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

by George Henry Lewes

BOOK VI.

CHAPTER I.
THE IDLER'S DAY.

"Nature hath given us legs to go to our objects, not wings to fly to them."—EASTWARD HOE.

The spring of 1841 was very mild, and this enabled Cecil and Blanche to endure the wretched, comfortless state of Mrs. Tring's boarding-house, better than if the weather had been more rigorous. The cheapness, which was now becoming more and more important to them, was therefore a sufficient compensation for the want of comfort. They had renewed their engagement, hoping that either the comic opera, or the historical picture, would so improve their circumstances as to admit of their removal in the summer.

They had long awakened from their holiday dream to find that, however pleasant the change in their position, it was only pleasant as a change; the novelty once worn off, the scene appeared in all its ugliness; or rather, let me say, appeared so to Cecil. He was of a luxurious habit, and felt privation keenly. Blanche felt it less, and her love for him made home happy. She had never been so happy. Cecil was all she could desire.

As may be imagined, Cecil once relaxing in the energy with which he had begun to work, never recovered his former happiness. The charms of society were charms he could not withstand; the more so because he was fitted for it, shone in it. Having dined occasionally at the club was sufficient to give him an incurable disgust to the meagre fare Mrs. Tring spread before him, and he consequently began to absent himself more and more.

Added to this, his painting proceeded slowly. "Inspiration," wait for it as he would, seemed unwilling to descend upon him. Then there were so many days lost: sometimes the weather was foggy, and that prevented him; sometimes it was fine, and tempted him to exercise; sometimes he had visits to pay; sometimes men "looked in" upon him at his rooms. One way or another, the week slipped from him without leaving behind it any record of labour.

Besides—and this perhaps was one great cause of his idleness, giving strength to the other influences—he grew less satisfied with his picture the nearer it approached its termination. Cecil was a man whose designs were always finer than his productions, his sketches gave a promise which his execution never realized. In this little trait we may see the whole man. It might serve as a description of his character. With a certain freshness, delicacy, and even grandeur in his conceptions, he wanted strength, energy, and mastery, to endow them with vitality. Who can wonder that he raved about "genius," and scorned the "mechanical labour" of mere technical execution?

When he contemplated his productions, he grew impatient at their inadequacy to represent his conceptions, and he threw the blame on everything but on his own indolence and caprice. That broad line which separates intention from execution—which makes the thought a thing—which distinguishes the artist from other men, by creating in art what other men only create in visions—that broad line Cecil wilfully overlooked. He saw that he had failed, and did not choose to see wherein lay his failure. He despised the "drudgery" which was indispensable to success. Disgusted with his failure, he lost all courage, and scarcely ever handled a pencil.

"When will your picture be finished, Mr. Chamberlayne?" asked Mrs. Merryweather, one morning at breakfast.

"Indeed, I cannot say," he replied; "works of that magnitude require long consideration. I could have produced it long ago, had I been disposed; but I'm in no hurry."

"Do you know Mr. Bostock's paintings?"

Cecil replied that he did not.

"Oh, he's a beautiful painter, that he is! Does peaches and mackerel so that you wouldn't know them from real. His pictures give one an appetite—that they do. I remember once—it was very curious—Mrs. Henley, a relation of mine who lives at Southampton—her husband was in the customs—good situation, as I have heard—and a strange creature he was, with the queerest nose you ever saw, and eyes just like a lobster's, one was always alarmed lest they should tumble into his waistcoat pocket! Well, he married my relation, Mrs. Henley, one of the best creatures! She often comes up to town, and I should so like you to be acquainted with her, you'll be quite pleased with her! So, as I was saying, she came up to town once, to manage a little business, and enjoy herself at the same time. Well, one day she called upon us. Merryweather—my poor Merryweather was then alive: who wouldn't have thought him good for another thirty years at least! He proposed to take us both to the Exhibition; so we went. It was a very hot day, I remember; intensely hot. Poor Merryweather was in a bath all the time. And as he stood in the octagon room, his hat in his hand, wiping the perspiration from his face—which was a sight of itself to see!—complaining of heat, I suddenly spied one of Mr. Bostock's pretty pictures—oh, it was a love! you can't fancy what a bunch of grapes straddled across a few peaches surrounded with egg plums! 'Lor,' says poor Merryweather, 'do look at that; isn't it refreshing.' And we all declared it was; and so it was."

Cecil, as usual, made a precipitate retreat at the conclusion of this biographical anecdote, and Blanche soon followed him.

"By George!" he said, puffing a huge column of smoke from his mouth, "that woman is insupportable. I really must quit this hole; at least if that toad squats in it."

"She amuses me," said Blanche.

"Lucky for you."

Blanche took up her work, and sat beside her husband, who, stretched upon the sofa, a cigar in his mouth, was at what he chose to consider his morning meditations. He certainly did think; but thought of the club, of society, of opera singers, and of his past life, far more than he thought of his work. From time to time he spoke to Blanche, and the subjects upon which he spoke were sufficiently trivial to have told any one more clear-sighted than she was, how little art occupied his reveries.

His cigar finished, he put on a pair of white kid gloves, and occupied himself for half an hour cleaning them with india-rubber, whistling, humming, and chatting all the while with enviable insouciance.

That important business concluded, he rose, kissed his wife, yawned, stretched his limbs, looked out of the window, and then took up his bottes vernies, which he began to rub up, and brighten with a piece of wool dipped in oil, whistling, humming, and chatting as before.

"What time is it, I wonder?" he said, drawing out his watch, "nearly twelve! whew! how the morning flies. I must be off. Where's my coat, Pet?"

She gave him his coat, and in another half hour he had completed his toilet, and was ready to start.

"God bless you, my Pet!" he said, embracing her.

"Shall you be home to dinner to-day, dearest?"

"No, I am to dine with Lufton; and this evening we go to Miss Mason's."

"Enjoy yourself! God bless you, dearest!"

Another kiss, and our man of genius departed for his studio. Arrived there, he began to consider whether it were not too late to do anything that day. It was near one o'clock; at two, Frank was to call upon him. They were going to a morning conceit.

"It is decidedly useless beginning anything to-day. I'll just try over some of those songs till Frank calls."

He sat down to the piano. Having sung for a quarter of an hour, he opened a French novel, and was deep in that when his fidus Achates appeared.

"Frank," said Cecil, as they strolled out together; "I am going to ask you a question which generally disturbs friendship, but which won't alter ours, because you'll answer it candidly."

"Cis, I know what that exordium means. Whenever a man begins in that solemn circumlocutory manner he can have but one object—money."

Cecil laughed, as he replied,—

"You have hit it, by George!"

"Of course, I have. Do you think I have borrowed so much money without learning every symptom?"

"Well, then, Frank, without disguise, I want to borrow a few pounds; old Vyner has not relented, and his wife has not been lately with any little contribution: but she can't be long, it has been due some weeks."

"What has been due, old fellow?"

"Why, what she intends to give us."

Thus securely did Cecil rely upon that source of aid.

"Meanwhile," he added, "I am deucedly hard up, and if you have a few pounds——"

"Make it shillings, Cis, and it will be quite as impossible. Egad! it is rather a queer sensation for one who has been so long a borrower, to be looked upon in the light of a possible lender!"

"Say no more, Frank; you would do it if you could, I am sure."

"Damn my whiskers! if you are sure of it, I'm not. I doubt whether I could lend. I don't know the trick of it; I should feel as strange and disreputable as if I were to pay a bill. Perhaps my friendship for you might overcome that—— I don't know—perhaps it might. But it is all speculation, so let us trouble ourselves no more with it. As a matter of practice, judge how feasible it is when I reveal to you the present state of my capital: four shillings and some halfpence in current coin, and eighteen pence invested."

"Invested, Frank! in what, pray?"

"In a bill-stamp: I take care to be provided with that."

Cecil shouted with laughter, exclaiming,—"That's so like you."

It was, indeed, a trait which painted the man. The value of the bill-stamp consisted, of course, in the chance of meeting with some obliging young gentleman who would consent, "merely as a matter of form," to put his name to the bill, which Frank would forget to take up. But this value was now the more precarious, as that mere matter of form had been so very frequently gone through, that he found it excessively difficult to get it repeated. As he used to say,—

"We degenerate—damn my whiskers! we degenerate fearfully: the principles of true politeness are becoming effaced."

CHAPTER II.
ANOTHER LITERARY SOIRÉE.

The soirée at Hester Mason's, to which they went that evening, was very much the same as the one formerly described; there were fewer guests, and among them more women: a sure sign that she was getting on in the world, and that the reputation of her parties was beginning to cover any suspicious circumstances in her own position.

But the women were still of a questionable class: questionable, I mean, not as regards propriety, but ton. There were no ladies who gave parties, who were recognised as belonging to "society;" and, above all, there were no girls there: the virgins were old, ugly, or wise.

In a word, the women were almost exclusively literary women; described by Cecil as poor faded creatures, who toiled in the British Museum, over antiquated rubbish which they extracted and incorporated with worse rubbish of their own—women who wrote about the regeneration of their sex—who drivelled in religious tales—compiled inaccurate histories—wrote moral stories for the young, or unreadable verses for the old—translated from French and German (with the assistance of a dictionary, a dashing contempt for English idiom),—learned women, strong-minded women, religious women, historical women, and poetical women; there were types of each class, and by no means attractive types.

One remark Cecil made, which every one will confirm. "How curious it is," said he, "to notice the intimate connexion between genius and hair. You see it very often in men, but universally in women, that the distinguishing mark of literary or artistic pretension is not in the costume, but in the mode of arranging the hair. Women dress their hair in a variety of ways: each has a reference to what is becoming; but when women set up for genius or learning, all known fashions are despised, and some outrageous singularity alone contents them. Just look round this room. There is Hester herself: she is young and handsome; but instead of taking advantage of her black curls, she trains them up like a modern Frenchman. If you only saw her head, you would call it a boy's. Then, again, next to her sits Mrs. James Murch—she reads Greek, and writes verses; you see it by the hair parted on one side, instead of in the centre, and by the single curl plastered on her brow, emulous of a butcher boy. There is Miss Stoking—she writes history and talks about the 'Chronicles'—I see that in the row of flat curls on her forehead, and in the adjustment of her back hair. Miss Fuller must be a philosophical woman, by the way in which all the hair is dragged off her forehead. That bony thing next to her must be a poetess, by the audacity of her crop. In fact, depend upon it, as there is a science of phrenology, there is a science of hair."

