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A Simpleton

by Charles Reade

August, 2000  [Etext #2301]


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A SIMPLETON

by Charles Reade




PREFACE.


It has lately been objected to me, in studiously courteous terms of
course, that I borrow from other books, and am a plagiarist.  To
this I reply that I borrow facts from every accessible source, and
am not a plagiarist.  The plagiarist is one who borrows from a
homogeneous work: for such a man borrows not ideas only, but their
treatment.  He who borrows only from heterogeneous works is not a
plagiarist.  All fiction, worth a button, is founded on facts; and
it does not matter one straw whether the facts are taken from
personal experience, hearsay, or printed books; only those books
must not be works of fiction.

Ask your common sense why a man writes better fiction at forty than
he can at twenty.  It is simply because he has gathered more facts
from each of these three sources,--experience, hearsay, print.

To those who have science enough to appreciate the above
distinction, I am very willing to admit that in all my tales I use
a vast deal of heterogeneous material, which in a life of study I
have gathered from men, journals, blue-books, histories,
biographies, law reports, etc.  And if I could, I would gladly
specify all the various printed sources to which I am indebted.
But my memory is not equal to such a feat.  I can only say that I
rarely write a novel without milking about two hundred
heterogeneous cows into my pail, and that "A Simpleton" is no
exception to my general method; that method is the true method, and
the best, and if on that method I do not write prime novels, it is
the fault of the man, and not of the method.

I give the following particulars as an illustration of my method:

In "A Simpleton," the whole business of the girl spitting blood,
the surgeon ascribing it to the liver, the consultation, the final
solution of the mystery, is a matter of personal experience
accurately recorded.  But the rest of the medical truths, both fact
and argument, are all from medical books far too numerous to
specify.  This includes the strange fluctuations of memory in a man
recovering his reason by degrees.  The behavior of the doctor's
first two patients I had from a surgeon's daughter in Pimlico.  The
servant-girl and her box; the purple-faced, pig-faced Beak and his
justice, are personal experience.  The business of house-renting,
and the auction-room, is also personal experience.

In the nautical business I had the assistance of two practical
seamen: my brother, William Barrington Reade, and Commander Charles
Edward Reade, R.N.

In the South African business I gleaned from Mr. Day's recent
handbooks; the old handbooks; Galton's "Vacation Tourist;" "Philip
Mavor; or, Life among the Caffres;" "Fossor;" "Notes on the Cape of
Good Hope," 1821; "Scenes and Occurrences in Albany and Caffre-
land," 1827; Bowler's "South African Sketches;" "A Campaign in
South Africa," Lucas; "Five Years in Caffre-land," Mrs. Ward; etc.,
etc., etc.  But my principal obligation on this head is to Mr.
Boyle, the author of some admirable letters to the Daily telegraph,
which he afterwards reprinted in a delightful volume.  Mr. Boyle
has a painter's eye, and a writer's pen, and if the African scenes
in "A Simpleton" please my readers, I hope they will go to the
fountain-head, where they will find many more.

As to the plot and characters, they are invented.

The title, "A Simpleton," is not quite new.  There is a French play
called La Niaise.  But La Niaise is in reality a woman of rare
intelligence, who is taken for a simpleton by a lot of conceited
fools, and the play runs on their blunders, and her unpretending
wisdom.  That is a very fine plot, which I recommend to our female
novelists.  My aim in these pages has been much humbler, and is, I
hope, too clear to need explanation.

CHARLES READE.



A SIMPLETON.


CHAPTER I.


A young lady sat pricking a framed canvas in the drawing-room of
Kent Villa, a mile from Gravesend; she was making, at a cost of
time and tinted wool, a chair cover, admirably unfit to be sat
upon--except by some severe artist, bent on obliterating discordant
colors.  To do her justice, her mind was not in her work; for she
rustled softly with restlessness as she sat, and she rose three
times in twenty minutes, and went to the window.  Thence she looked
down, over a trim flowery lawn, and long, sloping meadows, on to
the silver Thames, alive with steamboats ploughing, white sails
bellying, and great ships carrying to and fro the treasures of the
globe.  From this fair landscape and epitome of commerce she
retired each time with listless disdain; she was waiting for
somebody.

Yet she was one of those whom few men care to keep waiting.  Rosa
Lusignan was a dark but dazzling beauty, with coal-black hair, and
glorious dark eyes, that seemed to beam with soul all day long; her
eyebrows, black, straightish, and rather thick, would have been
majestic and too severe, had the other features followed suit; but
her black brows were succeeded by long silky lashes, a sweet oval
face, two pouting lips studded with ivory, and an exquisite chin,
as feeble as any man could desire in the partner of his bosom.
Person--straight, elastic, and rather tall.  Mind--nineteen.
Accomplishments--numerous; a poor French scholar, a worse German, a
worse English, an admirable dancer, an inaccurate musician, a good
rider, a bad draughtswoman, a bad hairdresser, at the mercy of her
maid; a hot theologian, knowing nothing, a sorry accountant, no
housekeeper, no seamstress, a fair embroideress, a capital
geographer, and no cook.

Collectively, viz., mind and body, the girl we kneel to.

This ornamental member of society now glanced at the clock once
more, and then glided to the window for the fourth time.  She
peeped at the side a good while, with superfluous slyness or
shyness, and presently she drew back, blushing crimson; then she
peeped again, still more furtively; then retired softly to her
frame, and, for the first time, set to work in earnest.  As she
plied her harpoon, smiling now, the large and vivid blush, that had
suffused her face and throat, turned from carnation to rose, and
melted away slowly, but perceptibly, and ever so sweetly; and
somebody knocked at the street door.

The blow seemed to drive her deeper into her work.  She leaned over
it, graceful as a willow, and so absorbed, she could not even see
the door of the room open and Dr. Staines come in.

All the better: her not perceiving that slight addition to her
furniture gives me a moment to describe him.

A young man, five feet eleven inches high, very square shouldered
and deep chested, but so symmetrical, and light in his movements,
that his size hardly struck one at first.  He was smooth shaved,
all but a short, thick, auburn whisker; his hair was brown.  His
features no more then comely: the brow full, the eyes wide apart
and deep-seated, the lips rather thin, but expressive, the chin
solid and square.  It was a face of power, and capable of
harshness; but relieved by an eye of unusual color, between hazel
and gray, and wonderfully tender.  In complexion he could not
compare with Rosa; his cheek was clear, but pale; for few young men
had studied night and day so constantly.  Though but twenty-eight
years of age, he was literally a learned physician; deep in
hospital practice; deep in books; especially deep in German
science, too often neglected or skimmed by English physicians.  He
had delivered a course of lectures at a learned university with
general applause.

As my reader has divined, Rosa was preparing the comedy of a cool
reception; but looking up, she saw his pale cheek tinted with a
lover's beautiful joy at the bare sight of her, and his soft eye so
divine with love, that she had not the heart to chill him.  She
gave him her hand kindly, and smiled brightly on him instead of
remonstrating.  She lost nothing by it, for the very first thing he
did was to excuse himself eagerly.  "I am behind time: the fact is,
just as I was mounting my horse, a poor man came to the gate to
consult me.  He had a terrible disorder I have sometimes succeeded
in arresting--I attack the cause instead of the symptoms, which is
the old practice--and so that detained me.  You forgive me?"

"Of course.  Poor man!--only you said you wanted to see papa, and
he always goes out at two."

When she had been betrayed into saying this, she drew in suddenly,
and blushed with a pretty consciousness.

"Then don't let me lose another minute," said the lover.  "Have you
prepared him for--for--what I am going to have the audacity to
say?"

Rosa answered, with some hesitation, "I MUST have--a little.  When
I refused Colonel Bright--you need not devour my hand quite--he is
forty."

Her sentence ended, and away went the original topic, and
grammatical sequence along with it.  Christopher Staines recaptured
them both.  "Yes, dear, when you refused Colonel Bright"--

"Well, papa was astonished; for everybody says the colonel is a
most eligible match.  Don't you hate that expression?  I do.
Eligible!"

Christopher made due haste, and recaptured her.  "Yes, love, your
papa said"--

"I don't think I will tell you.  He asked me was there anybody
else; and of course I said 'No.'"

"Oh!"

"Oh, that is nothing; I had not time to make up my mind to tell the
truth.  I was taken by surprise; and you know one's first impulse
is to fib--about THAT."

"But did you really deceive him?"

"No, I blushed; and he caught me; so he said, 'Come, now, there
was.'"

"And you said, 'Yes, there is,' like a brave girl as you are."

"What, plump like that?  No, I was frightened out of my wits, like
a brave girl as I am not, and said I should never marry any one he
could disapprove; and then--oh, then I believe I began to cry.
Christopher, I'll tell you something; I find people leave off
teasing you when you cry--gentlemen, I mean.  Ladies go on all the
more.  So then dear papa kissed me, and told me I must not be
imprudent, and throw myself away, that was all; and I promised him
I never would.  I said he would be sure to approve my choice; and
he said he hoped so.  And so he will."

Dr. Staines looked thoughtful, and said he hoped so too.  "But now
it comes to the point of asking him for such a treasure, I feel my
deficiencies."

"Why, what deficiencies?  You are young, and handsome, and good,
and ever so much cleverer than other people.  You have only to ask
for me, and insist on having me.  Come, dear, go and get it over."
She added, mighty coolly, "There is nothing so DREADFUL as
suspense."

"I'll go this minute," said he, and took a step towards the door;
but he turned, and in a moment was at her knees.  He took both her
hands in his, and pressed them to his beating bosom, while his
beautiful eyes poured love into hers point-blank.  "May I tell him
you love me?  Oh, I know you cannot love me as I love you; but I
may say you love me a little, may I not?--that will go farther with
him than anything else.  May I, Rosa, may I?--a little?"

His passion mastered her.  She dropped her head sweetly on his
shoulder, and murmured, "You know you may, my own.  Who would not
love you?"

He parted lingeringly from her, then marched away, bold with love
and hope, to demand her hand in marriage.

Rosa leaned back in her chair, and quivered a little with new
emotions.  Christopher was right; she was not capable of loving
like him; but still the actual contact of so strong a passion made
her woman's nature vibrate.  A dewy tear hung on the fringes of her
long lashes, and she leaned back in her chair and fluttered awhile.

That emotion, almost new to her, soon yielded, in her girlish mind,
to a complacent languor; and that, in its turn, to a soft reverie.
So she was going to be married!  To be mistress of a house; settle
in London (THAT she had quite determined long ago); be able to go
out into the streets all alone, to shop, or visit; have a gentleman
all her own, whom she could put her finger on any moment and make
him take her about, even to the opera and the theatre; to give
dinner-parties her own self, and even a little ball once in a way;
to buy whatever dresses she thought proper, instead of being
crippled by an allowance; have the legal right of speaking first in
society, even to gentlemen rich in ideas but bad starters, instead
of sitting mumchance and mock-modest; to be Mistress, instead of
Miss--contemptible title; to be a woman, instead of a girl; and all
this rational liberty, domestic power, and social dignity were to
be obtained by merely wedding a dear fellow, who loved her, and was
so nice; and the bright career to be ushered in with several
delights, each of them dear to a girl's very soul: presents from
all her friends; as many beautiful new dresses as if she was
changing her body or her hemisphere, instead of her name; eclat;
going to church, which is a good English girl's theatre of display
and temple of vanity, and there tasting delightful publicity and
whispered admiration, in a heavenly long veil, which she could not
wear even once if she remained single.

This bright variegated picture of holy wedlock, and its essential
features, as revealed to young ladies by feminine tradition, though
not enumerated in the Book of Common Prayer writ by grim males, so
entranced her, that time flew by unheeded, and Christopher Staines
came back from her father.  His step was heavy; he looked pale, and
deeply distressed; then stood like a statue, and did not come close
to her, but cast a piteous look, and gasped out one word, that
seemed almost to choke him,--"REFUSED!"

Miss Lusignan rose from her chair, and looked almost wildly at him
with her great eyes.  "Refused?" said she, faintly.

"Yes," said he, sadly.  "Your father is a man of business; and he
took a mere business view of our love: he asked me directly what
provision I could make for his daughter and her children.  Well, I
told him I had three thousand pounds in the Funds, and a good
profession; and then I said I had youth, health, and love,
boundless love, the love that can do, or suffer, the love that can
conquer the world."

"Dear Christopher!  And what COULD he say to all that?"

"He ignored it entirely.  There!  I'll give you his very words.  He
said, 'In that case, Dr. Staines, the simple question is, what does
your profession bring you in per annum?'"

"Oh!  There!  I always hated arithmetic, and now I abominate it."

"Then I was obliged to confess I had scarcely received a hundred
pounds in fees this year; but I told him the reason; this is such a
small district, and all the ground occupied.  London, I said, was
my sphere."

"And so it is," said Rosa, eagerly; for this jumped with her own
little designs.  "Genius is wasted in the country.  Besides,
whenever anybody worth curing is ill down here, they always send to
London for a doctor."

"I told him so, dearest," said the lover.  "But he answered me
directly, then I must set up in London, and as soon as my books
showed an income to keep a wife, and servants, and children, and
insure my life for five thousand pounds"--

"Oh, that is so like papa.  He is director of an insurance company,
so all the world must insure their lives."

"No, dear, he was quite right there: professional incomes are most
precarious.  Death spares neither young nor old, neither warm
hearts nor cold.  I should be no true physician if I could not see
my own mortality."  He hung his head and pondered a moment, then
went on, sadly, "It all comes to this--until I have a professional
income of eight hundred a year at least, he will not hear of our
marrying; and the cruel thing is, he will not even consent to an
engagement.  But," said the rejected, with a look of sad anxiety,
"you will wait for me without that, dear Rosa?"

She could give him that comfort, and she gave it him with loving
earnestness.  "Of course I will; and it shall not be very long.
Whilst you are making your fortune, to please papa, I will keep
fretting, and pouting, and crying, till he sends for you."

"Bless you, dearest!  Stop!--not to make yourself ill! not for all
the world."  The lover and the physician spoke in turn.

He came, all gratitude, to her side, and they sat, hand in hand,
comforting each other: indeed, parting was such sweet sorrow that
they sat, handed, and very close to one another, till Mr. Lusignan,
who thought five minutes quite enough for rational beings to take
leave in, walked into the room and surprised them.  At sight of his
gray head and iron-gray eyebrows, Christopher Staines started up
and looked confused; he thought some apology necessary, so he
faltered out, "Forgive me, sir; it is a bitter parting to me, you
may be sure."

Rosa's bosom heaved at these simple words.  She flew to her father,
and cried, "Oh, papa! papa! you were never cruel before;" and hid
her burning face on his shoulder; and then burst out crying, partly
for Christopher, partly because she was now ashamed of herself for
having taken a young man's part so openly.

Mr. Lusignan looked sadly discomposed at this outburst: she had
taken him by his weak point; he told her so.  "Now, Rosa," said he,
rather peevishly, "you know I hate--noise."

Rosa had actually forgotten that trait for a single moment; but,
being reminded of it, she reduced her sobs in the prettiest way,
not to offend a tender parent who could not bear noise.  Under this
homely term, you must know, he included all scenes, disturbances,
rumpuses, passions; and expected all men, women, and things in Kent
Villa to go smoothly--or go elsewhere.

"Come, young people," said he, "don't make a disturbance.  Where's
the grievance?  Have I said he shall never marry you?  Have I
forbidden him to correspond? or even to call, say twice a year.
All I say is, no marriage, nor contract of marriage, until there is
an income."  Then he turned to Christopher.  "Now if you can't make
an income without her, how could you make one with her, weighed
down by the load of expenses a wife entails?  I know her better
than you do; she is a good girl, but rather luxurious and self-
indulgent.  She is not cut out for a poor man's wife.  And pray
don't go and fancy that nobody loves my child but you.  Mine is not
so hot as yours, of course; but believe me, sir, it is less
selfish.  You would expose her to poverty and misery; but I say no;
it is my duty to protect her from all chance of them; and, in doing
it, I am as much your friend as hers, if you could but see it.
Come, Dr. Staines, be a man, and see the world as it is.  I have
told you how to earn my daughter's hand and my esteem: you must
gain both, or neither."

Dr. Staines was never quite deaf to reason: he now put his hand to
his brow and said, with a sort of wonder and pitiful dismay, "My
love for Rosa selfish!  Sir, your words are bitter and hard."
Then, after a struggle, and with rare and touching candor, "Ay, but
so are bark and steel; yet they are good medicines."  Then with a
great glow in his heart and tears in his eyes, "My darling shall
not be a poor man's wife, she who would adorn a coronet, ay, or a
crown.  Good-by, Rosa, for the present."  He darted to her, and
kissed her hand with all his soul.  "Oh, the sacrifice of leaving
you," he faltered; "the very world is dark to me without you.  Ah,
well, I must earn the right to come again."  He summoned all his
manhood, and marched to the door.  There he seemed to turn calmer
all of a sudden, and said firmly, yet humbly, "I'll try and show
you, sir, what love can do."

"And I'll show you what love can suffer," said Rosa, folding her
beautiful arms superbly.

It was not in her to have shot such a bolt, except in imitation;
yet how promptly the mimic thunder came, and how grand the beauty
looked, with her dark brows, and flashing eyes, and folded arms!
much grander and more inspired than poor Staines, who had only
furnished the idea.

But between these two figures swelling with emotion, the
representative of common sense, Lusignan pere, stood cool and
impassive; he shrugged his shoulders, and looked on both lovers as
a couple of ranting novices he was saving from each other and
almshouses.

For all that, when the lover had torn himself away, papa's
composure was suddenly disturbed by a misgiving.  He stepped
hastily to the stairhead, and gave it vent.  "Dr. Staines," said
he, in a loud whisper (Staines was half way down the stairs: he
stopped).  "I trust to you as a gentleman, not to mention this; it
will never transpire here.  Whatever we do--no noise!"


CHAPTER II.


Rosa Lusignan set herself pining as she had promised; and she did
it discreetly for so young a person.  She was never peevish, but
always sad and listless.  By this means she did not anger her
parent, but only made him feel she was unhappy, and the house she
had hitherto brightened exceeding dismal.

By degrees this noiseless melancholy undermined the old gentleman,
and he well-nigh tottered.

But one day, calling suddenly on a neighbor with six daughters, he
heard peals of laughter, and found Rosa taking her full share of
the senseless mirth.  She pulled up short at sight of him, and
colored high; but it was too late, for he launched a knowing look
at her on the spot, and muttered something about seven foolish
virgins.

He took the first opportunity, when they were alone, and told her
he was glad to find she was only dismal at home.

But Rosa had prepared for him.  "One can be loud without being gay
at heart," said she, with a lofty, languid air.  "I have not
forgotten your last words to HIM.  We were to hide our broken
hearts from the world.  I try to obey you, dear papa; but, if I had
my way, I would never go into the world at all.  I have but one
desire now--to end my days in a convent."

"Please begin them first.  A convent!  Why, you'd turn it out of
window.  You are no more fit to be a nun than--a pauper."

Not having foreseen this facer, Rosa had nothing ready; so she
received it with a sad, submissive, helpless sigh, as who would
say, "Hit me, papa: I have no friend now."  So then he was sorry he
had been so clever; and, indeed, there is one provoking thing about
"a woman's weakness"--it is invincible.

The next minute, what should come but a long letter from Dr.
Staines, detailing his endeavors to purchase a practice in London,
and his ill-success.  The letter spoke the language of love and
hope; but the facts were discouraging; and, indeed, a touching
sadness pierced through the veil of the brave words.

Rosa read it again and again, and cried over it before her father,
to encourage him in his heartless behavior.

About ten days after this, something occurred that altered her mood.

She became grave and thoughtful, but no longer lugubrious.  She
seemed desirous to atone to her father for having disturbed his
cheerfulness.  She smiled affectionately on him, and often sat on a
stool at his knee, and glided her hand into his.

He was not a little pleased, and said to himself, "She is coming
round to common-sense."

Now, on the contrary, she was farther from it than ever.

At last he got the clew.  One afternoon he met Mr. Wyman coming out
of the villa.  Mr. Wyman was the consulting surgeon of that part.

"What! anybody ill?" said Mr. Lusignan.  "One of the servants?"

"No; it is Miss Lusignan."

"Why, what is the matter with her?"

Wyman hesitated.  "Oh, nothing very alarming.  Would you mind
asking her?"

"Why?"

"The fact is, she requested me not to tell you: made me promise."

"And I insist upon your telling me."

"And I think you are quite right, sir, as her father.  Well, she is
troubled with a little spitting of blood."

Mr. Lusignan turned pale.  "My child! spitting of blood!  God
forbid!"

"Oh, do not alarm yourself.  It is nothing serious."

"Don't tell me!" said the father.  "It is always serious.  And she
kept this from me!"

Masking his agitation for the time, he inquired how often it had
occurred, this grave symptom.

"Three or four times this last month.  But I may as well tell you
at once: I have examined her carefully, and I do not think it is
from the lungs."

"From the throat, then?"

"No; from the liver.  Everything points to that organ as the seat
of derangement: not that there is any lesion; only a tendency to
congestion.  I am treating her accordingly, and have no doubt of
the result."

"Who is the ablest physician hereabouts?" asked Lusignan, abruptly.

"Dr. Snell, I think."

"Give me his address."

"I'll write to him, if you like, and appoint a consultation."  He
added, with vast but rather sudden alacrity, "It will be a great
satisfaction to my own mind."

"Then send to him, if you please, and let him be here to-morrow
morning; if not, I shall take her to London for advice at once."

On this understanding they parted, and Lusignan went at once to his
daughter.  "O my child!" said he, deeply distressed, "how could you
hide this from me?"

"Hide what, papa?" said the girl, looking the picture of
unconsciousness.

"That you have been spitting blood."

"Who told you that?" said she, sharply.

"Wyman.  He is attending you."

Rosa colored with anger.  "Chatterbox!  He promised me faithfully
not to."

"But why, in Heaven's name?  What! would you trust this terrible
thing to a stranger, and hide it from your poor father?"

"Yes," replied Rosa, quietly.

The old man would not scold her now; he only said, sadly, "I see
how it is: because I will not let you marry poverty, you think I do
not love you."  And he sighed.

"O papa! the idea!" said Rosa.  "Of course, I know you love me.  It
was not that, you dear, darling, foolish papa.  There! if you must
know, it was because I did not want you to be distressed.  I
thought I might get better with a little physic; and, if not, why,
then I thought, 'Papa is an old man; la! I dare say I shall last
his time;' and so, why should I poison your latter days with
worrying about ME?"

Mr. Lusignan stared at her, and his lip quivered; but he thought
the trait hardly consistent with her superficial character.  He
could not help saying, half sadly, half bitterly, "Well, but of
course you have told Dr. Staines."

Rosa opened her beautiful eyes, like two suns.  "Of course I have
done nothing of the sort.  He has enough to trouble him, without
that.  Poor fellow! there he is, worrying and striving to make his
fortune, and gain your esteem--'they go together,' you know; you
told him so."  (Young cats will scratch when least expected.)  "And
for me to go and tell him I am in danger!  Why, he would go wild.
He would think of nothing but me and my health.  He would never
make his fortune: and so then, even when I am gone, he will never
get a wife, because he has only got genius and goodness and three
thousand pounds.  No, papa, I have not told poor Christopher.  I
may tease those I love.  I have been teasing YOU this ever so long;
but frighten them, and make them miserable?  No!"

And here, thinking of the anguish that was perhaps in store for
those she loved, she wanted to cry; it almost choked her not to.
But she fought it bravely down: she reserved her tears for lighter
occasions and less noble sentiments.

Her father held out his arms to her.  She ran her footstool to him,
and sat nestling to his heart.

"Please forgive me my misconduct.  I have not been a dutiful
daughter ever since you--but now I will.  Kiss me, my own papa!
There!  Now we are as we always were."

Then she purred to him on every possible topic but the one that now
filled his parental heart, and bade him good-night at last with a
cheerful smile.

Wyman was exact, and ten minutes afterwards Dr. Snell drove up in a
carriage and pair.  He was intercepted in the hall by Wyman, and,
after a few minutes' conversation, presented to Mr. Lusignan.

The father gave vent to his paternal anxiety in a few simple but
touching words, and was proceeding to state the symptoms as he had
gathered them from his daughter; but Dr. Snell interrupted him
politely, and said he had heard the principal symptoms from Mr.
Wyman.  Then, turning to the latter, he said, "We had better
proceed to examine the patient."

"Certainly," said Mr. Lusignan.  "She is in the drawing-room;" and
he led the way, and was about to enter the room, when Wyman
informed him it was against etiquette for him to be present at the
examination.

"Oh, very well!" said he.  "Yes, I see the propriety of that.  But
oblige me by asking her if she has anything on her mind."

Dr. Snell bowed a lofty assent; for, to receive a hint from a
layman was to confer a favor on him.

The men of science were closeted full half an hour with the
patient.  She was too beautiful to be slurred over, even by a busy
doctor: he felt her pulse, looked at her tongue, and listened
attentively to her lungs, to her heart, and to the organ suspected
by Wyman.  He left her at last with a kindly assurance that the
case was perfectly curable.

At the door they were met by the anxious father, who came with
throbbing heart, and asked the doctors' verdict.

He was coolly informed that could not be given until the
consultation had taken place; the result of that consultation would
be conveyed to him.

"And pray, why can't I be present at the consultation?  The grounds
on which two able men agree or disagree must be well worth
listening to."

"No doubt," said Dr. Snell; "but," with a superior smile, "my dear
sir, it is not the etiquette."

"Oh, very well," said Lusignan.  But he muttered, "So, then, a
father is nobody!"

And this unreasonable person retired to his study, miserable, and
gave up the dining-room to the consultation.

They soon rejoined him.

Dr. Snell's opinion was communicated by Wyman.  "I am happy to tell
you that Dr. Snell agrees with me, entirely: the lungs are not
affected, and the liver is congested, but not diseased."

"Is that so, Dr. Snell?" asked Lusignan, anxiously.

"It is so, sir."  He added, "The treatment has been submitted to
me, and I quite approve it."

He then asked for a pen and paper, and wrote a prescription.  He
assured Mr. Lusignan that the case had no extraordinary feature,
whatever; he was not to alarm himself.  Dr. Snell then drove away,
leaving the parent rather puzzled, but, on the whole, much
comforted.

And here I must reveal an extraordinary circumstance.

Wyman's treatment was by drugs.

Dr. Snell's was by drugs.

Dr. Snell, as you have seen, entirely approved Wyman's treatment.

His own had nothing in common with it.  The Arctic and Antarctic
poles are not farther apart than was his prescription from the
prescription he thoroughly approved.

Amiable science!  In which complete diversity of practice did not
interfere with perfect uniformity of opinion.

All this was kept from Dr. Staines, and he was entirely occupied in
trying to get a position that might lead to fortune, and satisfy
Mr. Lusignan.  He called on every friend he had, to inquire where
there was an opening.  He walked miles and miles in the best
quarters of London, looking for an opening; he let it be known in
many quarters that he would give a good premium to any physician
who was about to retire, and would introduce him to his patients.

No: he could hear of nothing.

Then, after a great struggle with himself, he called upon his
uncle, Philip Staines, a retired M.D., to see if he would do
anything for him.  He left this to the last, for a very good
reason: Dr. Philip was an irritable old bachelor, who had assisted
most of his married relatives; but, finding no bottom to the well,
had turned rusty and crusty, and now was apt to administer kicks
instead of checks to all who were near and dear to him.  However,
Christopher was the old gentleman's favorite, and was now
desperate; so he mustered courage, and went.  He was graciously
received--warmly, indeed.  This gave him great hopes, and he told
his tale.

The old bachelor sided with Mr. Lusignan.  "What!" said he, "do you
want to marry, and propagate pauperism?  I thought you had more
sense.  Confound it all I had just one nephew whose knock at my
street-door did not make me tremble; he was a bachelor and a
thinker, and came for a friendly chat; the rest are married men,
highwaymen, who come to say, 'Stand and deliver;' and now even you
want to join the giddy throng.  Well, don't ask me to have any hand
in it.  You are a man of promise; and you might as well hang a
millstone round your neck as a wife.  Marriage is a greater mistake
than ever now; the women dress more and manage worse.  I met your
cousin Jack the other day, and his wife with seventy pounds on her
back; and next door to paupers.  No; whilst you are a bachelor,
like me, you are my favorite, and down in my will for a lump.  Once
marry, and you join the noble army of foot-pads, leeches, vultures,
paupers, gone coons, and babblers about brats--and I disown you."

There was no hope from old Crusty.  Christopher left him, snubbed
and heart-sick.  At last he met a sensible man, who made him see
there was no short cut in that profession.  He must be content to
play the up-hill game; must settle in some good neighborhood;
marry, if possible, since husbands and fathers of families prefer
married physicians; and so be poor at thirty, comfortable at forty,
and rich at fifty--perhaps.

Then Christopher came down to his lodgings at Gravesend, and was
very unhappy; and after some days of misery, he wrote a letter to
Rosa in a moment of impatience, despondency, and passion.

Rosa Lusignan got worse and worse.  The slight but frequent
hemorrhage was a drain upon her system, and weakened her visibly.
She began to lose her rich complexion, and sometimes looked almost
sallow; and a slight circle showed itself under her eyes.  These
symptoms were unfavorable; nevertheless, Dr. Snell and Mr. Wyman
accepted them cheerfully, as fresh indications that nothing was
affected but the liver; they multiplied and varied their
prescriptions; the malady ignored those prescriptions, and went
steadily on.  Mr. Lusignan was terrified but helpless.  Rosa
resigned and reticent.

But it was not in human nature that a girl of this age could always
and at all hours be mistress of herself.  One evening in particular
she stood before the glass in the drawing-room, and looked at
herself a long time with horror.  "Is that Rosa Lusignan?" said
she, aloud; "it is her ghost."

A deep groan startled her.  She turned; it was her father.  She
thought he was fast asleep; and so indeed he had been; but he was
just awaking, and heard his daughter utter her real mind.  It was a
thunder-clap.  "Oh, my child! what shall I do?" he cried.

Then Rosa was taken by surprise in her turn.  She spoke out.  "Send
for a great physician, papa.  Don't let us deceive ourselves; it is
our only chance."

"I will ask Mr. Wyman to get a physician down from London."

"No, no; that is no use; they will put their heads together, and he
will say whatever Mr. Wyman tells him.  La! papa, a clever man like
you, not to see what a cheat that consultation was.  Why, from what
you told me, one can see it was managed so that Dr. Snell could not
possibly have an opinion of his own.  No; no more echoes of Mr.
Chatterbox.  If you really want to cure me, send for Christopher
Staines."

"Dr. Staines! he is very young."

"But he is very clever, and he is not an echo.  He won't care how
many doctors he contradicts when I am in danger.  Papa, it is your
child's one chance."

"I'll try it," said the old man, eagerly.  "How confident you look!
your color has come back.  It is an inspiration.  Where is he?"

"I think by this time he must be at his lodgings in Gravesend.
Send to him to-morrow morning."

"Not I!  I'll go to him to-night.  It is only a mile, and a fine
clear night."

"My own, good, kind papa!  Ah! well, come what may, I have lived
long enough to be loved.  Yes, dear papa, save me.  I am very young
to die; and he loves me so dearly."

The old man bustled away to put on something warmer for his night
walk, and Rosa leaned back, and the tears welled out of her eyes,
now he was gone.

Before she had recovered her composure, a letter was brought her,
and this was the letter from Christopher Staines, alluded to
already.

She took it from the servant with averted head, not wishing it to
be seen she had been crying, and she started at the handwriting; it
seemed such a coincidence that it should come just as she was
sending for him.


MY OWN BELOVED ROSA,--I now write to tell you, with a heavy heart,
that all is vain.  I cannot make, nor purchase, a connection,
except as others do, by time and patience.  Being a bachelor is
quite against a young physician.  If I had a wife, and such a wife
as you, I should be sure to get on; you would increase my
connection very soon.  What, then, lies before us?  I see but two
things--to wait till we are old, and our pockets are filled, but
our hearts chilled or soured; or else to marry at once, and climb
the hill together.  If you love me as I love you, you will be
saving till the battle is over; and I feel I could find energy and
fortitude for both.  Your father, who thinks so much of wealth, can
surely settle something on YOU; and I am not too poor to furnish a
house and start fair.  I am not quite obscure--my lectures have
given me a name--and to you, my own love, I hope I may say that I
know more than many of my elders, thanks to good schools, good
method, a genuine love of my noble profession, and a tendency to
study from my childhood.  Will you not risk something on my
ability?  If not, God help me, for I shall lose you; and what is
life, or fame, or wealth, or any mortal thing to me, without you?
I cannot accept your father's decision; YOU must decide my fate.

You see I have kept away from you until I can do so no more.  All
this time the world to me has seemed to want the sun, and my heart
pines and sickens for one sight of you.

Darling Rosa, pray let me look at your face once more.

When this reaches you I shall be at your gate.  Let me see you,
though but for a moment, and let me hear my fate from no lips but
yours.--My own love, your heart-broken lover,

CHRISTOPHER STAINES.


This letter stunned her at first.  Her mind of late had been turned
away from love to such stern realities.  Now she began to be sorry
she had not told him.  "Poor thing!" she said to herself, "he
little knows that now all is changed.  Papa, I sometimes think,
would deny me nothing now; it is I who would not marry him--to be
buried by him in a month or two.  Poor Christopher!"

The next moment she started up in dismay.  Why, her father would
miss him.  No; perhaps catch him waiting for her.  What would he
think?  What would Christopher think?--that she had shown her papa
his letter.

She rang the bell hard.  The footman came.

"Send Harriet to me this instant.  Oh, and ask papa to come to me."

Then she sat down and dashed off a line to Christopher.  This was
for Harriet to take out to him.  Anything better than for
Christopher to be caught doing what was wrong.

The footman came back first.  "If you please, miss, master has gone
out."

"Run after him--the road to Gravesend."

"Yes, miss."

"No.  It is no use.  Never mind."

"Yes, miss."

Then Harriet came in.  "Did you want me, miss?"

"Yes.  No--never mind now."

She was afraid to do anything for fear of making matters worse.
She went to the window, and stood looking anxiously out, with her
hands working.  Presently she uttered a little scream and shrank
away to the sofa.  She sank down on it, half sitting, half lying,
hid her face in her hands, and waited.


Staines, with a lover's impatience, had been more than an hour at
the gate, or walking up and down close by it, his heart now burning
with hope, now freezing with fear, that she would decline a meeting
on these terms.

At last the postman came, and then he saw he was too soon; but now
in a few minutes Rosa would have his letter, and then he should
soon know whether she would come or not.  He looked up at the
drawing-room windows.  They were full of light.  She was there in
all probability.  Yet she did not come to them.  But why should
she, if she was coming out?

He walked up and down the road.  She did not come.  His heart began
to sicken with doubt.  His head drooped; and perhaps it was owing
to this that he almost ran against a gentleman who was coming the
other way.  The moon shone bright on both faces.

"Dr. Staines!" said Mr. Lusignan surprised.  Christopher uttered an
ejaculation more eloquent than words.

They stared at each other.

"You were coming to call on us?"

"N--no," stammered Christopher.

Lusignan thought that odd; however, he said politely, "No matter,
it is fortunate.  Would you mind coming in?"

"No," faltered Christopher, and stared at him ruefully, puzzled
more and more, but beginning to think, after all, it might be a
casual meeting.

They entered the gate, and in one moment he saw Rosa at the window,
and she saw him.

Then he altered his opinion again.  Rosa had sent her father out to
him.  But how was this?  The old man did not seem angry.
Christopher's heart gave a leap inside him, and he began to glow
with the wildest hopes.  For, what could this mean but relenting?

Mr. Lusignan took him first into the study, and lighted two candles
himself.  He did not want the servants prying.

The lights showed Christopher a change in Mr. Lusignan.  He looked
ten years older.

"You are not well, sir," said Christopher gently.

"My health is well enough, but I am a broken-hearted man.  Dr.
Staines, forget all that passed here at your last visit.  All that
is over.  Thank you for loving my poor girl as you do; give me your
hand; God bless you.  Sir, I am sorry to say it is as a physician I
invite you now.  She is ill, sir, very, very ill."

"Ill! and not tell me!"

"She kept it from you, my poor friend, not to distress you; and she
tried to keep it from me, but how could she?  For two months she
has had some terrible complaint--it is destroying her.  She is the
ghost of herself.  Oh, my poor child! my child!"

The old man sobbed aloud.  The young man stood trembling, and ashy
pale.  Still, the habits of his profession, and the experience of
dangers overcome, together with a certain sense of power, kept him
up; but, above all, love and duty said, "Be firm."  He asked for an
outline of the symptoms.

They alarmed him greatly.

"Let us lose no more time," said he.  "I will see her at once."

"Do you object to my being present?"

"Of course not."

"Shall I tell you what Dr. Snell says it is, and Mr. Wyman?"

"By all means--after I have seen her."

This comforted Mr. Lusignan.  He was to get an independent
judgment, at all events.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Dr. Staines paused and
leaned against the baluster.  "Give me a moment," said he.  "The
patient must not know how my heart is beating, and she must see
nothing in my face but what I choose her to see.  Give me your hand
once more, sir; let us both control ourselves.  Now announce me."

Mr. Lusignan opened the door, and said, with forced cheerfulness,
"Dr. Staines, my dear, come to give you the benefit of his skill."

She lay on the sofa, just as we left her.  Only her bosom began to
heave.

Then Christopher Staines drew himself up, and the majesty of
knowledge and love together seemed to dilate his noble frame.  He
fixed his eye on that reclining, panting figure, and stepped
lightly but firmly across the room to know the worst, like a lion
walking up to levelled lances.


CHAPTER III.


The young physician walked steadily up to his patient without
taking his eye off her, and drew a chair to her side.

Then she took down one hand--the left--and gave it him, averting
her face tenderly, and still covering it with her right; "For,"
said she to herself, "I am such a fright now."  This opportune
reflection, and her heaving bosom, proved that she at least felt
herself something more than his patient.  Her pretty consciousness
made his task more difficult; nevertheless, he only allowed himself
to press her hand tenderly with both his palms one moment, and then
he entered on his functions bravely.  "I am here as your
physician."

"Very well," said she softly.

He gently detained the hand, and put his finger lightly to her
pulse; it was palpitating, and a fallacious test.  Oh, how that
beating pulse, by love's electric current, set his own heart
throbbing in a moment!

He put her hand gently, reluctantly down, and said, "Oblige me by
turning this way."  She turned, and he winced internally at the
change in her; but his face betrayed nothing.  He looked at her
full; and, after a pause, put her some questions: one was as to the
color of the hemorrhage.  She said it was bright red.

"Not a tinge of purple?"

"No," said she hopefully, mistaking him.

He suppressed a sigh.

Then he listened at her shoulder-blade and at her chest, and made
her draw her breath while he was listening.  The acts were simple,
and usual in medicine, but there was a deep, patient, silent
intensity about his way of doing them.

Mr. Lusignan crept nearer, and stood with both hands on a table,
and his old head bowed, awaiting yet dreading the verdict.

Up to this time, Dr. Staines, instead of tapping and squeezing, and
pulling the patient about, had never touched her with his hand, and
only grazed her with his ear; but now he said "Allow me," and put
both hands to her waist, more lightly and reverently than I can
describe; "Now draw a deep breath, if you please."

"There!"

"If you could draw a deeper still," said he, insinuatingly.

"There, then!" said she, a little pettishly.

Dr. Staines's eye kindled.

"Hum!" said he.  Then, after a considerable pause, "Are you better
or worse after each hemorrhage?"

"La!" said Rosa; "they never asked me that.  Why, better."

"No faintness?"

"Not a bit."

"Rather a sense of relief, perhaps?"

"Yes; I feel lighter and better."

The examination was concluded.

Dr. Staines looked at Rosa, and then at her father.  The agony in
that aged face, and the love that agony implied, won him, and it
was to the parent he turned to give his verdict.

"The hemorrhage is from the lungs"--

Lusignan interrupted him: "From the lungs!" cried he, in dismay.

"Yes; a slight congestion of the lungs."

"But not incurable!  Oh, not incurable, doctor!"

"Heaven forbid!  It is curable--easily--by removing the cause."

"And what is the cause?"

"The cause?"--he hesitated, and looked rather uneasy.--"Well, the
cause, sir, is--tight stays."

The tranquillity of the meeting was instantly disturbed.  "Tight
stays!  Me!" cried Rosa.  "Why, I am the loosest girl in England.
Look, papa!"  And, without any apparent effort, she drew herself
in, and poked her little fist between her sash and her gown.
"There!"

Dr. Staines smiled sadly and a little sarcastically: he was
evidently shy of encountering the lady in this argument; but he was
more at his ease with her father; so he turned towards him and
lectured him freely.

"That is wonderful, sir; and the first four or five female patients
that favored me with it, made me disbelieve my other senses; but
Miss Lusignan is now about the thirtieth who has shown me that
marvellous feat, with a calm countenance that belies the herculean
effort.  Nature has her every-day miracles: a boa-constrictor,
diameter seventeen inches, can swallow a buffalo; a woman, with her
stays bisecting her almost, and lacerating her skin, can yet for
one moment make herself seem slack, to deceive a juvenile
physician.  The snake is the miracle of expansion; the woman is the
prodigy of contraction."

"Highly grateful for the comparison!" cried Rosa.  "Women and
snakes!"

Dr. Staines blushed and looked uncomfortable.  "I did not mean to
be offensive; it certainly was a very clumsy comparison."

"What does that matter?" said Mr. Lusignan, impatiently.  "Be
quiet, Rosa, and let Dr. Staines and me talk sense."

"Oh, then I am nobody in the business!" said this wise young lady.

"You are everybody," said Staines, soothingly.  "But," suggested
he, obsequiously, "if you don't mind, I would rather explain my
views to your father--on this one subject."

"And a pretty subject it is!"

Dr. Staines then invited Mr. Lusignan to his lodgings, and promised
to explain the matter anatomically.  "Meantime," said he, "would
you be good enough to put your hands to my waist, as I did to the
patient's."

Mr. Lusignan complied; and the patient began to titter directly, to
put them out of countenance.

"Please observe what takes place when I draw a full breath.

"Now apply the same test to the patient.  Breathe your best,
please, Miss Lusignan."

The patient put on a face full of saucy mutiny.

"To oblige us both."

"Oh, how tiresome!"

"I am aware it is rather laborious," said Staines, a little dryly;
"but to oblige your father!"

"Oh, anything to oblige papa," said she, spitefully.  "There!  And
I do hope it will be the last--la! no; I don't hope that, neither."

Dr. Staines politely ignored her little attempts to interrupt the
argument.  "You found, sir, that the muscles of my waist, and my
intercostal ribs themselves, rose and fell with each inhalation and
exhalation of air by the lungs."

"I did; but my daughter's waist was like dead wood, and so were her
lower ribs."

At this volunteer statement, Rosa colored to her temples.  "Thanks,
papa!  Pack me off to London, and sell me for a big doll!"

"In other words," said the lecturer, mild and pertinacious, "with
us the lungs have room to blow, and the whole bony frame expands
elastic with them, like the woodwork of a blacksmith's bellows; but
with this patient, and many of her sex, that noble and divinely
framed bellows is crippled and confined by a powerful machine of
human construction; so it works lamely and feebly: consequently too
little air, and of course too little oxygen, passes through that
spongy organ whose very life is air.  Now mark the special result
in this case: being otherwise healthy and vigorous, our patient's
system sends into the lungs more blood than that one crippled organ
can deal with; a small quantity becomes extravasated at odd times;
it accumulates, and would become dangerous; then Nature,
strengthened by sleep, and by some hours' relief from the
diabolical engine, makes an effort and flings it off: that is why
the hemorrhage comes in the morning, and why she is the better for
it, feeling neither faint nor sick, but relieved of a weight.
This, sir, is the rationale of the complaint; and it is to you I
must look for the cure.  To judge from my other female patients,
and from the few words Miss Lusignan has let fall, I fear we must
not count on any very hearty co-operation from her: but you are her
father, and have great authority; I conjure you to use it to the
full, as you once used it--to my sorrow--in this very room.  I am
forgetting my character.  I was asked here only as her physician.
Good-evening."

He gave a little gulp, and hurried away, with an abruptness that
touched the father and offended the sapient daughter.

However, Mr. Lusignan followed him, and stopped him before he left
the house, and thanked him warmly; and to his surprise, begged him
to call again in a day or two.

"Well, Rosa, what do you say?"

"I say that I am very unfortunate in my doctors.  Mr. Wyman is a
chatterbox and knows nothing.  Dr. Snell is Mr. Wyman's echo.
Christopher is a genius, and they are always full of crotchets.  A
pretty doctor!  Gone away, and not prescribed for me!"

Mr. Lusignan admitted it was odd.  "But, after all," said he, "if
medicine does you no good?"

"Ah! but any medicine HE had prescribed would have done me good,
and that makes it all the unkinder."

"If you think so highly of his skill, why not take his advice?  It
can do no harm."

"No harm?  Why, if I was to leave them off I should catch a
dreadful cold; and that would be sure to settle on my chest, and
carry me off, in my present delicate state.  Besides, it is so
unfeminine not to wear them."

This staggered Mr. Lusignan, and he was afraid to press the point;
but what Staines had said fermented in his mind.

Dr. Snell and Mr. Wyman continued their visits and their
prescriptions.

The patient got a little worse.

Mr. Lusignan hoped Christopher would call again, but he did not.

When Dr. Staines had satisfied himself that the disorder was easily
curable, then wounded pride found an entrance even into his loving
heart.  That two strangers should have been consulted before him!
He was only sent for because they could not cure her.

As he seemed in no hurry to repeat his visit, Mr. Lusignan called
on him, and said, politely, he had hoped to receive another call
ere this.  "Personally," said he, "I was much struck with your
observations; but my daughter is afraid she will catch cold if she
leaves off her corset, and that, you know, might be very serious."

Dr. Staines groaned, and, when he had groaned, he lectured.
"Female patients are wonderfully monotonous in this matter; they
have a programme of evasions; and whether the patient is a lady or
a housemaid, she seldom varies from that programme.  You find her
breathing life's air with half a bellows, and you tell her so.
'Oh, no,' says she; and does the gigantic feat of contraction we
witnessed that evening at your house.  But, on inquiry, you learn
there is a raw red line ploughed in her flesh by the cruel stays.
'What is that?' you ask, and flatter yourself you have pinned her.
Not a bit.  'That was the last pair.  I changed them, because they
hurt me.'  Driven out of that by proofs of recent laceration, they
say, 'If I leave them off I should catch my death of cold,' which
is equivalent to saying there is no flannel in the shops, no common
sense nor needles at home."

He then laid before him some large French plates, showing the
organs of the human trunk, and bade him observe in how small a
space, and with what skill, the Creator has packed so many large
yet delicate organs, so that they should be free and secure from
friction, though so close to each other.  He showed him the liver,
an organ weighing four pounds, and of large circumference; the
lungs, a very large organ, suspended in the chest and impatient of
pressure; the heart, the stomach, the spleen, all of them too
closely and artfully packed to bear any further compression.

Having thus taken him by the eye, he took him by the mind.

"Is it a small thing for the creature to say to her Creator, 'I can
pack all this egg-china better than you can,' and thereupon to jam
all those vital organs close, by a powerful, a very powerful and
ingenious machine?  Is it a small thing for that sex, which, for
good reasons, the Omniscient has made larger in the waist than the
male, to say to her Creator, 'You don't know your business; women
ought to be smaller in the waist than men, and shall be throughout
the civilized world'?"

In short, he delivered so many true and pointed things on this
trite subject, that the old gentleman was convinced, and begged him
to come over that very evening and convince Rosa.

Dr. Staines shook his head dolefully, and all his fire died out of
him at having to face the fair.  "Reason will be wasted.  Authority
is the only weapon.  My profession and my reading have both taught
me that the whole character of her sex undergoes a change the
moment a man interferes with their dress.  From Chaucer's day to
our own, neither public satire nor private remonstrance has ever
shaken any of their monstrous fashions.  Easy, obliging, pliable,
and weaker of will than men in other things, do but touch their
dress, however objectionable, and rock is not harder, iron is not
more stubborn, than these soft and yielding creatures.  It is no
earthly use my coming--I'll come."

He came that very evening, and saw directly she was worse.  "Of
course," said he, sadly, "you have not taken my advice."

Rosa replied with a toss and an evasion, "I was not worth a
prescription!"

"A physician can prescribe without sending his patient to the
druggist; and when he does, then it is his words are gold."

Rosa shook her head with an air of lofty incredulity.

He looked ruefully at Mr. Lusignan and was silent.  Rosa smiled
sarcastically; she thought he was at his wit's end.

Not quite: he was cudgelling his brains in search of some horribly
unscientific argument, that might prevail; for he felt science
would fall dead upon so fair an antagonist.  At last his eye
kindled; he had hit on an argument unscientific enough for anybody,
he thought.  Said he, ingratiatingly, "You believe the Old
Testament?"

"Of course I do, every syllable."

"And the lessons it teaches?"

"Certainly!"

"Then let me tell you a story from that book.  A Syrian general had
a terrible disease.  He consulted Elisha by deputy.  Elisha said,
'Bathe seven times in a certain river, Jordan, and you will get
well.'  The general did not like this at all; he wanted a
prescription; wanted to go to the druggist; didn't believe in
hydropathy to begin, and, in any case, turned up his nose at
Jordan.  What! bathe in an Israelitish brook, when his own country
boasted noble rivers, with a reputation for sanctity into the
bargain?  In short, he preferred his leprosy to such irregular
medicine.  But it happened, by some immense fortuity, that one of
his servants, though an Oriental, was a friend, instead of a
flatterer; and this sensible fellow said, 'If the prophet told you
to do some great and difficult thing, to get rid of this fearful
malady, would not you do it, however distasteful? and can you
hesitate when he merely says, Wash in the Jordan, and be healed?'
The general listened to good sense, and cured himself.  Your case
is parallel.  You would take quantities of foul medicine; you would
submit to some painful operation, if life and health depended on
it; then why not do a small thing for a great result?  You have
only to take off an unnatural machine which cripples your growing
frame, and was unknown to every one of the women whose forms in
Parian marble the world admires.  Off with that monstrosity, and
your cure is as certain as the Syrian general's; though science,
and not inspiration, dictates the easy remedy."

Rosa had listened impatiently, and now replied with some warmth,
"This is shockingly profane.  The idea of comparing yourself to
Elisha, and me to a horrid leper!  Much obliged!  Not that I know
what a leper is."

"Come, come! that is not fair," said Mr. Lusignan.  "He only
compared the situation, not the people."

"But, papa, the Bible is not to be dragged into the common affairs
of life."

"Then what on earth is the use of it?"

"Oh, papa!  Well, it is not Sunday, but I have had a sermon.  This
is the clergyman, and you are the commentator--he! he!  And so now
let us go back from divinity to medicine.  I repeat" (this was the
first time she had said it) "that my other doctors give me real
prescriptions, written in hieroglyphics.  You can't look at them
without feeling there MUST be something in them."

An angry spot rose on Christopher's cheek, but he only said, "And
are your other doctors satisfied with the progress your disorder is
making under their superintendence?"

"Perfectly!  Papa, tell him what they say, and I'll find him their
prescriptions."  She went to a drawer, and rummaged, affecting not
to listen.

Lusignan complied.  "First of all, sir, I must tell you they are
confident it is not the lungs, but the liver."

"The what!" shouted Christopher.

"Ah!" screamed Rosa.  "Oh, don't!--bawling!"

"And don't you screech," said her father, with a look of misery and
apprehension impartially distributed on the resounding pair.

"You must have misunderstood them," murmured Staines, in a voice
that was now barely audible a yard off.  "The hemorrhage of a
bright red color, and expelled without effort or nausea?"

"From the liver--they have assured me again and again," said
Lusignan.

Christopher's face still wore a look of blank amazement, till Rosa
herself confirmed it positively.

Then he cast a look of agony upon her, and started up in a passion,
forgetting once more that his host abhorred the sonorous.  "Oh,
shame! shame!" he cried, "that the noble profession of medicine
should be disgraced by ignorance such as this."  Then he said,
sternly, "Sir, do not mistake my motives; but I decline to have
anything further to do with this case, until those two gentlemen
have been relieved of it; and, as this is very harsh, and on my
part unprecedented, I will give you one reason out of many I COULD
give you.  Sir, there is no road from the liver to the throat by
which blood can travel in this way, defying the laws of gravity;
and they knew, from the patient, that no strong expellent force has
ever been in operation.  Their diagnosis, therefore, implies
agnosis, or ignorance too great to be forgiven.  I will not share
my patient with two gentlemen who know so little of medicine, and
know nothing of anatomy, which is the A B C of medicine.  Can I see
their prescriptions?"

These were handed to him.  "Good heavens!" said he, "have you taken
all these?"

"Most of them."

"Why, then you have drunk about two gallons of unwholesome liquids,
and eaten a pound or two of unwholesome solids.  These medicines
have co-operated with the malady.  The disorder lies, not in the
hemorrhage, but in the precedent extravasation that is a drain on
the system; and how is the loss to be supplied?  Why, by taking a
little more nourishment than before; there is no other way; and
probably Nature, left to herself, might have increased your
appetite to meet the occasion.  But those two worthies have struck
that weapon out of Nature's hand; they have peppered away at the
poor ill-used stomach with drugs and draughts, not very deleterious
I grant you, but all more or less indigestible, and all tending,
not to whet the appetite, but to clog the stomach, or turn the
stomach, or pester the stomach, and so impair the appetite, and so
co-operate, indirectly, with the malady."

"This is good sense," said Lusignan.  "I declare, I--I wish I knew
how to get rid of them."

"Oh, I'll do that, papa."

"No, no; it is not worth a rumpus."

"I'll do it too politely for that.  Christopher, you are very
clever--TERRIBLY clever.  Whenever I threw their medicines away, I
was always a little better that day.  I will sacrifice them to you.
It IS a sacrifice.  They are both so kind and chatty, and don't
grudge me hieroglyphics; now you do."

She sat down and wrote two sweet letters to Dr. Snell and Mr.
Wyman, thanking them for the great attention they had paid her; but
finding herself getting steadily worse, in spite of all they had
done for her, she proposed to discontinue her medicines for a time,
and try change of air.

"And suppose they call to see whether you are changing the air?"

"In that case, papa--'not at home.'"

The notes were addressed and despatched.

Then Dr. Staines brightened up, and said to Lusignan, "I am now
happy to tell you that I have overrated the malady.  The sad change
I see in Miss Lusignan is partly due to the great bulk of
unwholesome esculents she has been eating and drinking under the
head of medicines.  These discontinued, she might linger on for
years, existing, though not living--the tight-laced cannot be said
to live.  But if she would be healthy and happy, let her throw that
diabolical machine into the fire.  It is no use asking her to
loosen it; she can't.  Once there, the temptation is too strong.
Off with it, and, take my word, you will be one of the healthiest
and most vigorous young ladies in Europe."

Rosa looked rueful, and almost sullen.  She said she had parted
with her doctors for him, but she really could not go about without
stays.  "They are as loose as they can be.  See!"

"That part of the programme is disposed of," said Christopher.
"Please go on to No. 2.  How about the raw red line where the loose
machine has sawed you?"

"What red line?  No such thing!  Somebody or other has been peeping
in at my window.  I'll have the ivy cut down to-morrow."

"Simpleton!" said Mr. Lusignan, angrily.  "You have let the cat out
of the bag.  There is such a mark, then, and this extraordinary
young man has discerned it with the eye of science."

"He never discerned it at all," said Rosa, red as fire; "and, what
is more, he never will."

"I don't want to.  I should be very sorry to.  I hope it will be
gone in a week."

"I wish YOU were gone now--exposing me in this cruel way," said
Rosa, angry with herself for having said an idiotic thing, and
furious with him for having made her say it.

"Oh, Rosa!" said Christopher, in a voice of tenderest reproach.

But Mr. Lusignan interfered promptly.  "Rosa, no noise.  I will not
have you snapping at your best friend and mine.  If you are
excited, you had better retire to your own room and compose
yourself.  I hate a clamor."

Rosa made a wry face at this rebuke, and then began to cry quietly.

Every tear was like a drop of blood from Christopher's heart.
"Pray don't scold her, sir," said he, ready to snivel himself.
"She meant nothing unkind: it is only her pretty sprightly way; and
she did not really imagine a love so reverent as mine"--

"Don't YOU interfere between my father and me," said this
reasonable young lady, now in an ungovernable state of feminine
irritability.

"No, Rosa," said Christopher, humbly.  "Mr. Lusignan," said he, "I
hope you will tell her that, from the very first, I was unwilling
to enter on this subject with HER.  Neither she nor I can forget my
double character.  I have not said half as much to her as I ought,
being her physician; and yet you see I have said more than she can
bear from me, who, she knows, love her and revere her.  Then, once
for all, do pray let me put this delicate matter into your hands:
it is a case for parental authority."

"Unfatherly tyranny, that means," said Rosa.  "What business have
gentlemen interfering in such things?  It is unheard of.  I will
not submit to it, even from papa."

"Well, you need not scream at me," said Mr. Lusignan; and he
shrugged his shoulders to Staines.  "She is impracticable, you see.
If I do my duty, there will be a disturbance."

Now this roused the bile of Dr. Staines.  "What, sir!" said he,
"you could separate her and me by your authority, here in this very
room; and yet, when her life is at stake, you abdicate!  You could
part her from a man who loved her with every drop of his heart,--
and she said she loved him, or, at all events, preferred him to
others,--and you cannot part her from a miserable corset, although
you see in her poor wasted face that it is carrying her to the
churchyard.  In that case, sir, there is but one thing for you to
do,--withdraw your opposition and let me marry her.  As her lover I
am powerless; but invest me with a husband's authority, and you
will soon see the roses return to her cheek, and her elastic figure
expanding, and her eye beaming with health and the happiness that
comes of perfect health."

Mr. Lusignan made an answer neither of his hearers expected.  He
said, "I have a great mind to take you at your word.  I am too old
and fond of quiet to drive a Simpleton in single harness."

This contemptuous speech, and, above all, the word Simpleton, which
had been applied to her pretty freely by young ladies at school,
and always galled her terribly, inflicted so intolerable a wound on
Rosa's vanity, that she was ready to burst: on that, of course, her
stays contributed their mite of physical uneasiness.  Thus
irritated mind and body, she burned to strike in return; and as she
could not slap her father in the presence of another, she gave it
Christopher back-handed.

"You can turn me out of doors," said she, "if you are tired of your
daughter, but I am not such a SIMPLETON as to marry a tyrant.  No;
he has shown the cloven foot in time.  A husband's AUTHORITY,
indeed!"  Then she turned her hand, and gave it him direct.  "You
told me a different story when you were paying your court to me;
then you were to be my servant,--all hypocritical sweetness.  You
had better go and marry a Circassian slave.  They don't wear stays,
and they do wear trousers; so she will be unfeminine enough, even
for you.  No English lady would let her husband dictate to her
about such a thing.  I can have as many husbands as I like, without
falling into the clutches of a tyrant.  You are a rude, indelicate--
And so please understand it is all over between you and me."

Both her auditors stood aghast, for she uttered this conclusion
with a dignity of which the opening gave no promise, and the
occasion, weighed in masculine balances, was not worthy.

"You do not mean that.  You cannot mean it," said Dr. Staines,
aghast.

"I do mean it," said she, firmly; "and, if you are a gentleman, you
will not compel me to say it twice--three times, I mean."

At this dagger-stroke Christopher turned very pale, but he
maintained his dignity.  "I am a gentleman," said he, quietly, "and
a very unfortunate one.  Good-by, sir; thank you kindly.  Good-by,
Rosa; God bless you!  Oh, pray take a thought!  Remember, your life
and death are in your own hand now.  I am powerless."

And he left the house in sorrow, and just, but not pettish,
indignation.

When he was gone, father and daughter looked at each other, and
there was the silence that succeeds a storm.

Rosa, feeling the most uneasy, was the first to express her
satisfaction.  "There, HE is gone, and I am glad of it.  Now you
and I shall never quarrel again.  I was quite right.  Such
impertinence!  Such indelicacy!  A fine prospect for me if I had
married such a man!  However, he is gone, and so there's an end of
it.  The idea! telling a young lady, before her father, she is
tight-laced!  If you had not been there I could have forgiven him.
But I am not; it is a story.  Now," suddenly exalting her voice, "I
know you believe him."

"I say nothing," whispered papa, hoping to still her by example.
This ruse did not succeed.

"But you look volumes," cried she: "and I can't bear it.  I won't
bear it.  If you don't believe ME, ask my MAID."  And with this
felicitous speech, she rang the bell.

"You'll break the wire if you don't mind," suggested her father,
piteously.

"All the better!  Why should not wires be broken as well as my
heart?  Oh, here she is!  Now, Harriet, come here."

"Yes, miss."

"And tell the truth.  AM I tight-laced?"

Harriet looked in her face a moment to see what was required of
her, and then said, "That you are not, miss.  I never dressed a
young lady as wore 'em easier than you do."

"There, papa!  That will do, Harriet."

Harriet retired as far as the keyhole; she saw something was up.

"Now," said Rosa, "you see I was right; and, after all, it was a
match you did not approve.  Well, it is all over, and now you may
write to your favorite, Colonel Bright.  If he comes here, I'll box
his old ears.  I hate him.  I hate them all.  Forgive your wayward
girl.  I'll stay with you all my days.  I dare say that will not be
long, now I have quarrelled with my guardian angel; and all for
what?  Papa! papa! how CAN you sit there and not speak me one word
of comfort?  'SIMPLETON?'  Ah! that I am to throw away a love a
queen is scarcely worthy of; and all for what?  Really, if it
wasn't for the ingratitude and wickedness of the thing, it is too
laughable.  Ha! ha!--oh! oh! oh!--ha! ha! ha!"

And off she went into hysterics, and began to gulp and choke
frightfully.

Her father cried for help in dismay.  In ran Harriet, saw, and
screamed, but did not lose her head; this veracious person whipped
a pair of scissors off the table, and cut the young lady's stay-
laces directly.  Then there was a burst of imprisoned beauty; a
deep, deep sigh of relief came from a bosom that would have done
honor to Diana; and the scene soon concluded with fits of harmless
weeping, renewed at intervals.

When it had settled down to this, her father, to soothe her, said
he would write to Dr. Staines, and bring about a reconciliation, if
she liked.

"No," said she, "you shall kill me sooner.  I should die of shame."

She added, "Oh, pray, from this hour, never mention his name to me."

And then she had another cry.

Mr. Lusignan was a sensible man: he dropped the subject for the
present; but he made up his mind to one thing--that he would never
part with Dr. Staines as a physician.

Next day Rosa kept her own room until dinner-time, and was as
unhappy as she deserved to be.  She spent her time in sewing on
stiff flannel linings and crying.  She half hoped Christopher would
write to her, so that she might write back that she forgave him.
But not a line.

At half-past six her volatile mind took a turn, real or affected.
She would cry no more for an ungrateful fellow,--ungrateful for not
seeing through the stone walls how she had been employed all the
morning; and making it up.  So she bathed her red eyes, made a
great alteration in her dress, and came dancing into the room
humming an Italian ditty.

As they were sitting together in the dining-room after dinner, two
letters came by the same post to Mr. Lusignan from Mr. Wyman and
Dr. Snell.

Mr. Wyman's letter:--


DEAR SIR,--I am sorry to hear from Miss Lusignan that she intends
to discontinue medical advice.  The disorder was progressing
favorably, and nothing to be feared, under proper treatment.

Yours, etc.


Dr. Snell's letter:--


DEAR SIR,--Miss Lusignan has written to me somewhat impatiently and
seems disposed to dispense with my visits.  I do not, however,
think it right to withdraw without telling you candidly that this
is an unwise step.  Your daughter's health is in a very precarious
condition.

Yours, etc.


Rosa burst out laughing.  "I have nothing to fear, and I'm on the
brink of the grave.  That comes of writing without a consultation.
If they had written at one table, I should have been neither well
nor ill.  Poor Christopher!" and her sweet face began to work
piteously.

"There! there! drink a glass of wine."

She did, and a tear with it, that ran into the glass like
lightning.

Warned by this that grief sat very near the bright, hilarious
surface, Mr. Lusignan avoided all emotional subjects for the
present.  Next day, however, he told her she might dismiss her
lover, but no power should make him dismiss his pet physician,
unless her health improved.

"I will not give you that excuse for inflicting him on me again,"
said the young hypocrite.

She kept her word.  She got better and better, stronger, brighter,
gayer.

She took to walking every day, and increasing the distance, till
she could walk ten miles without fatigue.

Her favorite walk was to a certain cliff that commanded a noble
view of the sea.  To get to it she must pass through the town of
Gravesend; and we may be sure she did not pass so often through
that city without some idea of meeting the lover she had used so
ill, and eliciting an APOLOGY from him.  Sly puss!

When she had walked twenty times, or thereabouts, through the town,
and never seen him, she began to fear she had offended him past
hope.  Then she used to cry at the end of every walk.

But by and by bodily health, vanity, and temper combined to rouse
the defiant spirit.  Said she, "If he really loved me, he would not
take my word in such a hurry.  And besides, why does he not watch
me, and find out what I am doing, and where I walk?"

At last she really began to persuade herself that she was an ill-
used and slighted girl.  She was very angry at times, and
disconsolate at others; a mixed state in which hasty and impulsive
young ladies commit lifelong follies.

Mr. Lusignan observed the surface only: he saw his invalid daughter
getting better every day, till at last she became a picture of
health and bodily vigor.  Relieved of his fears, he troubled his
head but little about Christopher Staines.  Yet he esteemed him,
and had got to like him; but Rosa was a beauty, and could do better
than marry a struggling physician, however able.  He launched out
into a little gayety, resumed his quiet dinner-parties; and, after
some persuasion, took his now blooming daughter to a ball given by
the officers of Chatham.

She was the belle of the ball beyond dispute, and danced with
ethereal grace and athletic endurance.  She was madly fond of
waltzing, and here she encountered what she was pleased to call a
divine dancer.  It was a Mr. Reginald Falcon, a gentleman who had
retired to the seaside to recruit his health and finances sore
tried by London and Paris.  Falcon had run through his fortune, but
had acquired, in the process, certain talents which, as they cost
the acquirer dear, so they sometimes repay him, especially if he is
not overburdened with principle, and adopts the notion that, the
world having plucked him, he has a right to pluck the world.  He
could play billiards well, but never so well as when backing
himself for a heavy stake.  He could shoot pigeons well, and his
shooting improved under that which makes some marksmen miss--a
heavy bet against the gun.  He danced to perfection; and being a
well-bred, experienced, brazen, adroit fellow, who knew a little of
everything that was going, he had always plenty to say.  Above all,
he had made a particular study of the fair sex; had met with many
successes, many rebuffs; and, at last, by keen study of their
minds, and a habit he had acquired of watching their faces, and
shifting his helm accordingly, had learned the great art of
pleasing them.  They admired his face; to me, the short space
between his eyes and his hair, his aquiline nose, and thin straight
lips, suggested the bird of prey a little too much: but to fair
doves, born to be clutched, this similitude perhaps was not very
alarming, even if they observed it.

Rosa danced several times with him, and told him he danced like an
angel.  He informed her that was because, for once, he was dancing
with an angel.  She laughed and blushed.  He flattered deliciously,
and it cost him little; for he fell in love with her that night,
deeper than he had ever been in his whole life of intrigue.  He
asked leave to call on her: she looked a little shy at that, and
did not respond.  He instantly withdrew his proposal, with an
apology and a sigh that raised her pity.  However, she was not a
forward girl, even when excited by dancing and charmed with her
partner; so she left him to find his own way out of that
difficulty.

He was not long about it.  At the end of the next waltz he asked
her if he might venture to solicit an introduction to her father.

"Oh, certainly," said she.  "What a selfish girl I am! this is
terribly dull for him."

The introduction being made, and Rosa being engaged for the next
three dances, Mr. Falcon sat by Mr. Lusignan and entertained him.
For this little piece of apparent self-denial he was paid in
various coin: Lusignan found out he was the son of an old
acquaintance, and so the door of Kent Villa opened to him;
meantime, Rosa Lusignan never passed him, even in the arms of a
cavalry officer, without bestowing a glance of approval and
gratitude on him.  "What a good-hearted young man!" thought she.
"How kind of him to amuse papa; and now I can stay so much longer."

Falcon followed up the dance by a call, and was infinitely
agreeable: followed up the call by another, and admired Rosa with
so little disguise that Mr. Lusignan said to her, "I think you have
made a conquest.  His father had considerable estates in Essex.  I
presume he inherits them."

"Oh, never mind his estates," said Rosa, "he dances like an angel,
and gossips charmingly, and IS so nice."

Christopher Staines pined for this girl in silence: his fine frame
got thinner, his pale cheek paler, as she got rosier and rosier;
and how?  Why, by following the very advice she had snubbed him for
giving her.  At last, he heard she had been the belle of a ball,
and that she had been seen walking miles from home, and blooming as
a Hebe.  Then his deep anxiety ceased, his pride stung him
furiously; he began to think of his own value, and to struggle with
all his might against his deep love.  Sometimes he would even
inveigh against her, and call her a fickle, ungrateful girl,
capable of no strong passion but vanity.  Many a hard term he
applied to her in his sorrowful solitude; but not a word when he
had a hearer.  He found it hard to rest: he kept dashing up to
London and back.  He plunged furiously into study.  He groaned and
sighed, and fought the hard and bitter fight that is too often the
lot of the deep that love the shallow.  Strong, but single-hearted,
no other lady could comfort him.  He turned from female company,
and shunned all for the fault of one.

The inward contest wore him.  He began to look very thin and wan;
and all for a Simpleton!

Mr. Falcon prolonged his stay in the neighborhood, and drove a
handsome dogcart over twice a week to visit Mr. Lusignan.

He used to call on that gentleman at four o'clock, for at that hour
Mr. Lusignan was always out, and his daughter always at home.

She was at home at that hour because she took her long walks in the
morning.  While her new admirer was in bed, or dressing, or
breakfasting, she was springing along the road with all the
elasticity of youth, and health, and native vigor, braced by daily
exercise.

Twenty-one of these walks did she take, with no other result than
health and appetite; but the twenty-second was more fertile--
extremely fertile.  Starting later than usual, she passed through
Gravesend while Reginald Falcon was smoking at his front window.
He saw her, and instantly doffed his dressing-gown and donned his
coat to follow her.  He was madly in love with her, and being a man
who had learned to shoot pigeons and opportunities flying, he
instantly resolved to join her in her walk, get her clear of the
town, by the sea-beach, where beauty melts, and propose to her.
Yes, marriage had not been hitherto his habit, but this girl was
peerless: he was pledged by honor and gratitude to Phoebe Dale; but
hang all that now.  "No man should marry one woman when he loves
another; it is dishonorable."  He got into the street and followed
her as fast as he could without running.

It was not so easy to catch her.  Ladies are not built for running;
but a fine, tall, symmetrical girl who has practised walking fast
can cover the ground wonderfully in walking--if she chooses.  It
was a sight to see how Rosa Lusignan squared her shoulders and
stepped out from the waist like a Canadian girl skating, while her
elastic foot slapped the pavement as she spanked along.

She had nearly cleared the town before Falcon came up with her.

He was hardly ten yards from her when an unexpected incident
occurred.  She whisked round the corner of Bird Street, and ran
plump against Christopher Staines; in fact, she darted into his
arms, and her face almost touched the breast she had wounded so
deeply.


CHAPTER IV.


Rosa cried "Oh!" and put up her hands to her face in lovely
confusion, coloring like a peony.

"I beg your pardon," said Christopher, stiffly, but in a voice that
trembled.

"No," said Rosa, "it was I ran against you.  I walk so fast now.
Hope I did not hurt you."

"Hurt me?"

"Well, then, frighten you?"

No answer.

"Oh, please don't quarrel with me in the STREET," said Rosa,
cunningly implying that he was the quarrelsome one.  "I am going on
the beach.  Good-by!"  This adieu she uttered softly, and in a
hesitating tone that belied it.  She started off, however, but much
more slowly than she was going before; and, as she went, she turned
her head with infinite grace, and kept looking askant down at the
pavement two yards behind her: moreover she went close to the wall,
and left room at her side for another to walk.

Christopher hesitated a moment; but the mute invitation, so arch
yet timid, so pretty, tender, sly, and womanly, was too much for
him, as it has generally proved for males, and the philosopher's
foot was soon in the very place to which the Simpleton with the
mere tail of her eye directed it.

They walked along, side by side, in silence, Staines agitated,
gloomy, confused, Rosa radiant and glowing, yet not knowing what to
say for herself, and wanting Christopher to begin.  So they walked
along without a word.

Falcon followed them at some distance to see whether it was an
admirer or only an acquaintance.  A lover he never dreamed of; she
had shown such evident pleasure in his company, and had received
his visits alone so constantly.

However, when the pair had got to the beach, and were walking
slower and slower, he felt a pang of rage and jealousy, turned on
his heel with an audible curse, and found Phoebe Dale a few yards
behind him with a white face and a peculiar look.  He knew what the
look meant; he had brought it to that faithful face before to-day.


"You are better, Miss Lusignan."

"Better, Dr. Staines?  I am health itself thanks to--hem!"

"Our estrangement has agreed with you?"  This very bitterly.

"You know very well it is not that.  Oh, please don't make me cry
in the streets."

This humble petition, or rather meek threat, led to another long
silence.  It was continued till they had nearly reached the shore.
But, meantime, Rosa's furtive eyes scanned Christopher's face, and
her conscience smote her at the signs of suffering.  She felt a
desire to beg his pardon with deep humility; but she suppressed
that weakness.  She hung her head with a pretty, sheepish air, and
asked him if he could not think of something agreeable to say to
one after deserting one so long.

"I am afraid not," said Christopher, bluntly.  "I have an awkward
habit of speaking the truth; and some people can't bear that, not
even when it is spoken for their good."

"That depends on temper, and nerves, and things," said Rosa,
deprecatingly; then softly, "I could bear anything from you now."

"Indeed!" said Christopher, grimly.  "Well, then, I hear you had no
sooner got rid of your old lover, for loving you too well and
telling you the truth, than you took up another,--some flimsy man
of fashion, who will tell you any lie you like."

"It is a story, a wicked story," cried Rosa, thoroughly alarmed.
"Me, a lover!  He dances like an angel; I can't help that."

"Are his visits at your house like angels'--few and far between?"
And the true lover's brow lowered black upon her for the first
time.

Rosa changed color, and her eyes fell a moment.  "Ask papa," she
said.  "His father was an old friend of papa's."

"Rosa, you are prevaricating.  Young men do not call on old
gentlemen when there is an attractive young lady in the house."

The argument was getting too close; so Rosa operated a diversion.
"So," said she, with a sudden air of lofty disdain, swiftly and
adroitly assumed, "you have had me watched?"

"Not I; I only hear what people say."

"Listen to gossip and not have me watched!  That shows how little
you really cared for me.  Well, if you had, you would have made a
little discovery, that is all."

"Should I?" said Christopher, puzzled.  "What?"

"I shall not tell you.  Think what you please.  Yes, sir, you would
have found out that I take long walks every day, all alone; and
what is more, that I walk through Gravesend, hoping--like a goose--
that somebody really loved me, and would meet me, and beg my
pardon; and if he had, I should have told him it was only my
tongue, and my nerves, and things; my heart was his, and my
gratitude.  And after all, what do words signify, when I am a good,
obedient girl at bottom?  So that is what you have lost by not
condescending to look after me.  Fine love!--Christopher, beg my
pardon."

"May I inquire for what?"

"Why, for not understanding me; for not knowing that I should be
sorry the moment you were gone.  I took them off the very next day,
to please you."

"Took off whom?--Oh, I understand.  You did?  Then you ARE a good
girl."

"Didn't I tell you I was?  A good, obedient girl, and anything but
a flirt."

"I don't say that."

"But I do.  Don't interrupt.  It is to your good advice I owe my
health; and to love anybody but you, when I owe you my love and my
life, I must be a heartless, ungrateful, worthless--  Oh,
Christopher, forgive me!  No, no; I mean, beg my pardon."

"I'll do both," said Christopher, taking her in his arms.  "I beg
your pardon, and I forgive you."

Rosa leaned her head tenderly on his shoulder, and began to sigh.
"Oh, dear, dear! I am a wicked, foolish girl, not fit to walk
alone."

On this admission, Christopher spoke out, and urged her to put an
end to all these unhappy misunderstandings, and to his new torment,
jealousy, by marrying him.

"And so I would this very minute, if papa would consent.  But,"
said she, slyly, "you never can be so foolish to wish it.  What! a
wise man like you marry a simpleton!"

"Did I ever call you that?" asked Christopher, reproachfully.

"No, dear; but you are the only one who has not; and perhaps I
should lose even the one, if you were to marry me.  Oh, husbands
are not so polite as lovers!  I have observed that, simpleton or
not."

Christopher assured her that he took quite a different view of her
character; he believed her to be too profound for shallow people to
read all in a moment: he even intimated that he himself had
experienced no little difficulty in understanding her at odd times.
"And so," said he, "they turn round upon you, and instead of
saying, 'We are too shallow to fathom you,' they pretend you are a
simpleton."

This solution of the mystery had never occurred to Rosa, nor indeed
was it likely to occur to any creature less ingenious than a lover:
it pleased her hugely; her fine eyes sparkled, and she nestled
closer still to the strong arm that was to parry every ill, from
mortal disease to galling epithets.

She listened with a willing ear to all his reasons, his hopes, his
fears, and, when they reached her father's door, it was settled
that he should dine there that day, and urge his suit to her father
after dinner.  She would implore the old gentleman to listen to it
favorably.

The lovers parted, and Christopher went home like one who has
awakened from a hideous dream to daylight and happiness.

He had not gone far before he met a dashing dogcart, driven by an
exquisite.  He turned to look after it, and saw it drive up to Kent
Villa.

