A green angel (I mean an angel ignorant of the world) would
probably suppose that the feeding of these animal bodies of ours,
if not done in secret, must at least be the one act of human life
separated entirely from the more heavenly emotions. Yet the
dinner is a meal dear to lovers; and novelists and tale-tellers
choose the moments stolen from fork and plate for the birth and
interchange of the most delicious and tender sentiments of our
existence. Miss Hitchings, while unconsciously shocking Monsieur
Sansou by tilting her soup-plate for the last spoonful of vermicelli,
was controlling the beating of a heart full of feminine and
delicate tenderness; and, as the tutor was careful never to direct
his regards to the other end of the table (for reasons of his own),
Miss Henrietta laid the unction to her soul that such indifference
to the prettiest girl who had ever honored them as a guest,
proved the strength of her own magnet, and put her more at ease

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

on the subject of Monsieur Sansou's admiration. He, indeed, was
committing the common fault of men whose manners are naturally
agreeable—playing that passive and grateful game of courtesy
and attention so easy to the object of regard, and so delightful
to woman, who is never so blest as in bestowing. Besides, he
had an object in suppressing his voice to the lowest audible pitch,
and the rich and deep tone, sunk only to escape the ear of
another, sounded, to the watchful and desiring sense of her to
whom it was addressed, like the very key-note and harmony of
affection.

At a table so surrounded with secrets, conversation flagged, of
course. Mr. Hitchings thought it very up-hill work to entertain
Miss Hervey, whose heart and senses were completely absorbed
in the riddle of Belaccueil's disguise and presence; Mr. Hervey,
the uncle, found old Mrs. Plantagenet rather absent, for the
smitten dame had eyes for every movement of Monsieur Sansou,
and the tutor himself, with his resentment toward his host, and
his suspicions of the love of his daughter, his reviving passion for
Miss Hervey, and his designs on Mrs. Plantagenet, had enough
to render him as silent as the latter could wish, and as apparently
insensible to the attraction of the fair stranger.

How little we know what is in the bosoms of those around us!
How natural it is, however, to feel and act as if we knew—to
account for all that appears on the surface by the limited
acquaintance we have with circumstances and feelings—to
resent an indifference of which we know not the cause—to approve
or condemn, without allowance for chagrin, or despair, or
love, or hope, or distress—any of the deep undercurrents for
ever at work in the depths of human bosoms. The young man
at your side at a dinner-party may have a duel on his hands for

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

the morning, or a disgrace imminent in credit or honor, or a refused
heart or an accepted one, newly crushed or newly made
happy; or (more common still, and less allowed for) he may
feel the first impression of disease, or the consequences of an indigestion;
and for his agreeableness or disagreeableness, you try to
account by something in yourself, some feeling toward yourself—
as if you, and you only, could affect his spirits or give a color to
his mood of manners. The old man's thought of death, the
mother's overwhelming interest in her child, the woman's upspring
of emotion or love, are visitors to the soul that come
unbidden and out of time, and you can neither feast nor mourn,
secure against their interruption. It would explain many a
coldness, could we look into the heart concealed from us. We
should often pity when we hate, love when we think we cannot
even forgive, admire where we curl the lip with scorn and indignation.
To judge without reserve of any human action is a culpable
temerity, of all our sins the most unfeeling and frequent.

I will deal frankly with you, dear reader. I have arrived at a
stage of my story which, of all the stages of story-writing, I detest
the most cordially. Poets have written about the difficulty of
beginning a story (vide Byron)—ga ne me coule pas; others of
the ending—that I do with facility, joy, and rejoicing. But
the love pathos of a story—the place where the reader is expected
to sigh, weep, or otherwise express his emotion—that is the point,
I confess, the most difficult to write, and the most unsatisfactory
when written. “Pourquoy, Sir Knight?” Not because it is
difficult to write love-scenes—according to the received mode—
not that it is difficult to please those (a large majority) who never
truly loved, and whose ideas, therefore, of love and its making,
are transcendentalized out of all truth and nature—not that it

[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

would be more labor to do this than to copy a circular, or write a
love-letter for a modest swain (this last my besetting occupation)—
but because, just over the inkstand, there peers a face, sometimes
of a man of forty, past the nonsense of life, but oftener of
some friend, a woman who has loved, and this last more particularly
knows that true love is never readable or sensible—that if
its language be truly written, it is never in polished phrase or
musical cadence—that it is silly, but for its concealed meaning,
embarrassed and blind, but for the interpreting and wakeful heart
of one listener—that love, in short, is the god of unintelligibility,
mystery, and adorable nonsense, and, of course, that which I
have written (if readable and sensible) is out of taste and out of
sympathy, and none but fancy-lovers and enamored brains (not
hearts) will approve or believe it.