These women did not, as may be guessed, give any additional charm to Hester's parties, unless, indeed, in the shape of some fun. Nevertheless, their presence was inexpressibly delightful to her, for it was a sanction; and with all her sneers at the "conventions" of society, Hester was most anxious to preserve them.

Cecil, who liked Hester very much, and was interested even in her opinions which he did not share, was pitiless in his satire upon her female friends; which I will not repeat here, lest the reader should imagine that I share the general dislike to clever women—a conclusion against which I protest, and stoutly. True, I am not so blind an admirer of cleverness as to think it atones for the absence of womanly grace, gentleness, lovingness, and liveliness; but, on the other hand, some of the most charming women—and womanly women too—I have ever known, have been distinguished in literature and art. Will that avowal save me?

Hester forgave Cecil for his opinion, the more so as she shared it; and although she combated his views on social matters as warmly as ever, was falling over head and ears in love with him.

"You will come round to my way of thinking one day," she said; "so elevated a mind as yours cannot long remain a slave to traditionary sophisms; the Spirit of the Age will claim you."

"Pray," said Cecil, smiling, "can you explain to me what this spirit of the age actually is? I hear a great deal about it, and comprehend nothing that I hear. Is our age so very different from all those that have gone before it?"

"Assuredly: it is the age of progress."

"Progress? but that is the characteristic of all ages; society never stands still."

"True, but sometimes it retrogrades, and now it advances. My dear Mr. Chamberlayne, you will not deny that the peculiarity of our age is not only progress, but consciousness of progress."

"That is to say, I suppose, while our forefathers contented themselves with advancing, we prate about our advance. Now, of that kind of consciousness I am as decided an enemy as Carlyle himself; and his eloquent denunciations of it as the disease of our time find full acceptance from me."

"Ah! my dear sir, Carlyle, with all his genius, does not understand the historic development of humanity."

"Perhaps not; nor do I: though I have tried. But it still seems to me an evil, not a benefit, that our modern reformers are so very conscious—"

"Stop! You will not deny that every man should have a Purpose?"

Cecil, who knew this was one of the magnificent aphorisms of the "earnest" school, paused for a reply. Seeing him hesitate, Mr. Jukes, a sickly red-haired republican, with a feeble falsetto voice, stammered forth—

"Is it p-p-p-possible, Mr. Ch-ch-chamberlayne, you can hesitate to p-p-pronounce that e-e-every man should have a p-p-p-purpose?"

There was something so marvellously ludicrous in the feebleness of the individual, contrasted with the apparent vigour of his doctrine, that Cecil could with difficulty restrain his laughter, and hastened to say—

"By no means—by no means. I presume every one has a purpose; but, then, the question is—what purpose?"

"If you admit," said Hester, "that a man must have a Purpose, it is surely unreasonable to wish him not to be distinctly conscious of it: then, only, can he best fulfil it; otherwise, he is a mere machine in the hands of fortune. I say, therefore, that the consciousness of our age is the consciousness of progress; each man of any real eminence has a Mission, and he knows it; that Mission is to get the broad principles of Humanity in its entire Developments fully recognised. That Mission," she continued, with rising warmth, "is to sweep from the face of the earth the worn-out sophisms which enslave it; to give Mind its high Prerogatives; to cut from the heart of society the cancer of Conventionalism which corrupts it; to place Man in majestic antagonism to Convention; to erect the Banner of Progress, and give the democratic Mind of Europe its unfettered sphere of action."

"A grand scheme," replied Cecil, smiling; "but how is all this to be accomplished?"

"By indomitable re-re-resolution; b-b-b-by f-f-f-ixity of p-p-purpose," suggested Jukes.

"By a recognition of the rights of women," sternly remarked the philosophical Mrs. Fuller.

"The Greeks," began Mrs. James Murch, "whose literature——"

Here she was interrupted by Miss Stoking, who thought that if readers were not so fond of "trash," and would only look into the "Chronicles," something considerable might result.

The epic poet—the celebrated author of "Mount Horeb, and other Poems"—thought the age was not religious enough: there was not enough divine aspiration in the souls of modern men to bring about any grand revolution.

Mr. Blundell (the kind of "Boz," as his friends told him) thought that there was a deficiency of wit, and referred to a "government tempered with epigrams" as his ideal.

Hester would admit of nothing but the "broad Principles of Humanity:" upon these she stood.

"My dear Miss Mason," said Mrs. Murch, "surely the Greeks, whose literature——"

"And women?" interposed Mrs. Fuller. "Are women not destined to play a great part in the reformation of society?"

"Oh, yes!" replied Hester; "the greatest part—I am quite of your opinion. Society must be reorganized, and in its new structure women must fill their proper place; they must be consulted—their rights must be recognised. You have no idea," she added, turning to Cecil, "what an enormous difference there would be if society were reconstructed with a view to the equal partition of power between man and woman."

"I beg your pardon," he said, laughing; "I have a very formidable idea of it. In fact, I think there is already too great a preponderance of female influence."

A chorus of indignant astonishment followed this from all the ladies, except from Mrs. Murch, who, pertinaciously sticking to her yet unexpressed idea, began—

"Now, my belief is that the Greeks, whose literature——"

"You protest," said Cecil, not noticing Mrs. Murch, "against my dictum? But hear me. The gradual softening of manners, by constraining men to relinquish their advantage in physical force, has destroyed the balance of power, and unbeaten woman has the upper hand."

Hester laughed; the philosophical Mrs. Fuller frowned; and Mrs. Murch fastened upon poor Blundell, to expatiate to him in confidence on the literature of the Greeks; but even here she was not allowed to proceed far before he interrupted her with the question—

"Had the Greeks a 'Boz?'"

She turned from him with a look of withering contempt.

All this while Frank Forrester was engaged at a corner card-table, winning an ambitious young farce-writer's money at écarté; having emptied his pockets of seven pounds and a few shillings, Frank rose from the table and joined the talkers. But Cecil's jest had changed the conversation, and as it was getting late he prepared to depart.

"What! going so early?" reproachfully asked Hester.

Had Cecil been a vainer man, or one caring less for his wife, that look and tone would have been plainly significant to him; but he noticed nothing, and merely said—

"They are waiting up for me at home."

"And your wife will scold you," said she, pettishly.

"No; but worse than that—I shall reproach myself."

She gave him her hand coldly, and wished him good-night.

CHAPTER III.
THE TIGER TASTES BLOOD.

"Cis, my boy," said Frank, as they stepped into the street, "you have made a conquest there; poor Chetsom!"

"Pshaw!" said Cecil, "don't be absurd, Frank; she knows I'm married."

Frank stopped—turned him round to look him full in the face—and then whistled.

"Cis, your innocence—if it be not hypocrisy—is worthy of a primitive age. Married! She knows you're married! Ha! ha! ha! By George! you remind me of that vaudeville we saw last year at the Variétés in Paris, where Lafont embraces Ozy, who repulses him with—Mais, Mosieu, j'aime mon mari; to which Lafont, stupefied at such innocence, as I am at yours, replies—Tiens! tu aimes ton mari? c'est bizarre, sans doute; mais enfin ce n'est pas defendu!"

"Joke as you please; I repeat, Hester knows I am married, and may easily see that I have no disposition to be unfaithful."

"Cis, you ought to have a statue! Damn my whiskers!" They walked on for some moments without speaking. "By the way, Cis, you asked me to lend you some money. I hadn't it then, I have now. I won a few yellow boys of a conceited ass who had the amiable weakness of fancying he could play écarté—and with me too—with me! It is but a paltry seven that I won, but that properly placed must bring in more. I think you have never played rouge et noir, have you?"

"Never; nor do I intend."

"Nonsense! look here: Men always win at first: it's an invariable rule. Fortune always seduces youngsters with smiles. Now, I'll lend you five pounds, if you will try your luck, and give me a third of your winnings."

Cecil refused, was pressed, and refused again: but he never could withstand Frank for any length of time, and ended by accompanying him to a gambling-house. They knocked at the door; and after a scrupulous examination on the part of the porter, who did not at first recognise Frank—no one being admitted except when introduced by a frequenter of the house—they ascended to the drawing-room, where they found a rather numerous assembly.

There were three tables. That in the centre was the most attended: it was the rouge et noir table. That on the left was devoted to roulette; that on the right to hazard. There was a low hubbub and confusion of voices, above which rose these sounds:

"Make your game, gentlemen."

"The game is made."

"Seven's the main."

"Red wins."

Cecil approached the centre table, and was instantly made way for by two lookers-on. At the side centre sat the dealer, before him two packs of cards placed together; beside him two croupiers. Opposite sat two croupiers, and a man who collected and shuffled the cards. Piles of gold, bank notes, and silver counters were glittering on the table, enough to awaken the spirit of gain in the most prudent breast.

It was a painful sight. The features of the players were distorted by anxiety; those of the dealer and croupiers had become hardened into masks, more hideous in their sodden calmness than agitation could have made them.

Painful, also, the contrasts afforded by the players. Some were reckless, others calculating; some were feverish in their impatience; others lost in quiet despair small sums which to them were fortunes; while several passed hours together pricking a card with a pin, and trying to wrest the secret of the capricious goddess, by counting the turns of her wheel; then, after as much calculation and patience as would, if directed to any honest employment, have produced a tangible result, hazarding their solitary half-crown, and losing it in astonishment and dismay.

Seedy, withered men were also there, whose whole existence depended upon their trivial gains; who daily risked their few shillings, content to retire with a few shillings gain, which they took home to their wretched families—and if they lost, content to abide the loss, without further risk that day. There was one man there who bore the unmistakeable marks of a gentleman, in spite of the worn, anxious face and seedy dress; he was never known to miss an evening, and never to play more than four coups on each evening. His stake was invariably half a crown, and it was rare indeed that he did not win three coups out of the four—timing his stake with such knowledge of the chances. With the seven and sixpence or ten shillings he thus gained, he supported a wife and five children.

Is there not something singularly distressing in such an existence? To struggle daily with the capricious turns of fortune for a miserable three half-crowns, and to gain that only by consummate self-mastery! Yet there are men who choose such a life, rather than one of honourable labour; men who have mastery enough over their passions to be cool at the gaming-table, yet not sufficient mastery to keep from it! This would be inexplicable did we not know the powerful attraction of all exciting uncertainty: did we not recognise the inherent desire for emotional excitement which is implanted in every heart. In honourable labour such men have not learnt to seek their excitement—they find it at the gaming-table; and hence the fascination of gaming. It is to be noted, in confirmation of what has just been said, that inveterate gamesters are thoroughly aware of the enormous disadvantage at which they play—thoroughly convinced the bank must win—yet they play!