In a moment he divined his rival, and a sickness of heart came over
him.  But he recovered himself directly, and said, "If that is the
fellow, she will not receive him now."

She did receive him though: at all events, the dogcart stood at the
door, and its master remained inside.

Christopher stood, and counted the minutes: five, ten, fifteen,
twenty minutes, and still the dogcart stood there.

It was more than he could bear.  He turned savagely, and strode
back to Gravesend, resolving that all this torture should end that
night, one way or other.


Phoebe Dale was the daughter of a farmer in Essex, and one of the
happiest young women in England till she knew Reginald Falcon, Esq.

She was reared on wholesome food, in wholesome air, and used to
churn butter, make bread, cook a bit now and then, cut out and sew
all her own dresses, get up her own linen, make hay, ride anything
on four legs; and, for all that, was a great reader, and taught in
the Sunday school to oblige the vicar; wrote a neat hand, and was a
good arithmetician, kept all the house accounts and farm accounts.
She was a musician, too,--not profound, but very correct.  She
would take her turn at the harmonium in church, and, when she was
there, you never heard a wrong note in the bass, nor an
inappropriate flourish, nor bad time.  She could sing, too, but
never would, except her part in a psalm.  Her voice was a deep
contralto, and she chose to be ashamed of this heavenly organ,
because a pack of envious girls had giggled, and said it was like a
man's.

In short, her natural ability and the range and variety of her
useful accomplishments were considerable; not that she was a
prodigy; but she belonged to a small class of women in this island
who are not too high to use their arms, nor too low to cultivate
their minds; and, having a faculty and a habit deplorably rare
amongst her sex, viz., Attention, she had profited by her
miscellaneous advantages.

Her figure and face both told her breed at once: here was an old
English pastoral beauty; not the round-backed, narrow-chested
cottager, but the well-fed, erect rustic, with broad, full bust and
massive shoulder, and arm as hard as a rock with health and
constant use; a hand finely cut, though neither small nor very
white, and just a little hard inside, compared with Luxury's soft
palm; a face honest, fair, and rather large than small; not
beautiful, but exceedingly comely; a complexion not pink and white,
but that delicately blended brickdusty color, which tints the whole
cheek in fine gradation, outlasts other complexions twenty years,
and beautifies the true Northern, even in old age.  Gray, limpid,
honest, point-blank, searching eyes; hair true nut-brown, without a
shade of red or black; and a high, smooth forehead, full of sense.
Across it ran one deep wrinkle that did not belong to her youth.
That wrinkle was the brand of trouble, the line of agony.  It had
come of loving above her, yet below her, and of loving an egotist.

Three years before our tale commenced, a gentleman's horse ran away
with him, and threw him on a heap of stones by the roadside, not
very far from Farmer Dale's gate.  The farmer had him taken in.
The doctor said he must not be moved.  He was insensible; his cheek
like delicate wax; his fair hair like silk stained with blood.  He
became Phoebe's patient, and, in due course, her convalescent: his
pale, handsome face and fascinating manners gained one charm more
from weakness; his vices were in abeyance.

The womanly nurse's heart yearned over her child; for he was feeble
as a child; and, when he got well enough to amuse his weary hours
by making love to her, and telling her a pack of arrant lies, she
was a ready dupe.  He was to marry her as soon as ever his old
uncle died, and left him the means, etc., etc.  At last he got well
enough to leave her, and went away, her open admirer and secret
lover.  He borrowed twenty pounds of her the day he left.

He used to write her charming letters, and feed the flame; but one
day her father sent her up to London, on his own business, all of a
sudden, and she called on Mr. Falcon at his real address.  She
found he did not live there--only received letters.  However, half-
a-crown soon bought his real address, and thither Phoebe proceeded
with a troubled heart, for she suspected that her true lover was in
debt or trouble, and obliged to hide.  Well, he must be got out of
it, and hide at the farm meantime.

So the loving girl knocked at the door, asked for Mr. Falcon, and
was shown in to a lady rather showily dressed, who asked her
business.

Phoebe Dale stared at her, and then turned pale as ashes.  She was
paralyzed, and could not find her tongue.

"Why, what is the matter now?" said the other, sharply.

"Are you married to Reginald Falcon?"

"Of course I am.  Look at my wedding-ring."

"Then I am not wanted here," faltered Phoebe, ready to sink on the
floor.

"Certainly not, if you are one of the bygones," said the woman,
coarsely; and Phoebe Dale waited to hear no more, but found her
way, Heaven knows how, into the street, and there leaned, half-
fainting, on a rail, till a policeman came, and told her she had
been drinking, and suggested a cool cell as the best cure.

"Not drink; only a breaking heart," said she, in her low, mellow
voice that few could resist.

He got her a glass of water, drove away the boys that congregated
directly, and she left the street.  But she soon came back again,
and waited about for Reginald Falcon.

It was night when he appeared.  She seized him by the breast, and
taxed him with his villany.

What with her iron grasp, pale face, and flashing eyes, he lost his
cool impudence, and blurted out excuses.  It was an old and
unfortunate connection; he would give the world to dissolve it, if
he could do it like a gentleman.

Phoebe told him to please himself: he must part with one or the
other.

"Don't talk nonsense," said this man of brass; "I'll un-Falcon her
on the spot."

"Very well," said Phoebe.  "I am going home; and, if you are not
there by to-morrow at noon"--She said no more, but looked a great
deal.  Then she departed, and refused him her hand at parting.  "We
will see about that by and by," said she.

At noon my lord came down to the farm, and, unfortunately for
Phoebe, played the penitent so skilfully for about a month, that
she forgave him, and loved him all the more for having so nearly
parted with him.

Her peace was not to endure long.  He was detected in an intrigue
in the very village.

The insult struck so home that Phoebe herself, to her parents'
satisfaction, ordered him out of the house at once.

But, when he was gone, she had fits of weeping, and could settle to
nothing for a long time.

Months had elapsed, and she was getting a sort of dull tranquillity,
when, one evening, taking a walk she had often with him, and mourning
her solitude and wasted affection, he waylaid her, and clung to her
knees, and shed crocodile tears on her hands, and, after a long
resistance, violent at first, but fainter and fainter, got her in
his power again, and that so completely that she met him several
times by night, being ashamed to be seen with him in those parts
by day.

This ended in fresh promises of marriage, and in a constant
correspondence by letter.  This pest knew exactly how to talk to a
woman, and how to write to one.  His letters fed the unhappy flame;
and, mind you, he sometimes deceived himself, and thought he loved
her; but it was only himself he loved.  She was an invaluable
lover; a faithful, disinterested friend; hers was a vile bargain;
his, an excellent one, and he clung to it.

And so they went on.  She detected him in another infidelity, and
reproached him bitterly; but she had no longer the strength to
break with him.  Nevertheless, this time she had the sense to make
a struggle.  She implored him, on her very knees, to show her a
little mercy in return for all her love.  "For pity's sake, leave
me!" she cried.  "You are strong, and I am weak.  You can end it
forever, and pray do.  You don't want me; you don't value me: then,
leave me, once and for all, and end this hell you keep me in."

No; he could not, or he would not, leave her alone.  Look at a
bird's wings!--how like an angel's!  Yet so vile a thing as a bit
of birdlime subdues them utterly; and such was the fascinating
power of this mean man over this worthy woman.  She was a reader, a
thinker, a model of respectability, industry, and sense; a
businesswoman, keen and practical; could encounter sharp hands in
sharp trades; could buy or sell hogs, calves, or beasts with any
farmer or butcher in the country, yet no match for a cunning fool.
She had enshrined an idol in her heart, and that heart adored it,
and clung to it, though the superior head saw through it, dreaded
it, despised it.

No wonder three years of this had drawn a tell-tale wrinkle across
the polished brow.


Phoebe Dale had not received a letter for some days; that roused
her suspicion and stung her jealousy; she came up to London by fast
train, and down to Gravesend directly.

She had a thick veil that concealed her features; and with a little
inquiring and bribing, she soon found out that Mr. Falcon was there
with a showy dogcart.  "Ah!" thought Phoebe, "he has won a little
money at play or pigeon-shooting; so now he has no need of me."

She took the lodgings opposite him, but observed nothing till this
very morning, when she saw him throw off his dressing-gown all in a
hurry and fling on his coat.  She tied on her bonnet as rapidly,
and followed him, until she discovered the object of his pursuit.
It was a surprise to her, and a puzzle, to see another man step in,
as if to take her part.  But as Reginald still followed the
loitering pair, she followed Reginald, till he turned and found her
at his heels, white and lowering.

She confronted him in threatening silence for some time, during
which he prepared his defence.

"So it is a LADY this time," said she, in her low, rich voice,
sternly.

"Is it?"

"Yes, and I should say she is bespoke--that tall, fine-built
gentleman.  But I suppose you care no more for his feelings than
you do for mine."

"Phoebe," said the egotist, "I will not try to deceive you.  You
have often said you are my true friend."

"And I think I have proved it."

"That you have.  Well, then, be my true friend now.  I am in love--
really in love--this time.  You and I only torment each other; let
us part friends.  There are plenty of farmers in Essex that would
jump at you.  As for me, I'll tell you the truth; I have run
through every farthing; my estate mortgaged beyond its value--two
or three writs out against me--that is why I slipped down here.  My
only chance is to marry Money.  Her father knows I have land, and
he knows nothing about the mortgages; she is his only daughter.
Don't stand in my way, that is a good girl; be my friend, as you
always were.  Hang it all, Phoebe, can't you say a word to a fellow
that is driven into a corner, instead of glaring at me like that?
There! I know it is ungrateful; but what can a fellow do?  I must
live like a gentleman or else take a dose of prussic acid; you
don't want to drive me to that.  Why, you proposed to part, last
time, yourself."

She gave him one majestic, indescribable look, that made even his
callous heart quiver, and turned away.

Then the scamp admired her for despising him, and could not bear to
lose her.  He followed her, and put forth all those powers of
persuading and soothing, which had so often proved irresistible.
But this time it was in vain.  The insult was too savage, and his
egotism too brutal, for honeyed phrases to blind her.

After enduring it a long time with a silent shudder, she turned and
shook him fiercely off her like some poisonous reptile.

"Do you want me to kill you?  I'd liever kill myself for loving
such a thing as THOU.  Go thy ways, man, and let me go mine."  In
her passion she dropped her cultivation for once, and went back to
the THOU and THEE of her grandam.

He colored up and looked spiteful enough; but he soon recovered his
cynical egotism, and went off whistling an operatic passage.

She crept to her lodgings, and buried her face in her pillow, and
rocked herself to and fro for hours in the bitterest agony the
heart can feel, groaning over her great affection wasted, flung
into the dirt.

While she was thus, she heard a little commotion.  She came to the
window and saw Falcon, exquisitely dressed, drive off in his
dogcart, attended by the acclamations of eight boys.  She saw at a
glance he was gone courting; her knees gave way under her, and,
such is the power of the mind, this stalwart girl lay weak as water
on the sofa, and had not the power to go home, though just then she
had but one wish, one hope--to see her idol's face no more, nor
hear his wheedling tongue, that had ruined her peace.

The exquisite Mr. Falcon was received by Rosa Lusignan with a
certain tremor that flattered his hopes.  He told her, in charming
language, how he had admired her at first sight, then esteemed her,
then loved her.

She blushed and panted, and showed more than once a desire to
interrupt him, but was too polite.  She heard him out with rising
dismay, and he offered her his hand and heart.

But by this time she had made up her mind what to say.  "O Mr.
Falcon!" she cried, "how can you speak to me in this way?  Why, I
am engaged.  Didn't you know?"

"No; I am sure you are not, or you would never have given me the
encouragement you have."

"Oh, all engaged young ladies flirt--a little; and everybody here
knows I am engaged to Dr. Staines."

"Why, I never saw him here."

Rosa's tact was a quality that came and went; so she blushed, and
faltered out, "We had a little tiff, as lovers will."

"And you did me the honor to select me as cat's-paw to bring him on
again.  Was not that rather heartless?"

Rosa's fitful tact returned to her.

"Oh, sir, do not think so ill of me.  I am not heartless, I am only
unwise; and you are so superior to the people about you; I could
not help appreciating you, and I thought you knew I was engaged,
and so I was less on my guard.  I hope I shall not lose your
esteem, though I have no right to anything more.  Ah! I see by your
face I have behaved very ill: pray forgive me."

And with this she turned on the waters of the Nile, better known to
you, perhaps, as "crocodile tears."

Falcon was a gentleman on the surface, and knew he should only make
matters worse by quarrelling with her.  So he ground his teeth, and
said, "May your own heart never feel the pangs you have inflicted.
I shall love you and remember you till my dying day."

He bowed ceremoniously and left her.

"Ay," said he to himself, "I WILL remember you, you heartless jilt,
and the man you have jilted me for.  Staines is his d--d name, is
it?"

He drove back crestfallen, bitter, and, for once in his life,
heart-sick, and drew up at his lodgings.  Here he found attendants
waiting to receive him.

A sheriff's officer took his dogcart and horse under a judgment;
the disturbance this caused collected a tiny crowd, gaping and
grinning, and brought Phoebe's white face and eyes swollen with
weeping to the window.

Falcon saw her and brazened it out.  "Take them," said he, with an
oath.  "I'll have a better turn-out by to-morrow, breakfast-time."

The crowd cheered him for his spirit.

He got down, lit a cigar, chaffed the officer and the crowd, and
was, on the whole, admired.

Then another officer, who had been hunting him in couples with the
other, stepped forward and took HIM, for the balance of a judgment
debt.

Then the swell's cigar fell out of his mouth, and he was seriously
alarmed.  "Why, Cartwright," said he, "this is too bad.  You
promised not to see me this month.  You passed me full in the
Strand."

"You are mistaken, sir," said Cartwright, with sullen irony.  "I've
got a twin-brother; a many takes him for me, till they finds the
difference."  Then, lowering his voice, "What call had you to boast
in your club you had made it right with Bill Cartwright, and he'd
never see you?  That got about, and so I was bound to see you or
lose my bread.  There's one or two I don't see, but then they are
real gentlemen, and thinks of me as well as theirselves, and
doesn't blab."

"I must have been drunk," said Falcon apologetically.  "More likely
blowing a cloud.  When you young gents gets a-smoking together,
you'd tell on your own mothers.  Come along, colonel, off we go to
Merrimashee."

"Why, it is only twenty-six pounds.  I have paid the rest."

"More than that; there's the costs."

"Come in, and I'll settle it."

"All right, sir.  Jem, watch the back."

"Oh, I shall not try that game with a sharp hand like you,
Cartwright."

"You had better not, sir," said Cartwright; but he was softened a
little by the compliment.

When they were alone, Falcon began by saying it was a bad job for
him.

"Why, I thought you was a-going to pay it all in a moment."

"I can't; but I have got a friend over the way that could, if she
chose.  She has always got money, somehow."

"Oh, if it is a she, it is all right."

"I don't know.  She has quarrelled with me; but give me a little
time.  Here! have a glass of sherry and a biscuit, while I try it
on."

Having thus muffled Cartwright, this man of the world opened his
window and looked out.  The crowd had followed the captured
dogcart, so he had the street to himself.  He beckoned to Phoebe,
and after considerable hesitation she opened her window.

"Phoebe," said he, in tones of tender regret, admirably natural and
sweet, "I shall never offend you again; so forgive me this once.  I
have given that girl up."

"Not you," said Phoebe, sullenly.

"Indeed I have.  After our quarrel, I started to propose to her;
but I had not the heart; I came back and left her."

"Time will show.  If it is not her, it will be some other, you
false, heartless villain."

"Come, I say, don't be so hard on me in trouble.  I am going to
prison."

"So I suppose."

"Ah! but it is worse than you think.  I am only taken for a paltry
thirty pounds or so."

"Thirty-three, fifteen, five," suggested Cartwright, in a muffled
whisper, his mouth being full of biscuit.

"But once they get me to a sponging-house, detainers will pour in,
and my cruel creditors will confine me for life."

"It is the best place for you.  It will put a stop to your
wickedness, and I shall be at peace.  That's what I have never
known, night or day, this three years."

"But you will not be happy if you see me go to prison before your
eyes.  Were you ever inside a prison?  Just think what it must be
to be cooped up in those cold grim cells all alone; for they use a
debtor like a criminal now."

Phoebe shuddered; but she said, bravely, "Well, tell THEM you have
been a-courting.  There was a time I'd have died sooner than see a
hair of your head hurt; but it is all over now; you have worn me
out."

Then she began to cry.

Falcon heaved a deep sigh.  "It is no more than I deserve," said
he.  "I'll pack up my things, and go with the officer.  Give me one
kind word at parting, and I'll think of it in my prison, night and
day."

He withdrew from the window with another deep sigh, told
Cartwright, cheerfully, it was all right, and proceeded to pack up
his traps.

Meantime Phoebe sat at her window and cried bitterly.  Her words
had been braver than her heart.

Falcon managed to pay the trifle he owed for the lodgings, and
presently he came out with Cartwright, and the attendant called a
cab.  His things were thrown in, and Cartwright invited him to
follow.  Then he looked up, and cast a genuine look of terror and
misery at Phoebe.  He thought she would have relented before this.

Her heart gave way; I am afraid it would, even without that piteous
and mute appeal.  She opened the window, and asked Mr. Cartwright
if he would be good enough to come and speak to her.

Cartwright committed his prisoner to the subordinate, and knocked
at the door of Phoebe's lodgings.  She came down herself and let
him in.  She led the way upstairs, motioned him to a seat, sat down
by him, and began to cry again.  She was thoroughly unstrung.

Cartwright was human, and muttered some words of regret that a poor
fellow must do his duty.

"Oh, it is not that," sobbed Phoebe.  "I can find the money.  I
have found more for him than that, many's the time."  Then, drying
her eyes, "But you must know the world, and I dare say you can see
how 'tis with me."

"I can," said Cartwright, gravely.  "I overheard you and him; and,
my girl, if you take my advice, why, let him go.  He is a gentleman
skin deep, and dresses well, and can palaver a girl, no doubt; but
bless your heart, I can see at a glance he is not worth your little
finger, an honest, decent young woman like you.  Why, it is like
butter fighting with stone.  Let him go; or I will tell you what it
is, you will hang for him some day, or else make away with
yourself."

"Ay, sir," said Phoebe, "that's likelier; and if I was to let him
go to prison, I should sit me down and think of his parting look,
and I should fling myself into the water for him before I was a day
older."

"Ye mustn't do that anyway.  While there's life there's hope."

Upon this Phoebe put him a question, and found him ready to do
anything for her, in reason--provided he was paid for it.  And the
end of it all was, the prisoner was conveyed to London; Phoebe got
the requisite sum; Falcon was deposited in a third-class carriage
bound for Essex.  Phoebe paid his debt, and gave Cartwright a
present, and away rattled the train conveying the handsome egotist
into temporary retirement, to wit, at a village five miles from the
Dales' farm.  She was too ashamed of her young gentleman and
herself to be seen with him in her native village.  On the road
down he was full of little practical attentions; she received them
coldly; his mellifluous mouth was often at her car, pouring thanks
and praises into it; she never vouchsafed a word of reply.  All she
did was to shudder now and then, and cry at intervals.  Yet,
whenever he left her side, her whole body became restless; and when
he came back to her, a furtive thrill announced the insane
complacency his bare contact gave her.  Surely, of all the forms in
which love torments the heart, this was the most terrible and
pitiable.


Mr. Lusignan found his daughter in tears.

"Why, what is the matter now?" said he, a little peevishly.  "We
have had nothing of this sort of thing lately."

"Papa, it is because I have misconducted myself.  I am a foolish,
imprudent girl.  I have been flirting with Mr. Falcon, and he has
taken a CRUEL advantage of it--proposed to me--this very afternoon--
actually!"

"Has he?  Well, he is a fine fellow, and has a landed estate in
Norfolk.  There's nothing like land.  They may well call it real
property--there is something to show; you can walk on it, and ride
on it, and look out of window at it: that IS property."

"Oh, papa! what are you saying?  Would you have me marry one man
when I belong to another?"

"But you don't belong to any one except to me."

"Oh, yes; I do.  I belong to my dear Christopher."

"Why, you dismissed him before my very eyes; and very ill you
behaved, begging your pardon.  The man was your able physician and
your best friend, and said nothing that was not for your good; and
you treated him like a dog."

"Yes, but he has apologized."

"What for? being treated like a dog?"

"Oh, don't say so, papa!  At all events, he has apologized, as a
gentleman should whenever--whenever"--

"Whenever a lady is in the wrong."

"Don't, papa; and I have asked him to dinner."

"With all my heart.  I shall be downright glad to see him again.
You used him abominably."

"But you need not keep saying so," whined Rosa.  "And that is not
all, dear papa; the worst of it is, Mr. Falcon proposing to me has
opened my eyes.  I am not fit to be trusted alone.  I am too fond
of dancing, and flirting will follow somehow.  Oh, think how ill I
was a few months ago, and how unhappy you were about me!  They were
killing me.  He came and saved me.  Yes, papa, I owe all this
health and strength to Christopher.  I did take them off, the very
next day, and see the effect of it and my long walks.  I owe him my
life, and what I value far more, my good looks.  La! I wish I had
not told you that.  And after all this, don't I belong to my
Christopher?  How could I be happy or respect myself if I married
any one else?  And oh, papa! he looks wan and worn.  He has been
fretting for his Simpleton.  Oh, dear! I mustn't think of that--it
makes me cry; and you don't like scenes, do you?"

"Hate 'em!"

"Well, then," said Rosa, coaxingly, "I'll tell you how to end them.
Marry your Simpleton to the only man who is fit to take care of
her.  Oh, papa! think of his deep, deep affection for me, and pray
don't snub him if--by any chance--after dinner--he should HAPPEN to
ask you--something."

"Oh, then it is possible that, by the merest chance, the gentleman
you have accidentally asked to dinner, may, by some strange
fortuity, be surprised into asking me a second time for something
very much resembling my daughter's hand--eh?"

Rosa colored high.  "He might, you know.  How can I tell what
gentlemen will say when the ladies have retired and they are left
alone with--with"--

"With the bottle.  Ay, that's true; when the wine is in, the wit is
out."

Said Rosa, "Well, if he should happen to be so foolish, pray think
of ME; of all we owe him, and how much I love him, and ought to
love him."  She then bestowed a propitiatory kiss, and ran off to
dress for dinner; it was a much longer operation to-day than usual.

Dr. Staines was punctual.  Mr. Lusignan commented favorably on
that.

"He always is," said Rosa, eagerly.

They dined together.  Mr. Lusignan chatted freely, but Staines and
Rosa were under a feeling of restraint, Staines in particular; he
could not help feeling that before long his fate must be settled.
He would either obtain Rosa's hand, or have to resign her to some
man of fortune who would step in; for beauty such as hers could not
long lack brilliant offers.  Longing, though dreading, to know his
fate, he was glad when dinner ended.

Rosa sat with them a little while after dinner, then rose, bestowed
another propitiatory kiss on her father's head, and retired with a
modest blush, and a look at Christopher that was almost divine.

It inspired him with the courage of lions, and he commenced the
attack at once.


CHAPTER V.


"Mr. Lusignan," said he, "the last time I was here you gave me some
hopes that you might be prevailed on to trust that angel's health
and happiness to my care."

"Well, Dr. Staines, I will not beat about the bush with you.  My
judgment is still against this marriage; you need not look so
alarmed; it does not follow I shall forbid it.  I feel I have
hardly a right to, for my Rosa might be in her grave now but for
you; and, another thing, when I interfered between you two I had no
proof you were a man of ability; I had only your sweetheart's word
for that; and I never knew a case before where a young lady's swan
did not turn out a goose.  Your rare ability gives you another
chance in the professional battle that is before you; indeed, it
puts a different face on the whole matter.  I still think it
premature.  Come now, would it not be much wiser to wait, and
secure a good practice before you marry a mere child?  There!
there! I only advise; I don't dictate; you shall settle it
together, you two wiseacres.  Only I must make one positive
condition.  I have nothing to give my child during my lifetime; but
one thing I have done for her; years ago I insured my life for six
thousand pounds; and you must do the same.  I will not have her
thrown on the world a widow, with a child or two, perhaps, to
support, and not a farthing; you know the insecurity of mortal
life."

"I do! I do!  Why, of course I will insure my life, and pay the
annual premium out of my little capital, until income flows in."

"Will you hand me over a sum sufficient to pay that premium for
five years?"

"With pleasure."

"Then I fear," said the old gentleman, with a sigh, "my opposition
to the match must cease here.  I still recommend you to wait; but--
there! I might just as well advise fire and tow to live neighbors
and keep cool."

To show the injustice of this simile, Christopher Staines started
up with his eyes all aglow, and cried out, rapturously, "Oh, sir,
may I tell her?"

"Yes, you may tell her," said Lusignan, with a smile.  "Stop--what
are you going to tell her?"

"That you consent, sir.  God bless you!  God bless you!  Oh!"

"Yes, but that I advise you to wait."

"I'll tell her all," said Staines, and rushed out even as he spoke,
and upset a heavy chair with a loud thud.

"Ah! ah!" cried the old gentleman in dismay, and put his fingers in
his ears--too late.  "I see," said he, "there will be no peace and
quiet now till they are out of the house."  He lighted a soothing
cigar to counteract the fracas.

"Poor little Rosa! a child but yesterday, and now to encounter the
cares of a wife, and perhaps a mother.  Ah! she is but young, but
young."

The old gentleman prophesied truly; from that moment he had no
peace till he withdrew all semblance of dissent, and even of
procrastination.

Christopher insured his life for six thousand pounds, and assigned
the policy to his wife.  Four hundred pounds was handed to Mr.
Lusignan to pay the premiums until the genius of Dr. Staines should
have secured him that large professional income, which does not
come all at once, even to the rare physician, who is Capax,
Efficax, Sagax.

The wedding-day was named.  The bridesmaids were selected, the
guests invited.  None refused but Uncle Philip.  He declined, in
his fine bold hand, to countenance in person an act of folly he
disapproved.  Christopher put his letter away with a momentary
sigh, and would not show it Rosa.  All other letters they read
together, charming pastime of that happy period.  Presents poured
in.  Silver teapots, coffeepots, sugar-basins, cream-jugs, fruit-
dishes, silver-gilt inkstands, albums, photograph-books, little
candlesticks, choice little services of china, shell salt-cellars
in a case lined with maroon velvet; a Bible, superb in binding and
clasps, and everything but the text--that was illegible; a silk
scarf from Benares; a gold chain from Delhi, six feet long or
nearly; a Maltese necklace, a ditto in exquisite filagree from
Genoa; English brooches, a trifle too big and brainless; apostle
spoons; a treble-lined parasol with ivory stick and handle; an
ivory card-case, richly carved; workbox of sandal-wood and ivory,
etc.  Mr. Lusignan's City friends, as usual with these gentlemen,
sent the most valuable things.  Every day one or two packages were
delivered, and, in opening them, Rosa invariably uttered a peculiar
scream of delight, and her father put his fingers in his ears; yet
there was music in this very scream, if he would only have listened
to it candidly, instead of fixing his mind on his vague theory of
screams--so formed was she to please the ear as well as the eye.

At last came a parcel she opened and stared at, smiling and
coloring like a rose, but did not scream, being too dumfounded and
perplexed; for lo! a teapot of some base material, but simple and
elegant in form, being an exact reproduction of a melon; and inside
this teapot a canvas bag containing ten guineas in silver, and a
wash-leather bag containing twenty guineas in gold, and a slip of
paper, which Rosa, being now half recovered from her stupefaction,
read out to her father and Dr. Staines:


"People that buy presents blindfold give duplicates and
triplicates; and men seldom choose to a woman's taste; so be
pleased to accept the enclosed tea-leaves, and buy for yourself.
The teapot you can put on the hob, for it is nickel."


Rosa looked sore puzzled again.  "Papa," said she, timidly, "have
we any friend that is--a little--deranged?"

"A lot."

"Oh, then, that accounts."

"Why no, love," said Christopher.  "I have heard of much learning
making a man mad, but never of much good sense."

"What!  Do you call this sensible?"

"Don't you?"

"I'll read it again," said Rosa.  "Well--yes--I declare--it is not
so mad as I thought; but it is very eccentric."

Lusignan suggested there was nothing so eccentric as common sense,
especially in time of wedding.  "This," said he, "comes from the
City.  It is a friend of mine, some old fox; he is throwing dust in
your eyes with his reasons; his real reason was that his time is
money; it would have cost the old rogue a hundred pounds' worth of
time--you know the City, Christopher--to go out and choose the girl
a present; so he has sent his clerk out with a check to buy a
pewter teapot, and fill it with specie."

"Pewter!" cried Rosa.  "No such thing!  It's nickel.  What is
nickel, I wonder?"

The handwriting afforded no clew, so there the discussion ended:
but it was a nice little mystery, and very convenient; made
conversation.  Rosa had many an animated discussion about it with
her female friends.

The wedding-day came at last.  The sun shone--ACTUALLY, as Rosa
observed.  The carriages drove up.  The bridesmaids, principally
old schoolfellows and impassioned correspondents of Rosa, were
pretty, and dressed alike and delightfully; but the bride was
peerless; her Southern beauty literally shone in that white satin
dress and veil, and her head was regal with the Crown of orange-
blossoms.  Another crown she had--true virgin modesty.  A low
murmur burst from the men the moment they saw her; the old women
forgave her beauty on the spot, and the young women almost pardoned
it; she was so sweet and womanly, and so sisterly to her own sex.

When they started for the church she began to tremble, she scarce
knew why; and when the solemn words were said, and the ring was put
on her finger, she cried a little, and looked half imploringly at
her bridesmaids once, as if seared at leaving them for an untried
and mysterious life with no woman near.

They were married.  Then came the breakfast, that hour of
uneasiness and blushing to such a bride as this; but at last she
was released.  She sped up-stairs, thanking goodness it was over.
Down came her last box.  The bride followed in a plain travelling
dress, which her glorious eyes and brows and her rich glowing
cheeks seemed to illumine: she was handed into the carriage, the
bridegroom followed.  All the young guests clustered about the
door, armed with white shoes--slippers are gone by.

They started; the ladies flung their white shoes right and left
with religious impartiality, except that not one of their missiles
went at the object.  The men, more skilful, sent a shower on to the
roof of the carriage, which is the lucky spot.  The bride kissed
her hand, and managed to put off crying, though it cost her a
struggle.  The party hurrahed; enthusiastic youths gathered fallen
shoes, and ran and hurled them again with cheerful yells, and away
went the happy pair, the bride leaning sweetly and confidingly with
both her white hands on the bridegroom's shoulder, while he dried
the tears that would run now at leaving home and parent forever,
and kissed her often, and encircled her with his strong arm, and
murmured comfort, and love, and pride, and joy, and sweet vows of
lifelong tenderness into her ears, that soon stole nearer his lips
to hear, and the fair cheek grew softly to his shoulder.


CHAPTER VI.


Dr. Staines and Mrs. Staines visited France, Switzerland, and the
Rhine, and passed a month of Elysium before they came to London to
face their real destiny and fight the battle of life.

And here, methinks, a reader of novels may perhaps cry out and say,
"What manner of man is this, who marries his hero and heroine, and
then, instead of leaving them happy for life, and at rest from his
uneasy pen and all their other troubles, flows coolly on with their
adventures?"

To this I can only reply that the old English novel is no rule to
me, and life is; and I respectfully propose an experiment.  Catch
eight old married people, four of each sex, and say unto them,
"Sir," or "Madam, did the more remarkable events of your life come
to you before marriage or after?"  Most of them will say "after,"
and let that be my excuse for treating the marriage of Christopher
Staines and Rosa Lusignan as merely one incident in their lives; an
incident which, so far from ending their story, led by degrees to
more striking events than any that occurred to them before they
were man and wife.

They returned, then, from their honey tour, and Staines, who was
methodical and kept a diary, made the following entry therein:--

"We have now a life of endurance, and self-denial, and economy,
before us; we have to rent a house, and furnish it, and live in it,
until professional income shall flow in and make all things easy:
and we have two thousand five hundred pounds left to do it with."

They came to a family hotel, and Dr. Staines went out directly
after breakfast to look for a house.  Acting on a friend's advice,
he visited the streets and places north of Oxford Street, looking
for a good commodious house adapted to his business.  He found
three or four at fair rents, neither cheap nor dear, the district
being respectable and rather wealthy, but no longer fashionable.
He came home with his notes, and found Rosa beaming in a crisp
peignoir, and her lovely head its natural size and shape, high-bred
and elegant.  He sat down, and with her hand in his proceeded to
describe the houses to her, when a waiter threw open the door--
"Mrs. John Cole."

"Florence!" cried Rosa, starting up.

In flowed Florence: they both uttered a little squawk of delight,
and went at each other like two little tigresses, and kissed in
swift alternation with a singular ardor, drawing their crests back
like snakes, and then darting them forward and inflicting what, to
the male philosopher looking on, seemed hard kisses, violent
kisses, rather than the tender ones to be expected from two tender
creatures embracing each other.

"Darling," said Rosa, "I knew you would be the first.  Didn't I
tell you so, Christopher?--My husband--my darling Florry!  Sit
down, love, and tell me everything; he has just been looking out
for a house.  Ah! you have got all that over long ago: she has been
married six months.  Florry, you are handsomer than ever; and what
a beautiful dress!  Ah! London is the place.  Real Brussels, I
declare," and she took hold of her friend's lace and gloated on it.

Christopher smiled good-naturedly, and said, "I dare say you ladies
have a good deal to say to each other."

"Oceans," said Rosa.

"I will go and hunt houses again."

"There's a good husband," said Mrs. Cole, as soon as the door
closed on him, "and such a fine man!  Why, he must be six feet.
Mine is rather short.  But he is very good; refuses me nothing.  My
will is law."

"That is all right--you are so sensible; but I want governing a
little, and I like it--actually.  Did the dressmaker find it,
dear?"

"Oh, no!  I had it by me.  I bought it at Brussels on our wedding
tour: it is dearer there than in London."

She said this as if "dearer" and "better" were synonymous.

"But about your house, Rosie dear?"

"Yes, darling, I'll tell you all about it.  I never saw a moire
this shade before.  I don't care for them in general; but this is
so distingue."

Florence rewarded her with a kiss.

"The house," said Rosa.  "Oh, he has seen one in Portman Street,
and one in Gloucester Place."

"Oh, that will never do," cried Mrs. Cole.  "It is no use being a
physician in those out-of-the-way places.  He must be in Mayfair."

"Must he?"

"Of course.  Besides, then my Johnnie can call him in when they are
just going to die.  Johnnie is a general prac., and makes two
thousand a year; and he shall call your one in; but he must live in
Mayfair.  Why, Rosie, you would not be such a goose as to live in
those places--they are quite gone by."

"I shall do whatever you advise me, dear.  Oh, what a comfort to
have a dear friend: and six months married, and knows things.  How
richly it is trimmed!  Why, it is nearly all trimmings."

"That is the fashion."

"Oh!"

And after that big word there was no more to be said.

These two ladies in their conversation gravitated towards dress,
and fell flat on it every half-minute.  That great and elevating
topic held them by a silken cord, but it allowed them to flutter
upwards into other topics; and in those intervals, numerous though
brief, the lady who had been married six months found time to
instruct the matrimonial novice with great authority, and even a
shade of pomposity.  "My dear, the way ladies and gentlemen get a
house--in the first place, you don't go about yourself like that,
and you never go to the people themselves, or you are sure to be
taken in, but to a respectable house-agent."

"Yes, dear, that must be the best way, one would think."

"Of course it is; and you ask for a house in Mayfair, and he shows
you several, and recommends you the best, and sees you are not
cheated."

"Thank you, love," said Rosa; "now I know what to do; I'll not
forget a word.  And the train so beautifully shaped!  Ah! it is
only in London or Paris they can make a dress flow behind like
that," etc., etc.

Dr. Staines came back to dinner in good spirits; he had found a
house in Harewood Square; good entrance hall, where his gratuitous
patients might sit on benches; good dining-room where his superior
patients might wait; and good library, to be used as a consulting-
room.  Rent only eighty-five pounds per annum.

But Rosa told him that would never do; a physician must be in the
fashionable part of the town.

"Eventually," said Christopher; "but surely at first starting--and
you know they say little boats should not go too far from shore."

Then Rosa repeated all her friend's arguments, and seemed so
unhappy at the idea of not living near her, that Staines, who had
not yet said the hard word "no" to her, gave in; consoling his
prudence with the reflection that, after all, Mr. Cole could put
many a guinea in his way, for Mr. Cole was middle-aged,--though his
wife was young,--and had really a very large practice.

So next day, the newly-wedded pair called on a house-agent in
Mayfair, and his son and partner went with them to several places.
The rents of houses equal to that in Harewood Square were three
hundred pounds a year at least, and a premium to boot.

Christopher told him these were quite beyond the mark.  "Very
well," said the agent.  "Then I'll show you a Bijou."

Rosa clapped her hands.  "That is the thing for us.  We don't want
a large house, only a beautiful one, and in Mayfair."

"Then the Bijou will be sure to suit you."

He took them to the Bijou.

The Bijou had a small dining-room with one very large window in two
sheets of plate glass, and a projecting balcony full of flowers; a
still smaller library, which opened on a square yard enclosed.
Here were a great many pots, with flowers dead or dying from
neglect.  On the first floor a fair-sized drawing-room, and a tiny
one at the back: on the second floor, one good bedroom, and a
dressing-room, or little bedroom: three garrets above.

Rosa was in ecstasies.  "It is a nest," said she.

"It is a bank-note," said the agent, stimulating equal enthusiasm,
after his fashion.  "You can always sell the lease again for more
money."

Christopher kept cool.  "I don't want a house to sell, but to live
in, and do my business; I am a physician: now the drawing-room is
built over the entrance to a mews; the back rooms all look into a
mews: we shall have the eternal noise and smell of a mews.  My
wife's rest will be broken by the carriages rolling in and out.
The hall is fearfully small and stuffy.  The rent is abominably
high; and what is the premium for, I wonder?"

"Always a premium in Mayfair, sir.  A lease is property here: the
gentleman is not acquainted with this part, madam."

"Oh, yes, he is," said Rosa, as boldly as a six years' wife: "he
knows everything."

"Then he knows that a house of this kind at a hundred and thirty
pounds a year in Mayfair is a bank-note."

Staines turned to Rosa.  "The poor patients, where am I to receive
them?"

"In the stable," suggested the house agent.

"Oh!" said Rosa, shocked.

"Well, then, the coach-house.  Why, there's plenty of room for a
brougham, and one horse, and fifty poor patients at a time: beggars
musn't be choosers; if you give them physic gratis, that is enough:
you ain't bound to find 'em a palace to sit down in, and hot coffee
and rump steaks all round, doctor."

This tickled Rosa so that she burst out laughing, and thenceforward
giggled at intervals, wit of this refined nature having all the
charm of novelty for her.

They inspected the stables, which were indeed the one redeeming
feature in the horrid little Bijou; and then the agent would show
them the kitchen, and the new stove.  He expatiated on this to Mrs.
Staines.  "Cook a dinner for thirty people, madam."

"And there's room for them to eat it--in the road," said Staines.

The agent reminded him there were larger places to be had, by a
very simple process, viz., paying for them.

Staines thought of the large, comfortable house in Harewood Square.
"One hundred and thirty pounds a year for this poky little hole?"
he groaned.

"Why, it is nothing at all for a Bijou."

"But it is too much for a bandbox."

Rosa laid her hand on his arm, with an imploring glance.

"Well," said he, "I'll submit to the rent, but I really cannot give
the premium, it is too ridiculous.  He ought to bribe me to rent
it, not I him."

"Can't be done without, sir."

"Well, I'll give a hundred pounds and no more."

"Impossible, sir."

"Then good morning.  Now, dearest, just come and see the house at
Harewood Square,--eighty-five pounds and no premium."

"Will you oblige me with your address, doctor?" said the agent.

"Dr. Staines, Morley's Hotel."

And so they left Mayfair.

Rosa sighed and said, "Oh, the nice little place; and we have lost
it for two hundred pounds."

"Two hundred pounds is a great deal for us to throw away."

"Being near the Coles would soon have made that up to you: and such
a cosey little nest."

"Well the house will not run away."

"But somebody is sure to snap it up.  It is a Bijou."  She was
disappointed, and half inclined to pout.  But she vented her
feelings in a letter to her beloved Florry, and appeared at dinner
as sweet as usual.

During dinner a note came from the agent, accepting Dr. Staine's
offer.  He glozed the matter thus: he had persuaded the owner it
was better to take a good tenant at a moderate loss, than to let
the Bijou be uninhabited during the present rainy season.  An
assignment of the lease--which contained the usual covenants--would
be prepared immediately, and Dr. Staines could have possession in
forty-eight hours, by paying the premium.

Rosa was delighted, and as soon as dinner was over, and the waiters
gone, she came and kissed Christopher.

He smiled, and said, "Well, you are pleased; that is the principal
thing.  I have saved two hundred pounds, and that is something.  It
will go towards furnishing."

"La! yes," said Rosa, "I forgot.  We shall have to get furniture
now.  How nice!"  It was a pleasure the man of forecast could have
willingly dispensed with; but he smiled at her, and they discussed
furniture, and Christopher, whose retentive memory had picked up a
little of everything, said there were wholesale upholsterers in the
City who sold cheaper than the West-end houses, and he thought the
best way was to measure the rooms in the Bijou, and go to the city
with a clear idea of what they wanted; ask the prices of various
necessary articles, and then make a list, and demand a discount of
fifteen per cent on the whole order, being so considerable, and
paid for in cash.

Rosa acquiesced, and told Christopher he was the cleverest man in
England.

About nine o'clock Mrs. Cole came in to condole with her friend,
and heard the good news.  When Rosa told her how they thought of
furnishing, she said, "Oh no, you must not do that; you will pay
double for everything.  That is the mistake Johnnie and I made; and
after that a friend of mine took me to the auction-rooms, and I saw
everything sold--oh, such bargains; half, and less than half, their
value.  She has furnished her house almost entirely from sales, and
she has the loveliest things in the world--such ducks of tables,
and jardinieres, and things; and beautiful rare china--her house
swarms with it--for an old song.  A sale is the place.  And then so
amusing."

"Yes, but," said Christopher, "I should not like my wife to
encounter a public room."

"Not alone, of course; but with me.  La! Dr. Staines, they are too
full of buying and selling to trouble their heads about us."

"Oh, Christopher, do let me go with her.  Am I always to be a
child?"

Thus appealed to before a stranger, Staines replied warmly, "No,
dearest, no; you cannot please me better than by beginning life in
earnest.  If you two ladies together can face an auction-room, go
by all means; only I must ask you not to buy china or ormulu, or
anything that will break or spoil, but only solid, good furniture."

"Won't you come with us?"

"No; or you might feel yourself in leading-strings.  Remember the
Bijou is a small house; choose your furniture to fit it, and then
we shall save something by its being so small."

This was Wednesday.  There was a weekly sale in Oxford Street on
Fridays; and the ladies made the appointment accordingly.

Next day, after breakfast, Christopher was silent and thoughtful
awhile, and at last said to Rosa, "I'll show you I don't look on
you as a child; I'll consult you in a delicate matter."

Rosa's eyes sparkled.

"It is about my Uncle Philip.  He has been very cruel; he has
wounded me deeply; he has wounded me through my wife.  I never
thought he would refuse to come to our marriage."

"And did he?  You never showed me his letter."

"You were not my wife then.  I kept an affront from you; but now,
you see, I keep nothing."

"Dear Christie!"

"I am so happy, I have got over that sting--almost; and the memory
of many kind acts comes back to me; and I don't know what to do.
It seems ungrateful not to visit him--it seems almost mean to
call."

"I'll tell you; take me to see him directly.  He won't hate us
forever, if he sees us often.  We may as well begin at once.
Nobody hates me long."

Christopher was proud of his wife's courage and wisdom.  He kissed
her, begged her to put on the plainest dress she could, and they
went together to call on Uncle Philip.

When they got to his house in Gloucester Place, Portman Square,
Rosa's heart began to quake, and she was right glad when the
servant said "Not at home."

They left their cards and address; and she persuaded Christopher to
take her to the sale-room to see the things.

A lot of brokers were there, like vultures; and one after another
stepped forward and pestered them to employ him in the morning.
Dr. Staines declined their services civilly but firmly, and he and
Rosa looked over a quantity of furniture, and settled what sort of
things to buy.

Another broker came up, and whenever the couple stopped before an
article, proceeded to praise it as something most extraordinary.
Staines listened in cold, satirical silence, and told his wife, in
French, to do the same.  Notwithstanding their marked disgust, the
impudent, intrusive fellow stuck to them, and forced his venal
criticism on them, and made them uncomfortable, and shortened their
tour of observation.

"I think I shall come with you to-morrow," said Christopher, "or I
shall have these blackguards pestering you."

"Oh, Florry will send them to the right-about.  She is as brave as
a lion."

Next day Dr. Staines was sent for into the City at twelve to pay
the money and receive the lease of the Bijou, and this and the
taking possession occupied him till four o'clock, when he came to
his hotel.

Meantime, his wife and Mrs. Cole had gone to the auction-room.

It was a large room, with a good sprinkling of people, but not
crowded except about the table.  At the head of this table--full
twenty feet long--was the auctioneer's pulpit, and the lots were
brought in turn to the other end of the table for sight and sale.

"We must try and get a seat," said the enterprising Mrs. Cole, and
pushed boldly in; the timid Rosa followed strictly in her wake, and
so evaded the human waves her leader clove.  They were importuned
at every step by brokers thrusting catalogues on them, with offers
of their services, yet they soon got to the table.  A gentleman
resigned one chair, a broker another, and they were seated.

Mrs. Staines let down half her veil, but Mrs. Cole surveyed the
company point-blank.

The broker who had given up his seat, and now stood behind Rosa,
offered her his catalogue.  "No, thank you," said Rosa; "I have
one;" and she produced it, and studied it, yet managed to look
furtively at the company.

There were not above a dozen private persons visible from where
Rosa sat; perhaps as many more in the whole room.  They were easily
distinguishable by their cleanly appearance: the dealers, male or
female, were more or less rusty, greasy, dirty, aquiline.  Not even
the amateurs were brightly dressed; that fundamental error was
confined to Mesdames Cole and Staines.  The experienced, however
wealthy, do not hunt bargains in silk and satin.

The auctioneer called "Lot 7.  Four saucepans, two trays, a kettle,
a bootjack, and a towel-horse."

These were put up at two shillings, and speedily knocked down for
five to a fat old woman in a greasy velvet jacket; blind industry
had sewed bugles on it, not artfully, but agriculturally.

"The lady on the left!" said the auctioneer to his clerk.  That
meant "Get the money."

The old lady plunged a huge paw into a huge pocket, and pulled out
a huge handful of coin--copper, silver, and gold--and paid for the
lot; and Rosa surveyed her dirty hands and nails with innocent
dismay.  "Oh, what a dreadful creature!" she whispered; "and what
can she want with those old rubbishy things?  I saw a hole in one
from here."  The broker overheard, and said, "She is a dealer,
ma'am, and the things were given away.  She'll sell them for a
guinea, easy."

"Didn't I tell you?" said Mrs. Cole.

Soon after this the superior lots came on, and six very neat
bedroom chairs were sold to all appearance for fifteen shillings.

The next lot was identical, and Rosa hazarded a bid,--"Sixteen
shillings."

Instantly some dealer, one of the hook-nosed that gathered round
each lot as it came to the foot of the table, cried "Eighteen
shillings."

"Nineteen," said Rosa.

"A guinea," said the dealer.

"Don't let it go," said the broker behind her.  "Don't let it go,
ma'am."

She colored at the intrusion, and left off bidding directly, and
addressed herself to Mrs. Cole.  "Why should I give so much, when
the last were sold for fifteen shillings?"

The real reason was that the first lot was not bid for at all,
except by the proprietor.  However, the broker gave her a very
different solution; he said, "The trade always run up a lady or a
gentleman.  Let me bid for you; they won't run me up; they know
better."

Rosa did not reply, but looked at Mrs. Cole.

"Yes, dear," said that lady; "you had much better let him bid for
you."

"Very well," said Rosa; "you can bid for this chest of drawers--lot
25."

When lot 25 came on, the broker bid in the silliest possible way,
if his object had been to get a bargain.  He began to bid early and
ostentatiously; the article was protected by somebody or other
there present, who now of course saw his way clear; he ran it up
audaciously, and it was purchased for Rosa at about the price it
could have been bought for at a shop.

The next thing she wanted was a set of oak chairs.

They went up to twenty-eight pounds; then she said, "I shall give
no more, sir."

"Better not lose them," said the agent; "they are a great bargain;"
and bid another pound for her on his own responsibility.

They were still run up, and Rosa peremptorily refused to give any
more.  She lost them, accordingly, by good luck.  Her faithful
broker looked blank; so did the proprietor.

But, as the sale proceeded, she being young, the competition,
though most of it sham, being artful and exciting, and the traitor
she employed constantly puffing every article, she was drawn in to
wishing for things, and bidding by her feelings.

Then her traitor played a game that has been played a hundred
times, and the perpetrators never once lynched, as they ought to
be, on the spot.  He signalled a confederate with a hooked nose;
the Jew rascal bid against the Christian scoundrel, and so they ran
up the more enticing things to twice their value under the hammer.

Rosa got flushed, and her eye gleamed like a gambler's, and she
bought away like wildfire.  In which sport she caught sight of an
old gentleman, with little black eyes that kept twinkling at her.

She complained of these eyes to Mrs. Cole.  "Why does he twinkle
so?  I can see it is at me.  I am doing something foolish--I know I
am."

Mrs. Cole turned, and fixed a haughty stare on the old gentleman.
Would you believe it? instead of sinking through the floor, he sat
his ground, and retorted with a cold, clear grin.

But now, whenever Rosa's agent bid for her, and the other man of
straw against him, the black eyes twinkled, and Rosa's courage
began to ooze away.  At last she said, "That is enough for one day.
I shall go.  Who could bear those eyes?"

The broker took her address; so did the auctioneer's clerk.  The
auctioneer asked her for no deposit; her beautiful, innocent, and
high-bred face was enough for a man who was always reading faces,
and interpreting them.

And so they retired.

But this charming sex is like that same auctioneer's hammer, it
cannot go abruptly.  It is always going--going--going--a long time
before it is gone.  I think it would perhaps loiter at the door of
a jail, with the order of release in its hand, after six years'
confinement.  Getting up to go quenches in it the desire to go.  So
these ladies having got up to go, turned and lingered, and hung
fire so long, that at last another set of oak chairs came up.  "Oh!
I must see what these go for," said Rosa, at the door.

The bidding was mighty languid now Rosa's broker was not
stimulating it; and the auctioneer was just knocking down twelve
chairs--oak and leather--and two arm-chairs, for twenty pounds,
when, casting his eyes around, he caught sight of Rosa looking at
him rather excited.  He looked inquiringly at her.  She nodded
slightly; he knocked them down to her at twenty guineas, and they
were really a great bargain.

"Twenty-two," cried the dealer.

"Too late," said the auctioneer.

"I spoke with the hammer, sir."

"After the hammer, Isaacs."

"Shelp me God, we was together."

One or two more of his tribe confirmed this pious falsehood, and
clamored to have them put up again.

"Call the next lot," said the auctioneer, peremptorily.  "Make up
your mind a little quicker next time, Mr. Isaacs; you have been
long enough at it to know the value of oak and moroccar."

Mrs. Staines and her friend now started for Morley's Hotel, but
went round by Regent Street, whereby they got glued at Peter
Robinson's window, and nine other windows; and it was nearly five
o'clock when they reached Morley's.  As they came near the door of
their sitting-room, Mrs. Staines heard somebody laughing and
talking to her husband.  The laugh, to her subtle ears, did not
sound musical and genial, but keen, satirical, unpleasant; so it
was with some timidity she opened the door, and there sat the old
chap with the twinkling eyes.  Both parties stared at each other a
moment.

"Why, it is them," cried the old gentleman.  "Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!"

Rosa colored all over, and felt guilty somehow, and looked
miserable.

"Rosa dear," said Dr. Staines, "this is our Uncle Philip."

"Oh!" said Rosa, and turned red and pale by turns; for she had a
great desire to propitiate Uncle Philip.

"You were in the auction-room, sir?" said Mrs. Cole, severely.

"I was, madam.  He! he!"

"Furnishing a house?"

"No, ma'am.  I go to a dozen sales a week; but it is not to buy--I
enjoy the humors.  Did you ever hear of Robert Burton, ma'am?"

"No.  Yes; a great traveller, isn't he?  Discovered the Nile--or
the Niger--or SOMETHING?"

This majestic vagueness staggered old Crusty at first, but he
recovered his equilibrium, and said, "Why, yes, now I think of it,
you are right; he has travelled farther than most of us, for about
two centuries ago he visited that bourn whence no traveller
returns.  Well, when he was alive--he was a student of
Christchurch--he used to go down to a certain bridge over the Isis
and enjoy the chaff of the bargemen.  Now there are no bargemen
left to speak of; the mantle of Bobby Burton's bargees has fallen
on the Jews and demi-semi-Christians that buy and sell furniture at
the weekly auctions; thither I repair to hear what little coarse
wit is left us.  Used to go to the House of Commons; but they are
getting too civil by half for my money.  Besides, characters come
out in an auction.  For instance, only this very day I saw two
ladies enter, in gorgeous attire, like heifers decked for
sacrifice, and reduce their spoliation to a certainty by employing
a broker to bid.  Now, what is a broker?  A fellow who is to be
paid a shilling in the pound for all articles purchased.  What is
his interest, then?  To buy cheap?  Clearly not.  He is paid in
proportion to the dearness of the article."

Rosa's face began to work piteously.

"Accordingly, what did the broker in question do?  He winked to
another broker, and these two bid against one another, over their
victim's head, and ran everything she wanted up at least a hundred
per cent above the value.  So open and transparent a swindle I have
seldom seen, even in an auction-room.  Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!"

His mirth was interrupted by Rosa going to her husband, hiding her
head on his shoulder, and meekly crying.

Christopher comforted her like a man.  "Don't you cry, darling,"
said he; "how should a pure creature like you know the badness of
the world all in a moment?  If it is my wife you are laughing at,
Uncle Philip, let me tell you this is the wrong place.  I'd rather
a thousand times have her as she is, than armed with the cunning
and suspicions of a hardened old worldling like you."

"With all my heart," said Uncle Philip, who, to do him justice,
could take blows as well as give them; "but why employ a broker?
Why pay a scoundrel five per cent to make you pay a hundred per
cent?  Why pay a noisy fool a farthing to open his mouth for you
when you have taken the trouble to be there yourself, and have got
a mouth of your own to bid discreetly with?  Was ever such an
absurdity?"  He began to get angry.

"Do you want to quarrel with me, Uncle Philip?" said Christopher,
firing up; "because sneering at my Rosa is the way, and the only
way, and the sure way."

"Oh, no," said Rosa, interposing.  "Uncle Philip was right.  I am
very foolish and inexperienced, but I am not so vain as to turn
from good advice.  I will never employ a broker again, sir."

Uncle Philip smiled and looked pleased.

Mrs. Cole caused a diversion by taking leave, and Rosa followed her
down-stairs.  On her return she found Christopher telling his uncle
all about the Bijou, and how he had taken it for a hundred and
thirty pounds a year and a hundred pounds premium, and Uncle Philip
staring fearfully.

At last he found his tongue.  "The Bijou!" said he.  "Why, that is
a name they gave to a little den in Dear Street, Mayfair.  You
haven't ever been and taken THAT!  Built over a mews."

Christopher groaned.  "That is the place, I fear."

"Why the owner is a friend of mine; an old patient.  Stables stunk
him out.  Let it to a man; I forget his name.  Stables stunk HIM
out.  He said, 'I shall go.'  'You can't,' said my friend; 'you
have taken a lease.'  'Lease be d--d,' said the other; 'I never
took YOUR house; here's quite a large stench not specified in your
description of the property--IT CAN'T BE THE SAME PLACE;' flung the
lease at his head, and cut like the wind to foreign parts less
odoriferous.  I'd have got you the hole for ninety; but you are
like your wife--you must go to an agent.  What! don't you know that
an agent is a man acting for you with an interest opposed to yours?
Employing an agent! it is like a Trojan seeking the aid of a Greek.
You needn't cry, Mrs. Staines; your husband has been let in deeper
than you have.  Now, you are young people beginning life; I'll give
you a piece of advice.  Employ others to do what you can't do, and
it must be done; but never to do anything you can do better for
yourselves!  Agent!  The word is derived from a Latin word 'agere,'
to do; and agents act up to their etymology, for they invariably DO
the nincompoop that employs them, or deals with them, in any mortal
way.  I'd have got you that beastly little Bijou for ninety pounds
a year."

Uncle Philip went away crusty, leaving the young couple finely
mortified and discouraged.

That did not last very long.  Christopher noted the experience and
Uncle Phil's wisdom in his diary, and then took his wife on his
knee, and comforted her, and said, "Never mind; experience is worth
money, and it always has to be bought.  Those who cheat us will die
poorer than we shall, if we are honest and economical.  I have
observed that people are seldom ruined by the vices of others;
these may hurt them, of course; but it is only their own faults and
follies that can destroy them."

"Ah! Christie," said Rosa, "you are a man!  Oh, the comfort of
being married to A MAN.  A man sees the best side.  I do adore men.
Dearest, I will waste no more of your money.  I will go to no more
sales."

Christopher saw she was deeply mortified, and he said, quietly, "On
the contrary, you will go to the very next.  Only take Uncle
Philip's advice, employ no broker; and watch the prices things
fetch when you are not bidding; and keep cool."

She caressed his ears with both her white hands, and thanked him
for giving her another trial.  So that trouble melted in the
sunshine of conjugal love.

Notwithstanding the agent's solemn assurance, the Bijou was out of
repair.  Dr. Staines detected internal odors, as well as those that
flowed in from the mews.  He was not the man to let his wife perish
by miasma; so he had the drains all up, and actually found brick
drains, and a cesspool.  He stopped that up, and laid down new pipe
drains, with a good fall, and properly trapped.  The old drains
were hidden, after the manner of builders.  He had the whole course
of his new drains marked upon all the floors they passed under, and
had several stones and boards hinged to facilitate examination at
any period.

But all this, with the necessary cleaning, whitewashing, painting,
and papering, ran away with money.  Then came Rosa's purchases,
which, to her amazement, amounted to one hundred and ninety pounds,
and not a carpet, curtain, or bed amongst the lot.  Then there was
the carriage home from the auction-room, an expense one avoids by
buying at a shop, and the broker claimed his shilling in the pound.
This, however, Staines refused.  The man came and blustered.  Rosa,
who was there, trembled.  Then, for the first time, she saw her
husband's brow lower; he seemed transfigured, and looked terrible.
"You scoundrel," said he, "you set another villain like yourself to
bid against you, and you betrayed the innocent lady that employed
you.  I could indict you and your confederate for a conspiracy.  I
take the goods out of respect for my wife's credit, but you shall
gain nothing by swindling her.  Be off, you heartless miscreant, or
I'll"--

"I'll take the law, if you do."

"Take it, then!  I'll give you something to howl for;" and he
seized him with a grasp so tremendous that the fellow cried out in
dismay, "Oh! don't hit me, sir; pray don't."

On this abject appeal, Staines tore the door open with his left
hand, and spun the broker out into the passage with his right.  Two
movements of this angry Hercules, and the man was literally whirled
out of sight with a rapidity and swiftness almost ludicrous; it was
like a trick in a pantomime.  A clatter on the stairs betrayed that
he had gone down the first few steps in a wholesale and irregular
manner, though he had just managed to keep his feet.

As for Staines, he stood there still lowering like thunder, and his
eyes like hot coals; but his wife threw her tender arms around him,
and begged him consolingly not to mind.

She was trembling like an aspen.

"Dear me," said Christopher, with a ludicrous change to marked
politeness and respect, "I forgot YOU, in my righteous
indignation."  Next he became uxorious.  "Did they frighten her, a
duck?  Sit on my knee, darling, and pull my hair, for not being
more considerate--there! there!"

This was followed by the whole absurd soothing process, as
practised by manly husbands upon quivering and somewhat hysterical
wives, and ended with a formal apology.  "You must not think that I
am passionate; on the contrary, I am always practising self-
government.  My maxim is, Animum rege qui nisi paret imperat, and
that means, Make your temper your servant, or else it will be your
master.  But to ill-use my dear little wife--it is unnatural, it is
monstrous, it makes my blood boil."

"Oh, dear! don't go into another.  It is all over.  I can't bear to
see you in a passion; you are so terrible, so beautiful.  Ah! they
are fine things, courage and strength.  There's nothing I admire so
much."

"Why, they are as common as dirt.  What I admire is modesty,
timidity, sweetness; the sensitive cheek that pales or blushes at a
word, the bosom that quivers, and clings to a fellow whenever
anything goes wrong."

"Oh, that is what you admire, is it?" said Rosa dryly.

"Admire it?" said Christopher, not seeing the trap; "I adore it."

"Then, Christie, dear, you are a Simpleton, that is all.  And we
are made for one another."

The house was to be furnished and occupied as soon as possible; so
Mrs. Staines and Mrs. Cole went to another sale-room.  Mrs. Staines
remembered all Uncle Philip had said, and went plainly dressed; but
her friend declined to sacrifice her showy dress to her friend's
interests.  Rosa thought that a little unkind, but said nothing.

In this auction-room they easily got a place at the table, but did
not find it heaven; for a number of secondhand carpets were in the
sale, and these, brimful of dust, were all shown on the table, and
the dirt choked, and poisoned our fair friends.  Brokers pestered
them, until at last Rosa, smarting under her late exposure,
addressed the auctioneer quietly, in her silvery tones: "Sir, these
gentlemen are annoying me by forcing their services on me.  I do
not intend to buy at all unless I can be allowed to bid for
myself."

When Rosa, blushing and amazed at her own boldness, uttered these
words, she little foresaw their effect.  She had touched a popular
sore.

"You are quite right, madam," said a respectable tradesman opposite
her.  "What business have these dirty fellows, without a shilling
in their pockets, to go and force themselves on a lady against her
will?"

"It has been complained of in the papers again and again," said
another.

"What! mayn't we live as well as you?" retorted a broker.

"Yes, but not to force yourself on a lady.  Why, she'd give you in
charge of the police if you tried it on outside."

Then there was a downright clamor of discussion and chaff.

Presently up rises very slowly a countryman so colossal, that it
seemed as if he would never have done getting up, and gives his
experiences.  He informed the company, in a broad Yorkshire
dialect, that he did a bit in furniture, and at first starting
these brokers buzzed about him like flies, and pestered him.  "Aah
damned 'em pretty hard," said he, "but they didn't heed any.  So
then ah spoke 'em civil, and ah said, 'Well, lads, I dinna come fra
Yorkshire to sit like a dummy and let you buy wi' my brass; the
first that pesters me again ah'll just fell him on t' plaace, like
a caulf, and ah'm not very sure he'll get up again in a hurry.'  So
they dropped me like a hot potato; never pestered me again.  But if
they won't give over pestering you, mistress, ah'll come round and
just stand behind your chair, and bring nieve with me," showing a
fist like a leg of mutton.

"No, no," said the auctioneer, "that will not do.  I will have no
disturbance here.  Call the policeman."

While the clerk went to the door for the bobby, a gentleman
reminded the auctioneer that the journals had repeatedly drawn
attention to the nuisance.

"Fault of the public, not mine, sir.  Policeman, stand behind that
lady's chair, and if anybody annoys her put him quietly into the
street."

"This auction-room will be to let soon," said a voice at the end of
the table.

"This auction-room," said the auctioneer, master of the gay or
grave at a moment's notice, "is supported by the public and the
trade; it is not supported by paupers."

A Jew upholsterer put in his word.  "I do my own business; but I
like to let a poor man live."

"Jonathan," said the auctioneer to one of his servants, "after this
sale you may put up the shutters; we have gone and offended Mr.
Jacobs.  He keeps a shop in Blind Alley, Whitechapel.  Now then,
lot 69."

Rosa bid timidly for one or two lots, and bought them cheap.

The auctioneer kept looking her way, and she had only to nod.

The obnoxious broker got opposite her, and ran her up a little out
of spite; but as he had only got half a crown about him, and no
means of doubling it, he dared not go far.

On the other side of the table was a figure to which Rosa's eyes
often turned with interest--a fair young boy about twelve years
old; he had golden hair, and was in deep mourning.  His appearance
interested Rosa, and she wondered how he came there, and why; he
looked like a lamb wedged in among wolves, a flower among weeds.
As the lots proceeded, the boy seemed to get uneasy; and at last,
when lot '73 was put up, anybody could see in his poor little face
that he was there to bid for it.

"Lot '73, an armchair covered in morocco.  An excellent and useful
article.  Should not be at all surprised if it was made by Gillow."

"Gillow would though," said Jacobs, who owed him a turn.

Chorus of dealers.--"Haw! haw!"

The auctioneer.--"I like to hear some people run a lot down; shows
they are going to bid for it in earnest.  Well, name your own
price.  Five pounds to begin?"

Now if nobody had spoken the auctioneer would have gone on, "Well,
four pounds then--three, two, whatever you like," and at last
obtained a bona fide offer of thirty shillings; but the moment he
said "Five pounds to begin," the boy in black lifted up his
childish treble and bid thus, "Five pound ten"--"six pounds"--"six
pound ten"--"seven pounds"--"seven pound ten"--"eight pounds"--
"eight pound ten"--"nine pounds"--"nine pound ten"--"ten pounds!"
without interruption, and indeed almost in a breath.

There was a momentary pause of amazement, and then an outburst of
chaff.

"Nice little boy!"

"Didn't he say his lesson well?"

"Favor us with your card, sir.  You are a gent as knows how to
buy."

"What did he stop for?  If it's worth ten, it is worth a hundred."

"Bless the child!" said a female dealer, kindly, "what made you go
on like that?  Why, there was no one bid against you! you'd have
got it for two pounds--a rickety old thing."

Young master began to whimper.  "Why, the gentleman said, 'Five
pounds to BEGIN.'  It was the chair poor grandpapa always sat in,
and all the things are sold, and mamma said it would break her
heart to lose it.  She was too ill to come, so she sent me.  She
told me I was not to let it be sold away from us for less than ten
pounds, or she sh--should be m--m--miserable," and the poor little
fellow began to cry.  Rosa followed suit promptly but unobtrusively.

"Sentiment always costs money," said Mr. Jacobs, gravely.

"How do you know?" asked Mr. Cohen.  "Have YOU got any on hand?  I
never seen none at your shop."

Some tempting things now came up, and Mrs. Staines bid freely; but
all of a sudden she looked down the table, and there was Uncle
Philip, twinkling as before.  "Oh, dear! what am I doing now!"
thought she.  "I have got no broker."

She bid on, but in fear and trembling, because of those twinkling
eyes.  At last she mustered courage, wrote on a leaf of her pocket-
book, and passed it down to him: "It would be only kind to warn me.
What am I doing wrong?"

He sent her back a line directly: "Auctioneer running you up
himself.  Follow his eye when he bids; you will see there is no
bona fide bidder at your prices."

Rosa did so, and found that it was true.

She nodded to Uncle Philip; and, with her expressive face, asked
him what she should do.

The old boy must have his joke.  So he wrote back: "Tell him, as
you see he has a fancy for certain articles, you would not be so
discourteous as to bid against him."

The next article but one was a drawing-room suite Rosa wanted; but
the auctioneer bid against her; so at eighteen pounds she stopped.

"It is against you, madam," said the auctioneer.

"Yes, sir," said Rosa; "but as you are the only bidder, and you
have been so kind to me, I would not think of opposing you."

The words were scarcely out of her mouth, when they were greeted
with a roar of Homeric laughter that literally shook the room, and
this time not at the expense of the innocent speaker.

"That's into your mutton, governor."

"Sharp's the word this time."

"I say, governor, don't you want a broker to bid for ye?"

"Wink at me next time, sir; I'll do the office for you."

"No greenhorns left now."

"That lady won't give a ten-pund note for her grandfather's
armchair."

"Oh, yes, she will, if it's stuffed with banknotes."

"Put the next lot up with the owner's name and the reserve price.
Open business."

"And sing a psalm at starting."

"A little less noise in Judaea, if you please," said the
auctioneer, who had now recovered from the blow.  "Lot 97."

This was a very pretty marqueterie cabinet; it stood against the
wall, and Rosa had set her heart upon it.  Nobody would bid.  She
had muzzled the auctioneer effectually.

"Your own price."

"Two pounds," said Rosa.

A dealer offered guineas; and it advanced slowly to four pounds and
half a crown, at which it was about to be knocked down to Rosa,
when suddenly a new bidder arose in the broker Rosa had rejected.
They bid slowly and sturdily against each other, until a line was
given to Rosa from Uncle Philip.

"This time it is your own friend, the snipe-nosed woman.  She
telegraphed a broker."

Rosa read, and crushed the note.  "Six guineas," said she.

"Six-ten."

"Seven."

"Seven-ten."

"Eight."

"Eight-ten."

"Ten guineas," said Rosa; and then, with feminine cunning, stealing
a sudden glance, caught her friend leaning back and signalling the
broker not to give in.

"Eleven pounds."

"Twelve."

"Thirteen."

"Fourteen."

"Sixteen."

"Eighteen."

"Twenty."

"Twenty guineas."

"It is yours, my faithful friend," said Rosa, turning suddenly
round to Mrs. Cole, with a magnificent glance no one would have
thought her capable of.

Then she rose and stalked away.

Dumfounded for the moment, Mrs. Cole followed her, and stopped her
at the door.

"Why, Rosie dear, it is the only thing I have bid for.  There I've
sat by your side like a mouse."

Rosa turned gravely towards her.  "You know it is not that.  You
had only to tell me you wanted it.  I would never have been so mean
as to bid against you."

"Mean, indeed!" said.  Florence, tossing her head.

"Yes, mean; to draw back and hide behind the friend you were with,
and employ the very rogue she had turned off.  But it is my own
fault.  Cecilia warned me against you.  She always said you were a
treacherous girl."

"And I say you are an impudent little minx.  Only just married, and
going about like two vagabonds, and talk to me like that!"

"We are not going about like two vagabonds.  We have taken a house
in Mayfair."

"Say a stable."

"It was by your advice, you false-hearted creature."

"You are a fool."

"You are worse; you are a traitress."

"Then don't you have anything to do with me."

"Heaven forbid I should, you treacherous thing!"

"You insolent--insolent--I hate you."

"And I despise you."

"I always hated you at bottom."

"That's why you pretended to love me, you wretch."

"Well, I pretend no more.  I am your enemy for life."

"Thank you.  You have told the truth for once in your life."

"I have.  And he shall never call in your husband; so you may leave
Mayfair as soon as you like."

"Not to please you, madam.  We can get on without traitors."

And so they parted, with eyes that gleamed like tigers.

Rosa drove home in great agitation, and tried to tell Christopher;
but choked, and became hysterical.  The husband-physician coaxed
and scolded her out of that; and presently in came Uncle Philip,
full of the humors of the auction-room.  He told about the little
boy with a delight that disgusted Mrs. Staines, and then was
particularly merry on female friendships.  "Fancy a man going to a
sale with his friend, and bidding against him on the sly."

"She is no friend of mine.  We are enemies for life."

"And you were to be friends till death," said Staines, with a sigh.

Philip inquired who she was.

"Mrs. John Cole."

"Not of Curzon Street?"

"Yes."

"And you have quarrelled with her?"

"Yes."

"Well, but her husband is a general practitioner."

"She is a traitress."

"But her husband could put a good deal of money in Christopher's
way."

"I can't help it.  She is a traitress."

"And you have quarrelled with her about an old wardrobe."

"No, for her disloyalty, and her base good-for-nothingness.  Oh!
oh! oh!"

Uncle Philip got up, looking sour.  "Good afternoon, Mrs.
Christopher," said he, very dryly.

Christopher accompanied him to the foot of the stairs.  "Well,
Christopher," said he, "matrimony is a blunder at the best; and you
have not done the thing by halves.  You have married a simpleton.
She will be your ruin."

"Uncle Philip, since you only come here to insult us, I hope in
future you will stay at home."

"Oh! with pleasure, sir.  Good-by!"


CHAPTER VII.


Christopher Staines came back, looking pained and disturbed.
"There," said he, "I feared it would come to this.  I have
quarrelled with Uncle Philip."

"Oh! how could you?"

"He affronted me."

"What about?"

"Never you mind.  Don't let us say anything more about it, darling.
It is a pity, a sad pity--he was a good friend of mine once."

He paused, entered what had passed in his diary, and then sat down,
with a gentle expression of sadness on his manly features.  Rosa
hung about him, soft and pitying, till it cleared away, at all
events for the time.

Next day they went together to clear the goods Rosa had purchased.
Whilst the list was being made out in the office, in came the fair-
haired boy, with a ten-pound note in his very hand.  Rosa caught
sight of it, and turned to the auctioneer, with a sweet, pitying
face:

"Oh! sir, surely you will not take all that money from him, poor
child, for a rickety old chair."

The auctioneer stared with amazement at her simplicity, and said,
"What would the vendors say to me?"

She looked distressed, and said, "Well, then, really we ought to
raise a subscription, poor thing!"

"Why, ma'am," said the auctioneer, "he isn't hurt: the article
belonged to his mother and her sister; the brother-in-law isn't on
good terms; so he demanded a public sale.  She will get back four
pun ten out of it."  Here the clerk put in his word.  "And there's
five pounds paid, I forgot to tell you."

"Oh! left a deposit, did he?"

"No, sir.  But the laughing hyena gave you five pounds at the end
of the sale."

"The laughing hyena, Mr. Jones?"

"Oh! beg pardon; that is what we call him in the room.  He has got
such a curious laugh."

"Oh! I know the gent.  He is a retired doctor.  I wish he'd laugh
less and buy more: and HE gave you five pounds towards the young
gentleman's arm-chair!  Well, I should as soon have expected blood
from a flint.  You have got five pounds to pay, sir: so now the
chair will cost your mamma ten shillings.  Give him the order and
the change, Mr. Jones."

Christopher and Rosa talked this over in the room whilst the men
were looking out their purchases.  "Come," said Rosa; "now I
forgive him sneering at me; his heart is not really hard, you see."
Staines, on the contrary, was very angry.  "What!" he cried, pity a
boy who made one bad bargain, that, after all, was not a very bad
bargain; and he had no kindness, nor even common humanity, for my
beautiful Rosa, inexperienced as a child, and buying for her
husband, like a good, affectionate, honest creature, amongst a lot
of sharpers and hard-hearted cynics--like himself."

"It WAS cruel of him," said Rosa, altering her mind in a moment,
and half inclined to cry.

This made Christopher furious.  "The ill-natured, crotchety, old--
the fact is, he is a misogynist."

"Oh, the wretch!" said Rosa warmly.  "And what is that?"

"A woman-hater."

"Oh! is that all?  Why, so do I--after that Florence Cole.  Women
are mean, heartless things.  Give me men; they are loyal and true."

"All of them?" inquired Christopher, a little satirically.  "Read
the papers."

"Every soul of them," said Mrs. Staines, passing loftily over the
proposed test.  "That is, all the ones I care about; and that is my
own, own one."

Disagreeable creatures to have about one--these simpletons!

Mrs. Staines took Christopher to shops to buy the remaining
requisites: and in three days more the house was furnished, two
female servants engaged, and the couple took their luggage over to
the Bijou.

Rosa was excited and happy at the novelty of possession and
authority, and that close sense of house proprietorship which
belongs to woman.  By dinner-time she could have told you how many
shelves there were in every cupboard, and knew the Bijou by heart
in a way that Christopher never knew it.  All this ended, as
running about and excitement generally does, with my lady being
exhausted, and lax with fatigue.  So then he made her lie down on a
little couch, while he went through his accounts.

When he had examined all the bills carefully he looked very grave,
and said, "Who would believe this?  We began with three thousand
pounds.  It was to last us several years--till I got a good
practice.  Rosa, there is only fourteen hundred and forty pounds
left."

"Oh, impossible!" said Rosa.  "Oh, dear! why did I ever enter a
saleroom?"

"No, no, my darling; you were bitten once or twice, but you made
some good bargains too.  Remember there was four hundred pounds set
apart for my life policy."

"What a waste of money!"

"Your father did not think so.  Then the lease; the premium;
repairs of the drains that would have poisoned my Rosa; turning the
coach-house into a dispensary; painting, papering, and furnishing;
china, and linen, and everything to buy.  We must look at this
seriously.  Only fourteen hundred and forty pounds left.  A slow
profession.  No friends.  I have quarrelled with Uncle Philip: you
with Mrs. Cole; and her husband would have launched me."

"And it was to please her we settled here.  Oh, I could kill her:
nasty cat!"

"Never mind; it is not a case for despondency, but it is for
prudence.  All we have to do is to look the thing in the face, and
be very economical in everything.  I had better give you an
allowance for housekeeping; and I earnestly beg you to buy things
yourself whilst you are a poor man's wife, and pay ready money for
everything.  My mother was a great manager, and she always said,
'There is but one way: be your own market-woman, and pay on the
spot; never let the tradesmen get you on their books, or, what with
false weight, double charges, and the things your servants order
that never enter the house, you lose more than a hundred a year by
cheating.'"

Rosa yielded a languid assent to this part of his discourse, and it
hardly seemed to enter her mind; but she raised no objection; and
in due course he made her a special allowance for housekeeping.

It soon transpired that medical advice was to be had, gratis, at
the Bijou, from eight till ten: and there was generally a good
attendance.  But a week passed, and not one patient came of the
class this couple must live by.  Christopher set this down to what
people call "the transition period:" his Kent patients had lost
him; his London patients not found him.  He wrote to all his
patients in the country, and many of his pupils at the university,
to let them know where he was settled: and then he waited.

