

"Julius, laugh and joke as much as you please, but if the warning does not come too late, take care of your heart!"

"Explain, explain."

"Do not trust yourself—do not believe that you can read a woman's heart from her behaviour—do not make the mistake I have made."

He refused to be more explicit, but Julius fancied he comprehended his meaning. With a truly human naïveté, Marmaduke imagined that as he had been deceived, his friend would likewise be so; and in perfect sincerity he counselled Julius not to believe in Rose's manner, because Violet's manner, as he supposed, had been deceptive to him.

To another the advice would have been idle; to Julius it was agitating, and confirmed him in his natural backwardness to believe a woman could fancy him: a backwardness which Rose's manner had of late so far overcome, that he had been several times on the point of declaring himself, and would I dare say have done so during their ride home, had not Marmaduke's earnest warning held him back.

Violet, pensive and sad, rode home occupied with her own thoughts: Marmaduke at her side scarcely making an observation. Rose, as gay and fascinating as before, noticed a change in Julius, but said nothing to him about it, as she suspected love was at the bottom.

"I have finished my third reading of Leopardi's poems," she said presently, "and like them more and more. Their constant sadness is a great charm to me—I suppose, because having no sorrows of my own, I love to indulge in imaginary woes."

"Yes," he replied, "tears were given to man to purify him. So natural is sorrow to us, that if we have it not, we invent it; the heart would dry up and wither, if it were not watered by the blessed fountain of pity. But Leopardi's sorrows were in excess, and became a mental disease. Smitten as he was in body, heart, and mind, by disease, slighted love, and scepticism, no wonder that his poems are melancholy."

"Was he then slighted in love?"

"He loved—loved twice—but each time the offering of his heart was rejected. What else could the poor hunchbacked, crippled poet, expect?"

"If he was a cripple, was he not a great poet? If his back was ill-shaped, was not his mind noble?"

"His mind!" replied Julius, with a tinge of bitterness.

"Yes," she said, "his mind: could not a woman appreciate that?"

"Women can appreciate a mind, but they cannot love it. Love springs from sympathy, not from intelligence: its seat is in the heart, not in the reason. A woman might therefore have admired Leopardi; but she could not love the cripple."

"Yet, did not Mademoiselle d'Aubigny marry the cripple Scarron?"

"To become Madame de Maintenon," replied Julius.

"I would cite a dozen other instances. Do you know, Mr. St. John, you are very ungallant in your opinion of our sex—which sex you can know very little about, to judge from your exaggerated notion of our regard for beauty. We like to keep the beauty to ourselves. As for me, I would as soon marry a hunchback as a guardsman, as far as the mere beauty is concerned."

A strange joy filled his heart as she said this, and he was about to declare himself, when Meredith Vyner called to him to ride forward and admire a little valley which lay to their left. Rose fell back and joined her sister. The rest of the ride was performed in threes, instead of in couples. As they reached home, Vyner made his favourite quotation:—

Heu! heu! quantus equis, quantus adest viris
Sudor!

And conducted Mrs. St. John into the drawing-room. Marmaduke, Violet, and Rose, followed them. Julius went into the study to write a note.

CHAPTER VII.
BOLD STROKE FOR A LOVER.

Ah, cruel! tu m'as trop entendue!
Je t'en ai dit assez pour te tirer d'erreur.
Eh bien! connois donc Phèdre en toute sa fureur
Je t'aime!
RACINE.—Phèdre.

"Do you never sing, Mrs. Vyner?" asked Mrs. St. John, as she saw her beating time with her head (and curious time it was!) to Violet's singing.

"No; I have so little voice."

"That surprises me; I should have thought you must sing well, your speaking voice is so soft."

Mrs. Meredith Vyner smiled her acknowledgments, and redoubled the energy of her impossible time-beating. Marmaduke, charmed by the magic of Violet's singing, was gradually overcoming his anger, and was slowly admitting to himself what a divine creature she was.