The scene was new to Cecil, and affected him painfully, as it always does those who are not carried away by the passion of gaming; but he was there to play once, and he surmounted his disgust; inwardly vowing that whatever might be the fortune of that night, he would never repeat the experiment.

The room was singularly quiet, considering how many persons were assembled. The sounds of bottles being uncorked, the clatter of glasses, and the chink of money were distinctly audible; conversation being carried on for the most part in whispers.

Cecil played. Frank, trusting entirely to the good fortune which so proverbially favours beginners, abstained from giving him any advice. He played at random and lost. His five pounds were soon gone. Frank slipped the other two into his hand; they followed the others. As the last crown disappeared, Cecil saw a young man heap together a pile of notes and sovereigns; huddling them into his pocket, he called for some champagne, and having drunk it, departed. He came down stairs at the same moment with Frank and Cecil, in high spirits.

"That's what we ought to have done," said Frank.

"Why did you force me to play?" said Cecil, bitterly; like all weak men, throwing the blame of his own folly upon others.

"Who the devil would have supposed you could lose the first time?"

"Well—it is a bit of experience. Perhaps I have bought it cheap after all."

He walked home, however, as angry as if he were by no means so satisfied with the bargain; and Blanche, who was sitting up for him as usual, was surprised to find him so out of humour. He was sometimes tired when he came home, but always ready to talk freely with her, and recount the adventures of the day. That night he was taciturn, and gave evasive short replies to all her questions; till at last she saw that he was unwilling to talk, and left him in peace.

He was restless that night. It was long before he went to sleep; and when he did fall into a fitful doze, he was troubled by strange dreams of the gaming-table. Sometimes he was playing with a pile of notes before him; sometimes he had lost every shilling, and awoke in his despair—to find himself in bed.

CHAPTER IV.
THE YOUNG FATHER.

Life is too short for mean anxieties;
Soul! thou must work, though blindfold.
KINGSLEY.—The Saints' Tragedy.

The next morning Cecil had almost regained his cheerfulness. The thought of last night's loss would occasionally dash his spirits, for seven pounds, in his situation, was not a trifling sum.

"When is your mother going to send us any money?" he said; "does she imagine we can get on without it?"

"I expect her every day; but perhaps, dear, she has not been able to save any."

"Pshaw! if she chose——!"

"When will your opera be ready, dearest?"

"I'm sure I don't know—but soon, I hope. Something must be done, Blanche, for our condition is really pitiable. Thank God, we have no children!"

Blanche trembled, and coloured violently as he said this; but summoning courage, she laid her hand upon his shoulder and asked,—

"Why thank God for that, Cecil?"

"Why? because it is a great blessing."

"And should we not think children a blessing?

"No!"

She hesitated; and then went on,—

"Do you mean to say, Cecil, you would not be very proud and very happy to dandle a child of your own—with your own dear eyes and lovely smile?"

"No; I don't like brats."

"But your children would not be brats. Oh! you would love them, I know you would; you would be as proud of them as I should. Only think, how darling it would be to have a little cherub here with us——"

"Yes, yes—there's the sentimentality of women! They only think of the cherub—not of the red, squalling, slobbering, troublesome baby. They only think of the pleasure of dandling, kissing, hugging, dressing, and attending on it;—it is a plaything to them, and they never think of the expense."

"No, dearest Cecil, they do not; nor would you. The love for our offspring which God has planted in our hearts, is too pure, too healthy and unselfish, not to override every other feeling. The poorest parents are always glad to have more children, because more children means more love."

A sudden suspicion crossed him; he seized hold of her, and looking closely in her face, said,—

"Blanche, it strikes me you have some motive for pleading in this way in favour of children. I never heard you so eloquent before. Let me know the worst. Are you——?"

She hid her blushing face in his bosom, and pressed him to her convulsively.

"The devil!" was his brutal exclamation.

A vision of a large family and destitution stood before him, and his heart sank at the prospect.

"Are you not glad?" she asked him gently, not raising her face from its resting-place.

"Glad!" he exclaimed with vehemence, "glad at the prospect of bringing children to share our poverty? Glad, when I know not how we are to exist ourselves, to learn that fresh burdens are come upon us? This is a nice place to rear a child in! It will have every comfort; we shall be so comfortable: such a nursery! And when I come home harassed from my day's work, wanting repose and quiet, a squalling baby will be so pleasant! Glad; yes, yes, there's a great deal to be glad about!"

She crept from him, and sank upon a chair.

"How the child is to be provided for, God only knows. We can't stop here. They would not keep us with the nuisance of a child in the house. We must seek some miserable lodging of our own, and there live squalidly. And to think of your being rejoiced at such an event: that is so like women!"

Her little heart was breaking, and half stifled sobs burst from her as he continued. It was indeed a fearful trial for the young mother! She had hoped to see him as proud and happy as herself; she had hoped that the child would be a fresh link between them—a link which, by making their poor home more cheerful to him, would have kept him oftener with her. And this was his answer!

She covered her face in her hands, and wept scalding tears of heart-breaking misery.

Her sobs pierced his heart; he could not withstand them. He loved her too dearly to see her sorrowing unmoved; and forgetting in that sight all his selfish fears and calculations, he caught her in his arms and exclaimed, "Blanche—my own beautiful Blanche! don't cry—I am a brute—I did not mean it—indeed I did not. Look up. There; see, I am glad; I will be glad. You are right. My fears were foolish. We shall be all the happier! Don't sob so, my blessed one—you kill me!"

"Oh, Cecil, Cecil!" she sobbed, as she threw her arms round him convulsively.

"My own pet, don't cry now. I was taken by surprise. I only thought of our poverty. You are right. Poorer people are happy in their children, why should we not be? Dry your eyes, beauty. There; you see I am quite come round. I hope it will be a girl: a dear little petkin, just like its darling mother. Fancy a toddling Blanche! won't it be a beauty? It must be christened Blanche—eh? Or suppose it's a boy, what name shall we give it? Tell me, beauty."

She only kissed him feverishly; she could not speak: her trembling agitation was not yet subdued, and the tears continued to fall fast.

"What a Turk he will be; won't he? Just like his mother—you are a Turk, you know, pet!"

Blanche smiled faintly.

"There, you begin to smile—that's right. I see I am forgiven. Dry your eyes, they are quite swollen. You don't look at all handsome when you cry—no, not at all. There, now you laugh you are yourself again—laugh away those tears, or I will take your portrait as you are, and your children shall see their mother as the Niobe of the nineteenth century. Will you be painted as Niobe?"

She laughed again, but it was slightly hysterical. However, by caresses and cajoleries, he brought her round at last, and her eyes were dried. They were soon talking over the prospects of their children, as if nothing had occurred; an occasional sigh—the mere physical effect of previous grief—alone recalling the moment of agony she had escaped. Cecil was afraid to leave her, lest she should relapse, so he proposed to take her into town to see the exhibition of old paintings at the British Institution.

Blanche was perfectly happy. She had been but too readily persuaded that he was, on reflection, really delighted at the prospect of a family; she wished so to believe it! And he was more charming and cajoling than ever.

Had she loved him less, the foregoing scene would have completely disenchanted her; but love sealed her eyes, and she saw no selfishness, no unmanly weakness in his horror at the idea of a child. She saw nothing, in fact, but what he chose her to see: his affection, and his warm caressing manners.

Although Cecil never again allowed Blanche to suspect that he was otherwise than delighted, and although he even tried to convince himself that, after all, there was nothing disagreeable in having a family; that it was one of the inevitable conditions of marriage, and therefore should be accepted with cheerful resignation; yet did the idea frequently depress him.

This much is to be urged in favour of the unwillingness of fathers to incur the burden of children: that while the maternal instinct from the very first—nay, even in girlhood—makes the woman look forward with anticipative joy to the time of becoming a mother, the paternal instinct is seldom developed until the child is actually there to call it forth. Fathers love their children as much, or nearly so, as mothers; but fathers do not, as mothers do, love prospective children. The man contemplates the expense, trouble, and responsibility of children, which the woman, with beautiful improvidence, never thinks about; but when the children are born, the man joins the woman in forgetting, in their joy, the drawbacks to their joy.

Cecil was just the man to make a doating spoiling father to the very child whose announcement made him so serious.

The seriousness with which he accepted his lot would have been incalculably beneficial to him, had he possessed a grain or two more of moral resolution. It impressed him once more with the conviction of the necessity for work. It stimulated him again to daily labour. Warned by the state of his finances, he relinquished the idle dreaming of genius awaiting inspiration, and began to set his shoulder to the wheel.

So strenuously did he work, that in less than three weeks he finished his comic opera, words and music, and had now to begin the arduous task of getting it performed.

CHAPTER V.
RENUNCIATION.

J'aurais dans ta mémoire une place sacrée;
Mais vivre près de toi, vivre l'âme ulcérée,
O ciel! moi qui n'aurais jamais aimé que toi,
Tous les jours, peux-tu bien y songer sans effroi,
Je te ferais pleurer, j'aurais mille pensées
Que je ne dirais pas, sur les choses passées
J'aurais l'air d'épier, de douter, de souffrir.
VICTOR HUGO.—Marion de Lorme.

The termination of Cecil's opera was coincident with that fearful scene recorded at the close of our second volume, wherein Marmaduke avowed his passion to Violet, and unwittingly achieved his vengeance upon Mrs. Vyner.

On quitting the room, Violet had promised him to renew their interrupted interview, but she had made that promise unthinkingly, and when in solitude she reflected on all that had passed, felt herself unequal to it. Greatly had Marmaduke's confession relieved her, but greatly also had it pained her.

She could now indulge her love for him without remorseful bitterness and contempt, though not with any hope. He was reinstated in her good opinion. He was not false and fickle. He had not loved Mrs. Vyner. His attentions—those attentions which had given her such pain—were explained; and in her joy at the explanation, she overlooked what had been criminal in them, to see only that they did not affect his love for her. Well was it conceived by the mythologists to make Love blind!

But this joy was dashed with the recollection that he never could be hers. All that had transpired would prevent their union. Neither her father nor her step-mother could be expected to give their consent; and with their consent, if it were given, she still felt that her own must be withheld. How could she ever accept the man who had been both seriously and treacherously the lover of her father's wife—the man whom that wife loved?

The horrible sarcasm in which Mrs. Vyner bade her "accept her leavings," still rankled in the proud soul of Violet, and created an irremediable loathing. It was under these mixed emotions that she sat down and wrote the following letter:—

"Your frankness deserves a frank reply. I feel myself unable to meet you again, after what has passed,—you must understand why; but I cannot refuse an answer to your declaration.