Not a creature came.

Rosa bore this very well for a time, so long as the house was a
novelty; but when that excitement was worn out, she began to be
very dull, and used to come and entice him out to walk with her: he
would look wistfully at her, but object that, if he left the house,
he should be sure to lose a patient.

"Oh, they won't come any more for our staying in--tiresome things!"
said Rosa.

But Christopher would kiss her, and remain firm.  "My love," said
he, "you do not realize how hard a fight there is before us.  How
should you?  You are very young.  No, for your sake, I must not
throw a chance away.  Write to your female friends: that will while
away an hour or two."

"What, after that Florence Cole?"

"Write to those who have not made such violent professions."

"So I will, dear.  Especially to those that are married and come to
London.  Oh, and I'll write to that cold-blooded thing, Lady Cicely
Treherne.  Why do you shake your head?"

"Did I?  I was not aware.  Well, dear, if ladies of rank were to
come here, I fear they might make you discontented with your lot."

"All the women on earth could not do that.  However, the chances
are she will not come near me: she left the school quite a big
girl, an immense girl, when I was only twelve.  She used to smile
at my capriccios; and once she kissed me--actually.  She was an
awful Sawny, though, and so affected: I think I will write to her."

These letters brought just one lady, a Mrs. Turner, who talked to
Rosa very glibly about herself, and amused Rosa twice: at the third
visit, Rosa tried to change the conversation.  Mrs. Turner
instantly got up, and went away.  She could not bear the sound of
the human voice, unless it was talking about her and her affairs.

And now Staines began to feel downright uneasy.  Income was going
steadily out: not a shilling coming in.  The lame, the blind, and
the sick frequented his dispensary, and got his skill out of him
gratis, and sometimes a little physic, a little wine, and other
things that cost him money: but of the patients that pay, not one
came to his front door.

He walked round and round his little yard, like a hyena in its
cage, waiting, waiting, waiting: and oh! how he envied the lot of
those who can hunt for work, instead of having to stay at home and
wait for others to come, whose will they cannot influence.  His
heart began to sicken with hope deferred, and dim forebodings of
the future; and he saw, with grief, that his wife was getting
duller and duller, and that her days dragged more heavily, far than
his own; for he could study.

At last his knocker began to show signs of life: his visitors were
physicians.  His lectures on "Diagnosis" were well known to them;
and one after another found him out.  They were polite, kind, even
friendly; but here it ended: these gentlemen, of course, did not
resign their patients to him; and the inferior class of
practitioners avoided his door like a pestilence.

Mrs. Staines, who had always lived for amusement, could strike out
no fixed occupation; her time hung like lead; the house was small;
and in small houses the faults of servants run against the
mistress, and she can't help seeing them, and all the worse for
her.  It is easier to keep things clean in the country, and Rosa
had a high standard, which her two servants could never quite
attain.  This annoyed her, and she began to scold a little.  They
answered civilly, but in other respects remained imperfect beings;
they laid out every shilling they earned in finery; and, this, I am
ashamed to say, irritated Mrs. Staines, who was wearing out her
wedding garments, and had no excuse for buying, and Staines had
begged her to be economical.  The more they dressed, the more she
scolded; they began to answer.  She gave the cook warning; the
other, though not on good terms with the cook, had a gush of esprit
de corps directly, and gave Mrs. Staines warning.

Mrs. Staines told her husband all this: he took her part, though
without openly interfering; and they had two new servants, not so
good as the last.

This worried Rosa sadly; but it was a flea-bite to the deeper
nature, and more forecasting mind of her husband, still doomed to
pace that miserable yard, like a hyena, chafing, seeking, longing
for the patient that never came.

Rosa used to look out of his dressing-room window, and see him pace
the yard.  At first, tears of pity stood in her eyes.  By and by
she got angry with the world; and at last, strange to say, a little
irritated with him.  It is hard for a weak woman to keep up all her
respect for the man that fails.

One day, after watching him a long time unseen, she got excited,
put on her shawl and bonnet, and ran down to him: she took him by
the arm: "If you love me, come out of this prison, and walk with
me; we are too miserable.  I shall be your first patient if this
goes on much longer."  He looked at her, saw she was very excited,
and had better be humored; so he kissed her and just said, with a
melancholy smile, "How poor are they that have not patience!"  Then
he put on his hat, and walked in the Park and Kensington Gardens
with her.  The season was just beginning.  There were carriages
enough, and gay Amazons enough, to make poor Rosa sigh more than
once.

Christopher heard the sigh; and pressed her arm, and said,
"Courage, love, I hope to see you among them yet."

"The sooner the better," said she, a little hardly.

"And, meantime, which of them all is as beautiful as you?"

"All I know is, they are more attractive.  Who looks at me, walking
tamely by?"

Christopher said nothing: but these words seemed to imply a thirst
for admiration, and made him a little uneasy.

By and by the walk put the swift-changing Rosa in spirits, and she
began to chat gayly, and hung prattling and beaming on her
husband's arm, when they entered Curzon Street.  Here, however,
occurred an incident, trifling in itself, but unpleasant.  Dr.
Staines saw one of his best Kentish patients get feebly out of his
carriage, and call on Dr. Barr.  He started, and stopped.  Rosa
asked what was the matter.  He told her.  She said, "We ARE
unfortunate."

Staines said nothing; he only quickened his pace; but he was
greatly disturbed.  She expected him to complain that she had
dragged him out, and lost him that first chance.  But he said
nothing.  When they got home, he asked the servant had anybody
called.

"No, Sir."

"Surely you are mistaken, Jane.  A gentleman in a carriage!"

"Not a creature have been since you went out, sir."

"Well, then, dearest," said he sweetly, "we have nothing to
reproach ourselves with."  Then he knit his brow gloomily.  "It is
worse than I thought.  It seems even one's country patients go to
another doctor when they visit London.  It is hard.  It is hard."

Rosa leaned her head on his shoulder, and curled round him, as one
she would shield against the world's injustice; but she said
nothing; she was a little frightened at his eye that lowered, and
his noble frame that trembled a little, with ire suppressed.

Two days after this, a brougham drove up to the door, and a
tallish, fattish, pasty-faced man got out, and inquired for Dr.
Staines.

He was shown into the dining-room, and told Jane he had come to
consult the doctor.

Rosa had peeped over the stairs, all curiosity; she glided
noiselessly down, and with love's swift foot got into the yard
before Jane.  "He is come! he is come!  Kiss me."

Dr. Staines kissed her first, and then asked who was come.

"Oh, nobody of any consequence.  ONLY the first patient.  Kiss me
again."

Dr. Staines kissed her again, and then was for going to the first
patient.

"No," said she; "not yet.  I met a doctor's wife at Dr. Mayne's,
and she told me things.  You must always keep them waiting; or else
they think nothing of you.  Such a funny woman!  'Treat 'em like
dogs, my dear,' she said.  But I told her they wouldn't come to be
treated like dogs or any other animal."

"You had better have kept that to yourself, I think."

"Oh! if you are going to be disagreeable, good-by.  You can go to
your patient, sir.  Christie, dear, if he is very--very ill--and
I'm sure I hope he is--oh, how wicked I am; may I have a new
bonnet?"

"If you really want one."

On the patient's card was "Mr. Pettigrew, 47 Manchester Square."

As soon as Staines entered the room, the first patient told him who
and what he was, a retired civilian from India; but he had got a
son there still, a very rising man; wanted to be a parson; but he
would not stand that; bad profession; don't rise by merit; very
hard to rise at all;--no, India was the place.  "As for me, I made
my fortune there in ten years.  Obliged to leave it now--invalid
this many years; no TONE.  Tried two or three doctors in this
neighborhood; heard there was a new one, had written a book on
something.  Thought I would try HIM."

To stop him, Staines requested to feel his pulse, and examine his
tongue and eye.

"You are suffering from indigestion," said he.  "I will write you a
prescription; but if you want to get well, you must simplify your
diet very much."

While he was writing the prescription, off went this patient's
tongue, and ran through the topics of the day and into his family
history again.

Staines listened politely.  He could afford it, having only this
one.

At last, the first patient, having delivered an octavo volume of
nothing, rose to go; but it seems that speaking an "infinite deal
of nothing" exhausts the body, though it does not affect the mind;
for the first patient sank down in his chair again.  "I have
excited myself too much--feel rather faint."

Staines saw no signs of coming syncope; he rang the bell quietly,
and ordered a decanter of sherry to be brought; the first patient
filled himself a glass; then another; and went off, revived, to
chatter elsewhere.  But at the door he said, "I had always a
running account with Dr. Mivar.  I suppose you don't object to that
system.  Double fee the first visit, single afterwards."

Dr. Staines bowed a little stiffly; he would have preferred the
money.  However, he looked at the Blue Book, and found his visitor
lived at 47 Manchester Square; so that removed his anxiety.

The first patient called every other day, chattered nineteen to the
dozen, was exhausted, drank two glasses of sherry, and drove away.

Soon after this a second patient called.  This one was a deputy
patient--Collett, a retired butler--kept a lodging-house, and
waited at parties; he lived close by, but had a married daughter in
Chelsea.  Would the doctor visit her, and HE would be responsible?

Staines paid the woman a visit or two, and treated her so
effectually, that soon her visits were paid to him.  She was cured,
and Staines, who by this time wanted to see money, sent to Collett.

Collett did not answer.

Staines wrote warmly.

Collett dead silent.

Staines employed a solicitor.

Collett said he had recommended the patient, that was all.  He had
never said he would pay her debts.  That was her husband's
business.

Now her husband was the mate of a ship; would not be in England for
eighteen months.

The woman, visited by lawyer's clerk, cried bitterly, and said she
and her children had scarcely enough to eat.

Lawyer advised Staines to abandon the case, and pay him two pounds
fifteen shillings expenses.  He did so.

"This is damnable," said he.  "I must get it out of Pettigrew; by-
the-by, he has not been here this two days."

He waited another day for Pettigrew, and then wrote to him.  No
answer.  Called.  Pettigrew gone abroad.  House in Manchester
Square to let.

Staines went to the house-agent with his tale.  Agent was
impenetrable at first; but, at last, won by the doctor's manner and
his unhappiness, referred him to Pettigrew's solicitor; the
solicitor was a respectable man, and said he would forward the
claim to Pettigrew in Paris.

But by this time Pettigrew was chattering and guzzling in Berlin;
and thence he got to St. Petersburg.  In that stronghold of
gluttony, he gormandized more than ever, and, being unable to talk
it off his stomach, as in other cities, had apoplexy, and died.

But long before this Staines saw his money was as irrecoverable as
his sherry; and he said to Rosa, "I wonder whether I shall ever
live to curse the human race?"

"Heaven forbid!" said Rosa.  "Oh, they use you cruelly, my poor,
poor Christie!"

Thus for months the young doctor's patients bled him, and that was
all.

And Rosa got more and more moped at being in the house so much, and
pestered Christopher to take her out, and he declined: and, being a
man hard to beat, took to writing on medical subjects, in hopes of
getting some money from the various medical and scientific
publications; but he found it as hard to get the wedge in there as
to get patients.

At last Rosa's remonstrances began to rise into something that
sounded like reproaches.  One Sunday she came to him in her bonnet,
and interrupted his studies, to say he might as well lay down the
pen, and talk.  Nobody would publish anything he wrote.

Christopher frowned, but contained himself, and laid down the pen.

"I might as well not be married at all as be a doctor's wife.  You
are never seen out with me, not even to church.  Do behave like a
Christian, and come to church with me now."

Dr. Staines shook his head.

"Why, I wouldn't miss church for all the world.  Any excitement is
better than always moping.  Come over the water with me.  The time
Jane and I went, the clergyman read a paper that Mr. Brown had
fallen down in a fit.  There was such a rush directly, and I'm sure
fifty ladies went out--fancy, all Mrs. Browns!  Wasn't that fun?"

"Fun?  I don't see it.  Well, Rosa, your mind is evidently better
adapted to diversion than mine is.  Go you to church, love, and
I'll continue my studies."

"Then all I can say is, I wish I was back in my father's house.
Husband! friend! companion!--I have none."

Then she burst out crying violently; and, being shocked at what she
had said, and at the agony it had brought into her husband's face,
she went off into hysterics; and as his heart would not let him
bellow at her, or empty a bucket on her as he would on another
patient, she had a good long bout of them: and got her way, for she
broke up his studies for that day, at all events.

Even after the hysterics were got under, she continued to moan and
sigh very prettily, with her lovely, languid head pillowed on her
husband's arm; in a word, though the hysterics were real, yet this
innocent young person had the presence of mind to postpone entire
convalescence, and lay herself out to be petted all day.  But fate
willed it otherwise: while she was sighing and moaning, came to the
door a scurrying of feet, and then a sharp, persistent ringing that
meant something.  The moaner cocked eye and ear, and said, in her
every-day voice, which, coming so suddenly, sounded very droll,
"What is that, I wonder?"

Jane hurried to the street-door, and Rosa recovered by magic; and,
preferring gossip to hysterics, in an almost gleeful whisper,
ordered Christopher to open the door of the study.  The Bijou was
so small that the following dialogue rang in their ears:--

A boy in buttons gasped out, "Oh, if you please, will you ast the
doctor to come round directly; there's a haccident."

"La, bless me!" said Jane, and never budged.

"Yes, miss.  It's our missus's little girl fallen right off an
i-chair, and cut her head dreadful, and smothered in blood."

"La, to be sure!" And she waited steadily for more.

"Ay, and missus she fainted right off; and I've been to the regler
doctor, which he's out; and Sarah, the housemaid, said I had better
come here; you was only just set up, she said; you wouldn't have so
much to do, says she."

"That is all SHE knows," said Jane.  "Why, our master--they pulls
him in pieces which is to have him fust."

"What an awful liar!  Oh, you good girl!" whispered Dr. Staines and
Rosa in one breath.

"Ah, well," said Buttons, "any way, Sarah says she knows you are
clever, 'cos her little girl as lives with her mother, and calls
Sarah aunt, has bin to your 'spensary with ringworm, and you cured
her right off."

"Ay, and a good many more," said Jane, loftily.  She was a
housemaid of imagination; and while Staines was putting some lint
and an instrument case into his pocket, she proceeded to relate a
number of miraculous cures.  Dr. Staines interrupted them by
suddenly emerging, and inviting Buttons to take him to the house.

Mrs. Staines was so pleased with Jane for cracking up the doctor,
that she gave her five shillings; and, after that, used to talk to
her a great deal more than to the cook, which judicious conduct
presently set all three by the ears.

Buttons took the doctor to a fine house in the same street, and
told him his mistress's name on the way--Mrs. Lucas.  He was taken
up to the nursery, and found Mrs. Lucas seated, crying and
lamenting, and a woman holding a little girl of about seven, whose
brow had been cut open by the fender, on which she had fallen from
a chair; it looked very ugly, and was even now bleeding.

Dr. Staines lost no time; he examined the wound keenly, and then
said kindly to Mrs. Lucas, "I am happy to tell you it is not
serious."  He then asked for a large basin and some tepid water,
and bathed it so softly and soothingly that the child soon became
composed; and the mother discovered the artist at once.  He
compressed the wound, and explained to Mrs. Lucas that the
principal thing really was to avoid an ugly scar.  "There is no
danger," said he.  He then bound the wound neatly up, and had the
girl put to bed.  "You will not wake her at any particular hour,
nurse.  Let her sleep.  Have a little strong beef-tea ready, and
give it her at any hour, night or day, she asks for it.  But do not
force it on her, or you will do her more harm than good.  She had
better sleep before she eats."

Mrs. Lucas begged him to come every morning; and, as he was going,
she shook hands with him, and the soft palm deposited a hard
substance wrapped in paper.  He took it with professional gravity
and seeming unconsciousness; but, once outside the house, went home
on wings.  He ran up to the drawing-room, and found his wife
seated, and playing at reading.  He threw himself on his knees, and
the fee into her lap; and, while she unfolded the paper with an
ejaculation of pleasure, he said, "Darling, the first real patient--
the first real fee.  It is yours to buy the new bonnet."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" said she, with her eyes glistening.  "But I'm
afraid one can't get a bonnet fit to wear--for a guinea."

Dr. Staines visited his little patient every day, and received his
guinea.  Mrs. Lucas also called him in for her own little ailments,
and they were the best possible kind of ailments: for, being
imaginary, there was no limit to them.

Then did Mrs. Staines turn jealous of her husband.  "They never ask
me," said she; "and I am moped to death."

"It is hard," said Christopher, sadly.  "But have a little
patience.  Society will come to you long before practice comes to
me."

About two o'clock one afternoon a carriage and pair drove up, and a
gorgeous footman delivered a card--"Lady Cicely Treherne."

Of course Mrs. Staines was at home, and only withheld by propriety
from bounding into the passage to meet her school-fellow.  However,
she composed herself in the drawing-room, and presently the door
was opened, and a very tall young woman, richly but not gayly
dressed, drifted into the room, and stood there a statue of
composure.

Rosa had risen to fly to her; but the reverence a girl of eighteen
strikes into a child of twelve hung about her still, and she came
timidly forward, blushing and sparkling, a curious contrast in
color and mind to her visitor; for Lady Cicely was Languor in
person--her hair whitey-brown, her face a fine oval, but almost
colorless; her eyes a pale gray, her neck and hands incomparably
white and beautiful--a lymphatic young lady, a live antidote to
emotion.  However, Rosa's beauty, timidity, and undisguised
affectionateness were something so different from what she was used
to in the world of fashion, that she actually smiled, and held out
both her hands a little way.  Rosa seized them, and pressed them;
they left her; and remained passive and limp.

"O Lady Cicely," said Rosa, "how kind of you to come."

"How kind of you to send to me," was the polite, but perfectly cool
reply.  "But how you are gwown, and--may I say impwoved?--You la
petite Lusignan!  It is incwedible," lisped her ladyship, very
calmly.

"I was only a child," said Rosa.  "You were always so beautiful and
tall, and kind to a little monkey like me.  Oh, pray sit down, Lady
Cicely, and talk of old times."

She drew her gently to the sofa, and they sat down hand in hand;
but Lady Cicely's high-bred reserve made her a very poor gossip
about anything that touched herself and her family; so Rosa, though
no egotist, was drawn into talking about herself more than she
would have done had she deliberately planned the conversation.  But
here was an old school-fellow, and a singularly polite listener,
and so out came her love, her genuine happiness, her particular
griefs, and especially the crowning grievance, no society, moped to
death, etc.

Lady Cicely could hardly understand the sentiment in a woman who so
evidently loved her husband.  "Society!" said she, after due
reflection, "why, it is a boa."  (And here I may as well explain
that Lady Cicely spoke certain words falsely, and others
affectedly; and as for the letter r, she could say it if she made a
hearty effort, but was generally too lazy to throw her leg over
it.)  "Society!  I'm dwenched to death with it.  If I could only
catch fiah like other women, and love somebody, I would much rather
have a tete-a-tete with him than go teawing about all day and all
night, from one unintwisting cwowd to another.  To be sure," said
she, puzzling the matter out, "you are a beauty, and would be more
looked at."

"The idea! and--oh no! no! it is not that.  But even in the country
we had always some society."

"Well, dyar, believe me, with your appeawance, you can have as much
society as you please; but it will boa you to death, as it does me,
and then you will long to be left quiet with a sensible man who
loves you."

Said Rosa, "When shall I have another tete-a-tete with YOU, I
wonder?  Oh, it has been such a comfort to me.  Bless you for
coming.  There--I wrote to Cecilia, and Emily, and Mrs. Bosanquet
that is now, and all my sworn friends, and to think of you being
the one to come--you that never kissed me but once, and an earl's
daughter into the bargain."

Ha! ha! ha!"--Lady Cicely actually laughed for once in a way, and
did not feel the effort.  "As for kissing," said she, "if I fall
shawt, fawgive me.  I was nevaa vewy demonstwative."

"No; and I have had a lesson.  That Florence Cole--Florence Whiting
that was, you know--was always kissing me, and she has turned out a
traitor.  I'll tell you all about her."  And she did.

Lady Cicely thought Mrs. Staines a little too unreserved in her
conversation; but was so charmed with her sweetness and freshness
that she kept up the acquaintance, and called on her twice a week
during the season.  At first she wondered that her visits were not
returned; but Rosa let out that she was ashamed to call on foot in
Grosvenor Square.

Lady Cicely shrugged her beautiful shoulders a little at that; but
she continued to do the visiting, and to enjoy the simple, innocent
rapture with which she was received.

This lady's pronunciation of many words was false or affected.  She
said "good murning" for "good morning," and turned other vowels to
diphthongs, and played two or three pranks with her "r's."  But we
cannot be all imperfection: with her pronunciation her folly came
to a full stop.  I really believe she lisped less nonsense and bad
taste in a year than some of us articulate in a day.  To be sure,
folly is generally uttered in a hurry, and she was too deplorably
lazy to speak fast on any occasion whatever.

One day Mrs. Staines took her up-stairs, and showed her from the
back window her husband pacing the yard, waiting for patients.
Lady Cicely folded her arms, and contemplated him at first with a
sort of zoological curiosity.  Gentleman pacing back yard, like
hyena, she had never seen before.

At last she opened her mouth in a whisper, "What is he doing?"

"Waiting for patients."

"Oh!  Waiting--for--patients?"

"For patients that never come, and never will come."

"Cuwious!  How little I know of life."

"It is that all day, dear, or else writing."

Lady Cicely, with her eyes fixed on Staines, made a motion with her
hand that she was attending.

"And they won't publish a word he writes."

"Poor man!"

"Nice for me; is it not?"

"I begin to understand," said Lady Cicely quietly; and soon after
retired with her invariable composure.

Meantime, Dr. Staines, like a good husband, had thrown out
occasional hints to Mrs. Lucas that he had a wife, beautiful,
accomplished, moped.  More than that, he went so far as to regret
to her that Mrs. Staines, being in a neighborhood new to him, saw
so little society; the more so, as she was formed to shine, and had
not been used to seclusion.

All these hints fell dead on Mrs. Lucas.  A handsome and skilful
doctor was welcome to her: his wife--that was quite another matter.

But one day Mrs. Lucas saw Lady Cicely Treherne's carriage standing
at the door.  The style of the whole turnout impressed her.  She
wondered whose it was.

On another occasion she saw it drive up, and the lady get out.  She
recognized her; and the very next day this parvenue said adroitly,
"Now, Dr. Staines, really you can't be allowed to hide your wife in
this way.  (Staines stared.)  Why not introduce her to me next
Wednesday?  It is my night.  I would give a dinner expressly for
her; but I don't like to do that while my husband is in Naples."

When Staines carried the invitation to his wife, she was delighted,
and kissed him with childish frankness.

But the very next moment she became thoughtful, uneasy, depressed.
"Oh, dear; I've nothing to wear."

"Oh, nonsense, Rosa.  Your wedding outfit."

"The idea! I can't go as a bride.  It's not a masquerade."

"But you have other dresses."

"All gone by, more or less; or not fit for such parties as SHE
gives.  A hundred carriages!"

"Bring them down, and let me see them."

"Oh yes."  And the lady, who had nothing to wear, paraded a very
fair show of dresses.

Staines saw something to admire in all of them.  Mrs. Staines found
more to object to in each.

At last he fell upon a silver-gray silk, of superlative quality.

"That!  It is as old as the hills," shrieked Rosa.

"It looks just out of the shop.  Come, tell the truth; how often
have you worn it?"

"I wore it before I was married."

"Ay, but how often?"

"Twice.  Three times, I believe."

"I thought so.  It is good as new."

"But I have had it so long by me.  I had it two years before I made
it up."

"What does that matter?  Do you think the people can tell how long
a dress has been lurking in your wardrobe?  This is childish, Rosa.
There, with this dress as good as new, and your beauty, you will be
as much admired, and perhaps hated, as your heart can desire."

"I am afraid not," said Rosa naively.  "Oh, how I wish I had known
a week ago."

"I am very thankful you did not," said Staines dryly.

At ten o'clock Mrs. Staines was nearly dressed; at a quarter past
ten she demanded ten minutes; at half-past ten she sought a
reprieve; at a quarter to eleven, being assured that the street was
full of carriages, which had put down at Mrs. Lucas's, she
consented to emerge; and in a minute they were at the house.

They were shown first into a cloak-room, and then into a tea-room,
and then mounted the stairs.  One servant took their names, and
bawled them to another four yards off, he to another about as near,
and so on; and they edged themselves into the room, not yet too
crowded to move in.

They had not taken many steps, on the chance of finding their
hostess, when a slight buzz arose, and seemed to follow them.

Rosa wondered what that was; but only for a moment; she observed a
tall, stout, aquiline woman fix an eye of bitter, diabolical,
malignant hatred on her; and as she advanced, ugly noses were
cocked disdainfully, and scraggy shoulders elevated at the risk of
sending the bones through the leather, and a titter or two shot
after her.  A woman's instinct gave her the key at once; the sexes
had complimented her at sight; each in their way; the men with
respectful admiration; the women, with their inflammable jealousy
and ready hatred in another of the quality they value most in
themselves.  But the country girl was too many for them: she would
neither see nor bear, but moved sedately on, and calmly crushed
them with her Southern beauty.  Their dry, powdered faces could not
live by the side of her glowing skin, with nature's delicate gloss
upon it, and the rich blood mantling below it.  The got-up
beauties, i.e., the majority, seemed literally to fade and wither
as she passed.

Mrs. Lucas got to her, suppressed a slight maternal pang, having
daughters to marry, and took her line in a moment; here was a decoy
duck.  Mrs. Lucas was all graciousness, made acquaintance, and took
a little turn with her, introducing her to one or two persons;
among the rest, to the malignant woman, Mrs. Barr.  Mrs. Barr, on
this, ceased to look daggers and substituted icicles; but on the
hateful beauty moving away, dropped the icicles, and resumed the
poniards.

The rooms filled; the heat became oppressive, and the mixed odors
of flowers, scents, and perspiring humanity, sickening.  Some,
unable to bear it, trickled out of the room, and sat all down the
stairs.

Rosa began to feel faint.  Up came a tall, sprightly girl, whose
pertness was redeemed by a certain bonhomie, and said, "Mrs.
Staines, I believe?  I am to make myself agreeable to you.  That is
the order from headquarters."

"Miss Lucas," said Staines.

She jerked a little off-hand bow to him, and said, "Will you trust
her to me for five minutes?"

"Certainly."  But he did not much like it.

Miss Lucas carried her off, and told Dr. Staines, over her
shoulder, now he could flirt to his heart's content.

"Thank you," said he dryly.  "I'll await your return."

"Oh, there are some much greater flirts here than I am," said the
ready Miss Lucas; and whispering something in Mrs. Staines's ear,
suddenly glided with her behind a curtain, pressed a sort of button
fixed to a looking-glass door.  The door opened, and behold they
were in a delicious place, for which I can hardly find a word,
since it was a boudoir and a conservatory in one: a large octagon,
the walls lined from floor to ceiling with looking-glasses of
moderate width, at intervals, and with creepers that covered the
intervening spaces of the wall, and were trained so as to break the
outline of the glasses without greatly clouding the reflection.
Ferns, in great variety, were grouped in a deep crescent, and in
the bight of this green bay were a small table and chairs.  As
there were no hot-house plants, the temperature was very cool,
compared with the reeking oven they had escaped; and a little
fountain bubbled, and fed a little meandering gutter that trickled
away among the ferns; it ran crystal clear over little bright
pebbles and shells.  It did not always run, you understand; but
Miss Lucas turned a secret tap, and started it.

"Oh, how heavenly!" said Rosa, with a sigh of relief; "and how good
of you to bring me here!"

"Yes; by rights I ought to have waited till you fainted.  But there
is no making acquaintance among all those people.  Mamma will ask
such crowds; one is like a fly in a glue-pot."

Miss Lucas had good nature, smartness, and animal spirits; hence
arose a vivacity and fluency that were often amusing, and passed
for very clever.  Reserve she had none; would talk about strangers,
or friends, herself, her mother, her God, and the last buffoon-
singer, in a breath.  At a hint from Rosa, she told her who the
lady in the pink dress was, and the lady in the violet velvet, and
so on; for each lady was defined by her dress, and, more or less,
quizzed by this show-woman, not exactly out of malice, but because
it is smarter and more natural to decry than to praise, and a
little medisance is the spice to gossip, belongs to it, as mint
sauce to lamb.  So they chatted away, and were pleased with each
other, and made friends, and there, in cool grot, quite forgot the
sufferings of their fellow-creatures in the adjacent Turkish bath,
yclept society.  It was Rosa who first recollected herself.  "Will
not Mrs. Lucas be angry with me, if I keep you all to myself?"

"Oh no; but I'm afraid we must go into the hot-house again.  I like
the greenhouse best, with such a nice companion."

They slipped noiselessly into the throng again, and wriggled about,
Miss Lucas presenting her new friend to several ladies and
gentlemen.

Presently Staines found them, and then Miss Lucas wriggled away;
and in due course the room was thinned by many guests driving off
home, or to balls, and other receptions, and Dr. Staines and Mrs.
Staines went home to the Bijou.  Here the physician prescribed bed;
but the lady would not hear of such a thing until she had talked it
all over.  So they compared notes, and Rosa told him how well she
had got on with Miss Lucas, and made a friendship.  "But for that,"
said she, "I should be sorry I went among those people, such a
dowdy."

"Dowdy!" said Staines.  "Why, you stormed the town; you were the
great success of the night, and, for all I know, of the season."
The wretch delivered this with unbecoming indifference.

"It is too bad to mock me, Christie.  Where were your eyes?"

"To the best of my recollection, they were one on each side of my
nose."

"Yes, but some people are eyes and no eyes."

"I scorn the imputation; try me."

"Very well.  Then did you see that lady in sky-blue silk,
embroidered with flowers, and flounced with white velvet, and the
corsage point lace; and oh, such emeralds?"

"I did; a tall, skinny woman, with eyes resembling her jewels in
color, though not in brightness."

"Never mind her eyes; it is her dress I am speaking of.  Exquisite;
and what a coiffure!  Well, did you see HER in the black velvet,
trimmed so deep with Chantilly lace, wave on wave, and her head-
dress of crimson flowers, and such a riviere of diamonds; oh, dear!
oh, dear!"

"I did, love.  The room was an oven, but her rubicund face and
suffocating costume made it seem a furnace."

"Stuff!  Well, did you see the lady in the corn-colored silk, and
poppies in her hair?"

"Of course I did.  Ceres in person.  She made me feel hot, too; but
I cooled myself a bit at her pale, sickly face."

"Never mind their faces; that is not the point."

"Oh, excuse me; it is always a point with us benighted males, all
eyes and no eyes."

"Well, then, the lady in white, with cherry-velvet bands, and a
white tunic looped with crimson, and headdress of white illusion, a
la vierge, I think they call it."

"It was very refreshing; and adapted to that awful atmosphere.  It
was the nearest approach to nudity I ever saw, even amongst
fashionable people."

"It was lovely; and then that superb figure in white illusion and
gold, with all those narrow flounces over her slip of white silk
glacee, and a wreath of white flowers, with gold wheat ears amongst
them, in her hair; and oh! oh! oh! her pearls, oriental, and as big
as almonds!"

"And oh! oh! oh! her nose! reddish, and as long as a woodcock's."

"Noses! noses! stupid!  That is not what strikes you first in a
woman dressed like an angel."

"Well, if you were to run up against that one, as I nearly did, her
nose WOULD be the thing that would strike you first.  Nose! it was
a rostrum! the spear-head of Goliah."

"Now, don't, Christopher.  This is no laughing matter.  Do you mean
you were not ashamed of your wife?  I was."

"No, I was not; you had but one rival; a very young lady, wise
before her age; a blonde, with violet eyes.  She was dressed in
light mauve-colored silk, without a single flounce, or any other
tomfoolery to fritter away the sheen and color of an exquisite
material; her sunny hair was another wave of color, wreathed with a
thin line of white jessamine flowers closely woven, that scented
the air.  This girl was the moon of that assembly, and you were the
sun."

"I never even saw her."

"Eyes and no eyes.  She saw you, and said, 'Oh, what a beautiful
creature!' for I heard her.  As for the old stagers, whom you
admire so, their faces were all clogged with powder, the pores
stopped up, the true texture of the skin abolished.  They looked
downright nasty, whenever you or that young girl passed by them.
Then it was you saw to what a frightful extent women are got up in
our day, even young women, and respectable women.  No, Rosa, dress
can do little for you; you have beauty--real beauty."

"Beauty!  That passes unnoticed, unless one is well dressed."

"Then what an obscure pair the Apollo Belvidere and the Venus de
Medicis must be."

"Oh! they are dressed--in marble."

Christopher Staines stared first, then smiled.

"Well done," said he, admiringly.  "That IS a knockdown blow.  So
now you have silenced your husband, go you to bed directly.  I
can't afford you diamonds; so I will take care of that little
insignificant trifle, your beauty."

Mrs. Staines and Mrs. Lucas exchanged calls, and soon Mrs. Staines
could no longer complain she was out of the world.  Mrs. Lucas
invited her to every party, because her beauty was an instrument of
attraction she knew how to use; and Miss Lucas took a downright
fancy to her; drove her in the park, and on Sundays to the
Zoological Gardens, just beginning to be fashionable.

The Lucases rented a box at the opera, and if it was not let at the
library by six o'clock, and if other engagements permitted, word
was sent round to Mrs. Staines, as a matter of course, and she was
taken to the opera.  She began almost to live at the Lucases, and
to be oftener fatigued than moped.

The usual order of things was inverted; the maiden lady educated
the matron; for Miss Lucas knew all about everybody in the Park,
honorable or dishonorable; all the scandals, and all the
flirtations; and whatever she knew, she related point-blank.  Being
as inquisitive as voluble, she soon learned how Mrs. Staines and
her husband were situated.  She took upon her to advise her in many
things, and especially impressed upon her that Dr. Staines must
keep a carriage, if he wanted to get on in medicine.  The piece of
advice accorded so well with Rosa's wishes, that she urged it on
her husband again and again.

He objected that no money was coming in, and therefore it would be
insane to add to their expenses.  Rosa persisted, and at last
worried Staines with her importunity.  He began to give rather
short answers.  Then she quoted Miss Lucas against him.  He treated
the authority with marked contempt; and then Rosa fired up a
little.  Then Staines held his peace; but did not buy a carriage to
visit his no patients.

So at last Rosa complained to Lady Cicely Treherne, and made her
the judge between her husband and herself.  Lady Cicely drawled out
a prompt but polite refusal to play that part.  All that could be
elicited from her, and that with difficulty, was, "Why quall with
your husband about a cawwige; he is your best fwiend."

"Ah, that he is," said Rosa; "but Miss Lucas is a good friend, and
she knows the world.  We don't; neither Christopher nor I."

So she continued to nag at her husband about it, and to say that he
was throwing his only chance away.

Galled as he was by neglect, this was irritating, and at last he
could not help telling her she was unreasonable.  "You live a gay
life, and I a sad one.  I consent to this, and let you go about
with these Lucases, because you were so dull; but you should not
consult them in our private affairs.  Their interference is
indelicate and improper.  I will not set up a carriage till I have
patients to visit.  I am sick of seeing our capital dwindle, and no
income created.  I will never set up a carriage till I have taken a
hundred-guinea fee."

"Oh!  Then we shall go splashing through the mud all our days."

"Or ride in a cab," said Christopher, with a quiet doggedness that
left no hope of his yielding.

One afternoon Miss Lucas called for Mrs. Staines to drive in the
Park, but did not come up-stairs; it was an engagement, and she
knew Mrs. Staines would be ready, or nearly.  Mrs. Staines, not to
keep her waiting, came down rather hastily, and in the very passage
whipped out of her pocket a little glass, and a little powder puff,
and puffed her face all over in a trice.  She was then going out;
but her husband called her into the study.  "Rosa, my dear," said
he, "you were going out with a dirty face."

"Oh!" cried she, "give me a glass."

"There is no need of that.  All you want is a basin and some nice
rain-water.  I keep a little reservoir of it."

He then handed her the same with great politeness.  She looked in
his eye, and saw he was not to be trifled with.  She complied like
a lamb, and the heavenly color and velvet gloss that resulted were
admirable.

He kissed her and said, "Ah! now you are my Rosa again.  Oblige me
by handing over that powder-puff to me."  She looked vexed, but
complied.  "When you come back I will tell you why."

"You are a pest," said Mrs. Staines, and so joined her friend, rosy
with rain-water and a rub.

"Dear me, how handsome you look to-day!" was Miss Lucas's first
remark.

Rosa never dreamed that rain-water and rub could be the cause of
her looking so well.

"It is my tiresome husband," said she.  "He objects to powder, and
he has taken away my puff."

"And you stood that?"

"Obliged to."

"Why, you poor-spirited little creature, I should like to see a
husband presume to interfere with me in those things.  Here, take
mine."

Rosa hesitated a little.  "Well--no--I think not."

Miss Lucas laughed at her, and quizzed her so on her allowing a man
to interfere in such sacred things as dress and cosmetics, that she
came back irritated with her husband, and gave him a short answer
or two.  Then he asked what was the matter.

"You treat me like a child--taking away my very puff."

"I treat you like a beautiful flower, that no bad gardener shall
wither whilst I am here."

"What nonsense!  How could that wither me?  It is only violet
powder--what they put on babies."

"And who are the Herods that put it on babies?"

"Their own mothers, that love them ten times more than the fathers
do."

"And kill a hundred of them for one a man ever kills.  Mothers!--
the most wholesale homicides in the nation.  We will examine your
violet-powder: bring it down here."

While she was gone he sent for a breakfast-cupful of flour, and
when she came back he had his scales out, and begged her to put a
teaspoonful of flour into one scale and of violet powder into
another.  The flour kicked the beam, as Homer expresses himself.

"Put another spoonful of flour."

The one spoonful of violet powder outweighed the two of flour.

"Now," said Staines, "does not that show you the presence of a
mineral in your vegetable powder?  I suppose they tell you it is
made of white violets dried, and triturated in a diamond mill.  Let
us find out what metal it is.  We need not go very deep into
chemistry for that."  He then applied a simple test, and detected
the presence of lead in large quantities.  Then he lectured her:
"Invisible perspiration is a process of nature necessary to health
and to life.  The skin is made porous for that purpose.  You can
kill anybody in an hour or two by closing the pores.  A certain
infallible ass, called Pope Leo XII., killed a little boy in two
hours, by gilding him to adorn the pageant of his first procession
as Pope.  But what is death to the whole body must be injurious to
a part.  What madness, then, to clog the pores of so large and
important a surface as the face, and check the invisible
perspiration: how much more to insert lead into your system every
day of your life; a cumulative poison, and one so deadly and so
subtle, that the Sheffield file-cutters die in their prime, from
merely hammering on a leaden anvil.  And what do you gain by this
suicidal habit?  No plum has a sweeter bloom or more delicious
texture than the skin of your young face; but this mineral filth
hides that delicate texture, and substitutes a dry, uniform
appearance, more like a certain kind of leprosy than health.
Nature made your face the rival of peaches, roses, lilies; and you
say, 'No; I know better than my Creator and my God; my face shall
be like a dusty miller's.'  Go into any flour-mill, and there you
shall see men with faces exactly like your friend Miss Lucas's.
But before a miller goes to his sweetheart, he always washes his
face.  You ladies would never get a miller down to your level in
brains.  It is a miller's DIRTY face our mono-maniacs of woman
imitate, not the face a miller goes a-courting with."

"La! what a fuss about nothing!"

"About nothing!  Is your health nothing?  Is your beauty nothing?
Well, then, it will cost you nothing to promise me never to put
powder on your face again."

"Very well, I promise.  Now what will you do for me?"

"Work for you--write for you--suffer for you--be self-denying for
you--and even give myself the pain of disappointing you now and
then--looking forward to the time when I shall be able to say 'Yes'
to everything you ask me.  Ah! child, you little know what it costs
me to say 'No' to YOU."

Rosa put her arms round him and acquiesced.  She was one of those
who go with the last speaker; but, for that very reason, the
eternal companionship of so flighty and flirty a girl as Miss Lucas
was injurious to her.

One day Lady Cicely Treherne was sitting with Mrs. Staines, smiling
languidly at her talk, and occasionally drawling out a little plain
good sense, when in came Miss Lucas, with her tongue well hung, as
usual, and dashed into twenty topics in ten minutes.

This young lady in her discourse was like those little oily beetles
you see in small ponds, whose whole life is spent in tacking--
confound them for it!--generally at right angles.  What they are in
navigation was Miss Lucas in conversation: tacked so eternally from
topic to topic, that no man on earth, and not every woman, could
follow her.

At the sight and sound of her, Lady Cicely congealed and stiffened.
Easy and unpretending with Mrs. Staines, she was all dignity, and
even majesty, in the presence of this chatterbox; and the
smoothness with which the transfiguration was accomplished marked
that accomplished actress the high-bred woman of the world.

Rosa, better able to estimate the change of manner than Miss Lucas
was, who did not know how little this Sawny was afflicted with
misplaced dignity, looked wistfully and distressed at her.  Lady
Cicely smiled kindly in reply, rose, without seeming to hurry,--
catch her condescending to be rude to Charlotte Lucas,--and took
her departure, with a profound and most gracious courtesy to the
lady who had driven her away.

Mrs. Staines saw her down-stairs, and said, ruefully, "I am afraid
you do not like my friend Miss Lucas.  She is a great rattle, but
so good-natured and clever."

Lady Cicely shook her head.  "Clevaa people don't talk so much
nonsense before strangaas."

"Oh, dear!" said Rosa.  "I was in hopes you would like her."

"Do YOU like her?"

"Indeed I do; but I shall not, if she drives an older friend away."

"My dyah, I'm not easily dwiven from those I esteem.  But you
undastand that is not a woman for me to mispwonownce my 'ah's
befaw--NOR FOR YOU TO MAKE A BOSOM FWIEND OF--WOSA STAINES."

She said this with a sudden maternal solemnity and kindness that
contrasted nobly and strangely with her yea-nay style, and Mrs.
Staines remembered the words years after they were spoken.

It so happened that after this Mrs. Staines received no more visits
from Lady Cicely for some time, and that vexed her.  She knew her
sex enough to be aware that they are very jealous, and she
permitted herself to think that this high-minded Sawny was jealous
of Miss Lucas.

This idea, founded on a general estimate of her sex, was dispelled
by a few lines from Lady Cicely, to say her family and herself were
in deep distress; her brother, Lord Ayscough, lay dying from an
accident.

Then Rosa was all remorse, and ran down to Staines to tell him.
She found him with an open letter in his hand.  It was from Dr.
Barr, and on the same subject.  The doctor, who had always been
friendly to him, invited him to come down at once to Hallowtree
Hall, in Huntingdonshire, to a consultation.  There was a friendly
intimation to start at once, as the patient might die any moment.

Husband and wife embraced each other in a tumult of surprised
thankfulness.  A few necessaries were thrown into a carpet-bag, and
Dr. Staines was soon whirled into Huntingdonshire.  Having
telegraphed beforehand, he was met at the station by the earl's
carriage and people, and driven to the Hall.  He was received by an
old, silver-haired butler, looking very sad, who conducted him to a
boudoir; and then went and tapped gently at the door of the
patient's room.  It was opened and shut very softly, and Lady
Cicely, dressed in black, and looking paler than ever, came into
the room.

"Dr. Staines, I think?"

He bowed.

"Thank you for coming so promptly.  Dr. Barr is gone.  I fear he
thinks--he thinks--O Dr. Staines--no sign of life but in his poor
hands, that keep moving night and day."

Staines looked very grave at that.  Lady Cicely observed it, and,
faint at heart, could say no more, but led the way to the sick-
room.

There in a spacious chamber, lighted by a grand oriel window and
two side windows, lay rank, title, wealth, and youth, stricken down
in a moment by a common accident.  The sufferer's face was
bloodless, his eyes fixed, and no signs of life but in his thumbs,
and they kept working with strange regularity.

In the room were a nurse and the surgeon; the neighboring
physician, who had called in Dr. Barr, had just paid his visit and
gone away.

Lady Cicely introduced Dr. Staines and Mr. White, and then Dr.
Staines stood and fixed his eyes on the patient in profound
silence.  Lady Cicely scanned his countenance searchingly, and was
struck with the extraordinary power and intensity it assumed in
examining the patient; but the result was not encouraging.  Dr.
Staines looked grave and gloomy.

At last, without removing his eye from the recumbent figure, he
said quietly to Mr. White, "Thrown from his horse, sir."

"Horse fell on him, Dr. Staines."

"Any visible injuries?"

"Yes.  Severe contusions, and a rib broken and pressed upon the
lungs.  I replaced and set it.  Will you see?"

"If you please."

He examined and felt the patient, and said it had been ably done.

Then he was silent and searching.

At last he spoke again.  "The motion of the thumbs corresponds
exactly with his pulse."

"Is that so, sir?"

"It is.  The case is without a parallel.  How long has he been so?"

"Nearly a week."

"Impossible!"

"It is so, sir."

Lady Cicely confirmed this.

"All the better," said Dr. Staines upon reflection.  "Well, sir,"
said he, "the visible injuries having been ably relieved, I shall
look another way for the cause."  Then, after another pause, "I
must have his head shaved."

Lady Cicely demurred a little to this; but Dr. Staines stood firm,
and his lordship's valet undertook the job.

Staines directed him where to begin; and when he had made a
circular tonsure on the top of the head, had it sponged with tepid
water.

"I thought so," said he.  "Here is the mischief;" and he pointed to
a very slight indentation on the left side of the pia mater.
"Observe," said he, "there is no corresponding indentation on the
other side.  Underneath this trifling depression a minute piece of
bone is doubtless pressing on the most sensitive part of the brain.
He must be trephined."

Mr. White's eyes sparkled.

"You are an hospital surgeon, sir?"

"Yes, Dr. Staines.  I have no fear of the operation."

"Then I hand the patient over to you.  The case at present is
entirely surgical."

White was driven home, and soon returned with the requisite
instruments.  The operation was neatly performed, and then Lady
Cicely was called in.  She came trembling; her brother's fingers
were still working, but not so regularly.

"That is only HABIT," said Staines; "it will soon leave off, now
the cause is gone."

And, truly enough, in about five minutes the fingers became quiet.
The eyes became human next; and within half an hour after the
operation the earl gave a little sigh.

Lady Cicely clasped her hands, and uttered a little cry of delight.

"This will not do," said Staines, "I shall have you screaming when
he speaks."

"Oh, Dr. Staines! will he ever speak?"

"I think so, and very soon.  So be on your guard."

This strange scene reached its climax soon after, by the earl
saying, quietly,--

"Are her knees broke, Tom?"

Lady Cicely uttered a little scream, but instantly suppressed it.

"No, my lord," said Staines, smartly; "only rubbed a bit.  You can
go to sleep, my lord.  I'll take care of the mare."

"All right," said his lordship; and composed himself to slumber.

Dr. Staines, at the earnest request of Lady Cicely, stayed all
night; and in course of the day advised her how to nurse the
patient, since both physician and surgeon had done with him.

He said the patient's brain might be irritable for some days, and
no women in silk dresses or crinoline, or creaking shoes, must
enter the room.  He told her the nurse was evidently a clumsy
woman, and would be letting things fall.  She had better get some
old soldier used to nursing.  "And don't whisper in the room," said
he; "nothing irritates them worse; and don't let anybody play a
piano within hearing; but in a day or two you may try him with slow
and continuous music on the flute or violin if you like.  Don't
touch his bed suddenly; don't sit on it or lean on it.  Dole
sunlight into his room by degrees; and when he can bear it, drench
him with it.  Never mind what the old school tell you.  About these
things they know a good deal less than nothing."

Lady Cicely received all this like an oracle.

The cure was telegraphed to Dr. Barr, and he was requested to
settle the fee.  He was not the man to undersell the profession,
and was jealous of nobody, having a large practice, and a very
wealthy wife.  So he telegraphed back--"Fifty guineas, and a guinea
a mile from London."

So, as Christopher Staines sat at an early breakfast, with the
carriage waiting to take him to the train, two notes were brought
him on a salver.

They were both directed by Lady Cicely Treherne.  One of them
contained a few kind and feeling words of gratitude and esteem; the
other, a check, drawn by the earl's steward, for one hundred and
thirty guineas.

He bowled up to London, and told it all to Rosa.  She sparkled with
pride, affection, and joy.

"Now, who says you are not a genius?" she cried.  "A hundred and
thirty guineas for one fee!  Now, if you love your wife as she
loves you--you will set up a brougham."


CHAPTER VIII.


Doctor Staines begged leave to distinguish; he had not said he
would set up a carriage at the first one hundred guinea fee, but
only that he would not set up one before.  There are misguided
people who would call this logic: but Rosa said it was
equivocating, and urged him so warmly that at last he burst out,
"Who can go on forever saying 'No,' to the only creature he
loves?"--and caved.  In forty-eight hours more a brougham waited at
Mrs. Staines's door.  The servant engaged to drive it was Andrew
Pearman, a bachelor, and, hitherto, an under-groom.  He readily
consented to be coachman, and to do certain domestic work as well.
So Mrs. Staines had a man-servant as well as a carriage.

Ere long, three or four patients called, or wrote, one after the
other.  These Rosa set down to brougham, and crowed; she even
crowed to Lady Cicely Treherne, to whose influence, and not to
brougham's, every one of these patients was owing.  Lady Cicely
kissed her, and demurely enjoyed the poor soul's self-satisfaction.

Staines himself, while he drove to or from these patients, felt
more sanguine, and buoyed as he was by the consciousness of
ability, began to hope he had turned the corner.

He sent an account of Lord Ayscough's case to a medical magazine:
and so full is the world of flunkeyism, that this article, though
he withheld the name, retaining only the title, got the literary
wedge in for him at once: and in due course he became a paid
contributor to two medical organs, and used to study and write
more, and indent the little stone yard less than heretofore.

It was about this time circumstances made him acquainted with
Phoebe Dale.  Her intermediate history I will dispose of in fewer
words than it deserves.  Her ruin, Mr. Reginald Falcon, was
dismissed from his club, for marking high cards on the back with
his nail.  This stopped his remaining resource--borrowing: so he
got more and more out at elbows, till at last he came down to
hanging about billiard-rooms, and making a little money by
concealing his game; from that, however, he rose to be a marker.

Having culminated to that, he wrote and proposed marriage to Miss
Dale, in a charming letter: she showed it to her father with pride.

Now, if his vanity, his disloyalty, his falsehood, his ingratitude,
and his other virtues had not stood in the way, he would have done
this three years ago, and been jumped at.

But the offer came too late; not for Phoebe--she would have taken
him in a moment--but for her friends.  A baited hook is one thing,
a bare hook is another.  Farmer Dale had long discovered where
Phoebe's money went: he said not a word to her; but went up to town
like a shot; found Falcon out, and told him he mustn't think to eat
his daughter's bread.  She should marry a man that could make a
decent livelihood; and if she was to run away with HIM, why they'd
starve together.  The farmer was resolute, and spoke very loud,
like one that expects opposition, and comes prepared to quarrel.
Instead of that, this artful rogue addressed him with deep respect
and an affected veneration, that quite puzzled the old man;
acquiesced in every word, expressed contrition for his past
misdeeds, and told the farmer he had quite determined to labor with
his hands.  "You know, farmer," said he, "I am not the only
gentleman who has come to that in the present day.  Now, all my
friends that have seen my sketches, assure me I am a born painter;
and a painter I'll be--for love of Phoebe."

The farmer made a wry face.  "Painter! that is a sorry sort of a
trade."

"You are mistaken.  It's the best trade going.  There are gentlemen
making their thousands a year by it."

"Not in our parts, there bain't.  Stop a bit.  What be ye going to
paint, sir?  Housen, or folk?"

"Oh, hang it, not houses.  Figures, landscapes."

"Well, ye might just make shift to live at it, I suppose, with here
and there a signboard.  They are the best paid, our way: but, Lord
bless ye, THEY wants headpiece.  Well, sir, let me see your work.
Then we'll talk further."

"I'll go to work this afternoon," said Falcon eagerly; then with
affected surprise, "Bless me; I forgot.  I have no palette, no
canvas, no colors.  You couldn't lend me a couple of sovereigns to
buy them, could you?"

"Ay, sir; I could.  But I woan't.  I'll lend ye the things, though,
if you have a mind to go with me and buy 'em."

Falcon agreed, with a lofty smile; and the purchases were made.

Mr. Falcon painted a landscape or two out of his imagination.  The
dealers to whom he took them declined them; one advised the
gentleman painter to color tea-boards.  "That's your line," said
he.

"The world has no taste," said the gentleman painter: "but it has
got lots of vanity: I'll paint portraits."

He did; and formidable ones: his portraits were amazingly like the
people, and yet unlike men and women, especially about the face.
One thing, he didn't trouble with lights and shades, but went slap
at the features.

His brush would never have kept him; but he carried an instrument,
in the use of which he was really an artist, viz., his tongue.  By
wheedling and underselling--for he only charged a pound for the
painted canvas--he contrived to live; then he aspired to dress as
well as live.  With this second object in view, he hit upon a
characteristic expedient.

He used to prowl about, and when he saw a young woman sweeping the
afternoon streets with a long silk train, and, in short, dressed to
ride in the park, yet parading the streets, he would take his hat
off to her, with an air of profound respect, and ask permission to
take her portrait.  Generally he met a prompt rebuff; but if the
fair was so unlucky as to hesitate a single moment, he told her a
melting tale; he had once driven his four-in-hand; but by indorsing
his friends' bills, was reduced to painting likeness, admirable
likenesses in oil, only a guinea each.

His piteous tale provoked more gibes than pity, but as he had no
shame, the rebuffs went for nothing: he actually did get a few
sitters by his audacity: and some of the sitters actually took the
pictures, and paid for them; others declined them with fury as soon
as they were finished.  These he took back with a piteous sigh,
that sometimes extracted half a crown.  Then he painted over the
rejected one and let it dry; so that sometimes a paid portrait
would present a beauty enthroned on the debris of two or three
rivals, and that is where few beauties would object to sit.

All this time he wrote nice letters to Phoebe, and adopted the tone
of the struggling artist, and the true lover, who wins his bride by
patience, perseverance, and indomitable industry; a babbled of
"Self Help."

Meantime, Phoebe was not idle: an excellent business woman, she
took immediate advantage of a new station that was built near the
farm, to send up milk, butter, and eggs to London.  Being genuine,
they sold like wildfire.  Observing that, she extended her
operations, by buying of other farmers, and forwarding to London:
and then, having of course an eye to her struggling artist, she
told her father she must have a shop in London, and somebody in it
she could depend upon.

"With all my heart, wench," said he; "but it must not be thou.  I
can't spare thee."

"May I have Dick, father?"

"Dick! he is rather young."

"But he is very quick, father, and minds every word I tell him."

"Ay, he is as fond of thee as ever a cow was of a calf.  Well, you
can try him."

So the love-sick woman of business set up a little shop, and put
her brother Dick in it, and all to see more of her struggling
artist.  She stayed several days, to open the little shop, and
start the business.  She advertised pure milk, and challenged
scientific analysis of everything she sold.  This came of her being
a reader; she knew, by the journals, that we live in a sinful and
adulterating generation, and anything pure must be a godsend to the
poor poisoned public.

Now, Dr. Staines, though known to the profession as a diagnost, was
also an analyst, and this challenge brought him down on Phoebe
Dale.  He told her he was a physician, and in search of pure food
for his own family--would she really submit the milk to analysis?

Phoebe smiled an honest country smile, and said, "Surely, sir."
She gave him every facility, and he applied those simple tests
which are commonly used in France, though hardly known in England.

He found it perfectly pure, and told her so; and gazed at Phoebe
for a moment, as a phenomenon.

She smiled again at that, her broad country smile.  "That is a
wonder in London, I dare say.  It's my belief half the children
that die here are perished with watered milk.  Well, sir, we shan't
have that on our souls, father and I; he is a farmer in Essex.
This comes a many miles, this milk."

Staines looked in her face, with kindly approval marked on his own
eloquent features.  She blushed a little at so fixed a regard.
Then he asked her if she would supply him with milk, butter, and
eggs.

"Why, if you mean sell you them, yes, sir, with pleasure.  But for
sending them home to you in this big town, as some do, I can't; for
there's only brother Dick and me: it is an experiment like."

"Very well," said Staines: "I will send for them."

"Thank you kindly, sir.  I hope you won't be offended, sir; but we
only sell for ready money."

"All the better: my order at home is, no bills."

When he was gone, Phoebe, assuming vast experience, though this was
only her third day, told Dick that was one of the right sort: "and
oh, Dick," said she, "did you notice his eye?"

"Not particklar, sister."

"There now; the boy is blind.  Why, 'twas like a jewel.  Such an
eye I never saw in a man's head, nor a woman's neither."

Staines told his wife about Phoebe and her brother, and spoke of
her with a certain admiration that raised Rosa's curiosity, and
even that sort of vague jealousy that fires at bare praise.  "I
should like to see this phenomenon," said she.  "You shall," said
he.  "I have to call on Mrs. Manly.  She lives near.  I will drop
you at the little shop, and come back for you."

He did so, and that gave Rosa a quarter of an hour to make her
purchases.  When he came back he found her conversing with Phoebe,
as if they were old friends, and Dick glaring at his wife with awe
and admiration.  He could hardly get her away.

She was far more extravagant in her praises than Dr. Staines had
been.  "What a good creature!" said she.  "And how clever!  To
think of her setting up a shop like that all by herself; for her
Dick is only seventeen."

Dr. Staines recommended the little shop wherever he went, and even
extended its operations.  He asked Phoebe to get her own wheat
ground at home, and send the flour up in bushel bags.  "These
assassins, the bakers," said he, "are putting copper into the flour
now, as well as alum.  Pure flour is worth a fancy price to any
family.  With that we can make the bread of life.  What you buy in
the shops is the bread of death."

Dick was a good, sharp boy, devoted to his sister.  He stuck to the
shop in London, and handed the money to Phoebe, when she came for
it.  She worked for it in Essex, and extended her country
connection for supply as the retail business increased.

Staines wrote an article on pure food, and incidentally mentioned
the shop as a place where flour, milk, and butter were to be had
pure.  This article was published in the Lancet, and caused quite a
run upon the little shop.  By and by Phoebe enlarged it, for which
there were great capabilities, and made herself a pretty little
parlor, and there she and Dick sat to Falcon for their portraits;
here, too, she hung his rejected landscapes.  They were fair in her
eyes; what matter whether they were like nature? his hand had
painted them.  She knew, from him, that everybody else had rejected
them.  With all the more pride and love did she have them framed in
gold, and hung up with the portraits in her little sanctum.

For a few months Phoebe Dale was as happy as she deserved to be.
Her lover was working, and faithful to her--at least she saw no
reason to doubt it.  He came to see her every evening, and seemed
devoted to her: would sit quietly with her, or walk with her, or
take her to a play, or a music-hall--at her expense.

She now lived in a quiet elysium, with a bright and rapturous dream
of the future; for she saw she had hit on a good vein of business,
and should soon be independent, and able to indulge herself with a
husband, and ask no man's leave.

She sent to Essex for a dairymaid, and set her to churn milk into
butter, coram populo, at a certain hour every morning.  This made a
new sensation.  At other times the woman was employed to deliver
milk and cream to a few favored customers.

Mrs. Staines dropped in now and then, and chatted with her.  Her
sweet face and her naivete won Phoebe's heart; and one day, as
happiness is apt to be communicative, she let out to her, in reply
to a feeler or two as to whether she was quite alone, that she was
engaged to be married to a gentleman.  "But he is not rich, ma'am,"
said Phoebe plaintively; "he has had trouble: obliged to work for
his living, like me; he painted these pictures, EVERY ONE OF THEM.
If it was not making too free, and you could spare a guinea--he
charges no more for the picture, only you must go to the expense of
the frame."

"Of course I will," said Rosa warmly. "I'll sit for it here, any
day you like."

Now, Rosa said this, out of her ever ready kindness, not to wound
Phoebe: but having made the promise, she kept clear of the place
for some days, hoping Phoebe would forget all about it. Meantime
she sent her husband to buy.

In about a fortnight she called again, primed with evasions if she
should be asked to sit; but nothing of the kind was proposed.
Phoebe was dealing when she went in.  The customers disposed of,
she said to Mrs. Staines, "Oh, ma'am, I am glad you are come.  I
have something I should like to show you."  She took her into the
parlor, and made her sit down: then she opened a drawer, and took
out a very small substance that looked like a tear of ground glass,
and put it on the table before her.  "There, ma'am," said she,
"that is all he has had for painting a friend's picture."

"Oh! what a shame."

"His friend was going abroad--to Natal; to his uncle that farms out
there, and does very well; it is a first-rate part, if you take out
a little stock with you, and some money; so my one gave him credit,
and when the letter came with that postmark, he counted on a five-
pound note; but the letter only said he had got no money yet, but
sent him something as a keepsake: and there was this little stone.
Poor fellow! he flung it down in a passion; he was so disappointed."

Phoebe's great gray eyes filled; and Rosa gave a little coo of
sympathy that was very womanly and lovable.

Phoebe leaned her cheek on her hand, and said thoughtfully, "I
picked it up, and brought it away; for, after all--don't you think,
ma'am, it is very strange that a friend should send it all that
way, if it was worth nothing at all?"

"It is impossible.  He could not be so heartless."

"And do you know, ma'am, when I take it up in my fingers, it
doesn't feel like a thing that was worth nothing."

"No more it does: it makes my fingers tremble.  May I take it home,
and show it my husband? he is a great physician and knows everything."

"I am sure I should be obliged to you, ma'am."

Rosa drove home, on purpose to show it to Christopher.  She ran
into his study: "Oh, Christopher, please look at that.  You know
that good creature we have our flour and milk and things of.  She
is engaged, and he is a painter.  Oh, such daubs!  He painted a
friend, and the friend sent that home all the way from Natal, and
he dashed it down, and SHE picked it up, and what is it? ground
glass, or a pebble, or what?"

"Humph!--by its shape, and the great--brilliancy--and refraction of
light, on this angle, where the stone has got polished by rubbing
against other stones, in the course of ages, I'm inclined to think
it is--a diamond."

"A diamond!" shrieked Rosa.  "No wonder my fingers trembled.  Oh,
can it be?  Oh, you good, cold-blooded Christie!--Poor things!--
Come along, Diamond!  Oh you beauty!  Oh you duck!"

"Don't be in such a hurry.  I only said I thought it was a diamond.
Let me weigh it against water, and then I shall KNOW."

He took it to his little laboratory, and returned in a few minutes,
and said, "Yes.  It is just three times and a half heavier than
water.  It is a diamond."

"Are you positive?"

"I'll stake my existence."

"What is it worth?"

"My dear, I'm not a jeweller: but it is very large and pear-shaped,
and I see no flaw: I don't think you could buy it for less than
three hundred pounds."

"Three hundred pounds!  It is worth three hundred pounds."

"Or sell it for more than a hundred and fifty pounds."

"A hundred and fifty!  It is worth a hundred and fifty pounds."

"Why, my dear, one would think you had invented 'the diamond.'
Show me how to crystallize carbon, and I will share your
enthusiasm."

"Oh, I leave you to carbonize crystal.  I prefer to gladden hearts:
and I will do it this minute, with my diamond."

"Do, dear; and I will take that opportunity to finish my article on
Adulteration."

Rosa drove off to Phoebe Dale.

Now Phoebe was drinking tea with Reginald Falcon, in her little
parlor.  "Who is that, I wonder?" said she, when the carriage drew
up.

Reginald drew back a corner of the gauze curtain which had been
drawn across the little glass door leading from the shop.

"It is a lady, and a beautiful--Oh! let me get out."  And he rushed
out at the door leading to the kitchen, not to be recognized.

This set Phoebe all in a flutter, and the next moment Mrs. Staines
tapped at the little door, then opened it, and peeped.  "Good news!
may I come in?"

"Surely," said Phoebe, still troubled and confused by Reginald's
strange agitation.

"There!  It is a diamond!" screamed Rosa.  "My husband knew it
directly.  He knows everything.  If ever you are ill, go to him and
nobody else--by the refraction, and the angle, and its being three
times and a half as heavy as water.  It is worth three hundred
pounds to buy, and a hundred and fifty pounds to sell."

"Oh!"

"So don't you go throwing it away, as he did.  (In a whisper.)  Two
teacups?  Was that him?  I have driven him away.  I am so sorry.
I'll go; and then you can tell him.  Poor fellow!"

"Oh, ma'am, don't go yet," said Phoebe, trembling.  "I haven't half
thanked you."

"Oh, bother thanks.  Kiss me; that is the way."

"May I?"

"You may, and must.  There--and there--and there.  Oh dear, what
nice things good luck and happiness are, and how sweet to bring
them for once."

Upon this Phoebe and she had a nice little cry together, and Mrs.
Staines went off refreshed thereby, and as gay as a lark, pointing
slyly at the door, and making faces to Phoebe that she knew he was
there, and she only retired, out of her admirable discretion, that
they might enjoy the diamond together.

When she was gone, Reginald, whose eye and ear had been at the
keyhole, alternately gloating on the face and drinking the accents
of the only woman he had ever really loved, came out, looking pale,
and strangely disturbed; and sat down at table, without a word.

Phoebe came back to him, full of the diamond.  "Did you hear what
she said, my dear?  It is a diamond; it is worth a hundred and
fifty pounds at least.  Why, what ails you?  Ah! to be sure! you
know that lady."

"I have cause to know her.  Cursed jilt!"

"You seem a good deal put out at the sight of her."

"It took me by surprise, that is all."

"It takes me by surprise too.  I thought you were cured.  I thought
MY turn had come at last."

Reginald met this in sullen silence.  Then Phoebe was sorry she had
said it; for, after all, it wasn't the man's fault if an old
sweetheart had run into the room, and given him a start.  So she
made him some fresh tea, and pressed him kindly to try her home-
made bread and butter.

My lord relaxed his frown and consented, and of course they talked
diamond.

He told her, loftily, he must take a studio, and his sitters must
come to him, and must no longer expect to be immortalized for one
pound.  It must be two pounds for a bust, and three pounds for a
kitcat.

"Nay, but, my dear," said Phoebe, "they will pay no more because
you have a diamond."

"Then they will have to go unpainted," said Mr. Falcon.

This was intended for a threat.  Phoebe instinctively felt that it
might not be so received; she counselled moderation.  "It is a
great thing to have earned a diamond," said she: "but 'tis only
once in a life.  Now, be ruled by me: go on just as you are.  Sell
the diamond, and give me the money to keep for you.  Why, you might
add a little to it, and so would I, till we made it up two hundred
pounds.  And if you could only show two hundred pounds you had made
and laid by, father would let us marry, and I might keep this shop--
it pays well, I can tell you--and keep my gentleman in a sly
corner; you need never be seen in it."

"Ay, ay," said he, "that is the small game.  But I am a man that
have always preferred the big game.  I shall set up my studio, and
make enough to keep us both.  So give me the stone, if you please.
I shall take it round to them all, and the rogues won't get it out
of ME for a hundred and fifty; why, it is as big as a nut."

"No, no, Reginald.  Money has always made mischief between you and
me.  You never had fifty pounds yet, you didn't fall into
temptation.  Do pray let me keep it for you; or else sell it--I
know how to sell; nobody better--and keep the money for a good
occasion."

"Is it yours, or mine?" said he, sulkily.

"Why yours, dear; you earned it."

"Then give it me, please."  And he almost forced it out of her
hand.

So now she sat down and cried over this piece of good luck, for her
heart filled with forebodings.

He laughed at her, but at last had the grace to console her, and
assure her she was tormenting herself for nothing.

"Time will show," said she, sadly.

Time did show.

Three or four days he came, as usual, to laugh her out of her
forebodings.  But presently his visits ceased.  She knew what that
meant: he was living like a gentleman, melting his diamond, and
playing her false with the first pretty face he met.

This blow, coming after she had been so happy, struck Phoebe Dale
stupid with grief.  The line on her high forehead deepened; and at
night she sat with her hands before her, sighing, and sighing, and
listening for the footsteps that never came.

"Oh, Dick!" she said, "never you love any one.  I am aweary of my
life.  And to think that, but for that diamond--oh, dear! oh, dear!
oh, dear!"

Then Dick used to try and comfort her in his way, and often put his
arm round her neck, and gave her his rough but honest sympathy.
Dick's rare affection was her one drop of comfort; it was something
to relieve her swelling heart.

"Oh, Dick!" she said to him one night, "I wish I had married him."

"What, to be ill-used?"

"He couldn't use me worse.  I have been wife, and mother, and
sweetheart, and all, to him; and to be left like this.  He treats
me like the dirt beneath his feet."

"'Tis your own fault, Phoebe, partly.  You say the word, and I'll
break every bone in his carcass."

"What, do him a mischief!  Why, I'd rather die than harm a hair of
his head.  You must never lift a hand to him, or I shall hate you."

"Hate ME, Phoebe?"

"Ay, boy: I should.  God forgive me: 'tis no use deceiving
ourselves; when a woman loves a man she despises, never you come
between them; there's no reason in her love, so it is incurable.
One comfort, it can't go on forever; it must kill me, before my
time and so best.  If I was only a mother, and had a little
Reginald to dandle on my knee and gloat upon, till he spent his
money, and came back to me.  That's why I said I wished I was his
wife.  Oh! why does God fill a poor woman's bosom with love, and
nothing to spend it on but a stone; for sure his heart must be one.
If I had only something that would let me always love it, a little
toddling thing at my knee, that would always let me look at it, and
love it, something too young to be false to me, too weak to run
away from my long--ing--arms--and--year--ning heart!"  Then came a
burst of agony, and moans of desolation, till poor puzzled Dick
blubbered loudly at her grief; and then her tears flowed in
streams.

Trouble on trouble.  Dick himself got strangely out of sorts, and
complained of shivers.  Phoebe sent him to bed early, and made him
some white wine whey very hot.  In the morning he got up, and said
he was better; but after breakfast he was violently sick, and
suffered several returns of nausea before noon.  "One would think I
was poisoned," said he.

At one o'clock he was seized with a kind of spasm in the throat
that lasted so long it nearly choked him.

Then Phoebe got frightened, and sent to the nearest surgeon.  He
did not hurry, and poor Dick had another frightful spasm just as he
came in.

"It is hysterical," said the surgeon.  "No disease of the heart, is
there?  Give him a little sal-volatile every half hour."

In spite of the sal-volatile these terrible spasms seized him every
half hour; and now he used to spring off the bed with a cry of
terror when they came; and each one left him weaker and weaker; he
had to be carried back by the women.

A sad, sickening fear seized on Phoebe.  She left Dick with the
maid, and tying on her bonnet in a moment, rushed wildly down the
street, asking the neighbors for a great doctor, the best that
could be had for money.  One sent her east a mile, another west,
and she was almost distracted, when who should drive up but Dr. and
Mrs. Staines, to make purchases.  She did not know his name, but
she knew he was a doctor.  She ran to the window, and cried, "Oh,
doctor, my brother!  Oh, pray come to him.  Oh! oh!"

Dr. Staines got quickly, but calmly, out; told his wife to wait;
and followed Phoebe up-stairs.  She told him in a few agitated
words how Dick had been taken, and all the symptoms; especially
what had alarmed her so, his springing off the bed when the spasm
came.

Dr. Staines told her to hold the patient up.  He lost not a moment,
but opened his mouth resolutely, and looked down.

"The glottis is swollen," said he: then he felt his hands, and
said, with the grave, terrible calm of experience, "He is dying."

"Oh, no! no!  Oh, doctor, save him! save him!"

"Nothing can save him, unless we had a surgeon on the spot.  Yes, I
might save him, if you have the courage: opening his windpipe
before the next spasm is his one chance."

"Open his windpipe!  Oh, doctor!  It will kill him.  Let me look at
you."

She looked hard in his face.  It gave her confidence.

"Is it the only chance?"

"The only one: and it is flying while we chatter."

"DO IT."

He whipped out his lancet.

"But I can't look on it.  I trust to you and my Saviour's mercy."

She fell on her knees, and bowed her head in prayer.

Staines seized a basin, put it by the bedside, made an incision in
the windpipe, and got Dick down on his stomach, with his face over
the bedside.  Some blood ran, but not much.  "Now!" he cried,
cheerfully, "a small bellows!  There's one in your parlor.  Run."

Phoebe ran for it, and at Dr. Staines' direction lifted Dick a
little, while the bellows, duly cleansed, were gently applied to
the aperture in the windpipe, and the action of the lungs
delicately aided by this primitive but effectual means.

He showed Phoebe how to do it, tore a leaf out of his pocket-book,
wrote a hasty direction to an able surgeon near, and sent his wife
off with it in the carriage.

Phoebe and he never left the patient till the surgeon came with all
the instruments required; amongst the rest, with a big, tortuous
pair of nippers, with which he could reach the glottis, and snip
it.  But they consulted, and thought it wiser to continue the surer
method; and so a little tube was neatly inserted into Dick's
windpipe, and his throat bandaged; and by this aperture he did his
breathing for some little time.

Phoebe nursed him like a mother; and the terror and the joy did her
good, and made her less desolate.

Dick was only just well when both of them were summoned to the
farm, and arrived only just in time to receive their father's
blessing and his last sigh.

Their elder brother, a married man, inherited the farm, and was
executor.  Phoebe and Dick were left fifteen hundred pounds apiece,
on condition of their leaving England and going to Natal.

They knew directly what that meant.  Phoebe was to be parted from a
bad man, and Dick was to comfort her for the loss.

When this part of the will was read to Phoebe, she turned faint,
and only her health and bodily vigor kept her from swooning right
away.

But she yielded.  "It is the will of the dead," said she, "and I
will obey it; for, oh, if I had but listened to him more when he
was alive to advise me, I should not sit here now, sick at heart
and dry-eyed, when I ought to be thinking only of the good friend
that is gone."

When she had come to this she became feverishly anxious to be gone.
She busied herself in purchasing agricultural machines, and stores,
and even stock; and to see her pinching the beasts' ribs to find
their condition, and parrying all attempts to cheat her, you would
never have believed she could be a love-sick woman.

Dick kept her up to the mark.  He only left her to bargain with the
master of a good vessel; for it was no trifle to take out horses
and cows, and machines, and bales of cloth, cotton, and linen.

When that was settled they came in to town together, and Phoebe
bought shrewdly, at wholesale houses in the city, for cash, and
would have bargains: and the little shop in ----- Street was turned
into a warehouse.

They were all ardor, as colonists should be; and what pleased Dick
most, she never mentioned Falcon; yet he learned from the maid that
worthy had been there twice, looking very seedy.

The day drew near.  Dick was in high spirits.

"We shall soon make our fortune out there," he said; "and I'll get
you a good husband."

She shuddered, but said nothing.

The evening before they were to sail, Phoebe sat alone, in her
black dress, tired with work, and asking herself, sick at heart,
could she ever really leave England, when the door opened softly,
and Reginald Falcon, shabbily dressed, came in, and threw himself
into a chair.

She started up with a scream, then sank down again, trembling, and
turned her face to the wall.

"So you are going to run away from me!" said he savagely.

"Ay, Reginald," said she meekly.

"This is your fine love, is it?"

"You have worn it out, dear," she said softly, without turning her
head from the wall.

"I wish I could say as much; but, curse it, every time I leave you
I learn to love you more.  I am never really happy but when I am
with you."

"Bless you for saying that, dear.  I often thought you MUST find
that out one day; but you took too long."

"Oh, better late than never.  Phoebe!  Can you have the heart to go
to the Cape, and leave me all alone in the world, with nobody that
really cares for me?  Surely you are not obliged to go."

"Yes; my father left Dick and me fifteen hundred pounds apiece to
go: that was the condition.  Poor Dick loves his unhappy sister.
He won't go without me--I should be his ruin--poor Dick, that
really loves me; and he lay a-dying here, and the good doctor and
me--God bless him--we brought him back from the grave.  Ah, you
little know what I have gone through.  You were not here.  Catch
you being near me when I am in trouble.  There, I must go.  I must
go.  I will go; if I fling myself into the sea half way."

"And, if you do, I'll take a dose of poison; for I have thrown away
the truest heart, the sweetest, most unselfish, kindest, generous--
oh! oh! oh!"

And he began to howl.

This set Phoebe sobbing.  "Don't cry, dear," she murmured through
her tears; "if you have really any love for me, come with me."

"What, leave England, and go to a desert?"

"Love can make a desert a garden."

"Phoebe, I'll do anything else.  I'll swear not to leave your side.
I'll never look at any other face but yours.  But I can't live in
Africa."

"I know you can't.  It takes a little real love to go there with a
poor girl like me.  Ah, well, I'd have made you so happy.  We are
not poor emigrants.  I have a horse for you to ride, and guns to
shoot; and me and Dick would do all the work for you.  But there
are others here you can't leave for me.  Well, then, good-by, dear.
In Africa, or here, I shall always love you; and many a salt tear I
shall shed for you yet, many a one I have, as well you know.  God
bless you.  Pray for poor Phoebe, that goes against her will to
Africa, and leaves her heart with thee."

This was too much even for the selfish Reginald.  He kneeled at her
knees, and took her hand, and kissed it, and actually shed a tear
or two over it.

She could not speak.  He had no hope of changing her resolution;
and presently he heard Dick's voice outside, so he got up to avoid
him.  "I'll come again in the morning, before you go."

"Oh, no! no!" she gasped.  "Unless you want me to die at your feet.
I am almost dead now."

Reginald slipped out by the kitchen.

Dick came in, and found his sister leaning with her head back
against the wall.  "Why, Phoebe," said he, "whatever is the
matter?" and he took her by the shoulder.

She moaned, and he felt her all limp and powerless.

"What is it, lass?  Whatever is the matter?  Is it about going
away?"

She would not speak for a long time.

When she did speak, it was to say something for which my male
reader may not be prepared.  But it will not surprise the women.