D'Israeli the younger is one of the few men of genius who,
having seen truth without a veil, dare to reveal the vision; and
he has written Henrietta Temple—the silliest yet truest love-book
of modern time. The critics (not an amative race) have
given him a benefit of the “besom” of ridicule, but D'Israeli, far
from being the effeminate intellect they would make him, is one
of the most original and intrepid men of genius living, and
whether the theme be “wine, woman, or war,” he writes with
fearless truth, piquancy, and grace. Books on love, however,
should be read by lovers only, and pity it is that there is not an
ink in chemistry, invisible save to the eye kindled with amatory
fire. But “to our muttons.”

It was not leap-year, but Monsieur Belaccueil, on the day of
the dinner-party at Hitchings park, was made aware (I will not
say by proposals, for ladies make known their inclinations in ways
much less formidable)—he was made aware, I say, that the hearts

[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]

of three of the party were within the flight of his arrow. Probably
his humble situation reversed the usual relative position of
the sexes in the minds of the dame and damsels—and certainly
there is no power woman exercises so willingly as a usurpation of
the masculine privilege. I have stated my objection to detail the
dialogue between Miss Hitchings and her tutor at the dinner-table.
To be recorded faithfully, the clatter of silver forks on
China, the gurgle of wine, the interruptions of the footmen with
champagne and vegetables, should all be literally interspersed—
for, to all the broken sentences, (so pathetic when properly punctuated—
vide Neal's novels) these were the sequels and the accompaniments:
“No, thank you!” and “If you please,” and “May
I fill your glass?”—have filled out, to the perfect satisfaction of
the lady, many an unfinished sentence upon which depended the
whole destiny of her affections; and, as I said before, the truth is
not faithfully rendered when these interstices are unsupplied.

It was dark when the ladies left the dinner-table, followed by
Monsieur Sansou, and, at the distance of a few feet from the
windows opening on the lawn, the air was black and impenetrable.
There were no stars visible and no moon, but the clouds which
were gathering after a drought, seemed to hush the air with their
long expected approach, and it was one of those soft, still, yet
murky and fragrant nights, when the earth seems to breathe only—
without light, sound, or motion. What lover does not remember
such a night?

Oppressed with the glaring lights and the company of people
she cared nothing about, Miss Hervey stepped out upon the lawn,
and, with her face lifted as if to draw deeper inhalations of the
dew and freshness, she strolled Ieisurely over the smooth carpet
of grass. At a slight turn to avoid a clump of shrubbery, she

[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]

encountered Belaccueil, who was apologizing and about to pass
her, when she called him by his name, and passing her arm
through his, led him on to the extremity of the lawn. A wire fence
arrested their progress, and, leaning against it, Miss Hervey
inquired into the cause of the disguise she had penetrated, and
softened and emboldened by the fragrant darkness, said all that a
woman might say of tenderness and encouragement. Belaccueil's
heart beat with pride and gratified amour propre, but he confined
himself to the expression of this feeling, and, living the
subject open, took advantage of Mrs. Plantagenet's call to Miss
Hervey from the window, to leave her and resume his ramble
through the grounds.

The supper tray had been brought in, and the party were just
taking their candles to separate, when the tutor entered at the
glass door and arrested the steps of Mrs. Plantagenet. She set
down her candle and courtesied a good-night to the ladies (Mr.
Hitchings had gone to bed, for wine made him sleepy, and Mr.
Hervey always retired early—where he was bored), and, closing
the windows, mixed a glass of negus for Monsieur Sansou; and,
herself pulling a sandwich to pieces, deliberately, and it must be
confessed, somewhat patronisingly, invited the Frenchman to
become her lord. And after a conversation, which (la verité
avant tout) turned mainly on will and investments, the widow
dame sailed blissfully to bed, and Belaccueil wrote the following
letter to his friend and adviser:

“My dear St. Leger: Enclosed you have the only surviving
lock of my grizzled wig—sign and symbol that my disguises are
over and my object attained. The wig burns at this instant in
the grate, item my hand-ruffles, item sundry embroidered cravats