"If it be any consolation—if it alleviate the pain my resolution may inflict upon you—know that your love is returned. Yes, Marmaduke, I love you. I tell you so without reserve, without maidenly timidity. I love you. But the very fearlessness with which I make this avowal arises from the fixedness of my purpose. It is because I can never see you again, because our union has become impossible, that I am tempted to unveil my soul before you. No, Marmaduke, I was not playing with you; I was not encouraging attentions because they flattered my vanity—I encouraged them because I loved.

"You asked me for forgiveness; and the deep sad tones of your repentant voice are ringing in my ears. I do forgive you, Marmaduke; forgive you all the pain your conduct gave me—I can excuse your error. I can feel that it was a crime made almost venial by the circumstances and your education. The moment when, with vengeance in your hands, you drew back from its accomplishment, and acknowledged to yourself that it was unworthy of a man, that it was a crime, not an act of justice—that moment purified your soul—that moment redeemed you in your own eyes and in mine.

"But, Marmaduke, I cannot forget as easily as I can forgive. Nothing can banish from my mind the hideous remembrance of what has been, and what is. The thought that you had once loved her would poison all my happiness; and the thought that she still loves you ... Oh! is that not fearful? You see how undisguisedly I write to you! It tears me to pieces, but it must be done, once for all. I shall not write again. I shall not see you again. Far away from you, I shall struggle with my sorrow, and conquer it, I hope, in time. Far away from you, I shall not cease to think of you; and memory will solace me with your image, I shall hear your voice, see your deep eyes loving me, press your hand, and so cheat my misery. But away from you I must go. Must I not? Do you not see the necessity? Do you not feel that our union is utterly hopeless? How could we escape the circumstances of our unhappy lot? My father would never consent—she would never consent; and if I renounced all, if I fled with you from home and country, how could I escape from my own conscience? how could I forget?

"I renounce the hope of happiness. I have only now to bear with fortitude my wretched fate. Forget me, Marmaduke. No, that is an idle phrase—I do not mean it. Do not forget me; think of me, think of me often, and love me still, if you can; at least pity me, and imitate me. Accept fate; bow your head to its irresistible decree; but do not despair. Life has other purposes than love; other purposes even than happiness; let those occupy you. In this life we are separated, but we shall meet above. It is but a brief moment's pain, and we shall then pass away into a brighter, purer sphere, and have a whole Eternity to love in; there our sorrows will be stilled; that let us await!

"I have stained this paper with my tears—I will not affect to hide them. I must weep, for my heart is breaking, Marmaduke; but I shall not flinch. I know what it is I am about to do; know how much pain it will give me; but I can do it, and I will. Weep I must, for I am a woman; but I can endure.

"If my tears make this almost illegible, do not suppose that they will weaken me. I am unalterable. Tears strengthen me; they relieve the tightness of my straining heart; I do not check them. I shall shed many, very many, ere I quit this world; but life itself is very short, and I look beyond the grave.

"God bless you, my own beloved, and give you courage to bear the inevitable! Love me, and pray for me. God bless you! Oh, how it pains me to say—farewell!

"VIOLET."

This letter was put into the post as the miserable girl departed from home, on a visit to her uncle in Worcestershire, with whom she contemplated passing the remainder of her days; certain that he would be but too happy to have her, and feeling that home was now uninhabitable.

CHAPTER VI.
MAN PURIFIED BY EXPERIENCE.

My desolation does begin to make
A better life.
SHAKSPEARE.—Antony and Cleopatra.

Who shall describe the delight and grief of Marmaduke on reading that letter? She loved him; but she refused him. He saw as plainly as she did the reason of her refusal, and bitterly cursed himself for having drawn such a net around him. But was there no issue? Could nothing be devised which would in some way remove this obstacle? Nothing, nothing.

He called and was refused admittance. He wrote to Rose, who replied that her sister had left London, but had enjoined inviolable secrecy as to the place of her destination.

Marmaduke had nothing to do but await in sullen despair the hazard which might again bring him into communication with Violet, having failed in all attempts to get a clue to her present residence. But she loved him; that was a sweet thought to alleviate his sorrow: she loved him; and with that conviction he could afford to await events.

He ceased almost to hold communication with the world; shut up in his study he led a solitary, meditative, studious life, strangely at variance with his former occupations. A noble resolution had taken possession of his soul; the conviction that he was loved by so great a woman made him desirous of becoming more worthy of her love. Knowing Violet's high thoughts and sympathy with greatness, he resolved to make a name. Parliament, the great field of Englishmen's ambition, was the arena chosen for the contest. His previous education had but ill-fitted him to make a display there; yet to strong will, energy, and ability what can be denied?

He set himself to the task with the impetuous ardour which characterized all his acts. He studied history, political economy, and what may be called political ethics. He read and re-read the orators, ancient and modern, not with a view of copying their peculiarities, but to draw therefrom certain general conclusions respecting the art by which masses of men are swayed. Burke, the great thinker, great orator, and incomparable writer, was his constant companion.

In this solitude his mind became strengthened, nourished, and enlarged, and at the same time his moral nature became more developed and purified. Nothing could ever eradicate certain defects of his organization—defects which were the shadows thrown by his best qualities. Nothing could ever have made him calm, moderate, unprejudiced, or self-sacrificing. Passionate, reckless, and excitable Nature had made him; and no education, no trials could alter his disposition. But these very qualities, with their accompanying defects, fitted him for an orator, whose splendid enthusiasm, overbearing impetuosity, audacious courage, and irresistible bursts of passion were capable of swaying mankind. He was born to command and to lead; education and a high purpose were now fitting him for the office.

While he was thus acquiring the means wherewith an honourable name is made, he was also gaining those clear moral ideas by which alone a great name can long be honourably maintained. The more he became aware of the imperishable importance of high morality, the more painfully did he recoil at the remembrance of his unpardonable conduct with Mrs. Vyner. The clearer his moral perceptions grew, the more iniquitous, the more contemptible appeared his passion for vengeance.

"What must Violet think of me?" was his frequent self-questioning; and he shuddered at the idea. Henry Taylor has profoundly said, that conscience is, in most men, the anticipation of the opinion of others. It is so in all men. It is the horror we feel at contemplating the probable judgment which those we respect and love will form on our acts. So it was with Marmaduke. He had learned to view his conduct in its true light; he doubted not that Violet must look at it with the same loathing; and bitter reproaches assailed him. Often and often did he dwell upon that part of her letter wherein she excused him; but it seemed so slight, he could not believe her wholly sincere. She was sincere when she wrote it, but would not subsequent reflection show her, as it had shown him, the whole affair under another aspect? It would—it must.

He forgot one thing: that he looked upon his error with the anxious and probing severity of one who repents, and that she looked upon it with the blindness of one who loves!

For the sake of clearness, I have told you in this chapter the history of several months, and may now leave Marmaduke at his studies to return to the other persons whose fortunes were more varied.

CHAPTER VII.
POOR VYNER.

Heav'n has no rage like love to hatred turned,
Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.
BYRON.

When Meredith Vyner came into the drawing-room and found his wife senseless on the floor, he imagined she had been seized with a fit, for he was unaware of Marmaduke having been in the house. Mrs. Vyner availed herself of the supposition, and so escaped irritating inquiries; she just mentioned that she had been very much distressed and excited that morning, and that doubtless her fit had been greatly owing to it.

"And what distressed you, my love?"

"Oh, I cannot tell you."

"Yes; do dear, do tell me."

"Will you promise not to mention a word of it to Violet?"

"I will."

"Well, then, it was on her account. You know how I wished for a match between her and young Ashley? You know his audacious love for me? I tried to make him relinquish his foolish hopes—I tried to lead him to think of her. He scorned the idea—vowed he loved me and only me—and was so violent that I was obliged to order him to quit the house, and never to re-enter it. He left me in a great passion. It is a rupture for ever."

Instead of feeling in the least distressed at this rupture, Meredith Vyner could not conceal his joy. What cared he for Violet's sorrow—was not his rival got rid of?

He redoubled his attentions to his wife—now wholly his, he thought!—and felt that the great misery he had dreaded was now forever banished. When Violet came to him, therefore, to ask his permission to go down to her uncle, he gave it willingly, and without inquiry.

Marmaduke dismissed, how happy now would the house be! Mary would again become the sprightly, cajoling, attentive wife; she would again come into his study to hear him read aloud; would again interest herself in Horace. By the way, he had sadly neglected Horace of late; not a single emendation had been made; not a note written. That could not continue. He had no time to lose. He was no longer young. If age should creep on before he had finished that great work, what a loss to literature!

Alas! neither home nor Horace profited by this dismissal of a rival. The attentive wife grew pettish, irritable, and more avowedly indifferent than ever. Her health was seriously affected. She was subject to hysterics, which came on apparently without cause. Her gaiety had entirely disappeared, and she was often found in tears. She would rally from time to time, and endeavour, in incessant dissipation, to escape from the torment of her thoughts; but this never lasted long; she soon relapsed again into a capricious, fretful, malicious, melancholy state of mind.

She had, indeed, received a deep wound. That conscience which, in its anticipation of the opinion of others, so troubled the studious Marmaduke, was an awful retribution on Mrs. Vyner. The thought that he had duped her and had excited her love—for she had loved him—merely as a means of revenge, was of itself sufficient to rouse her to exasperation; but when to that was added the thought of Violet knowing it—of the detested Violet who had always seen through and scorned her, and who now held the secret of her guilty passion—it became a rankling poison in her soul. Nor was the fury of jealousy absent. This villain who had played with her, did he not love the haughty girl who despised her?

The poor old pedant was at a loss to comprehend the cause of his wife's conduct. She could not love Marmaduke, or why should she dismiss him; yet, if she did not love him, why was she so miserable?

In vain he tried by kindness to revive within her that semblance of affection with which she had hitherto cheated him. She ceased all hypocrisy, though hypocrisy would have been kindness. She received his demonstrations of affection with exasperating indifference, and when he, on one or two occasions, endeavoured to exert his authority—for he was master in his own house, he supposed—she only laughed at him.

The poor old man retired to his books, but not to read; in mute distress he ruminated on the change which had taken place, and sat there helpless and hopeless. He tried to forget these painful thoughts in occupying himself with his great work; but he sat there, the book open before him, the pen idle in his hand, and the snuff-box his only consolation.

His domestic peace was gone, and he began to perceive it.