"O Dick--forgive me!"

"Why, what for?"

"Forgive me, or else kill me: I don't care which."

"I do, though.  There, I forgive you.  Now what's your crime?"

"I can't go.  Forgive me!"

"Can't go?"

"I can't.  Forgive me!"

"I'm blessed if I don't believe that vagabond has been here
tormenting of you again."

"Oh, don't miscall him.  He is penitent.  Yes, Dick, he has been
here crying to me--and I can't leave him.  I can't--I can't.  Dear
Dick! you are young and stout-hearted; take all the things over,
and make your fortune out there, and leave your poor foolish sister
behind.  I should only fling myself into the salt sea if I left him
now, and that would be peace to me, but a grief to thee."

"Lordsake, Phoebe, don't talk so.  I can't go without you.  And do
but think, why, the horses are on board by now, and all the gear.
It's my belief a good hiding is all you want, to bring you to your
senses; but I han't the heart to give you one, worse luck.  Blessed
if I know what to say or do."

"I won't go!" cried Phoebe, turning violent all of a sudden.  "No,
not if I am dragged to the ship by the hair of my head.  Forgive
me!"  And with that word she was a mouse again.

"Eh, but women are kittle cattle to drive," said poor Dick
ruefully.  And down he sat at a nonplus, and very unhappy.

Phoebe sat opposite, sullen, heart-sick, wretched to the core; but
determined not to leave Reginald.

Then came an event that might have been foreseen, yet it took them
both by surprise.

A light step was heard, and a graceful, though seedy, figure
entered the room with a set speech in his mouth: "Phoebe, you are
right.  I owe it to your long and faithful affection to make a
sacrifice for you.  I will go to Africa with you.  I will go to the
end of the world, sooner than you shall say I care for any woman on
earth but you."

Both brother and sister were so unprepared for this, that they
could hardly realize it at first.

Phoebe turned her great, inquiring eyes on the speaker, and it was
a sight to see amazement, doubt, hope, and happiness animating her
features, one after another.

"Is this real?" said she.

"I will sail with you to-morrow, Phoebe; and I will make you a good
husband, if you will have me."

"That is spoke like a man," said Dick.  "You take him at his word,
Phoebe; and if he ill-uses you out there, I'll break every bone in
his skin."

"How dare you threaten him?" said Phoebe.  "You had best leave the
room."

Out went poor Dick, with the tear in his eye at being snubbed so.
While he was putting up the shutters, Phoebe was making love to her
pseudo penitent.  "My dear," said she, "trust yourself to me.  You
don't know all my love yet; for I have never been your wife, and I
would not be your jade; that is the only thing I ever refused you.
Trust yourself to me.  Why, you never found happiness with others;
try it with me.  It shall be the best day's work you ever did,
going out in the ship with me.  You don't know how happy a loving
wife can make her husband.  I'll pet you out there as man was never
petted.  And besides, it isn't for life; Dick and me will soon make
a fortune out there, and then I'll bring you home, and see you
spend it any way you like but one.  Oh, how I love you! do you love
me a little?  I worship the ground you walk on.  I adore every hair
of your head!"  Her noble arm went round his neck in a moment, and
the grandeur of her passion electrified him so far that he kissed
her affectionately, if not quite so warmly as she did him: and so
it was all settled.  The maid was discharged that night instead of
the morning, and Reginald was to occupy her bed.  Phoebe went up-
stairs with her heart literally on fire, to prepare his sleeping-
room, and so Dick and Reginald had a word.

"I say, Dick, how long will this voyage be?"

"Two months, sir, I am told."

"Please to cast your eyes on this suit of mine.  Don't you think it
is rather seedy--to go to Africa with?  Why, I shall disgrace you
on board the ship.  I say, Dick, lend me three sovs., just to buy a
new suit at the slop-shop."

"Well, brother-in-law," said Dick, "I don't see any harm in that.
I'll go and fetch them for you."

What does this sensible Dick do but go up-stairs to Phoebe, and
say, "He wants three pounds to buy a suit; am I to lend it him?"

Phoebe was shaking and patting her penitent's pillow.  She dropped
it on the bed in dismay.  "Oh, Dick, not for all the world!  Why,
if he had three sovereigns, he'd desert me at the water's edge.
Oh, God help me, how I love him!  God forgive me, how I mistrust
him!  Good Dick! kind Dick! say we have suits of clothes, and we'll
fit him like a prince, as he ought to be, on board ship; but not a
shilling of money: and, my dear, don't put the weight on ME.  You
understand?"

"Ay, mistress, I understand."

"Good Dick!"

"Oh, all right! and then don't you snap this here good, kind Dick's
nose off at a word again."

"Never.  I get wild if anybody threatens him.  Then I'm not myself.
Forgive my hasty tongue.  You know I love you, dear!"

"Oh, ay! you love me well enough.  But seems to me your love is
precious like cold veal, and your love for that chap is hot roast
beef."

"Ha, ha, ha, ha!"

"Oh, ye can laugh now, can ye?"

"Ha, ha, ha!"

"Well, the more of that music, the better for me."

"Yes, dear; but go and tell him."

Dick went down, and said, "I've got no money to spare, till I get
to the Cape; but Phoebe has got a box full of suits, and I made her
promise to keep it out.  She will dress you like a prince, you may
be sure."

"Oh, that is it, is it?" said Reginald dryly.

Dick made no reply.

At nine o'clock they were on board the vessel; at ten she weighed
anchor, and a steam-vessel drew her down the river about thirty
miles, then cast off, and left her to the south-easterly breeze.
Up went sail after sail; she nodded her lofty head, and glided away
for Africa.

Phoebe shed a few natural tears at leaving the shores of Old
England; but they soon dried.  She was demurely happy, watching her
prize, and asking herself had she really secured it, and all in a
few hours?

They had a prosperous voyage: were married at Cape Town, and went
up the country, bag and baggage, looking out for a good bargain in
land.  Reginald was mounted on an English horse, and allowed to
zigzag about, and shoot, and play, while his wife and brother-in-
law marched slowly with their cavalcade.

What with air, exercise, wholesome food, and smiles of welcome, and
delicious petting, this egotist enjoyed himself finely.  He
admitted as much.  Says he, one evening to his wife, who sat by him
for the pleasure of seeing him feed, "It sounds absurd; but I never
was so happy in all my life."

At that, the celestial expression of her pastoral face, and the
maternal gesture with which she drew her pet's head to her queenly
bosom, was a picture for celibacy to gnash the teeth at.


CHAPTER IX.


During this period, the most remarkable things that happened to Dr.
and Mrs. Staines were really those which I have related as
connecting them with Phoebe Dale and her brother; to which I will
now add that Dr. Staines detailed Dick's case in a remarkable
paper, entitled "Oedema of the Glottis," and showed how the patient
had been brought back from the grave by tracheotomy and artificial
respiration.  He received a high price for this article.

To tell the truth, he was careful not to admit that it was he who
had opened the windpipe; so the credit of the whole operation was
given to Mr. Jenkyn; and this gentleman was naturally pleased, and
threw a good many consultation fees in Staines's way.

The Lucases, to his great comfort--for he had an instinctive
aversion to Miss Lucas--left London for Paris in August, and did
not return all the year.

In February he reviewed his year's work and twelve months'
residence in the Bijou.  The pecuniary result was, outgoings, nine
hundred and fifty pounds; income, from fees, two hundred and eighty
pounds; writing, ninety pounds.

He showed these figures to Mrs. Staines, and asked her if she could
suggest any diminution of expenditure.  Could she do with less
housekeeping money?

"Oh, impossible!  You cannot think how the servants eat; and they
won't touch our home-made bread."

"The fools!  Why?"

"Oh, because they think it costs us less.  Servants seem to me
always to hate the people whose bread they eat."

"More likely it is their vanity.  Nothing that is not paid for
before their eyes seems good enough for them.  Well, dear, the
bakers will revenge us.  But is there any other item we could
reduce?  Dress?"

"Dress!  Why, I spend nothing."

"Forty-five pounds this year."

"Well, I shall want none next year."

"Well, then, Rosa, as there is nothing we can reduce, I must write
more, and take more fees, or we shall be in the wrong box.  Only
eight hundred and sixty pounds left of our little capital; and,
mind, we have not another shilling in the world.  One comfort,
there is no debt.  We pay ready money for everything."

Rosa colored a little, but said nothing.

Staines did his part nobly.  He read; he wrote; he paced the yard.
He wore his old clothes in the house; he took off his new ones when
he came in.  He was all genius, drudgery, patience.

How Phoebe Dale would have valued him, co-operated with him, and
petted him, if she had had the good luck to be his wife!

The season came back, and with it Miss Lucas, towing a brilliant
bride, Mrs. Vivian, young, rich, pretty, and gay, with a waist you
could span, and athirst for pleasure.

This lady was the first that ever made Rosa downright jealous.  She
seemed to have everything the female heart could desire; and she
was No. 1 with Miss Lucas this year.  Now, Rosa was No. 1 last
season, and had weakly imagined that was to last forever.  But Miss
Lucas had always a sort of female flame, and it never lasted two
seasons.

Rosa did not care so very much for Miss Lucas before, except as a
convenient friend; but now she was mortified to tears at finding
Miss Lucas made more fuss with another than with her.

This foolish feeling spurred her to attempt a rivalry with Mrs.
Vivian, in the very things where rivalry was hopeless.

Miss Lucas gave both ladies tickets for a flower-show, where all
the great folk were to be, princes and princesses, etc.

"But I have nothing to wear," sighed Rosa.

"Then you must get something, and mind it is not pink, please; for
we must not clash in colors.  You know I'm dark, and pink becomes
me.  (The selfish young brute was not half so dark as Rosa.)  Mine
is coming from Worth's, in Paris, on purpose.  And this new Madame
Cie, of Regent Street, has such a duck of a bonnet, just come from
Paris.  She wanted to make me one from it; but I told her I would
have none but the pattern bonnet--and she knows very well she can't
pass a copy off on me.  Let me drive you up there, and you can see
mine, and order one, if you like it."

"Oh, thank you! let me just run and speak to my husband first."

Staines was writing for the bare life, and a number of German books
about him, slaving to make a few pounds--when in comes the buoyant
figure and beaming face his soul delighted in.

He laid down his work, to enjoy the sunbeam of love.

"Oh, darling, I've only come in for a minute.  We are going to a
flower-show on the 13th; everybody will be so beautifully dressed--
especially that Mrs. Vivian.  I have got ten yards of beautiful
blue silk in my wardrobe, but that is not enough to make a whole
dress--everything takes so much stuff now.  Madame Cie does not
care to make up dresses unless she finds the silk, but Miss Lucas
says she thinks, to oblige a friend of hers, she would do it for
once in a way.  You know, dear, it would only take a few yards
more, and it would last as a dinner-dress for ever so long."

Then she clasped him round the neck, and leaned her head upon his
shoulder, and looked lovingly up in his face.  "I know you would
like your Rosa to look as well as Mrs. Vivian."

"No one ever looks as well, in my eyes, as my Rosa.  There, the
dress will add nothing to your beauty; but go and get it, to please
yourself; it is very considerate of you to have chosen something of
which you have ten yards, already.  See, dear, I'm to receive
twenty pounds for this article; if research was paid it ought to be
a hundred.  I shall add it all to your allowance for dresses this
year.  So no debt, mind; but come to me for everything."

The two ladies drove off to Madame Cie's, a pretty shop lined with
dark velvet and lace draperies.

In the back room they were packing a lovely bridal dress, going off
the following Saturday to New York.

"What, send from America to London?"

"Oh, dear, yes!" exclaimed Madame Cie.  "The American ladies are
excellent customers.  They buy everything of the best, and the most
expensive."

"I have brought a new customer," said Miss Lucas; "and I want you to
do a great favor, and that is to match a blue silk, and make her a
pretty dress for the flower-show on the 13th."

Madame Cie produced a white muslin polonaise, which she was just
going to send home to the Princess -----, to be worn over mauve.

"Oh, how pretty and simple!" exclaimed Miss Lucas.

"I have some lace exactly like that," said Mrs. Staines.

"Then why don't you have a polonaise?  The lace is the only
expensive part, the muslin is a mere nothing; and it is such a
useful dress, it can be worn over any silk."

It was agreed Madame Cie was to send for the blue silk and the
lace, and the dresses were to be tried on on Thursday.

On Thursday, as Rosa went gayly into Madame Cie's back room to have
the dresses tried on, Madame Cie said, "You have a beautiful lace
shawl, but it wants arranging; in five minutes I could astonish you
with what I could do to that shawl."

"Oh, pray do," said Mrs. Staines.

The dressmaker kept her word.  By the time the blue dress was tried
on, Madame Cie had, with the aid of a few pins, plaits, and a bow
of blue ribbon, transformed the half lace shawl into one of the
smartest and distingue things imaginable; but when the bill came in
at Christmas, for that five minutes' labor and distingue touch, she
charged one pound eight.

Madame Cie then told the ladies, in an artfully confidential tone,
she had a quantity of black silk coming home, which she had
purchased considerably below cost price; and that she should like
to make them each a dress--not for her own sake, but theirs--as she
knew they would never meet such a bargain again.  "You know, Miss
Lucas," she continued, "we don't want our money, when we know our
customers.  Christmas is soon enough for us."

"Christmas is a long time off," thought the young wife, "nearly ten
months.  I think I'll have a black silk, Madame Cie; but I must not
say anything to the doctor about it just yet, or he might think me
extravagant."

"No one can ever think a lady extravagant for buying a black silk;
it's such a useful dress; lasts forever--almost."

Days, weeks, and months rolled on, and with them an ever-rolling
tide of flower-shows, dinners, at-homes, balls, operas, lawn-
parties, concerts, and theatres.

Strange that in one house there should be two people who loved each
other, yet their lives ran so far apart, except while they were
asleep: the man all industry, self-denial, patience; the woman all
frivolity, self-indulgence, and amusement; both chained to an oar,
only--one in a working boat, the other in a painted galley.

The woman got tired first, and her charming color waned sadly.  She
came to him for medicine to set her up.  "I feel so languid."

"No, no," said he; "no medicine can do the work of wholesome food
and rational repose.  You lack the season of all natures, sleep.
Dine at home three days running, and go to bed at ten."

On this the doctor's wife went to a chemist for advice.  He gave
her a pink stimulant; and, as stimulants have two effects, viz.,
first to stimulate, and then to weaken, this did her no lasting
good.  Dr. Staines cursed the London season, and threatened to
migrate to Liverpool.

But there was worse behind.

Returning one day to his dressing-room, just after Rosa had come
down-stairs, he caught sight of a red stain in a wash-hand-basin.
He examined it; it was arterial blood.

He went to her directly, and expressed his anxiety.

"Oh, it is nothing," said she.

"Nothing!  Pray, how often has it occurred?"

"Once or twice.  I must take your advice, and be quiet, that is
all."

Staines examined the housemaid; she lied instinctively at first,
seeing he was alarmed; but, being urged to tell the truth, said she
had seen it repeatedly, and had told the cook.

He went down-stairs again, and sat down, looking wretched.

"Oh, dear!" said Rosa.  "What is the matter now?"

"Rosa," said he, very gravely, "there are two people a woman is mad
to deceive--her husband and her physician.  You have deceived
both."


CHAPTER X.


I suspect Dr. Staines merely meant to say that she had concealed
from him an alarming symptom for several weeks; but she answered in
a hurry, to excuse herself, and let the cat out of the bag--excuse
my vulgarity.

"It was all that Mrs. Vivian's fault.  She laughed at me so for not
wearing them; and she has a waist you can span--the wretch!"

"Oh, then, you have been wearing stays clandestinely?"

"Why, you know I have.  Oh, what a stupid!  I have let it all out."

"How could you do it, when you knew, by experience, it is your
death?"

"But it looks so beautiful, a tiny waist."

"It looks as hideous as a Chinese foot, and, to the eye of science,
far more disgusting; it is the cause of so many unlovely diseases."

"Just tell me one thing; have you looked at Mrs. Vivian?"

"Minutely.  I look at all your friends with great anxiety, knowing
no animal more dangerous than a fool.  Vivian--a skinny woman, with
a pretty face, lovely hair, good teeth, dying eyes"--

"Yes, lovely!"

"A sure proof of a disordered stomach--and a waist pinched in so
unnaturally, that I said to myself, 'Where on earth does this idiot
put her liver?'  Did you ever read of the frog who burst, trying to
swell to an ox?  Well, here is the rivalry reversed; Mrs. Vivian is
a bag of bones in a balloon; she can machine herself into a wasp;
but a fine young woman like you, with flesh and muscle, must kill
yourself three or four times before you can make your body as
meagre, hideous, angular, and unnatural as Vivian's.  But all you
ladies are mono-maniacs; one might as well talk sense to a gorilla.
It brought you to the edge of the grave.  I saved you.  Yet you
could go and--  God grant me patience.  So I suppose these
unprincipled women lent you their stays to deceive your husband?"

"No.  But they laughed at me so that--  Oh, Christie, I'm a wretch;
I kept a pair at the Lucases, and a pair at Madame Cie's, and I put
them on now and then."

"But you never appeared here in them?"

"What, before my tyrant?  Oh no, I dared not."

"So you took them off before you came home?"

Rosa hung her head, and said "Yes" in a reluctant whisper.

"You spent your daylight dressing.  You dressed to go out; dressed
again in stays; dressed again without them; and all to deceive your
husband, and kill yourself, at the bidding of two shallow,
heartless women, who would dance over your grave without a pang of
remorse, or sentiment of any kind, since they live, like midges,
ONLY TO DANCE IN THE SUN, AND SUCK SOME WORKER'S BLOOD."

"Oh, Christie!  I'm so easily led.  I am too great a fool to live.
Kill me!"

And she kneeled down, and renewed the request, looking up in his
face with an expression that might have disarmed Cain ipsum.

He smiled superior.  "The question is, are you sorry you have been
so thoughtless?"

"Yes, dear.  Oh! oh!"

"Will you be very good to make up?"

"Oh, yes.  Only tell me how; for it does not come natural to poor
me."

"Keep out of those women's way for the rest of the season."

"I will."

"Bring your stays home, and allow me to do what I like with them."

"Of course.  Cut them in a million pieces."

"Till you are recovered, you must be my patient, and go nowhere
without me."

"That is no punishment, I am sure."

"Punishment!  Am I the man to punish you?  I only want to save
you."

"Well, darling, it won't be the first time."

"No; but I do hope it will be the last."


CHAPTER XI.


"Sublata causa tollitur effectus."  The stays being gone, and
dissipation moderated, Mrs. Staines bloomed again, and they gave
one or two unpretending little dinners at the Bijou.  Dr. Staines
admitted no false friends to these.  They never went beyond eight;
five gentlemen, three ladies.  By this arrangement the terrible
discursiveness of the fair, and man's cruel disposition to work a
subject threadbare, were controlled and modified, and a happy
balance of conversation established.  Lady Cicely Treherne was
always invited, and always managed to come; for she said, "They
were the most agweeable little paaties in London, and the host and
hostess both so intewesting."  In the autumn, Staines worked double
tides with the pen, and found a vehicle for medical narratives in a
weekly magazine that did not profess medicine.

This new vein put him in heart.  His fees, towards the end of the
year, were less than last year, because there was no hundred-guinea
fee; but there was a marked increase in the small fees, and the
unflagging pen had actually earned him two hundred pounds, or
nearly.  So he was in good spirits.

Not so Mrs. Staines; for some time she had been uneasy, fretful,
and like a person with a weight on her mind.

One Sunday she said to him, "Oh, dear, I do feel so dull.  Nobody
to go to church with, nor yet to the Zoo."

"I'll go with you," said Staines.

"You will!  To which?"

"To both; in for a penny, in for a pound."

So to church they went; and Staines, whose motto was "Hoc age,"
minded his book.  Rosa had intervals of attention to the words, but
found plenty of time to study the costumes.

During the Litany in bustled Clara, the housemaid, with a white
jacket on so like her mistress's, that Rosa clutched her own
convulsively, to see whether she had not been skinned of it by some
devilish sleight-of-hand.

No, it was on her back; but Clara's was identical.

In her excitement, Rosa pinched Staines, and with her nose, that
went like a water-wagtail, pointed out the malefactor.  Then she
whispered, "Look!  How dare she?  My very jacket!  Earrings too,
and brooches, and dresses her hair like mine."

"Well, never mind," whispered Staines.  "Sunday is her day.  We
have got all the week to shine.  There, don't look at her--'From
all evil speaking, lying, and slandering'"--

"I can't keep my eyes off her."

"Attend to the Litany.  Do you know, this is really a beautiful
composition?"

"I'd rather do the work fifty times over myself."

"Hush! people will hear you."

When they walked home after church, Staines tried to divert her
from the consideration of her wrongs; but no--all other topics were
too flat by comparison.

She mourned the hard fate of mistresses--unfortunate creatures that
could not do without servants.

"Is not that a confession that servants are good, useful creatures,
with all their faults?  Then as to the mania for dress, why, that
is not confined to them.  It is the mania of the sex.  Are you free
from it?"

"No, of course not.  But I am a lady, if you please."

"Then she is your intellectual inferior, and more excusable.
Anyway, it is wise to connive at a thing we can't help."

"What keep her, after this? no, never."

"My dear, pray do not send her away, for she is tidy in the house,
and quick, and better than any one we have had this last six
months; and you know you have tried a great number."

"To hear you speak, one would think it was my fault that we have so
many bad servants."

"I never said it was your fault; but I THINK, dearest, a little
more forbearance in trifles"--

"Trifles! trifles--for a mistress and maid to be seen dressed alike
in the same church?  You take the servants' part against me, that
you do."

"You should not say that, even in jest.  Come now, do you really
think a jacket like yours can make the servant look like you, or
detract from your grace and beauty?  There is a very simple way;
put your jacket by for a future occasion, and wear something else
in its stead at church."

"A nice thing, indeed, to give in to these creatures.  I won't do
it."

"Why won't you, this once?"

"Because I won't--there!"

"That is unanswerable," said he.

Mrs. Staines said that; but when it came to acting, she deferred to
her husband's wish; she resigned her intention of sending for Clara
and giving her warning.  On the contrary, when Clara let her in,
and the white jackets rubbed together in the narrow passage, she
actually said nothing, but stalked to her own room, and tore her
jacket off, and flung it on the floor.

Unfortunately, she was so long dressing for the Zoo, that Clara
came in to arrange the room.  She picks up the white jacket, takes
it in both hands, gives it a flap, and proceeds to hang it up in
the wardrobe.

Then the great feminine heart burst its bounds.

"You can leave that alone.  I shall not wear that again."

Thereupon ensued an uneven encounter, Clara being one of those of
whom the Scripture says, "The poison of asps is under their
tongues."

"La, ma'am," said she, "why, 'tain't so very dirty."

"No; but it is too common."

"Oh, because I've got one like it.  Ay.  Missises can't abide a
good-looking servant, nor to see 'em dressed becoming."

"Mistresses do not like servants to forget their place, nor wear
what does not become their situation."

"My situation!  Why, I can pay my way, go where I will.  I don't
tremble at the tradesmen's knock, as some do."

"Leave the room!  Leave it this moment."

"Leave the room, yes--and I'll leave the house too, and tell all
the neighbors what I know about it."

She flounced out and slammed the door; and Rosa sat down,
trembling.

Clara rushed to the kitchen, and there told the cook and Andrew
Pearman how she had given it to the mistress, and every word she
had said to her, with a good many more she had not.

The cook laughed and encouraged her.

But Andrew Pearman was wroth, and said, "You to affront our
mistress like that!  Why, if I had heard you, I'd have twisted your
neck for ye."

"It would take a better man than you to do that.  You mind your own
business.  Stick to your one-horse chay."

"Well, I'm not above my place, for that matter.  But you gals must
always be aping your betters."

"I have got a proper pride, that is all, and you haven't.  You
ought to be ashamed of yourself to do two men's work; drive a
brougham and wait on a horse, and then come in and wait at table,
You are a tea-kettle groom, that is what you are.  Why, my brother
was coachman to Lord Fitz-James, and gave his lordship notice the
first time he had to drive the children.  Says he, 'I don't object
to the children, my lord, but with her ladyship in the carriage.'
It's such servants as you as spoil places.  No servant as knows
what's due to a servant ought to know you.  They'd scorn your
'quaintance, as I do, Mr. Pearman."

"You are a stuck-up hussy, and a soldier's jade," roared Andrew.

"And you are a low tea-kettle groom."

This expression wounded the great equestrian soul to the quick; the
rest of Sunday he pondered on it; the next morning he drove the
doctor, as usual, but with a heavy heart.

Meantime, the cook made haste and told the baker Pearman had "got
it hot" from the housemaid, and she had called him a tea-kettle
groom; and in less than half an hour after that it was in every
stable in the mews.  Why, as Pearman was taking the horse out of
the brougham, didn't two little red-headed urchins call out, "Here,
come and see the tea-kettle groom!" and at night some mischievous
boy chalked on the black door of the stable a large white tea-
kettle, and next morning a drunken, idle fellow, with a clay pipe
in his mouth, and a dirty pair of corduroy trousers, no coat, but a
shirt very open at the chest, showing inflamed skin, the effect of
drink, inspected that work of art with blinking eyes and
vacillating toes, and said, "This comes of a chap doing too much.
A few more like you, and work would be scarce.  A fine thing for
gentlefolks to make one man fill two places! but it ain't the
gentlefolks' fault, it's the man as humors 'em."

Pearman was a peaceable man, and made no reply, but went on with
his work; only during the day he told his master that he should be
obliged to him if he would fill his situation as soon as
convenient.

The master inquired the cause, and the man told him, and said the
mews was too hot for him.

The doctor offered him five pounds a year more, knowing he had a
treasure; but Pearman said, with sadness and firmness, that he had
made up his mind to go, and go he would.

The doctor's heart fairly sank at the prospect of losing the one
creature he could depend upon.

Next Sunday evening Clara was out, and fell in with friends, to
whom she exaggerated her grievance.

Then they worked her up to fury, after the manner of servants'
FRIENDS.  She came home, packed her box, brought it down, and then
flounced into the room to Doctor and Mrs. Staines, and said, "I
shan't sleep another night in this house."

Rosa was about to speak, but Dr. Staines forbade her: he said, "You
had better think twice of that.  You are a good servant, though for
once you have been betrayed into speaking disrespectfully.  Why
forfeit your character, and three weeks' wages?"

"I don't care for my wages.  I won't stay in such a house as this."

"Come, you must not be impertinent."

"I don't mean to, sir," said she, lowering her voice suddenly;
then, raising it as suddenly, "There are my keys, ma'am, and you
can search my box."

"Mrs. Staines will not search your box; and you will retire at once
to your own part of the house."

"I'll go farther than that," said she, and soon after the street
door was slammed; the Bijou shook.

At six o'clock next morning, she came for her box.  It had been put
away for safety.  Pearman told her she must wait till the doctor
came down.  She did not wait, but went at eleven A.M. to a police-
magistrate, and took out a summons against Dr. Staines, for
detaining a box containing certain articles specified--value under
fifteen pounds.

When Dr. Staines heard she had been for her box, but left no
address, he sent Pearman to hunt for her.  He could not find her.
She avoided the house, but sent a woman for her diurnal love
letters.  Dr. Staines sent the woman back to fetch her.  She came,
received her box, her letters, and the balance of her wages, which
was small, for Staines deducted the three weeks' wages.

Two days afterwards, to his surprise, the summons was served.

Out of respect for a court of justice, however humble, Dr. Staines
attended next Monday to meet the summons.

The magistrate was an elderly man, with a face shaped like a hog's,
but much richer in color, being purple and pimply; so foul a visage
Staines had rarely seen, even in the lowest class of the community.

Clara swore that her box had been opened, and certain things stolen
out of it; and that she had been refused the box next morning.

Staines swore that he had never opened the box, and that, if any
one else had, it was with her consent, for she had left the keys
for that purpose.  He bade the magistrate observe that if a servant
went away like this, and left no address, she put it out of the
master's POWER to send her box after her; and he proved he had some
trouble to force the box on her.

The pig-faced beak showed a manifest leaning towards the servant,
but there wasn't a leg to stand on; and he did not believe, nor was
it credible, that anything had been stolen out of her box.

At this moment, Pearman, sent by Rosa, entered the court with an
old gown of Clara's that had been discovered in the scullery, and a
scribbling-book of the doctor's, which Clara had appropriated, and
written amorous verses in, very superior--in number--to those that
have come down to us from Anacreon.

"Hand me those," said the pig-faced beak.

"What are they, Dr. Staines?"

"I really don't know.  I must ask my servant."

"Why, more things of mine that have been detained," said Clara.

"Some things that have been found since she left," said Staines.

"Oh! those that hide know where to find."

"Young woman," said Staines, "do not insult those whose bread you
have eaten, and who have given you many presents besides your
wages.  Since you are so ready to accuse people of stealing, permit
me to say that this book is mine, and not yours; and yet, you see,
it is sent after you because you have written your trash in it."

The purple, pig-faced beak went instantly out of the record, and
wasted a deal of time reading Clara's poetry, and trying to be
witty.  He raised the question whose book this was.  The girl swore
that it WAS given her by a lady who was now in Rome.  Staines swore
he bought it of a certain stationer, and happening to have his
passbook in his pocket, produced an entry corresponding with the
date of the book.

The pig-faced beak said that the doctor's was an improbable story,
and that the gown and the book were quite enough to justify the
summons.  Verdict, one guinea costs.

"What, because two things she never demanded have been found and
sent after her?  This is monstrous.  I shall appeal to your
superiors."

"If you are impertinent I'll fine you five pounds."

"Very well, sir.  Now hear me: if this is an honest judgment, I
pray God I may be dead before the year's out; and, if it isn't, I
pray God you may be."

Then the pig-faced beak fired up, and threatened to fine him for
blaspheming.

He deigned no reply, but paid the guinea, and Clara swept out of
the court, with a train a yard long, and leaning on the arm of a
scarlet soldier who avenged Dr. Staines with military promptitude.

Christopher went home raging internally, for hitherto he had never
seen so gross a case of injustice.

One of his humble patients followed him, and said, "I wish I had
known, sir; you shouldn't have come here to be insulted.  Why, no
gentleman can ever get justice against a servant girl when HE is
sitting.  It is notorious, and that makes these hussies so bold.
I've seen that jade here with the same story twice afore."

Staines reached home more discomposed than he could have himself
believed.  The reason was that barefaced injustice in a court of
justice shook his whole faith in man.  He opened the street door
with his latch-key, and found two men standing in the passage.  He
inquired what they wanted.

"Well, sir," said one of them, civilly enough, "we only want our
due."

"For what?"

"For goods delivered at this house, sir.  Balance of account."  And
he handed him a butcher's bill, L88, 11s. 5 1/2d.

"You must be mistaken; we run no bills here.  We pay ready money
for everything."

"Well, sir," said the butcher, "there have been payments; but the
balance has always been gaining; and we have been put off so often,
we determined to see the master.  Show you the books, sir, and
welcome."

"This instant, if you please."  He took the butcher's address, who
then retired, and the other tradesman, a grocer, told him a similar
tale; balance, sixty pounds odd.

He went to the butcher's, sick at heart, inspected the books, and
saw that, right or wrong, they were incontrovertible; that debt had
been gaining slowly, but surely, almost from the time he confided
the accounts to his wife.  She had kept faith with him about five
weeks, no more.

The grocer's books told a similar tale.

The debtor put his hand to his heart, and stood a moment.  The very
grocer pitied him, and said, "There's no harry, doctor; a trifle on
account, if settlement in full not convenient just now.  I see you
have been kept in the dark."

"No, no," said Christopher; "I'll pay every shilling."  He gave one
gulp, and hurried away.

At the fishmonger's, the same story, only for a smaller amount.

A bill of nineteen pounds at the very pastrycook's; a place she had
promised him, as her physician, never to enter.

At the draper's, thirty-seven pounds odd.

In short, wherever she had dealt, the same system: partial
payments, and ever-growing debt.

Remembering Madame Cie, he drove in a cab to Regent Street, and
asked for Mrs. Staines's account.

"Shall I send it, sir?"

"No; I will take it with me."

"Miss Edwards, make out Mrs. Staines's account, if you please."

Miss Edwards was a good while making it out; but it was ready at
last.  He thrust it into his pocket, without daring to look at it
there; but he went into Verrey's, and asked for a cup of coffee,
and perused the document.

The principal items were as follows:--

                                                        L  s.
May 4.   Re-shaping and repairing elegant lace mantle,  1  8
         Chip bonnet, feather, and flowers .  .  .  .   4  4
May 20.  Making and trimming blue silk dress--material
           part found .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  19 19
         Five yards rich blue silk to match.  .  .  .   4  2
June 1.  Polonaise and jacket trimmed with lace--
           material part found .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  17 17
June 8.  One black silk dress, handsomely trimmed
           with jet guipure and lace .  .  .  .  .  .  49 18


A few shreds and fragments of finery, bought at odd times, swelled
the bill to L99 11s. 6d.--not to terrify the female mind with three
figures.

And let no unsophisticated young lady imagine that the trimmings,
which constituted three-fourths of this bill, were worth anything.
The word "lace," in Madame Cie's bill, invariably meant machine-
made trash, worth tenpence a yard, but charged eighteen shillings a
yard for one pennyworth of work in putting it on.  Where real lace
was used, Madame Cie always LET HER CUSTOMERS KNOW IT.  Miss
Lucas's bill for this year contained the two following little
items:--


                                                           L s.
  Rich gros de cecile polonaise and jacket to match,
    trimmed with Chantilly lace and valenciennes .  .  .  68 5
  Superb robe de chambre, richly trimmed with skunk fur.  40 0


The customer found the stuff; viz., two shawls.  Carolina found the
nasty little pole-cats, and got twenty-four shillings for them;
Madame Cie found THE REST.

But Christopher Staines had not Miss Lucas's bill to compare his
wife's with.  He could only compare the latter with their income,
and with male notions of common sense and reason.

He went home, and into his studio, and sat down on his hard beech
chair; he looked round on his books and his work, and then, for the
first time, remembered how long and how patiently he had toiled for
every hundred pounds he had made; and he laid the evidences of his
wife's profusion and deceit by the side of those signs of painful
industry and self-denial, and his soul filled with bitterness.
"Deceit! deceit!"

Mrs. Staines heard he was in the house, and came to know about the
trial.  She came hurriedly in, and caught him with his head on the
table, in an attitude of prostration, quite new to him; he raised
his head directly he heard her, and revealed a face, pale, stern,
and wretched.

"Oh! what is the matter now?" said she.

"The matter is what it has always been, if I could only have seen
it.  You have deceived me, and disgraced yourself.  Look at those
bills."

"What bills?  Oh!"

"You have had an allowance for housekeeping."

"It wasn't enough."

"It was plenty, if you had kept faith with me, and paid ready
money.  It was enough for the first five weeks.  I am housekeeper
now, and I shall allow myself two pounds a week less, and not owe a
shilling either."

"Well, all I know is, I couldn't do it: no woman could."

"Then, you should have come to me, and said so; and I would have
shown you how.  Was I in Egypt, or at the North Pole, that you
could not find me, to treat me like a friend?  You have ruined us:
these debts will sweep away the last shilling of our little
capital; but it isn't that, oh, no! it is the miserable deceit."

Rosa's eye caught the sum total of Madame Cie's bill, and she
turned pale.  "Oh, what a cheat that woman is!"

But she turned paler when Christopher said, "That is the one honest
bill; for I gave you leave.  It is these that part us: these!
these!  Look at them, false heart!  There, go and pack up your
things.  We can live here no longer; we are ruined.  I must send
you back to your father."

"I thought you would, sooner or later," said Mrs. Staines, panting,
trembling, but showing a little fight.  "He told you I wasn't fit
to be a poor man's wife."

"An honest man's wife, you mean: that is what you are not fit for.
You will go home to your father, and I shall go into some humble
lodging to work for you.  I'll contrive to keep you, and find you a
hundred a year to spend in dress--the only thing your heart can
really love.  But I won't have an enemy here in the disguise of a
friend; and I won't have a wife about me I must treat like a
servant, and watch like a traitor."

The words were harsh, but the agony with which they were spoken
distinguished them from vulgar vituperation.

They overpowered poor Rosa; she had been ailing a little some time,
and from remorse and terror, coupled with other causes, nature gave
way.  Her lips turned white, she gasped inarticulately, and, with a
little piteous moan, tottered, and swooned dead away.

He was walking wildly about, ready to tear his hair, when she
tottered; he saw her just in time to save her, and laid her gently
on the floor, and kneeled over her.

Away went anger and every other feeling but love and pity for the
poor, weak creature that, with all her faults, was so lovable and
so loved.

He applied no remedies at first: he knew they were useless and
unnecessary.  He laid her head quite low, and opened door and
window, and loosened all her dress, sighing deeply all the time at
her condition.

While he was thus employed, suddenly a strange cry broke from him:
a cry of horror, remorse, joy, tenderness, all combined: a cry
compared with which language is inarticulate.  His swift and
practical eye had made a discovery.

He kneeled over her, with his eyes dilating and his hands clasped,
a picture of love and tender remorse.

She stirred.

Then he made haste, and applied his remedies, and brought her
slowly back to life; he lifted her up, and carried her in his arms
quite away from the bills and things, that, when she came to, she
might see nothing to revive her distress.  He carried her to the
drawing-room, and kneeled down and rocked her in his arms, and
pressed her again and again gently to his heart, and cried over
her.  "O my dove, my dove! the tender creature God gave me to love
and cherish, and have I used it harshly?  If I had only known! if I
had only known!"

While he was thus bemoaning her, and blaming himself, and crying
over her like the rain,--he, whom she had never seen shed a tear
before in all his troubles,--she was coming to entirely, and her
quick ears caught his words, and she opened her lovely eyes on him.

"I forgive you, dear," she said feebly.  "BUT I HOPE YOU WILL BE A
KINDER FATHER THAN A HUSBAND."

These quiet words, spoken with rare gravity and softness, went
through the great heart like a knife.

He gave a sort of shiver, but said not a word.

But that night he made a solemn vow to God that no harsh word from
his lips should ever again strike a being so weak, so loving, and
so beyond his comprehension.  Why look for courage and candor in a
creature so timid and shy, she could not even tell her husband THAT
until, with her subtle sense, she saw he had discovered it?


CHAPTER XII.


To be a father; to have an image of his darling Rosa, and a fruit
of their love to live and work for: this gave the sore heart a
heavenly glow, and elasticity to bear.  Should this dear object be
born to an inheritance of debt, of poverty?  Never.

He began to act as if he was even now a father.  He entreated Rosa
not to trouble or vex herself; he would look into their finances,
and set all straight.

He paid all the bills, and put by a quarter's rent and taxes.  Then
there remained of his little capital just ten pounds.

He went to his printers, and had a thousand order-checks printed.
These forms ran thus:--

"Dr. Staines, of 13 Dear Street, Mayfair (blank for date), orders
of (blank here for tradesman and goods ordered), for cash.
Received same time (blank for tradesman's receipt).  Notice: Dr.
Staines disowns all orders not printed on this form, and paid for
at date of order."

He exhibited these forms, and warned all the tradespeople, before a
witness whom he took round for that purpose.

He paid off Pearman on the spot.  Pearman had met Clara, dressed
like a pauper, her soldier having emptied her box to the very
dregs, and he now offered to stay.  But it was too late.

Staines told the cook Mrs. Staines was in delicate health, and must
not be troubled with anything.  She must come to him for all
orders.

"Yes, sir," said she.  But she no sooner comprehended the check
system fully than she gave warning.  It put a stop to her wholesale
pilfering.  Rosa's cooks had made fully a hundred pounds out of her
amongst them since she began to keep accounts.

Under the male housekeeper every article was weighed on delivery,
and this soon revealed that the butcher and the fishmonger had
habitually delivered short weight from the first, besides putting
down the same thing twice.  The things were sent back that moment,
with a printed form, stating the nature and extent of the fraud.

The washerwoman, who had been pilfering wholesale so long as Mrs.
Staines and her sloppy-headed maids counted the linen, and then
forgot it, was brought up with a run, by triplicate forms, and by
Staines counting the things before two witnesses, and compelling
the washerwoman to count them as well, and verify or dispute on the
spot.  The laundress gave warning--a plain confession that stealing
had been part of her trade.

He kept the house well for three pounds a week, exclusive of coals,
candles, and wine.  His wife had had five pounds, and whatever she
asked for dinner-parties, yet found it not half enough upon her
method.

He kept no coachman.  If he visited a patient, a man in the yard
drove him at a shilling per hour.

By these means, and by working like a galley slave, he dragged his
expenditure down almost to a level with his income.

Rosa was quite content at first, and thought herself lucky to
escape reproaches on such easy terms.

But by and by so rigorous a system began to gall her.  One day she
fancied a Bath bun; sent the new maid to the pastry-cook's.
Pastry-cook asked to see the doctor's order.  Maid could not show
it, and came back bunless.

Rosa came into the study to complain to her husband.

"A Bath bun," said Staines.  "Why, they are colored with annotto,
to save an egg, and annotto is adulterated with chromates that are
poison.  Adulteration upon adulteration.  I'll make you a real Bath
bun."  Off coat, and into the kitchen, and made her three, pure,
but rather heavy.  He brought them her in due course.  She declined
them languidly.  She was off the notion, as they say in Scotland.

"If I can't have a thing when I want it, I don't care for it at
all."  Such was the principle she laid down for his future
guidance.

He sighed, and went back to his work; she cleared the plate.

One day, when she asked for the carriage, he told her the time was
now come for her to leave off carriage exercise.  She must walk
with him every day, instead.

"But I don't like walking."

"I am sorry for that.  But it is necessary to you, and by and by
your life may depend on it."

Quietly, but inexorably, he dragged her out walking every day.

In one of these walks she stopped at a shop window, and fell in
love with some baby's things.  "Oh! I must have that," said she.
"I must.  I shall die if I don't; you'll see now."

"You shall," said he, "when I can pay for it," and drew her away.

The tears of disappointment stood in her eyes, and his heart
yearned over her.  But he kept his head.

He changed the dinner hour to six, and used to go out directly
afterwards.

She began to complain of his leaving her alone like that.

"Well, but wait a bit," said he; "suppose I am making a little
money by it, to buy you something you have set your heart on, poor
darling!"

In a very few days after this, he brought her a little box with a
slit in it.  He shook it, and money rattled; then he unlocked it,
and poured out a little pile of silver.  "There," said he, "put on
your bonnet, and come and buy those things."

She put on her bonnet, and on the way she asked how it came to be
all in silver.

"That is a puzzler," said he, "isn't it?"

"And how did you make it, dear? by writing?"

"No."

"By fees from the poor people?"

"What, undersell my brethren!  Hang it, no!  My dear, I made it
honestly, and some day I will tell you how I made it; at present,
all I will tell you is this: I saw my darling longing for something
she had a right to long for; I saw the tears in her sweet eyes,
and--oh, come along, do.  I am wretched till I see you with the
things in your hand."

They went to the shop; and Staines sat and watched Rosa buying
baby-clothes.  Oh, it was a pretty sight to see this modest young
creature, little more than a child herself, anticipating maternity,
but blushing every now and then, and looking askant at her lord and
master.  How his very bowels yearned over her!

And when they got home, she spread the things on a table, and they
sat hand in hand, and looked at them, and she leaned her head on
his shoulder, and went quietly to sleep there.

And yet, as time rolled on, she became irritable at times, and
impatient, and wanted all manner of things she could not have, and
made him unhappy.

Then he was out from six o'clock till one, and she took it into her
head to be jealous.  So many hours to spend away from her!  Now
that she wanted all his comfort.

Presently, Ellen, the new maid, got gossiping in the yard, and a
groom told her her master had a sweetheart on the sly, he thought;
for he drove the brougham out every evening himself; "and," said
the man, "he wears a mustache at night."

Ellen ran in, brimful of this, and told the cook; the cook told the
washerwoman; the washerwoman told a dozen families, till about two
hundred people knew it.

At last it came to Mrs. Staines in a roundabout way, at the very
moment when she was complaining to Lady Cicely Treherne of her hard
lot.  She had been telling her she was nothing more than a lay-
figure in the house.

"My husband is housekeeper now, and cook, and all, and makes me
delicious dishes, I can tell you; SUCH curries!  I couldn't keep
the house with five pounds a week, so now he does it with three:
and I never get the carriage, because walking is best for me; and
he takes it out every night to make money.  I don't understand it."

Lady Cicely suggested that perhaps Dr. Staines thought it best for
her to be relieved of all worry, and so undertook the housekeeping.

"No, no, no," said Rosa; "I used to pay them all a part of their
bills, and then a little more, and so I kept getting deeper; and I
was ashamed to tell Christie, so that he calls deceit; and oh, he
spoke to me so cruelly once!  But he was very sorry afterwards,
poor dear!  Why are girls brought up so silly? all piano, and no
sense; and why are men sillier still to go and marry such silly
things?  A wife!  I am not so much as a servant.  Oh, I am finely
humiliated, and," with a sudden hearty naivete all her own, "it
serves me just right."

While Lady Cicely was puzzling this out, in came a letter.  Rosa
opened it, read it, and gave a cry like a wounded deer.

"Oh!" she cried, "I am a miserable woman.  What will become of me?"

The letter informed her bluntly that her husband drove his brougham
out every night to pursue a criminal amour.

While Rosa was wringing her hands in real anguish of heart, Lady
Cicely read the letter carefully.

"I don't believe this," said she quietly.

"Not true!  Why, who would be so wicked as to stab a poor,
inoffensive wretch like me, if it wasn't true?"

"The first ugly woman would, in a minute.  Don't you see the witer
can't tell you where he goes?  Dwives his bwougham out!  That is
all your infaumant knows."

"Oh, my dear friend, bless you!  What have I been complaining to
you about?  All is light, except to lose his love.  What shall I
do?  I will never tell him.  I will never affront him by saying I
suspected him."

"Wosa, if you do that, you will always have a serpent gnawing you.
No; you must put the letter quietly into his hand, and say, 'Is
there any truth in that?'"

"Oh, I could not.  I haven't the courage.  If I do that, I shall
know by his face if there is any truth in it."

"Well, and you must know the twuth.  You shall know it.  I want to
know it too; for if he does not love you twuly, I will nevaa twust
myself to anything so deceitful as a man."

Rosa at last consented to follow this advice.

After dinner she put the letter into Christopher's hand, and asked
him quietly was there any truth in that: then her hands trembled,
and her eyes drank him.

Christopher read it, and frowned; then he looked up, and said, "No,
not a word.  What scoundrels there are in the world!  To go and
tell you that, NOW!  Why, you little goose! have you been silly
enough to believe it?"

"No," said she irresolutely.  "But DO you drive the brougham out
every night?"

"Except Sunday."

"Where?"

"My dear wife, I never loved you as I love you now; and if it was
not for you, I should not drive the brougham out of nights.  That
is all I shall tell you at present; but some day I'll tell you all
about it."

He took such a calm high hand with her about it, that she submitted
to leave it there; but from this moment the serpent doubt nibbled
her.

It had one curious effect, though.  She left off complaining of
trifles.

Now it happened one night that Lady Cicely Treherne and a friend
were at a concert in Hanover Square.  The other lady felt rather
faint, and Lady Cicely offered to take her home.  The carriages had
not yet arrived, and Miss Macnamara said to walk a few steps would
do her good: a smart cabman saw them from a distance and drove up,
and touching his hat said, "Cab, ladies?"

It seemed a very superior cab, and Miss Macnamara said "Yes"
directly.

The cabman bustled down and opened the door; Miss Macnamara got in
first, then Lady Cicely; her eye fell on the cabman's face, which
was lighted full by a street-lamp, and it was Christopher Staines!

He started and winced; but the woman of the world never moved a
muscle.

"Where to?" said Staines, averting his head.

She told him where, and when they got out, said, "I'll send it you
by the servant."

A flunkey soon after appeared with half-a-crown, and the amateur
coachman drove away.  He said to himself, "Come, my mustache is a
better disguise than I thought."

Next day, and the day after, he asked Rosa, with affected
carelessness, had she heard anything of Lady Cicely.

"No, dear; but I dare say she will call this afternoon: it is her
day."

She did call at last, and after a few words with Rosa, became a
little restless, and asked if she might consult Dr. Staines.

"Certainly, dear.  Come to his studio."

"No; might I see him here?"

"Certainly."  She rang the bell, and told the servant to ask Dr.
Staines if he would be kind enough to step into the drawing-room.

Dr. Staines came in, and bowed to Lady Cicely, and eyed her a
little uncomfortably.

She began, however, in a way that put him quite at his ease.  "You
remember the advice you gave us about my little cousin Tadcastah."

"Perfectly: his life is very precarious; he is bilious, consumptive,
and, if not watched, will be epileptical; and he has a fond, weak
mother, who will let him kill himself."

"Exactly: and you wecommended a sea voyage, with a medical
attendant to watch his diet, and contwol his habits.  Well, she
took other advice, and the youth is worse; so now she is
fwightened, and a month ago she asked me to pwopose to you to sail
about with Tadcastah; and she offered me a thousand pounds a year.
I put on my stiff look, and said, 'Countess, with every desiah to
oblige you, I must decline to cawwy that offah to a man of genius,
learning, and weputation, who has the ball at his feet in London.'"

"Lord forgive you, Lady Cicely."

"Lord bless her for standing up for my Christie."

Lady Cicely continued: "Now, this good lady, you must know, is not
exactly one of us: the late earl mawwied into cotton, or wool, or
something.  So she said, 'Name your price for him.'  I shwugged my
shoulders, smiled affably, and as affectedly as you like, and
changed the subject.  But since then things have happened.  I am
afwaid it is my duty to make you the judge whether you choose to
sail about with that little cub--Rosa, I can beat about the bush no
longer.  Is it a fit thing that a man of genius, at whose feet we
ought all to be sitting with reverence, should drive a cab in the
public streets?  Yes, Rosa Staines, your husband drives his
brougham out at night, not to visit any other lady, as that
anonymous wretch told you, but to make a few misewable shillings
for you."

"Oh, Christie!"

"It is no use, Dr. Staines; I must and will tell her.  My dear, he
drove ME three nights ago.  He had a cabman's badge on his poor
arm.  If you knew what I suffered in those five minutes!  Indeed it
seems cruel to speak of it--but I could not keep it from Rosa, and
the reason I muster courage to say it before you, sir, it is
because I know she has other friends who keep you out of their
consultations; and, after all, it is the world that ought to blush,
and not you."

Her ladyship's kindly bosom heaved, and she wanted to cry; so she
took her handkerchief out of her pocket without the least hurry,
and pressed it delicately to her eyes, and did cry quietly, but
without any disguise, like a brave lady, who neither cried nor did
anything else she was ashamed to be seen at.

As for Rosa, she sat sobbing round Christopher's neck, and kissed
him with all her soul.

"Dear me!" said Christopher.  "You are both very kind.  But,
begging your pardon, it is much ado about nothing."

Lady Cicely took no notice of that observation.  "So, Rosa dear,"
said she, "I think you are the person to decide whether he had not
better sail about with that little cub, than--oh!"

"I will settle that," said Staines.  "I have one beloved creature
to provide for.  I may have another.  I MUST make money.  Turning a
brougham into a cab, whatever you may think, is an honest way of
making it, and I am not the first doctor who has coined his
brougham at night.  But if there is a good deal of money to be made
by sailing with Lord Tadcaster, of course I should prefer that to
cab-driving, for I have never made above twelve shillings a night."

"Oh, as to that, she shall give you fifteen hundred a year."

"Then I jump at it."

"What! and leave ME?"

"Yes, love: leave you--for your good; and only for a time.  Lady
Cicely, it is a noble offer.  My darling Rosa will have every
comfort--ay, every luxury, till I come home, and then we will start
afresh with a good balance, and with more experience than we did at
first."

Lady Cicely gazed on him with wonder.  She said, "Oh! what stout
hearts men have!  No, no; don't let him go.  See; he is acting.
His great heart is torn with agony.  I will have no hand in parting
man and wife--no, not for a day."  And she hurried away in rare
agitation.

Rosa fell on her knees, and asked Christopher's pardon for having
been jealous; and that day she was a flood of divine tenderness.
She repaid him richly for driving the cab.  But she was unnaturally
cool about Lady Cicely; and the exquisite reason soon came out.
"Oh yes!  She is very good; very kind; but it is not for me now!
No! you shall not sail about with her cub of a cousin, and leave me
at such a time."

Christopher groaned.

"Christie, you shall not see that lady again.  She came here to
part us.  SHE IS IN LOVE WITH YOU.  I was blind not to see it
before."

Next day, as Lady Cicely sat alone in the morning-room thinking
over this very scene, a footman brought in a card and a note.  "Dr.
Staines begs particularly to see Lady Cicely Treherne."

The lady's pale cheek colored; she stood irresolute a single
moment.  "I will see Dr. Staines," said she.

Dr. Staines came in, looking pale and worn; he had not slept a wink
since she saw him last.

She looked at him full, and divined this at a glance.  She motioned
him to a seat, and sat down herself, with her white hand pressing
her forehead, and her head turned a little away from him.


CHAPTER XIII.


He told her he had come to thank her for her great kindness, and to
accept the offer.

She sighed.  "I hoped it was to decline it.  Think of the misery of
separation, both to you and her."

"It will be misery.  But we are not happy as it is, and she cannot
bear poverty.  Nor is it fair she should, when I can give her every
comfort by just playing the man for a year or two."  He then told
Lady Cicely there were more reasons than he chose to mention: go he
must, and would; and he implored her not to let the affair drop.
In short, he was sad but resolved, and she found she must go on
with it, or break faith with him.  She took her desk, and wrote a
letter concluding the bargain for him.  She stipulated for half the
year's fee in advance.  She read Dr. Staines the letter.

"You ARE a friend!" said he.  "I should never have ventured on
that; it will be a godsend to my poor Rosa.  You will be kind to
her when I am gone?"

"I will."

"So will Uncle Philip, I think.  I will see him before I go, and
shake hands.  He has been a good friend to me; but he was too hard
upon HER; and I could not stand that."

Then he thanked and blessed her again, with the tears in his eyes,
and left her more disturbed and tearful than she had ever been
since she grew to woman.  "O cruel poverty!" she thought, "that
such a man should be torn from his home, and thank me for doing it--
all for a little money--and here are we poor commonplace creatures
rolling in it."

Staines hurried home, and told his wife.  She clung to him
convulsively, and wept bitterly; but she made no direct attempt to
shake his resolution; she saw, by his iron look, that she could
only afflict, not turn him.

Next day came Lady Cicely to see her.  Lady Cicely was very uneasy
in her mind, and wanted to know whether Rosa was reconciled to the
separation.

Rosa received her with a forced politeness and an icy coldness that
petrified her.  She could not stay long in face of such a
reception.  At parting, she said, sadly, "You look on me as an
enemy."

"What else can you expect, when you part my husband and me?" said
Rosa, with quiet sternness.

"I meant well," said Lady Cicely sorrowfully; "but I wish I had
never interfered."

"So do I," and she began to cry.

Lady Cicely made no answer.  She went quietly away, hanging her
head sadly.

Rosa was unjust, but she was not rude nor vulgar; and Lady Cicely's
temper was so well governed that it never blinded her heart.  She
withdrew, but without the least idea of quarrelling with her
afflicted friend, or abandoning her.  She went quietly home, and
wrote to Lady ----, to say that she should be glad to receive Dr.
Staines's advance as soon as convenient, since Mrs. Staines would
have to make fresh arrangements, and the money might be useful.

The money was forthcoming directly.  Lady Cicely brought it to Dear
Street, and handed it to Dr. Staines.  His eyes sparkled at the
sight of it.

"Give my love to Rosa," said she softly, and cut her visit very
short.

Staines took the money to Rosa, and said, "See what our best friend
has brought us.  You shall have four hundred, and I hope, after the
bitter lessons you have had, you will be able to do with that for
some months.  The two hundred I shall keep as a reserve fund for
you to draw on."

"No, no!" said Rosa.  "I shall go and live with my father, and
never spend a penny.  O Christie, if you knew how I hate myself for
the folly that is parting us!  Oh, why don't they teach girls sense
and money, instead of music and the globes?"

But Christopher opened a banking account for her, and gave her a
check-book, and entreated her to pay everything by check, and run
no bills whatever; and she promised.  He also advertised the Bijou,
and put a bill in the window: "The lease of this house, and the
furniture, to be sold."

Rosa cried bitterly at sight of it, thinking how high in hope they
were, when they had their first dinner there, and also when she
went to her first sale to buy the furniture cheap.

And now everything moved with terrible rapidity.  The Amphitrite
was to sail from Plymouth in five days; and, meantime, there was so
much to be done, that the days seemed to gallop away.

Dr. Staines forgot nothing.  He made his will in duplicate, leaving
all to his wife; he left one copy at Doctors' Commons and another
with his lawyer; inventoried all his furniture and effects in
duplicate, too; wrote to Uncle Philip, and then called on him to
seek a reconciliation.  Unfortunately, Dr. Philip was in Scotland.
At last this sad pair went down to Plymouth together, there to meet
Lord Tadcaster and go on board H.M.S. Amphitrite, lying out at
anchor, under orders for the Australian Station.

They met at the inn, as appointed; and sent word of their arrival
on board the frigate, asking to remain on shore till the last
minute.

Dr. Staines presented his patient to Rosa; and after a little while
drew him apart and questioned him professionally.  He then asked
for a private room.  Here he and Rosa really took leave; for what
could the poor things say to each other on a crowded quay?  He
begged her forgiveness, on his knees, for having once spoken
harshly to her, and she told him, with passionate sobs, he had
never spoken harshly to her; her folly it was had parted them.

Poor wretches! they clung together with a thousand vows of love and
constancy.  They were to pray for each other at the same hours: to
think of some kind word or loving act, at other stated hours; and
so they tried to fight with their suffering minds against the cruel
separation; and if either should die, the other was to live wedded
to memory, and never listen to love from other lips; but no! God
was pitiful; He would let them meet again ere long, to part no
more.  They rocked in each other's arms; they cried over each
other--it was pitiful.

At last the cruel summons came; they shuddered, as if it was their
death-blow.  Christopher, with a face of agony, was yet himself,
and would have parted then: and so best.  But Rosa could not.  She
would see the last of him, and became almost wild and violent when
he opposed it.

Then he let her come with him to Milbay Steps; but into the boat he
would not let her step.

The ship's boat lay at the steps, manned by six sailors, all
seated, with their oars tossed in two vertical rows.  A smart middy
in charge conducted them, and Dr. Staines and Lord Tadcaster got
in, leaving Rosa, in charge of her maid, on the quay.

"Shove off"--"Down"--"Give way."

Each order was executed so swiftly and surely that, in as many
seconds, the boat was clear, the oars struck the water with a loud
splash, and the husband was shot away like an arrow, and the wife's
despairing cry rang on the stony quay, as many a poor woman's cry
had rung before.

In half a minute the boat shot under the stern of the frigate.

They were received on the quarter-deck by Captain Hamilton: he
introduced them to the officers--a torture to poor Staines, to have
his mind taken for a single instant from his wife--the first
lieutenant came aft, and reported, "Ready for making sail, sir."

Staines seized the excuse, rushed to the other side of the vessel,
leaned over the taffrail, as if he would fly ashore, and stretched
out his hands to his beloved Rosa; and she stretched out her hands
to him.  They were so near, he could read the expression of her
face.  It was wild and troubled, as one who did not yet realize the
terrible situation, but would not be long first.

"HANDS MAKE SAIL--AWAY, ALOFT--UP ANCHOR"--rang in Christopher's
ear, as if in a dream.  All his soul and senses were bent on that
desolate young creature.  How young and amazed her lovely face!
Yet this bewildered child was about to become a mother.  Even a
stranger's heart might have yearned with pity for her: how much
more her miserable husband's!

The capstan was manned, and worked to a merry tune that struck
chill to the bereaved; yards were braced for casting, anchor hove,
catted, and fished, sail was spread with amazing swiftness, the
ship's head dipped, and slowly and gracefully paid off towards the
breakwater, and she stood out to sea under swiftly-swelling canvas
and a light north-westerly breeze.

Staines only felt the motion: his body was in the ship, his soul
with his Rosa.  He gazed, he strained his eyes to see her eyes, as
the ship glided from England and her.  While he was thus gazing and
trembling all over, up came to him a smart second lieutenant, with
a brilliant voice that struck him like a sword.  "Captain's orders
to show you berths; please choose for Lord Tadcaster and yourself."

The man's wild answer made the young officer stare.  "Oh, sir! not
now--try and do my duty when I have quite lost her--my poor wife--a
child--a mother--there--sir--on the steps--there!--there!"

Now this officer always went to sea singing "Oh be joyful."  But a
strong man's agony, who can make light of it?  It was a revelation
to him; but he took it quickly.  The first thing he did, being a
man of action, was to dash into his cabin, and come back with a
short, powerful double glass.  "There!" said he roughly, but
kindly, and shoved it into Staines's hand.  He took it, stared at
it stupidly, then used it, without a word of thanks, so wrapped was
he in his anguish.

This glass prolonged the misery of that bitter hour.  When Rosa
could no longer tell her husband from another, she felt he was
really gone, and she threw her hands aloft, and clasped them above
her head, with the wild abandon of a woman who could never again be
a child; and Staines saw it, and a sharp sigh burst from him, and
he saw her maid and others gather round her.  He saw the poor young
thing led away, with her head all down, as he had never seen her
before, and supported to the inn; and then he saw her no more.

His heart seemed to go out of his bosom in search of her, and leave
nothing but a stone behind: he hung over the taffrail like a dead
thing.  A steady foot-fall slapped his ear.  He raised his white
face and filmy eyes, and saw Lieutenant Fitzroy marching to and fro
like a sentinel, keeping everybody away from the mourner, with the
steady, resolute, business-like face of a man in whom sentiment is
confined to action; its phrases and its flourishes being literally
terra incognita to the honest fellow.

Staines staggered towards him, holding out both hands, and gasped
out, "God bless you.  Hide me somewhere--must not be seen SO--got
duty to do--Patient--can't do it yet--one hour to draw my breath--
oh, my God, my God!--one hour, sir.  Then do my duty, if I die--as
you would."

Fitzroy tore him down into his own cabin, shut him in and ran to
the first lieutenant, with a tear in his eye.  "Can I have a
sentry, sir?"

"Sentry!  What for?"

"The doctor--awfully cut up at leaving his wife: got him in my
cabin.  Wants to have his cry to himself."

"Fancy a fellow crying at going to sea!"

"It is not that, sir; it is leaving his wife."

"Well, is he the only man on board that has got a wife?"

"Why, no, sir.  It is odd, now I think of it.  Perhaps he has only
got that ONE."

"Curious creatures, landsmen," said the first lieutenant.
"However, you can stick a marine there."

"And I say, show the YOUNGSTER the berths, and let him choose, as
the doctor's aground."

"Yes, sir."

So Fitzoy planted his marine, and then went after Lord Tadcaster:
he had drawn up alongside his cousin, Captain Hamilton.  The
captain, being an admirer of Lady Cicely, was mighty civil to his
little lordship, and talked to him more than was his wont on the
quarterdeck; for though he had a good flow of conversation, and
dispensed with ceremony in his cabin, he was apt to be rather short
on deck.  However, he told little Tadcaster he was fortunate; they
had a good start, and, if the wind held, might hope to be clear of
the Channel in twenty-four hours.  "You will see Eddystone
lighthouse about four bells," said he.

"Shall we go out of sight of land altogether?" inquired his
lordship.

"Of course we shall, and the sooner the better."  He then explained
to the novice that the only danger to a good ship was from the
land.

While Tadcaster was digesting this paradox, Captain Hamilton
proceeded to descant on the beauties of blue water and its fine
medicinal qualities, which, he said, were particularly suited to
young gentlemen with bilious stomachs, but presently, catching
sight of Lieutenant Fitzroy standing apart, but with the manner of
a lieutenant not there by accident, he stopped, and said, civilly
but smartly, "Well, sir?"

Fitzroy came forward directly, saluted, and said he had orders from
the first lieutenant to show Lord Tadcaster the berths.  His
lordship must be good enough to choose, because the doctor--
couldn't.

"Why not?"

"Brought to, sir--for the present--by--well, by grief."

"Brought to by grief!  Who the deuce is grief?  No riddles on the
quarter-deck, if you please, sir."

"Oh no, sir.  I assure you he is awfully cut up; and he is having
his cry out in my cabin."

"Having his cry out! why, what for?"

"Leaving his wife, sir."

"Oh, is that all?"

"Well, I don't wonder," cried little Tadcaster warmly.  "She is,
oh, so beautiful!" and a sudden blush o'erspread his pasty cheeks.
"Why on earth didn't we bring her along with us here?" said he,
suddenly opening his eyes with astonishment at the childish
omission.

"Why, indeed?" said the captain comically, and dived below,
attended by the well-disciplined laughter of Lieutenant Fitzroy,
who was too good an officer not to be amused at his captain's
jokes.  Having acquitted himself of that duty--and it is a very
difficult one sometimes--he took Lord Tadcaster to the main-deck,
and showed him two comfortable sleeping-berths that had been
screened off for him and Dr. Staines; one of these was fitted with
a standing bed-place, the other had a cot swung in it.  Fitzroy
offered him the choice, but hinted that he himself preferred a cot.

"No, thank you," says my lord mighty dryly.

"All right," said Fitzroy cheerfully.  "Take the other, then, my
lord."

His little lordship cocked his eye like a jackdaw, and looked
almost as cunning.  "You see," said he, "I have been reading up for
this voyage."

"Oh, indeed!  Logarithms?"

"Of course not."

"What then?"

"Why, 'Peter Simple'--to be sure."

"Ah, ha!" said Fitzroy, with a chuckle that showed plainly he had
some delicious reminiscences of youthful study in the same quarter.

The little lord chuckled too, and put one finger on Fitzroy's
shoulder, and pointed at the cot with another.  "Tumble out the
other side, you know--slippery hitches--cords cut--down you come
flop in the middle of the night."

Fitzroy's eye flashed merriment: but only for a moment.  His
countenance fell the next.  "Lord bless you," said he sorrowfully,
"all that game is over now.  Her Majesty's ship!--it is a church
afloat.  The service is going to the devil, as the old fogies say."

"Ain't you sorry?" says the little lord, cocking his eye again like
the bird hereinbefore mentioned.

"Of course I am."

"Then I'll take the standing bed."

"All right.  I say, you don't mind the doctor coming down with a
run, eh?"

"He is not ill: I am.  He is paid to take care of me: I am not paid
to take care of him," said the young lord sententiously.

"I understand," replied Fitzroy, dryly.  "Well, every one for
himself, and Providence for us all--as the elephant said when he
danced among the chickens."

Here my lord was summoned to dine with the captain.  Staines was
not there; but he had not forgotten his duty; in the midst of his
grief he had written a note to the captain, hoping that a bereaved
husband might not seem to desert his post if he hid for a few hours
the sorrow he felt himself unable to control.  Meantime he would be
grateful if Captain Hamilton would give orders that Lord Tadcaster
should eat no pastry, and drink only six ounces of claret,
otherwise he should feel that he was indeed betraying his trust.

The captain was pleased and touched with this letter.  It recalled
to him how his mother sobbed when she launched her little middy,
swelling with his first cocked hat and dirk.

There was champagne at dinner, and little Tadcaster began to pour
out a tumbler.  "Hold on!" said Captain Hamilton; "you are not to
drink that;" and he quietly removed the tumbler.  "Bring him six
ounces of claret."

While they were weighing the claret with scientific precision,
Tadcaster remonstrated; and, being told it was the doctor's order,
he squeaked out, "Confound him! why did not he stay with his wife?
She is beautiful."  Nor did he give it up without a struggle.
"Here's hospitality!" said he.  "Six ounces!"

Receiving no reply, he inquired of the third lieutenant, which was
generally considered the greatest authority in a ship--the captain,
or the doctor.

The third lieutenant answered not, but turned his head away, and,
by violent exertion, succeeded in not splitting.

"I'll answer that," said Hamilton politely.  "The captain is the
highest in his department, and the doctor in his: now Doctor
Staines is strictly within his department, and will be supported by
me and my officers.  You are bilious, and epileptical, and all the
rest of it, and you are to be cured by diet and blue water."

Tadcaster was inclined to snivel: however, he subdued that weakness
with a visible effort, and, in due course, returned to the charge.
"How would you look," quavered he, "if there was to be a mutiny in
this ship of yours, and I was to head it?'

"Well, I should look SHARP--hang all the ringleaders at the
yardarm, clap the rest under hatches, and steer for the nearest
prison."

"Oh!" said Tadcaster, and digested this scheme a bit.  At last he
perked up again, and made his final hit.  "Well, I shouldn't care,
for one, if you didn't flog us."

"In that case," said Captain Hamilton, "I'd flog you--and stop your
six ounces."

"Then curse the sea; that is all I say."

"Why, you have not seen it; you have only seen the British
Channel."  It was Mr. Fitzroy who contributed this last observation.

After dinner all but the captain went on deck, and saw the
Eddystone lighthouse ahead and to leeward.  They passed it.
Fitzroy told his lordship its story, and that of its unfortunate
predecessors.  Soon after this Lord Tadcaster turned in.

Presently the captain observed a change in the thermometer, which
brought him on deck.  He scanned the water and the sky, and as
these experienced commanders have a subtle insight into the
weather, especially in familiar latitudes, he remarked to the first
lieutenant that it looked rather unsettled; and, as a matter of
prudence, ordered a reef in the topsails, and the royal yards to be
sent down: ship to be steered W. by S.  This done, he turned in,
but told them to call him if there was any change in the weather.

During the night the wind gradually headed; and at four bells in
the middle watch a heavy squall came up from the south-west.

This brought the captain on deck again: he found the officer of the
watch at his post, and at work.  Sail was shortened, and the ship
made snug for heavy weather.

At four A.M. it was blowing hard, and, being too near the French
coast, they wore the ship.

Now, this operation was bad for little Tadcaster.  While the vessel
was on the starboard tack, the side kept him snug; but, when they
wore her, of course he had no leeboard to keep him in.  The ship
gave a lee-lurch, and shot him clean out of his bunk into the
middle of the cabin.

He shrieked and shrieked, with terror and pain, till the captain
and Staines, who were his nearest neighbors, came to him, and they
gave him a little brandy, and got him to bed again.  Here he
suffered nothing but violent seasickness for some hours.  As for
Staines, he had been swinging heavily in his cot; but such was his
mental distress that he would have welcomed seasickness, or any
reasonable bodily suffering.  He was in that state when the sting
of a wasp is a touch of comfort.

Worn out with sickness, Tadcaster would not move.  Invited to
breakfast, he swore faintly, and insisted on dying in peace.  At
last exhaustion gave him a sort of sleep, in spite of the motion,
which was violent, for it was now blowing great guns, a heavy sea
on, and the great waves dirty in color and crested with raging
foam.

They had to wear ship again, always a ticklish manoeuvre in weather
like this.

A tremendous sea struck her quarter, stove in the very port abreast
of which the little lord was lying, and washed him clean out of bed
into the lee scuppers, and set all swimming around him.

Didn't he yell, and wash about the cabin, and grab at all the
chairs and tables and things that drifted about, nimble as eels,
avoiding his grasp!

In rushed the captain, and in staggered Staines.  They stopped his
"voyage autour de sa chambre," and dragged him into the after
saloon.

He clung to them by turns, and begged, with many tears, to be put
on the nearest land; a rock would do.

"Much obliged," said the captain; "now is the very time to give
rocks a wide berth."

"A dead whale, then--a lighthouse--anything but a beast of a ship."

They pacified him with a little brandy, and for the next twenty-
four hours he scarcely opened his mouth, except for a purpose it is
needless to dwell on.  We can trust to our terrestrial readers'
personal reminiscences of lee-lurches, weather-rolls, and their
faithful concomitant.

At last they wriggled out of the Channel, and soon after that the
wind abated, and next day veered round to the northward, and the
ship sailed almost on an even keel.  The motion became as heavenly
as it had been diabolical, and the passengers came on deck.

Staines had suffered one whole day from sea-sickness, but never
complained.  I believe it did his mind more good than harm.

As for Tadcaster, he continued to suffer, at intervals, for two
days more, but on the fifth day out he appeared with a little pink
tinge on his cheek and a wolfish appetite.  Dr. Staines controlled
his diet severely, as to quality, and, when they had been at sea
just eleven days, the physician's heavy heart was not a little
lightened by the marvellous change in him.  The unthinking, who
believe in the drug system, should have seen what a physician can
do with air and food, when circumstances enable him to ENFORCE the
diet he enjoins.  Money will sometimes buy even health, if you
AVOID DRUGS ENTIRELY, and go another road.

Little Tadcaster went on board, pasty, dim-eyed, and very subject
to fits, because his stomach was constantly overloaded with
indigestible trash, and the blood in his brain-vessels was always
either galloping or creeping, under the first or second effect of
stimulants administered, at first, by thoughtless physicians.
Behold him now--bronzed, pinky, bright-eyed, elastic; and only one
fit in twelve days.

The quarter-deck was hailed from the "look-out" with a cry that is
sometimes terrible, but in this latitude and weather welcome and
exciting.  "Land, ho!"

"Where away?" cried the officer of the watch.

"A point on the lee-bow, sir."

It was the island of Madeira: they dropped anchor in Funchal Roads,
furled sails, squared yards, and fired a salute of twenty-one guns
for the Portuguese flag.

They went ashore, and found a good hotel, and were no longer dosed,
as in former days, with oil, onions, garlic, eggs.  But the wine
queer, and no madeira to be got.

Staines wrote home to his wife: he told her how deeply he had felt
the bereavement; but did not dwell on that; his object being to
cheer her.  He told her it promised to be a rapid and wonderful
cure, and one that might very well give him a fresh start in
London.  They need not be parted a whole year, he thought.  He sent
her a very long letter, and also such extracts from his sea journal
as he thought might please her.  After dinner they inspected the
town, and what struck them most was to find the streets paved with
flag-stones, and most of the carts drawn by bullocks on sledges.  A
man every now and then would run forward and drop a greasy cloth in
front of the sledge, to lubricate the way.

Next day, after breakfast, they ordered horses; these on
inspection, proved to be of excellent breed, either from Australia
or America--very rough shod, for the stony roads.  Started for the
Grand Canal--peeped down that mighty chasm, which has the
appearance of an immense mass having been blown out of the centre
of the mountain.

They lunched under the great dragon tree near its brink, then rode
back admiring the bold mountain scenery.  Next morning at dawn,
rode on horses up the hill to the convent.  Admired the beautiful
gardens on the way.  Remained a short time; then came down in hand-
sleighs--little baskets slung on sledges, guided by two natives;
these sledges run down the hill with surprising rapidity, and the
men guide them round corners by sticking out a foot to port or
starboard.

Embarked at 11.30 A.M.

At 1.30, the men having dined, the ship was got under way for the
Cape of Good Hope, and all sail made for a southerly course, to get
into the north-east trades.

The weather was now balmy and delightful, and so genial that
everybody lived on deck, and could hardly be got to turn in to
their cabins, even for sleep.

Dr. Staines became a favorite with the officers.  There is a great
deal of science on board a modern ship of war, and, of course, on
some points Staines, a Cambridge wrangler, and a man of many
sciences and books, was an oracle.  On others he was quite behind,
but a ready and quick pupil.  He made up to the navigating officer,
and learned, with his help, to take observations.  In return he was
always at any youngster's service in a trigonometrical problem; and
he amused the midshipmen and young lieutenants with analytical
tests; some of these were applicable to certain liquids dispensed
by the paymaster.  Under one of them the port wine assumed some
very droll colors and appearances not proper to grape-juice.

One lovely night that the ship clove the dark sea into a blaze of
phosphorescence, and her wake streamed like a comet's tail, a
waggish middy got a bucketful hoisted on deck, and asked the doctor
to analyze that.  He did not much like it, but yielded to the
general request; and by dividing it into smaller vessels, and
dropping in various chemicals, made rainbows and silvery flames and
what not.  But he declined to repeat the experiment: "No, no; once
is philosophy; twice is cruelty.  I've slain more than Samson
already."

As for Tadcaster, science had no charms for him; but fiction had;
and he got it galore; for he cruised about the forecastle, and
there the quartermasters and old seamen spun him yarns that held
him breathless.

But one day my lord had a fit on the quarter-deck, and a bad one;
and Staines found him smelling strong of rum.  He represented this
to Captain Hamilton.  The captain caused strict inquiries to be
made, and it came out that my lord had gone among the men, with
money in both pockets, and bought a little of one man's grog, and a
little of another, and had been sipping the furtive but transient
joys of solitary intoxication.

Captain Hamilton talked to him seriously; told him it was suicide.

"Never mind, old boy," said the young monkey; "a short life and a
merry one."

Then Hamilton represented that it was very ungentleman-like to go
and tempt poor Jack with his money, to offend discipline, and get
flogged.  "How will you feel, Tadcaster, when you see their backs
bleeding under the cat?"

"Oh, d--n it all, George, don't do that," says the young gentleman,
all in a hurry.

Then the commander saw he had touched the right chord.  So he
played on it, till he got Lord Tadcaster to pledge his honor not to
do it again.

The little fellow gave the pledge, but relieved his mind as
follows: "But it is a cursed tyrannical hole, this tiresome old
ship.  You can't do what you like in it."

"Well, but no more you can in the grave: and that is the agreeable
residence you were hurrying to but for this tiresome old ship."

"Lord! no more you can," said Tadcaster, with sudden candor.  "I
FORGOT THAT."

The airs were very light; the ship hardly moved.  It was beginning
to get dull, when one day a sail was sighted on the weather-bow,
standing to the eastward: on nearing her, she was seen, by the cut
of her sails, to be a man-of-war, evidently homeward bound: so
Captain Hamilton ordered the main-royal to be lowered (to render
signal more visible) and the "demand" hoisted.  No notice being
taken of this, a gun was fired to draw her attention to the signal.
This had the desired effect; down went her main-royal, up went her
"number."  On referring to the signal book, she proved to be the
Vindictive from the Pacific Station.