She ceased, and Marmaduke prayed so earnestly for her to continue, that she again sat down, and while her rich contralto notes were making every chord in his heart vibrate, he suddenly encountered the savage gaze of his former "tiger-eyed" mistress. She rapidly closed and then opened her eyes, with that manner peculiar to her, and which I have mentioned before, and a smile dethroned the look of hate which the previous instant had usurped her face; but he marked the change, and smiled scornfully.

"What a beautiful voice she has!" said Mrs. St. John.

"Yes," replied Mrs. Vyner; "but we prefer Blanche's singing—she has so much feeling. Violet, you know, has more of the professional mechanism; but Blanche has a soul in her singing."

As Blanche was a rival out of the way, it was safe to cry up her attraction, especially at the expense of one of the other girls. Violet was perfectly aware of what her mother meant, but she was not the less nettled. As she was about to commence another song, Mrs. Vyner said,

"There, my dear, that will do; you have displayed your accomplishments quite enough, and it is unnecessary for Mr. Ashley to listen to any more songs sung out of tune, however curious the ornaments may be."

Mrs. Vyner must have been very irritated, to have made a remark so plainly and directly disparaging and unkind!

"Did you notice that I sang out of tune, Mr. Ashley?" Violet quietly asked.

"Not at all. In fact, as far as I may be allowed an opinion, I should say your intonation is remarkably perfect."

"Well, I am glad you are not so severe a critic as mama," replied Violet, with a calmness which was horribly exasperating, "because, as she cannot distinguish one tune from another, her ears are so delicate that it is difficult to keep in tune to them."

This sarcasm, in answer to the petty spiteful remark which called it forth, produced an uncomfortable silence, which Violet broke by beginning Paisiello's magnificent Ho perduto il bel sembiante, which she sang with triumphant energy and steadiness, showing how little the ignoble squabble had disturbed her.

Mrs. Meredith Vyner was pale with hate, but the twilight covered her paleness. In her rage at Violet's haughty sarcasm, and jealousy at seeing Marmaduke so enraptured with her, she resolved upon a diabolical resolve: she would regain Marmaduke's love, and break Violet's heart!

Meanwhile Julius was in the study writing this epistle:—

"Dearest Rose, I can no longer restrain myself, I can no longer hesitate and live in doubt. I love you. You must know it; and what you said not an hour ago makes me bold. Do you remember your words, 'As for me, I would as soon marry a hunchback as a guardsman, so far as beauty is concerned.' They were sincerely spoken, were they not? At any rate 'upon that hint I speak,' and conscious of my own unattractiveness dare to hope my ugliness will not be a barrier to your affection. Do not ridicule my presumption, I entreat; look on it as an unhappy passion, which your own confession has urged me to declare. Even now I dare not tell you to your face I love you; partly because I still fear the avowal might distress you, and partly because the courage I shall need to bear with a refusal, would desert me.

"Examine your own heart calmly, and if it tells you that you could be happy with me—if it tells you that the devotion of my life would make up for all the superior attractions, mental and physical, in which I am deficient—then, as you come down to dinner to-day, bring in your hand the volume of Leopardi, and place it on the table. By that token, which can have no significance to others, I shall learn that I am not scorned. If your heart does not speak in my favour, the mere omission of this will tell me too plainly, but in the least cruel manner, that I have made a sad mistake."

This was folded up into a tiny note, and with it Julius marched into the drawing-room to seek some means of delivering it. He found Rose playing with Shot, and stooping down to join her in that play, he easily contrived to slip it into her hand, just as the lamp was brought in. She blushed deeply, and her little bosom panted with hurrying feelings; but making an effort she ran out of the room, declaring it was time to dress for dinner.

She read the letter with intense eagerness, and finished it twice before she could make out distinctly anything beyond the delightful fact that Julius had at last declared himself. On calming her agitation a little, and deliberately reading the letter once more, she felt a certain impatience at that passage which attributed the declaration to what she had said during their ride. For the first time, it then struck her that she had given him too broad a hint. Aware of his backwardness, and of his exaggerated notion of woman's desire for beauty, she was anxious to undeceive him on that point, and now saw that she had, perhaps, overstepped the bounds of maidenly reserve.