CHAPTER VIII.
REHEARSAL OF THE OPERA.

"Good news, pet," said Cecil, dancing into the room one afternoon. "Moscheles, whom I meet sometimes, you know, at Hester Mason's, has looked over my opera, and likes it very much; he has even proposed that we should have a sort of private rehearsal of it at his house next week, and has undertaken to secure the singers, and Bunn is to be there to hear it."

"That is good news, indeed."

"Yes, we shall be rich now. It has given me fresh courage: I feel I can finish Nero."

"Mama has been here to-day with Rose, and has brought us thirty pounds. She is very ill—very ill indeed, and the physicians don't know what is the matter. Rose and Violet are already busy with the baby linen, and Rose insists upon being godmother."

"With all my heart! I'm so happy, petkin!" and he danced about the room like a schoolboy on receiving intelligence of a half-holiday.

"We must move away from this hole at once, pet. We will take comfortable apartments somewhere."

"Let us rather wait awhile: the opera is not accepted yet, you know."

"But it will be, and it must succeed—I feel it must."

The gleam of hope which now shone on his prospects made Cecil almost another man. He worked steadily at "Nero," and finished it before the hearing of his opera took place. It was sent to the Academy. When it took its place in the Exhibition it would infallibly excite a sensation: crowds would gaze enraptured on it: critics would proclaim its merits in all the journals, and some nobleman of taste would become the proud purchaser. Their prospects were brilliant. Happy dreams of young ambition in its first struggles with circumstance! How many a sad spirit have ye not soothed and strengthened!

The hearing of his opera took place. Moscheles himself presided at the piano, playing the accompaniments and overture with his exquisite skill. Henry Phillips, Wilson, Stretton, and a certain prima donna, who shall be nameless, were the singers, Cecil undertaking some of the minor parts. The choruses were omitted; only the solos and concerted pieces were executed, but they gave general satisfaction.

Private rehearsals, like private readings, are, however, always successful, and a little excellence produces a great effect on friendly auditors. The singer thought so great by his friends, whose success at parties is so brilliant, finds to his cost that concert rooms and audiences are not so easily pleased. Bunn had experience enough of such matters to be aware of all this, and though he saw a chance of success with the opera, he was rather guarded in his language. On the whole, however, he was disposed to give the work a trial.

That satisfied Cecil. He thought, the first step gained, the victory was his. Experience came with its bitter lesson to undeceive him. In the dramatic world, success is only purchased by a series of hard-won battles. In no province of human endeavour has a man to endure more thankless labour; in no province is luck more potent. To write a play or an opera is the smallest of the artist's difficulties. Once written, he has to get the manager's acceptance: few things more arduous than that, if the artist be not already celebrated. Cecil had by a fortunate accident achieved this feat. A manager had listened to and approved of his work. In his innocence, Cecil imagined the day was his own. He knew nothing of actors and singers. The prima donna absolutely declined to perform her part; so did the second tenor. And their reasons? Their reasons were simply these:—

The heroine of the opera was a Miss Hopkins, daughter of a vulgar cheesemonger. H. Phillips was willing to play the cheesemonger, but the prima donna would not play the daughter. She had been used to play spangled princesses, with feathers in her hair; or picturesque peasants, with short petticoats and striped stockings; and the idea of her appearing as a cheesemonger's daughter, minus spangles, feathers, short petticoats, and striped stockings! In vain it was represented to her that the opera was a comic opera; she did not wish to excite laughter, but sentiment; and she was dogged in her resolution.

The second tenor was a sentimental warbler. He not only objected to Wilson playing the best part, he also objected to his own part us "out of his line."

Owing to the beautiful arrangements of our dramatic system, the "stars" have not only absolute right to dictate to authors and composers, but also, in effect to dictate to managers. They would all cut down a play or an opera to single parts if they could; and while ludicrously sensitive to their own reputation, are remorselessly indifferent to the author's, as well as to the manager's purse.

What would Shakspeare, Jonson, Moliere, or Calderon say, could they rise from their graves to witness our beautiful dramatic system? How is it some Churchill does not take the whip in hand to lash this miserable arrogance of the stage? While vanity, pretension, and injustice, in other shapes, are laughed at and exposed, why do they escape when they appear in the preposterous demands of actors, singers, and dancers?

In his indignation, Cecil wrote a satire. Unfortunately he was not a Churchill: his satire was violent, but weak, and weak because of its violence. Besides, he was fighting his own cause; indignatio fecit versum, and the public only saw an angry author smarting from imaginary or exaggerated injuries.

Cecil's discouragement may be imagined. He who at no time was able to contend manfully against obstacles, was the last person to rise with the occasion and vanquish opposition by determined will.

To complete his discouragement the Exhibition had opened, and no wondering crowds collected round his "Nero." Very few of the critics noticed it, and they noticed it coldly or contemptuously. One who recognised a certain grandeur in the idea, was pitiless in his criticism of the execution; which he pronounced "crude," "chalky," "opaque," "slovenly," and "incorrect."

Cecil sneered at the "envy" and "ignorance" of the critics, as authors usually sneer at those who do not admire them; though why a man who does not paint, should be "envious" of a man who paints badly, I have not yet discovered. Vauvenargues has an admirable remark: "Un versificateur ne connait point de juge compétent de ses écrits: si on ne fait pas de vers on ne s'y connait pas; si on en fait on est son rival." How constantly do painters illustrate this remark!

Cecil parodied Coriolanus, and to his critics said "I banish you." He wrapped himself up in his own greatness, and waited the impartial judgment of enlightened judges. By impartial, he meant favourable: that is the meaning of the word in every artist's lexicon. No one, it would seem, was enlightened enough, for no one talked about "Nero;" above all, no one thought of purchasing it. The "envy" of critics seemed to have been shared by connoisseurs and noblemen.

There is something really tragic in certain conditions to which men of superior faculties are daily subject, in their efforts to cut a pathway for themselves through the crowded avenues of fame. Fancy the poor poet unable to find a publisher, and unable to print his work himself. He cannot now, as heretofore, stand up in the market-place, and so get a hearing. The press is the only possible mode of proclaiming to the world, that which the poet feels will rouse that world to rapture, and will make him a sort of demigod. Fancy the young barrister sitting in his chambers day after day, in fruitless expectation of a brief. He cannot offer his services: he must wait till they be demanded. He can do nothing; but must sit there day after day, day after day, seeing little chance of being required, yet forced to remain there on the chance. Fancy also the painter who sees persons crowding the Exhibition, passing over his work, to look out for the works of favourite artists, giving handsome sums for various pictures, yet making no offer for his. Day after day this is renewed, till the last hope ends with the closing of the Exhibition, and he is then forced to congratulate himself, if the dealers will give him a small sum for what he considers a chef-d'œuvre.

The parent who has seen and reflected upon this, and yet educates his son as an artist, because it is a "fine thing" to be an artist; the parent who suffers his self-love to blind him to his child's want of a decided genius, and chooses to call an ordinary aptitude "genius," is with selfish vanity destroying that child's future hopes of success in life. Music, painting, and sculpture, are arts founded on instincts so strong, and so unmistakeable in their early manifestation that unless the child very early exhibits extraordinary faculty for the arts, the parent should take Nature's warning; and not endeavour by cultivation to raise that flower which only grows wild in the secret spots Nature herself selects.

CHAPTER IX.
CECIL SUCCUMBS.

Now why must I disturb a dream of bliss,
And bring cold sorrow 'twixt the wedded kiss?
How mar the fate of beauty, and disclose
The weeping days that with the morning rose.
LEIGH HUNT.—Rimini.

Ever since that night when Cecil had first entered a gambling-house, and lost the few pounds Frank had lent him, the image of the joyous winner huddling the notes and gold into his pocket pursued him like a phantom. He had resolved to play no more; he could not afford to lose; and his first venture had been so unfortunate, that he could not hope hazard would be in his favour. Men have extraordinary practical belief or disbelief in their own "luck." Ask a man if he seriously, theoretically believes in anything of the kind, and he will answer, No. Yet that very man puts his name down in a raffle, or cuts cards against an adversary, or stakes large sums on any game of chance, "because he always wins"—because "he is so lucky."

Cecil believed himself to be "unlucky." He was therefore averse to gambling. He had played, and—"it was so like his luck"—although the first time, yet he lost.

In spite of this conviction, the image of that fortunate winner with his file of notes and sovereigns, would force itself upon him. While he was painting—while he was reading—at his meals—during his walks—while dozing in bed—that figure stood before him crumpling the notes, calling joyously for the champagne, and sauntering down stairs in thorough self-content. In his imagination he followed that young man through a series of fortunate nights, during which he had amassed a large sum, with which he purchased a charming little house in the country, and foreswore the gaming-table for ever. It was a most coherent story, coherent as imagination loves to be.

The real story may be told in few words: three weeks after that prosperous night, the winner, utterly ruined, poisoned himself!

Had Cecil known the real story it might have made him pause; but he only knew what he had seen, and fancy supplied the rest.

Like a tempting fiend did this image of the winner pursue him—seductive, irritating; he tried to banish it by thinking of his constant ill-luck, but it would return, and his present discouragement made the temptation stronger. By art he could not live. The age was too material; the country too commercial. Why should he struggle and starve when the gaming-table offered its facile resources?

"Frank," said he, "I wish you would take me again to Jermyn-street."

"What! you want to try another coup?"

"Yes; I have a presentiment I shall win. At any rate, it is worth risking a few pounds."

"I am going there this evening. Dine with me at the club. I will explain to you an infallible martingale by which we must win. Damme, I'll break all the banks in London."

"How? how?"

"You know enough, Cis, of the game to understand my explanation. The martingale is this: always to back the winning colour, and double your losses till you win. Look'ye here—Suppose I place a pound on the red, and black wins; black is then the winning colour and I back it; but having lost, I must double my stake: so I put two pounds on the black. Well, red wins, damme its eyes! I have lost three pounds. What do I? place four pounds on the red, which is then the winning colour. If red wins again, I have recovered my three pounds staked, and one pound over. I back red again, and again, so long as red continues to win. Directly black wins, I double my stake, and regain my loss."

"I see, I see!"

"It's as clear as day. The only possibility of losing is, that red and black should alternately win all the night through; but as that never has been known, we must not think of such a chance."

"But then you only win your original stake each time?"

"Of course; but you are sure to win it. The only objection to our putting our scheme in practice is the absolute necessity for a large sum of money to begin with."

"How so, Frank?"