This being ascertained, Captain Hamilton, being that captain's
senior, signalled "Close and prepare to receive letters."  In
obedience to this she bore up, ran down, and rounded to; the sail
in the Amphitrite was also shortened, the maintopsail laid to the
mast, and a boat lowered.  The captain having finished his
despatches, they, with the letter-bags, were handed into the boat,
which shoved off, pulled to the lee side of the Vindictive, and
left the despatches, with Captain Hamilton's compliments.  On its
return, both ships made sail on their respective course, exchanging
"bon voyage" by signal, and soon the upper sails of the homeward-
bounder were seen dipping below the horizon: longing eyes followed
her on board the Amphitrite.

How many hurried missives had been written and despatched in that
half-hour.  But as for Staines, he was a man of forethought, and
had a volume ready for his dear wife.

Lord Tadcaster wrote to Lady Cicely Treherne.  His epistle, though
brief, contained a plum or two.

He wrote: "What with sailing, and fishing, and eating nothing but
roast meat, I'm quite another man."

This amused her ladyship a little, but not so much as the
postscript, which was indeed the neatest thing in its way she had
met with, and she had some experience, too.

"P.S.--I say, Cicely, I think I should like to marry you.  Would
you mind?"

Let us defy time and space to give you Lady Cicely's reply: "I
should enjoy it of all things, Taddy.  But, alas! I am too young."

N.B.--She was twenty-seven, and Tad sixteen.  To be sure, Tad was
four feet eleven, and she was only five feet six and a half.

To return to my narrative (with apologies), this meeting of the
vessels caused a very agreeable excitement that day; but a greater
was in store.  In the afternoon, Tadcaster, Staines, and the
principal officers of the ship, being at dinner in the captain's
cabin, in came the officer of the watch, and reported a large spar
on the weather-bow.

"Well, close it, if you can; and let me know if it looks worth
picking up."

He then explained to Lord Tadcaster that, on a cruise, he never
liked to pass a spar, or anything that might possibly reveal the
fate of some vessel or other.

In the middle of his discourse the officer came in again, but not
in the same cool business way: he ran in excitedly, and said,
"Captain, the signalman reports it ALIVE!"

"Alive?--a spar!  What do you mean?  Something alive ON it, eh?"

"No, sir; alive itself."

"How can that be?  Hail him again.  Ask him what it is."

The officer went out, and hailed the signalman at the mast-head.
"What is it?"

"Sea-sarpint, I think."

This hail reached the captain's ears faintly.  However, he waited
quietly till the officer came in and reported it; then he burst
out, "Absurd! there is no such creature in the universe.  What do
you say, Dr. Staines?--It is in your department."

"The universe in my department, captain?"

"Haw! haw! haw!" went Fitzroy and two more.

"No, you rogue, the serpent."

Dr. Staines, thus appealed to, asked the captain if he had ever
seen small snakes out at sea.

"Why, of course.  Sailed through a mile of them once, in the
archipelago."

"Sure they were snakes?"

"Quite sure; and the biggest was not eight feet long."

"Very well, captain; then sea-serpents exist, and it becomes a mere
question of size.  Now which produces the larger animals in every
kind,--land or sea?  The grown elephant weighs, I believe, about
five tons.  The very smallest of the whale tribe weighs ten; and
they go as high as forty tons.  There are smaller fish than the
whale, that are four times as heavy as the elephant.  Why doubt,
then, that the sea can breed a snake to eclipse the boa-
constrictor?  Even if the creature had never been seen, I should,
by mere reasoning from analogy, expect the sea to produce a serpent
excelling the boa-constrictor, as the lobster excels a crayfish of
our rivers: see how large things grow at sea! the salmon born in
our rivers weighs in six months a quarter of a pound, or less; it
goes out to sea, and comes back in one year weighing seven pounds.
So far from doubting the large sea-serpents, I believe they exist
by the million.  The only thing that puzzles me is, why they should
ever show a nose above water; they must be very numerous, I think."

Captain Hamilton laughed, and said, "Well, this IS new.  Doctor, in
compliment to your opinion, we will go on deck, and inspect the
reptile you think so common."  He stopped at the door, and said,
"Doctor, the saltcellar is by you.  Would you mind bringing it on
deck?  We shall want a little to secure the animal."

So they all went on deck right merrily.

The captain went up a few ratlines in the mizzen rigging, and
looked to windward, laughing all the time: but, all of a sudden,
there was a great change in his manner.  "Good heavens, it is
alive--LUFF!"

The helmsman obeyed; the news spread like wildfire.  Mess kids,
grog kids, pipes, were all let fall, and some three hundred sailors
clustered on the rigging like bees, to view the long-talked-of
monster.

It was soon discovered to be moving lazily along, the propelling
part being under water, and about twenty-five feet visible.  It had
a small head for so large a body, and, as they got nearer, rough
scales were seen, ending in smaller ones further down the body.  It
had a mane, but not like a lion's, as some have pretended.  If you
have ever seen a pony with a hog-mane, that was more the character
of this creature's mane, if mane it was.

They got within a hundred yards of it, and all saw it plainly,
scarce believing their senses.

When they could get no nearer for the wind, the captain yielded to
that instinct which urges man always to kill a curiosity, "to
encourage the rest," as saith the witty Voltaire.  "Get ready a
gun--best shot in the ship lay and fire it."

This was soon done.  Bang went the gun.  The shot struck the water
close to the brute, and may have struck him under water, for aught
I know.  Any way, it sorely disturbed him; for he reared into the
air a column of serpent's flesh that looked as thick as the
maintopmast of a seventy-four, opened a mouth that looked capacious
enough to swallow the largest buoy anchor in the ship, and, with a
strange grating noise between a bark and a hiss, dived, and was
seen no more.

When he was gone, they all looked at one another like men awaking
from a dream.

Staines alone took it quite coolly.  It did not surprise him in the
least.  He had always thought it incredible that the boa-
constrictor should be larger than any sea-snake.  That idea struck
him as monstrous and absurd.  He noted the sea-serpent in his
journal, but with this doubt, "Semble--more like a very large eel."

Next day they crossed the line.  Just before noon a young gentleman
burst into Staines's cabin, apologizing for want of ceremony; but
if Dr. Staines would like to see the line, it was now in sight from
the mizzentop.

"Glad of it, sir," said Staines; "collect it for me in the ship's
buckets, if you please.  I want to send A LINE to friends at home."

Young gentleman buried his hands in his pockets, walked out in
solemn silence, and resumed his position on the lee-side of the
quarter-deck.

Nevertheless, this opening, coupled with what he had heard and
read, made Staines a little uneasy, and he went to his friend
Fitzroy, and said, "Now, look here: I am at the service of you
experienced and humorous mariners.  I plead guilty at once to the
crime of never having passed the line; so, make ready your swabs,
and lather me; your ship's scraper, and shave me; and let us get it
over.  But Lord Tadcaster is nervous, sensitive, prouder than he
seems, and I'm not going to have him driven into a fit for all the
Neptunes and Amphitrites in creation."

Fitzroy heard him out, then burst out laughing.  "Why, there is
none of that game in the Royal Navy," said he.  "Hasn't been this
twenty years."

"I'm so sorry," said Dr. Staines.  "If there's a form of wit I
revere, it is practical joking."

"Doctor, you are a satirical beggar."

Staines told Tadcaster, and he went forward and chaffed his friend
the quartermaster, who was one of the forecastle wits.

"I say, quartermaster, why doesn't Neptune come on board?"

Dead silence.

"I wonder what has become of poor old Nep?"

"Gone ashore!" growled the seaman.  "Last seen in Rateliff Highway.
Got a shop there--lends a shilling in the pound on seamen's advance
tickets."

"Oh! and Amphitrite?"

"Married the sexton at Wapping."

"And the Nereids?"

"Neruds!" (scratching his head.) "I harn't kept my eye on them
small craft.  But I BELIEVE they are selling oysters in the port of
Leith."

A light breeze carried them across the equator; but soon after they
got becalmed, and it was dreary work, and the ship rolled gently,
but continuously, and upset Lord Tadcaster's stomach again, and
quenched his manly spirit.

At last they were fortunate enough to catch the southeast trade,
but it was so languid at first that the ship barely moved through
the water, though they set every stitch, and studding sails alow
and aloft, till really she was acres of canvas.

While she was so creeping along, a man in the mizzentop noticed an
enormous shark gliding steadily in her wake.  This may seem a small
incident, yet it ran through the ship like wildfire, and caused
more or less uneasiness in three hundred stout hearts; so near is
every seaman to death, and so strong the persuasion in their
superstitious minds, that a shark does not follow a ship
pertinaciously without a prophetic instinct of calamity.

Unfortunately, the quartermaster conveyed this idea to Lord
Tadcaster, and confirmed it by numerous examples to prove that
there was always death at hand when a shark followed the ship.

Thereupon Tadcaster took it into his head that he was under a
relapse, and the shark was waiting for his dead body: he got quite
low-spirited.

Staines told Fitzroy.  Fitzroy said, "Shark be hanged!  I'll have
him on deck in half an hour."  He got leave from the captain: a
hook was baited with a large piece of pork, and towed astern by a
stout line, experienced old hands attending to it by turns.

The shark came up leisurely, surveyed the bait, and, I apprehend,
ascertained the position of the hook.  At all events, he turned
quietly on his back, sucked the bait off, and retired to enjoy it.

Every officer in the ship tried him in turn, but without success;
for, if they got ready for him, and, the moment he took the bait,
jerked the rope hard, in that case he opened his enormous mouth so
wide that the bait and hook came out clear.  But, sooner or later,
he always got the bait, and left his captors the hook.

This went on for days, and his huge dorsal fin always in the ship's
wake.

Then Tadcaster, who had watched these experiments with hope, lost
his spirit and appetite.

Staines reasoned with him, but in vain.  Somebody was to die; and,
although there were three hundred and more in the ship, he must be
the one.  At last he actually made his will, and threw himself into
Staines's arms, and gave him messages to his mother and Lady
Cicely; and ended by frightening himself into a fit.

This roused Staines's pity, and also put him on his mettle.  What,
science be beaten by a shark!

He pondered the matter with all his might; and at last an idea came
to him.

He asked the captain's permission to try his hand.  This was
accorded immediately, and the ship's stores placed at his disposal
very politely, but with a sly, comical grin.

Dr. Staines got from the carpenter some sheets of zinc and spare
copper, and some flannel: these he cut into three-inch squares, and
soaked the flannel in acidulated water.  He then procured a
quantity of bell-wire, the greater part of which he insulated by
wrapping it round with hot gutta percha.  So eager was he, that he
did not turn in all night.

In the morning he prepared what he called an electric fuse--he
filled a soda-water bottle with gunpowder, attaching some cork to
make it buoyant, put in the fuse and bung, made it water-tight,
connected and insulated his main wires--enveloped the bottle in
pork--tied a line to it, and let the bottle overboard.

The captain and officers shook their heads mysteriously.  The tars
peeped and grinned from every rope to see a doctor try and catch a
shark with a soda-water bottle and no hook; but somehow the doctor
seemed to know what he was about, so they hovered round, and
awaited the result, mystified, but curious, and showing their teeth
from ear to ear.

"The only thing I fear," said Staines, "is that, the moment he
takes the bait, he will cut the wire before I can complete the
circuit, and fire the fuse."

Nevertheless, there was another objection to the success of the
experiment.  The shark had disappeared.

"Well," said the captain, "at all events, you have frightened him
away."

"No," said little Tadcaster, white as a ghost; "he is only under
water, I know; waiting--waiting."

"There he is," cried one in the ratlines.

There was a rush to the taffrail--great excitement.

"Keep clear of me," said Staines quietly but firmly.  "It can only
be done at the moment before he cuts the wire."

The old shark swam slowly round the bait.

He saw it was something new.

He swam round and round it.

"He won't take it," said one.

"He suspects something."

"Oh, yes, he will take the meat somehow, and leave the pepper.  Sly
old fox!"

"He has eaten many a poor Jack, that one."

The shark turned slowly on his back, and, instead of grabbing at
the bait, seemed to draw it by gentle suction into that capacious
throat, ready to blow it out in a moment if it was not all right.

The moment the bait was drawn out of sight, Staines completed the
circuit; the bottle exploded with a fury that surprised him and
everybody who saw it; a ton of water flew into the air, and came
down in spray, and a gory carcass floated, belly uppermost, visibly
staining the blue water.

There was a roar of amazement and applause.

The carcass was towed alongside, at Tadcaster's urgent request, and
then the power of the explosion was seen.  Confined, first by the
bottle, then by the meat, then by the fish, and lastly by the
water, it had exploded with tenfold power, had blown the brute's
head into a million atoms, and had even torn a great furrow in its
carcass, exposing three feet of the backbone.

Taddy gloated on his enemy, and began to pick up again from that
hour.

The wind improved, and, as usual in that latitude, scarcely varied
a point.  They had a pleasant time,--private theatricals and other
amusements till they got to latitude 26 deg. S. and longitude 27
deg. W.  Then the trade wind deserted them.  Light and variable
winds succeeded.

The master complained of the chronometers, and the captain thought
it his duty to verify or correct them; and so shaped his course for
the island of Tristan d'Acunha, then lying a little way out of his
course.  I ought, perhaps, to explain to the general reader that
the exact position of this island being long ago established and
recorded, it was an infallible guide to go by in verifying a ship's
chronometers.

Next day the glass fell all day, and the captain said he should
double-reef topsails at nightfall, for something was brewing.

The weather, however, was fine, and the ship was sailing very fast,
when, about half an hour before sunset, the mast-head man hailed
that there was a bulk of timber in sight, broad on the weather-bow.

The signalman was sent up, and said it looked like a raft.

The captain, who was on deck, levelled his glass at it, and made it
out a raft, with a sort of rail to it, and the stump of a mast.

He ordered the officer of the watch to keep the ship as close to
the wind as possible.  He should like to examine it if he could.

The master represented, respectfully, that it would be unadvisable
to beat to windward for that.  "I have no faith in our
chronometers, sir, and it is important to make the island before
dark; fogs rise here so suddenly."

"Very well, Mr. Bolt; then I suppose we must let the raft go."

"MAN ON THE RAFT TO WINDWARD!" hailed the signalman.

This electrified the ship.  The captain ran up the mizzen rigging,
and scanned the raft, now nearly abeam.

"It IS a man!" he cried, and was about to alter the ship's course
when, at that moment, the signalman hailed again,--

"IT IS A CORPSE."

"How d'ye know?"

"By the gulls."

Then succeeded an exciting dialogue between the captain and the
master, who, being in his department, was very firm; and went so
far as to say he would not answer for the safety of the ship, if
they did not sight the land before dark.

The captain said, "Very well," and took a turn or two.  But at last
he said, "No.  Her Majesty's ship must not pass a raft with a man
on it, dead or alive."

He then began to give the necessary orders; but before they were
all out of his mouth, a fatal interruption occurred.

Tadcaster ran into Dr. Staines's cabin, crying, "A raft with a
corpse close by!"

Staines sprang to the quarter port to see, and craning eagerly out,
the lower port chain, which had not been well secured, slipped, the
port gave way, and as his whole weight rested on it, canted him
headlong into the sea.

A smart seaman in the forechains saw the accident, and instantly
roared out, "MAN OVERBOARD!" a cry that sends a thrill through a
ship's very ribs.

Another smart fellow cut the life-buoy adrift so quickly that it
struck the water within ten yards of Staines.

The officer of the watch, without the interval of half a moment,
gave the right orders, in the voice of a stentor;

"Let go life-buoy.

"Life-boat's crew away.

"Hands shorten sail.

"Mainsel up.

"Main topsel to mast."

These orders were executed with admirable swiftness.  Meantime
there was a mighty rush of feet throughout the frigate, every
hatchway was crammed with men eager to force their way on deck.

In five seconds the middy of the watch and half her crew were in
the lee cutter, fitted with Clifford's apparatus.

"Lower away!" cried the excited officer; "the others will come down
by the pendants."

The man stationed, sitting on the bottom boards, eased away
roundly, when suddenly there was a hitch--the boat would go no
farther.

"Lower away there in the cutter!  Why don't you lower?" screamed
the captain, who had come over to leeward expecting to see the boat
in the water.

"The rope has swollen, sir, and the pendants won't unreeve," cried
the middy in agony.

"Volunteers for the weather-boat!" shouted the first lieutenant;
but the order was unnecessary, for more than the proper number were
in her already.

"Plug in--lower away."

But mishaps never come singly.  Scarcely had this boat gone a foot
from the davit, than the volunteer who was acting as coxswain, in
reaching out for something, inadvertently let go the line, which,
in Kynaston's apparatus, keeps the tackles hooked; consequently,
down went the boat and crew twenty feet, with a terrific crash; the
men were struggling for their lives, and the boat was stove.

But, meantime, more men having been sent into the lee cutter, their
weight caused the pendants to render, and the boat got afloat, and
was soon employed picking up the struggling crew.

Seeing this, Lieutenant Fitzroy collected some hands, and lowered
the life-boat gig, which was fitted with common tackles, got down
into her himself by the falls, and pulling round to windward,
shouted to the signalman for directions.

The signalman was at his post, and had fixed his eye on the man
overboard, as his duty was; but his mess-mate was in the stove
boat, and he had cast one anxious look down to see if he was saved,
and, sad to relate, in that one moment he had lost sight of
Staines; the sudden darkness--there was no twilight--confused him
more, and the ship had increased her drift.

Fitzroy, however, made a rapid calculation, and pulled to windward
with all his might.  He was followed in about a minute by the other
sound boat powerfully manned, and both boats melted away into the
night.

There was a long and anxious suspense, during which it became pitch
dark, and the ship burned blue lights to mark her position more
plainly to the crews that were groping the sea for that beloved
passenger.

Captain Hamilton had no doubt that the fate of Staines was decided,
one way or other, long before this; but he kept quiet until he saw
the plain signs of a squall at hand.  Then, as he was responsible
for the safety of boats and ship, he sent up rockets to recall
them.

The cutter came alongside first.  Lights were poured on her, and
quavering voices asked, "Have you got him?"

The answer was dead silence, and sorrowful, drooping heads.

Sadly and reluctantly was the order given to hoist the boat in.

Then the gig came alongside.  Fitzroy seated in her, with his hands
before his face; the men gloomy and sad.

"GONE!  GONE!"

Soon the ship was battling a heavy squall.

At midnight all quiet again, and hove to.  Then, at the request of
many, the bell was tolled, and the ship's company mustered
bareheaded, and many a stout seaman in tears, as the last service
was read for Christopher Staines.


CHAPTER XIV.


Rosa fell ill with grief at the hotel, and could not move for some
days; but the moment she was strong enough, she insisted on leaving
Plymouth: like all wounded things, she must drag herself home.

But what a home!  How empty it struck, and she heart-sick and
desolate.  Now all the familiar places wore a new aspect: the
little yard, where he had so walked and waited, became a temple to
her, and she came out and sat in it, and now first felt to the full
how much he had suffered there--with what fortitude.  She crept
about the house, and kissed the chair he had sat in, and every
much-used place and thing of the departed.

Her shallow nature deepened and deepened under this bereavement, of
which, she said to herself, with a shudder, she was the cause.  And
this is the course of nature; there is nothing like suffering to
enlighten the giddy brain, widen the narrow mind, improve the
trivial heart.

As her regrets were tender and deep, so her vows of repentance were
sincere.  Oh, what a wife she would make when he came back! how
thoughtful! how prudent! how loyal! and never have a secret.  She
who had once said, "What is the use of your writing? nobody will
publish it," now collected and perused every written scrap.  With
simple affection she even locked up his very waste-paper basket,
full of fragments he had torn, or useless papers he had thrown
there, before he went to Plymouth.

In the drawer of his writing-table she found his diary.  It was a
thick quarto: it began with their marriage, and ended with his
leaving home--for then he took another volume.  This diary became
her Bible; she studied it daily, till her tears hid his lines.  The
entries were very miscellaneous, very exact; it was a map of their
married life.  But what she studied most was his observations on
her own character, so scientific, yet so kindly; and his scholar-
like and wise reflections.  The book was an unconscious picture of
a great mind she had hitherto but glanced at: now she saw it all
plain before her; saw it, understood it, adored it, mourned it.
Such women are shallow, not for want of a head upon their
shoulders, but of ATTENTION.  They do not really study anything:
they have been taught at their schools the bad art of skimming; but
let their hearts compel their brains to think and think, the result
is considerable.  The deepest philosopher never fathomed a
character more thoroughly than this poor child fathomed her
philosopher, when she had read his journal ten or eleven times, and
bedewed it with a thousand tears.

One passage almost cut her more intelligent heart in twain:--

"This dark day I have done a thing incredible.  I have spoken with
brutal harshness to the innocent creature I have sworn to protect.
She had run in debt, through inexperience, and that unhappy
timidity which makes women conceal an error till it ramifies, by
concealment, into a fault; and I must storm and rave at her, till
she actually fainted away.  Brute!  Ruffian!  Monster!  And she,
how did she punish me, poor lamb?  By soft and tender words--like a
lady, as she is.  Oh, my sweet Rosa, I wish you could know how you
are avenged.  Talk of the scourge--the cat!  I would be thankful
for two dozen lashes.  Ah! there is no need, I think, to punish a
man who has been cruel to a woman.  Let him alone.  He will punish
himself more than you can, if he is really a man."

From the date of that entry, this self-reproach and self-torture
kept cropping up every now and then in the diary; and it appeared
to have been not entirely without its influence in sending Staines
to sea, though the main reason he gave was that his Rosa might have
the comforts and luxuries she had enjoyed before she married him.

One day, while she was crying over this diary, Uncle Philip called;
but not to comfort her, I promise you.  He burst on her, irate, to
take her to task.  He had returned, learned Christopher's
departure, and settled the reason in his own mind: that uxorious
fool was gone to sea by a natural reaction; his eyes were open to
his wife at last, and he was sick of her folly; so he had fled to
distant climes, as who would not, that could?

"SO, ma'am," said he, "my nephew is gone to sea, I find--all in a
hurry.  Pray may I ask what he has done that for?"

It was a very simple question, yet it did not elicit a very plain
answer.  She only stared at this abrupt inquisitor, and then cried,
piteously, "Oh, Uncle Philip!" and burst out sobbing.

"Why, what is the matter?"

"You WILL hate me now.  He is gone to make money for ME; and I
would rather have lived on a crust.  Uncle--don't hate me.  I'm a
poor, bereaved, heart-broken creature, that repents."

"Repents! heigho! why, what have you been up to now, ma'am?  No
great harm, I'll be bound.  Flirting a little with some FOOL--eh?"

"Flirting!  Me! a married woman."

"Oh, to be sure; I forgot.  Why, surely he has not deserted you."

"My Christopher desert me!  He loves me too well; far more than I
deserve; but not more than I will.  Uncle Philip, I am too confused
and wretched to tell you all that has happened; but I know you love
him, though you had a tiff: uncle, he called on you, to shake hands
and ask your forgiveness, poor fellow!  He was so sorry you were
away.  Please read his dear diary: it will tell you all, better
than his poor foolish wife can.  I know it by heart.  I'll show you
where you and he quarrelled about me.  There, see."  And she showed
him the passage with her finger.  "He never told me it was that, or
I would have come and begged your pardon on my knees.  But see how
sorry he was.  There, see.  And now I'll show you another place,
where my Christopher speaks of your many, many acts of kindness.
There, see.  And now please let me show you how he longed for
reconciliation.  There, see.  And it is the same through the book.
And now I'll show you how grieved he was to go without your
blessing.  I told him I was sure you would give him that, and him
going away.  Ah, me! will he ever return?  Uncle dear, don't hate
me.  What shall I do, now he is gone, if you disown me?  Why, you
are the only Staines left me to love."

"Disown you, ma'am! that I'll never do.  You are a good-hearted
young woman, I find.  There, run and dry your eyes; and let me read
Christopher's diary all through.  Then I shall see how the land
lies."

Rosa complied with his proposal; and left him alone while she
bathed her eyes, and tried to compose herself, for she was all
trembling at this sudden irruption.

When she returned to the drawing-room, he was walking about,
looking grave and thoughtful.

"It is the old story," said he, rather gently: "a MISUNDERSTANDING.
How wise our ancestors were that first used that word to mean a
quarrel! for, look into twenty quarrels, and you shall detect a
score of mis-under-standings.  Yet our American cousins must go and
substitute the un-ideaed word 'difficulty'; that is wonderful.  I
had no quarrel with him: delighted to see either of you.  But I had
called twice on him; so I thought he ought to get over his temper,
and call on a tried friend like me.  A misunderstanding!  Now, my
dear, let us have no more of these misunderstandings.  You will
always be welcome at my house, and I shall often come here and look
after you and your interests.  What do you mean to do, I wonder?"

"Sir, I am to go home to my father, if he will be troubled with me.
I have written to him."

"And what is to become of the Bijou?"

"My Christie thought I should like to part with it, and the
furniture--but his own writing-desk and his chair, no, I never
will, and his little clock.  Oh! oh! oh!--But I remember what you
said about agents, and I don't know what to do; for I shall be
away."

"Then, leave it to me.  I'll come and live here with one servant;
and I'll soon sell it for you."

"You, Uncle Philip!"

"Well, why not?" said he roughly.

"That will be a great trouble and discomfort to you, I'm afraid."

"If I find it so, I'll soon drop it.  I'm not the fool to put
myself out for anybody.  When you are ready to go out, send me
word, and I'll come in."

Soon after this he bustled off.  He gave her a sort of hurried kiss
at parting, as if he was ashamed of it, and wanted it over as
quickly as possible.

Next day her father came, condoled with her politely, assured her
there was nothing to cry about; husbands were a sort of
functionaries that generally went to sea at some part of their
career, and no harm ever came of it.  On the contrary, "Absence
makes the heart grow fonder," said this judicious parent.

This sentiment happened to be just a little too true, and set the
daughter crying bitterly.  But she fought against it.  "Oh no!"
said she, "I MUSTN'T.  I will not be always crying in Kent Villa."

"Lord forbid!"

"I shall get over it in time--a little."

"Why, of course you will.  But as to your coming to Kent Villa, I
am afraid you would not be very comfortable there.  You know I am
superannuated.  Only got my pension now."

"I know that, papa: and--why, that is one of the reasons.  I have a
good income now; and I thought if we put our means together"--

"Oh, that is a very different thing.  You will want a carriage, I
suppose.  I have put mine down."

"No carriage; no horse; no footman; no luxury of any kind till my
Christie comes back.  I abhor dress; I abhor expense; I loathe
everything I once liked too well; I detest every folly that has
parted us; and I hate myself worst of all.  Oh! oh! oh!  Forgive me
for crying so."

"Well, I dare say there are associations about this place that
upset you.  I shall go and make ready for you, dear; and then you
can come as soon as you like."

He bestowed a paternal kiss on her brow, and glided doucely away
before she could possibly cry again.

The very next week Rosa was at Kent Villa, with the relics of her
husband about her; his chair, his writing-table, his clock, his
waste-paper basket, a very deep and large one.  She had them all in
her bedroom at Kent Villa.

Here the days glided quietly but heavily.

She derived some comfort from Uncle Philip.  His rough, friendly
way was a tonic, and braced her.  He called several times about the
Bijou.  Told her he had put up enormous boards all over the house,
and puffed it finely.  "I have had a hundred agents at me," said
he; "and the next thing, I hope, will be one customer; that is
about the proportion."  At last he wrote her he had hooked a
victim, and sold the lease and furniture for nine hundred guineas.
Staines had assigned the lease to Rosa, so she had full powers; and
Philip invested the money, and two hundred more she gave him, in a
little mortgage at six per cent.

Now came the letter from Madeira.  It gave her new life.
Christopher was well, contented, hopeful.  His example should
animate her.  She would bravely bear the present, and share his
hopes of the future: with these brighter views Nature co-operated.
The instincts of approaching maternity brightened the future.  She
fell into gentle reveries, and saw her husband return, and saw
herself place their infant in his arms with all a wife's, a
mother's pride.

In due course came another long letter from the equator, with a
full journal, and more words of hope.  Home in less than a year,
with reputation increased by this last cure; home, to part no more.

Ah! what a changed wife he should find! how frugal, how candid, how
full of appreciation, admiration, and love, of the noblest, dearest
husband that ever breathed!

Lady Cicely Treherne waited some weeks, to let kinder sentiments
return.  She then called in Dear Street, but found Mrs. Staines was
gone to Gravesend.  She wrote to her.

In a few days she received a reply, studiously polite and cold.

This persistent injustice mortified her at last.  She said to
herself, "Does she think his departure was no loss to ME?  It was
to her interests, as well as his, I sacrificed my own selfish
wishes.  I will write to her no more."

This resolution she steadily maintained.  It was shaken for a
moment, when she heard, by a side wind, that Mrs. Staines was fast
approaching the great pain and peril of women.  Then she wavered.
But no.  She prayed for her by name in the Liturgy, but she
troubled her no more.

This state of things lasted some six weeks, when she received a
letter from her cousin Tadcaster, close on the heels of his last,
to which she had replied as I have indicated.  She knew his
handwriting, and opened it with a smile.

That smile soon died off her horror-stricken face.  The letter ran
thus:--


TRISTAN D'ACUNHA, Jan. 5.

DEAR CICELY,--A terrible thing has just happened.  We signalled a
raft, with a body on it, and poor Dr. Staines leaned out of the
port-hole, and fell overboard.  Three boats were let down after
him; but it all went wrong, somehow, or it was too late.  They
could never find him, he was drowned; and the funeral service was
read for the poor fellow.

We are all sadly cut up.  Everybody loved him.  It was dreadful
next day at dinner, when his chair was empty.  The very sailors
cried at not finding him.

First of all, I thought I ought to write to his wife.  I know where
she lives; it is called Kent Villa, Gravesend.  But I was afraid;
it might kill her: and you are so good and sensible, I thought I
had better write to you, and perhaps you could break it to her by
degrees, before it gets in all the papers.

I send this from the island, by a small vessel, and paid him ten
pounds to take it.

Your affectionate cousin,

TADCASTER.


Words are powerless to describe a blow like this: the amazement,
the stupor, the reluctance to believe--the rising, swelling,
surging horror.  She sat like a woman of stone, crumpling the
letter.  "Dead!--dead?"

For a long time this was all her mind could realize--that
Christopher Staines was dead.  He who had been so full of life and
thought and genius, and worthier to live than all the world, was
dead; and a million nobodies were still alive, and he was dead.

She lay back on the sofa, and all the power left her limbs.  She
could not move a hand.

But suddenly she started up; for a noble instinct told her this
blow must not fall on the wife as it had on her, and in her time of
peril.

She had her bonnet on in a moment, and for the first time in her
life, darted out of the house without her maid.  She flew along the
streets, scarcely feeling the ground.  She got to Dear Street, and
obtained Philip Staines's address.  She flew to it, and there
learned he was down at Kent Villa.  Instantly she telegraphed to
her maid to come down to her at Gravesend, with things for a short
visit, and wait for her at the station; and she went down by train
to Gravesend.

Hitherto she had walked on air, driven by one overpowering impulse.
Now, as she sat in the train, she thought a little of herself.
What was before her?  To break to Mrs. Staines that her husband was
dead.  To tell her all her misgivings were more than justified.  To
encounter her cold civility, and let her know, inch by inch, it
must be exchanged for curses and tearing of hair; her husband was
dead.  To tell her this, and in the telling of it, perhaps reveal
that it was HER great bereavement, as well as the wife's, for she
had a deeper affection for him than she ought.

Well, she trembled like an aspen leaf, trembled like one in an
ague, even as she sat.  But she persevered.

A noble woman has her courage; not exactly the same as that which
leads forlorn hopes against bastions bristling with rifles and
tongued with flames and thunderbolts; yet not inferior to it.

Tadcaster, small and dull, but noble by birth and instinct, had
seen the right thing for her to do; and she, of the same breed, and
nobler far, had seen it too; and the great soul steadily drew the
recoiling heart and quivering body to this fiery trial, this act of
humanity--to do which was terrible and hard, to shirk it, cowardly
and cruel.

She reached Gravesend, and drove in a fly to Kent Villa.

The door was opened by a maid.

"Is Mrs. Staines at home?"

"Yes, ma'am, she is at HOME: but--"

"Can I see her?"

"Why, no, ma'am, not at present."

"But I must see her.  I am an old friend.  Please take her my card.
Lady Cicely Treherne."

The maid hesitated, and looked confused.  "Perhaps you don't know,
ma'am.  Mrs. Staines, she is--the doctor have been in the house all
day."

"Ah, the doctor!  I believe Dr. Philip Staines is here."

"Why, that IS the doctor, ma'am.  Yes, he is here."

"Then, pray let me see him--or no; I had better see Mr. Lusignan."

"Master have gone out for the day, ma'am; but if you'll step in the
drawing-room, I'll tell the doctor."

Lady Cicely waited in the drawing-room some time, heart-sick and
trembling.

At last Dr. Philip came in, with her card in his hand, looking
evidently a little cross at the interruption.  "Now, madam, please
tell me, as briefly as you can, what I can do for you."

"Are you Dr. Philip Staines?"

"I am, madam, at your service--for five minutes.  Can't quit my
patient long, just now."

"Oh, sir, thank God I have found you.  Be prepared for ill news--
sad news--a terrible calamity--I can't speak.  Read that, sir."
And she handed him Tadcaster's note.

He took it, and read it.

He buried his face in his hands.  "Christopher! my poor, poor boy!"
he groaned.  But suddenly a terrible anxiety seized him.  "Who
knows of this?" he asked.

"Only myself, sir.  I came here to break it to her."

"You are a good, kind lady, for being so thoughtful.  Madam, if
this gets to my niece's ears, it will kill her, as sure as we stand
here."

"Then let us keep it from her.  Command me, sir.  I will do
anything.  I will live here--take the letters in--the journals--
anything."

"No, no; you have done your part, and God bless you for it.  You
must not stay here.  Your ladyship's very presence, and your
agitation, would set the servants talking, and some idiot-fiend
among them babbling--there is nothing so terrible as a fool."

"May I remain at the inn, sir; just one night?"

"Oh yes, I wish you would; and I will run over, if all is well with
her--well with her? poor unfortunate girl!"

Lady Cicely saw he wished her gone, and she went directly.

At nine o'clock that same evening, as she lay on a sofa in the best
room of the inn, attended by her maid, Dr. Philip Staines came to
her.  She dismissed her maid.

Dr. Philip was too old, in other words, had lost too many friends,
to be really broken down by bereavement; but he was strangely
subdued.  The loud tones were out of him, and the loud laugh, and
even the keen sneer.  Yet he was the same man; but with a gentler
surface; and this was not without its pathos.

"Well, madam," said he gravely and quietly.  "It is as it always
has been.  'As is the race of leaves, so that of man.'  When one
falls, another comes.  Here's a little Christopher come, in place
of him that is gone: a brave, beautiful boy, ma'am; the finest but
one I ever brought into the world.  He is come to take his father's
place in our hearts--I see you valued his poor father, ma'am--but
he comes too late for me.  At your age, ma'am, friendships come
naturally; they spring like loves in the soft heart of youth: at
seventy, the gate is not so open; the soil is more sterile.  I
shall never care for another Christopher; never see another grow to
man's estate."

"The mother, sir," sobbed Lady Cicely; "the poor mother?"

"Like them all--poor creature: in heaven, madam; in heaven.  New
life! new existence! a new character.  All the pride, glory,
rapture, and amazement of maternity--thanks to her ignorance, which
we must prolong, or I would not give one straw for her life, or her
son's.  I shall never leave the house till she does know it, and
come when it may, I dread the hour.  She is not framed by nature to
bear so deadly a shock."

"Her father, sir.  Would he not be the best person to break it to
her?  He was out to-day."

"Her father, ma'am?  I shall get no help from him.  He is one of
those soft, gentle creatures, that come into the world with what
your canting fools call a mission; and his mission is to take care
of number one.  Not dishonestly, mind you, nor violently, nor
rudely, but doucely and calmly.  The care a brute like me takes of
his vitals, that care Lusignan takes of his outer cuticle.  His
number one is a sensitive plant.  No scenes, no noise; nothing
painful--by-the-by, the little creature that writes in the papers,
and calls calamities PAINFUL, is of Lusignan's breed.  Out to-day!
of course he was out, ma'am: he knew from me his daughter would be
in peril all day, so he visited a friend.  He knew his own
tenderness, and evaded paternal sensibilities: a self-defender.  I
count on no help from that charming man."

"A man! I call such creachaas weptiles!" said Lady Cicely, her
ghastly cheek coloring for a moment.

"Then you give them a false importance."

In the course of this interview, Lady Cicely accused herself sadly
of having interfered between man and wife, and with the best
intentions brought about this cruel calamity.  "Judge, then, sir,"
said she, "how grateful I am to you for undertaking this cruel
task.  I was her schoolfellow, sir, and I love her dearly; but she
has turned against me, and now, oh, with what horror she will
regard me!"

"Madam," said the doctor, "there is nothing more mean and unjust
than to judge others by events that none could foresee.  Your
conscience is clear.  You did your best for my poor nephew: but
Fate willed it otherwise.  As for my niece, she has many virtues,
but justice is one you must not look for in that quarter.  Justice
requires brains.  It's a virtue the heart does not deal in.  You
must be content with your own good conscience, and an old man's
esteem.  You did all for the best; and this very day you have done
a good, kind action.  God bless you for it!"

Then he left her; and next day she went sadly home, and for many a
long day the hollow world saw nothing of Cicely Treherne.

When Mr. Lusignan came home that night, Dr. Philip told him the
miserable story, and his fears.  He received it, not as Philip had
expected.  The bachelor had counted without his dormant paternity.
He was terror-stricken--abject--fell into a chair, and wrung his
hands, and wept piteously.  To keep it from his daughter till she
should be stronger, seemed to him chimerical, impossible.  However,
Philip insisted it must be done; and he must make some excuse for
keeping out of her way, or his manner would rouse her suspicions.
He consented readily to that, and indeed left all to Dr. Philip.

Dr. Philip trusted nobody; not even his own confidential servant.
He allowed no journal to come into the house without passing
through his hands, and he read them all before he would let any
other soul in the house see them.  He asked Rosa to let him be her
secretary and open her letters, giving as a pretext that it would
be as well she should have no small worries or trouble just now.

"Why," said she, "I was never so well able to bear them.  It must
be a great thing to put me out now.  I am so happy, and live in the
future.  Well, dear uncle, you can if you like--what does it
matter?--only there must be one exception: my own Christie's
letters, you know."

"Of course," said he, wincing inwardly.

The very next day came a letter of condolence from Miss Lucas.  Dr.
Philip intercepted it, and locked it up, to be shown her at a more
fitting time.

But how could he hope to keep so public a thing as this from
entering the house in one of a hundred newspapers?

He went into Gravesend, and searched all the newspapers, to see
what he had to contend with.  To his horror, he found it in several
dailies and weeklies, and in two illustrated papers.  He sat aghast
at the difficulty and the danger.

The best thing he could think of was to buy them all, and cut out
the account.  He did so, and brought all the papers, thus
mutilated, into the house, and sent them into the kitchen.  He said
to his old servant, "These may amuse Mr. Lusignan's people, and I
have extracted all that interests me."

By these means he hoped that none of the servants would go and buy
more of these same papers elsewhere.

Notwithstanding these precautions, he took the nurse apart, and
said, "Now, you are an experienced woman, and to be trusted about
an excitable patient.  Mind, I object to any female servant
entering Mrs. Staines's room with gossip.  Keep them outside the
door for the present, please.  Oh, and nurse, if anything should
happen, likely to grieve or to worry her, it must be kept from her
entirely: can I trust you?"

"You may, sir."

"I shall add ten guineas to your fee, if she gets through the month
without a shock or disturbance of any kind."

She stared at him, inquiringly.  Then she said,--

"You may rely on me, doctor."

"I feel I may.  Still, she alarms me.  She looks quiet enough, but
she is very excitable."

Not all these precautions gave Dr. Philip any real sense of
security; still less did they to Mr. Lusignan.  He was not a tender
father, in small things, but the idea of actual danger to his only
child was terrible to him and he now passed his life in a continual
tremble.

This is the less to be wondered at, when I tell you that even the
stout Philip began to lose his nerve, his appetite, his sleep,
under this hourly terror and this hourly torture.

Well did the great imagination of antiquity feign a torment, too
great for the mind long to endure, in the sword of Damocles
suspended by a single hair over his head.  Here the sword hung over
an innocent creature, who smiled beneath it, fearless; but these
two old men must sit and watch the sword, and ask themselves how
long before that subtle salvation shall snap.

"Ill news travels fast," says the proverb.  "The birds of the air
shall carry the matter," says Holy Writ; and it is so.  No bolts
nor bars, no promises nor precautions, can long shut out a great
calamity from the ears it is to blast, the heart it is to wither.
The very air seems full of it, until it falls.

Rosa's child was more than a fortnight old; and she was looking
more beautiful than ever, as is often the case with a very young
mother, and Dr. Philip complimented her on her looks.  "Now," said
he, "you reap the advantage of being good, and obedient, and
keeping quiet.  In another ten days or so, I may take you to the
seaside for a week.  I have the honor to inform you that from about
the fourth to the tenth of March there is always a week of fine
weather, which takes everybody by surprise, except me.  It does not
astonish me, because I observe it is invariable.  Now, what would
you say if I gave you a week at Herne Bay, to set you up
altogether?"

"As you please, dear uncle," said Mrs. Staines, with a sweet smile.
"I shall be very happy to go, or to stay.  I shall be happy
everywhere, with my darling boy, and the thought of my husband.
Why, I count the days till he shall come back to me.  No, to us; to
us, my pet.  How dare a naughty mammy say to 'me,' as if 'me' was
half the 'portance of oo, a precious pets!"

Dr. Philip was surprised into a sigh.

"What is the matter, dear?" said Rosa, very quickly.

"The matter?"

"Yes, dear, the matter.  You sighed; you, the laughing
philosopher."

"Did I?" said he, to gain time.  "Perhaps I remembered the
uncertainty of human life, and of all mortal hopes.  The old will
have their thoughts, my dear.  They have seen so much trouble."

"But, uncle dear, he is a very healthy child."

"Very."

"And you told me yourself carelessness was the cause so many
children die."

"That is true."

She gave him a curious and rather searching look; then, leaning
over her boy, said, "Mammy's not afraid.  Beautiful Pet was not
born to die directly.  He will never leave his mam-ma.  No, uncle,
he never can.  For my life is bound in his and his dear father's.
It is a triple cord: one go, go all."

She said this with a quiet resolution that chilled Uncle Philip.

At this moment the nurse, who had been bending so pertinaciously
over some work that her eyes were invisible, looked quickly up,
cast a furtive glance at Mrs. Staines, and finding she was employed
for the moment, made an agitated signal to Dr. Philip.  All she did
was to clench her two hands and lift them half way to her face, and
then cast a frightened look towards the door; but Philip's senses
were so sharpened by constant alarm and watching, that he saw at
once something serious was the matter.  But as he had asked himself
what he should do in case of some sudden alarm, he merely gave a
nod of intelligence to the nurse, scarcely perceptible, then rose
quietly from his seat, and went to the window.  "Snow coming, I
think," said he.  "For all that we shall have the March summer in
ten days.  You mark my words."  He then went leisurely out of the
room; at the door he turned, and, with all the cunning he was
master of, said, "Oh, by the by, come to my room, nurse, when you
are at leisure."

"Yes, doctor," said the nurse, but never moved.  She was too bent
on hiding the agitation she really felt.

"Had you not better go to him, nurse?"

"Perhaps I had, madam."

She rose with feigned indifference, and left the room.  She walked
leisurely down the passage, then, casting a hasty glance behind
her, for fear Mrs. Staines should be watching her, hurried into the
doctor's room.  They met at once in the middle of the room, and
Mrs. Briscoe burst out, "Sir, it is known all over the house!"

"Heaven forbid!  What is known?"

"What you would give the world to keep from her.  Why, sir, the
moment you cautioned me, of course I saw there was trouble.  But
little I thought--sir, not a servant in the kitchen or the stable
but knows that her husband--poor thing! poor thing!--Ah! there goes
the housemaid--to have a look at her."

"Stop her!"

Mrs. Briscoe had not waited for this; she rushed after the woman,
and told her Mrs. Staines was sleeping, and the room must not be
entered on any account.

"Oh, very well," said the maid, rather sullenly.

Mrs. Briscoe saw her return to the kitchen, and came back to Dr.
Staines; he was pacing the room in torments of anxiety.

"Doctor," said she, "it is the old story: 'Servants' friends, the
master's enemies.'  An old servant came here to gossip with her
friend the cook (she never could abide her while they were
together, by all accounts), and told her the whole story of his
being drowned at sea."

Dr. Philip groaned, "Cursed chatterbox!" said he.  "What is to be
done?  Must we break it to her now?  Oh, if I could only buy a few
days more!  The heart to be crushed while the body is weak!  It is
too cruel.  Advise me, Mrs. Briscoe.  You are an experienced woman,
and I think you are a kind-hearted woman."

"Well, sir," said Mrs. Briscoe, "I had the name of it, when I was
younger--before Briscoe failed, and I took to nursing; which it
hardens, sir, by use, and along of the patients themselves; for
sick folk are lumps of selfishness; we see more of them than you
do, sir.  But this I WILL say, 'tisn't selfishness that lies now in
that room, waiting for the blow that will bring her to death's
door, I'm sore afraid; but a sweet, gentle, thoughtful creature, as
ever supped sorrow; for I don't know how 'tis, doctor, nor why
'tis, but an angel like that has always to sup sorrow."

"But you do not advise me," said the doctor, in agitation, "and
something must be done."

"Advise you, sir; it is not for me to do that.  I am sure I'm at my
wits' ends, poor thing!  Well, sir, I don't see what you can do,
but try and break it to her.  Better so, than let it come to her
like a clap of thunder.  But I think, sir, I'd have a wet-nurse
ready, before I said much: for she is very quick--and ten to one
but the first word of such a thing turns her blood to gall.  Sir, I
once knew a poor woman--she was a carpenter's wife--a-nursing her
child in the afternoon--and in runs a foolish woman, and tells her
he was killed dead, off a scaffold.  'Twas the man's sister told
her.  Well, sir, she was knocked stupid like, and she sat staring,
and nursing of her child, before she could take it in rightly.  The
child was dead before supper-time, and the woman was not long
after.  The whole family was swept away, sir, in a few hours, and I
mind the table was not cleared he had dined on, when they came to
lay them out.  Well-a-day, nurses see sorrow!"

"We all see sorrow that live long, Mrs. Briscoe.  I am heart-broken
myself; I am desperate.  You are a good soul, and I'll tell you.
When my nephew married this poor girl, I was very angry with him;
and I soon found she was not fit to be a struggling man's wife; and
then I was very angry with her.  She had spoiled a first-rate
physician, I thought.  But, since I knew her better, it is all
changed.  She is so lovable.  How I shall ever tell her this
terrible thing, God knows.  All I know is, that I will not throw a
chance away.  Her body SHALL be stronger, before I break her heart.
Cursed idiots, that could not save a single man, with their boats,
in a calm sea!  Lord forgive me for blaming people, when I was not
there to see.  I say I will give her every chance.  She shall not
know it till she is stronger: no, not if I live at her door, and
sleep there, and all.  Good God! inspire me with something.  There
is always something to be done, if one could but see it."

Mrs. Briscoe sighed and said, "Sir, I think anything is better than
for her to hear it from a servant--and they are sure to blurt it
out.  Young women are such fools."

"No, no; I see what it is," said Dr. Philip.  "I have gone all
wrong from the first.  I have been acting like a woman, when I
should have acted like a man.  Why, I only trusted YOU by halves.
There was a fool for you.  Never trust people by halves."

"That is true, sir."

"Well, then, now I shall go at it like a man.  I have a vile
opinion of servants; but no matter.  I'll try them: they are human,
I suppose.  I'll hit them between the eyes like a man.  Go to the
kitchen, Mrs. Briscoe, and tell them I wish to speak to all the
servants, indoors or out."

"Yes, sir."

She stopped at the door, and said, "I had better get back to her,
as soon as I have told them."

"Certainly."

"And what shall I tell her, sir?  Her first word will be to ask me
what you wanted me for.  I saw that in her eye.  She was curious:
that is why she sent me after you so quick."

Dr. Philip groaned.  He felt he was walking among pitfalls.  He
rapidly flavored some distilled water with orange-flower, then
tinted it a beautiful pink, and bottled it.  "There," said he; "I
was mixing a new medicine.  Tablespoon, four times a day: had to
filter it.  Any lie you like."

Mrs. Briscoe went to the kitchen, and gave her message: then went
to Mrs. Staines with the mixture.

Dr. Philip went down to the kitchen, and spoke to the servants very
solemnly.  He said, "My good friends, I am come to ask your help in
a matter of life and death.  There is a poor young woman up-stairs;
she is a widow, and does not know it; and must not know it yet.  If
the blow fell now, I think it would kill her: indeed, if she hears
it all of a sudden, at any time, that might destroy her.  We are in
so sore a strait that a feather may turn the scale.  So we must try
all we can to gain a little time, and then trust to God's mercy
after all.  Well, now, what do you say?  Will you help me keep it
from her, till the tenth of March, say? and then I will break it to
her by degrees.  Forget she is your mistress.  Master and servant,
that is all very well at a proper time; but this is the time to
remember nothing but that we are all one flesh and blood.  We lie
down together in the churchyard, and we hope to rise together where
there will be no master and servant.  Think of the poor unfortunate
creature as your own flesh and blood, and tell me, will you help me
try and save her, under this terrible blow?"

"Ay, doctor, that we will," said the footman.  "Only you give us
our orders, and you will see."

"I have no right to give you orders; but I entreat you not to show
her by word or look, that calamity is upon her.  Alas! it is only a
reprieve you can give her and to me.  The bitter hour MUST come
when I must tell her she is a widow, and her boy an orphan.  When
that day comes, I will ask you all to pray for me that I may find
words.  But now I ask you to give me that ten days' reprieve.  Let
the poor creature recover a little strength, before the thunderbolt
of affliction falls on her head.  Will you promise me?"

They promised heartily; and more than one of the women began to
cry.

"A general assent will not satisfy me," said Dr. Philip.  "I want
every man, and every woman, to give me a hand upon it; then I shall
feel sure of you."

The men gave him their hands at once.  The women wiped their hands
with their aprons, to make sure they were clean, and gave him their
hands too.  The cook said, "If any one of us goes from it, this
kitchen will be too hot to hold her."

"Nobody will go from it, cook," said the doctor.  "I'm not afraid
of that; and now since you have promised me, out of your own good
hearts, I'll try and be even with you.  If she knows nothing of it
by the tenth of March, five guineas to every man and woman in this
kitchen.  You shall see that, if you can be kind, we can be
grateful."

He then hurried away.  He found Mr. Lusignan in the drawing-room,
and told him all this.  Lusignan was fluttered, but grateful.  "Ah,
my good friend," said he, "this is a hard trial to two old men,
like you and me."

"It is," said Philip.  "It has shown me my age.  I declare I am
trembling; I, whose nerves were iron.  But I have a particular
contempt for servants.  Mercenary wretches!  I think Heaven
inspired me to talk to them.  After all, who knows? perhaps we
might find a way to their hearts, if we did not eternally shock
their vanity, and forget that it is, and must be, far greater than
our own.  The women gave me their tears, and the men were earnest.
Not one hand lay cold in mine.  As for your kitchen-maid, I'd trust
my life to that girl.  What a grip she gave me!  What strength!
What fidelity was in it!  My hand was never GRASPED before.  I
think we are safe for a few days more."

Lusignan sighed.  "What does it all come to?  We are pulling the
trigger gently, that is all."

"No, no; that is not it.  Don't let us confound the matter with
similes, please.  Keep them for children."

Mrs. Staines left her bed; and would have left her room, but Dr.
Philip forbade it strictly.

One day, seated in her arm-chair, she said to the nurse, before Dr.
Philip, "Nurse, why do the servants look so curiously at me?"

Mrs. Briscoe cast a hasty glance at Dr. Philip, and then said, "I
don't know, madam.  I never noticed that."

"Uncle, why did nurse look at you before she answered such a simple
question?"

"I don't know.  What question?"

"About the servants."

"Oh, about the servants!" said he contemptuously.

"You should not turn up your nose at them, for they are all most
kind and attentive.  Only, I catch them looking at me so strangely;
really--as if they--"

"Rosa, you are taking me quite out of my depth.  The looks of
servant girls!  Why, of course a lady in your condition is an
object of especial interest to them.  I dare say they are saying to
one another, 'I wonder when my turn will come!'  A fellow-feeling
makes us wondrous kind--that is a proverb, is it not?"

"To be sure.  I forgot that."

She said no more; but seemed thoughtful, and not quite satisfied.

On this Dr. Philip begged the maids to go near her as little as
possible.  "You are not aware of it," said he, "but your looks, and
your manner of speaking, rouse her attention, and she is quicker
than I thought she was, and observes very subtly."

This was done; and then she complained that nobody came near her.
She insisted on coming down-stairs; it was so dull.

Dr. Philip consented, if she would be content to receive no visits
for a week.

She assented to that; and now passed some hours every day in the
drawing-room.  In her morning wrappers, so fresh and crisp, she
looked lovely, and increased in health and strength every day.

Dr. Philip used to look at her, and his very flesh would creep at
the thought that, ere long, he must hurl this fair creature into
the dust of affliction; must, with a word, take the ruby from her
lips, the rose from her cheeks, the sparkle from her glorious eyes--
eyes that beamed on him with sweet affection, and a mouth that
never opened, but to show some simplicity of mind, or some pretty
burst of the sensitive heart.

He put off, and put off, and at last cowardice began to whisper,
"Why tell her the whole truth at all?  Why not take her through
stages of doubt, alarm, and, after all, leave a grain of hope till
her child gets so rooted in her heart that"--  But conscience and
good sense interrupted this temporary thought, and made him see to
what a horrible life of suspense he should condemn a human
creature, and live a perpetual lie, and be always at the edge of
some pitfall or other.

One day, while he sat looking at her, with all these thoughts, and
many more, coursing through his mind, she looked up at him, and
surprised him.  "Ah!" said she gravely.

"What is the matter, my dear?"

"Oh, nothing," said she cunningly.

"Uncle, dear," said she presently, "when do we go to Herne Bay?"

Now, Dr. Philip had given that up.  He had got the servants at Kent
Villa on his side, and he felt safer here than in any strange
place: so he said, "I don't know: that all depends.  There is
plenty of time."

"No, uncle," said Rosa gravely.  "I wish to leave this house.  I
can hardly breathe in it."

"What! your native air?"

"Mystery is not my native air; and this house is full of mystery.
Voices whisper at my door, and the people don't come in.  The maids
cast strange looks at me, and hurry away.  I scolded that pert girl
Jane, and she answered me as meek as Moses.  I catch you looking at
me, with love, and something else.  What is that something--?  It
is Pity: that is what it is.  Do you think, because I am called a
simpleton, that I have no eyes, nor ears, nor sense?  What is this
secret which you are all hiding from one person, and that is me?
Ah! Christopher has not written these five weeks.  Tell me the
truth, for I will know it," and she started up in wild excitement.

Then Dr. Philip saw the hour was come.

He said, "My poor girl, you have read us right.  I am anxious about
Christopher, and all the servants know it."

"Anxious, and not tell ME; his wife; the woman whose life is bound
up in his."

"Was it for us to retard your convalescence, and set you fretting,
and perhaps destroy your child?  Rosa, my darling, think what a
treasure Heaven has sent you, to love and care for."

"Yes," said she, trembling, "Heaven has been good to me; I hope
Heaven will always be as good to me.  I don't deserve it; but then
I tell God so.  I am very grateful, and very penitent.  I never
forget that, if I had been a good wife, my husband--five weeks is a
long time.  Why do you tremble so?  Why are you so pale--a strong
man like you?  CALAMITY!  CALAMITY!"

Dr. Philip hung his head.

She looked at him, started wildly up, then sank back into her
chair.  So the stricken deer leaps, then falls.  Yet even now she
put on a deceitful calm, and said, "Tell me the truth.  I have a
right to know."

He stammered out, "There is a report of an accident at sea."

She kept silence.

"Of a passenger drowned--out of that ship.  This, coupled with his
silence, fills our hearts with fear."

"It is worse--you are breaking it to me--you have gone too far to
stop.  One word: is he alive?  Oh, say he is alive!"

Philip rang the bell hard, and said in a troubled voice, "Rosa,
think of your child."

"Not when my husband--  Is he alive or dead?"

"It is hard to say, with such a terrible report about, and no
letters," faltered the old man, his courage failing him.

"What are you afraid of?  Do you think I can't die, and go to him?
Alive, or dead?" and she stood before him, raging and quivering in
every limb.

The nurse came in.

"Fetch her child," he cried; "God have mercy on her."

"Ah, then he is dead," said she, with stony calmness.  "I drove him
to sea, and he is dead."

The nurse rushed in, and held the child to her.

She would not look at it.

"Dead!"

"Yes, our poor Christie is gone--but his child is here--the image
of him.  Do not forget the mother.  Have pity on his child and
yours."

"Take it out of my sight!" she screamed.  "Away with it, or I shall
murder it, as I have murdered its father.  My dear Christie, before
all that live!  I have killed him.  I shall die for him.  I shall
go to him."  She raved and tore her hair.  Servants rushed in.
Rosa was carried to her bed, screaming and raving, and her black
hair all down on both sides, a piteous sight.

Swoon followed swoon, and that very night brain fever set in with
all its sad accompaniments; a poor bereaved creature, tossing and
moaning; pale, anxious, but resolute faces of the nurse and the
kitchen-maid watching: on one table a pail of ice, and on another
the long, thick raven hair of our poor Simpleton, lying on clean
silver paper.  Dr. Philip had cut it all off with his own hand, and
he was now folding it up, and crying over it; for he thought to
himself, "Perhaps in a few days more only this will be left of her
on earth."


CHAPTER XV.


Staines fell head-foremost into the sea with a heavy plunge.  Being
an excellent swimmer, he struck out the moment he touched the
water, and that arrested his dive, and brought him up with a slant,
shocked and panting, drenched and confused.  The next moment he
saw, as through a fog--his eyes being full of water--something fall
from the ship.  He breasted the big waves, and swam towards it: it
rose on the top of a wave, and he saw it was a life-buoy.
Encumbered with wet clothes, he seemed impotent in the big waves;
they threw him up so high, and down so low.

Almost exhausted, he got to the life-buoy, and clutched it with a
fierce grasp and a wild cry of delight.  He got it over his head,
and, placing his arms round the buoyant circle, stood with his
breast and head out of water, gasping.

He now drew a long breath, and got his wet hair out of his eyes,
already smarting with salt water, and, raising himself on the buoy,
looked out for help.

He saw, to his great concern, the ship already at a distance.  She
seemed to have flown, and she was still drifting fast away from
him.

He saw no signs of help.  His heart began to turn as cold as his
drenched body.  A horrible fear crossed him.

But presently he saw the weather-boat filled, and fall into the
water; and then a wave rolled between him and the ship, and he only
saw her topmast.

The next time he rose on a mighty wave he saw the boats together
astern of the vessel, but not coming his way; and the gloom was
thickening, the ship becoming indistinct, and all was doubt and
horror.

A life of agony passed in a few minutes.

He rose and fell like a cork on the buoyant waves--rose and fell,
and saw nothing but the ship's lights, now terribly distant.

But at last, as he rose and fell, he caught a few fitful glimpses
of a smaller light rising and falling like himself.  "A boat!" he
cried, and raising himself as high as he could, shouted, cried,
implored for help.  He stretched his hands across the water.  "This
way! this way!"

The light kept moving, but it came no nearer.  They had greatly
underrated the drift.  The other boat had no light.

Minutes passed of suspense, hope, doubt, dismay, terror.  Those
minutes seemed hours.

In the agony of suspense the quaking heart sent beads of sweat to
the brow, though the body was immersed.

And the gloom deepened, and the cold waves flung him up to heaven
with their giant arms, and then down again to hell: and still that
light, his only hope, was several hundred yards from him.

Only for a moment at a time could his eyeballs, straining with
agony, catch this will-o'-the-wisp, the boat's light.  It groped
the sea up and down, but came no near.

When what seemed days of agony had passed, suddenly a rocket rose
in the horizon--so it seemed to him.

The lost man gave a shriek of joy; so prone are we to interpret
things hopefully.

Misery!  The next time he saw that little light, that solitary
spark of hope, it was not quite so near as before.  A mortal
sickness fell on his heart.  The ship had recalled the boats by
rocket.

He shrieked, he cried, he screamed, he raved.  "Oh, Rosa! Rosa! for
her sake, men, men, do not leave me.  I am here! here!"

In vain.  The miserable man saw the boat's little light retire,
recede, and melt into the ship's larger light, and that light
glided away.

Then, a cold, deadly stupor fell on him.  Then, death's icy claw
seized his heart, and seemed to run from it to every part of him.
He was a dead man.  Only a question of time.  Nothing to gain by
floating.

But the despairing mind could not quit the world in peace, and even
here in the cold, cruel sea, the quivering body clung to this
fragment of life, and winced at death's touch, though more
merciful.

He despised this weakness; he raged at it; he could not overcome
it.

Unable to live or to die, condemned to float slowly, hour by hour,
down into death's jaws.

To a long, death-like stupor succeeded frenzy.  Fury seized this
great and long-suffering mind.  It rose against the cruelty and
injustice of his fate.  He cursed the world, whose stupidity had
driven him to sea, he cursed remorseless nature; and at last he
railed on the God who made him, and made the cruel water, that was
waiting for his body.  "God's justice!  God's mercy!  God's power!
they are all lies," he shouted, "dreams, chimeras, like Him the
all-powerful and good, men babble of by the fire.  If there was a
God more powerful than the sea, and only half as good as men are,
he would pity my poor Rosa and me, and send a hurricane to drive
those caitiffs back to the wretch they have abandoned.  Nature
alone is mighty.  Oh, if I could have her on my side, and only God
against me!  But she is as deaf to prayer as He is: as mechanical
and remorseless.  I am a bubble melting into the sea.  Soul I have
none; my body will soon be nothing, nothing.  So ends an honest,
loving life.  I always tried to love my fellow-creatures.  Curse
them! curse them!  Curse the earth!  Curse the sea!  Curse all
nature: there is no other God for me to curse."

The moon came out.

He raised his head and staring eyeballs, and cursed her.

The wind began to whistle, and flung spray in his face.

He raised his fallen head and staring eyeballs, and cursed the
wind.

While he was thus raving, he became sensible of a black object to
windward.

It looked like a rail, and a man leaning on it.

He stared, he cleared the wet hair from his eyes, and stared again.

The thing, being larger than himself and partly out of water, was
drifting to leeward faster than himself.

He stared and trembled, and at last it came nearly abreast, black,
black.

He gave a loud cry, and tried to swim towards it; but encumbered
with his life-buoy, he made little progress.  The thing drifted
abreast of him, but ten yards distant.

As they each rose high upon the waves, he saw it plainly.

It was the very raft that had been the innocent cause of his sad
fate.

He shouted with hope, he swam, he struggled; he got near it, but
not to it; it drifted past, and he lost his chance of intercepting
it.  He struggled after it.  The life-buoy would not let him catch
it.

Then he gave a cry of agony, rage, despair, and flung off the life-
buoy, and risked all on this one chance.

He gains a little on the raft.

He loses.

He gains: he cries, "Rosa!  Rosa!" and struggles with all his soul,
as well as his body: he gains.

But when almost within reach, a wave half drowns him, and he loses.

He cries, "Rosa!  Rosa!" and swims high and strong.  "Rosa!  Rosa!
Rosa!"

He is near it.  He cries, "Rosa!  Rosa!" and with all the energy of
love and life flings himself almost out of the water, and catches
hold of the nearest thing on the raft.

It was the dead man's leg.

It seemed as if it would come away in his grasp.  He dared not try
to pull himself up by that.  But he held on by it, panting,
exhausting, faint.

This faintness terrified him.  "Oh," thought he, "if I faint now,
all is over."

Holding by that terrible and strange support, he made a grasp, and
caught hold of the woodwork at the bottom of the rail.  He tried to
draw himself up.  Impossible.

He was no better off than with his life-buoy.

But in situations so dreadful, men think fast; he worked gradually
round the bottom of the raft by his hands, till he got to leeward,
still holding on.  There he found a solid block of wood at the edge
of the raft.  He prised himself carefully up; the raft in that part
then sank a little: he got his knee upon the timber of the raft,
and with a wild cry seized the nearest upright, and threw both arms
round it and clung tight.  Then first he found breath to speak.
"THANK GOD!" he cried, kneeling on the timber, and grasping the
upright post--"OH, THANK GOD! THANK GOD!"


CHAPTER XVI.


"Thank God!" why, according to his theory, it should have been
"Thank Nature."  But I observe that, in such cases, even
philosophers are ungrateful to the mistress they worship.

Our philosopher not only thanked God, but being on his knees,
prayed forgiveness for his late ravings, prayed hard, with one arm
curled round the upright, lest the sea, which ever and anon rushed
over the bottom of the raft, should swallow him up in a moment.

Then he rose carefully, and wedged himself into the corner of the
raft opposite to that other figure, ominous relic of the wild
voyage the new-comer had entered upon; he put both arms over the
rail, and stood erect.

The moon was now up; but so was the breeze: fleecy clouds flew with
vast rapidity across her bright face, and it was by fitful though
vivid glances Staines examined the raft and his companion.

The raft was large, and well made of timbers tied and nailed
together, and a strong rail ran round it resting on several
uprights.  There were also some blocks of a very light wood screwed
to the horizontal timbers, and these made it float high.

But what arrested and fascinated the man's gaze was his dead
companion, sole survivor, doubtless, of a horrible voyage, since
the raft was not made for one, nor by one.

It was a skeleton, or nearly, whose clothes the seabirds had torn,
and pecked every limb in all the fleshy parts; the rest of the body
had dried to dark leather on the bones.  The head was little more
than an eyeless skull; but in the fitful moonlight, those huge
hollow caverns seemed gigantic lamp-like eyes, and glared at him
fiendishly, appallingly.

He sickened at the sight.  He tried not to look at it; but it would
be looked at, and threaten him in the moonlight, with great lack-
lustre eyes.

The wind whistled, and lashed his face with spray torn off the big
waves, and the water was nearly up to his knees, and the raft
tossed so wildly, it was all he could do to hold on in his corner:
in which struggle, still those monstrous lack-lustre eyes, like
lamps of death, glared at him in the moon; all else was dark,
except the fiery crests of the black mountain-billows, tumbling and
raging all around.

What a night!

But, before morning, the breeze sank, the moon set, and a sombre
quiet succeeded, with only that grim figure in outline dimly
visible.  Owing to the motion still retained by the waves, it
seemed to nod and rear, and be ever preparing to rush upon him.

The sun rose glorious, on a lovely scene; the sky was a very mosaic
of colors sweet and vivid, and the tranquil, rippling sea, peach-
colored to the horizon, with lines of diamonds where the myriad
ripples broke into smiles.

Staines was asleep, exhausted.  Soon the light awoke him, and he
looked up.  What an incongruous picture met his eye: that heaven of
color all above and around, and right before him, like a devil
stuck in mid-heaven, that grinning corpse, whose fate foreshadowed
his own.

But daylight is a great strengthener of the nerves; the figure no
longer appalled him--a man who had long learned to look with
Science's calm eye upon the dead.  When the sea became like glass,
and from peach-color deepened to rose, he walked along the raft,
and inspected the dead man.  He found it was a man of color, but
not a black.  The body was not kept in its place, as he had
supposed, merely by being jammed into the angle caused by the rail;
it was also lashed to the corner upright by a long, stout belt.
Staines concluded this had kept the body there, and its companions
had been swept away.

This was not lost on him: he removed the belt for his own use: he
then found it was not only a belt, but a receptacle; it was nearly
full of small, hard substances that felt like stones.

When he had taken it off the body, he felt a compunction.  "Ought
he to rob the dead, and expose it to be swept into the sea at the
first wave, like a dead dog?"

He was about to replace the belt, when a middle course occurred to
him.  He was a man who always carried certain useful little things
about him, viz., needles, thread, scissors, and string.  He took a
piece of string, and easily secured this poor light skeleton to the
raft.  The belt he strapped to the rail, and kept for his own need.

And now hunger gnawed him.  No food was near.  There was nothing
but the lovely sea and sky, mosaic with color, and that grim,
ominous skeleton.

Hunger comes and goes many times before it becomes insupportable.
All that day and night, and the next day, he suffered its pangs;
and then it became torture, but the thirst maddening.

Towards night fell a gentle rain.  He spread a handkerchief and
caught it.  He sucked the handkerchief.

This revived him, and even allayed in some degree the pangs of
hunger.

Next day was cloudless.  A hot sun glared on his unprotected head,
and battered down his enfeebled frame.

He resisted as well as he could.  He often dipped his head, and as
often the persistent sun, with cruel glare, made it smoke again.

Next day the same: but the strength to meet it was waning.  He lay
down and thought of Rosa, and wept bitterly.  He took the dead
man's belt, and lashed himself to the upright.  That act, and his
tears for his beloved, were almost his last acts of perfect reason:
for next day came the delusions and the dreams that succeed when
hunger ceases to torture, and the vital powers begin to ebb.  He
lay and saw pleasant meadows with meandering streams, and clusters
of rich fruit that courted the hand and melted in the mouth.

Ever and anon they vanished, and he saw grim death looking down on
him with those big cavernous eyes.

By and by, whether his body's eye saw the grim skeleton, or his
mind's eye the juicy fruits, green meadows, and pearly brooks, all
was shadowy.

So, in a placid calm, beneath a blue sky, the raft drifted dead,
with its dead freight, upon the glassy purple, and he drifted, too,
towards the world unknown.

There came across the waters to that dismal raft a thing none too
common, by sea or land--a good man.

He was tall, stalwart, bronzed, and had hair like snow, before his
time, for he had known trouble.  He commanded a merchant steamer,
bound for Calcutta, on the old route.

The man at the mast-head descried a floating wreck, and hailed the
deck accordingly.  The captain altered his course without one
moment's hesitation, and brought up alongside, lowered a boat, and
brought the dead, and the breathing man, on board.

A young middy lifted Staines in his arms from the wreck to the
boat; he whose person I described in chapter one weighed now no
more than that.

Men are not always rougher than women.  Their strength and nerve
enable them now and then to be gentler than buttery-fingered
angels, who drop frail things through sensitive agitation, and
break them.  These rough men saw Staines was hovering between life
and death, and they handled him like a thing the ebbing life might
be shaken out of in a moment.  It was pretty to see how gingerly
the sailors carried the sinking man up the ladder, and one fetched
swabs, and the others laid him down softly on them at their
captain's feet.

"Well done, men," said he.  "Poor fellow!  Pray Heaven, we may not
have come too late.  Now stand aloof a bit.  Send the surgeon aft."

The surgeon came, and looked, and felt the heart.  He shook his
head, and called for brandy.  He had Staines's head raised, and got
half a spoonful of diluted brandy down his throat.  But there was
an ominous gurgling.

After several such attempts at intervals, he said plainly the man's
life could not be saved by ordinary means.

"Then try extraordinary," said the captain.  "My orders are that he
is to be saved.  There is life in him.  You have only got to keep
it there.  He MUST be saved; he SHALL be saved."

"I should like to try Dr. Staines's remedy," said the surgeon.

"Try it, then what is it?"

"A bath of beef-tea.  Dr. Staines says he applied it to a starved
child--in the Lancet."

"Take a hundred-weight of beef, and boil it in the coppers."

Thus encouraged, the surgeon went to the cook, and very soon beef
was steaming on a scale and at a rate unparalleled.

Meantime, Captain Dodd had the patient taken to his own cabin, and
he and his servant administered weak brandy and water with great
caution and skill.

There was no perceptible result.  But at all events there was life
and vital instinct left, or he could not have swallowed.

Thus they hovered about him for some hours, and then the bath was
ready.

The captain took charge of the patient's clothes: the surgeon and a
sailor bathed him in lukewarm beef-tea, and then covered him very
warm with blankets next the skin.  Guess how near a thing it seemed
to them, when I tell you they dared not rub him.

Just before sunset his pulse became perceptible.  The surgeon
administered half a spoonful of egg-flip.  The patient swallowed
it.

By and by he sighed.

"He must not be left, day or night," said the captain.  "I don't
know who or what he is, but he is a man; and I could not bear him
to die now."

That night Captain Dodd overhauled the patient's clothes, and
looked for marks on his linen.  There were none.

"Poor devil " said Captain Dodd.  "He is a bachelor."

Captain Dodd found his pocket-book, with bank-notes, two hundred
pounds.  He took the numbers, made a memorandum of them, and locked
the notes up.

He lighted his lamp, examined the belt, unripped it, and poured out
the contents on his table.

They were dazzling.  A great many large pieces of amethyst, and
some of white topaz and rock crystal; a large number of smaller
stones, carbuncles, chrysolites, and not a few emeralds.  Dodd
looked at them with pleasure, sparkling in the lamplight.

"What a lot!" said he.  "I wonder what they are worth!"  He sent
for the first mate, who, he knew, did a little private business in
precious stones.  "Masterton," said he, "oblige me by counting
these stones with me, and valuing them."

Mr. Masterton stared, and his mouth watered.  However, he named the
various stones and valued them.  He said there was one stone, a
large emerald, without a flaw, that was worth a heavy sum by
itself; and the pearls, very fine: and looking at the great number,
they must be worth a thousand pounds.

Captain Dodd then entered the whole business carefully in the
ship's log: the living man he described thus: "About five feet six
in height, and about fifty years of age."  Then he described the
notes and the stones very exactly, and made Masterton, the valuer,
sign the log.

Staines took a good deal of egg-flip that night, and next day ate
solid food; but they questioned him in vain; his reason was
entirely in abeyance: he had become an eater, and nothing else.
Whenever they gave him food, he showed a sort of fawning animal
gratitude.  Other sentiment he had none, nor did words enter his
mind any more than a bird's.  And since it is not pleasant to dwell
on the wreck of a fine understanding, I will only say that they
landed him at Cape Town, out of bodily danger, but weak, and his
mind, to all appearance, a hopeless blank.

They buried the skeleton,--read the service of the English Church
over a Malabar heathen.

Dodd took Staines to the hospital, and left twenty pounds with the
governor of it to cure him.  But he deposited Staines's money and
jewels with a friendly banker, and begged that the principal
cashier might see the man, and be able to recognize him, should he
apply for his own.

The cashier came and examined him, and also the ruby ring on his
finger--a parting gift from Rosa--and remarked this was a new way
of doing business.

"Why, it is the only one, sir," said Dodd.  "How can we give you
his signature?  He is not in his right mind."

"Nor never will be."

"Don't say that, sir.  Let us hope for the best, poor fellow."

Having made these provisions, the worthy captain weighed anchor,
with a warm heart and a good conscience.  Yet the image of the man
he had saved pursued him, and he resolved to look after him next
time he should coal at Cape Town, homeward bound.

Staines recovered his strength in about two months; but his mind
returned in fragments, and very slowly.  For a long, long time he
remembered nothing that had preceded his great calamity.  His mind
started afresh, aided only by certain fixed habits; for instance,
he could read and write: but, strange as it may appear, he had no
idea who he was; and when his memory cleared a little on that head,
he thought his surname was Christie, but he was not sure.

Nevertheless, the presiding physician discovered in him a certain
progress of intelligence, which gave him great hopes.  In the fifth
month, having shown a marked interest in the other sick patients,
coupled with a disposition to be careful and attentive, they made
him a nurse, or rather a sub-nurse under the special orders of a
responsible nurse.  I really believe it was done at first to avoid
the alternative of sending him adrift, or transferring him to the
insane ward of the hospital.  In this congenial pursuit he showed
such watchfulness and skill, that by and by they found they had got
a treasure.  Two months after that he began to talk about medicine,
and astonished them still more.  He became the puzzle of the
establishment.  The doctor and surgeon would converse with him, and
try and lead him to his past life; but when it came to that, he
used to put his hands to his head with a face of great distress,
and it was clear some impassable barrier lay between his growing
intelligence and the past events of his life.  Indeed, on one
occasion, he said to his kind friend the doctor, "The past!--a
black wall! a black wall!"

Ten months after his admission he was promoted to be an attendant,
with a salary.

He put by every shilling of it; for he said, "A voice from the dark
past tells me money is everything in this world."

A discussion was held by the authorities as to whether he should be
informed he had money and jewels at the bank or not.

Upon the whole, it was thought advisable to postpone this
information, lest he should throw it away; but they told him he had
been picked up at sea, and both money and jewels found on him; they
were in safe hands, only the person was away for the time.  Still,
he was not to look upon himself as either friendless or moneyless.

At this communication he showed an almost childish delight, that
confirmed the doctor in his opinion he was acting prudently, and
for the real benefit of an amiable and afflicted person, not yet to
be trusted with money and jewels.


CHAPTER XVII.


In his quality of attendant on the sick, Staines sometimes
conducted a weak but convalescent patient into the open air; and he
was always pleased to do this, for the air of the Cape carries
health and vigor on its wings.  He had seen its fine recreative
properties, and he divined, somehow, that the minds of
convalescents ought to be amused, and so he often begged the doctor
to let him take a convalescent abroad.  Sooner than not, he would
draw the patient several miles in a Bath chair.  He rather liked
this; for he was a Hercules, and had no egotism or false pride
where the sick were concerned.