[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]

â la veille cour, item (this last not without some trouble at my
heart) a solitary love-token from Constantia Hervey. One faded
rose—given me at Pæstum, the day before I was driven disgraced
from her presence by the interference of this insolent fool—one
faded rose has crisped and faded into smoke with the rest. And
so fled from the world the last hope of a warm and passionate
heart, which never gave up its destiny till now—never felt that
it was made in vain, guarded, refined, cherished in vain, till that
long-loved flower lay in ashes. I am accustomed to strip emotion
of its drapery—determined to feel nothing but what is real—yet
this moment, turn it and strip it, and deny its illusions as I will,
is anguish. `Self-inflicted,' you smile and say!

“You will marvel what stars will not come into conjunction,
when I tell you that Miss Hervey is at this moment under the
same roof with me and my affianced bride, and you will marvel
what good turn I have done the devil, that he should, in one day,
offer me my enemy's daughter, my enemy's fortune (with the
drawback of an incumbrance), and the woman who I thought had
spurned me. After all, it is a devil's gift—for, in choosing that
to which I am most impelled, I crush hope, and inflict pain, and
darken my own heart for ever. I could not have done this once.
Manhood and poverty have embittered me.

“Miss Hitchings has chosen to fall in love with her tutor.
She is seventeen, a sweet blonde, with large, suffused eyes, tender,
innocent, and (without talent) singularly earnest and confiding.
I could be very happy with such a woman, and it would
have been a very tolerable revenge (failing the other) to have
stolen her from her father. But he would have disinherited and
forgotten us, and I have had enough of poverty, and can not
afford to be forgotten—by my enemy.

[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

“You never saw Miss Hervey. It is not much to tell you she
is the most beautiful woman I have met. If she were not beautiful,
her manners would win all hearts. If her manners were
less fascinating, her singular talents would make her remarkable.
She is not appreciated, because her beauty blinds people to her
talents, and her manners make them forget her beauty. She is
something in the style of the Giorgione we adored at Venice—a
transparently dark beauty, with unfathomable eyes and lashes that
sweep her cheek; her person tall and full, and her neck set on
like Zenobia's. Yet she is not a proud woman—I think she is
not. She is too natural and true to do anything which looks like
pride, save walk like an empress. She says everything rightly—
penetrates instantly to the core of meaning—sings, dances, talks,
with the ease, confidence, grace, faultlessness, with which a swallow
flies. Perfection in all things is her nature. I am jotting
down her qualities now as they are allowed by the world. I will
not write of them like a lover. Oh, my friend, with what plummet
can you fathom the depth of my resentments, when, for
them, I forego possession of this woman! She offered me, two
hours since, the unqualified control of her destiny! She asked
me, with tremulous voice, to forgive her for the wrong done me
in Italy. She dropped that faultless and superb head on my
bosom, and told me that she loved me—and I never answered!
The serpent in my heart tied up my tongue, and, with cold thanks
and fiend-like resistance to the bliss of even once pressing her to
my bosom, I left her. I do not know myself when I remember
that I have done this. I am possessed—driven out—by some
hard and bitter spirit who neither acts nor speaks like me. Yet
could I not undo what I have done.

“To-morrow morning will disappear Monsieur Sansou from

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

Hitchings park, and, on the brief condition of a brief ceremony,
the law, the omnipotent law, will deliver into my hands the lands,
tenements, goods, chattels, and liberty of my enemy—for even so
deeply has he sunk into the open pocket of Mrs. Plantagenet!
She holds mortgages on all he has, for money advanced, and all
that is hers will be mine, without reserve. The roof I have been
living in degradation under, will be to-morrow my own. The
man who called me an adventurer, who stood between me and
my love, who thrust me from my heaven without cause or provocation—
the meddling fool who boasts that he saved a countrywoman
from a French swindler (he has recurred to it often in my
presence), will be, to-morrow, my dependant, beggar for shelter,
suppliant for his liberty and subsistence! Do you ask if that out-weighs
the love of the woman I have lost? Alas! yes.

“You are older, and have less taste for sentiment even than I.
I will not bore you with my crowd of new feelings in this situation.
My future wife is amiable and good. She is also vain,
unattractive, and old. I shall be kind to her, and endeavor that
she shall not be disenchanted, and, if I can make her happy, it
may mollify my penance for the devil with which I am possessed.
Miss Hitchings will lose nothing by having loved me, for she shall
be the heiress of my wealth, and her father—but I will not soil
my heart by thinking of an alleviation to his downfall.