Now Rose, though a darling little girl, was not without her imperfections; and wilfulness was among them. She would do and say strange things, because she chose to do and say them; but you were not to draw any absolute conclusions from them, you were not to hold her to her words unless she also chose to be held to them; she called that taking an advantage of her. In the present case she was very anxious to tell Julius that she loved him; she had gone so far as to tell him that his want of beauty would be no disqualification; yet when he availed himself of her words, and "spake upon that hint," she rebelled, and was impatient at such an advantage being taken of her "unguarded language."

Meanwhile, the dressing-bell had rung, and no one was in the drawing-room except Marmaduke and Mrs. Meredith Vyner, who were in the midst of a somewhat bitter and mutually reproachful conversation respecting the honesty and constancy of the two sexes.

"Men are so brutal," she said; "they always demand undying constancy from us—"

"And never get it——"

"And even when perhaps jealousy, anger, or despair have driven us into seeking elsewhere for relief from our outraged affections, they sneer and talk of our frivolity and incapacity for an enduring passion."

"Well, well, it is easy to talk of jealousy driving a woman to extremity, but there must be shown some cause for that jealousy. Mere absence, mere inferiority in position, is sometimes enough to suggest ample cause for jealousy. An absent lover thinks incessantly of his mistress; a rich old lover makes his appearance; whereupon the engaged lady suddenly becomes jealous of her absent swain, and, driven to desperation, marries the rich old lover!"

Nothing could better please Mrs. Vyner than the turn taken by the conversation, which, in its generality of expression and covert significance, best answered her purpose of justification, without seeming to justify herself.

"I agree with you. There must be ampler cause shown. But if the absent lover suddenly ceases to write, and reports arise that he is very assiduous in his attentions elsewhere, if to this silence, confirmed by these reports—if to the jealous rage, which those who love ardently must feel when they are betrayed, be added the temptation of vengeance in the shape of a brilliant match, then, I think, we should not blame a woman's inconstancy, so much as we should pity her fate. Were she to marry a young and handsome man, she might be supposed to love him; but if, as in the case supposed by you, the new lover be old, then it is a proof that whatever wild motives may have prompted her wild act, inconstancy in her affections had nothing to do with it."

Marmaduke was a good deal shaken by this artful speech, but he rather felt than saw its falsehood. A shrug of the shoulders, and a slight incredulous laugh was all the answer he vouchsafed.

"There is this further difference," she pursued, "between the sexes. When a man has quarrelled with a woman—when he has deserted her or been deserted by her, he tramples down in his heart all former love, and replaces adoration with hate, or, at the least, with indifference."

"Very right too."

"Yes, you men think so. But how differently a woman feels! Under the same circumstances, whatever may have been prompted by her rage or her despair, the act upon which she had resolved once performed, her love returns with all its former force—returns and lives in her heart throughout the rest of her life. This is what I mean by our superiority in constancy. When once we love, it is for ever. No neglect, no ill-usage, no inconstancy can kill it. Weak and wayward, reckless and passionate as we are, we rush into wretched extremes, we do rash things when blinded by our tears, but do what we will, we cannot stifle the love that is in our hearts."

The little creature had risen and thrown back her golden locks with the graceful fury of a Pythoness, her eyes sparkled with an unwonted light, her nostrils were dilated, her whole frame seemed animated with passion, as she declaimed, rather than spoke, that vindication of herself in her sex.

I have said before that she had the nature of an actress. The present scene, therefore, was not only adapted to her histrionic display, but gave her such keen delight, that she could have pursued it for a long while, quite independent of any ulterior purpose, had not Marmaduke suddenly arrested her eloquence, by asking in a tone of subdued irony,—

"And am I expected to believe all this?"

She paused to fix a passionate look at him. Then, slowly drawing from her bosom a small locket, held it up to him, and said scornfully,—

"Do you recognise this?"

Before he had recovered from his astonishment, she had left the room.

"Good God!" he exclaimed. "It is my hair!"