Now, these open-air walks exerted a beneficial influence on his own
darkened mind.  It is one thing to struggle from idea to idea; it
is another when material objects mingle with the retrospect; they
seem to supply stepping-stones in the gradual resuscitation of
memory and reason.

The ships going out of port were such a steppingstone to him, and a
vague consciousness came back to him of having been in a ship.

Unfortunately, along with this reminiscence came a desire to go in
one again; and this sowed discontent in his mind, and the more that
mind enlarged, the more he began to dislike the hospital and its
confinement.  The feeling grew, and bade fair to disqualify him for
his humble office.  The authorities could not fail to hear of this,
and they had a little discussion about parting with him; but they
hesitated to turn him adrift, and they still doubted the propriety
of trusting him with money and jewels.

While matters were in this state a remarkable event occurred.  He
drew a sick patient down to the quay one morning, and watched the
business of the port with the keenest interest.  A ship at anchor
was unloading, and a great heavy boat was sticking to her side like
a black leech.  Presently this boat came away, and moved sluggishly
towards the shore, rather by help of the tide than of the two men
who went through the form of propelling her with two monstrous
sweeps, while a third steered her.  She contained English goods:
agricultural implements, some cases, four horses, and a buxom young
woman with a thorough English face.  The woman seemed a little
excited, and as she neared the landing-place, she called out in
jocund tones to a young man on the shore, "It is all right, Dick;
they are beauties," and she patted the beasts as people do who are
fond of them.

She stepped lightly ashore, and then came the slower work of
landing her imports.  She bustled about, like a hen over her brood,
and wasn't always talking, but put in her word every now and then,
never crossly, and always to the point.

Staines listened to her, and examined her with a sort of puzzled
look; but she took no notice of him; her whole soul was in the
cattle.

They got the things on board well enough; but the horses were
frightened at the gangway, and jibbed.  Then a man was for driving
them, and poked one of them in the quarter; he snorted and reared
directly.

"Man alive!" cried the young woman, "that is not the way.  They are
docile enough, but frightened.  Encourage 'em, and let 'em look at
it.  Give 'em time.  More haste less speed, with timorous cattle."

"That is a very pleasant voice," said poor Staines, rather more
dictatorially than became the present state of his intellect.  He
added softly, "a true woman's voice;" then gloomily, "a voice of
the past--the dark, dark past."

At this speech intruding itself upon the short sentences of
business, there was a roar of laughter, and Phoebe Falcon turned
sharply round to look at the speaker.  She stared at him; she cried
"Oh!" and clasped her hands, and colored all over.  "Why, sure,"
said she, "I can't be mistook.  Those eyes--'tis you, doctor, isn't
it?"

"Doctor?" said Staines, with a puzzled look.  "Yes; I think they
called me doctor once.  I'm an attendant in the hospital now."

"Dick!" cried Phoebe, in no little agitation.  "Come here this
minute."

"What, afore I get the horses ashore?"

"Ay, before you do another thing, or say another word.  Come here,
now."  So he came, and she told him to take a good look at the man.
"Now," said she, "who is that?"

"Blest if I know," said he.

"What, not know the man who saved your own life!  Oh, Dick, what
are your eyes worth?"

This discourse brought the few persons within hearing into one band
of excited starers.

Dick took a good look, and said, "I'm blest if I don't, though; it
is the doctor that cut my throat."

This strange statement drew forth quite a shout of ejaculations.

"Oh, better breathe through a slit than not at all," said Dick.
"Saved my life with that cut, he did, didn't he, Pheeb?"

"That he did, Dick.  Dear heart, I hardly know whether I am in my
senses or not, seeing him a-looking so blank.  You try him."

Dick came forward.  "Sure you remember me, sir.  Dick Dale.  You
cut my throat, and saved my life."

"Cut your throat! why, that would kill you."

"Not the way you done it.  Well, sir, you ain't the man you was,
that is clear; but you was a good friend to me, and there's my
hand."

"Thank you, Dick," said Staines, and took his hand.  "I don't
remember YOU.  Perhaps you are one of the past.  The past is dead
wall to me--a dark dead wall," and he put his hands to his head
with a look of distress.

Everybody there now suspected the truth, and some pointed
mysteriously to their own heads.

Phoebe whispered an inquiry to the sick person.

He said a little pettishly, "All I know is, he is the kindest
attendant in the ward, and very attentive."

"Oh, then, he is in the public hospital."

"Of course he is."

The invalid, with the selfishness of his class, then begged Staines
to take him out of all this bustle down to the beach.  Staines
complied at once, with the utmost meekness, and said, "Good-by, old
friends; forgive me for not remembering you.  It is my great
affliction that the past is gone from me--gone, gone."  And he went
sadly away, drawing his sick charge like a patient mule.

Phoebe Falcon looked after him, and began to cry.

"Nay, nay, Phoebe," said Dick; "don't ye take on about it."

"I wonder at you," sobbed Phoebe.  "Good people, I'm fonder of my
brother than he is of himself, it seems; for I can't take it so
easy.  Well, the world is full of trouble.  Let us do what we are
here for.  But I shall pray for the poor soul every night, that his
mind may be given back to him."

So then she bustled, and gave herself to getting the cattle on
shore, and the things put on board her wagon.

But when this was done, she said to her brother, "Dick, I did not
think anything on earth could take my heart off the cattle and the
things we have got from home; but I can't leave this without going
to the hospital about our poor dear doctor: and it is late for
making a start, any way--and you mustn't forget the newspapers for
Reginald--he is so fond of them--and you must contrive to have one
sent out regular after this, and I'll go to the hospital."

She went, and saw the head doctor, and told him he had got an
attendant there she had known in England in a very different
condition, and she had come to see if there was anything she could
do for him--for she felt very grateful to him, and grieved to see
him so.

The doctor was pleased and surprised, and put several questions.

Then she gave him a clear statement of what he had done for Dick in
England.

"Well," said the doctor, "I believe it is the same man; for, now
you tell me this--yes, one of the nurses told me he knew more about
medicine than she did.  His name, if you please."

"His name, sir?"

"Yes, his name.  Of course you know his name.  Is it Christie?"

"Doctor," said Phoebe, blushing, "I don't know what you will think
of me, but I don't know his name.  Laws forgive me, I never had the
sense to ask it."

A shade of suspicion crossed the doctor's face.

Phoebe saw it, and colored to the temples.  "Oh, sir," she cried
piteously, "don't go for to think I have told you a lie! why should
I? and indeed I am not of that sort, nor Dick neither.  Sir, I'll
bring him to you, and he will say the same.  Well, we were all in
terror and confusion, and I met him accidentally in the street.  He
was only a customer till then, and paid ready money, so that is how
I never knew his name, but if I hadn't been the greatest fool in
England, I should have asked his wife."

"What! he has a wife?"

"Ay, sir, the loveliest lady you ever clapped eyes on, and he is
almost as handsome; has eyes in his head like jewels; 'twas by them
I knew him on the quay, and I think he knew my voice again, said as
good as he had heard it in past times."

"Did he?  Then we have got him," cried the doctor energetically.

"La, Sir."

"Yes; if he knows your voice, you will be able in time to lead his
memory back; at least, I think so.  Do you live in Cape Town?"

"Dear heart, no.  I live at my own farm, a hundred and eighty miles
from this."

"What a pity!"

"Why, sir?"

"Well--hum!"

"Oh, if you think I could do the poor doctor good by having him
with me, you have only to say the word, and out he goes with Dick
and me to-morrow morning.  We should have started for home to-
night, but for this."

"Are you in earnest, madam?" said the doctor, opening his eyes.
"Would you really encumber yourself with a person whose reason is
in suspense, and may never return?"

"But that is not his fault, sir.  Why, if a dog had saved my
brother's life, I'd take it home, and keep it all its days; and
this is a man, and a worthy man.  Oh, sir, when I saw him brought
down so, and his beautiful eyes clouded like, my very bosom yearned
over the poor soul; a kind act done in dear old England, who can
see the man in trouble here, and not repay it--ay, if it cost one's
blood.  But indeed he is strong and healthy, and hands are always
scarce our way, and the odds are he will earn his meat one way or
t'other; and if he doesn't, why, all the better for me; I shall
have the pleasure of serving him for nought that once served me for
neither money nor reward."

"You are a good woman," said the doctor warmly.

"There's better, and there's worse," said Phoebe quietly, and even
a little coldly.

"More of the latter," said the doctor dryly.  "Well, Mrs.--?"

"Falcon, sir."

"We shall hand him over to your care: but first--just for form--if
you are a married woman, we should like to see Dick here: he is
your husband, I presume."

Ploebe laughed merrily.  "Dick is my brother; and he can't be
spared to come here.  Dick! he'd say black was white if I told him
to."

"Then let us see your husband about it--just for form."

"My husband is at the farm.  I could not venture so far away, and
not leave him in charge."  If she had said, "I will not bring him
into temptation," that would have been nearer the truth.  "Let that
fly stick on the wall, sir.  What I do, my husband will approve."

"I see how it is.  You rule the roost."

Phoebe did not reply point-blank to that; she merely said, "All my
chickens are happy, great and small," and an expression of lofty,
womanly, innocent pride illuminated her face and made it superb for
a moment.

In short, it was settled that Staines should accompany her next
morning to Dale's Kloof Farm, if he chose.  On inquiry, it appeared
that he had just returned to the hospital with his patient.  He was
sent for, and Phoebe asked him sweetly if he would go with her to
her house, one hundred and eighty miles away, and she would be kind
to him.

"On the water?"

"Nay, by land; but 'tis a fine country, and you will see beautiful
deer and things running across the plains, and"--

"Shall I find the past again, the past again?"

"Ay, poor soul, that we shall, God willing.  You and I, we will
hunt it together."

He looked at her, and gave her his hand.  "I will go with you.
Your face belongs to the past, so does your voice."

He then inquired, rather abruptly, had she any children.  She
smiled.

"Ay, that I have, the loveliest little boy you ever saw.  When you
are as you used to be, you will be his doctor, won't you?"

"Yes, I will nurse him, and you will help me find the past."

Phoebe then begged Staines to be ready to start at six in the
morning.  She and Dick would take him up on their way.

While she was talking to him the doctor slipped out, and to tell
the truth he went to consult with another authority, whether he
should take this opportunity of telling Staines that he had money
and jewels at the bank: he himself was half inclined to do so; but
the other, who had not seen Phoebe's face, advised him to do
nothing of the kind.  "They are always short of money, these
colonial farmers," said he; "she would get every shilling out of
him."

"Most would; but this is such an honest face."

"Well, but she is a mother, you say."

"Yes."

"Well, what mother could be just to a lunatic, with her own sweet
angel babes to provide for?"

"That is true," said Dr. ----.  "Maternal love is apt to modify the
conscience."

"What I would do,--I would take her address, and make her promise
to write if he gets well, and if he does get well then write to
HIM, and tell him all about it."

Dr. ---- acted on this shrewd advice, and ordered a bundle to be
made up for the traveller out of the hospital stores: it contained
a nice light summer suit and two changes of linen.


CHAPTER XVIII.


Next morning, Staines and Dick Dale walked through the streets of
Cape Town side by side.  Dick felt the uneasiness of a sane man,
not familiar with the mentally afflicted, who suddenly finds
himself alone with one.  Insanity turns men oftenest into sheep and
hares; but it does now and then make them wolves and tigers; and
that has saddled the insane in general with a character for
ferocity.  Young Dale, then, cast many a suspicious glance at his
comrade, as he took him along.  These glances were reassuring:
Christopher's face had no longer the mobility, the expressive
changes, that mark the superior mind; his countenance was
monotonous: but the one expression was engaging; there was a sweet,
patient, lamb-like look: the glorious eye a little troubled and
perplexed, but wonderfully mild.  Dick Dale looked and looked, and
his uneasiness vanished.  And the more he looked, the more did a
certain wonder creep over him, and make him scarce believe the
thing he knew; viz., that a learned doctor had saved him from the
jaws of death by rare knowledge, sagacity, courage, and skill
combined: and that mighty man of wisdom was brought down to this
lamb, and would go north, south, east, or west, with sweet and
perfect submission, even as he, Dick Dale, should appoint.  With
these reflections honest Dick felt his eyes get a little misty,
and, to use those words of Scripture, which nothing can surpass or
equal, his bowels yearned over the man.

As for Christopher, he looked straight forward, and said not a word
till they cleared the town; but when he saw the vast flowery vale,
and the far-off violet hills, like Scotland glorified, he turned to
Dick with an ineffable expression of sweetness and good fellowship,
and said, "Oh, beautiful!  We'll hunt the past together."

"We--will--SO," said Dick, with a sturdy and indeed almost a stern
resolution.

Now, this he said, not that he cared for the past, nor intended to
waste the present by going upon its predecessor's trail; but he had
come to a resolution--full three minutes ago--to humor his
companion to the top of his bent, and say "Yes" with hypocritical
vigor to everything not directly and immediately destructive to him
and his.

The next moment they turned a corner and came upon the rest of
their party, hitherto hidden by the apricot hedge and a turning in
the road.  A blue-black Kafir, with two yellow Hottentot drivers,
man and boy, was harnessing, in the most primitive mode, four
horses on to the six oxen attached to the wagon; and the horses
were flattening their ears, and otherwise resenting the
incongruity.  Meantime a fourth figure, a colossal young Kafir
woman, looked on superior with folded arms, like a sable Juno
looking down with that absolute composure upon the struggles of man
and other animals, which Lucretius and his master Epicurus assigned
to the Divine nature.  Without jesting, the grandeur, majesty, and
repose of this figure were unsurpassable in nature, and such as
have vanished from sculpture two thousand years and more.

Dick Dale joined the group immediately, and soon arranged the
matter.  Meantime, Phoebe descended from the wagon, and welcomed
Christopher very kindly, and asked him if he would like to sit
beside her, or to walk.

He glanced into the wagon; it was covered and curtained, and dark
as a cupboard.  "I think," said he, timidly, "I shall see more of
the past out here."

"So you will, poor soul," said Phoebe kindly, "and better for your
health: but you must not go far from the wagon, for I'm a fidget;
and I have got the care of you now, you know, for want of a better.
Come, Ucatella; you must ride with me, and help me sort the things;
they are all higgledy-piggledy."  So those two got into the wagon
through the back curtains.  Then the Kafir driver flourished his
kambok, or long whip, in the air, and made it crack like a pistol,
and the horses reared, and the oxen started and slowly bored in
between them, for they whinnied, and kicked, and spread out like a
fan all over the road; but a flick or two from the terrible kambok
soon sent them bleeding and trembling and rubbing shoulders, and
the oxen, mildly but persistently goring their recalcitrating
haunches, the intelligent animals went ahead, and revenged
themselves by breaking the harness.  But that goes for little in
Cape travel.

The body of the wagon was long and low and very stout.  The tilt
strong and tight-made.  The roof inside, and most of the sides,
lined with green baize.  Curtains of the same to the little window
and the back.  There was a sort of hold literally built full of
purchases; a small fireproof safe; huge blocks of salt; saws, axes,
pickaxes, adzes, flails, tools innumerable, bales of wool and linen
stuff, hams, and two hundred empty sacks strewn over all.  In large
pigeon-holes fixed to the sides were light goods, groceries,
collars, glaring cotton handkerchiefs for Phoebe's aboriginal
domestics, since not every year did she go to Cape Town, a twenty
days' journey by wagon: things dangled from the very roof; but no
hard goods there, if you please, to batter one's head in a spill.
Outside were latticed grooves with tent, tent-poles, and rifles.
Great pieces of cork, and bags of hay and corn, hung dangling from
mighty hooks--the latter to feed the cattle, should they be
compelled to camp out on some sterile spot on the Veldt, and
methinks to act as buffers, should the whole concern roll down a
nullah or little precipice, no very uncommon incident in the
blessed region they must pass to reach Dale's Kloof.

Harness mended; fresh start.  The Hottentots and Kafir vociferated
and yelled, and made the unearthly row of a dozen wild beasts
wrangling: the horses drew the bullocks, they the wagon; it crawled
and creaked, and its appendages wobbled finely.

Slowly they creaked and wobbled past apricot hedges and detached
houses and huts, and got into an open country without a tree, but
here and there a stunted camel-thorn.  The soil was arid, and grew
little food for man or beast; yet, by a singular freak of nature,
it put forth abundantly things that here at home we find it harder
to raise than homely grass and oats; the ground was thickly clad
with flowers of delightful hues; pyramids of snow or rose-color
bordered the track; yellow and crimson stars bejewelled the ground,
and a thousand bulbous plants burst into all imaginable colors, and
spread a rainbow carpet to the foot of the violet hills; and all
this glowed, and gleamed, and glittered in a sun shining with
incredible brightness and purity of light, but, somehow, without
giving a headache or making the air sultry.

Christopher fell to gathering flowers, and interrogating the past
by means of them; for he had studied botany: the past gave him back
some pitiably vague ideas.  He sighed.  "Never mind," said he to
Dick, and tapped his forehead: "it is here: it is only locked up."

"All right," said Dick; "nothing is lost when you know where 'tis."

"This is a beautiful country," suggested Christopher.  "It is all
flowers.  It is like the garden of--the garden of--locked up."

"It is de--light--ful," replied the self-compelled optimist
sturdily.  But here nature gave way; he was obliged to relieve his
agricultural bile by getting into the cart and complaining to his
sister.  "'Twill take us all our time to cure him.  He have been
bepraising this here soil, which it is only fit to clean the
women's kettles.  'Twouldn't feed three larks to an acre, I know;
no, NOR HALF SO MANY."

"Poor soul! mayhap the flowers have took his eye.  Sit here a bit,
Dick.  I want to talk to you about a many things."

While these two were conversing, Ucatella, who was very fond of
Phoebe, but abhorred wagons, stepped out and stalked by the side,
like an ostrich, a camelopard, or a Taglioni; nor did the effort
with which she subdued her stride to the pace of the procession
appear: it was the poetry of walking.  Christopher admired it a
moment; but the noble expanse tempted him, and he strode forth like
a giant, his lungs inflating in the glorious air, and soon left the
wagon far behind.

The consequence was that when they came to a halt, and Dick and
Phoebe got out to release and water the cattle, there was
Christopher's figure retiring into space.

"Hanc rem aegre tulit Phoebe," as my old friend Livy would say.
"Oh dear! oh dear! if he strays so far from us, he will be eaten up
at nightfall by jackals, or lions, or something.  One of you must
go after him."

"Me go, missy," said Ucatella zealously, pleased with an excuse for
stretching her magnificent limbs.

"Ay, but mayhap he will not come back with YOU: will he, Dick?"

"That he will, like a lamb."  Dick wanted to look after the cattle.

"Yuke, my girl," said Phoebe, "listen.  He has been a good friend
of ours in trouble; and now he is not quite right HERE.  So be very
kind to him, but be sure and bring him back, or keep him till we
come."

"Me bring him back alive, certain sure," said Ucatella, smiling
from ear to ear.  She started with a sudden glide, like a boat
taking the water, and appeared almost to saunter away, so easy was
the motion; but when you looked at the ground she was covering, the
stride, or glide, or whatever it was, was amazing.


     "She seem'd in walking to devour the way."


Christopher walked fast, but nothing like this; and as he stopped
at times to botanize and gaze at the violet hills, and interrogate
the past, she came up with him about five miles from the halting-
place.

She laid her hand quietly on his shoulder, and said, with a broad
genial smile, and a musical chuckle, "Ucatella come for you.  Missy
want to speak you."

"Oh! very well;" and he turned back with her, directly; but she
took him by the hand to make sure; and they marched back peaceably,
in silence, and hand in hand.  But he looked and looked at her, and
at last he stopped dead short, and said, a little arrogantly,
"Come, I know YOU.  YOU are not locked up;" and he inspected her
point-blank.  She stood like an antique statue, and faced the
examination.  "You are 'the noble savage,'" said he, having
concluded his inspection.

"Nay," said she.  "I be the housemaid."

"The housemaid?"

"Iss, the housemaid, Ucatella.  So come on."  And she drew him
along, sore perplexed.

They met the cavalcade a mile from the halting-place, and Phoebe
apologized a little to Christopher.  "I hope you'll excuse me,
sir," said she, "but I am just for all the world like a hen with
her chickens; if but one strays, I'm all in a flutter till I get
him back."

"Madam," said Christopher, "I am very unhappy at the way things are
locked up.  Please tell me truly, is this 'the housemaid,' or 'the
noble savage'?"

"Well, she is both, if you go to that, and the best creature ever
breathed."

"Then she IS 'the noble savage'?"

"Ay, so they call her, because she is black."

"Then, thank Heaven," said Christopher, "the past is not all locked
up."

That afternoon they stopped at an inn.  But Dick slept in the cart.
At three in the morning they took the road again, and creaked along
supernaturally loud under a purple firmament studded with huge
stars, all bright as moons, that lit the way quite clear, and
showed black things innumerable flitting to and fro; these made
Phoebe shudder, but were no doubt harmless; still Dick carried his
double rifle, and a revolver in his belt.

They made a fine march in the cool, until some slight mists
gathered, and then they halted and breakfasted near a silvery
kloof, and watered the cattle.  While thus employed, suddenly a
golden tinge seemed to fall like a lash on the vapors of night;
they scudded away directly, as jackals before the lion; the stars
paled, and with one incredible bound, the mighty sun leaped into
the horizon, and rose into the sky.  In a moment all the lesser
lamps of heaven were out, though late so glorious, and there was
nothing but one vast vaulted turquoise, and a great flaming topaz
mounting with eternal ardor to its centre.

This did not escape Christopher.  "What is this?" said he.  "No
twilight.  The tropics!"  He managed to dig that word out of the
past in a moment.

At ten o'clock the sun was so hot that they halted, and let the
oxen loose till sun-down.  Then they began to climb the mountains.

The way was steep and rugged; indeed, so rough in places, that the
cattle had to jump over the holes, and as the wagon could not jump
so cleverly, it jolted appallingly, and many a scream issued forth.

Near the summit, when the poor beasts were dead beat, they got into
clouds and storms, and the wind rushed howling at them through the
narrow pass with such fury it flattened the horses' ears, and bade
fair to sweep the whole cavalcade to the plains below.

Christopher and Dick walked close behind, under the lee of the
wagon.  Christopher said in Dick's ear, "D'ye hear that?  Time to
reef topsails, captain."

"It is time to do SOMETHING," said Dick.  He took advantage of a
jutting rock, drew the wagon half behind it and across the road,
propped the wheels with stones, and they all huddled to leeward,
man and beast indiscriminately.

"Ah!" said Christopher, approvingly; "we are lying to: a very--
proper--course."

They huddled and shivered three hours, and then the sun leaped into
the sky, and lo! a transformation scene.  The cold clouds were
first rosy fleeces, then golden ones, then gold-dust, then gone;
the rain was big diamonds, then crystal sparks, then gone; the
rocks and the bushes sparkled with gem-like drops, and shone and
smiled.

The shivering party bustled, and toasted the potent luminary in hot
coffee; for Phoebe's wagon had a stove and chimney; and then they
yoked their miscellaneous cattle again, and breasted the hill.
With many a jump, and bump, and jolt, and scream from inside, they
reached the summit, and looked down on a vast slope, flowering but
arid, a region of gaudy sterility.

The descent was more tremendous than the ascent, and Phoebe got
out, and told Christopher she would liever cross the ocean twice
than this dreadful mountain once.

The Hottentot with the reins was now bent like a bow all the time,
keeping the cattle from flowing diverse over precipices, and the
Kafir with his kambok was here, and there, and everywhere, his whip
flicking like a lancet, and cracking like a horse-pistol, and the
pair vied like Apollo and Pan, not which could sing sweetest, but
swear loudest.  Having the lofty hill for some hours between them
and the sun, they bumped, and jolted, and stuck in mud-holes, and
flogged and swore the cattle out of them again, till at last they
got to the bottom, where ran a turbid kloof or stream.  It was
fordable, but the recent rains had licked away the slope; so the
existing bank was two feet above the stream.  Little recked the
demon drivers or the parched cattle; in they plunged promiscuously,
with a flop like thunder, followed by an awful splashing.  The
wagon stuck fast in the mud, the horses tied themselves in a knot,
and rolled about in the stream, and the oxen drank imperturbably.

"Oh, the salt! the salt!" screamed Phoebe, and the rocks re-echoed
her lamentations.

The wagon was inextricable, the cattle done up, the savages lazy,
so they stayed for several hours.  Christopher botanized, but not
alone.  Phoebe drew Ucatella apart, and explained to her that when
a man is a little wrong in the head, it makes a child of him: "So,"
said she, "you must think he is your child, and never let him out
of your sight."

"All right," said the sable Juno, who spoke English ridiculously
well, and rapped out idioms; especially "Come on," and "All right."

About dusk, what the drivers had foreseen, though they had not the
sense to explain it, took place; the kloof dwindled to a mere
gutter, and the wagon stuck high and dry.  Phoebe waved her
handkerchief to Ucatella.  Ucatella, who had dogged Christopher
about four hours without a word, now took his hand, and said, "My
child, missy wants us; come on;" and so led him unresistingly.

The drivers, flogging like devils, cursing like troopers, and
yelling like hyenas gone mad, tried to get the wagon off; but it
was fast as a rock.  Then Dick and the Hottentot put their
shoulders to one wheel, and tried to prise it up, while the Kafir
ENCOURAGED the cattle with his thong.  Observing this, Christopher
went in, with his sable custodian at his heels, and heaved at the
other embedded wheel.  The wagon was lifted directly, so that the
cattle tugged it out, and they got clear.  On examination, the salt
had just escaped.

Says Ucatella to Phoebe, a little ostentatiously, "My child is
strong and useful; make little missy a good slave."

"A slave!  Heaven forbid!" said Phoebe.  "He'll be a father to us
all, once he gets his head back; and I do think it is coming--but
very slow."

The next three days offered the ordinary incidents of African
travel, but nothing that operated much on Christopher's mind, which
is the true point of this narrative; and as there are many
admirable books of African travel, it is the more proper I should
confine myself to what may be called the relevant incidents of the
journey.

On the sixth day from Cape Town, they came up with a large wagon
stuck in a mud-hole.  There was quite a party of Boers, Hottentots,
Kafirs, round it, armed with whips, shamboks, and oaths, lashing
and cursing without intermission, or any good effect; and there
were the wretched beasts straining in vain at their choking yokes,
moaning with anguish, trembling with terror, their poor mild eyes
dilated with agony and fear, and often, when the blows of the cruel
shamboks cut open their bleeding flesh, they bellowed to Heaven
their miserable and vain protest against this devil's work.

Then the past opened its stores, and lent Christopher a word.

"BARBARIANS!" he roared, and seized a gigantic Kafir by the throat,
just as his shambok descended for the hundredth time.  There was a
mighty struggle, as of two Titans; dust flew round the combatants
in a cloud; a whirling of big bodies, and down they both went with
an awful thud, the Saxon uppermost, by Nature's law.

The Kafir's companions, amazed at first, began to roll their eyes
and draw a knife or two; but Dick ran forward, and said, "Don't
hurt him: he is wrong HERE."

This representation pacified them more readily than one might have
expected.  Dick added hastily, "We'll get you out of the hole OUR
way, and cry quits."

The proposal was favorably received, and the next minute
Christopher and Ucatella at one wheel, and Dick and the Hottentot
at the other, with no other help than two pointed iron bars bought
for their shepherds, had effected what sixteen oxen could not.  To
do this Dick Dale had bared his arm to the shoulder; it was a
stalwart limb, like his sister's, and he now held it out all
swollen and corded, and slapped it with his other hand.  "Look'ee
here, you chaps," said he: "the worst use a man can put that there
to is to go cutting out a poor beast's heart for not doing more
than he can.  You are good fellows, you Kafirs; but I think you
have sworn never to put your shoulder to a wheel.  But, bless your
poor silly hearts, a little strength put on at the right place is
better than a deal at the wrong."

"You hear that, you Kafir chaps?" inquired Ucatella, a little
arrogantly--for a Kafir.

The Kafirs, who had stood quite silent to imbibe these remarks,
bowed their heads with all the dignity and politeness of Roman
senators, Spanish grandees, etc.; and one of the party replied
gravely, "The words of the white man are always wise."

"And his arm blanked* strong," said Christopher's late opponent,
from whose mind, however, all resentment had vanished.


* I take this very useful expression from a delightful volume by
Mr. Boyle.


Thus spake the Kafirs; yet to this day never hath a man of all
their tribe put his shoulder to a wheel, so strong is custom in
South Africa; probably in all Africa; since I remember St. Augustin
found it stronger than he liked, at Carthage.

Ucatella went to Phoebe, and said, "Missy, my child is good and
brave."

"Bother you and your child!" said poor Phoebe.  "To think of his
flying at a giant like that, and you letting of him.  I'm all of a
tremble from head to foot:" and Phoebe relieved herself with a cry.

"Oh, missy!" said Ucatella.

"There, never mind me.  Do go and look after your child, and keep
him out of more mischief.  I wish we were safe at Dale's Kloof, I
do."

Ucatella complied, and went botanizing with Dr. Staines; but that
gentleman, in the course of his scientific researches into camomile
flowers and blasted heath, which were all that lovely region
afforded, suddenly succumbed and stretched out his limbs, and said,
sleepily, "Good-night--U--cat--" and was off into the land of Nod.

The wagon, which, by the way, had passed the larger but slower
vehicle, found him fast asleep, and Ucatella standing by him as
ordered, motionless and grand.

"Oh, dear! what now?" said Phoebe: but being a sensible woman,
though in the hen and chickens line, she said, "'Tis the fighting
and the excitement.  'Twill do him more good than harm, I think:"
and she had him bestowed in the wagon, and never disturbed him
night nor day.  He slept thirty-six hours at a stretch; and when he
awoke, she noticed a slight change in his eye.  He looked at her
with an interest he had not shown before, and said, "Madam, I know
you."

"Thank God for that," said Phoebe.

"You kept a little shop, in the other world."

Phoebe opened her eyes with some little alarm.

"You understand--the world that is locked up--for the present."

"Well, sir, so I did; and sold you milk and butter.  Don't you
mind?"

"No--the milk and butter--they are locked up."

The country became wilder, the signs of life miserably sparse;
about every twenty miles the farmhouse or hut of a degenerate Boer,
whose children and slaves pigged together, and all ran jostling,
and the mistress screamed in her shrill Dutch, and the Hottentots
all chirped together, and confusion reigned for want of method:
often they went miles, and saw nothing but a hut or two, with a
nude Hottentot eating flesh, burnt a little, but not cooked, at the
door; and the kloofs became deeper and more turbid, and Phoebe was
in an agony about her salt, and Christopher advised her to break it
in big lumps, and hang it all about the wagon in sacks; and she
did, and Ucatella said profoundly, "My child is wise;" and they
began to draw near home, and Phoebe to fidget; and she said to
Christopher, "Oh, dear!  I hope they are all alive and well: once
you leave home, you don't know what may have happened by then you
come back.  One comfort, I've got Sophy: she is very dependable,
and no beauty, thank my stars."

That night, the last they had to travel, was cloudy, for a wonder,
and they groped with lanterns.

Ucatella and her child brought up the rear.  Presently there was a
light pattering behind them.  The swift-eared Ucatella clutched
Christopher's arm, and turning round, pointed back, with eyeballs
white and rolling.  There were full a dozen animals following them,
whose bodies seemed colorless as shadows, but their eyes little
balls of flaming lime-light.

"GUN!" said Christie, and gave the Kafir's arm a pinch.  She flew
to the caravan; he walked backwards, facing the foe.  The wagon was
halted, and Dick ran back with two loaded rifles.  In his haste he
gave one to Christopher, and repented at leisure; but Christopher
took it, and handled it like an experienced person, and said, with
delight, "VOLUNTEER."  But with this the cautious animals had
vanished like bubbles.  But Dick told Christopher they would be
sure to come back; he ordered Ucatella into the wagon, and told her
to warn Phoebe not to be frightened if guns should be fired.  This
soothing message brought Phoebe's white face out between the
curtains, and she implored them to get into the wagon, and not
tempt Providence.

"Not till I have got thee a kaross of jackal's fur."

"I'll never wear it!" said Phoebe violently, to divert him from his
purpose.

"Time will show," said Dick dryly.  "These varmint are on and off
like shadows, and as cunning as Old Nick.  We two will walk on
quite unconcerned like, and as soon as ever the varmint are at our
heels you give us the office; and we'll pepper their fur--won't we,
doctor?"

"We--will--pepper--their fur," said Christopher, repeating what to
him was a lesson in the ancient and venerable English tongue.

So they walked on expectant; and by and by the four-footed shadows
with large lime-light eyes came stealing on; and Phoebe shrieked,
and they vanished before the men could draw a bead on them.

"Thou's no use at this work, Pheeb," said Dick.  "Shut thy eyes,
and let us have Yuke."

"Iss, master: here I be."

"You can bleat like a lamb; for I've heard ye."

"Iss, master.  I bleats beautiful;" and she showed snowy teeth from
ear to ear.

"Well, then, when the varmint are at our heels, draw in thy woolly
head, and bleat like a young lamb.  They won't turn from that, I
know, the vagabonds."

Matters being thus prepared, they sauntered on; but the jackals
were very wary.  They came like shadows, so departed--a great many
times: but at last being re-enforced, they lessened the distance,
and got so close, that Ucatella withdrew her head, and bleated
faintly inside the wagon.  The men turned, levelling their rifles,
and found the troop within twenty yards of them.  They wheeled
directly: but the four barrels poured their flame, four loud
reports startled the night, and one jackal lay dead as a stone,
another limped behind the flying crowd, and one lay kicking.  He
was soon despatched, and both carcasses flung over the patient
oxen; and good-by jackals for the rest of that journey.

Ucatella, with all a Kafir's love of fire-arms, clapped her hands
with delight.  "My child shoots loud and strong," said she.

"Ay, ay," replied Phoebe; "they are all alike; wherever there's
men, look for quarrelling and firing off.  We had only to sit quiet
in the wagon."

"Ay." said Dick, "the cattle especially--for it is them the varmint
were after--and let 'em eat my Hottentots."

At this picture of the cattle inside the wagon, and the jackals
supping on cold Hottentot alongside, Phoebe, who had no more humor
than a cat, but a heart of gold, shut up, and turned red with
confusion at her false estimate of the recent transaction in fur.

When the sun rose they found themselves in a tract somewhat less
arid and inhuman; and, at last, at the rise of a gentle slope, they
saw, half a mile before them, a large farmhouse partly clad with
creepers, and a little plot of turf, the fruit of eternal watering;
item, a flower-bed; item, snow-white palings; item, an air of
cleanliness and neatness scarcely known to those dirty descendants
of clean ancestors, the Boers.  At some distance a very large dam
glittered in the sun, and a troop of snow-white sheep were watering
at it.

"ENGLAND!" cried Christopher.

"Ay, sir," said Phoebe; "as nigh as man can make it."  But soon she
began to fret: "Oh, dear! where are they all?  If it was me, I'd be
at the door looking out.  Ah, there goes Yuke to rouse them up."

"Come, Pheeb, don't you fidget," said Dick kindly.  "Why, the lazy
lot are scarce out of their beds by this time."

"More shame for 'em.  If they were away from me, and coming home, I
should be at the door day AND night, I know.  Ah!"

She uttered a scream of delight, for just then, out came Ucatella,
with little Tommy on her shoulder, and danced along to meet her.
As she came close, she raised the chubby child high in the air, and
he crowed; and then she lowered him to his mother, who rushed at
him, seized, and devoured him with a hundred inarticulate cries of
joy and love unspeakable.

"NATURE!" said Christopher dogmatically, recognizing an old
acquaintance, and booking it as one more conquest gained over the
past.  But there was too much excitement over the cherub to attend
to him.  So he watched the woman gravely, and began to moralize
with all his might.  "This," said he, "is what we used to call
maternal love; and all animals had it, and that is why the noble
savage went for him.  It was very good of you, Miss Savage," said
the poor soul sententiously.

"Good of her!" cried Phoebe.  "She is all goodness.  Savage, find
me a Dutchwoman like her!  I'll give her a good cuddle for it;" and
she took the Kafir round the neck, and gave her a hearty kiss, and
made the little boy kiss her too.

At this moment out came a collie dog, hunting Ucatella by scent
alone, which process landed him headlong in the group; he gave loud
barks of recognition, fawned on Phoebe and Dick, smelt poor
Christopher, gave a growl of suspicion, and lurked about squinting,
dissatisfied, and lowering his tail.

"Thou art wrong, lad, for once," said Dick; "for he's an old
friend, and a good one."

"After the dog, perhaps some Christian will come to welcome us,"
said poor Phoebe.

Obedient to the wish, out walked Sophy, the English nurse, a
scraggy woman, with a very cocked nose and thin, pinched lips, and
an air of respectability and pertness mingled.  She dropped a short
courtesy, shot the glance of a basilisk at Ucatella, and said
stiffly, "You are welcome home, ma'am."  Then she took the little
boy as one having authority.  Not that Phoebe would have
surrendered him; but just then Mr. Falcon strolled out, with a
cigar in his mouth, and Phoebe, with her heart in HER mouth, flew
to meet him.  There was a rapturous conjugal embrace, followed by
mutual inquiries; and the wagon drew up at the door.  Then, for the
first time, Falcon observed Staines, saw at once he was a
gentleman, and touched his hat to him, to which Christopher
responded in kind, and remembered he had done so in the locked-up
past.

Phoebe instantly drew her husband apart by the sleeve.  "Who do you
think that is?  You'll never guess.  'Tis the great doctor that
saved Dick's life in England with cutting of his throat.  But, oh,
my dear, he is not the man he was.  He is afflicted.  Out of his
mind partly.  Well, we must cure him, and square the account for
Dick.  I'm a proud woman at finding him, and bringing him here to
make him all right again, I can tell you.  Oh, I am happy, I am
happy.  Little did I think to be so happy as I am.  And, my dear, I
have brought you a whole sackful of newspapers, old and new."

"That is a good girl.  But tell me a little more about him.  What
is his name?"

"Christie."

"Dr. Christie?"

"No doubt.  He wasn't an apothecary, or a chemist, you may be sure,
but a high doctor, and the cleverest ever was or ever will be: and
isn't it sad, love, to see him brought down so?  My heart yearns
for the poor man: and then his wife--the sweetest, loveliest
creature you ever--oh!"  Phoebe stopped very short, for she
remembered something all of a sudden; nor did she ever again give
Falcon a chance of knowing that the woman, whose presence had so
disturbed him, was this very Dr. Christie's wife.  "Curious!"
thought she to herself, "the world to be so large, and yet so
small:" then aloud, "They are unpacking the wagon; come, dear.  I
don't think I have forgotten anything of yours.  There's cigars,
and tobacco, and powder, and shot, and bullets, and everything to
make you comfortable, as my duty 'tis; and--oh, but I'm a happy
woman."

Hottentots, big and little, clustered about the wagon.  Treasure
after treasure was delivered with cries of delight; the dogs found
out it was a joyful time, and barked about the wheeled treasury;
and the place did not quiet down till sunset.

A plain but tidy little room was given to Christopher, and he slept
there like a top.  Next morning his nurse called him up to help her
water the grass.  She led the way with a tub on her head and two
buckets in it.  She took him to the dam; when she got there she
took out the buckets, left one on the bank, and gave the other to
Christie.  She then went down the steps till the water was up to
her neck, and bade Christie fill the tub.  He poured eight
bucketsful in.  Then she came slowly out, straight as an arrow,
balancing this tub full on her head.  Then she held out her hands
for the two buckets.  Christie filled them, wondering, and gave
them to her.  She took them like toy buckets, and glided slowly
home with this enormous weight, and never spilled a drop.  Indeed,
the walk was more smooth and noble than ever, if possible.

When she reached the house, she hailed a Hottentot, and it cost the
man and Christopher a great effort of strength to lower her tub
between them.

"What a vertebral column you must have!" said Christopher.

"You must not speak bad words, my child," said she.  "Now, you
water the grass and the flowers."  She gave him a watering-pot, and
watched him maternally; but did not put a hand to it.  She
evidently considered this part of the business as child's play, and
not a fit exercise of her powers.

It was only by drowning that little oasis twice a day that the
grass was kept green and the flowers alive.

She found him other jobs in course of the day, and indeed he was
always helping somebody or other, and became quite ruddy, bronzed,
and plump of cheek, and wore a strange look of happiness, except at
times when he got apart, and tried to recall the distant past.
Then he would knit his brow, and looked perplexed and sad.

They were getting quite used to him, and he to them, when one day
he did not come in to dinner.  Phoebe sent out for him; but they
could not find him.

The sun set.  Phoebe became greatly alarmed, and even Dick was
anxious.

They all turned out, with guns and dogs, and hunted for him beneath
the stars.

Just before daybreak Dick Dale saw a fire sparkle by the side of a
distant thicket.  He went to it, and there was Ucatella seated,
calm and grand as antique statue, and Christopher lying by her
side, with a shawl thrown over him.  As Dale came hurriedly up, she
put her finger to her lips, and said, "My child sleeps.  Do not
wake him.  When he sleeps, he hunts the past, as Collie hunts the
springbok."

"Here's a go," said Dick.  Then, hearing a chuckle, he looked up,
and was aware of a comical appendage to the scene.  There hung,
head downwards, from a branch, a Kafir boy, who was, in fact, the
brother of the stately Ucatella, only went further into antiquity
for his models of deportment; for, as she imitated the antique
marbles, he reproduced the habits of that epoch when man roosted,
and was arboreal.  Wheel somersaults, and, above all, swinging head
downwards from a branch, were the sweeteners of his existence.

"Oh! YOU are there, are you?" said Dick.

"Iss," said Ucatella.  "Tim good boy.  Tim found my child."

"Well," said Dick, "he has chosen a nice place.  This is the clump
the last lion came out of, at least they say so.  For my part, I
never saw an African lion; Falcon says they've all took ship, and
gone to England.  However, I shall stay here with my rifle till
daybreak.  'Tis tempting Providence to lie down on the skirt of a
wood for Lord knows what to jump out on ye unawares."

Tim was sent home for Hottentots, and Christopher was carried home,
still sleeping, and laid on his own bed.

He slept twenty-four hours more, and, when he was fairly awake, a
sort of mist seemed to clear away in places, and he remembered
things at random.  He remembered being at sea on the raft with the
dead body; that picture was quite vivid to him.  He remembered,
too, being in the hospital, and meeting Phoebe, and every
succeeding incident; but as respected the more distant past, he
could not recall it by any effort of his will.  His mind could only
go into that remoter past by material stepping-stones; and what
stepping-stones he had about him here led him back to general
knowledge, but not to his private history.

In this condition he puzzled them all strangely at the farm; his
mind was alternately so clear and so obscure.  He would chat with
Phoebe, and sometimes give her a good practical hint; but the next
moment, helpless for want of memory, that great faculty without
which judgment cannot act, having no material.

After some days of this, he had another great sleep.  It brought
him back the distant past in chapters.  His wedding-day.  His
wife's face and dress upon that day.  His parting with her: his
whole voyage out: but, strange to say, it swept away one-half of
that which he had recovered at his last sleep, and he no longer
remembered clearly how he came to be at Dale's Kloof.

Thus his mind might be compared to one climbing a slippery place,
who gains a foot or two, then slips back; but on the whole gains
more than he loses.

He took a great liking to Falcon.  That gentleman had the art of
pleasing, and the tact never to offend.

Falcon affected to treat the poor soul's want of memory as a common
infirmity; pretended he was himself very often troubled in the same
way, and advised him to read the newspapers.  "My good wife," said
he, "has brought me a whole file of the Cape Gazette.  I'd read
them if I was you.  The deuce is in it, if you don't rake up
something or other."

Christopher thanked him warmly for this: he got the papers to his
own little room, and had always one or two in his pocket for
reading.  At first he found a good many hard words that puzzled
him; and he borrowed a pencil of Phoebe, and noted them down.
Strange to say, the words that puzzled him were always common
words, that his unaccountable memory had forgotten: a hard word, he
was sure to remember that.

One day he had to ask Falcon the meaning of "spendthrift."  Falcon
told him briefly.  He could have illustrated the word by a striking
example; but he did not.  He added, in his polite way, "No fellow
can understand all the words in a newspaper.  Now, here's a word in
mine--'Anemometer;' who the deuce can understand such a word?"

"Oh, THAT is a common word enough," said poor Christopher.  "It
means a machine for measuring the force of the wind."

"Oh, indeed," said Falcon; but did not believe a word of it.

One sultry day Christopher had a violent headache, and complained
to Ucatella.  She told Phoebe, and they bound his brows with a wet
handkerchief, and advised him to keep in-doors.  He sat down in the
coolest part of the house, and held his head with his hands, for it
seemed as if it would explode into two great fragments.

All in a moment the sky was overcast with angry clouds, whirling
this way and that.  Huge drops of hail pattered down, and the next
minute came a tremendous flash of lightning, accompanied, rather
than followed, by a crash of thunder close over their heads.

This was the opening.  Down came a deluge out of clouds that looked
mountains of pitch, and made the day night but for the fast and
furious strokes of lightning that fired the air.  The scream of
wind and awful peals of thunder completed the horrors of the scene.

In the midst of this, by what agency I know no more than science or
a sheep does, something went off inside Christopher's head, like a
pistol-shot.  He gave a sort of scream, and dashed out into the
weather.

Phoebe heard his scream and his flying footstep, and uttered an
ejaculation of fear.  The whole household was alarmed, and, under
other circumstances, would have followed him; but you could not see
ten yards.

A chill sense of impending misfortune settled on the house.  Phoebe
threw her apron over her head, and rocked in her chair.

Dick himself looked very grave.

Ucatella would have tried to follow him; but Dick forbade her.
"'Tis no use," said he.  "When it clears, we that be men will go
for him."

"Pray Heaven you may find him alive!"

"I don't think but what we shall.  There's nowhere he can fall down
to hurt himself, nor yet drown himself, but our dam; and he has not
gone that way.  But"--

"But what?"

"If we do find him, we must take him back to Cape Town, before he
does himself, or some one, a mischief.  Why, Phoebe, don't you see
the man has gone raving mad?"


CHAPTER XIX.


The electrified man rushed out into the storm, but he scarcely felt
it in his body; the effect on his mind overpowered hail-stones.
The lightning seemed to light up the past; the mighty explosions of
thunder seemed cannon strokes knocking down a wall, and letting in
his whole life.

Six hours the storm raged, and, before it ended, he had recovered
nearly his whole past, except his voyage with Captain Dodd--that,
indeed, he never recovered--and the things that happened to him in
the hospital before he met Phoebe Falcon and her brother: and as
soon as he had recovered his lost memory, his body began to shiver
at the hail and rain.  He tried to find his way home, but missed
it; not so much, however, but that he recovered it as soon as it
began to clear, and just as they were coming out to look for him,
he appeared before them, dripping, shivering, very pale and worn,
with the handkerchief still about his head.

At sight of him, Dick slipped back to his sister, and said, rather
roughly, "There now, you may leave off crying: he is come home; and
to-morrow I take him to Cape Town."

Christopher crept in, a dismal, sinister figure.

"Oh, sir," said Phoebe, "was this a day for a Christian to be out
in?  How could you go and frighten us so?"

"Forgive me, madam," said Christopher humbly; "I was not myself."

"The best thing you can do now is to go to bed, and let us send you
up something warm."

"You are very good," said Christopher, and retired with the air of
one too full of great amazing thoughts to gossip.

He slept thirty hours at a stretch, and then, awaking in the dead
of night, he saw the past even more clear and vivid; he lighted his
candle and began to grope in the Cape Gazette.  As to dates, he now
remembered when he had sailed from England, and also from Madeira.
Following up this clew, he found in the Gazette a notice that H. M.
ship Amphitrite had been spoken off the Cape, and had reported the
melancholy loss of a promising physician and man of science, Dr.
Staines.

The account said every exertion had been made to save him, but in
vain.

Staines ground his teeth with rage at this.  "Every exertion! the
false-hearted curs.  They left me to drown, without one manly
effort to save me.  Curse them, and curse all the world."

Pursuing his researches rapidly, he found a much longer account of
a raft picked up by Captain Dodd, with a white man on it and a dead
body, the white man having on him a considerable sum in money and
jewels.

Then a new anxiety chilled him.  There was not a word to identify
him with Dr. Staines.  The idea had never occurred to the editor of
the Cape Gazette.  Still less would it occur to any one in England.
At this moment his wife must be mourning for him.  "Poor--poor
Rosa!"

But perhaps the fatal news might not have reached her.

That hope was dashed away as soon as found.  Why, these were all
OLD NEWSPAPERS.  That gentlemanly man who had lent them to him had
said so.

Old! yet they completed the year 1867.

He now tore through them for the dates alone, and soon found they
went to 1868.  Yet they were old papers.  He had sailed in May,
1867.

"My God!" he cried, in agony, "I HAVE LOST A YEAR."

This thought crushed him.  By and by he began to carry this awful
idea into details.  "My Rosa has worn mourning for me, and put it
off again.  I am dead to her, and to all the world."

He wept long and bitterly.

Those tears cleared his brain still more.  For all that, he was not
yet himself; at least, I doubt it; his insanity, driven from the
intellect, fastened one lingering claw into his moral nature, and
hung on by it.  His soul filled with bitterness and a desire to be
revenged on mankind for their injustice, and this thought possessed
him more than reason.

He joined the family at breakfast; and never a word all the time.
But when he got up to go, he said, in a strange, dogged way, as if
it went against the grain, "God bless the house that succors the
afflicted."  Then he went out to brood alone.

"Dick," said Phoebe, "there's a change.  I'll never part with him:
and look, there's Collie following him, that never could abide
him."

"Part with him?" said Reginald.  "Of course not.  He is a
gentleman, and they are not so common in Africa."

Dick, who hated Falcon, ignored this speech entirely, and said,
"Well, Pheeb, you and Collie are wiser than I am.  Take your own
way, and don't blame me if anything happens."

Soon Christopher paid the penalty of returning reason.  He suffered
all the poignant agony a great heart can endure.

So this was his reward for his great act of self-denial in leaving
his beloved wife.  He had lost his patient; he had lost the income
from that patient; his wife was worse off than before, and had
doubtless suffered the anguish of a loving heart bereaved.  His
mind, which now seemed more vigorous than ever, after its long
rest, placed her before his very eyes, pale, and worn with grief,
in her widow's cap.

At the picture, he cried like the rain.  He could give her joy, by
writing; but he could not prevent her from suffering a whole year
of misery.

Turning this over in connection with their poverty, his evil genius
whispered, "By this time she has received the six thousand pounds
for your death.  SHE would never think of that; but her father has:
and there is her comfort assured, in spite of the caitiffs who left
her husband to drown like a dog.

"I know my Rosa," he thought.  "She has swooned--ah, my poor
darling--she has raved--she has wept," he wept himself at the
thought--"she has mourned every indiscreet act, as if it was a
crime.  But she HAS done all this.  Her good and loving but shallow
nature is now at rest from the agonies of bereavement, and nought
remains but sad and tender regrets.  She can better endure that
than poverty: cursed poverty, which has brought her and me to this,
and is the only real evil in the world, but bodily pain."

Then came a struggle, that lasted a whole week, and knitted his
brows, and took the color from his cheek; but it ended in the
triumph of love and hate, over conscience and common sense.  His
Rosa should not be poor; and he would cheat some of those
contemptible creatures called men, who had done him nothing but
injustice, and at last had sacrificed his life like a rat's.

When the struggle was over, and the fatal resolution taken, then he
became calmer, less solitary, and more sociable.

Phoebe, who was secretly watching him with a woman's eye, observed
this change in him, and, with benevolent intentions, invited him
one day to ride round the farm with her.  He consented readily.
She showed him the fields devoted to maize and wheat, and then the
sheepfolds.  Tim's sheep were apparently deserted; but he was
discovered swinging head downwards from the branch of a camel-
thorn, and seeing him, it did strike one that if he had had a tail
he would have been swinging by that.  Phoebe called to him: he
never answered, but set off running to her, and landed himself
under her nose in a wheel somersault.

"I hope you are watching them, Tim," said his mistress.

"Iss, missy, always washing 'em."

"Why, there's one straying towards the wood now."

"He not go far," said Tim coolly.  The young monkey stole off a
little way, then fell flat, and uttered the cry of a jackal, with
startling precision.  Back went the sheep to his comrades post
haste, and Tim effected a somersault and a chuckle.

"You are a clever boy," said Phoebe.  "So that is how you manage
them."

"Dat one way, missy," said Tim, not caring to reveal all his
resources at once.

Then Phoebe rode on, and showed Christopher the ostrich pan.  It
was a large basin, a form the soil often takes in these parts; and
in it strutted several full-grown ostriches and their young, bred
on the premises.  There was a little dam of water, and plenty of
food about.  They were herded by a Kafir infant of about six,
black, glossy, fat, and clean, being in the water six times a day.

Sometimes one of the older birds would show an inclination to stray
out of the pan.  Then the infant rolled after her, and tapped her
ankles with a wand.  She instantly came back, but without any loss
of dignity, for she strutted with her nose in the air, affecting
completely to ignore the inferior little animal, that was
nevertheless controlling her movements.  "There's a farce," said
Phoebe.  "But you would not believe the money they cost me, nor the
money they bring me in.  Grain will not sell here for a quarter its
value: and we can't afford to send it to Cape Town, twenty days and
back; but finery, that sells everywhere.  I gather sixty pounds the
year off those poor fowls' backs--clear profit."

She showed him the granary, and told him there wasn't such another
in Africa.  This farm had belonged to one of the old Dutch
settlers, and that breed had been going down this many a year.
"You see, sir, Dick and I being English, and not downright in want
of money, we can't bring ourselves to sell grain to the middlemen
for nothing, so we store it, hoping for better times, that maybe
will never come.  Now I'll show you how the dam is made."

They inspected the dam all round.  "This is our best friend of
all," said she.  "Without this the sun would turn us all to
tinder,--crops, flowers, beasts, and folk."

"Oh, indeed," said Staines.  "Then it is a pity you have not built
it more scientifically.  I must have a look at this."

"Ay do, sir, and advise us if you see anything wrong.  But hark! it
is milking time.  Come and see that."  So she led the way to some
sheds, and there they found several cows being milked, each by a
little calf and a little Hottentot at the same time, and both
fighting and jostling each other for the udder.  Now and then a
young cow, unused to incongruous twins, would kick impatiently at
both animals and scatter them.

"That is their way," said Phoebe: "they have got it into their
silly Hottentot heads as kye won't yield their milk if the calf is
taken away; and it is no use arguing with 'em; they will have their
own way; but they are very trusty and honest, poor things.  We soon
found that out.  When we came here first it was in a hired wagon,
and Hottentot drivers: so when we came to settle I made ready for a
bit of a wrangle.  But my maid Sophy, that is nurse now, and a
great despiser of heathens, she says, 'Don't you trouble; them
nasty ignorant blacks never charges more than their due.'  'I
forgive 'em,' says I; 'I wish all white folk was as nice.'
However, I did give them a trifle over, for luck: and then they got
together and chattered something near the door, hand in hand.  'La,
Sophy,' says I, 'what is up now?'  Says she, 'They are blessing of
us.  Things is come to a pretty pass, for ignorant Muslinmen
heathen to be blessing Christian folk.'  'Well,' says I, 'it won't
hurt us any.'  'I don't know,' says she.  'I don't want the devil
prayed over me.'  So she cocked that long nose of hers and followed
it in a doors."

By this time they were near the house, and Phoebe was obliged to
come to her postscript, for the sake of which, believe me, she had
uttered every syllable of this varied chat.  "Well, sir," said she,
affecting to proceed without any considerable change of topic, "and
how do you find yourself?  Have you discovered the past?"

"I have, madam.  I remember every leading incident of my life."

"And has it made you happier?" said Phoebe softly.

"No," said Christopher gravely.  "Memory has brought me misery."

"I feared as much; for you have lost your fine color, and your eyes
are hollow, and lines on your poor brow that were not there before.
Are you not sorry you have discovered the past?"

"No, Mrs. Falcon.  Give me the sovereign gift of reason, with all
the torture it can inflict.  I thank God for returning memory, even
with the misery it brings."

Phoebe was silent a long time: then she said in a low, gentle
voice, and with the indirectness of a truly feminine nature, "I
have plenty of writing-paper in the house; and the post goes south
to-morrow, such as 'tis."

Christopher struggled with his misery, and trembled.

He was silent a long time.  Then he said, "No.  It is her interest
that I should be dead."

"Well, but, sir--take a thought."

"Not a word more, I implore you.  I am the most miserable man that
ever breathed."  As he spoke, two bitter tears forced their way.

Phoebe cast a look of pity on him, and said no more; but she shook
her head.  Her plain common sense revolted.

However, it did not follow he would be in the same mind next week:
so she was in excellent spirits at her protege's recovery, and very
proud of her cure, and celebrated the event with a roaring supper,
including an English ham, and a bottle of port wine; and, ten to
one, that was English too.

Dick Dale looked a little incredulous, but he did not spare the ham
any the more for that.

After supper, in a pause of conversation, Staines turned to Dick,
and said, rather abruptly, "Suppose that dam of yours were to burst
and empty its contents, would it not be a great misfortune to you?"

"Misfortune, sir!  Don't talk of it.  Why, it would ruin us, beast
and body."

"Well, it will burst, if it is not looked to."

"Dale's Kloof dam burst! the biggest and strongest for a hundred
miles round."

"You deceive yourself.  It is not scientifically built, to begin,
and there is a cause at work that will infallibly burst it, if not
looked to in time."

"And what is that, sir?"

"The dam is full of crabs."

"So 'tis; but what of them?"

"I detected two of them that had perforated the dyke from the wet
side to the dry, and water was trickling through the channel they
had made.  Now, for me to catch two that had come right through,
there must be a great many at work honeycombing your dyke; those
channels, once made, will be enlarged by the permeating water, and
a mere cupful of water forced into a dyke by the great pressure of
a heavy column has an expansive power quite out of proportion to
the quantity forced in.  Colossal dykes have been burst in this way
with disastrous effects.  Indeed, it is only a question of time,
and I would not guarantee your dyke twelve hours.  It is full, too,
with the heavy rains."

"Here's a go!" said Dick, turning pale.  "Well, if it is to burst,
it must."

"Why so?  You can make it safe in a few hours.  You have got a
clumsy contrivance for letting off the excess of water: let us go
and relieve the dam at once of two feet of water.  That will make
it safe for a day or two, and to-morrow we will puddle it afresh,
and demolish those busy excavators."

He spoke with such authority and earnestness, that they all got up
from table; a horn was blown that soon brought the Hottentots, and
they all proceeded to the dam.  With infinite difficulty they
opened the waste sluice, lowered the water two feet, and so
drenched the arid soil that in forty-eight hours flowers unknown
sprang up.

Next morning, under the doctor's orders, all the black men and boys
were diving with lumps of stiff clay and puddling the endangered
wall with a thick wall of it.  This took all the people the whole
day.

Next day the clay wall was carried two feet higher, and then the
doctor made them work on the other side and buttress the dyke with
supports so enormous as seemed extravagant to Dick and Phoebe; but,
after all, it was as well to be on the safe side, they thought: and
soon they were sure of it, for the whole work was hardly finished
when the news came in that the dyke of a neighboring Boer, ten
miles off, had exploded like a cannon, and emptied itself in five
minutes, drowning the farm-yard and floating the furniture, but
leaving them all to perish of drought; and indeed the Boer's cart
came every day, with empty barrels, for some time, to beg water of
the Dales.  Ucatella pondered all this, and said her doctor child
was wise.

This brief excitement over, Staines went back to his own gloomy
thoughts, and they scarcely saw him, except at supper-time.

One evening he surprised them all by asking if they would add to
all their kindness by lending him a horse, and a spade, and a few
pounds to go to the diamond fields.

Dick Dale looked at his sister.  She said, "We had rather lend them
you to go home with, sir, if you must leave us; but, dear heart, I
was half in hopes--Dick and I were talking it over only yesterday--
that you would go partners like with us; ever since you saved the
dam."

"I have too little to offer for that, Mrs. Falcon; and, besides, I
am driven into a corner.  I must make money quickly, or not at all:
the diamonds are only three hundred miles off: for heaven's sake,
let me try my luck."

They tried to dissuade him, and told him not one in fifty did any
good at it.

"Ay, but I shall," said he.  "Great bad luck is followed by great
good luck, and I feel my turn is come.  Not that I rely on luck.
An accident directed my attention to the diamond a few years ago,
and I read a number of prime works upon the subject that told me of
things not known to the miners.  It is clear, from the Cape
journals, that they are looking for diamonds in the river only.
Now, I am sure that is a mistake.  Diamonds, like gold, have their
matrix, and it is comparatively few gems that get washed into the
river.  I am confident that I shall find the volcanic matrix, and
perhaps make my fortune in a week or two."

When the dialogue took this turn, Reginald Falcon's cheek began to
flush, and his eyes to glitter.

Christopher continued: "You who have befriended me so will not turn
back, I am sure, when I have such a chance before me; and as for
the small sum of money I shall require, I will repay you some day,
even if"--

"La, sir, don't talk so.  If you put it that way, why, the best
horse we have, and fifty pounds in good English gold, they are at
your service to-morrow."

"And pick and spade to boot," said Dick, "and a double rifle, for
there are lions, and Lord knows what, between this and the Vaal
river."

"God bless you both!" said Christopher.  "I will start to-morrow."

"And I'll go with you," said Reginald Falcon.


CHAPTER XX.


"Heaven forbid!" said Phoebe.  "No, my dear, no more diamonds for
us.  We never had but one, and it brought us trouble."

"Nonsense, Phoebe," replied Falcon; "it was not the diamond's
fault.  You know I have often wanted to go there, but you objected.
You said you were afraid some evil would befall me.  But now
Solomon himself is going to the mines, let us have no more of that
nonsense.  We will take our rifles and our pistols."

"There--there--rifles and pistols," cried Phoebe; "that shows."

"And we will be there in a week; stay a month, and home with our
pockets full of diamonds."

"And find me dead of a broken heart."

"Broken fiddlestick!  We have been parted longer than that, and yet
here we are all right."

"Ay, but the pitcher that goes too often to the well gets broke at
last.  No, Reginald, now I have tasted three years' happiness and
peace of mind, I cannot go through what I used in England.  Oh,
doctor! have you the heart to part man and wife, that have never
been a day from each other all these years?"

"Mrs. Falcon, I would not do it for all the diamonds in Brazil.
No, Mr. Falcon, I need hardly say how charmed I should be to have
your company: but that is a pleasure I shall certainly deny myself,
after what your good wife has said.  I owe her too much to cause
her a single pang."

"Doctor," said the charming Reginald, "you are a gentleman and side
with the lady.  Quite right.  It adds to my esteem, if possible.
Make your mind easy; I will go alone.  I am not a farmer.  I am
dead sick of this monotonous life; and, since I am compelled to
speak my mind, a little ashamed, as a gentleman, of living on my
wife and her brother, and doing nothing for myself.  So I shall go
to the Vaal river, and see a little life; here there's nothing but
vegetation--and not much of that.  Not a word more, Phoebe, if you
please.  I am a good, easy, affectionate husband, but I am a man,
and not a child to be tied to a woman's apron-strings, however much
I may love and respect her."

Dick put in his word: "Since you are so independent, you can WALK
to the Vaal river.  I can't spare a couple of horses."

This hit the sybarite hard, and he cast a bitter glance of hatred
at his brother-in-law, and fell into a moody silence.

But when he got Phoebe to himself, he descanted on her selfishness,
Dick's rudeness, and his own wounded dignity, till he made her
quite anxious he should have his own way.  She came to Staines,
with red eyes, and said, "Tell me, doctor, will there be any women
up there--to take care of you?"

"Not a petticoat in the place, I believe.  It is a very rough life;
and how Falcon could think of leaving you and sweet little Tommy,
and this life of health, and peace, and comfort--"

"Yet YOU do leave us, sir."

"I am the most unfortunate man upon the earth; Falcon is one of the
happiest.  Would I leave wife and child to go there?  Ah me! I am
dead to those I love.  This is my one chance of seeing my darling
again for many a long year perhaps.  Oh, I must not speak of HER--
it unmans me.  My good, kind friend, I'll tell you what to do.
When we are all at supper, let a horse be saddled and left in the
yard for me.  I'll bid you all good-night, and I'll put fifty miles
between us before morning.  Even then HE need not be told I am
gone; he will not follow me."

"You are very good, sir," said Phoebe; "but no.  Too much has been
said.  I can't have him humbled by my brother, nor any one.  He
says I am selfish.  Perhaps I am; though I never was called so.  I
can't bear he should think me selfish.  He WILL go, and so let us
have no ill blood about it.  Since he is to go, of course I'd much
liever he should go with you than by himself.  You are sure there
are no women up there--to take care of--you--both?  You must be
purse-bearer, sir, and look to every penny.  He is too generous
when he has got money to spend."

In short, Reginald had played so upon her heart, that she now urged
the joint expedition, only she asked a delay of a day or two to
equip them, and steel herself to the separation.

Staines did not share those vague fears that overpowered the wife,
whose bitter experiences were unknown to him; but he felt
uncomfortable at her condition--for now she was often in tears--and
he said all he could to comfort her; and he also advised her how to
profit by these terrible diamonds, in her way.  He pointed out to
her that her farm lay right in the road to the diamonds, yet the
traffic all shunned her, passing twenty miles to the westward.
Said he, "You should profit by all your resources.  You have wood,
a great rarity in Africa; order a portable forge; run up a building
where miners can sleep, another where they can feed; the grain you
have so wisely refused to sell, grind it into flour."

"Dear heart! why, there's neither wind nor water to turn a mill."

"But there are oxen.  I'll show you how to make an ox-mill.  Send
your Cape cart into Cape Town for iron lathes, for coffee and tea,
and groceries by the hundredweight.  The moment you are ready--for
success depends on the order in which we act--then prepare great
boards, and plant them twenty miles south.  Write or paint on them,
very large, 'The nearest way to the Diamond Mines, through Dale's
Kloof, where is excellent accommodation for man and beast.  Tea,
coffee, home-made bread, fresh butter, etc., etc.'  Do this, and
you will soon leave off decrying diamonds.  This is the sure way to
coin them.  I myself take the doubtful way; but I can't help it.  I
am a dead man, and swift good fortune will give me life.  You can
afford to go the slower road and the surer."

Then he drew her a model of an ox-mill, and of a miner's dormitory,
the partitions six feet six apart, so that these very partitions
formed the bedstead, the bed-sacking being hooked to the uprights.
He drew his model for twenty bedrooms.

The portable forge and the ox-mill pleased Dick Dale most, but the
partitioned bedsteads charmed Phoebe.  She said," Oh, doctor, how
can one man's head hold so many things?  If there's a man on earth
I can trust my husband with, 'tis you.  But if things go cross up
there, promise me you will come back at once and cast in your lot
with us.  We have got money and stock, and you have got headpiece;
we might do very well together.  Indeed, indeed we might.  Promise
me.  Oh, do, please, promise me!"

"I promise you."

And on this understanding, Staines and Falcon were equipped with
rifles, pickaxe, shovels, waterproofs, and full saddle-bags, and
started, with many shakings of the hand, and many tears from
Phoebe, for the diamond washings.


CHAPTER XXI.


Phoebe's tears at parting made Staines feel uncomfortable, and he
said so.

"Pooh, pooh!" said Falcon, "crying for nothing does a woman good."

Christopher stared at him.

Falcon's spirits rose as they proceeded.  He was like a boy let
loose from school.  His fluency and charm of manner served,
however, to cheer a singularly dreary journey.

The travellers soon entered on a vast and forbidding region, that
wearied the eye; at their feet a dull, rusty carpet of dried grass
and wild camomile, with pale-red sand peeping through the burnt and
scanty herbage.  On the low mounds, that looked like heaps of
sifted ashes, struggled now and then into sickliness a ragged,
twisted shrub.  There were flowers too, but so sparse, that they
sparkled vainly in the colorless waste, which stretched to the
horizon.  The farmhouses were twenty miles apart, and nine out of
ten of them were new ones built by the Boers since they degenerated
into white savages: mere huts, with domed kitchens behind them.  In
the dwelling-house the whole family pigged together, with raw flesh
drying on the rafters, stinking skins in a corner, parasitical
vermin of all sorts blackening the floor, and particularly a small,
biting, and odoriferous tortoise, compared with which the insect a
London washerwoman brings into your house in her basket, is a
stroke with a feather--and all this without the excuse of penury;
for many of these were shepherd kings, sheared four thousand
fleeces a year, and owned a hundred horses and horned cattle.

These Boers are compelled, by unwritten law, to receive travellers
and water their cattle; but our travellers, after one or two
experiences, ceased to trouble them; for, added to the dirt, the
men were sullen, the women moody, silent, brainless; the whole
reception churlish.  Staines detected in them an uneasy
consciousness that they had descended, in more ways than one, from
a civilized race; and the superior bearing of a European seemed to
remind them what they had been, and might have been, and were not;
so, after an attempt or two, our adventurers avoided the Boers, and
tried the Kafirs.  They found the savages socially superior, though
their moral character does not rank high.

The Kafir cabins they entered were caves, lighted only by the door,
but deliciously cool, and quite clean; the floors of puddled clay
or ants' nests, and very clean.  On entering these cool retreats,
the flies that had tormented them shirked the cool grot, and buzzed
off to the nearest farm to batten on congenial foulness.  On the
fat, round, glossy babies, not a speck of dirt, whereas the little
Boers were cakes thereof.  The Kafir would meet them at the door,
his clean black face all smiles and welcome.  The women and grown
girls would fling a spotless handkerchief over their shoulders in a
moment, and display their snowy teeth, in unaffected joy at sight
of an Englishman.

At one of these huts, one evening, they met with something St. Paul
ranks above cleanliness even, viz., Christianity.  A neighboring
lion had just eaten a Hottentot faute de mieux; and these good
Kafirs wanted the Europeans not to go on at night and be eaten for
dessert.  But they could not speak a word of English, and
pantomimic expression exists in theory alone.  In vain the women
held our travellers by the coat-tails, and pointed to a distant
wood.  In vain Kafir pere went on all-fours and growled sore.  But
at last a savage youth ran to the kitchen--for they never cook in
the house--and came back with a brand, and sketched, on the wall of
the hut, a lion with a mane down to the ground, and a saucer eye,
not loving.  The creature's paw rested on a hat and coat and
another fragment or two of a European.  The rest was fore-
shortened, or else eaten.

The picture completed, the females looked, approved, and raised a
dismal howl.

"A lion on the road," said Christopher gravely.

Then the undaunted Falcon seized the charcoal, and drew an
Englishman in a theatrical attitude, left foot well forward, firing
a gun, and a lion rolling head over heels like a buck rabbit, and
blood squirting out of a hole in his perforated carcass.

The savages saw, and exulted.  They were so off their guard as to
confound representation with fact; they danced round the white
warrior, and launched him to victory.

"Aha!" said Falcon, "I took the shine out of their lion, didn't I?"

"You did: and once there was a sculptor who showed a lion his
marble group, a man trampling a lion, extracting his tongue, and so
on; but report says it DID NOT CONVINCE THE LION."

"Why, no; a lion is not an ass.  But, for your comfort, there ARE
no lions in this part of the world.  They are myths.  There were
lions in Africa.  But now they are all at the Zoo.  And I wish I
was there too."

"In what character--of a discontented animal--with every blessing?
They would not take you in; too common in England.  Hallo! this is
something new.  What lots of bushes!  We should not have much
chance with a lion here."

"There ARE no lions: it is not the Zoo," said Falcon; but he
spurred on faster.

The country, however, did not change its feature; bushes and little
acacias prevailed, and presently dark forms began to glide across
at intervals.

The travellers held their breath, and pushed on; but at last their
horses flagged; so they thought it best to stop and light a fire
and stand upon their guard.

They did so, and Falcon sat with his rifle cocked, while Staines
boiled coffee, and they drank it, and after two hours' halt, pushed
on; and at last the bushes got more scattered, and they were on the
dreary plain again.  Falcon drew the rein, with a sigh of relief,
and they walked their horses side by side.

"Well, what has become of the lions?" said Falcon jauntily.  He
turned in his saddle, and saw a large animal stealing behind them
with its belly to the very earth, and eyes hot coals; he uttered an
eldrich screech, fired both barrels, with no more aim than a baby,
and spurred away, yelling like a demon.  The animal fled another
way, in equal trepidation at those tongues of flame and loud
reports, and Christopher's horse reared and plunged, and deposited
him promptly on the sward; but he held the bridle, mounted again,
and rode after his companion.  A stern chase is a long chase; and
for that or some other reason he could never catch him again till
sunrise.  Being caught, he ignored the lioness, with cool hauteur:
he said he had ridden on to find comfortable quarters: and craved
thanks.

This was literally the only incident worth recording that the
companions met with in three hundred miles.

On the sixth day out, towards afternoon, they found by inquiring
they were near the diamond washings, and the short route was
pointed out by an exceptionally civil Boer.

But Christopher's eye had lighted upon a sort of chain of knolls,
or little round hills, devoid of vegetation, and he told Falcon he
would like to inspect these, before going farther.

"Oh," said the Boer, "they are not on my farm, thank goodness! they
are on my cousin Bulteel's;" and he pointed to a large white house
about four miles distant, and quite off the road.  Nevertheless,
Staines insisted on going to it.  But first they made up to one of
these knolls, and examined it; it was about thirty feet high, and
not a vestige of herbage on it; the surface was composed of sand
and of lumps of gray limestone very hard, diversified with lots of
quartz, mica, and other old formations.

Staines got to the top of it with some difficulty, and examined the
surface all over.  He came down again, and said, "All these little
hills mark hot volcanic action--why, they are like boiling earth-
bubbles--which is the very thing, under certain conditions, to turn
carbonate of lime into diamonds.  Now here is plenty of limestone
unnaturally hard; and being in a diamond country, I can fancy no
place more likely to be the matrix than these earth-bubbles.  Let
us tether the horses, and use our shovels."

They did so; and found one or two common crystals, and some jasper,
and a piece of chalcedony all in little bubbles, but no diamond.
Falcon said it was wasting time.

Just then the proprietor, a gigantic, pasty colonist, came up, with
his pipe, and stood calmly looking on.  Staines came down, and made
a sort of apology.  Bulteel smiled quietly, and asked what harm
they could do him, raking that rubbish.  "Rake it all avay, mine
vriends," said he: "ve shall thank you moch."

He then invited them languidly to his house.  They went with him,
and as he volunteered no more remarks, they questioned him, and
learned his father had been a Hollander, and so had his vrow's.
This accounted for the size and comparative cleanliness of his
place.  It was stuccoed with the lime of the country outside, and
was four times as large as the miserable farmhouses of the
degenerate Boers.  For all this, the street door opened on the
principal room, and that room was kitchen and parlor, only very
large and wholesome.  "But, Lord," as poor dear Pepys used to blurt
out--"to see how some folk understand cleanliness!"  The floor was
made of powdered ants' nests, and smeared with fresh cow-dung every
day.  Yet these people were the cleanest Boers in the colony.

The vrow met them, with a snow-white collar and cuffs of Hamburgh
linen, and the brats had pasty faces round as pumpkins, but shone
with soap.  The vrow was also pasty-faced, but gentle, and welcomed
them with a smile, languid, but unequivocal.

The Hottentots took their horses, as a matter of course.  Their
guns were put in a corner.  A clean cloth was spread, and they saw
they were to sup and sleep there, though the words of invitation
were never spoken.

At supper, sun-dried flesh, cabbage, and a savory dish the
travellers returned to with gusto.  Staines asked what it was: the
vrow told him--locusts.  They had stripped her garden, and filled
her very rooms, and fallen in heaps under her walls; so she had
pressed them, by the million, into cakes, had salted them lightly,
and stored them, and they were excellent, baked.

After supper, the accomplished Reginald, observing a wire guitar,
tuned it with some difficulty, and so twanged it, and sang ditties
to it, that the flabby giant's pasty face wore a look of dreamy
content over his everlasting pipe; and in the morning, after a
silent breakfast, he said, "Mine vriends, stay here a year or two,
and rake in mine rubbish.  Ven you are tired, here are springbok
and antelopes, and you can shoot mit your rifles, and ve vil cook
them, and you shall zing us zongs of Vaderland."

They thanked him heartily, and said they would stay a few days, at
all events.

The placid Boer went a-farming; and the pair shouldered their pick
and shovel, and worked on their heap all day, and found a number of
pretty stones, but no diamond.

"Come," said Falcon, "we must go to the river;" and Staines
acquiesced.  "I bow to experience," said he.

At the threshold they found two of the little Bulteels, playing
with pieces of quartz, crystal, etc., on the door-stone.  One of
these stones caught Staines's eye directly.  It sparkled in a
different way from the others: he examined it: it was the size of a
white haricot bean, and one side of it polished by friction.  He
looked at it, and looked, and saw that it refracted the light.  He
felt convinced it was a diamond.

"Give the boy a penny for it," said the ingenious Falcon, on
receiving the information.

"Oh!" said Staines.  "Take advantage of a child?"

He borrowed it of the boy, and laid it on the table, after supper.
"Sir," said he, "this is what we were raking in your kopjes for,
and could not find it.  It belongs to little Hans.  Will you sell
it us?  We are not experts, but we think it may be a diamond.  We
will risk ten pounds on it."

"Ten pounds!" said the farmer.  "Nay, we rob not travellers, mine
vriend."

"But if it is a diamond, it is worth a hundred.  See how it gains
fire in the dusk."

In short, they forced the ten pounds on him, and next day went to
work on another kopje.

But the simple farmer's conscience smote him.  It was a slack time;
so he sent four Hotteatots, with shovels, to help these friendly
maniacs.  These worked away gayly, and the white men set up a
sorting table, and sorted the stuff, and hammered the nodules, and
at last found a little stone as big as a pea that refracted the
light.  Staines showed this to the Hottentots, and their quick eyes
discovered two more that day, only smaller.