"Why, my dear fellow, you've no idea how doubling your stake mounts up. To stake a sovereign, and lose ten coups, you must have at least six hundred pounds in hand; for the stakes run one, two, four, eight, sixteen, thirty-two, sixty-four, one hundred and twenty-eight, two hundred and fifty-six, five hundred and twelve, and so on."

"Whew!"

"That's it."

"And we stake five hundred pounds to win a sovereign?"

"Just so. Unless you play the martingale strictly, you cannot be certain of winning: but you must win if you play it."

"Ah! well, then I must give up the idea, for I cannot raise the money. Never mind, I'll let chance play for me; martingale or no martingale."

That night they went to the house in Jermyn-street, where Cecil had first played.

Frank won five and forty pounds.

Cecil lost every penny.

"Frank, lend me five pounds: I am desperate."

"Here they are, old boy. Play cautiously."

Cecil seized them with a greedy clutch.

"Make your game, gentlemen," said the dull-eyed dealer.

Cecil threw the five sovereigns on the red.

The cards were dealt with leisurely precision.

"Après," said the dealer.

The croupiers, in accordance with the laws of the same, deducted half the stakes on the table.

"Is that your caution, Cis?" whispered Frank.

"It is my desperation," he said between his teeth.

"Make your game, gentlemen!"

"The game is made."

"Red wins."

The perspiration burst from Cecil's pores, the tightening suffocation in his breast was relieved. He allowed the money to remain in its place again to take its fortune.

"Make your game, gentlemen," said the dealer in his unvarying voice.

"The game is made."

"Red wins."

There were now ten pounds upon the red belonging to Cecil.

"Take up five," suggested Frank.

"No: hit or miss: I risk all."

The gambler's recklessness possessed him; he was in such a state of excitement that he knew not what he did.

"Red wins," again said the dealer.

Twenty pounds were now heaped upon the red.

"Shall you keep the stake there, sir?" asked a smiling gentleman with bushy whiskers, who had taken great interest in the game.

"Yes," said Cecil, resolutely.

"Then I shall back against you," said the smiling gentleman, twirling a whisker round his finger, and throwing half a crown upon the black, with the air of a man undertaking an important enterprise.

"Red wins," again said the dealer.

"There's a run upon the red," sighed the bushy-whiskered gentleman, as his half-crown was raked away, and forty pounds stood there as Cecil's winnings. "I shall back you this time, sir; you are fortune's favourite, sir. Take a pinch of snuff, sir."

And with recovered hilarity he offered the box to Cecil, who bowed coldly, and took a pinch.

"Make your game, gentlemen," said the dealer.

"Try the red again, Cis," said Frank, "but take up five pounds to guard against accident." He staked twenty pounds himself upon the red.

Cecil followed his advice: he had now five and thirty pounds staked.

"The game is made."

"Wait a minute," said the bushy-whiskered gentleman; "I have not yet staked."

He threw down a half-crown upon the red. These three were the only players who backed the red; upwards of two hundred pounds were on the black; and the coup was watched with breathless anxiety.

With unimpassioned, inexpressive face did the dealer throw down the cards, as if all the chances of the game which so excited the players were powerless upon him.

"Red wins," he again said, in his hollow indifferent voice.

Cecil raked the seventy pounds towards him in a sort of delirium: the sight of the gold was to him like a vision of fairy land.

The smiling snuff-taker snatched up his five shillings, and again requested him to take a pinch.

"Pretty game, sir; very pretty, when fortune takes you in hand."

"We had better cut now," said Frank.

"Not yet."

"Yes, Cis; come while you've got the money. Don't tempt your luck too far."

"I must—I will play another coup. I'll try the red once more."

"Don't: be advised, Cis, don't."

"I must."

"Well, then, wait till the next. Let this deal go by, and try the next."

Cecil did so.

"Black wins," said the dealer.

Frank looked at Cecil as much as to say, "you see I was right."

Cecil smiled.

His smiling friend was glum, for he had lost two crowns on the red. He threw down another couple of crowns again upon the red.

"Back the winning colour," said Frank, staking twenty pounds upon the black.

Cecil made a pile of fifty sovereigns, and placed it also on the black.

He won again.

"Now, Frank, I'm ready to go."

"That's right."

"Waiter, some champagne!"

"And a cigar, waiter!"

Cecil having called for the champagne, placed the gold in his purse, and seemed to have realized his dream: glimpses even of the country house sparkled on the froth of the wine!

His brain was in a whirl, and the chink of money, the rattle of the dice, the unvarying phrases of the dealer, the brief remarks of the players, all sounded like fairy music in his ears. He was impatient to begone, for he felt that he was succumbing to the fascinations of the place, rightly named a 'Hell.'

As he went to the side table for his hat, he espied his smiling neighbour standing looking into the glass, with one hand under his chin, fiercely pushing his whiskers forward so as almost to cover his face, while with the other hand he made terrific menaces at the reflection of that face in the glass.

"Ugh! you old fool!" he vituperated his own image, at the same time shaking his fist at it. "Did I not tell you so? Did I not say you would lose? You ass! you ass! Five and forty shillings have you thrown away this blessed night! Five and forty shillings? Will you never learn wisdom—will you never leave off play? Ass! fool! Ass!"

Cecil with difficulty restrained his laughter, and advanced saying:—

"I'm sorry you have not been fortunate, sir."

"You are sorry, are you," fiercely replied the little man, sharply turning round upon him, delighted at having some one else on whom to vent his wrath. "And pray sir, who are you? Who are you, sir, that presumes to be sorry for me! Am I an ass, sir? am I a boy? am I a noodle? to be pestered by the pity of a puppy like you. Do you wish to quarrel with me, sir? do you wish to quarrel? If so, say the word. I am not quarrelsome, myself; not I; but I am not to be bullied, sir; you shall find that I am not to be bullied. You may try it on, sir—you will find it no go! And since you are determined to fight me, sir, fight you shall. You force me to it, but I am not one to back out of it."

Cecil looked at him for a moment in surprise, and then quietly turning on his heel, put an arm within Frank's, and went down stairs.

The little fiery gentleman ran his fingers several times through his whiskers, and then turned again to vituperate his own repentant face in the glass. Having relieved his choler thus, he called for some wine, and went home to bed, pathetic and moralizing.

Cecil and Frank supped joyously that night, and threw about their money with the lavish recklessness of those to whom money so gained loses its proper value.

Cecil came home exhausted with excitement, and on his way ruminated how he should deceive Blanche as to the source of his new gains:—

"I will tell her I have sold my Nero for three hundred pounds to a dealer, and this hundred and twenty-five is the sum paid down. That will open the door for fresh winnings!"

How happy did this falsehood make his little wife! At last, then, her Cecil admitted that something was to be done by art. Their future was secured.

Yet happiness grounded on such falsehoods must be fragile; and far wiser would it have been for Cecil to have told her the painful truth. She would have been shocked, terrified; she would have entreated him to gamble no more; there would have been "a scene," but who knows what good might not have resulted from it?

Cecil, like all weak men, sought refuge in a falsehood from the reproaches which he knew must follow an avowal.

CHAPTER X.
A GENTLEMAN'S LIFE.

"Your days are tedious, your hours burdensome:
And wer't not for full suppers, midnight revels,
Dancing, wine, riotous meetings, which do drown
And bury quite in you all virtuous thoughts,
And on your eyelids hang so heavily
They have no power to look as high as heaven,
You'd sit and muse on nothing but despair."
DECKAR.

The next night and the next, Cecil played, and with varying fortunes, sometimes losing to the very last few pounds, at others rising to large gains. The end of the week found him a winner of some four hundred pounds.

He considered himself rich now, and looking on the gaming-table as a bank from which he could at any time draw largely, his first step was to move from Mrs. Tring's.

He took apartments in South Audley Street; furnished them with taste, and considerable luxury; engaged two servants, and began to live in a style more corresponding with his previous habits.

A run of luck in his favour having largely increased his resources, he started a cab; and boasted of one of the tiniest tigers in London; a strong square-built boy of fourteen, who did not look more than ten.

"Is this prudent, dearest?" said Blanche, when he proposed the cab. "Will our means ever permit it?"

"Yes, pet, it is genuine prudence. I am the rage just now; the dealers are all anxious I should paint them a picture. Moon has offered me a thousand guineas for one to engrave from. I have refused. I must have more. But to command more it is essential that I should appear rich; the richer I appear, the richer I shall be. A cab is, therefore, policy."

"You know best: but don't forget the little one that is to share our prosperity."

"Forget him, indeed! look here; I have bought him a coral; look at the gold bells! I saw it yesterday—it was a bargain, and I thought the opportunity should not be lost. Isn't it beautiful?"

"Beautiful! How thoughtful of you, dear one!"

"At the same time I saw a love of a watch. That, said I to myself, is just the thing for petkins—and behold!"

He held a gold breguet before her eyes.

"You dear, kind creature," she said, kissing him; "but I will not have you spend money on me in this way."

She did not remark the diamond studs in his shirt, nor the turquoise-headed cane which dangled from his wrist; she only thought of what he had spent upon a present for her.

Cecil was soon plunged into debt; but a man who has his cab, and is lavish in expense, easily finds enormous credit. He lived as if he had a certain income of two or three thousand a year. Brilliant dinners at the club, small but ruinous dinners at home, suppers, jewellery, cigars, gloves, and elegant trifles for his wife demanded no inconsiderable sums. Rouge et noir and credit supplied his wants. In spite of heavy losses, his luck at play was extraordinary, and was aided by his prudence in always retiring after gaining a certain sum.

The ordinary routine of his life, as it used to be at Mrs. Tring's, was now exchanged for one very unlike it in appearance, but to those who look beneath the surface very like it au fond.

He rose late; and sat in his dressing-gown and slippers, smoking cigars at two guineas the pound, turning over the leaves of a novel or new poem, chatting with Blanche, and listening to her plans for the education of their children. Impossible to be more charming than Cecil at such moments! He listened with unfeigned pleasure to her little schemes, threw in a graceful bon mot here and there, drew her on his knee, and played with her golden hair, planned amusements for her, and taxed his ingenuity to discover what she would like to have bought.

About twelve, he dressed. No rubbing up of gloves—no oiling of boots now. His dress was a matter of study, and he stepped into his cab a perfect dandy.

Blanche, without inquiring, imagined he always went to his painting-rooms, but the club or Hester Mason's were his invariable resorts.

He had taken of late to calling frequently on Hester during the day. Not that he was in love with her, but she amused and flattered him. He saw pretty plainly that she regarded him with anything but indifferent feelings, and no man withstands that sort of flattery. He saw, moreover, that Sir Chetsom Chetsom was jealous, and what man is insensible to that compliment? He went, therefore, and was always amused.