It was her father's.

CHAPTER VIII.
WOMAN'S CAPRICE.

Quelque raison qu'on trouve à l'amour qui nous dompte,
On trouve à 1'avouer toujours un peu de honte.
On s'en defend d'abord; mais de l'air qu'on s'y prend
On fait connoitre assez que notre cœur se rend.
MOLIERE.—Tartuffe.

We left Rose pondering over her lover's letter, and her own uneasiness at having by her hints called forth a delightful declaration. We return to her after the lapse of half an hour, and find her in the same state. At length the dinner-bell rings.

The volume of Leopardi lies on the table: will she take it down with her?

There is a fact in human nature which will be familiar to many, but which I am unable to explain, and that is the occasional impulse which forces us to act diametrically opposite to our wishes. It is a sudden spasm of wilfulness, wholly irrational, but wholly irresistible. I know that, in my own case, I have refused advantageous offers—declined invitations to pleasant excursions—entirely in obedience to this impulse of wilfulness—which I have regretted the instant afterwards, when either circumstances or my pride made the regret unavailing. No reason, no gratification of any vanity, indolence, or temper has been at the bottom of this. The impulse has been purely wilful and irrational—motiveless, were not the motive enveloped in the very impulse.

I call attention to this fact, as a fact, because it helps me to explain Rose's sudden resolution not to take down the volume of Leopardi. Perhaps, in her case, there may have been some acknowledged influence derived from her annoyance at that passage in Julius's letter, which threw the onus of the situation upon her. Perhaps she might have been secretly anxious to show him that she was not so ready to throw herself into his arms as he might suppose. I know not how it may be; all I know is, that with a sudden effort she walked down stairs, came into the drawing-room, saw the death-like paleness of her miserable lover, whose hopes had been thus scattered by a blow, seated herself upon a vis-à-vis, and joined in the conversation as if nothing had occurred.

It is easy to say that Julius was prepared for this, that his own diffidence had perpetually taught him to expect it; he had thought so, too, and yet he was not prepared. We sophisticate with ourselves quite as much as with others. We say we are prepared for an event which, if it occurs, takes us with the suddenness of a blow to a blind man. And Julius, when he saw Rose enter without the token, felt as if a grave had suddenly yawned at his feet. "Marmaduke was right!" he said, and instantly turned over the leaves of the "Book of Beauty," which was on the table.

Marmaduke, whom we left bewildered at the discovery of Mrs. Meredith Vyner's long-cherished affection, had not yet recovered from the agitation into which it had thrown him. The announcement that Mrs. Vyner was too unwell to descend to dinner—having been seized with one of her singular hysterical fits—added to the tumult of his thoughts; for he readily divined the cause of that fit, and her wish also not again to meet him that evening.

It is needless to say, how gratified he was. In his own eyes he had been rehabilitated. From the position of a jilted lover, he was raised to that of one loved, "not wisely, but too well;" and the keen delight it gave to his self-love was something quite indescribable.

From a sort of instinctive feeling of delicacy, he kept away from Violet's side. Rose occupied him entirely.

Julius was, therefore, enabled to hand Violet to dinner without any embarrassment. He was cold, grave, and dignified; speaking little, but that little without bitterness, without covert allusions. You only noticed that he was grave—not that he was hurt.

Rose was somewhat piqued. She knew that she had done wrong, was sorry that she had done it, but yet could not without impatience see the dignified reproof which there was in Julius's manner. Willing enough to repair by a word the error she had committed, she expected, indeed required, that he at least should show sufficient concern to induce her to repair it.

This is not very amiable, perhaps, but it is human nature. In a moment of capriciousness, she had rejected his proffered love; not that she meant to reject it, but simply because she chose to indulge her wilfulness. She intended to release him from despair, as soon as her rejection had produced it; she had never thought of his leaving the house that evening, without a full assurance of her love. But now all her plans were overthrown. He exhibited no despair. His cold, grave manner was more like a stern reproof of her capriciousness, than the despair of a lover. Her rejection had been accepted; and she was angry with him for taking her at a word.