Next day, nothing but a splinter or two.

Then Staines determined to dig deeper, contrary to the general
impression.  He gave his reason: "Diamonds don't fall from the sky.
They work up from the ground; and clearly the heat must be greater
farther down."

Acting on this, they tried the next strata, but found it entirely
barren.  After that, however, they came to a fresh layer of
carbonate, and here, Falcon hammering a large lump of conglomerate,
out leaped, all of a sudden, a diamond big as a nut, that ran along
the earth, gleaming like a star.  It had polished angles and
natural facets, and even a novice, with an eye in his head, could
see it was a diamond of the purest water.  Staines and Falcon
shouted with delight, and made the blacks a present on the spot.

They showed the prize, at night, and begged the farmer to take to
digging.  There was ten times more money beneath his soil than on
it.

Not he.  He was a farmer: did not believe in diamonds.  Two days
afterwards, another great find.  Seven small diamonds.

Next day, a stone as large as a cob-nut, and with strange and
beautiful streaks.  They carried it home to dinner, and set it on
the table, and told the family it was worth a thousand pounds.
Bulteel scarcely looked at it; but the vrow trembled and all the
young folk glowered at it.

In the middle of dinner, it exploded like a cracker, and went
literally into diamond-dust.

"Dere goes von tousand pounds," said Bulteel, without moving a
muscle.

Falcon swore.  But Staines showed fortitude.  "It was laminated,"
said he, "and exposure to the air was fatal."

Owing to the invaluable assistance of the Hottentots, they had in
less than a month collected four large stones of pure water, and a
wineglassful of small stones, when, one fine day, going to work
calmly after breakfast, they found some tents pitched, and at least
a score of dirty diggers, bearded like the pard, at work on the
ground.  Staines sent Falcon back to tell Bulteel, and suggest that
he should at once order them off, or, better still, make terms with
them.  The phlegmatic Boer did neither.

In twenty-four hours it was too late.  The place was rushed.  In
other words, diggers swarmed to the spot, with no idea of law but
digger's law.

A thousand tents rose like mushrooms; and poor Bulteel stood
smoking, and staring amazed, at his own door, and saw a veritable
procession of wagons, Cape carts, and powdered travellers file past
him to take possession of his hillocks.  Him, the proprietor, they
simply ignored; they had a committee who were to deal with all
obstructions, landlords and tenants included.  They themselves
measured out Bulteel's farm into thirty-foot claims, and went to
work with shovel and pick.  They held Staines's claim sacred--that
was diggers' law; but they confined it strictly to thirty feet
square.

Had the friends resisted, their brains would have been knocked out.
However, they gained this, that dealers poured in, and the market
not being yet glutted, the price was good.  Staines sold a few of
the small stones for two hundred pounds.  He showed one of the
larger stones.  The dealer's eye glittered, but he offered only
three hundred pounds, and this was so wide of the ascending scale,
on which a stone of that importance is priced, that Staines
reserved it for sale at Cape Town.

Nevertheless, he afterwards doubted whether he had not better have
taken it; for the multitude of diggers turned out such a prodigious
number of diamonds at Bulteel's pan, that a sort of panic fell on
the market.

These dry diggings were a revelation to the world.  Men began to
think the diamond perhaps was a commoner stone than any one had
dreamed it to be.

As to the discovery of stones, Staines and Falcon lost nothing by
being confined to a thirty-foot claim.  Compelled to dig deeper,
they got into a rich strata, where they found garnets by the pint,
and some small diamonds, and at last, one lucky day, their largest
diamond.  It weighed thirty-seven carats, and was a rich yellow.
Now, when a diamond is clouded or off color, it is terribly
depreciated; but a diamond with a positive color is called a fancy
stone, and ranks with the purest stones.

"I wish I had this in Cape Town," said Staines.

"Why, I'll take it to Cape Town, if you like," said the changeable
Falcon.

"You will?" said Christopher, surprised.

"Why not?  I'm not much of a digger.  I can serve our interest
better by selling.  I could get a thousand pounds for this at Cape
Town."

"We will talk of that quietly," said Christopher.

Now, the fact is, Falcon, as a digger, was not worth a pin.  He
could not sort.  His eyes would not bear the blinding glare of a
tropical sun upon lime and dazzling bits of mica, quartz, crystal,
white topaz, etc., in the midst of which the true glint of the
royal stone had to be caught in a moment.  He could not sort, and
he had not the heart to dig.  The only way to make him earn his
half was to turn him into the travelling and selling partner.

Christopher was too generous to tell him this; but he acted on it,
and said he thought his was an excellent proposal; indeed, he had
better take all the diamonds they had got to Dale's Kloof first,
and show them to his wife, for her consolation: "And perhaps," said
he, "in a matter of this importance, she will go to Cape Town with
you, and try the market there."

"All right," said Falcon.

He sat and brooded over the matter a long time, and said, "Why make
two bites of a cherry?  They will only give us half the value at
Cape Town; why not go by the steamer to England, before the London
market is glutted, and all the world finds out that diamonds are as
common as dirt?"

"Go to England!  What! without your wife?  I'll never be a party to
that.  Me part man and wife!  If you knew my own story"--

"Why, who wants you?" said Reginald.  "You don't understand.
Phoebe is dying to visit England again; but she has got no excuse.
If you like to give her one, she will be much obliged to you, I can
tell you."

"Oh, that is a very different matter.  If Mrs. Falcon can leave her
farm--"

"Oh, that brute of a brother of hers is a very honest fellow, for
that matter.  She can trust the farm to him.  Besides, it is only a
month's voyage by the mail steamer."

This suggestion of Falcon's set Christopher's heart bounding, and
his eyes glistening.  But he restrained himself, and said, "This
takes me by surprise; let me smoke a pipe over it."

He not only did that, but he lay awake all night.

The fact is that for some time past, Christopher had felt sharp
twinges of conscience, and deep misgivings as to the course he had
pursued in leaving his wife a single day in the dark.  Complete
convalescence had cleared his moral sentiments, and perhaps, after
all, the discovery of the diamonds had co-operated; since now the
insurance money was no longer necessary to keep his wife from
starving.

"Ah!" said he; "faith is a great quality; and how I have lacked
it!"

To do him justice, he knew his wife's excitable nature, and was not
without fears of some disaster, should the news be communicated to
her unskilfully.

But this proposal of Falcon's made the way clearer.  Mrs. Falcon,
though not a lady, had all a lady's delicacy, and all a woman's
tact and tenderness.  He knew no one in the world more fit to be
trusted with the delicate task of breaking to his Rosa that the
grave, for once, was baffled, and her husband lived.  He now became
quite anxious for Falcon's departure, and ardently hoped that
worthy had not deceived himself as to Mrs. Falcon's desire to visit
England.

In short, it was settled that Falcon should start for Dale's Kloof,
taking with him the diamonds, believed to be worth altogether three
thousand pounds at Cape Town, and nearly as much again in England,
and a long letter to Mrs. Falcon, in which Staines revealed his
true story, told her where to find his wife, or hear of her, viz.,
at Kent Villa, Gravesend, and sketched an outline of instructions
as to the way, and cunning degrees, by which the joyful news should
be broken to her.  With this he sent a long letter to be given to
Rosa herself, but not till she should know all: and in this letter
he enclosed the ruby ring she had given him.  That ring had never
left his finger, by sea or land, in sickness or health.

The letter to Rosa was sealed.  The two letters made quite a
packet; for, in the letter to his beloved Rosa, he told her
everything that had befallen him.  It was a romance, and a picture
of love; a letter to lift a loving woman to heaven, and almost
reconcile her to all her bereaved heart had suffered.

This letter, written with many tears from the heart that had so
suffered, and was now softened by good fortune and bounding with
joy, Staines entrusted to Falcon, together with the other diamonds,
and with many warm shakings of the hand, started him on his way.

"But mind, Falcon," said Christopher, "I shall expect an answer
from Mrs. Falcon in twenty days at farthest.  I do not feel so sure
as you do that she wants to go to England; and, if not, I must
write to Uncle Philip.  Give me your solemn promise, old fellow, an
answer in twenty days--if you have to send a Kafir on horseback."

"I give you my honor," said Falcon superbly.

"Send it to me at Bulteel's Farm."

"All right.  'Dr. Christie, Bulteel's Farm.'"

"Well--no.  Why should I conceal my real name any longer from such
friends as you and your wife?  Christie is short for Christopher--
that IS my Christian name; but my surname is Staines.  Write to
'Dr. Staines.'"

"Dr. Staines!"

"Yes.  Did you ever hear of me?"

Falcon wore a strange look.  "I almost think I have.  Down at
Gravesend, or somewhere."

"That is curious.  Yes, I married my Rosa there; poor thing!  God
bless her; God comfort her.  She thinks me dead."

His voice trembled, he grasped Falcon's cold hand till the latter
winced again, and so they parted, and Falcon rode off muttering,
"Dr. Staines! so then YOU are Dr. Staines."


CHAPTER XXII.


Rosa Staines had youth on her side, and it is an old saying that
youth will not be denied.  Youth struggled with death for her, and
won the battle.

But she came out of that terrible fight weak as a child.  The sweet
pale face, the widow's cap, the suit of deep black--it was long ere
these came down from the sickroom.  And when they did, oh, the dead
blank!  The weary, listless life!  The days spent in sighs, and
tears, and desolation.  Solitude! solitude!  Her husband was gone,
and a strange woman played the mother to her child before her eyes.

Uncle Philip was devotedly kind to her, and so was her father; but
they could do nothing for her.

Months rolled on, and skinned the wound over.  Months could not
heal.  Her boy became dearer and dearer, and it was from him came
the first real drops of comfort, however feeble.

She used to read her lost one's diary every day, and worship, in
deep sorrow, the mind she had scarcely respected until it was too
late.  She searched in his diary to find his will, and often she
mourned that he had written on it so few things she could obey.
Her desire to obey the dead, whom, living, she had often disobeyed,
was really simple and touching.  She would mourn to her father that
there were so few commands to her in his diary.  "But," said she,
"memory brings me back his will in many things, and to obey is now
the only sad comfort I have."

It was in this spirit she now forced herself to keep accounts.  No
fear of her wearing stays now; no powder; no trimmings; no waste.

After the usual delay, her father told her she should instruct a
solicitor to apply to the insurance company for the six thousand
pounds.  She refused with a burst of agony.  "The price of his
life," she screamed.  "Never!  I'd live on bread and water sooner
than touch that vile money."

Her father remonstrated gently.  But she was immovable.  "No.  It
would be like consenting to his death."

Then Uncle Philip was sent for.

He set her child on her knee; and gave her a pen.  "Come," said he,
sternly, "be a woman, and do your duty to little Christie."

She kissed the boy, cried, and did her duty meekly.  But when the
money was brought her, she flew to Uncle Philip, and said, "There!
there!" and threw it all before him, and cried as if her heart
would break.  He waited patiently, and asked her what he was to do
with all that: invest it?

"Yes, yes; for my little Christie."

"And pay you the interest quarterly."

"Oh, no, no.  Dribble us out a little as we want it.  That is the
way to be truly kind to a simpleton.  I hate that word."

"And suppose I run off with it?  Such confiding geese as you
corrupt a man."

"I shall never corrupt you.  Crusty people are the soul of honor."

"Crusty people!" cried Philip, affecting amazement.  "What are
they?"

She bit her lip and colored a little; but answered adroitly, "They
are people that pretend not to have good hearts, but have the best
in the world; far better ones than your smooth ones: that's crusty
people."

"Very well," said Philip; "and I'll tell you what simpletons are.
They are little transparent-looking creatures that look shallow,
but are as deep as Old Nick, and make you love them in spite of
your judgment.  They are the most artful of their sex; for they
always achieve its great object, to be loved--the very thing that
clever women sometimes fail in."

"Well, and if we are not to be loved, why live at all--such useless
things as I am?" said Rosa simply.

So Philip took charge of her money, and agreed to help her save
money for her little Christopher.  Poverty should never destroy
him, as it had his father.

As months rolled on, she crept out into public a little; but always
on foot, and a very little way from home.

Youth and sober life gradually restored her strength, but not her
color, nor her buoyancy.

Yet she was perhaps more beautiful than ever; for a holy sorrow
chastened and sublimed her features: it was now a sweet, angelic,
pensive beauty, that interested every feeling person at a glance.

She would visit no one; but a twelvemonth after her bereavement,
she received a few chosen visitors.

One day a young gentleman called, and sent up his card, "Lord
Tadcaster," with a note from Lady Cicely Treherne, full of kindly
feeling.  Uncle Philip had reconciled her to Lady Cicely; but they
had never met.

Mrs. Staines was much agitated at the very name of Lord Tadcaster;
but she would not have missed seeing him for the world.

She received him with her beautiful eyes wide open, to drink in
every lineament of one who had seen the last of her Christopher.

Tadcaster was wonderfully improved: he had grown six inches out at
sea, and though still short, was not diminutive; he was a small
Apollo, a model of symmetry, and had an engaging, girlish beauty,
redeemed from downright effeminacy by a golden mustache like silk,
and a tanned cheek that became him wonderfully.

He seemed dazzled at first by Mrs. Staines, but murmured that Lady
Cicely had told him to come, or he would not have ventured.

"Who can be so welcome to me as you?" said she, and the tears came
thick in her eyes directly.

Soon, he hardly knew how, he found himself talking of Staines, and
telling her what a favorite he was, and all the clever things he
had done.

The tears streamed down her cheeks, but she begged him to go on
telling her, and omit nothing.

He complied heartily, and was even so moved by the telling of his
friend's virtues, and her tears and sobs, that he mingled his tears
with hers.  She rewarded him by giving him her hand as she turned
away her tearful face to indulge the fresh burst of grief his
sympathy evoked.

When he was leaving, she said, in her simple way, "Bless you"--
"Come again," she said: "you have done a poor widow good."

Lord Tadcaster was so interested and charmed, he would gladly have
come back next day to see her; but he restrained that extravagance,
and waited a week.

Then he visited her again.  He had observed the villa was not rich
in flowers, and he took her down a magnificent bouquet, cut from
his father's hot-houses.  At sight of him, or at sight of it, or
both, the color rose for once in her pale cheek, and her pensive
face wore a sweet expression of satisfaction.  She took his
flowers, and thanked him for them, and for coming to see her.

Soon they got on the only topic she cared for, and, in the course
of this second conversation, he took her into his confidence, and
told her he owed everything to Dr. Staines.  "I was on the wrong
road altogether, and he put me right.  To tell you the truth, I
used to disobey him now and then, while he was alive, and I was
always the worse for it; now he is gone, I never disobey him.  I
have written down a lot of wise, kind things he said to me, and I
never go against any one of them.  I call it my book of oracles.
Dear me, I might have brought it with me."

"Oh, yes! why didn't you?" rather reproachfully.

"I will bring it next time."

"Pray do."

Then she looked at him with her lovely swimming eyes, and said
tenderly, "And so here is another that disobeyed him living, but
obeys him dead.  What will you think when I tell you that I, his
wife, who now worship him when it is too late, often thwarted and
vexed him when he was alive?"

"No, no.  He told me you were an angel, and I believe it."

"An angel! a good-for-nothing, foolish woman, who sees everything
too late."

"Nobody else should say so before me," said the little gentleman
grandly.  "I shall take HIS word before yours on this one subject.
If ever there was an angel, you are one; and oh, what would I give
if I could but say or do anything in the world to comfort you!"

"You can do nothing for ME, dear, but come and see me often, and
talk to me as you do--on the one sad theme my broken heart has room
for."

This invitation delighted Lord Tadcaster, and the sweet word
"dear," from her lovely lips, entered his heart, and ran through
all his veins like some rapturous but dangerous elixir.  He did not
say to himself, "She is a widow with a child, feels old with grief,
and looks on me as a boy who has been kind to her."  Such prudence
and wariness were hardly to be expected from his age.  He had
admired her at first sight, very nearly loved her at their first
interview, and now this sweet word opened a heavenly vista.  The
generous heart that beat in his small frame burned to console her
with a life-long devotion and all the sweet offices of love.

He ordered his yacht to Gravesend--for he had become a sailor--and
then he called on Mrs. Staines, and told her, with a sort of
sheepish cunning, that now, as his yacht HAPPENED to be at
Gravesend, he could come and see her very often.  He watched her
timidly, to see how she would take that proposition.

She said, with the utmost simplicity, "I'm very glad of it."

Then he produced his oracles; and she devoured them.  Such precepts
to Tadcaster as she could apply to her own case she instantly noted
in her memory, and they became her law from that moment.

Then, in her simplicity, she said, "And I will show you some
things, in his own handwriting, that may be good for you; but I
can't show you the whole book: some of it is sacred from every eye
but his wife's.  His wife's?  Ah me! his widow's."

Then she pointed out passages in the diary that she thought might
be for his good; and he nestled to her side, and followed her white
finger with loving eyes, and was in an elysium--which she would
certainly have put a stop to at that time, had she divined it.  But
all wisdom does not come at once to an unguarded woman.  Rosa
Staines was wiser about her husband than she had been, but she had
plenty to learn.

Lord Tadcaster anchored off Gravesend, and visited Mrs. Staines
nearly every day.  She received him with a pleasure that was not at
all lively, but quite undisguised.  He could not doubt his welcome;
for once, when he came, she said to the servant, "Not at home," a
plain proof she did not wish his visit to be cut short by any one
else.

And so these visits and devoted attentions of every kind went on
unobserved by Lord Tadcaster's friends, because Rosa would never go
out, even with him; but at last Mr. Lusignan saw plainly how this
would end, unless he interfered.

Well, he did not interfere; on the contrary, he was careful to
avoid putting his daughter on her guard: he said to himself, "Lord
Tadcaster does her good.  I'm afraid she would not marry him, if he
was to ask her now; but in time she might.  She likes him a great
deal better than any one else."

As for Philip, he was abroad for his own health, somewhat impaired
by his long and faithful attendance on Rosa.

So now Lord Tadcaster was in constant attendance on Rosa.  She was
languid, but gentle and kind; and, as mourners, like invalids, are
apt to be egotistical, she saw nothing but that he was a comfort to
her in her affliction.

While matters were so, the Earl of Miltshire, who had long been
sinking, died, and Tadcaster succeeded to his honors and estates.

Rosa heard of it, and, thinking it was a great bereavement, wrote
him one of those exquisite letters of condolence a lady alone can
write.  He took it to Lady Cicely, and showed it her.  She highly
approved it.

He said, "The only thing--it makes me ashamed, I do not feel my
poor father's death more; but you know it has been so long
expected."  Then he was silent a long time; and then he asked her
if such a woman as that would not make him happy, if he could win
her.

It was on her ladyship's tongue to say, "She did not make her first
happy;" but she forbore, and said coldly, that was maw than she
could say.

Tadcaster seemed disappointed by that, and by and by Cicely took
herself to task.  She asked herself what were Tadcaster's chances
in the lottery of wives.  The heavy army of scheming mothers, and
the light cavalry of artful daughters, rose before her cousinly and
disinterested eyes, and she asked herself what chance poor little
Tadcaster would have of catching a true love, with a hundred female
artists manoeuvring, wheeling, ambuscading, and charging upon his
wealth and titles.  She returned to the subject of her own accord,
and told him she saw but one objection to such a match: the lady
had a son by a man of rare merit and misfortune.  Could he, at his
age, undertake to be a father to that son?  "Othahwise," said Lady
Cicely, "mark my words, you will quall over that poor child; and
you will have two to quall with, because I shall be on her side."

Tadcaster declared to her that child should be quite the opposite
of a bone of contention.  "I have thought of that," said he, "and I
mean to be so kind to that boy, I shall MAKE her love me for that."

On these terms Lady Cicely gave her consent.

Then he asked her should he write, or ask her in person.

Lady Cicely reflected.  "If you write, I think she will say no."

"But if I go?"

"Then, it will depend on how you do it.  Rosa Staines is a true
mourner.  Whatever you may think, I don't believe the idea of a
second union has ever entered her head.  But then she is very
unselfish: and she likes you better than any one else, I dare say.
I don't think your title or your money will weigh with her now.
But, if you show her your happiness depends on it, she may,
perhaps, cwy and sob at the very idea of it, and then, after all,
say, 'Well, why not--if I can make the poor soul happy?'"

So, on this advice, Tadcaster went down to Gravesend, and Lady
Cicely felt a certain self-satisfaction; for, her well-meant
interference having lost Rosa one husband, she was pleased to think
she had done something to give her another.

Lord Tadcaster came to Rosa Staines; he found her seated with her
head upon her white hand, thinking sadly of the past.

At sight of him in deep mourning, she started, and said, "Oh!"

Then she said tenderly, "We are of one color now," and gave him her
hand.

He sat down beside her, not knowing how to begin.

"I am not Tadcaster now.  I am Earl of Miltshire."

"Ah, yes; I forgot," said she indifferently.

"This is my first visit to any one in that character."

"Thank you."

"It is an awfully important visit to me.  I could not feel myself
independent, and able to secure your comfort and little Christie's,
without coming to the lady, the only lady I ever saw, that--oh,
Mrs. Staines--Rosa--who could see you, as I have done--mingle his
tears with yours, as I have done, and not love you, and long to
offer you his love?"

"Love! to me, a broken-hearted woman, with nothing to live for but
his memory and his child."

She looked at him with a sort of scared amazement.

"His child shall be mine.  His memory is almost as dear to me as to
you."

"Nonsense, child, nonsense!" said she, almost sternly.

"Was he not my best friend?  Should I have the health I enjoy, or
even be alive, but for him?  Oh, Mrs. Staines--Rosa, you will not
live all your life unmarried; and who will love you as I do?  You
are my first and only love.  My happiness depends on you."

"Your happiness depend on me!  Heaven forbid--a woman of my age,
that feels so old, old, old."

"You are not old; you are young, and sad, and beautiful, and my
happiness depends on you."  She began to tremble a little.  Then he
kneeled at her knees, and implored her, and his hot tears fell upon
the hand she put out to stop him, while she turned her head away,
and the tears began to run.

Oh! never can the cold dissecting pen tell what rushes over the
heart that has loved and lost, when another true love first kneels
and implores for love, or pity, or anything the bereaved can give.


CHAPTER XXIII.


When Falcon went, luck seemed to desert their claim: day after day
went by without a find; and the discoveries on every side made this
the more mortifying.

By this time the diggers at Bulteel's pan were as miscellaneous as
the audience at Drury Lane Theatre, only mixed more closely; the
gallery folk and the stalls worked cheek by jowl.  Here a gentleman
with an affected lisp, and close by an honest fellow, who could not
deliver a sentence without an oath, or some still more horrible
expletive that meant nothing at all in reality, but served to make
respectable flesh creep: interspersed with these, Hottentots,
Kafirs, and wild blue blacks gayly clad in an ostrich feather, a
scarlet ribbon, and a Tower musket sold them by some good Christian
for a modern rifle.

On one side of Staines were two swells, who lay on their backs and
talked opera half the day, but seldom condescended to work without
finding a diamond of some sort.

After a week's deplorable luck, his Kafir boy struck work on
account of a sore in his leg; the sore was due to a very common
cause, the burning sand had got into a scratch, and festered.
Staines, out of humanity, examined the sore; and proceeding to
clean it, before bandaging, out popped a diamond worth forty
pounds, even in the depreciated market.  Staines quietly pocketed
it, and bandaged the leg.  This made him suspect his blacks had
been cheating him on a large scale, and he borrowed Hans Bulteel to
watch them, giving him a third, with which Master Hans was mightily
pleased.  But they could only find small diamonds, and by this time
prodigious slices of luck were reported on every side.  Kafirs and
Boers that would not dig, but traversed large tracts of ground when
the sun was shining, stumbled over diamonds.  One Boer pointed to a
wagon and eight oxen, and said that one lucky glance on the sand
had given him that lot: but day after day Staines returned home,
covered with dust, and almost blinded, yet with little or nothing
to show for it.

One evening, complaining of his change of luck, Bulteel quietly
proposed to him migration.  "I am going," said he resignedly: "and
you can come with me."

"You leave your farm, sir?  Why, they pay you ten shillings a
claim, and that must make a large return; the pan is fifteen
acres."

"Yes, mine vriend," said the poor Hollander, "they pay; but deir
money it cost too dear.  Vere is mine peace?  Dis farm is six
tousand acres.  If de cursed diamonds was farther off, den it vas
vell.  But dey are too near.  Once I could smoke in peace, and
zleep.  Now diamonds is come, and zleep and peace is fled.  Dere is
four tousand tents, and to each tent a dawg; dat dawg bark at four
tousand other dawgs all night, and dey bark at him and at each
oder.  Den de masters of de dawgs dey get angry, and fire four
tousand pistole at de four tousand dawgs, and make my bed shake wid
the trembling of mine vrow.  My vamily is with diamonds infected.
Dey vill not vork.  Dey takes long valks, and always looks on de
ground.  Mine childre shall be hump-backed, round-shouldered,
looking down for diamonds.  Dey shall forget Gott.  He is on high:
dere eyes are always on de earth.  De diggers found a diamond in
mine plaster of mine wall of mine house.  Dat plaster vas
limestone; it come from dose kopjes de good Gott made in His anger
against man for his vickedness.  I zay so.  Dey not believe me.
Dey tink dem abominable stones grow in mine house, and break out in
mine plaster like de measle: dey vaunt to dig in mine wall, in mine
garden, in mine floor.  One day dey shall dig in mine body.  I vill
go.  Better I love peace dan money.  Here is English company make
me offer for mine varm.  Dey forgive de diamonds."

"You have not accepted it?" cried Staines in alarm.

"No, but I vill.  I have said I shall tink of it.  Dat is my vay.
So I say yah."

"An English company?  They will cheat you without mercy.  No, they
shall not, though, for I will have a hand in the bargain."

He set to work directly, added up the value of the claims, at ten
shillings per month, and amazed the poor Hollander by his statement
of the value of those fifteen acres, capitalized.

And to close this part of the subject, the obnoxious diamonds
obtained him three times as much as his father had given for the
whole six thousand acres.

The company got a great bargain, but Bulteel received what for him
was a large capital, and settling far to the south, this lineal
descendant of le philosophe sans savoir carried his godliness, his
cleanliness, and his love of peace, out of the turmoil, and was
happier than ever, since now he could compare his placid existence
with one year of noise and clamor.

But long before this, events more pertinent to my story had
occurred.

One day, a Hottentot came into Bulteel's farm and went out among
the diggers, till be found Staines.  The Hottentot was one employed
at Dale's Kloof, and knew him.  He brought Staines a letter.

Staines opened the letter, and another letter fell out; it was
directed to "Reginald Falcon, Esq."

"Why," thought Staines, "what a time this letter must have been on
the road!  So much for private messengers."

The letter ran thus:--


DEAR SIR,--This leaves us all well at Dale's Kloof, as I hope it
shall find you and my dear husband at the diggings.  Sir, I am
happy to say I have good news for you.  When you got well by God's
mercy, I wrote to the doctor at the hospital and told him so.  I
wrote unbeknown to you, because I had promised him.  Well, sir, he
has written back to say you have two hundred pounds in money, and a
great many valuable things, such as gold and jewels.  They are all
at the old bank in Cape Town, and the cashier has seen you, and
will deliver them on demand.  So that is the first of my good news,
because it is good news to you.  But, dear sir, I think you will be
pleased to hear that Dick and I are thriving wonderfully, thanks to
your good advice.  The wooden house it is built, and a great oven.
But, sir, the traffic came almost before we were ready, and the
miners that call here, coming and going, every day, you would not
believe, likewise wagons and carts.  It is all bustle, morn till
night, and dear Reginald will never be dull here now; I hope you
will be so kind as tell him so, for I do long to see you both home
again.

Sir, we are making our fortunes.  The grain we could not sell at a
fair price, we sell as bread, and higher than in England ever so
much.  Tea and coffee the same; and the poor things praise us, too,
for being so moderate.  So, sir, Dick bids me say that we owe this
to you, and if so be you are minded to share, why nothing would
please us better.  Head-piece is always worth money in these parts;
and if it hurts your pride to be our partner without money, why you
can throw in what you have at the Cape, though we don't ask that.
And, besides, we are offered diamonds a bargain every day, but are
afraid to deal, for want of experience; but if you were in it with
us, you must know them well by this time, and we might turn many a
good pound that way.  Dear sir, I hope you will not be offended,
but I think this is the only way we have, Dick and I, to show our
respect and good-will.

Dear sir, digging is hard work, and not fit for you and Reginald,
that are gentlemen, amongst a lot of rough fellows, that their talk
makes my hair stand on end, though I dare say they mean no harm.

Your bedroom is always ready, sir.  I never will let it to any of
them, hoping now to see you every day.  You that know everything,
can guess how I long to see you both home.  My very good fortune
seems not to taste like good fortune, without those I love and
esteem to share it.  I shall count how many days this letter will
take to reach you, and then I shall pray for your safety harder
than ever, till the blessed hour comes when I see my husband, and
my good friend, never to part again, I hope, in this world.

I am sir, your dutiful servant and friend,

PHOEBE DALE.

P.S.  There is regular travelling to and from Cape Town, and a post
now to Pniel, but I thought it surest to send by one that knows
you.


Staines read this letter with great satisfaction.  He remembered
his two hundred pounds, but his gold and jewels puzzled him.  Still
it was good news, and pleased him not a little.  Phoebe's good
fortune gratified him too, and her offer of a partnership,
especially in the purchase of diamonds from returning diggers.  He
saw a large fortune to be made; and wearied and disgusted with
recent ill-luck, blear-eyed and almost blinded with sorting in the
blazing sun, he resolved to go at once to Dale's Kloof.  Should
Mrs. Falcon be gone to England with the diamonds, he would stay
there, and Rosa should come out to him, or he would go and fetch
her.

He went home, and washed himself, and told Bulteel he had had good
news, and should leave the diggings at once.  He gave him up the
claim, and told him to sell it by auction.  It was worth two
hundred pounds still.  The good people sympathized with him, and he
started within an hour.  He left his pickaxe and shovel, and took
only his double rifle, an admirable one, some ammunition, including
conical bullets and projectile shells given him by Falcon, a bag
full of carbuncles and garnets he had collected for Ucatella, a few
small diamonds, and one hundred pounds,--all that remained to him,
since he had been paying wages and other things for months, and had
given Falcon twenty for his journey.

He rode away and soon put twenty miles between him and the
diggings.

He came to a little store that bought diamonds and sold groceries
and tobacco.  He haltered his horse to a hook, and went in.  He
offered a small diamond for sale.  The master was out, and the
assistant said there was a glut of these small stones, he did not
care to give money for it.

"Well, give me three dozen cigars."

While they were chaffering, in walked a Hottentot, and said, "Will
you buy this?" and laid a clear, glittering stone on the counter,
as large as a walnut.

"Yes," said the young man.  "How much?"

"Two hundred pounds."

"Two hundred pounds!  Let us look at it;" he examined it, and said
he thought it was a diamond, but these large stones were so
deceitful, he dared not give two hundred pounds.  "Come again in an
hour," said he, "then the master will be in."

"No," said the Hottentot quietly, and walked out.

Staines, who had been literally perspiring at the sight of this
stone, mounted his horse and followed the man.  When he came up to
him, he asked leave to examine the gem.  The Hottentot quietly
assented.

Staines looked at it all over.  It had a rough side and a polished
side, and the latter was of amazing softness and lustre.  It made
him tremble.  He said, "Look here, I have only one hundred pounds
in my pocket."

The Hottentot shook his head.

"But if you will go back with me to Bulteel's farm, I'll borrow the
other hundred."

The Hottentot declined, and told him he could get four hundred
pounds for it by going back to Pniel.  "But," said he, "my face is
turned so; and when Squat turn his face so, he going home.  Not can
bear go the other way then," and he held out his hand for the
diamond.

Staines gave it him, and was in despair at seeing such a prize so
near, yet leaving him.

He made one more effort.  "Well, but," said he, "how far are you
going this way?"

"Ten days."

"Why, so am I.  Come with me to Dale's Kloof, and I will give the
other hundred.  See, I am in earnest, for here is one hundred, at
all events."

Staines made this proposal, trembling with excitement.  To his
surprise and joy, the Hottentot assented, though with an air of
indifference; and on these terms they became fellow-travellers, and
Staines gave him a cigar.  They went on side by side, and halted
for the night forty miles from Bulteel's farm.

They slept in a Boer's out-house, and the vrow was civil, and lent
Staines a jackal's skin.  In the morning he bought it for a
diamond, a carbuncle, and a score of garnets; for a horrible
thought had occurred to him, if they stopped at any place where
miners were, somebody might buy the great diamond over his head.
This fear, and others, grew on him, and with all his philosophy he
went on thorns, and was the slave of the diamond.

He resolved to keep his Hottentot all to himself if possible.  He
shot a springbok that crossed the road, and they roasted a portion
of the animal, and the Hottentot carried some on with him.

Seeing he admired the rifle, Staines offered it him for the odd
hundred pounds; but though Squat's eye glittered a moment, he
declined.

Finding that they met too many diggers and carts, Staines asked his
Hottentot was there no nearer way to reach that star, pointing to
one he knew was just over Dale's Kloof.

Oh, yes, he knew a nearer way, where there were trees, and shade,
and grass, and many beasts to shoot.

"Let us take that way," said Staines.

The Hottentot, ductile as wax, except about the price of the
diamond, assented calmly; and next day they diverged, and got into
forest scenery, and their eyes were soothed with green glades here
and there, wherever the clumps of trees sheltered the grass from
the panting sun.  Animals abounded, and were tame.  Staines, an
excellent marksman, shot the Hottentot his supper without any
trouble.

Sleeping in the wood, with not a creature near but Squat, a sombre
thought struck Staines.  Suppose this Hottentot should assassinate
him for his money, who would ever know?  The thought was horrible,
and he awoke with a start ten times that night.  The Hottentot
slept like a stone, and never feared for his own life and precious
booty.  Staines was compelled to own to himself he had less faith
in human goodness than the savage had.  He said to himself, "He is
my superior.  He is the master of this dreadful diamond, and I am
its slave."

Next day they went on till noon, and then they halted at a really
delightful spot; a silver kloof ran along a bottom, and there was a
little clump of three acacia-trees that lowered their long tresses,
pining for the stream, and sometimes getting a cool grateful kiss
from it when the water was high.

They halted the horse, bathed in the stream, and lay luxurious
under the acacias.  All was delicious languor and enjoyment of
life.

The Hottentot made a fire, and burnt the remains of a little sort
of kangaroo Staines had shot him the evening before; but it did not
suffice his maw, and looking about him, he saw three elands
leisurely feeding about three hundred yards off.  They were
cropping the rich herbage close to the shelter of a wood.

The Hottentot suggested that this was an excellent opportunity.  He
would borrow Staines's rifle, steal into the wood, crawl on his
belly close up to them, and send a bullet through one.

Staines did not relish the proposal.  He had seen the savage's eye
repeatedly gloat on the rifle, and was not without hopes he might
even yet relent, and give the great diamond for the hundred pounds
and this rifle; and he was so demoralized by the diamond, and
filled with suspicion, that he feared the savage, if he once had
the rifle in his possession, might levant, and be seen no more, in
which case he, Staines, still the slave of the diamond, might hang
himself on the nearest tree, and so secure his Rosa the insurance
money, at all events.  In short, he had really diamond on the
brain.

He hem'd and haw'd a little at Squat's proposal, and then got out
of it by saying, "That is not necessary.  I can shoot it from
here."

"It is too far," objected Blacky.

"Too far!  This is an Enfield rifle.  I could kill the poor beast
at three times that distance."

Blacky was amazed.  "An Enfield rifle," said he, in the soft
musical murmur of his tribe, which is the one charm of the poor
Hottentot; "and shoot three times SO far."

"Yes," said Christopher.  Then, seeing his companion's hesitation,
he conceived a hope.  "If I kill that eland from here, will you
give me the diamond for my horse and the wonderful rifle?--no
Hottentot has such a rifle."

Squat became cold directly.  "The price of the diamond is two
hundred pounds."

Staines groaned with disappointment, and thought to himself with
rage, "Anybody but me would club the rifle, give the obstinate
black brute a stunner, and take the diamond--God forgive me!"

Says the Hottentot cunningly, "I can't think so far as white man.
Let me see the eland dead, and then I shall know how far the rifle
shoot."

"Very well," said Staines.  But he felt sure the savage only wanted
his meal, and would never part with the diamond, except for the odd
money.

However, he loaded his left barrel with one of the explosive
projectiles Falcon had given him; it was a little fulminating shell
with a steel point.  It was with this barrel he had shot the murcat
overnight, and he had found he shot better with this barrel than
the other.  He loaded his left barrel then, saw the powder well up,
capped it and cut away a strip of the acacia with his knife to see
clear, and lying down in volunteer fashion, elbow on ground, drew
his bead steadily on an eland who presented him her broadside, her
back being turned to the wood.  The sun shone on her soft coat, and
never was a fairer mark, the sportsman's deadly eye being in the
cool shade, the animal in the sun.

He aimed long and steadily.  But just as he was about to pull the
trigger, Mind interposed, and he lowered the deadly weapon.  "Poor
creature!" he said, "I am going to take her life--for what? for a
single meal.  She is as big as a pony; and I am to lay her carcass
on the plain, that we may eat two pounds of it.  This is how the
weasel kills the rabbit; sucks an ounce of blood for his food, and
wastes the rest.  So the demoralized sheep-dog tears out the poor
creature's kidneys, and wastes the rest.  Man, armed by science
with such powers of slaying, should be less egotistical than
weasels and perverted sheep-dogs.  I will not kill her.  I will not
lay that beautiful body of hers low, and glaze those tender, loving
eyes that never gleamed with hate or rage at man, and fix those
innocent jaws that never bit the life out of anything, not even of
the grass she feeds on, and does it more good than harm.  Feed on,
poor innocent.  And you be blanked; you and your diamond, that I
begin to wish I had never seen; for it would corrupt an angel."

Squat understood one word in ten, but he managed to reply.  "This
is nonsense-talk," said he, gravely.  "The life is no bigger in
that than in the murcat you shot last shoot."

"No more it is," said Staines.  "I am a fool.  It is come to this,
then; Kafirs teach us theology, and Hottentots morality.  I bow to
my intellectual superior.  I'll shoot the eland."  He raised his
rifle again.

"No, no, no, no, no, no," murmured the Hottentot, in a sweet voice
scarcely audible, yet so keen in its entreaty, that Staines turned
hastily round to look at him.  His face was ashy, his teeth
chattering, his limbs shaking.  Before Staines could ask him what
was the matter, he pointed through an aperture of the acacias into
the wood hard by the elands.  Staines looked, and saw what seemed
to him like a very long dog, or some such animal, crawling from
tree to tree.  He did not at all share the terror of his companion,
nor understand it.  But a terrible explanation followed.  This
creature, having got to the skirt of the wood, expanded, by some
strange magic, to an incredible size, and sprang into the open,
with a growl, a mighty lion; he seemed to ricochet from the ground,
so immense was his second bound, that carried him to the eland, and
he struck her one blow on the head with his terrible paw, and
felled her as if with a thunderbolt: down went her body, with all
the legs doubled, and her poor head turned over, and the nose
kissed the ground.  The lion stood motionless.  Presently the
eland, who was not dead, but stunned, began to recover and struggle
feebly up.  Then the lion sprang on her with a roar, and rolled her
over, and with two tremendous bites and a shake, tore her entrails
out and laid her dying.  He sat composedly down, and contemplated
her last convulsions, without touching her again.

At this roar, though not loud, the horse, though he had never heard
or seen a lion, trembled, and pulled at his halter.

Blacky crept into the water; and Staines was struck with such an
awe as he had never felt.  Nevertheless, the king of beasts being
at a distance, and occupied, and Staines a brave man, and out of
sight, he kept his ground and watched, and by those means saw a
sight never to be forgotten.  The lion rose up, and stood in the
sun incredibly beautiful as well as terrible.  He was not the mangy
hue of the caged lion, but a skin tawny, golden, glossy as a race-
horse, and of exquisite tint that shone like pure gold in the sun;
his eye a lustrous jewel of richest hue, and his mane sublime.  He
looked towards the wood, and uttered a full roar.  This was so
tremendous that the horse shook all over as if in an ague, and
began to lather.  Staines recoiled, and his flesh crept, and the
Hottentot went under water, and did not emerge for ever so long.

After a pause, the lion roared again, and all the beasts and birds
of prey seemed to know the meaning of that terrible roar.  Till
then the place had been a solitude, but now it began to fill in the
strangest way, as if the lord of the forest could call all his
subjects together with a trumpet roar: first came two lion cubs, to
whom, in fact, the roar had been addressed.  The lion rubbed
himself several times against the eland, but did not eat a morsel,
and the cubs went in and feasted on the prey.  The lion politely
and paternally drew back, and watched the young people enjoying
themselves.

Meantime approached, on tiptoe, jackals and hyenas, but dared not
come too near.  Slate-colored vultures settled at a little
distance, but not a soul dared interfere with the cubs; they saw
the lion was acting sentinel, and they knew better than come near.

After a time, papa feared for the digestion of those brats, or else
his own mouth watered; for he came up, knocked them head over heels
with his velvet paw, and they took the gentle hint, and ran into
the wood double quick.

Then the lion began tearing away at the eland, and bolting huge
morsels greedily.  This made the rabble's mouth water.  The hyenas,
and jackals, and vultures formed a circle ludicrous to behold, and
that circle kept narrowing as the lion tore away at his prey.  They
increased in number, and at last hunger overcame prudence; the rear
rank shoved on the front, as amongst men, and a general attack
seemed imminent.

Then the lion looked up at these invaders, uttered a reproachful
growl, and went at them, patting them right and left, and knocking
them over.  He never touched a vulture, nor indeed did he kill an
animal.  He was a lion, and only killed to eat; yet he soon cleared
the place, because he knocked over a few hyenas and jackals, and
the rest, being active, tumbled over the vultures before they could
spread their heavy wings.  After this warning, they made a
respectful circle again, through which, in due course, the gorged
lion stalked into the wood.

A savage's sentiments change quickly, and the Hottentot, fearing
little from a full lion, was now giggling at Staines's side.
Staines asked him which he thought was the lord of all creatures, a
man or a lion.

"A lion," said Blacky, amazed at such a shallow question.

Staines now got up, and proposed to continue their journey.  But
Blacky was for waiting till the lion was gone to sleep after his
meal.

While they discussed the question, the lion burst out of the wood
within hearing of their voices, as his pricked-up ears showed, and
made straight for them at a distance of scarcely thirty yards.

Now, the chances are, the lion knew nothing about them, and only
came to drink at the kloof, after his meal, and perhaps lie under
the acacias: but who can think calmly, when his first lion bursts
out on him a few paces off?  Staines shouldered his rifle, took a
hasty, flurried aim, and sent a bullet at him.

If he had missed him, perhaps the report might have turned the
lion; but he wounded him, and not mortally.  Instantly the enraged
beast uttered a terrific roar, and came at him with his mane
distended with rage, his eyes glaring, his mouth open, and his
whole body dilated with fury.

At that terrible moment, Staines recovered his wits enough to see
that what little chance he had was to fire into the destroyer, not
at him.  He kneeled, and levelled at the centre of the lion's
chest, and not till he was within five yards did he fire.  Through
the smoke he saw the lion in the air above him, and rolled
shrieking into the stream and crawled like a worm under the bank,
by one motion, and there lay trembling.  A few seconds of sick
stupor passed: all was silent.  Had the lion lost him?  Was it
possible he might yet escape?

All was silent.

He listened, in agony, for the sniffing of the lion, puzzling him
out by scent.

No: all was silent.

Staines looked round, and saw a woolly head, and two saucer eyes
and open nostrils close by him.  It was the Hottentot, more dead
than alive.

Staines whispered him, "I think he is gone."

The Hottentot whispered, "Gone a little way to watch.  He is wise
as well as strong."  With this he disappeared beneath the water.

Still no sound but the screaming of the vultures, and snarling of
the hyenas and jackals over the eland.

"Take a look," said Staines.

"Yes," said Squat; "but not to-day.  Wait here a day or two.  Den
he forget and forgive."

Now Staines, having seen the lion lie down and watch the dying
eland, was a great deal impressed by this; and as he had now good
hopes of saving his life, he would not throw away a chance.  He
kept his head just above water, and never moved.

In this freezing situation they remained.

Presently there was a rustling that made both crouch.

It was followed by a croaking noise.

Christopher made himself small.

The Hottentot, on the contrary, raised his head, and ventured a
little way into the stream.

By these means he saw it was something very foul, but not terrible.
It was a large vulture that had settled on the very top of the
nearest acacia.

At this the Hottentot got bolder still, and to the great surprise
of Staines began to crawl cautiously into some rushes, and through
them up the bank.

The next moment he burst into a mixture of yelling and chirping and
singing, and other sounds so manifestly jubilant, that the vulture
flapped heavily away, and Staines emerged in turn, but very
cautiously.

Could he believe his eyes?  There lay the lion, dead as a stone, on
his back, with his four legs in the air, like wooden legs, they
were so very dead: and the valiant Squat, dancing about him, and on
him, and over him.

Staines, unable to change his sentiments so quickly, eyed even the
dead body of the royal beast with awe and wonder.  What! had he
already laid that terrible monarch low, and with a tube made in a
London shop by men who never saw a lion spring, nor heard his awful
roar shake the air?  He stood with his heart still beating, and
said not a word.  The shallow Hottentot whipped out a large knife,
and began to skin the king of beasts.  Staines wondered he could so
profane that masterpiece of nature.  He felt more inclined to thank
God for so great a preservation, and then pass reverently on, and
leave the dead king undesecrated.

He was roused from his solemn thoughts by the reflection that there
might be a lioness about, since there were cubs: he took a piece of
paper, emptied his remaining powder into it, and proceeded to dry
it in the sun.  This was soon done, and then he loaded both
barrels.

By this time the adroit Hottentot had flayed the carcass
sufficiently to reveal the mortal injury.  The projectile had
entered the chest, and slanting upwards, had burst among the
vitals, reducing them to a gory pulp.  The lion must have died in
the air, when he bounded on receiving the fatal shot.

The Hottentot uttered a cry of admiration.  "Not the lion king of
all, nor even the white man," he said; "but Enfeel rifle!"

Staines's eyes glittered.  "You shall have it, and the horse, for
your diamond," said he eagerly.

The black seemed a little shaken; but did not reply.  He got out of
it by going on with his lion; and Staines eyed him, and was
bitterly disappointed at not getting the diamond even on these
terms.  He began to feel he should never get it: they were near the
high-road; he could not keep the Hottentot to himself much longer.
He felt sick at heart.  He had wild and wicked thoughts; half hoped
the lioness would come and kill the Hottentot, and liberate the
jewel that possessed his soul.

At last the skin was off, and the Hottentot said, "Me take this to
my kraal, and dey all say, 'Squat a great shooter; kill um lion.'"

Then Staines saw another chance for him, and summoned all his
address for a last effort.  "No, Squat," said he, "that skin
belongs to me.  I shot the lion, with the only rifle that can kill
a lion like a cat.  Yet you would not give me a diamond--a paltry
stone for it.  No, Squat, if you were to go into your village with
that lion's skin, why the old men would bend their heads to you,
and say, 'Great is Squat!  He killed the lion, and wears his skin.'
The young women would all fight which should be the wife of Squat.
Squat would be king of the village."

Squat's eyes began to roll.

"And shall I give the skin, and the glory that is my due, to an
ill-natured fellow, who refuses me his paltry diamond for a good
horse--look at him--and for the rifle that kills lions like
rabbits--behold it; and a hundred pounds in good gold and Dutch
notes--see; and for the lion's skin, and glory, and honor, and a
rich wife, and to be king of Africa?  Never!"

The Hottentot's hands and toes began to work convulsively.  "Good
master, Squat ask pardon.  Squat was blind.  Squat will give the
diamond, the great diamond of Africa, for the lion's skin, and the
king rifle, and the little horse, and the gold, and Dutch notes
every one of them.  Dat make just two hundred pounds."

"More like four hundred," cried Staines very loud.  "And how do I
know it is a diamond?  These large stones are the most deceitful.
Show it me, this instant," said he imperiously.

"Iss, master," said the crushed Hottentot, with the voice of a
mouse, and put the stone into his hand with a child-like faith that
almost melted Staines; but he saw he must be firm.  "Where did you
find it?" he bawled.

"Master," said poor Squat, in deprecating tones, "my little master
at the farm wanted plaster.  He send to Bulteel's pan; dere was
large lumps.  Squat say to miners, 'May we take de large lumps?
Dey say, 'Yes; take de cursed lumps we no can break.'  We took de
cursed lumps.  We ride 'em in de cart to farm twenty milses.  I
beat 'em with my hammer.  Dey is very hard.  More dey break my
heart dan I break their cursed heads.  One day I use strong words,
like white man, and I hit one large lump too hard; he break, and
out come de white clear stone.  Iss, him diamond.  Long time we
know him in our kraal, because he hard.  Long time before ever
white man know him, tousand years ago, we find him, and he make us
lilly hole in big stone for make wheat dust.  Him a diamond, blank
my eyes!"

This was intended as a solemn form of asseveration adapted to the
white man's habits.

Yes, reader, he told the truth; and strange to say, the miners knew
the largest stones were in these great lumps of carbonate, but then
the lumps were so cruelly hard, they lost all patience with them,
and so, finding it was no use to break some of them, and not all,
they rejected them all, with curses; and thus this great stone was
carted away as rubbish from the mine, and found, like a toad in a
hole, by Squat.

"Well," said Christopher, "after all, you are an honest fellow, and
I think I will buy it; but first you must show me out of this wood;
I am not going to be eaten alive in it for want of the king of
rifles."

Squat assented eagerly, and they started at once.  They passed the
skeleton of the eland; its very bones were polished, and its head
carried into the wood; and looking back they saw vultures busy on
the lion.  They soon cleared the wood.

Squat handed Staines the diamond--when it touched his hand, as his
own, a bolt of ice seemed to run down his back, and hot water to
follow it--and the money, horse, rifle, and skin were made over to
Squat.

"Shake hands over it, Squat," said Staines; "you are hard, but you
are honest."

"Iss, master, I a good much hard and honest," said Squat.

"Good-by, old fellow."

"Good-by, master."

And Squat strutted away, with the halter in his hand, horse
following him, rifle under his arm, and the lion's skin over his
shoulders, and the tail trailing, a figure sublime in his own eyes,
ridiculous in creation's.  So vanity triumphed, even in the wilds
of Africa.

Staines hurried forward on foot, loading his revolver as he went,
for the very vicinity of the wood alarmed him now that he had
parted with his trusty rifle.

That night he lay down on the open veldt, in his jackal's skin,
with no weapon but his revolver, and woke with a start a dozen
times.  Just before daybreak he scanned the stars carefully, and
noting exactly where the sun rose, made a rough guess at his
course, and followed it till the sun was too hot; then he crept
under a ragged bush, hung up his jackal's skin, and sweated there,
parched with thirst, and gnawed with hunger.  When it was cooler,
he crept on, and found water, but no food.  He was in torture, and
began to be frightened, for he was in a desert.  He found an
ostrich egg and ate it ravenously.

Next day, hunger took a new form, faintness.  He could not walk for
it; his jackal's skin oppressed him; he lay down exhausted.  A
horror seized his dejected soul.  The diamond!  It would be his
death.  No man must so long for any earthly thing as he had for
this glittering traitor.  "Oh! my good horse! my trusty rifle!" he
cried.  "For what have I thrown you away?  For starvation.  Misers
have been found stretched over their gold; and some day my skeleton
will be found, and nothing to tell the base death I died of and
deserved; nothing but the cursed diamond.  Ay, fiend, glare in my
eyes, do!"  He felt delirium creeping over him; and at that a new
terror froze him.  His reason, that he had lost once, was he to
lose it again?  He prayed; he wept; he dozed, and forgot all.  When
he woke again, a cool air was fanning his cheeks; it revived him a
little; it became almost a breeze.

And this breeze, as it happened, carried on its wings the curse of
Africa.  There loomed in the north-west a cloud of singular
density, that seemed to expand in size as it drew nearer, yet to be
still more solid, and darken the air.  It seemed a dust-storm.
Staines took out his handkerchief, prepared to wrap his face in it,
not to be stifled.

But soon there was a whirring and a whizzing, and hundreds of
locusts flew over his head; they were followed by thousands, the
swiftest of the mighty host.  They thickened and thickened, till
the air looked solid, and even that glaring sun was blackened by
the rushing mass.  Birds of all sorts whirled above, and swooped
among them.  They peppered Staines all over like shot.  They stuck
in his beard, and all over him; they clogged the bushes, carpeted
the ground, while the darkened air sang as with the whirl of
machinery.  Every bird in the air, and beast of the field,
granivorous or carnivorous, was gorged with them; and to these
animals was added man, for Staines, being famished, and remembering
the vrow Bulteel, lighted a fire, and roasted a handful or two on a
flat stone; they were delicious.  The fire once lighted, they
cooked themselves, for they kept flying into it.  Three hours,
without interruption, did they darken nature, and, before the
column ceased, all the beasts of the field came after, gorging them
so recklessly, that Staines could have shot an antelope dead with
his pistol within a yard of him.

But to tell the horrible truth, the cooked locusts were so nice
that he preferred to gorge on them along with the other animals.

He roasted another lot, for future use, and marched on with a good
heart.

But now he got on some rough, scrubby ground, and damaged his
shoes, and tore his trousers.

This lasted a terrible distance; but at the end of it came the
usual arid ground; and at last he came upon the track of wheels and
hoofs.  He struck it at an acute angle, and that showed him he had
made a good line.  He limped along it a little way, slowly, being
footsore.

By and by, looking back, he saw a lot of rough fellows swaggering
along behind him.  Then he was alarmed, terribly alarmed, for his
diamond; he tore a strip of his handkerchief, and tied the stone
cunningly under his armpit as he hobbled on.

The men came up with him.

"Hallo, mate!  Come from the diggings?"

"Yes."

"What luck?"

"Very good."

"Haw! haw!  What! found a fifty-carat?  Show it us."

"We found five big stones, my mate and me.  He is gone to Cape Town
to sell them.  I had no luck when he had left me, so I have cut it;
going to turn farmer.  Can you tell me how far it is to Dale's
Kloof?"

No, they could not tell him that.  They swung on; and, to Staines,
their backs were a cordial, as we say in Scotland.

However, his travels were near an end.  Next morning he saw Dale's
Kloof in the distance; and as soon as the heat moderated, he pushed
on, with one shoe and tattered trousers; and half an hour before
sunset he hobbled up to the place.

It was all bustle.  Travellers at the door; their wagons and carts
under a long shed.

Ucatella was the first to see him coming, and came and fawned on
him with delight.  Her eyes glistened, her teeth gleamed.  She
patted both his cheeks, and then his shoulders, and even his knees,
and then flew in-doors crying, "My doctor child is come home!"
This amused three travellers, and brought out Dick, with a hearty
welcome.

"But Lordsake, sir, why have you come afoot; and a rough road too?
Look at your shoes.  Hallo!  What is come of the horse?"

"I exchanged him for a diamond."

"The deuce you did!  And the rifle?"

"Exchanged that for the same diamond."

"It ought to be a big 'un."

"It is."

Dick made a wry face.  "Well, sir, you know best.  You are welcome,
on horse or afoot.  You are just in time; Phoebe and me are just
sitting down to dinner."

He took him into a little room they had built for their own
privacy, for they liked to be quiet now and then, being country
bred; and Phoebe was putting their dinner on the table, when
Staines limped in.

She gave a joyful cry, and turned red all over.  "Oh, doctor!"
Then his travel-torn appearance struck her.  "But, dear heart! what
a figure!  Where's Reginald?  Oh, he's not far off, I know."

And she flung open the window, and almost flew through it in a
moment, to look for her husband.

"Reginald?" said Staines.  Then turning to Dick Dale, "Why, he is
here--isn't he?"

"No, sir: not without he is just come with you."

"With me?--no.  You know we parted at the diggings.  Come, Mr.
Dale, he may not be here now; but he has been here.  He must have
been here."

Phoebe, who had not lost a word, turned round, with all her high
color gone, and her cheeks getting paler and paler.  "Oh, Dick!
what is this?"

"I don't understand it," said Dick.  "Whatever made you think he
was here, sir?"

"Why, I tell you he left me to come here."

"Left you, sir!" faltered Phoebe.  "Why, when?--where?"

"At the diggings--ever so long ago."

"Blank him! that is just like him; the uneasy fool!" roared Dick.

"No, Mr. Dale, you should not say that; he left me, with my
consent, to come to Mrs. Falcon here, and consult her about
disposing of our diamonds."

"Diamonds!--diamonds!" cried Phoebe.  "Oh, they make me tremble.
How COULD you let him go alone!  You didn't let HIM go on foot, I
hope?"

"Oh, no, Mrs. Falcon; he had his horse, and his rifle, and money to
spend on the road."

"How long ago did he leave you, sir?"

"I--I am sorry to say it was five weeks ago."

"Five weeks! and not come yet.  Ah! the wild beasts!--the diggers!--
the murderers!  He is dead!"

"God forbid!" faltered Staines; but his own blood began to run
cold.

"He is dead.  He has died between this and the dreadful diamonds.
I shall never see my darling again: he is dead.  He is dead."

She rushed out of the room, and out of the house, throwing her arms
above her head in despair, and uttering those words of agony again
and again in every variety of anguish.

At such horrible moments women always swoon--if we are to believe
the dramatists.  I doubt if there is one grain of truth in this.
Women seldom swoon at all, unless their bodies are unhealthy, or
weakened by the reaction that follows so terrible a shock as this.
At all events, Phoebe, at first, was strong and wild as a lion, and
went to and fro outside the house, unconscious of her body's
motion, frenzied with agony, and but one word on her lips, "He is
dead!--he is dead!"

Dick followed her, crying like a child, but master of himself; he
got his people about her, and half carried her in again; then shut
the door in all their faces.

He got the poor creature to sit down, and she began to rock and
moan, with her apron over her head, and her brown hair loose about
her.

"Why should he be dead?" said Dick.  "Don't give a man up like
that, Phoebe.  Doctor, tell us more about it.  Oh, man, how could
you let him out of your sight?  You knew how fond the poor creature
was of him."

"But that was it, Mr. Dale," said Staines.  "I knew his wife must
pine for him; and we had found six large diamonds, and a handful of
small ones; but the market was glutted; and to get a better price,
he wanted to go straight to Cape Town.  But I said, 'No; go and
show them to your wife, and see whether she will go to Cape Town.'"

Phoebe began to listen, as was evident by her moaning more softly.

"Might he not have gone straight to Cape Town?" Staines hazarded
this timidly.

"Why should he do that, sir?  Dale's Kloof is on the road."

"Only on one road.  Mr. Dale, he was well armed, with rifle and
revolver; and I cautioned him not to show a diamond on the road.
Who would molest him?  Diamonds don't show, like gold.  Who was to
know he had three thousand pounds hidden under his armpits, and in
two barrels of his revolver?"

"Three thousand pounds!" cried Dale.  "You trusted HIM with three
thousand pounds?"

"Certainly.  They were worth about three thousand pounds in Cape
Town, and half as much again in"--

Phoebe started up in a moment.  "Thank God!" she cried.  "There's
hope for me.  Oh, Dick, he is not dead: HE HAS ONLY DESERTED ME."

And with these strange and pitiable words, she fell to sobbing as
if her great heart would burst at last.


CHAPTER XXIV.


There came a reaction, and Phoebe was prostrated with grief and
alarm.  Her brother never doubted now that Reginald had run to Cape
Town for a lark.  But Phoebe, though she thought so too, could not
be sure; and so the double agony of bereavement and desertion
tortured her by turns, and almost together.  For the first time
these many years, she was so crushed she could not go about her
business, but lay on a little sofa in her own room, and had the
blinds down, for her head ached so she could not bear the light.

She conceived a bitter resentment against Staines; and told Dick
never to let him into her sight, if he did not want to be her
death.

In vain Dick made excuses for him: she would hear none.  For once
she was as unreasonable as any other living woman: she could see
nothing but that she had been happy, after years of misery, and
should be happy now if this man had never entered her house.  "Ah,
Collie!" she cried, "you were wiser than I was.  You as good as
told me he would make me smart for lodging and curing him.  And I
was SO happy!"

Dale communicated this as delicately as he could to Staines.
Christopher was deeply grieved and wounded.  He thought it unjust,
but he knew it was natural: he said, humbly, "I feel guilty myself,
Mr. Dale; and yet, unless I had possessed omniscience, what could I
do?  I thought of her in all--poor thing! poor thing!"

The tears were in his eyes, and Dick Dale went away scratching his
head and thinking it over.  The more he thought, the less he was
inclined to condemn him.

Staines himself was much troubled in mind, and lived on thorns.  He
wanted to be off to England; grudged every day, every hour, he
spent in Africa.  But Mrs. Falcon was his benefactress; he had
been, for months and months, garnering up a heap of gratitude
towards her.  He had not the heart to leave her bad friends, and in
misery.  He kept hoping Falcon would return, or write.

Two days after his return, he was seated, disconsolate, gluing
garnets and carbuncles on to a broad tapering bit of lambskin, when
Ucatella came to him and said, "My doctor child sick?"

"No, not sick: but miserable."  And he explained to her, as well as
he could, what had passed.  "But," said he, "I would not mind the
loss of the diamonds now, if I was only sure he was alive.  I think
most of poor, poor Mrs. Falcon."

While Ucatella pondered this, but with one eye of demure curiosity
on the coronet he was making, he told her it was for her--he had
not forgot her at the mines.

"These stones," said he, "are not valued there; but see how
glorious they are!"

In a few minutes he had finished the coronet, and gave it her.  She
uttered a chuckle of delight, and with instinctive art, bound it,
in a turn of her hand, about her brow; and then Staines himself was
struck dumb with amazement.  The carbuncles gathered from those
mines look like rubies, so full of fire are they, and of enormous
size.  The chaplet had twelve great carbuncles in the centre, and
went off by gradations into smaller garnets by the thousand.  They
flashed their blood-red flames in the African sun, and the head of
Ucatella, grand before, became the head of the Sphinx, encircled
with a coronet of fire.  She bestowed a look of rapturous gratitude
on Staines, and then glided away, like the stately Juno, to admire
herself in the nearest glass like any other coquette, black, brown,
yellow, copper, or white.

That very day, towards sunset, she burst upon Staines quite
suddenly, with her coronet gleaming on her magnificent head, and
her eyes like coals of fire, and under her magnificent arm, hard as
a rock, a boy kicking and struggling in vain.  She was furiously
excited, and, for the first time, showed signs of the savage in the
whites of her eyes, which seemed to turn the glorious pupils into
semicircles.  She clutched Staines by the shoulder with her left
hand, and swept along with the pair, like dark Fate, or as potent
justice sweeps away a pair of culprits, and carried them to the
little window, and cried "Open--open!"

Dick Dale was at dinner; Phoebe lying down.  Dick got up, rather
crossly, and threw open the window.  "What is up now?" said he
crossly: he was like two or three more Englishmen--hated to be
bothered at dinner-time.

"Dar," screamed Ucatella, setting down Tim, but holding him tight
by the shoulder; "now you tell what you see that night, you lilly
Kafir trash; if you not tell, I kill you DEAD;" and she showed the
whites of her eyes, like a wild beast.

Tim, thoroughly alarmed, quivered out that he had seen lilly master
ride up to the gate one bright night, and look in, and Tim thought
he was going in: but he changed his mind, and galloped away that
way; and the monkey pointed south.

"And why couldn't you tell us this before?" questioned Dick.

"Me mind de sheep," said Tim apologetically.  "Me not mind de lilly
master: jackals not eat him."

"You no more sense dan a sheep yourself," said Ucatella loftily.

"No, no: God bless you both," cried poor Phoebe: "now I know the
worst:" and a great burst of tears relieved her suffering heart.

Dick went out softly.  When he got outside the door, he drew them
all apart, and said, "Yuke, you ARE a good-hearted girl.  I'll
never forget this while I live; and, Tim, there's a shilling for
thee; but don't you go and spend it in Cape smoke; that is poison
to whites, and destruction to blacks."

"No, master," said Tim.  "I shall buy much bread, and make my
tomach tiff;" then, with a glance of reproach at the domestic
caterer, Ucatella, "I almost never have my tomach tiff."

Dick left his sister alone an hour or two, to have her cry out.

When he went back to her there was a change: the brave woman no
longer lay prostrate.  She went about her business; only she was
always either crying or drowning her tears.

He brought Dr. Staines in.  Phoebe instantly turned her back on him
with a shudder there was no mistaking.

"I had better go," said Staines.  "Mrs. Falcon will never forgive
me."

"She will have to quarrel with me else," said Dick steadily.  "Sit
you down, doctor.  Honest folk like you and me and Phoebe wasn't
made to quarrel for want of looking a thing all round.  My sister
she hasn't looked it all round, and I have.  Come, Pheeb, 'tis no
use your blinding yourself.  How was the poor doctor to know your
husband is a blackguard?"

"He is not a blackguard.  How dare you say that to my face?"

"He is a blackguard, and always was.  And now he is a thief to
boot.  He has stolen those diamonds; you know that very well."

"Gently, Mr. Dale; you forget: they are as much his as mine."

"Well, and if half a sheep is mine, and I take the whole and sell
him, and keep the money, what is that but stealing?  Why, I wonder
at you, Pheeb.  You was always honest yourself, and yet you see the
doctor robbed by your man, and that does not trouble you.  What has
he done to deserve it?  He has been a good friend to us.  He has
put us on the road.  We did little more than keep the pot boiling
before he came--well, yes, we stored grain; but whose advice has
turned that grain to gold, I might say?  Well, what's his offence?
He trusted the diamonds to your man, and sent him to you.  Is he
the first honest man that has trusted a rogue?  How was he to know?
Likely he judged the husband by the wife.  Answer me one thing,
Pheeb.  If he makes away with fifteen hundred pounds that is his,
or partly yours--for he has eaten your bread ever since I knew him--
and fifteen hundred more that is the doctor's, where shall we find
fifteen hundred pounds, all in a moment, to pay the doctor back his
own?"

"My honest friend," said Staines, "you are tormenting yourself with
shadows.  I don't believe Mr. Falcon will wrong me of a shilling;
and, if he does, I shall quietly repay myself out of the big
diamond.  Yes, my dear friends, I did not throw away your horse,
nor your rifle, nor your money: I gave them all, and the lion's
skin--I gave them all--for this."

And he laid the big diamond on the table.

It was as big as a walnut, and of the purest water.

Dick Dale glanced at it stupidly.  Phoebe turned her back on it,
with a cry of horror, and then came slowly round by degrees; and
her eyes were fascinated by the royal gem.

"Yes," said Staines sadly, "I had to strip myself of all to buy it,
and, when I had got it, how proud I was, and how happy I thought we
should all be over it, for it is half yours, half mine.  Yes, Mr.
Dale, there lies six thousand pounds that belong to Mrs. Falcon."

"Six thousand pounds!" cried Dick.

"I'm sure of it.  And so, if your suspicions are correct, and poor
Falcon should yield to a sudden temptation, and spend all that
money, I shall just coolly deduct it from your share of this
wonderful stone: so make your mind easy.  But no; if Falcon is
really so wicked as to desert his happy home, and so mad as to
spend thousands in a month or two, let us go and save him."

"That is my business," said Phoebe.  "I am going in the mail-cart
to-morrow."

"Well, you won't go alone," said Dick.

"Mrs. Falcon," said Staines imploringly, "let me go with you."

"Thank you, sir.  My brother can take care of me."

"Me!  You had better not take me.  If I catch hold of him, by ---
I'll break his neck, or his back, or his leg, or something; he'll
never run away from you again, if I lay hands on him," replied
Dick.

"I'll go alone.  You are both against me."

"No, Mrs. Falcon; I am not," said Staines.  "My heart bleeds for
you."

"Don't you demean yourself, praying her," said Dick.  "It's a
public conveyance: you have no need to ask HER leave."

"That is true: I can't hinder folk from going to Cape Town the same
day," said Phoebe sullenly.

"If I might presume to advise, I would take little Tommy."

"What! all that road?  Do you want me to lose my child, as well as
my man?"

"O Mrs. Falcon!"

"Don't speak to her, doctor, to get your nose snapped off.  Give
her time.  She'll come to her senses before she dies."

Next day Mrs. Falcon and Staines started for Cape Town.  Staines
paid her every attention, when opportunity offered.  But she was
sullen and gloomy, and held no converse with him.

He landed her at an inn, and then told her he would go at once to
the jeweller's.  He asked her piteously would she lend him a pound
or two to prosecute his researches.  She took out her purse,
without a word, and lent him two pounds.

He began to scour the town: the jewellers he visited could tell him
nothing.  At last he came to a shop, and there he found Mrs. Falcon
making her inquiries independently.  She said coldly, "You had
better come with me, and get your money and things."

She took him to the bank--it happened to be the one she did
business with--and said, "This is Dr. Christie, come for his money
and jewels."

There was some demur at this; but the cashier recognized him, and
Phoebe making herself responsible, the money and jewels were handed
over.

Staines whispered Phoebe, "Are you sure the jewels are mine?"

"They were found on you, sir."

Staines took them, looking confused.  He did not know what to
think.  When they got into the street again, he told her it was
very kind of her to think of his interest at all.

No answer: she was not going to make friends with him over such a
trifle as that.

By degrees, however, Christopher's zeal on her behalf broke the
ice; and besides, as the search proved unavailing, she needed
sympathy; and he gave it her, and did not abuse her husband as Dick
Dale did.

One day, in the street, after a long thought, she said to him,
"Didn't you say, sir, you gave him a letter for me?"

"I gave him two letters; one of them was to you."

"Could you remember what you said in it?"

"Perfectly.  I begged you, if you should go to England, to break
the truth to my wife.  She is very excitable; and sudden joy has
killed ere now.  I gave you particular instructions."

"And you were very wise.  But whatever could make you think I would
go to England?"

"He told me you only wanted an excuse."

"Oh!!"

"When he told me that, I caught at it, of course.  It was all the
world to me to get my Rosa told by such a kind, good, sensible
friend as you; and, Mrs. Falcon, I had no scruple about troubling
you, because I knew the stones would sell for at least a thousand
pounds more in England than here, and that would pay your expenses."

"I see, sir; I see.  'Twas very natural: you love your wife."

"Better than my life."

"And he told you I only wanted an excuse to go to England?"

"He did, indeed.  It was not true?"

"It was anything but true.  I had suffered so in England; I had
been so happy here: too happy to last.  Ah! well, it is all over.
Let us think of the matter in hand.  Sure that was not the only
letter you gave my husband?  Didn't you write to HER?"

"Of course I did; but that was enclosed to you, and not to be given
to her until you had broken the joyful news to her.  Yes, Mrs.
Falcon, I wrote and told her everything: my loss at sea; how I was
saved, after, by your kindness.  Our journeys, from Cape Town, and
then to the diggings; my sudden good fortune, my hopes, my joy--
O my poor Rosa! and now I suppose she will never get it.  It is too
cruel of him.  I shall go home by the next steamer.  I CAN'T stay
here any longer, for you or anybody.  Oh, and I enclosed my ruby
ring that she gave me, for I thought she might not believe you
without that."

"Let me think," said Phoebe, turning ashy pale.  "For mercy's sake,
let me think!

"He has read both those letters, sir.

"She will never see hers: any more than I shall see mine."

She paused again, thinking harder and harder.

"We must take two places in the next mail steamer.  I must look
after my husband, AND YOU AFTER YOUR WIFE."


CHAPTER XXV.


Mrs. Falcon's bitter feeling against Dr. Staines did not subside;
it merely went out of sight a little.  They were thrown together by
potent circumstances, and in a manner connected by mutual
obligations; so an open rupture seemed too unnatural.  Still Phoebe
was a woman, and, blinded by her love for her husband, could not
forgive the innocent cause of their present unhappy separation;
though the fault lay entirely with Falcon.

Staines took her on board the steamer, and paid her every
attention.  She was also civil to him; but it was a cold and
constrained civility.

About a hundred miles from land the steamer stopped, and the
passengers soon learned there was something wrong with her
machinery.  In fact, after due consultation, the captain decided to
put back.

This irritated and distressed Mrs. Falcon so that the captain,
desirous to oblige her, hailed a fast schooner, that tacked across
her bows, and gave Mrs. Falcon the option of going back with him,
or going on in the schooner, with whose skipper he was acquainted.

Staines advised her on no account to trust to sails, when she could
have steam with only a delay of four or five days; but she said,
"Anything sooner than go back.  I can't, I can't on such an
errand."

Accordingly she was put on board the schooner, and Staines, after
some hesitation, felt bound to accompany her.

It proved a sad error.  Contrary winds assailed them the very next
day, and with such severity that they had repeatedly to lie to.

On one of these occasions, with a ship reeling under them like a
restive horse, and the waves running mountains high, poor Phoebe's
terrors overmastered both her hostility and her reserve.  "Doctor,"
said she, "I believe 'tis God's will we shall never see England.  I
must try and die more like a Christian than I have lived, forgiving
all who have wronged me, and you, that have been my good friend and
my worst enemy, but you did not mean it.  Sir, what has turned me
against you so--your wife was my husband's sweetheart before he
married me."

"My wife your husband's--you are dreaming."

"Nay, sir, once she came to my shop, and I saw directly I was
nothing to him, and he owned it all to me; he had courted her, and
she jilted him; so he said.  Why should he tell me a lie about
that?  I'd lay my life 'tis true.  And now you have sent him to her
your own self; and, at sight of her, I shall be nothing again.
Well, when this ship goes down, they can marry, and I hope he will
be happy, happier than I can make him, that tried my best, God
knows."

This conversation surprised Staines not a little.  However, he
said, with great warmth, it was false.  His wife had danced and
flirted with some young gentleman at one time, when there was a
brief misunderstanding between him and her, but sweetheart she had
never had, except him.  He courted her fresh from school.  "Now, my
good soul," said he, "make your mind easy; the ship is a good one,
and well handled, and in no danger whatever, and my wife is in no
danger from your husband.  Since you and your brother tell me that
he is a villain, I am bound to believe you.  But my wife is an
angel.  In our miserable hour of parting, she vowed not to marry
again, should I be taken from her.  Marry again! what am I talking
of?  Why, if he visits her at all, it will be to let her know I am
alive, and give her my letter.  Do you mean to tell me she will
listen to vows of love from him, when her whole heart is in rapture
for me?  Such nonsense!"

This burst of his did not affront her, and did not comfort her.

At last the wind abated; and after a wearisome calm, a light breeze
came, and the schooner crept homeward.

Phoebe restrained herself for several days; but at last she came
back to the subject; this time it was in an apologetic tone at
starting.  "I know you think me a foolish woman," she said; "but my
poor Reginald could never resist a pretty face; and she is so
lovely; and you should have seen how he turned when she came in to
my place.  Oh, sir, there has been more between them than you know
of; and when I think that he will have been in England so many
months before we get there, oh, doctor, sometimes I feel as I
should go mad; my head it is like a furnace, and see, my brow is
all wrinkled again."

Then Staines tried to comfort her; assured her she was tormenting
herself idly; her husband would perhaps have spent some of the
diamond money on his amusement; but what if he had? he should
deduct it out of the big diamond, which was also their joint
property, and the loss would hardly be felt.  "As to my wife,
madam, I have but one anxiety; lest he should go blurting it out
that I am alive, and almost kill her with joy."

"He will not do that, sir.  He is no fool."

"I am glad of it; for there is nothing else to fear."

"Man, I tell you there is everything to fear.  You don't know him
as I do; nor his power over women."

"Mrs. Falcon, are you bent on affronting me?"

"No, sir; Heaven forbid!"

"Then please to close this subject forever.  In three weeks we
shall be in England."

"Ay; but he has been there six months."

He bowed stiffly to her, went to his cabin, and avoided the poor
foolish woman as much as he could without seeming too unkind.


CHAPTER XXVI.


Mrs. Staines made one or two movements--to stop Lord Tadcaster--
with her hand, that expressive feature with which, at such times, a
sensitive woman can do all but speak.

When at last he paused for her reply, she said, "Me marry again!
Oh! for shame!"

"Mrs. Staines--Rosa--you will marry again, some day."

"Never.  Me take another husband, after such a man as I have lost!
I should be a monster.  Oh, Lord Tadcaster, you have been so kind
to me; so sympathizing.  You made me believe you loved my
Christopher, too; and now you have spoiled all.  It is too cruel."

"Oh! Mrs. Staines, do you think me capable of feigning--don't you
see my love for you has taken you by surprise?  But how could I
visit you--look on you--hear you--mingle my regrets with yours;
yours were the deepest, of course; but mine were honest."

"I believe it."  And she gave him her hand.  He held it, and kissed
it, and cried over it, as the young will, and implored her, on his
knees, not to condemn herself to life-long widowhood, and him to
despair.

Then she cried, too; but she was firm; and by degrees she made him
see that her heart was inaccessible.

Then at last he submitted with tearful eyes, but a valiant heart.

She offered friendship timidly.

But he was too much of a man to fall into that trap.  "No," he
said: "I could not, I could not.  Love or nothing."

"You are right," said she, pityingly.  "Forgive me.  In my
selfishness and my usual folly, I did not see this coming on, or I
would have spared you this mortification."

"Never mind that," gulped the little earl.  "I shall always be
proud I knew you, and proud I loved you, and offered you my hand."

Then the magnanimous little fellow blessed her, and left her, and
discontinued his visits.

Mr. Lusignan found her crying, and got the truth out of her.  He
was in despair.  He remonstrated kindly, but firmly.  Truth compels
me to say that she politely ignored him.  He observed that
phenomenon, and said, "Very well then, I shall telegraph for Uncle
Philip."

"Do," said the rebel.  "He is always welcome."