Poor Hester had fallen seriously in love with him, and although his attentions to her were by no means explicit, yet she could not help fancying he had some love for her. Unfortunately he often brought his wife's name forward, and always spoke of her with an unostentatious respect and affection which cut Hester to the quick.

She who recognised no marriage tie; who thought that love, and love alone, was the only principle of union, was jealous and angry at this obstacle of a wife, and her tirades against marriage were not wholly unselfish. That Cecil loved her, she could not disbelieve—why, then, should he not tell her so?

She did not appreciate the distinction between flattered vanity and love; she did not understand that a man could find delight in her society, and be pleased at her evident partiality, while at the same time cherishing the image of his wife as something inalienable from his heart.

Cecil had no thought of being inconstant, yet he sought Hester's society with pleasure.

After spending an hour or so tête-à-tête with her, he would drive down to the club, or into the Park; dine at the club, and spend his night at the Strangers', to which he had recently been admitted, and where he played fifty pound stakes with a recklessness which astonished most of the players, but which, on the whole, was attended with success. One night he carried off eight hundred pounds.

So large a sum in his possession betrayed to Blanche the source of his sudden prosperity. She had before been uneasy: doubts had crossed her mind; the abundance of money, coupled with his obvious idleness, looked very unlike an artist's gains, and now this eight hundred pounds threw a flash of light on the mystery.

"Cecil, dearest Cecil," she said timidly, "relieve me from my suspense—did you gain this money at play?"

He looked angrily at her, and, puffing forth a column of smoke, said,—

"How else should I gain it?"

She was silent. He continued to smoke fiercely for a minute or so, and then said, sneeringly,—

"Did you fancy money was to be gained by art? Did you imagine I was going to follow the example of all the other fools, and wear out my life in a miserable contest for a beggar's pittance? Painting would never support me; it is all very well for the mechanical fellows who make it a trade; I could never do that; and I have no inclination to starve—there is you to think of—and our child."

Blanche could not reply; every phrase was a stab in her heart; she saw ruin and dishonour scowling upon them, and felt their descent was not to be averted.

"I was born a gentleman, thank God!" he continued, throwing away the end of his cigar, and rising from the sofa as he spoke; "I was bred a gentleman, and, damme, I will live like a gentleman!"

With this very gentlemanly, honourable sentiment, he walked out of the room.

Relieved from the restraint of his presence, Blanche threw herself upon the sofa, and gave way to a paroxysm of grief. What a blow to her happiness was that fearful discovery! Her husband—her adored Cecil—a gambler! Men living in the world, and accustomed to mingle with those who play, cannot overcome their repugnance to a professed gambler; but what is their repugnance compared with the loathing felt by women, whose horror is unmitigated by familiarity? and what is the abstract horror of a woman, compared with the shuddering terror of a wife, who sees written before her in characters of fire the ineffaceable dishonour, the inevitable ruin of her husband and her children?

A gambler! her husband was a gambler! The luxuries with which she was surrounded were not the fruits of honest labour, but of dishonourable gaming; the trinkets which he had given her, and which she had held as precious tokens of his affection, were not purchased by his genius and energy, but were purchased from the misery of others; the gold he squandered with a lavish hand, was the gold whose loss carried perhaps despair and suicide into many a wretched family. The thought was torture. It turned all her trinkets into manacles. It made the costly furniture around her dark, grim, and reproachful.

Bitter, bitter were the scalding tears which gushed from her, as she brooded on this immeasureable horror! Terrible were the fears which assailed her as she thought of the end—the inevitable end of such a career!

All hope of happiness was now swept from out her life. Their love, which had been so trusting; their sympathy, which had been so perfect; her esteem, which had been so unsullied, where were they? Gone—irrecoverably gone!

In their poverty, how happy they had been! how contented with their lot! In the prospect of the future, made radiant with love—in the thoughts of their children, as sharers and promoters of that love—what blissful dreams had tinged with magic hues the far horizon of a life which blended with the distant life to come! And now, in one single moment, all those dreams were shattered, and the horizon darkened with thunder-clouds over a stormy sea.

You may have seen a graceful vine, heavy with clusters of the purple grape, trailed up against a garden wall; the rusty nail that fastens it, half falling from out the crumbling wall; and you have felt that the first gust of autumnal wind must tear it completely out, and hurl the poor drooping vine upon the ground.

That is an image of their life. By no stronger bond were they now separated from ruin: one turn of Fortune's capricious wheel, and they were lost.

Weep, weep, poor wretched girl! weep and prepare yourself for greater woe! The babe which now moves beneath your heart, in the dim newness of its being, whose birth was to have been the advent of such joy; what will it be born to? Weep, and prepare yourself for greater woe!

CHAPTER XI.
DEEPER, AND DEEPER STILL.

Elle s'efforça de lui éviter la souffrance en lui cachant la sienne; elle s'habitua à souffrir seule, à n'avoir ni appui, ni consolation, ni conseil.

GEORGE SAND.—André.

The discovery of her husband's pursuits was made too late. Cecil had become a confirmed gambler; and although he saw—saw with anger and remorse—that his wife was heartbroken at the discovery, and could not be deluded by the fluent sophisms with which he tried to persuade her that he had no other career left—could not believe his present pursuits were only temporary, to be given up as soon as he had won sufficient money to be independent; yet his remorse only tormented, it did not cure him. It made him uneasy at home; made him seek excitement elsewhere, in which to intoxicate his conscience. And he continued to win!

Perhaps, had Violet been his wife, instead of the meek, resigned Blanche, the greater force of her will, and directness of her mind might have cowed him. Violet might have shamed him into honour. Her courage and her inflexible will, by braving his anger, by enduring scenes of domestic misery, but by unflinchingly keeping to the point, might, with one so weak, so impressionable, and so affectionate, have rescued him from perdition. But Blanche was ill suited to such a task. Her spirit, never strong, had been early broken. She had learned to endure evils, not to combat them. She bowed her head to the stroke, and exerted all her strength in gaining fortitude to endure.

Violet would have acted energetically, where Blanche only wept in silence.

Her tears distressed and irritated him; they made him impatient at her "folly," by bringing painfully home to him the sense of his own. Yet, inasmuch as he loved her, he could not see her constant melancholy without anguish; and in moments of contrition he had several times solemnly assured her that he would never again touch a card. The assurance made her deliriously happy for a day or two; but it never lasted long: he broke his vow, made it again, and again broke it. In fact, the fascination of the gaming-table was irresistible; and Frank Forrester was always at his elbow, like a tempter. So often had he deceived her, that she only smiled a melancholy smile, when he now promised never to play again. She had resigned herself to her fate as hopeless!

"Damn it, Cis," said Frank one day, "when are you going to play scientifically? You might try the martingale now: you've got the capital."

"My dear Frank, I lost six hundred pounds last night—and that, too, in trying your famous martingale."

"The devil you did!"

"Yes, and heartily I cursed you for having told me of it."

"Justice, Cis, damme, justice! If you lost money by my martingale, it must be because you didn't play it, for I'll stake my honour—or anything equally valueless upon it, that my plan is infallible."

"Perhaps so; if one could play it. But the fact is, one had need be a machine to play it."

"Of course—of course. That's why you should have let me play: I'm cast-iron. You could not resist the temptation of risking now and then, and in that risk you lost."

"Don't tell me, Frank. No man can sit playing all night, and winning paltry stakes, when every time he wins he reproaches himself for not having staked higher."

"So you lost?"

"I'm cleaned out. I don't believe there is eight pounds in my purse."

"Humph! I came to borrow."

"I'll accept a bill, if you will get it discounted, and we'll share."

"Bravo!"

"Have you a stamp about you?"

"Have I? ... My dear Cis, what a question! Why bill-stamps are my stock-in-trade; when the day—distant yet, I hope—shall arrive that is to find me without a stamp, and without a friend to go through the matter of form, then will Francis Forrester gracefully bid adieu to this dung-heap of civilization, and waft his charming person into other regions. Here you are, old fellow! just scrawl your name across that: your coachmaker will discount it."

Having settled this little matter of business, Cecil drove to Hester's.

CHAPTER XII.
HESTER'S LOVE.

To meet her spirit in a nimble kiss,
Distilling panting ardour to her breast.
JOHN MARSTON.—The Malcontent.

S'il ose m'alléguer une odieuse loi
Quand je fais tout pour lui, s'il ne fait rien pour moi;
Dès le moment, sans songer si je l'aime,
Sans consulter enfin si je me perds moi même
J'abandonne l'ingrat.
RACINE.—Bajazet.

Cecil found Hester writing, in a charming négligé. She threw down her pen with a movement of impatient joy as he entered.

She took his outstretched hand in hers, and pressing it tenderly, looked with serious alarm into his face as she said, "You are not well. Something is on your mind. Am I right?"

"You are."

"Sit down on the sofa—there." She sat by his side still holding his hand, which he could not withdraw. "Now, tell me what it is."

He shook his head.

"Won't you make me your confidante? Am I not worthy to share your sorrows?"

"Don't ask me ... you are right .... I am unhappy. But I cannot tell you wherefore."

"How is your novel getting on? Why won't you tell me?" She pressed his hand as she said it.

He was perplexed, and knew not what to say. Her dark eyes were darting forth fire—her face was so close to his, that he felt its warmth—her loose morning dress, thrown slightly open by the attitude in which she sat bent forward, made a dangerous display of her finely moulded bust; he was surrounded with such an atmosphere of voluptuousness, that his intoxicated senses confused his reason. In that moment he forgot everything but the moment's intense sensation. His eyes answered hers; his hand returned her pressure; he drank her breath, and felt the blood flushing his face.

Both were silent; both feared to break that silence. With irresistible impulse they mutually bent forward till their lips touched, and then clung together in a burning kiss.

She burst into tears, and pressed him feverishly to her, as if in an embrace to express the unutterable fervour of her love. And in this delirium they remained some time, not a word passing, only a few deep sighs, and a fierce pressure of the hand, telling of the fire which consumed them.

Hester was supremely happy. Her doubts were set at rest. He loved her!

Cecil was violently excited, and in his excitement forgot whom he was embracing—forgot his wife—forgot the world. The vague suggestions of his conscience were stifled at once by the agitation of his senses. Hester by a word recalled him to himself.

"You love me, then?" she said, tenderly.

He started, and could not answer her.

"Cecil, dearest Cecil, my own, my best beloved!"

He was sobered in an instant.