“Farewell, mon ami. Congratulate and pity me.

In one of the most fashionable squares of London lives, “in the
season,” Monsieur Belaccueil, one of the most hospitable foreigners
in that great metropolis. He is a pensive and rather melancholy-looking
man by day; but society, which he seems to seek

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

like an opiate to restless feeling, changes him to a gay man, the
most mirth-loving of Amphytrions. His establishment is presided
over by his wife, who, as his society is mostly French, preserves
a respectable silence, but seems contented with her lot, and proud
of her husband; while in Miss Plantagenet (ci-devant Miss
Hitchings) his guests find his table's chief attraction—one of the
prettiest heiresses and most loveable girls in London. How
deeply Monsieur Belaccueil still rejoices at his success in “getting
to windward,” is a matter of problem. Certainly there is one
chariot which passes him in his solitary ride in the park, to which
he bows with a pang of unabating and miserable anguish. And, if
the occupant of that plain chariot share at all in his suffering, she
has not the consolation to which he flies in society—for a more
secluded and lonely woman lives not in the great solitude of London,
than Constantia Hervey.

p421-070 TWO BUCKETS IN A WELL.

[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]

“Five hundred dollars a year!” echoed Fanny Bellairs, as
the first silver grey of the twilight spread over her picture.

“And my art,” modestly added the painter, prying into his
bright copy of the lips pronouncing upon his destiny.

“And how much may that be, at the present rate of patronage—
one picture a year, painted for love!”

“Fanny, how can you be so calculating!”

“By the bumps over my eyebrows, I suppose. Why, my
dear coz, we have another state of existence to look forward to—
old man-age and old woman-age! What am I to do with five
hundred dollars a year, when my old frame wants gilding—(to
use one of your own similes)—I shan't always be pretty Fanny
Bellairs!”

“But, good Heavens! we shall grow old together!” exclaimed
the painter, sitting down at her feet, “and what will you care
for other admiration, if your husband see you still beautiful, with
the eyes of memory and habit.”

“Even if I were sure he would so look upon me!” answered
Miss Bellairs, more seriously, “I can not but dread an old age
without great means of embellishment. Old people, except in

[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]

poetry and in very primitive society, are dishonored by wants
and cares. And, indeed, before we are old—when neither young
nor old—we want horses and ottomans, kalydor and conservatories,
books, pictures, and silk curtains—all quite out of the
range of your little allowance, don't you see!”

“You do not love me, Fanny!”

“I do—and will marry you, Philip—as I, long ago, with my
whole heart, promised. But I wish to be happy with you—as
happy, quite as happy, as is at all possible, with our best efforts,
and coolest, discreetest management. I laugh the matter over
sometimes, but I may tell you, since you are determined to be in
earnest, that I have treated it, in my solitary thought, as the one
important event of my life—(so indeed it is!)—and, as such,
worthy of all fore-thought, patience, self-denial, and calculation.
To inevitable ills I can make up my mind like other people. If
your art were your only hope of subsistence—why—I don't
know—(should I look well as a page?)—I don't know that I
couldn't run your errands and grind your paints in hose and
doublet. But there is another door open for you—a counting-house
door, to be sure—leading to opulence and all the appliances
of dignity and happiness, and through this door, my dear Philip,
the art you would live by comes to pay tribute and beg for
patronage. Now, out of your hundred and twenty reasons, give
me the two stoutest and best, why you should refuse your brother's
golden offer of partnership—my share, in your alternative of
poverty, left for the moment out of the question.”

Rather overborne by the confident decision of his beautiful
cousin, and having probably made up his mind that he must
ultimately yield to her, Philip replied in a lower and more
dejected tone:—

[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]

“If you were not to be a sharer in my renown, should I be so
fortunate as to acquire it, I should feel as if it were selfish to
dwell so much on my passion for distinction, and my devotion to
my pencil as the means of winning it. My heart is full of you—
but it is full of ambition, too, paradox though it be. I cannot
live ignoble. I should not have felt worthy to press my love upon
you—worthy to possess you—except with the prospect of celebrity
in my art. You make the world dark to me, Fanny! You
close down the sky, when you shut out this hope! Yet it shall
be so.”

Philip paused a moment, and the silence was uninterrupted.