Philip, telegraphed, came down that evening; likewise his little
black bag.  He found them in the drawing-room: papa with the Pall
Mall Gazette, Rosa seated, sewing, at a lamp.  She made little
Christie's clothes herself,--fancy that!

Having ascertained that the little boy was well, Philip, adroitly
hiding that he had come down torn with anxiety on that head,
inquired with a show of contemptuous indifference, whose cat was
dead.

"Nobody's," said Lusignan crossly.  Then he turned and pointed the
Gazette at his offspring.  "Do you see that young lady stitching
there so demurely?"

Philip carefully wiped and then put on his spectacles.

"I see her," said he.  "She does look a little too innocent.  None
of them are really so innocent as all that.  Has she been swearing
at the nurse, and boxing her ears?"

"Worse than that.  She has been and refused the Earl of Tadcaster."

"Refused him--what! has that little monkey had the audacity?"

"The condescension, you mean.  Yes."

"And she has refused him?"

"And twenty thousand a year."

"What immorality!"

"Worse.  What absurdity!"

"How is it to be accounted for?  Is it the old story?  'I could
never love him.'  No; that's inadequate; for they all love a title
and twenty thousand a year."

Rosa sewed on all this time in demure and absolute silence.

"She ignores us," said Philip.  "It is intolerable.  She does not
appreciate our politeness in talking at her.  Let us arraign her
before our sacred tribunal, and have her into court.  Now,
mistress, the Senate of Venice is assembled, and you must be
pleased to tell us why you refused a title and twenty thousand a
year, with a small but symmetrical earl tacked on."

Rosa laid down her work, and said quietly, "Uncle, almost the last
words that passed between me and my Christopher, we promised each
other solemnly never to marry again till death should us part.  You
know how deep my sorrow has been that I can find so few wishes of
my lost Christopher to obey.  Well, to-day I have had an
opportunity at last.  I have obeyed my own lost one; it has cost me
a tear or two; but, for all that, it has given me one little gleam
of happiness.  Ah, foolish woman, that obeys too late!"

And with this the tears began to run.

All this seemed a little too high-flown to Mr. Lusignan.  "There,"
said he, "see on what a straw her mind turns.  So, but for that,
you would have done the right thing, and married the earl?"

"I dare say I should--at the time--to stop his crying."

And with this listless remark she quietly took up her sewing again.

The sagacious Philip looked at her gravely.  He thought to himself
how piteous it was to see so young and lovely a creature, that had
given up all hope of happiness for herself.  These being his real
thoughts, he expressed himself as follows: "We had better drop this
subject, sir.  This young lady will take us potent, grave, and
reverend seignors out of our depth, if we don't mind."

But the moment he got her alone he kissed her paternally, and said,
"Rosa, it is not lost on me, your fidelity to the dead.  As years
roll on, and your deep wound first closes, then skins, then heals--"

"Ah, let me die first--"

"Time and nature will absolve you from that vow; but bless you for
thinking this can never be.  Rosa, your folly of this day has made
you my heir; so never let money tempt you, for you have enough, and
will have more than enough when I go."

He was as good as his word; altered his will next day, and made
Rosa his residuary legatee.  When he had done this, foreseeing no
fresh occasion for his services, he prepared for a long visit to
Italy.  He was packing up his things to go there, when he received
a line from Lady Cicely Treherne, asking him to call on her
professionally.  As the lady's servant brought it, he sent back a
line to say he no longer practised medicine, but would call on her
as a friend in an hour's time.

He found her reclining, the picture of lassitude.  "How good of you
to come," she drawled.

"What's the matter?" said he brusquely.

"I wish to cawnsult you about myself.  I think if anybody can
brighten me up, it is you.  I feel such a languaw--such a want of
spirit; and I get palaa, and that is not desiwable."

He examined her tongue and the white of her eye, and told her, in
his blunt way, she ate and drank too much.

"Excuse me, sir," said she stiffly.

"I mean too often.  Now, let's see.  Cup of tea in bed, of a
morning?"

"Yaas."

"Dinner at two?"

"We call it luncheon."

"Are you a ventriloquist?"

"No."

"Then it is only your lips call it luncheon.  Your poor stomach,
could it speak, would call it dinner.  Afternoon tea?"

"Yaas."

"At seven-thirty another dinner.  Tea after that.  Your afflicted
stomach gets no rest.  You eat pastry?"

"I confess it."

"And sugar in a dozen forms?"

She nodded.

"Well, sugar is poison to your temperament.  Now I'll set you up,
if you can obey.  Give up your morning dram."

"What dwam?"

"Tea in bed, before eating.  Can't you see that is a dram?  Animal
food twice a day.  No wine but a little claret and water; no
pastry, no sweets, and play battledore with one of your male
subjects."

"Battledaw! won't a lady do for that?"

"No: you would get talking, and not play ad sudorem."

"Ad sudawem! what is that?"

"In earnest."

"And will sudawem and the west put me in better spiwits, and give
me a tinge?"

"It will incarnadine the lily, and make you the happiest young lady
in England, as you are the best."

"I should like to be much happier than I am good, if we could
manage it among us."

"We will manage it AMONG us; for if the diet allowed should not
make you boisterously gay, I have a remedy behind, suited to your
temperament.  I am old-fashioned, and believe in the temperaments."

"And what is that wemedy?"

"Try diet, and hard exercise, first."

"Oh, yes; but let me know that wemedy."

"I warn you it is what we call in medicine an heroic one."

"Never mind.  I am despewate."

"Well, then, the heroic remedy--to be used only as a desperate
resort, mind--you must marry an Irishman."

This took the lady's breath away.

"Mawwy a nice man?"

"A nice man; no.  That means a fool.  Marry scientifically--a
precaution eternally neglected.  Marry a Hibernian gentleman, a
being as mercurial as you are lymphatic."

"Mercurial!--lymphatic!"--

"Oh, hard words break no bones, ma'am."

"No, sir.  And it is very curious.  No, I won't tell you.  Yes, I
will.  Hem I--I think I have noticed one."

"One what?"

"One Iwishman--dangling after me."

"Then your ladyship has only to tighten the cord--and HE'S done
for."

Having administered this prescription, our laughing philosopher
went off to Italy, and there fell in with some countrymen to his
mind, so he accompanied them to Egypt and Palestine.

His absence, and Lord Tadcaster's, made Rosa Staines's life
extremely monotonous.  Day followed day, and week followed week,
each so unvarying, that, on a retrospect, three months seemed like
one day.

And I think at last youth and nature began to rebel, and secretly
to crave some little change or incident to ruffle the stagnant
pool.  Yet she would not go into society, and would only receive
two or three dull people at the villa; so she made the very
monotony which was beginning to tire her, and nursed a sacred grief
she had no need to nurse, it was so truly genuine.

She was in this forlorn condition, when, one morning, a carriage
drove to the door, and a card was brought up to her--"Mr. Reginald
Falcon."

Falcon's history, between this and our last advices, is soon
disposed of.

When, after a little struggle with his better angel, he rode past
his wife's gate, he intended, at first, only to go to Cape Town,
sell the diamonds, have a lark, and bring home the balance: but, as
he rode south, his views expanded.  He could have ten times the fun
in London, and cheaper; since he could sell the diamonds for more
money, and also conceal the true price.  This was the Bohemian's
whole mind in the business.  He had no designs whatever on Mrs.
Staines, nor did he intend to steal the diamonds, but to embezzle a
portion of the purchase-money, and enjoy the pleasures and vices of
the capital for a few months; then back to his milch cow, Phoebe,
and lead a quiet life till the next uncontrollable fit should come
upon him along with the means of satisfying it.

On the way, he read Staines's letter to Mrs. Falcon, very
carefully.  He never broke the seal of the letter to Mrs. Staines.
That was to be given her when he had broken the good news to her;
and this he determined to do with such skill, as should make Dr.
Staines very unwilling to look suspiciously or ill-naturedly into
money accounts.

He reached London; and being a thorough egotist, attended first to
his own interests; he never went near Mrs. Staines until he had
visited every diamond merchant and dealer in the metropolis; he
showed the small stones to them all but he showed no more than one
large stone to each.

At last he got an offer of twelve hundred pounds for the small
stones, and the same for the large yellow stone, and nine hundred
pounds for the second largest stone.  He took this nine hundred
pounds, and instantly wrote to Phoebe, telling her he had a sudden
inspiration to bring the diamonds to England, which he could not
regret, since he had never done a wiser thing.  He had sold a
single stone for eight hundred pounds, and had sent the doctor's
four hundred pounds to her account in Cape Town; and as each sale
was effected, the half would be so remitted.  She would see by
that, he was wiser than in former days.  He should only stay so
long as might be necessary to sell them all equally well.  His own
share he would apply to paying off mortgages on the family estate,
of which he hoped some day to see her the mistress, or he would
send it direct to her, whichever she might prefer.

Now the main object of this artful letter was to keep Phoebe quiet,
and not have her coming after him, of which he felt she was very
capable.

The money got safe to Cape Town, but the letter to Phoebe
miscarried.  How this happened was never positively known; but the
servant of the lodging-house was afterwards detected cutting stamps
off a letter; so perhaps she had played that game on this occasion.

By this means, matters took a curious turn.  Falcon, intending to
lull his wife into a false security, lulled himself into that state
instead.

When he had taken care of himself, and got five hundred pounds to
play the fool with, then he condescended to remember his errand of
mercy; and he came down to Gravesend, to see Mrs. Staines.

On the road, he gave his mind seriously to the delicate and
dangerous task.  It did not, however, disquiet him as it would you,
sir, or you, madam.  He had a great advantage over you.  He was a
liar--a smooth, ready, accomplished liar--and he knew it.

This was the outline he had traced in his mind: he should appear
very subdued and sad; should wear an air of condolence.  But, after
a while, should say, "And yet men have been lost like that, and
escaped.  A man was picked up on a raft in those very latitudes,
and brought into Cape Town.  A friend of mine saw him, months
after, at the hospital.  His memory was shaken--could not tell his
name; but in other respects he was all right again."

If Mrs. Staines took fire at this, he would say his friend knew all
the particulars, and he would ask him, and so leave that to rankle
till next visit.  And having planted his germ of hope, he would
grow it, and water it, by visits and correspondence, till he could
throw off the mask, and say he was convinced Staines was alive: and
from that, by other degrees, till he could say, on his wife's
authority, that the man picked up at sea, and cured at her house,
was the very physician who had saved her brother's life: and so on
to the overwhelming proof he carried in the ruby ring and the letter.

I am afraid the cunning and dexterity, the subtlety and tact
required, interested him more in the commission than did the
benevolence.  He called, sent up his card, and composed his
countenance for his part, like an actor at the Wing.

"Not at home."

He stared with amazement.

The history of a "Not at home" is not, in general, worth recording:
but this is an exception.

On receiving Falcon's card, Mrs. Staines gave a little start, and
colored faintly.  She instantly resolved not to see him.  What! the
man she had flirted with, almost jilted, and refused to marry--he
dared to be alive when her Christopher was dead, and had come there
to show her HE was alive!

She said "Not at home" with a tone of unusual sharpness and
decision, which left the servant in no doubt he must be equally
decided at the hall door.

Falcon received the sudden freezer with amazement.  "Nonsense,"
said he.  "Not at home at this time of the morning--to an old
friend!"

"Not at home," said the man doggedly.

"Oh, very well," said Falcon with a bitter sneer, and returned to
London.

He felt sure she was at home; and being a tremendous egotist, he
said, "Oh! all right.  If she would rather not know her husband is
alive, it is all one to me;" and he actually took no more notice of
her for a full week, and never thought of her, except to chuckle
over the penalty she was paying for daring to affront his vanity.

However, Sunday came; he saw a dull day before him, and so he
relented, and thought he would give her another trial.

He went down to Gravesend by boat, and strolled towards the villa.

When he was about a hundred yards from the villa, a lady, all in
black, came out with a nurse and child.

Falcon knew her figure all that way off, and it gave him a curious
thrill that surprised him.  He followed her, and was not very far
behind her when she reached the church.  She turned at the porch,
kissed the child earnestly, and gave the nurse some directions;
then entered the church.

"Come," said Falcon, "I'll have a look at her, any way."

He went into the church, and walked up a side aisle to a pillar,
from which he thought he might be able to see the whole
congregation; and, sure enough, there she sat, a few yards from
him.  She was lovelier than ever.  Mind had grown on her face with
trouble.  An angelic expression illuminated her beauty; he gazed on
her, fascinated.  He drank and drank her beauty two mortal hours,
and when the church broke up, and she went home, he was half afraid
to follow her, for he felt how hard it would be to say anything to
her but that the old love had returned on him with double force.

However, having watched her home, he walked slowly to and fro
composing himself for the interview.

He now determined to make the process of informing her a very long
one: he would spin it out, and so secure many a sweet interview
with her: and, who knows? he might fascinate her as she had him,
and ripen gratitude into love, as he understood that word.

He called, he sent in his card.  The man went in, and came back
with a sonorous "Not at home."

"Not at home? nonsense.  Why, she is just come in from church."

"Not at home," said the man, evidently strong in his instructions.

Falcon turned white with rage at this second affront.  "All the
worse for her," said he, and turned on his heel.

He went home, raging with disappointment and wounded vanity, and--
since such love as his is seldom very far from hate--he swore she
should never know from him that her husband was alive.  He even
moralized.  "This comes of being so unselfish," said he.  "I'll
give that game up forever."

By and by, a mere negative revenge was not enough for him, and he
set his wits to work to make her smart.

He wrote to her from his lodgings:--


DEAR MADAM,--What a pity you are never at home to me.  I had
something to say about your husband, that I thought might interest
you.

Yours truly,

R. FALCON.


Imagine the effect of this abominable note.  It was like a rock
flung into a placid pool.  It set Rosa trembling all over.  What
could he mean?

She ran with it to her father, and asked him what Mr. Falcon could
mean.

"I have no idea," said he.  "You had better ask him, not me."

"I am afraid it is only to get to see me.  You know he admired me
once.  Ah, how suspicious I am getting."

Rosa wrote to Falcon:--


DEAR SIR,--Since my bereavement I see scarcely anybody.  My servant
did not know you; so I hope you will excuse me.  If it is too much
trouble to call again, would you kindly explain your note to me?

Yours respectfully,

ROSA STAINES.


Falcon chuckled bitterly over this.  "No, my lady," said he.  "I'll
serve you out.  You shall run after me like a little dog.  I have
got the bone that will draw you."

He wrote back coldly to say that the matter he had wished to
communicate was too delicate and important to put on paper; that he
would try and get down to Gravesend again some day or other, but
was much occupied, and had already put himself to inconvenience.
He added, in a postscript, that he was always at home from four to
five.

Next day he got hold of the servant, and gave her minute
instructions, and a guinea.

Then the wretch got some tools and bored a hole in the partition
wall of his sitting-room.  The paper had large flowers.  He was
artist enough to conceal the trick with water-colors.  In his bed-
room the hole came behind the curtains.

That very afternoon, as he had foreseen, Mrs. Staines called on
him.  The maid, duly instructed, said Mr. Falcon was out, but would
soon return, and could she wait his return?  The maid being so very
civil, Mrs. Staines said she would wait a little while, and was
immediately ushered into Falcon's sitting-room.  There she sat
down; but was evidently ill at ease, restless, flushed.  She could
not sit quiet, and at last began to walk up and down the room,
almost wildly.  Her beautiful eyes glittered, and the whole woman
seemed on fire.  The caitiff, who was watching her, saw and gloated
on all this, and enjoyed to the full her beauty and agitation, and
his revenge for her "Not at homes."

But after a long time, there was a reaction: she sat down and
uttered some plaintive sounds inarticulate, or nearly; and at last
she began to cry.

Then it cost Falcon an effort not to come in and comfort her; but
he controlled himself and kept quiet.

She rang the bell.  She asked for writing paper, and she wrote her
unseen tormentor a humble note, begging him, for old acquaintance,
to call on her, and tell her what his mysterious words meant that
had filled her with agitation.

This done, she went away, with a deep sigh, and Falcon emerged, and
pounced upon her letter.

He kissed it; he read it a dozen times: he sat down where she had
sat, and his base passion overpowered him.  Her beauty, her
agitation, her fear, her tears, all combined to madden him, and do
the devil's work in his false, selfish heart, so open to violent
passions, so dead to conscience.

For once in his life he was violently agitated, and torn by
conflicting feelings: he walked about the room more wildly than his
victim had; and if it be true that, in certain great temptations,
good and bad angels fight for a man, here you might have seen as
fierce a battle of that kind as ever was.

At last he rushed out into the air, and did not return till ten
o'clock at night.  He came back pale and haggard, and with a look
of crime upon his face.

True Bohemian as he was, he sent for a pint of brandy.

So then the die was cast, and something was to be done that called
for brandy.

He bolted himself in, and drank a wine-glass of it neat; then
another; then another.

Now his pale cheek is flushed, and his eye glitters.  Drink
forever! great ruin of English souls as well as bodies.

He put the poker in the fire, and heated it red hot.

He brought Staines's letter, and softened the sealing-wax with the
hot poker; then with his pen-knife made a neat incision in the wax,
and opened the letter.  He took out the ring, and put it carefully
away.  Then he lighted a cigar, and read the letter, and studied
it.  Many a man, capable of murder in heat of passion, could not
have resisted the pathos of this letter.  Many a Newgate thief,
after reading it, would have felt such pity for the loving husband
who had suffered to the verge of death, and then to the brink of
madness, and for the poor bereaved wife, that he would have taken
the letter down to Gravesend that very night, though he picked two
fresh pockets to defray the expenses of the road.

But this was an egotist.  Good nature had curbed his egotism a
little while; but now vanity and passion had swept away all
unselfish feelings, and the pure egotist alone remained.

Now, the pure egotist has been defined as a man who will burn down
his NEIGHBOR'S house to cook HIMSELF an egg.  Murder is but egotism
carried out to its natural climax.  What is murder to a pure
egotist, especially a brandied one?

I knew an egotist who met a female acquaintance in Newhaven
village.  She had a one-pound note, and offered to treat him.  She
changed this note to treat him.  Fish she gave him, and much
whiskey.  Cost her four shillings.  He ate and drank with her, at
her expense; and his aorta, or principal blood-vessel, being warmed
with her whiskey, he murdered her for the change, the odd sixteen
shillings.

I had the pleasure of seeing that egotist hung, with these eyes.
It was a slice of luck that, I grieve to say, has not occurred
again to me.

So much for a whiskied egotist.

His less truculent but equally remorseless brother in villany, the
brandied egotist, Falcon, could read that poor husband's letter
without blenching; the love and the anticipations of rapture, these
made him writhe a little with jealousy, but they roused not a grain
of pity.  He was a true egotist, blind, remorseless.

In this, his true character, he studied the letter profoundly, and
mastered all the facts, and digested them well.

All manner of diabolical artifices presented themselves to his
brain, barren of true intellect, yet fertile in fraud; in that, and
all low cunning and subtlety, far more than a match for Solomon or
Bacon.

His sinister studies were pursued far into the night.  Then he went
to bed, and his unbounded egotism gave him the sleep a grander
criminal would have courted in vain on the verge of a monstrous and
deliberate crime.

Next day he went to a fashionable tailor, and ordered a complete
suit of black.  This was made in forty-eight hours; the interval
was spent mainly in concocting lies to be incorporated with the
number of minute facts he had gained from Staines's letter, and in
making close imitations of his handwriting.

Thus armed, and crammed with more lies than the "Menteur" of
Corneille, but not such innocent ones, he went down to Gravesend,
all in deep mourning, with crape round his hat.

He presented himself at the villa.

The servant was all obsequiousness.  Yes, Mrs. Staines received few
visitors; but she was at home to HIM.  He even began to falter
excuses.  "Nonsense," said Falcon, and slipped a sovereign into his
hand; "you are a good servant, and obey orders."

The servant's respect doubled, and he ushered the visitor into the
drawing-room, as one whose name was a passport.  "Mr. Reginald
Falcon, madam."

Mrs. Staines was alone.  She rose to meet him.  Her color came and
went, her full eye fell on him, and took in all at a glance--that
he was all in black, and that he had a beard, and looked pale, and
ill at ease.

Little dreaming that this was the anxiety of a felon about to take
the actual plunge into a novel crime, she was rather prepossessed
by it.  The beard gave him dignity, and hid his mean, cruel mouth.
His black suit seemed to say he, too, had lost some one dear to
him; and that was a ground of sympathy.

She received him kindly, and thanked him for taking the trouble to
come again.  She begged him to be seated; and then, womanlike, she
waited for him to explain.

But he was in no hurry, and waited for her.  He knew she would
speak if he was silent.

She could not keep him waiting long.  "Mr. Falcon," said she,
hesitating a little, "you have something to say to me about him I
have lost."

"Yes," said he softly.  "I have something I could say, and I think
I ought to say it; but I am afraid: because I don't know what will
be the result.  I fear to make you more unhappy."

"Me! more unhappy?  Me, whose dear husband lies at the bottom of
the ocean.  Other poor wounded creatures have the wretched comfort
of knowing where he lies--of carrying flowers to his tomb.  But I--
oh, Mr. Falcon, I am bereaved of all: even his poor remains lost,--
lost"--she could say no more.

Then that craven heart began to quake at what he was doing; quaked,
yet persevered; but his own voice quivered, and his cheek grew ashy
pale.  No wonder.  If ever God condescended to pour lightning on a
skunk, surely now was the time.

Shaking and sweating with terror at his own act, he stammered out,
"Would it be the least comfort to you to know that you are not
denied that poor consolation?  Suppose he died not so miserably as
you think?  Suppose he was picked up at sea, in a dying state?"

"Ah!"

"Suppose he lingered, nursed by kind and sympathizing hands, that
almost saved him?  Suppose he was laid in hallowed ground, and a
great many tears shed over his grave?"

"Ah, that would indeed be a comfort.  And it was to say this you
came.  I thank you.  I bless you.  But, my good, kind friend, you
are deceived.  You don't know my husband.  You never saw him.  He
perished at sea."

"Will it be kind or unkind, to tell you why I think he died as I
tell you, and not at sea?"

"Kind, but impossible.  You deceive yourself.  Ah, I see.  You
found some poor sufferer, and were good to him; but it was not my
poor Christie.  Oh, if it were, I should worship you.  But I thank
you as it is.  It was very kind to want to give me this little,
little crumb of comfort; for I know I did not behave well to you,
sir: but you are generous, and have forgiven a poor heart-broken
creature, that never was very wise."

He gave her time to cry, and then said to her, "I only wanted to be
sure it WOULD be any comfort to you.  Mrs. Staines, it is true I
did not even know his name; nor yours.  When I met, in this very
room, the great disappointment that has saddened my own life, I
left England directly.  I collected funds, went to Natal, and
turned land-owner and farmer.  I have made a large fortune, but I
need not tell you I am not happy.  Well, I had a yacht, and sailing
from Cape Town to Algoa Bay, I picked up a raft, with a dying man
on it.  He was perishing from exhaustion and exposure.  I got a
little brandy between his lips, and kept him alive.  I landed with
him at once: and we nursed him on shore.  We had to be very
cautious.  He improved.  We got him to take egg-flip.  He smiled on
us at first, and then he thanked us.  I nursed him day and night
for ten days.  He got much stronger.  He spoke to me, thanked me
again and again, and told me his name was Christopher Staines.  He
told me that he should never get well.  I implored him to have
courage.  He said he did not want for courage; but nature had been
tried too hard.  We got so fond of each other.  Oh!"--and the
caitiff pretended to break down; and his feigned grief mingled with
Rosa's despairing sobs.

He made an apparent effort, and said, "He spoke to me of his wife,
his darling Rosa.  The name made me start, but I could not know it
was you.  At last he was strong enough to write a few lines, and he
made me promise to take them to his wife."

"Ah!" said Rosa.  "Show them me."

"I will."

"This moment."  And her hands began to work convulsively.

"I cannot," said Falcon.  "I have not brought them with me."

Rosa cast a keen eye of suspicion and terror on him.  His not
bringing the letter seemed monstrous; and so indeed it was.  The
fact is, the letter was not written.

Falcon affected not to notice her keen look.  He flowed on, "The
address he put on that letter astonished me.  'Kent Villa.'  Of
course I knew Kent Villa: and he called you 'Rosa.'"

"How could you come to me without that letter?" cried Rosa,
wringing her hands.  "How am I to know?  It is all so strange, so
incredible."

"Don't you believe me?" said Falcon sadly.  "Why should I deceive
you?  The first time I came down to tell you all this, I did not
KNOW who Mrs. Staines was.  I suspected; but no more.  The second
time I saw you in the church, and then I knew; and followed you to
try and tell you all this; and you were not at home to me."

"Forgive me," said Rosa carelessly: then earnestly, "The letter!
when can I see it?"

"I will send, or bring it."

"Bring it! I am in agony till I see it.  Oh, my darling! my
darling!  It can't be true.  It was not my Christie.  He lies in
the depths of the ocean.  Lord Tadcaster was in the ship, and he
says so; everybody says so."

"And I say he sleeps in hallowed ground, and these hands laid him
there."

Rosa lifted her hands to heaven, and cried piteously, "I don't know
what to think.  You would not willingly deceive me.  But how can
this be?  Oh, Uncle Philip, why are you away from me?  Sir, you say
he gave you a letter?"

"Yes."

"Oh, why, why did you not bring it?"

"Because he told me the contents; and I thought he prized my poor
efforts too highly.  It did not occur to me you would doubt my
word."

"Oh, no: no more I do: but I fear it was not my Christie."

"I'll go for the letter at once, Mrs. Staines."

"Oh, thank you!  Bless you!  Yes, this minute!"

The artful rogue did not go; never intended.

He rose TO GO; but had a sudden inspiration; very sudden, of
course.  "Had he nothing about him you could recognize him by?"

"Yes, he had a ring I gave him."

Falcon took a black-edged envelope out of his pocket.

"A ruby ring," said she, beginning to tremble at his quiet action.

"Is that it?" and he handed her a ruby ring.


CHAPTER XXVII.


Mrs. Staines uttered a sharp cry and seized the ring.  Her eyes
dilated over it, and she began to tremble in every limb; and at
last she sank slowly back, and her head fell on one side like a
broken lily.  The sudden sight of the ring overpowered her almost
to fainting.

Falcon rose to call for assistance; but she made him a feeble
motion not to do so.

She got the better of her faintness, and then she fell to kissing
the ring, in an agony of love, and wept over it, and still held it,
and gazed at it through her blinding tears.

Falcon eyed her uneasily.

But he soon found he had nothing to fear.  For a long time she
seemed scarcely aware of his presence; and when she noticed him, it
was to thank him, almost passionately.

"It was my Christie you were so good to: may Heaven bless you for
it: and you will bring me his letter, will you not?"

"Of course I will."

"Oh, do not go yet.  It is all so strange: so sad.  I seem to have
lost my poor Christie again, since he did not die at sea.  But no,
I am ungrateful to God, and ungrateful to the kind friend that
nursed him to the last.  Ah, I envy you that.  Tell me all.  Never
mind my crying.  I have seen the time I could not cry.  It was
worse then than now.  I shall always cry when I speak of him, ay,
to my dying day.  Tell me, tell me all."

Her passion frightened the egotist, but did not turn him.  He had
gone too far.  He told her that, after raising all their hopes, Dr.
Staines had suddenly changed for the worse, and sunk rapidly; that
his last words had been about her, and he had said, "My poor Rosa,
who will protect her?"  That, to comfort him, he had said he would
protect her.  Then the dying man had managed to write a line or
two, and to address it.  Almost his last words had been, "Be a
father to my child."

"That is strange."

"You have no child?  Then it must have been you he meant.  He spoke
of you as a child more than once."

"Mr. Falcon, I have a child; but born since I lost my poor child's
father."

"Then I think he knew it.  They say that dying men can see all over
the world: and I remember, when he said it, his eyes seemed fixed
very strangely, as if on something distant.  Oh, how wonderful all
this is.  May I see his child, to whom I promised"--

The artist in lies left his sentence half completed.

Rosa rang, and sent for her little boy.

Mr. Falcon admired his beauty, and said quietly, "I shall keep my
vow."

He then left her, with a promise to come back early next morning
with the letter.

She let him go only on those conditions.

As soon as her father came in, she ran to him with this strange
story.

"I don't believe it," said he.  "It is impossible."

She showed him the proof, the ruby ring.

Then he became very uneasy, and begged her not to tell a soul.  He
did not tell her the reason, but he feared the insurance office
would hear of it, and require proofs of Christopher's decease,
whereas they had accepted it without a murmur, on the evidence of
Captain Hamilton and the Amphitrite's log-book.

As for Falcon, he went carefully through Staines's two letters, and
wherever he found a word that suited his purpose, he traced it by
the usual process, and so, in the course of a few hours, he
concocted a short letter, all the words in which, except three,
were facsimiles, only here and there a little shaky; the three odd
words he had to imitate by observation of the letters.  The
signature he got to perfection by tracing.

He inserted this letter in the original envelope, and sealed it
very carefully, so as to hide that the seal had been tampered with.

Thus armed, he went down to Gravesend.  There he hired a horse and
rode to Kent Villa.

Why he hired a horse, he knew how hard it is to forge handwriting,
and he chose to have the means of escape at hand.

He came into the drawing-room, ghastly pale, and almost immediately
gave her the letter; then turned his back, feigning delicacy.  In
reality he was quaking with fear lest she should suspect the
handwriting.  But the envelope was addressed by Staines, and paved
the way for the letter; she was unsuspicious and good, and her
heart cried out for her husband's last written words: at such a
moment, what chance had judgment and suspicion in an innocent and
loving soul?

Her eloquent sighs and sobs soon told the caitiff he had nothing to
fear.

The letter ran thus:--


MY OWN ROSA,--All that a brother could do for a beloved brother,
Falcon has done.  He nursed me night and day.  But it is vain.  I
shall never see you again in this world.  I send you a protector,
and a father to your child.  Value him.  He has promised to be your
stay on earth, and my spirit shall watch over you.--To my last
breath, your loving husband,

CHRISTOPHER STAINES.


Falcon rose, and began to steal on tiptoe out of the room.

Rosa stopped him.  "You need not go," said she.  "You are our
friend.  By and by I hope I shall find words to thank you."

"Pray let me retire a moment," said the hypocrite.  "A husband's
last words: too sacred--a stranger:" and he went out into the
garden.  There he found the nursemaid Emily, and the little boy.

He stopped the child, and made love to the nursemaid; showed her
his diamonds--he carried them all about him--told her he had thirty
thousand acres in Cape Colony, and diamonds on them; and was going
to buy thirty thousand more of the government.  "Here, take one,"
said he.  "Oh, you needn't be shy.  They are common enough on my
estates.  I'll tell you what, though, you could not buy that for
less than thirty pounds at any shop in London.  Could she, my
little duck?  Never mind, it is no brighter than her eyes.  Now do
you know what she will do with that, Master Christie?  She will
give it to some duffer to put in a pin."

"She won't do nothing of the kind," said Emily, flushing all over.
"She is not such a fool."  She then volunteered to tell him she had
no sweetheart, and did not trouble her head about young men at all.
He interpreted this to mean she was looking out for one.  So do I.

"No sweetheart!" said he; "and the prettiest girl I have seen since
I landed: then I put in for the situation."

Here, seeing the footman coming, he bestowed a most paternal kiss
on little Christie, and saying, "Not a word to John, or no more
diamonds from me;" he moved carefully away, leaving the girl all in
a flutter with extravagant hopes.

The next moment this wolf in the sheep-fold entered the drawing-
room.  Mrs. Staines was not there.  He waited, and waited, and
began to get rather uneasy, as men will who walk among pitfalls.

Presently the footman came to say that Mrs. Staines was with her
father, in his study, but she would come to him in five minutes.

This increased his anxiety.  What!  She was taking advice of an
older head.  He began to be very seriously alarmed, and, indeed,
had pretty well made up his mind to go down and gallop off, when
the door opened, and Rosa came hastily in.  Her eyes were very red
with weeping.  She came to him with both hands extended to him; he
gave her his, timidly.  She pressed them with such earnestness and
power as he could not have suspected; and thanked him, and blessed
him, with such a torrent of eloquence, that he hung his head with
shame; and, being unable to face it out, villain as he was, yet
still artful to the core, he pretended to burst out crying, and ran
out of the room, and rode away.

He waited two days, and then called again.  Rosa reproached him
sweetly for going before she had half thanked him.

"All the better," said he.  "I have been thanked a great deal too
much already.  Who would not do his best for a dying countryman,
and fight night and day to save him for his wife and child at home?
If I had succeeded, then I would be greedy of praise: but now it
makes me blush; it makes me very sad."

"You did your best," said Rosa tearfully.

"Ah! that I did.  Indeed, I was ill for weeks after, myself,
through the strain upon my mind, and the disappointment, and going
so many nights without sleep.  But don't let us talk of that."

"Do you know what my darling says to me in my letter?"

"No."

"Would you like to see it?"

"Indeed I should; but I have no right."

"Every right.  It is the only mark of esteem, worth anything, I can
show you."

She handed him the letter, and buried her own face in her hands.

He read it, and acted the deepest emotion.

He handed it back, without a word.


CHAPTER XXVIII.


From this time Falcon was always welcome at Kent Villa.  He
fascinated everybody in the house.  He renewed his acquaintance
with Mr. Lusignan, and got asked to stay a week in the house.  He
showed Rosa and her father the diamonds, and, the truth must be
owned, they made Rosa's eyes sparkle for the first time this
eighteen months.  He insinuated rather than declared his enormous
wealth.

In reply to the old man's eager questions, as the large diamonds
lay glittering on the table, and pointed every word, he said that a
few of his Hottentots had found these for him; he had made them dig
on a diamondiferous part of his estate, just by way of testing the
matter; and this was the result; this, and a much larger stone, for
which he had received eight thousand pounds from Posno.

"If I was a young man," said Lusignan, "I would go out directly,
and dig on your estate."

"I would not let you do anything so paltry," said "le Menteur."
"Why, my dear sir, there are no fortunes to be made by grubbing for
diamonds; the fortunes are made out of the diamonds, but not in
that way.  Now, I have thirty thousand acres, and am just
concluding a bargain for thirty thousand more, on which I happen to
know there are diamonds in a sly corner.  Well, of my thirty
thousand tried acres, a hundred only are diamondiferous.  But I
have four thousand thirty-foot claims leased at ten shillings per
month.  Count that up."

"Why, it is twenty-four thousand pounds a year."

"Excuse me: you must deduct a thousand a year for the expenses of
collection.  But this is only one phase of the business.  I have a
large inn upon each of the three great routes from the diamonds to
the coast; and these inns are supplied with the produce of my own
farms.  Mark the effect of the diamonds on property.  My sixty
thousand acres, which are not diamondiferous, will very soon be
worth as much as sixty thousand English acres, say two pounds the
acre per annum.  That is under the mark, because in Africa the land
is not burdened with poor-rates, tithes, and all the other
iniquities that crush the English land-owner, as I know to my cost.
But that is not all, sir.  Would you believe it? even after the
diamonds were declared, the people out there had so little
foresight that they allowed me to buy land all round Port
Elizabeth, Natal, and Cape Town, the three ports through which the
world get at the diamonds, and the diamonds get at the world.  I
have got a girdle of land round those three outlets, bought by the
acre; in two years I shall sell it by the yard.  Believe me, sir,
English fortunes, even the largest, are mere child's play, compared
with the colossal wealth a man can accumulate, if he looks beyond
these great discoveries to their consequences, and lets others grub
for him.  But what is the use of it all to me?" said this Bohemian,
with a sigh.  "I have no taste for luxuries; no love of display.  I
have not even charity to dispense on a large scale; for there are
no deserving poor out there; and the poverty that springs from
vice, that I never will encourage."

John heard nearly all this, and took it into the kitchen; and
henceforth Adoration was the only word for this prince of men, this
rare combination of the Adonis and the millionnaire.

He seldom held such discourses before Rosa; but talked her father
into an impression of his boundless wealth, and half reconciled him
to Rosa's refusal of Lord Tadcaster, since here was an old suitor,
who, doubtless, with a little encouragement, would soon come on
again.

Under this impression, Mr. Lusignan gave Falcon more than a little
encouragement, and, as Rosa did not resist, he became a constant
visitor at the villa, and was always there from Saturday to Monday.

He exerted all his art of pleasing, and he succeeded.  He was
welcome to Rosa, and she made no secret of it.

Emily threw herself in his way, and had many a sly talk with him,
while he was pretending to be engaged with young Christie.  He
flattered her, and made her sweet on him, but was too much in love
with Rosa, after his fashion, to flirt seriously with her.  He
thought he might want her services: so he worked upon her after
this fashion; asked her if she would like to keep an inn.

"Wouldn't I just?" said she frankly.

Then he told her that, if all went to his wish in England, she
should be landlady of one of his inns in the Cape Colony.  "And you
will get a good husband out there directly," said he.  "Beauty is a
very uncommon thing in those parts.  But I shall ask you to marry
somebody who can help you in the business--or not to marry at all."

"I wish I had the inn," said Emily.  "Husbands are soon got when a
girl hasn't her face only to look to."

"Well, I promise you the inn," said he, "and a good outfit of
clothes, and money in both pockets, if you will do me a good turn
here in England."

"That I would, sir.  But, laws, what can a poor girl like me do for
a rich gentleman like you?"

"Can you keep a secret, Emily?"

"Nobody better.  You try me, sir."

He looked at her well; saw she was one of those who could keep a
secret, if she chose, and he resolved to risk it.

"Emily, my girl," said he sadly, "I am an unhappy man."

"You, sir!  Why, you didn't ought to be."

"I am then.  I am in love; and cannot win her."

Then he told the girl a pretty tender tale, that he had loved Mrs.
Staines when she was Miss Lusignan, had thought himself beloved in
turn, but was rejected; and now, though she was a widow, he had not
the courage to court her, her heart was in the grave.  He spoke in
such a broken voice that the girl's good-nature fought against her
little pique at finding how little he was smitten with HER, and
Falcon soon found means to array her cupidity on the side of her
good-nature.  He gave her a five-pound note to buy gloves, and
promised her a fortune, and she undertook to be secret as the
grave, and say certain things adroitly to Mrs. Staines.

Accordingly, this young woman omitted no opportunity of dropping a
word in favor of Falcon.  For one thing, she said to Mrs. Staines,
"Mr. Falcon must be very fond of children, ma'am.  Why, he worships
Master Christie."

"Indeed!  I have not observed that."

"Why, no, ma'am.  He is rather shy over it; but when he sees us
alone, he is sure to come to us, and say, 'Let me look at my child,
nurse;' and he do seem fit to eat him.  Onst he says to me, 'This
boy is my heir, nurse.'  What did he mean by that, ma'am?"

"I don't know."

"Is he any kin to you, ma'am?"

"None whatever.  You must have misunderstood him.  You should not
repeat all that people say."

"No, ma'am; only I did think it so odd.  Poor gentleman, I don't
think he is happy, for all his money."

"He is too good to be unhappy all his life."

"So I think, ma'am."

These conversations were always short, for Rosa, though she was too
kind and gentle to snub the girl, was also too delicate to give the
least encouragement to her gossip.

But Rosa's was a mind that could be worked upon, and these short
but repeated eulogies were not altogether without effect.

At last the insidious Falcon, by not making his approaches in a way
to alarm her, acquired her friendship as well as her gratitude;
and, in short, she got used to him and liked him.  Not being bound
by any limit of fact whatever, he entertained her, and took her out
of herself a little by extemporaneous pictures; he told her all his
thrilling adventures by flood and field, not one of which had ever
occurred, yet he made them all sound like truth; he invented
strange characters, and set them talking; he went after great
whales, and harpooned one, which slapped his boat into fragments
with one stroke of its tail; then died, and he hung on by the
harpoon protruding from the carcass till a ship came and picked him
up.  He shot a lion that was carrying off his favorite Hottentot.
He encountered another, wounded him with both barrels, was seized,
and dragged along the ground, and gave himself up for lost, but
kept firing his revolver down the monster's throat till at last he
sickened him, and so escaped out of death's maw; he did NOT say how
he had fired in the air, and ridden fourteen miles on end, at the
bare sight of a lion's cub; but, to compensate that one reserve,
plunged into a raging torrent and saved a drowning woman by her
long hair, which he caught in his teeth; he rode a race on an
ostrich against a friend on a zebra, which went faster, but threw
his rider, and screamed with rage at not being able to eat him; he,
Falcon, having declined to run unless his friend's zebra was
muzzled.  He fed the hungry, clothed the naked, and shot a wild
elephant in the eye; and all this he enlivened with pictorial
descriptions of no mean beauty, and as like South Africa as if it
had been feu George Robins advertising that continent for sale.

In short, never was there a more voluble and interesting liar by
word of mouth, and never was there a more agreeable creature
interposed between a bereaved widow and her daily grief and
regrets.  He diverted her mind from herself, and did her good.

At last, such was the charm of infinite lying, she missed him on
the days he did not come, and was brighter when he did come and lie.

Things went smoothly, and so pleasantly, that he would gladly have
prolonged this form of courtship for a month or two longer, sooner
than risk a premature declaration.  But more than one cause drove
him to a bolder course; his passion, which increased in violence by
contact with its beautiful object, and also a great uneasiness he
felt at not hearing from Phoebe.  This silence was ominous.  He and
she knew each other, and what the other was capable of.  He knew
she was the woman to cross the seas after him, if Staines left the
diggings, and any explanation took place that might point to his
whereabouts.

These double causes precipitated matters, and at last he began to
throw more devotion into his manner; and having so prepared her for
a few days, he took his opportunity and said, one day, "We are both
unhappy.  Give me the right to console you."

She colored high, and said, "You have consoled me more than all the
world.  But there is a limit; always will be."

One less adroit would have brought her to the point; but this
artist only sighed, and let the arrow rankle.  By this means he
out-fenced her; for now she had listened to a declaration and not
stopped it short.

He played melancholy for a day or two, and then he tried her
another way.  He said, "I promised your dying husband to be your
protector, and a father to his child.  I see but one way to keep my
word, and that gives me courage to speak--without that I never
could.  Rosa, I loved you years ago, I am unmarried for your sake.
Let me be your husband, and a father to your child."

Rosa shook her head.  "I COULD not marry again.  I esteem you, I am
very grateful to you: and I know I behaved ill to you before.  If I
could marry again, it would be you.  But I cannot.  Oh, never! never!"

"Then we both are to be unhappy all our days."

"I shall, as I ought to be.  You will not, I hope.  I shall miss
you sadly; but, for all that, I advise you to leave me.  You will
carry my everlasting gratitude, go where you will; that and my
esteem are all I have to give."

"I will go," said he; "and I hope he who is gone will forgive my
want of courage."

"He who is gone took my promise never to marry again."

"Dying men see clearer.  I am sure he wished--no matter; it is too
delicate."  He kissed her hand and went out, a picture of dejection.

Mrs. Staines shed a tear for him.

Nothing was heard of him for several days; and Rosa pitied him more
and more, and felt a certain discontent with herself, and doubt
whether she had done right.

Matters were in this state, when one morning Emily came screaming
in from the garden, "The child!--Master Christie!--Where is he?--
Where is he?"

The house was alarmed.  The garden searched, the adjoining paddock.
The child was gone.

Emily was examined, and owned, with many sobs and hysterical cries,
that she had put him down in the summer-house for a minute, while
she went to ask the gardener for some balm, balm tea being a
favorite drink of hers.  "But there was nobody near that I saw,"
she sobbed.

Further inquiry proved, however, that a tall gypsy woman had been
seen prowling about that morning; and suspicion instantly fastened
on her.  Servants were sent out right and left; but nothing
discovered; and the agonized mother, terrified out of her wits, had
Falcon telegraphed to immediately.

He came galloping down that very evening, and heard the story.  He
galloped into Gravesend, and after seeing the police, sent word out
he should advertise.  He placarded Gravesend with bills, offering a
reward of a thousand pounds, the child to be brought to him, and no
questions asked.

Meantime the police and many of the neighboring gentry came about
the miserable mother with their vague ideas.

Down comes Falcon again next day; tells what he has done, and
treats them all with contempt.  "Don't you be afraid, Mrs.
Staines," said he.  "You will get him back.  I have taken the sure
way.  This sort of rogues dare not go near the police, and the
police can't find them.  You have no enemies; it is only some woman
that has fancied a beautiful child.  Well, she can have them by the
score, for a thousand pounds."

He was the only one with a real idea; the woman saw it, and clung
to him.  He left late at night.

Next morning out came the advertisements, and he sent her a handful
by special messenger.  His zeal and activity kept her bereaved
heart from utter despair.

At eleven that night came a telegraph:--


"I have got him.  Coming down by special train."


Then what a burst of joy and gratitude!  The very walls of the
house seemed to ring with it as a harp rings with music.  A special
train, too! he would not let the mother yearn all night.

At one in the morning he drove up with the child and a hired nurse.

Imagine the scene!  The mother's screams of joy, her furious
kisses, her cooing, her tears, and all the miracles of nature at
such a time.  The servants all mingled with their employers in the
general rapture, and Emily, who was pale as death, cried and
sobbed, and said, "Oh, ma'am, I'll never let him out of my sight
again, no, not for one minute."  Falcon made her a signal, and went
out.  She met him in the garden.

She was much agitated, and cried, "Oh, you did well to bring him
to-day.  I could not have kept it another hour.  I'm a wretch."

"You are a good kind girl; and here's the fifty pounds I promised
you."

"Well, and I have earned it."

"Of course you have.  Meet me in the garden to-morrow morning, and
I'll show you you have done a kind thing to your mistress, as well
as me.  And as for the fifty pounds, that is NOTHING; do you hear?
it is nothing at all, compared with what I will do for you, if you
will be true to me, and hold your tongue."

"Oh! as for that, my tongue shan't betray you, nor shame ME.  You
are a gentleman, and I do think you love her, or I would not help
you."

So she salved her nursemaid's conscience--with the help of the
fifty pounds.

The mother was left to her rapture that night.  In the morning
Falcon told his tale.

"At two P.M. a man had called on him, and had produced one of his
advertisements, and had asked him if that was all square--no
bobbies on the lurk.  'All square, my fine fellow.'  'Well,' said
he, 'I suppose you are a gentleman.'  'I am of that opinion too.'
'Well, sir,' says he, 'I know a party as has FOUND a young gent as
comes werry nigh your advertisement.'  'It will be a very lucky
find to that party,' I said, 'if he is on the square.'  'Oh, WE are
always on the square, when the blunt is put down.'  'The blunt for
the child, when you like, and where you like,' said I.  'You are
the right sort,' said he.  'I am,' replied I.  'Will you come and
see if it is all right?' said he.  'In a minute,' said I.  Stepped
into my bedroom, and loaded my six-shooter."

"What is that?" said Lusignan.

"A revolver with six barrels: by the by, the very same I killed the
lion with.  Ugh! I never think of that scene without feeling a
little quiver; and my nerves are pretty good, too.  Well, he took
me into an awful part of the town, down a filthy close, into some
boozing ken--I beg pardon, some thieves' public-house."

"Oh, my dear friend," said Rosa, "were you not frightened?"

"Shall I tell you the truth, or play the hero?  I think I'll tell
YOU the truth.  I felt a little frightened, lest they should get my
money and my life, without my getting my godson: that is what I
call him now.  Well, two ugly dogs came in, and said, 'Let us see
the flimsies, before you see the kid.'

"'That is rather sharp practice, I think,' said I; 'however, here's
the swag, and here's the watch-dog.'  So I put down the notes, and
my hand over them with my revolver cocked, and ready to fire."

"Yes, yes," said Rosa pantingly.  "Ah, you were a match for them."

"Well, Mrs. Staines, if I was writing you a novel, I suppose I
should tell you the rogues recoiled; but the truth is they only
laughed, and were quite pleased.  'Swell's in earnest,' said one,
'Jem, show the kid.'  Jem whistled, and in came a great tall black
gypsy woman, with the darling.  My heart was in my mouth, but I
would not let them see it.  I said, 'It is all right.  Take half
the notes here, and half at the door.'  They agreed, and then I did
it quick, walked to the door, took the child, gave them the odd
notes, and made off as fast as I could, hired a nurse at the
hospital--and the rest you know."

"Papa," said Rosa, with enthusiasm, "there is but one man in
England who would have got me back my child, and this is he."

When they were alone, Falcon told her she had said words that
gladdened his very heart.  "You admit I can carry out one half of
his wishes?" said he.

Mrs. Staines said "Yes," then colored high; then, to turn it off,
said, "But I cannot allow you to lose that large sum of money.  You
must let me repay you."

"Large sum of money!" said he.  "It is no more to me than sixpence
to most people.  I don't know what to do with my money; and I never
shall know, unless you will make a sacrifice of your own feelings
to the wishes of the dead.  O Mrs. Staines--Rosa, do pray consider
that a man of that wisdom sees the future, and gives wise advice.
Sure am I that, if you could overcome your natural repugnance to a
second marriage, it would be the best thing for your little boy--I
love him already as if he were my own--and in time would bring you
peace and comfort, and some day, years hence, even happiness.  You
are my only love; yet I should never have come to you again if HE
had not sent me.  Do consider how strange it all is, and what it
points to, and don't let me have the misery of losing you again,
when you can do no better now, alas! than reward my fidelity."

She was much moved at this artful appeal, and said, "If I was sure
I was obeying his will.  But how can I feel that, when we both
promised never to wed again?"

"A man's dying words are more sacred than any other.  You have his
letter."

"Yes, but he does not say 'marry again.'"

"That is what he meant, though."

"How can you say that?  How can you know?"

"Because I put the words he said to me together with that short
line to you.  Mind, I don't say that he did not exaggerate my poor
merits; on the contrary, I think he did.  But I declare to you that
he did hope I should take care of you and your child.  Right or
wrong, it was his wish, so pray do not deceive yourself on that
point."

This made more impression on her than anything else he could say,
and she said, "I promise you one thing, I will never marry any man
but you."

Instead of pressing her further, as an inferior artist would, he
broke into raptures, kissed her hand tenderly, and was in such high
spirits, and so voluble all day, that she smiled sweetly on him,
and thought to herself, "Poor soul! how happy I could make him with
a word!"

As he was always watching her face--a practice he carried further
than any person living--he divined that sentiment, and wrought upon
it so, that at last he tormented her into saying she would marry
him SOME DAY.

When he had brought her to that, he raged inwardly to think he had
not two years to work in; for it was evident she would marry him in
time.  But no, it had taken him more than four months, close siege,
to bring her to that.  No word from Phoebe.  An ominous dread hung
over his own soul.  His wife would be upon him, or, worse still,
her brother Dick, who he knew would beat him to a mummy on the
spot; or, worst of all, the husband of Rosa Staines, who would kill
him, or fling him into a prison.  He MUST make a push.

In this emergency he used his ally, Mr. Lusignan; he told him Mrs.
Staines had promised to marry him, but at some distant date.  This
would not do; he must look after his enormous interests in the
colony, and he was so much in love he could not leave her.

The old gentleman was desperately fond of Falcon, and bent on the
match, and he actually consented to give his daughter what Falcon
called a little push.

The little push was a very great one, I think.

It consisted in directing the clergyman to call in church the banns
of marriage between Reginald Falcon and Rosa Staines.

They were both in church together when this was done.  Rosa all but
screamed, and then turned red as fire and white as a ghost, by
turns.  She never stood up again all the service; and in going home
refused Falcon's arm, and walked swiftly home by herself.  Not that
she had the slightest intention of passing this monstrous thing by
in silence.  On the contrary, her wrath was boiling over, and so
hot that she knew she should make a scene in the street if she said
a word there.

Once inside the house she turned on Falcon, with a white cheek and
a flashing eye, and said, "Follow me, sir, if you please."  She led
the way to her father's study.  "Papa," said she, "I throw myself
on your protection.  Mr. Falcon has affronted me."

"Oh, Rosa!" cried Falcon, affecting utter dismay.

"Publicly--publicly: he has had the banns of marriage cried in the
church, without my permission."

"Don't raise your voice so loud, child.  All the house will hear
you."

"I choose all the house to hear me.  I will not endure it.  I will
never marry you now--never!"

"Rosa, my child," said Lusignan, "you need not scold poor Falcon,
for I am the culprit.  It was I who ordered the banns to be cried."

"Oh! papa, you had no right to do such a thing as that."

"I think I had.  I exercised parental authority for once, and for
your good, and for the good of a true and faithful lover of yours,
whom you jilted once, and now you trifle with his affection and his
interests.  He loves you too well to leave you; yet you know his
vast estates and interests require supervision."

"That for his vast estates!" said Rosa contemptuously.  "I am not
to be driven to the altar like this, when my heart is in the grave.
Don't you do it again, papa, or I'll get up and forbid the banns;
affront for affront."

"I should like to see that," said the old gentleman dryly.

Rosa vouchsafed no reply, but swept out of the room, with burning
cheeks and glittering eyes, and was not seen all day, would not
dine with them, in spite of three humble, deprecating notes Falcon
sent her.

"Let the spiteful cat alone," said old Lusignan.  "You and I will
dine together in peace and quiet."

It was a dull dinner; but Falcon took advantage of the opportunity,
impregnated the father with his views, and got him to promise to
have the banns cried next Sunday.  He consented.

Rosa learned next Sunday morning that this was to be done, and her
courage failed her.  She did not go to church at all.

She cried a great deal, and submitted to violence, as your true
women are too apt to do.  They had compromised her, and so
conquered her.  The permanent feelings of gratitude and esteem
caused a reaction after her passion, and she gave up open
resistance as hopeless.

Falcon renewed his visits, and was received with the mere sullen
languor of a woman who has given in.

The banns were cried a third time.

Then the patient Rosa bought laudanum enough to reunite her to her
Christopher, in spite of them all; and having provided herself with
this resource, became more cheerful, and even kind and caressing.

She declined to name the day at present, and that was awkward.
Nevertheless the conspirators felt sure they should tire her out
into doing that, before long; for they saw their way clear, and she
was perplexed in the extreme.

In her perplexity, she used to talk to a certain beautiful star she
called her Christopher.  She loved to fancy he was now an
inhabitant of that bright star; and often on a clear night she
would look up, and beg for guidance from this star.  This I
consider foolish: but then I am old and sceptical; she was still
young and innocent, and sorely puzzled to know her husband's real
will.

I don't suppose the star had anything to do with it, except as a
focus of her thoughts; but one fine night, after a long inspection
of Christopher's star, she dreamed a dream.  She thought that a
lovely wedding-dress hung over a chair, that a crown of diamonds as
large as almonds sparkled ready for her on the dressing-table, and
she was undoing her black gown, and about to take it off, when
suddenly the diamonds began to pale, and the white satin dress to
melt away, and in its place there rose a pale face and a long
beard, and Christopher Staines stood before her, and said quietly,
"Is this how you keep your vow?"  Then he sank slowly, and the
white dress was black, and the diamonds were jet; and she awoke,
with his gentle words of remonstrance and his very tones ringing in
her ear.

This dream, co-operating with her previous agitation and
misgivings, shook her very much; she did not come down-stairs till
near dinner-time; and both her father and Falcon, who came as a
matter of course to spend his Sunday, were struck with her
appearance.  She was pale, gloomy, morose, and had an air of
desperation about her.

Falcon would not see it; he knew that it is safest to let her sex
alone when they look like that; and then the storm sometimes
subsides of itself.

After dinner, Rosa retired early; and soon she was heard walking
rapidly up and down the dressing-room.

This was quite unusual, and made a noise.

Papa Lusignan thought it inconsiderate; and after a while,
remarking gently that he was not particularly fond of sound, he
proposed they should smoke the pipe of peace on the lawn.

They did so; but after a while, finding that Falcon was not
smoking, he said, "Don't let me detain you.  Rosa is alone."

Falcon took the hint, and went to the drawing-room.  Rosa met him
on the stairs, with a scarf over her shoulders.  "I must speak to
papa," said she.  "Where is he?"

"He is on the lawn, dear Rosa," said Falcon, in his most dulcet
tones.  He was sure of his ally, and very glad to use him as a
buffer to receive the first shock.

So he went into the drawing-room, where all the lights were
burning, and quietly took up a book.  But he did not read a line;
he was too occupied in trying to read his own future.

The mean villain, who is incapable of remorse, is, of all men, most
capable of fear.  His villany had, to all appearance, reached the
goal; for he felt sure that all Rosa's struggles would, sooner or
later, succumb to her sense of gratitude and his strong will and
patient temper.  But when the victory was won, what a life!  He
must fly with her to some foreign country, pursued from pillar to
post by an enraged husband, and by the offended law.  And if he
escaped the vindictive foe a year or two, how could he escape that
other enemy he knew, and dreaded--poverty?  He foresaw he should
come to hate the woman he was about to wrong, and she would
instantly revenge herself, by making him an exile and, soon or
late, a prisoner, or a pauper.

While these misgivings battled with his base but ardent passion,
strange things were going on out of doors--but they will be best
related in another sequence of events, to which indeed they fairly
belong.


CHAPTER XXIX.


Staines and Mrs. Falcon landed at Plymouth, and went up to town by
the same train.  They parted in London, Staines to go down to
Gravesend, Mrs. Falcon to visit her husband's old haunts, and see
if she could find him.

She did not find him; but she heard of him, and learned that he
always went down to Gravesend from Saturday till Monday.

Notwithstanding all she had said to Staines, the actual information
startled her, and gave her a turn.  She was obliged to sit down,
for her knees seemed to give way.  It was but a momentary weakness.
She was now a wife and a mother, and had her rights.  She said to
herself, "My rogue has turned that poor woman's head long before
this, no doubt.  But I shall go down and just bring him away by the
ear."

For once her bitter indignation overpowered every other sentiment,
and she lost no time, but late as it was went down to Gravesend,
ordered a private sitting-room and bedroom for the night, and took
a fly to Kent Villa.

But Christopher Staines had the start of her.  He had already gone
down to Gravesend with his carpet-bag, left it at the inn, and
walked to Kent Villa that lovely summer night, the happiest husband
in England.

His heart had never for one instant been disturbed by Mrs. Falcon's
monstrous suspicion; he looked on her as a monomaniac; a sensible
woman insane on one point, her husband.

When he reached the villa, however, he thought it prudent to make
sure that Falcon had come to England at all, and discharged his
commission.  He would not run the risk, small as he thought it, of
pouncing unexpected on his Rosa, being taken for a ghost, and
terrifying her, or exciting her to madness.

Now the premises of Kent Villa were admirably adapted to what they
call in war a reconnaissance.  The lawn was studded with
laurestinas and other shrubs that had grown magnificently in that
Kentish air.

Staines had no sooner set his foot on the lawn, than he heard
voices; he crept towards them from bush to bush; and standing in
impenetrable shade, he saw in the clear moonlight two figures--
Mr. Lusignan and Reginald Falcon.

These two dropped out only a word or two at intervals; but what
they did say struck Staines as odd.  For one thing, Lusignan
remarked, "I suppose you will want to go back to the Cape.  Such
enormous estates as yours will want looking after."

"Enormous estates!" said Staines to himself.  "Then they must have
grown very fast in a few months."

"Oh, yes," said Falcon; "but I think of showing her a little of
Europe first."

Staines thought this still more mysterious; he waited to hear more,
but the succeeding remarks were of an ordinary kind.

He noticed, however, that Falcon spoke of his wife by her Christian
name, and that neither party mentioned Christopher Staines.  He
seemed quite out of their little world.

He began to feel a strange chill creep down him.

Presently Falcon went off to join Rosa; and Staines thought it was
quite time to ask the old gentleman whether Falcon had executed his
commission, or not.

He was only hesitating how to do it, not liking to pounce in the
dark on a man who abhorred everything like excitement, when Rosa
herself came flying out in great agitation.

Oh! the thrill he felt at the sight of her!  With all his self-
possession, he would have sprung forward and taken her in his arms
with a mighty cry of love, if she had not immediately spoken words
that rooted him to the spot with horror.  But she came with the
words in her very mouth; "Papa, I am come to tell you I cannot, and
will not, marry Mr. Falcon."

"Oh, yes, you will, my dear."

"Never!  I'll die sooner.  Not that you will care for that.  I tell
you I saw my Christopher last night--in a dream.  He had a beard;
but I saw him, oh, so plain; and he said, 'Is this the way you keep
your promise?'  That is enough for me.  I have prayed, again and
again, to his star, for light.  I am so perplexed and harassed by
you all, and you make me believe what you like.  Well, I have had a
revelation.  It is not my poor lost darling's wish I should wed
again.  I don't believe Mr. Falcon any more.  I hear nothing but
lies by day.  The truth comes to my bedside at night.  I will not
marry this man."

"Consider, Rosa, your credit is pledged.  You must not be always
jilting him heartlessly.  Dreams! nonsense.  There--I love peace.
It is no use your storming at me; rave to the moon and the stars,
if you like, and when you have done, do pray come in, and behave
like a rational woman, who has pledged her faith to an honorable
man, and a man of vast estates--a man that nursed your husband in
his last illness, found your child, at a great expense, when you
had lost him, and merits eternal gratitude, not eternal jilting.  I
have no patience with you."

The old gentleman retired in high dudgeon.

Staines stood in the black shade of his cedar-tree, rooted to the
ground by this revelation of male villany and female credulity.

He did not know what on earth to do.  He wanted to kill Falcon, but
not to terrify his own wife to death.  It was now too clear she
thought he was dead.

Rosa watched her father's retiring figure out of sight.  "Very
well," said she, clenching her teeth; then suddenly she turned, and
looked up to heaven.  "Do you hear?" said she, "my Christie's star?
I am a poor perplexed creature.  I asked you for a sign, and that
very night I saw him in a dream.  Why should I marry out of
gratitude?  Why should I marry one man, when I love another?  What
does it matter his being dead?  I love him too well to be wife to
any living man.  They persuade me, they coax me, they pull me, they
push me.  I see they will make me.  But I will outwit them.  See--
see!" and she held up a little phial in the moonlight.  "This shall
cut the knot for me; this shall keep me true to my Christie, and
save me from breaking promises I ought never to have made.  This
shall unite me once more with him I killed, and loved."

She meant she would kill herself the night before the wedding,
which perhaps she would not, and perhaps she would.  Who can tell?
The weak are violent.  But Christopher, seeing the poison so near
her lips, was perplexed, took two strides, wrenched it out of her
hand, with a snarl of rage, and instantly plunged into the shade
again.

Rosa uttered a shriek, and flew into the house.

The farther she got, the more terrified she became, and soon
Christopher heard her screaming in the drawing-room in an alarming
way.  They were like the screams of the insane.

He got terribly anxious, and followed her.  All the doors were
open.

As he went up-stairs, he heard her cry, "His ghost! his ghost!  I
have seen his ghost!  No, no.  I feel his hand upon my arm now.  A
beard! and so he had in the dream!  He is alive.  My darling is
alive.  You have deceived me.  You are an impostor--a villain.  Out
of the house this moment, or he shall kill you."

"Are you mad?" cried Falcon.  "How can he be alive, when I saw him
dead?"

This was too much.  Staines gave the door a blow with his arm, and
strode into the apartment, looking white and tremendous.

Falcon saw death in his face; gave a shriek, drew his revolver, and
fired at him with as little aim as he had at the lioness; then made
for the open window.  Staines seized a chair, followed him, and
hurled it at him; and the chair and the man went through the window
together, and then there was a strange thud heard outside.

Rosa gave a loud scream, and swooned away.

Staines laid his wife flat on the floor, got the women about her,
and at last she began to give the usual signs of returning life.

Staines said to the oldest woman there, "If she sees me, she will
go off again.  Carry her to her room; and tell her, by degrees,
that I am alive."

All this time Papa Lusignan had sat trembling and whimpering in a
chair, moaning, "This is a painful scene--very painful."  But at
last an idea struck him--"WHY, YOU HAVE ROBBED THE OFFICE!"

Scarcely was Mrs. Staines out of the room, when a fly drove up, and
this was immediately followed by violent and continuous screaming
close under the window.

"Oh, dear!" sighed Papa Lusignan.

They ran down, and found Falcon impaled at full length on the
spikes of the villa, and Phoebe screaming over him, and trying in
vain to lift him off them.  He had struggled a little, in silent
terror, but had then fainted from fear and loss of blood, and lying
rather inside the rails, which were high, he could not be
extricated from the outside.

As soon as his miserable condition was discovered, the servants ran
down into the kitchen, and so up to the rails by the area steps.
These rails had caught him; one had gone clean through his arm, the
other had penetrated the fleshy part of the thigh, and a third
pierced his ear.

They got him off; but he was insensible, and the place drenched
with his blood.

Phoebe clutched Staines by the arm.  "Let me know the worst," said
she.  "Is he dead?"

Staines examined him, and said "No."

"Can you save him?"

"I?"

"Yes.  Who can, if you cannot?  Oh, have mercy on me!" and she went
on her knees to him, and put her forehead on his knees.

He was touched by her simple faith; and the noble traditions of his
profession sided with his gratitude to this injured woman.  "My
poor friend," said he, "I will do my best, for YOUR sake."

He took immediate steps for stanching the blood; and the fly
carried Phoebe and her villain to the inn at Gravesend.

Falcon came to on the road; but finding himself alone with Phoebe,
shammed unconsciousness of everything but pain.

Staines, being thoroughly enraged with Rosa, yet remembering his
solemn vow never to abuse her again, saw her father, and told him
to tell her he should think over her conduct quietly, not wishing
to be harder upon her than she deserved.

Rosa, who had been screaming, and crying for joy, ever since she
came to her senses, was not so much afflicted at this message as
one might have expected.  He was alive, and all things else were
trifles.

Nevertheless, when day after day went by, and not even a line from
Christopher, she began to fear he would cast her off entirely; the
more so as she heard he was now and then at Gravesend to visit Mrs.
Falcon at the inn.

While matters were thus, Uncle Philip burst on her like a bomb.
"He is alive! he is alive! he is alive!"  And they had a cuddle
over it.

"Oh, Uncle Philip!  Have you seen him?"

"Seen him?  Yes.  He caught me on the hop, just as I came in from
Italy.  I took him for a ghost."

"Oh, weren't you frightened?"

"Not a bit.  I don't mind ghosts.  I'd have half a dozen to dinner
every day, if I might choose 'em.  I couldn't stand stupid ones.
But I say, his temper isn't improved by all this dying: he is in an
awful rage with you; and what for?"

"O uncle! what for?  Because I'm the vilest of women!"

"Vilest of fiddlesticks!  It's his fault, not yours.  Shouldn't
have died.  It's always a dangerous experiment."

"I shall die if he will not forgive me.  He keeps away from me and
from his child."

"I'll tell you.  He heard, in Gravesend, your banns had been cried:
that has moved the peevish fellow's bile."

"It was done without my consent.  Papa will tell you so; and, O
uncle, if you knew the arts, the forged letter in my darling's
hand, the way he wrought on me!  O villain! villain!  Uncle,
forgive your poor silly niece, that the world is too wicked and too
clever for her to live in."

"Because you are too good and innocent," said Uncle Philip.
"There, don't you be down-hearted.  I'll soon bring you two
together again--a couple of ninnies.  I'll tell you what is the
first thing: you must come and live with me.  Come at once, bag and
baggage.  He won't show here, the sulky brute."

Philip Staines had a large house in Cavendish Square, a crusty old
patient, like himself, had left him.  It was his humor to live in a
corner of this mansion, though the whole was capitally furnished by
his judicious purchases at auctions.

He gave Rosa and her boy and his nurse the entire first floor, and
told her she was there for life.  "Look here," said he, "this last
affair has opened my eyes.  Such women as you are the sweeteners of
existence.  You leave my roof no more.  Your husband will make the
same discovery.  Let him run about, and be miserable a bit.  He
will have to come to book."

She shook her head sadly.

"My Christopher will never say a harsh word to me.  All the worse
for me.  He will quietly abandon a creature so inferior to him."

"Stuff!"

Now, she was always running to the window, in hope that Christopher
would call on his uncle, and that she might see him; and one day
she gave a scream so eloquent, Philip knew what it meant.  "Get you
behind that screen, you and your boy," said he, "and be as still as
mice.  Stop! give me that letter the scoundrel forged, and the
ring."

This was hardly done, and Rosa out of sight, and trembling from
head to foot, when Christopher was announced.  Philip received him
very affectionately, but wasted no time.

"Been to Kent Villa yet?"

"No," was the grim reply.

"Why not?"

"Because I have sworn never to say an angry word to her again; and,
if I was to go there, I should say a good many angry ones.  Oh,
when I think that her folly drove me to sea, to do my best for her,
and that I was nearer death for that woman than ever man was, and
lost my reason for her, and went through toil and privations,
hunger, exile, mainly for her, and then to find the banns cried in
open church, with that scoundrel!--say no more, uncle.  I shall
never reproach her, and never forgive her."

"She was deceived."

"I don't doubt that; but nobody has a right to be so great a fool
as all that."

"It was not her folly, but her innocence, that was imposed on.  You
a philosopher, and not know that wisdom itself is sometimes imposed
on, and deceived by cunning folly!  Have you forgotten your
Milton?--


     "'At Wisdom's gate, Suspicion sleeps,
       And deems no ill where no ill seems.'


Come, come! are you sure you are not a little to blame?  Did you
write home the moment you found you were not dead?"

Christopher colored high.

"Evidently not," said the keen old man.  "Ah, my fine fellow! have
I found the flaw in your own armor?"

"I did wrong, but it was for her.  I sinned for her.  I could not
bear her to be without money, and I knew the insurance--I sinned
for her.  She has sinned AGAINST me."

"And she had much better have sinned against God, hadn't she?  He
is more forgiving than we perfect creatures that cheat insurance
companies.  And so, my fine fellow, you hid the truth from her for
two or three months."

No answer.

"Strike off those two or three months; would the banns have ever
been cried?"

"Well, uncle," said Christopher, hard pressed, "I am glad she has
got a champion; and I hope you will always keep your eye on her."

"I mean to."

"Good-morning."

"No; don't be in a hurry.  I have something else to say, not so
provoking.  Do you know the arts by which she was made to believe
you wished her to marry again?"

"I wished her to marry again!  Are you mad, uncle?"

"Whose handwriting is on this envelope?"

"Mine, to be sure."

"Now, read the letter."

Christopher read the forged letter.

"Oh, monstrous!"

"This was given her with your ruby ring, and a tale so artful that
nothing we read about the devil comes near it.  This was what did
it.  The Earl of Tadcaster brought her title, and wealth, and
love."

"What, he too!  The little cub I saved, and lost myself for--blank
him! blank him!"

"Why, you stupid ninny! you forget you were dead; and he could not
help loving her.  How could he?  Well, but you see she refused him.
And why? because he came without a forged letter from YOU.  Do you
doubt her love for you?"

"Of course I do.  She never loved me as I loved her."

"Christopher, don't you say that before me, or you and I shall
quarrel.  Poor girl! she lay, in my sight, as near death for you as
you were for her.  I'll show you something."

He went to a cabinet, and took out a silver paper; he unpinned it,
and laid Rosa's beautiful black hair upon her husband's knees.
"Look at that, you hard-hearted brute!" he roared to Christopher,
who sat, anything but hard-hearted, his eyes filling fast, at the
sad proof of his wife's love and suffering.

Rosa could bear no more.  She came out with her boy in her hand.
"O uncle, do not speak harshly to him, or you will kill me quite!"

She came across the room, a picture of timidity and penitence, with
her whole eloquent body bent forward at an angle.  She kneeled at
his knees, with streaming eyes, and held her boy up to him: "Plead
for your poor mother, my darling.  She mourns her fault, and will
never excuse it."

The cause was soon decided.  All Philip's logic was nothing,
compared with mighty nature.  Christopher gave one great sob, and
took his darling to his heart, without one word; and he and Rosa
clung together, and cried over each other.  Philip slipped out of
the room, and left the restored ones together.


I have something more to say about my hero and heroine, but must
first deal with other characters, not wholly uninteresting to the
reader, I hope.

Dr. Staines directed Phoebe Falcon how to treat her husband.  No
medicine, no stimulants; very wholesome food, in moderation, and
the temperature of the body regulated by tepid water.  Under these
instructions, the injured but still devoted wife was the real
healer.  He pulled through, but was lame for life, and ridiculously
lame, for he went with a spring halt,--a sort of hop-and-go-one
that made the girls laugh, and vexed Adonis.

Phoebe found the diamonds, and offered them all to Staines, in
expiation of his villany.  "See," she said, "he has only spent
one."

Staines said he was glad of it, for her sake, for he must be just
to his own family.  He sold them for three thousand two hundred
pounds; but for the big diamond he got twelve thousand pounds, and
I believe it was worth double the money.

Counting the two sums, and deducting six hundred for the stone Mr.
Falcon had embezzled, he gave her over seven thousand pounds.

She stared at him, and changed color at so large a sum.  "But I
have no claim on that, sir."

"That is a good joke," said he.  "Why, you and I are partners in
the whole thing--you and I and Dick.  Was it not with his horse and
rifle I bought the big diamond?  Poor dear, honest, manly Dick!
No, the money is honestly yours, Mrs. Falcon; but don't trust a
penny to your husband."

"He will never see it, sir.  I shall take him back, and give him
all his heart can ask for, with this; but he will be little more
than a servant in the house now, as long as Dick is single; I know
that;" and she could still cry at the humiliation of her villain.

Staines made her promise to write to him; and she did write him a
sweet, womanly letter, to say that they were making an enormous
fortune, and hoped to end their days in England.  Dick sent his
kind love and thanks.

I will add, what she only said by implication, that she was happy
after all.  She still contrived to love the thing she could not
respect.  Once, when an officious friend pitied her for her
husband's lameness, she said, "Find me a face like his.  The lamer
the better; he can't run after the girls, like SOME."

Dr. Staines called on Lady Cicely Treherne; the footman stared.  He
left his card.

A week afterwards, she called on him.  She had a pink tinge in her
cheeks, a general animation, and her face full of brightness and
archness.

"Bless me!" said he bluntly, "is this you?  How you are improved!"

"Yes," said she; "and I am come to thank you for your pwescwiption:
I followed it to the lettaa."

"Woe is me!  I have forgotten it."

"You diwected me to mawwy a nice man."

"Never: I hate a nice man."

"No, no--an Iwishman: and I have done it."

"Good gracious! you don't mean that!  I must be more cautious in my
prescriptions.  After all, it seems to agree."

"Admiwably."

"He loves you?"

"To distwaction."

"He amuses you?"

"Pwodigiously.  Come and see."


Dr. and Mrs. Staines live with Uncle Philip.  The insurance money
is returned, but the diamond money makes them very easy.  Staines
follows his profession now under great advantages: a noble house,
rent free; the curiosity that attaches to a man who has been canted
out of a ship in mid-ocean, and lives to tell it; and then Lord
Tadcaster, married into another noble house, swears by him, and
talks of him; so does Lady Cicely Munster, late Treherne; and when
such friends as these are warm, it makes a physician the centre of
an important clientele; but his best friend of all is his
unflagging industry, and his truly wonderful diagnosis, which
resembles divination.  He has the ball at his feet, and above all,
that without which worldly success soon palls, a happy home, a
fireside warm with sympathy.

Mrs. Staines is an admiring, sympathizing wife, and an admirable
housekeeper.  She still utters inadvertencies now and then, commits
new errors at odd times, but never repeats them when exposed.
Observing which docility, Uncle Philip has been heard to express a
fear that, in twenty years, she will be the wisest woman in
England.  "But, thank heaven!" he adds, "I shall be gone before
that."

Her conduct and conversation afford this cynic constant food for
observation; and he has delivered himself oracularly at various
stages of the study: but I cannot say that his observations, taken
as a whole, present that consistency which entitles them to be
regarded as a body of philosophy.  Examples:  In the second month
after Mrs. Staines came to live with him, he delivered himself
thus: "My niece Rosa is an anomaly.  She gives you the impression
she is shallow.  Mind your eye: in one moment she will take you out
of your depth or any man's depth.  She is like those country
streams I used to fish for pike when I was young; you go along,
seeing the bottom everywhere; but presently you come to a corner,
and it is fifteen deep all in a moment, and souse you go over head
and ears: that's my niece Rosa."

In six months he had got to this--and, mind you, each successive
dogma was delivered in a loud, aggressive tone, and in sublime
oblivion of the preceding oracle--"My niece Rosa is the most artful
woman.  (You may haw! haw! haw! as much as you like.  You have not
found out her little game--I have.)  What is the aim of all women?
To be beloved by an unconscionable number of people.  Well, she
sets up for a simpleton, and so disarms all the brilliant people,
and they love her.  Everybody loves her.  Just you put her down in
a room with six clever women, and you will see who is the favorite.
She looks as shallow as a pond, and she is as deep as the ocean."

At the end of the year he threw off the mask altogether.  "The
great sweetener of a man's life," said he, "is 'a simpleton.'  I
shall not go abroad any more; my house has become attractive: I've
got a simpleton.  When I have a headache, her eyes fill with tender
concern, and she hovers about me and pesters me with pillows: when
I am cross with her, she is afraid I am ill.  When I die, and leave
her a lot of money, she will howl for months, and say I don't want
his money: 'I waw-waw-waw-waw-want my Uncle Philip, to love me, and
scold me.'  One day she told me, with a sigh, I hadn't lectured her
for a month.  'I am afraid I have offended you,' says she, 'or else
worn you out, dear.'  When I am well, give me a simpleton, to make
me laugh.  When I am ill, give me a simpleton to soothe me with her
innocent tenderness.  A simpleton shall wipe the dews of death, and
close my eyes: and when I cross the river of death, let me be met
by a band of the heavenly host, who were all simpletons here on
earth, and too good for such a hole, so now they are in heaven, and
their garments always white--because there are no laundresses there."

Arrived at this point, the Anglo-Saxon race will retire, grinning,
to fresh pastures, and leave this champion of "a Simpleton," to
thunder paradoxes in a desert.





End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of A Simpleton, by Charles Reade