But what could he do? To continue this scene was impossible; yet to undeceive her, to tell her that he loved her not! what man could do that?

"Why are you so silent?"

"I suffer horribly."

"From what?"

He beat his brow distractedly.

"Hester, .... you will curse me..... It is not my fault..... You ...."

"Do you not love me?" she almost shrieked.

"I do, I do!" he hurriedly exclaimed; "yes, Hester, I love you .... but .... how shall I tell it you? .... We must forget this .... we must meet no more...."

"Not meet, when you love me? Impossible! The whole world shall not separate us."

"It is the world which will separate us."

"What .... your wife!" she said scornfully, almost savagely.

"Alas!"

"I recognise no barrier in a wife. I scorn the whole system of marriage..... It is iniquitous! Two hearts that love to be separated by a sophism of convention! If you love her, keep to her. If you love me, you are mine." Hester rose from the sofa as she spoke: her whole frame trembled with passion.

Cecil remained seated; his eyes fixed on the ground, in a helpless state of irresolution.

"Cecil, one word—and but one. Are you afraid of the idle gossip of the world, and are your instincts cowed at it?"

"Hester! I feel, Hester, we must part for ever."

"Then you love me not?"

He did not answer.

A loud knocking at the street door startled them. She ran to the window, and looked out.

"It is Sir Chetsom. Cecil, this instant must decide my fate. Do you reject my love?"

"Believe me, this is a situation——"

"He is coming up stairs. One word—yes, or no?"

He twirled his hat, and sought for an expression which should soften the blow, but could find none. She looked at him with intense eagerness, and reading in his hesitation her worst fears, gave a low heart-breaking sob, and rushed into the other room. In a few seconds the door opened, and the servant announced,—

"Sir Chetsom Chetsom."

Cecil brushed past him with a hurried bow, and made a precipitate retreat.

"What the devil is all this?" muttered the astonished baronet. "Hester not here!"

Hester's maid appeared, and informed him that her mistress would be down immediately, if he would only be good enough to wait.

"Where is your mistress, then?"

"In her dressing-room, Sir Chetsom."

Without saying another word, Sir Chetsom, to the horror of the maid, recovered the speed of his youth to ascend the stairs, and to rush into the dressing-room. On all ordinary occasions he preserved les convenances with great punctilio; but he was at this moment in an exasperation of jealousy, and only thought of clearing up his doubts. Cecil's exit, and Hester's absence, were alone startling circumstances; but when to these be added the jealousy which for a long time Sir Chetsom had felt towards Cecil, his exasperation may be conceived.

He found Hester extended on a couch, bathed in tears. She rose angrily at his approach, and with a gesture of great dignity pointed to the door. As he seemed noways disposed to obey her, she said,—

"I would be alone .... alone, Sir Chetsom."

"My dear Hester, what is all this? In tears! what has distressed you?"

Her only answer was to pass into her bedroom, and lock herself in.

Sir Chetsom felt foolish. He tapped at the door; but she gave no answer.

He threatened to break it open; but she remained silent.

He then began to wheedle and entreat, to threaten, to promise, to storm, and to implore, alternately. All in vain: not a word could he extort from her.

He went down into the drawing-room, there to await her pleasure; sulky and suspicious, angry yet anxious.

Hester, meanwhile, gave full scope to the paroxysm of her grief. In Cecil's manner, she had read her condemnation. She understood his momentary aberration. She saw that although he had not been able to withstand the excitement of that moment, yet it was not his heart, but his senses she had captivated. She saw that he loved his wife!

Fierce were the convulsions into which this conviction threw her, and many were the tears she shed; but after an hour's misery she grew calmer, and began to think of her condition.

Sir Chetsom was below, awaiting her. He was jealous; he was angry. He was ready to quarrel with her, and she felt that a good quarrel was just the thing she wanted.

Prepared, therefore, for a "scene," she descended into the drawing-room.

"Oh! at last," said Sir Chetsom, coldly.

"Yes, Sir Chetsom, at last. I presume I may choose my own time for seeing my visitors; those who do me the honour of calling upon me will be pleased to accept that condition, or else be pleased to stay away."

"Indeed, madam!" replied he, greatly astonished at her tone, and foreseeing that she was ready to burst forth at a word.

"So it is, Sir Chetsom. In which class am I to place you?"

"Hester, I don't understand this language."

"Then I will say good-morning. I dislike talking to those who do not comprehend me."

She rose and moved towards the door.

"Hester! Hester!"

She turned round again.

"Stay a moment.—Sit down again. There, now let us talk over matters quietly."

"Begin. What have you to say?"

"I found you in tears just now."

"You did; what then?"

She said this so angrily, that he was forced to pause a moment, and change his tone to say,—

"I wish—as a friend—my love prompts me to ask the cause of those tears?"

"Wretchedness!"

"You wretched?"

"Intensely!"

"My poor Hester! What has occurred?—Is Mr. Chamberlayne—has he anything to do with it?"

She made no reply.

"Answer me, dear girl. Do. I have a right to know."

She continued silent.

"I insist upon knowing."

"Insist then," she replied, quietly.

"I do insist!" he said, raising his voice.

"But your insistance is useless."

"Eh? Hester, do not go too far—Remember—"

"What? What am I to remember?"

"That you—that I may enforce——"

An ironical laugh was her answer.

"Hester, you forget—I am here as your protector—you owe everything to me.—Be careful, I am willing to overlook a great deal——"

"Are you willing to quit the room?" she said, her eyes flashing as she spoke. "There is the door. May you never enter it again! Go! I command you! You insist—you enforce? And do you imagine that I am to give up my youth and beauty to age and folly—that I am to sacrifice myself, and to such as you, and then to be told that you insist! Undeceive yourself, Sir Chetsom. I am my own mistress. I follow my own caprices. My caprice once was to live with you. Now my caprice is to show you the door. Go! I owe you nothing. I have not sold myself. I have not bound myself. Go!—Why do you stand there gaping at me—do you not comprehend my words? or do you fancy that it is something so strange I should wish never to see you again? You imagine, perhaps, that I am not calm now, that I am unaware of what I do in relinquishing the protection of Sir Chetsom Chetsom? Undeceive yourself. If I am angry, I know perfectly what I do. I know the extent of my folly—shall I tell you what it is? It is that I ever listened to you! It is that I ever sullied my name by accepting your protection! Now, do you understand me?"

She sank in a chair, exhausted. Poor Sir Chetsom was troubled and confused. The scorn of her manner which lent such momentum to her words, quite crushed the feeling of anger which continually rose within him. She had often threatened to quit him; but never in such terms, and never seemed so earnest.

"My dear Hester," he said, submissively, taking a seat near her, "you have misunderstood me."

"I do not wish to understand you then."

"But are you serious?—do you wish to leave me?"

"Very serious."

"But what have I done? I am sure my life is spent in trying to make you happy. Every wish of yours, as soon as it is expressed, I endeavour to gratify."

"Then my wish is never to see you again; gratify that!"

"My dear Hester, be reasonable! You are angry now—I don't know wherefore—I won't inquire, if it displeases you—but you will get over this to-morrow, you will have forgotten it. To-morrow I will come and see you."

"I will not see you; so spare yourself the trouble."

"Not see me! Is everything over then between us? Is this your calm decision?"

"It is. I have told you so before. What makes you doubt it? Do you suppose your society is so fascinating that I cannot relinquish it? Try me!"

"I will," said Sir Chetsom, buttoning his coat, and rising in concentrated anger.

"Do so."

"You will repent this. You force me to it, recollect! You force me!"

"Good-morning!"

"I am not joking, I am serious now."

"Good-morning."

"If I once quit this house it will be never to return."

"Sir Chetsom I have the pleasure of wishing you good-morning!"

There was no replying to the cutting coolness of her manner. He took up his hat, buttoned his coat up to the chin, fidgeted his gloves, and at last making an effort, said:—

"Very well, very well!" and left the room.

Hester felt considerably relieved. She had taken a savage pleasure in this contest, and utterly reckless of consequences, found in that very recklessness a satisfaction, which helped to console her mortified vanity and wounded affection. Towards Cecil, she felt hate and scorn; towards Sir Chetsom, contemptuous anger, she knew not why. She had played her whole existence in that quarrel; and knew that she was a beggar without a moment's anxiety.

The next Day, Sir Chetsom sent her a note, in which he deplored what had passed between them, but was willing to attribute it to some extraordinary irritation; and he moreover offered to settle six hundred a year upon her for her life, if she would only consent to remain his friend as heretofore.

The irritation in Hester's mind had not abated, and she returned this laconic answer:—

"CADOGAN PLACE, 13th June 1841.

"Not for six thousand.

"H. M."

Sir Chetsom was alarmed. The idea of her quitting him was more than he could endure. Completely fascinated by her, the more he knew of her, the more hopelessly he became her slave. He could not imagine living without her.

He called; was refused admittance; called again; was refused again; wrote, and received back his letter unopened.

He was in despair. So great was his preoccupation, that he actually went out with his whiskers unoiled and undyed! Hester's servant at length took pity on his sorrow, and consented to let him enter the house, against her orders.

He stole up to her boudoir, and throwing himself at her feet, said,—

"Hester, I cannot exist without you."

"But I can without you," she said, smiling.

"You smile; then I am forgiven."

"Yes; but I keep to my resolution."

"Hester, hear me out; if, after what I have to say, you still keep your resolution, I shall have nothing to do but to leave you in peace. Here, then, I offer you my hand—be Lady Chetsom, and make me happy."

At that moment a strange image rose in Hester's mind. She had that afternoon met Cecil driving in the Park. He raised his hat in cold politeness, but made no attempt to speak to her. The recollection of this scene now presented itself, as the sort of background to Sir Chetsom on his knees offering a title, offering wealth, offering consideration to the friendless, forsaken, ambitious girl.

"Will you accept me?" again whispered Sir Chetsom.

"I shall plague your life out," she said.

"Then that is a settled matter!"

Sir Chetsom was the happiest of men.

But his happiness only lasted a fortnight, and was then suddenly cut short by that inflexible lady—Atropos. Driving home one evening, his horse shied at something in the road, and ran away with him down Constitution Hill, then stumbled and threw Sir Chetsom against the railings. A concussion of the brain was the consequence.

By this accident, Hester not only lost the honour of becoming Lady Chetsom, but she was absolutely left penniless, as Sir Chetsom died intestate.

To this had her ambition brought her! With no resources, with no friends, without even a good name, she had to begin the world anew. Literature was the desperate resource which alone awaited her; and she resolved to live by her pen.