“There was another feeling I had, upon which I have not
insisted,” he continued. By my brother's project, I am to reside
almost wholly abroad. Even the little stipend I have to offer you
now is absorbed of course by the investment of my property in his
trading capital, and marriage, till I have partly enriched myself,
would be even more hopeless than at present. Say the interval
were five years—and five years of separation!”

“With happiness in prospect, it would soon pass, my dear
Philip!”

“But is there nothing wasted in this time? My life is yours—
the gift of love. Are not these coming five years the very
flower of it!—a mutual loss, too, for are they not, even more
emphatically, the very flower of yours? Eighteen and twenty-five
are ages at which to marry, not ages to defer. During this
time the entire flow of my existence is at its crowning fullness—
passion, thought, joy, tenderness, susceptibility to beauty and
sweetness—all I have that can be diminished or tarnished, or
made dull by advancing age and contact with the world, is thrown
away—for its spring and summer. Will the autumn of life repay

[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]

us for this? Will it—even if we are rich and blest with health,
and as capable of an unblemished union as now? Think of this
a moment, dear Fanny!”

“I do—it is full of force and meaning, and, could we marry
now, with a tolerable prospect of competency, it would be
irresistible. But poverty in wedlock, Philip—”

“What do you call poverty! If we can suffice for each other,
and have the necessaries of life, we are not poor! My art will
bring us consideration enough—which is the main end of wealth,
after all—and, of society, speaking for myself only, I want
nothing. Luxuries for yourself, Fanny—means for your dear
comfort and pleasure—you should not want if the world held them,
and surely the unbounded devotion of one man to the support of
the one woman he loves, ought to suffice for the task! I am
strong—I am capable of labor—I have limbs to toil, if my genius
and my present means fail me, and, oh, Heaven! you could not
want!”

“No, no, no! I thought not of want!” murmured Miss
Bellairs, “I thought only—”

But she was not permitted to finish the sentence.

“Then my bright picture for the future may be realized!” exclaimed
Philip, knitting his hands together in a transport of hope.
“I may build up a reputation, with you for the constant partner
of its triumphs and excitements! I may go through the world,
and have some care in life besides subsistence, how I shall sleep,
and eat, and accumulate gold; some companion, who, from the
threshold of manhood, shared every thought—and knew every
feeling—some pure and present angel who walked with me and
purified my motives and ennobled my ambitions, and received
from my lips and eyes, and from the beating of my heart against

[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]

her own, all the love I had to give in a lifetime. Tell me,
Fanny! tell me, my sweet cousin! is not this a picture of bliss,
which, combined with success in my noble art, might make a
Paradise on earth for you and me?”

The hand of Fanny Bellairs rested on the upturned forehead of
her lover as he sat at her feet in the deepening twilight, and she
answered him with such sweet words as are linked together by
spells known only to woman—but his palette and pencils were,
nevertheless, burned in solemn holocaust that very night, and the
lady carried her point, as ladies must. And, to the importation of
silks from Lyons, was devoted, thenceforth, the genius of a Raphael—
perhaps! Who knows?

The reader will naturally have gathered from this dialogue
that Miss Fanny Bellairs had black eyes, and was rather below
the middle stature. She was a belle, and it is only belle-metal of
this particular description which is not fusible by “burning
words.” She had mind enough to appreciate fully the romance
and enthusiasm of her cousin, Philip Ballister, and knew precisely
the phenomena which a tall blonde (this complexion of woman
being soluble in love and tears), would have exhibited under a
similar experiment. While the fire of her love glowed, therefore,
she opposed little resistance, and seemed softened and yielding,
but her purpose remained unaltered, and she rang out “no!”
the next morning, with a tone as little changed as a convent-bell
from matins to vespers, though it has passed meantime through
the furnace of an Italian noon.

Fanny was not a designing girl, either. She might have found
a wealthier customer for her heart than her cousin Philip. And
she loved this cousin as truly and well as her nature would admit,

[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

or as need be, indeed. But two things had conspired to give her
the unmalleable quality just described—a natural disposition to
confide, first and foremost, on all occasions, in her own sagacity,
and a vivid impression made upon her mind by a childhood of
poverty. At the age of twelve she had been transferred from the
distressed fireside of her mother, Mrs. Bellairs, to the luxurious
roof of her aunt, Mrs. Ballister, and, her mother dying soon after,
the orphan girl was adopted, and treated as a child; but the
memory of the troubled hearth at which she had first learned to
observe and reason, colored all the purposes and affections,
thoughts, impulses, and wishes of the ripening girl, and to think
of happiness in any proximity to privation seemed to her impossible,
even though it were in the bosom of love. Seeing no
reason to give her cousin credit for any knowledge of the world
beyond his own experience, she decided to think for him as well
as love him, and, not being so much pressed as the enthusiastic
painter by the “besoin d'aimer et de se faire aimer,” she very
composedly prefixed, to the possession of her hand, the trifling
achievement of getting rich—quite sure that if he knew as much
as she, he would willingly run that race without the incumbrance
of matrimony.