Violet was puzzled at the little attention Marmaduke paid her, and more puzzled at his eyes never meeting hers as they were wont, to mingle their lustre with each other; and observing also the change in Julius, she began to speculate on the probable cause. Was Marmaduke suddenly smitten with Rose, and was Julius jealous of him?

It was a solemn, tedious dinner. Fortunately, Meredith Vyner had begun upon the inexhaustible subject of English etymologies, and talked enough not to observe the silence of the others. When the ladies withdrew, he entered into a discussion with Marmaduke, on the comparative merits of ancient and modern poetry, while Julius carefully cut some apple peel into minute slips.

They remained much longer than usual over their wine; and when they returned to the drawing-room, Julius missed the sweet glad smile of welcome with which Rose greeted him, by studiously looking another way.

The change of feeling in a loving heart is very rapid from anger to sorrow, and Rose had long since lost all sense of pique, for one of sorrowful alarm. During the time the gentlemen had remained over their wine, she had reflected on the whole affair, and penitently avowed her folly. Her only course was to undo what she had done; and the smile with which she greeted him was meant as the first intimation of her changed opinion.

But Julius neither saw that smile, nor afforded her the slightest opportunity of speaking to him; and—strange contradiction in human impulses!—the more he wrapped himself in his reserve, the more abject was her humility in endeavouring to draw him out of it.

At length she fled to her own room, resolved to bring down the Leopardi, and hand it to him, saying,—

"There is the book you ought to have had before dinner."

But when she reached her room, she was forced to vent her pent-up feelings in a flood of tears—and bitter-sweet those tears were: bitter in remembrance of the past, sweet in anticipation of the future. Having calmed herself by "a good cry," she had then to wash her face and eyes, to remove all traces of her grief. This took some little time.

When perfectly satisfied with her appearance, she took up the volume, kissed it fervently, and tripped down stairs. She found Violet alone leaning her magnificent arm upon the table in an attitude of profound meditation.

"Where... where are .... they?" Rose faltered out.

"The St. Johns? Gone this quarter of an hour."

"Gone!" exclaimed Rose in an agonized voice, and sank into a chair, with a terrible presentiment of some tragic results from her absurd caprice.

CHAPTER IX.
CONSEQUENCES.

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean—
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
TENNYSON.—The Princess.

A restless, agitated night was it for the four lovers. Julius sat up packing. He had informed his mother of his rejection; and she, doating as she did on her son, was highly indignant at Rose's "unfeeling coquetry, which she never could have believed her guilty of." Espousing his cause with a vehemence which somewhat hurt him, she readily agreed to his proposal of their both leaving the Grange forthwith, and spending the winter in Italy.

Marmaduke also packed up that night. He had quarrelled with Julius, and was determined to quit the Grange early in the morning. The subject of their quarrel had been the two girls, whom Marmaduke accused of being heartless coquettes, which Julius angrily denied. High words passed; for both were in a state of extraordinary agitation, from the events of the night.

Having completed his arrangements, he threw himself upon his bed, but not to sleep. Strange visions came to him—phantasmagoria, in which the image of the imperial Violet was ever and anon floating before the passionate figure of the sylph-like Mrs. Vyner, as she last appeared to him, proclaiming woman's undying love. Gradually his thoughts settled more and more upon the latter. He began to consider the various parts of her story, and to compare it with the facts. Then a new light broke in upon him. It is one of the effects of oratory, that your ears are charmed, your mind borne away along the stream of eloquence or argument, without having time to pause and examine; but subsequent reflection often suffices to break the spell, and the enthusiastic applauder votes against the very sentiments he has applauded. So Marmaduke had been carried away by the skilfully constructed tale which Mrs. Vyner had improvised; and the plausibility of the non-receipt of letters, and reports of his attentions to another, had been so great as really to have made him doubt the justness of his old convictions. But, on reflection, that plausibility vanished. He remembered that his letters had been received and acknowledged until within a very short time of the announcement of her marriage. He also remembered that he had been so occupied with affairs as to have had no time even for ordinary society in Brazil; so that no innocent flirtation with any girl there could at that time, by any possibility, have given rise to the reports by which she pretended to have been made jealous.

It was evident, therefore, that she was deceiving him again. For some purpose or other, she was playing with him.

"I will get to the bottom of this mystery," he said. "One of two things it must be: either she really loves me, in spite of all—and, in that case, I will profit by it,—or else she is again coquetting with me for some purpose, or out of mere love of coquetry; and, in that case, I will avenge the past. She is as cunning as the devil! To dupe her, I must feign the dupe."

He turned upon his pillow with a chuckle of triumph.

Mrs. Meredith Vyner slept soundly that night. A smile was on her lips as she sank asleep—a smile of gratulation at the success of her experiment on Marmaduke. She was sure that he was in her power.

Rose could only stay her grief by the recollection that to-morrow would explain away all that was now doubt and misgiving. She intended to call early at the Grange, and frankly tell Julius that she loved him. Nevertheless, in spite of this resolution, a dark presentiment overshadowed her soul, and drove away the thoughts of happiness. She wept abundantly; sometimes at her own folly, sometimes in anger at Julius, for having so brutally taken her at her word, as if a woman's negative was ever to be taken, when looks and words had so often affirmed what was then denied. He ought to have known she was only teazing him; that it was only a spurt of caprice. He must have known it. But he did not choose to see it. He wanted to make her unhappy! A fresh flood of tears closed this tirade. And so on, throughout the long and weary night.

Violet having heard from Rose the real state of the case, was relieved from jealousy only to be plunged into fresh doubt. What could be the meaning of Marmaduke's conduct? They had not quarrelled. She had said nothing to offend him; nor did he seem offended; and yet....

For the first time, Violet now became distinctly conscious that she loved Marmaduke. His fearlessness, manliness, and frankness had early captivated her,—to say nothing of his handsome person. Increased intimacy had shown her, as she thought, a heart and mind every way worthy of her love. But a certain mistrust—perhaps a recollection of her inclination towards Cecil, perhaps a vague sense of imperfect sympathy with Marmaduke—had kept her more reserved than was her wont; and this reserve was attributed to haughtiness. The chance of losing him, however, awakened her to a conviction of what the loss would be.

Day dawned; and with the dawn Julius set out for London. Marmaduke followed, at about nine o'clock. At eleven, Rose and Violet called in the carriage at the Grange.

"Mrs. St. John is gone to Walton," said the butler.

"Is Mr. Julius at home?"

"Mr. Julius is gone to London."

"To London?"

"Yes, miss; he went early this morning."

Rose sank back in the carriage, too overcome to weep.

"Is Mr. Ashley within?" asked Violet.

"He's also gone to London, miss."

It was evident that they were both deserted by their lovers. They drove back in horrible silence.

After luncheon, they again called at the Grange—Mrs. St. John had gone out for the day. The next day they called—Mrs. St. John had gone to London.

It would be painful to dwell on the sufferings of these two girls. Wounded pride, wounded love, baffled hope, and wearing doubt were the vultures consuming their hearts.

The next morning's post relieved some of Violet's fears, by bringing her father a letter from Marmaduke, apologizing for not having called to take leave of a family from whom he had received so much kindness, and with whom he had spent such happy hours; but being forced, by his quarrel with Julius, to quit the house at the very earliest, he trusted the omission of a farewell visit would be excused; the more so, as the Vyners were themselves very shortly to come to London, when he hoped to do himself the pleasure of paying them his respects in person, and in person to thank them for their hospitable kindness.

This proved that he at least had not departed in anger. Mrs. Vyner secretly rejoiced at the event, attributing his flight to a sudden resolution to quit her dangerous presence, and attributing the letter to an uncontrollable desire to be with her again.

To Rose this brought no consolation. She had none, except that she must see or meet Mrs. St. John in London, and that she could then explain to her the whole affair.

How eagerly these three women longed to be in London, and with what feverish impatience they set out, when the day at length arrived.