The death of Mr. Ballister, senior, had left the widow and her
two boys more slenderly provided for than was anticipated—Phil's
portion, after leaving college, producing the moderate income
before mentioned. The elder brother had embarked in his father's
business, and it was thought best on all hands for the younger
Ballister to follow his example. But Philip, whose college leisure
had been devoted to poetry and painting, and whose genius for
the latter, certainly, was very decided, brought down his habits
by a resolute economy to the limits of his income, and took up

[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]

the pencil for a profession. With passionate enthusiasm, great
purity of character, distaste for all society not in harmony with
his favorite pursuit, and an industry very much concentrated and
rendered effective by abstemious habits, Philip Ballister was very
likely to develop what genius might lie between his head and
hand, and his progress in the first year had been allowed, by
eminent artists, to give very unusual promise. The Ballisters
were still together, under the maternal roof, and the painter's
studies were the portraits of the family, and Fanny's picture, of
course, much the most difficult to finish. It would be very hard
if a painter's portrait of his liege mistress, the lady of his heart,
were not a good picture, and Fanny Bellairs on canvas was divine
accordingly. If the copy had more softness of expression than
the original (as it was thought to have), it only proves that wise
men have for some time suspected, that love is more dumb than
blind, and the faults of our faultless idols are noted, however
unconsciously. Neither thumb-screws nor hot coals—nothing
probably but repentance after matrimony—would have drawn
from Philip Ballister, in words, the same correction of his
mistress's foible that had oozed out through his treacherous
pencil!

Cupid is often drawn as a stranger pleading to be “taken in,”
but it is a miracle that he is not invariably drawn as a portrait-painter.
A bird tied to the muzzle of a gun—an enemy who has
written a book—an Indian prince under the protection of
Giovanni Bulletto (Tuscan for John Bull),—is not more close
upon demolition, one would think, than the heart of a lady
delivered over to a painter's eyes, posed, draped and lighted with
the one object of studying her beauty. If there be any magnetism
in isolated attention, any in steadfast gazing, any in passes

[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

of the hand hither and thither—if there be any magie in ce doux
demi-jour so loved in France, in stuff for flattery ready pointed
and feathered, in freedom of admiration, “and all in the way of
business”—then is a loveable sitter to a love-like painter in
“parlous” vicinity (as the new school would phrase it), to sweetheart-land!
Pleasure in a vocation has no offset in political
economy as honor has (“the more honor the less profit,”) or
portrait-painters would be poorer than poets.

And, malgré his consciousness of the quality which required
softening in his cousin's beauty, and malgré his rare advantages
for obtaining over her a lover's proper ascendency, Mr. Philip
Ballister bowed to the stronger will of Miss Fanny Bellairs, and
sailed for France on his apprenticeship to Mammon.

The reader will please to advance five years. Before proceeding
thence with our story, however, let us take a Parthian glance
at the overstepped interval.

Philip Ballister had left New York with the triple vow that he
would enslave every faculty of his mind and body to business,
that he would not return till he had made a fortune, and that
such interstices as might occur in the building up of this chateau
for felicity should be filled with sweet reveries about Fanny
Bellairs. The forsworn painter had genius, as we have before
hinted, and genius is (as much as it is any one thing), the power
of concentration. He entered upon his duties accordingly, with a
force, and patience of application, which soon made him master
of what are called business habits, and, once in possession of the
details, his natural cleverness gave him a speedy insight to all the
scope and tacties of his particular field of trade. Under his
guidance, the affairs of the house were soon in a much more

[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]

prosperous train, and, after a year's residence at Lyons, Philip
saw his way very clear to manage them with a long arm and take
up his quarters in Paris.

“Les fats sont les seuls hommes qui aient soin d'eux némes,”
says a French novelist, but there is a period, early or late, in the
lives of the cleverest men, when they become suddenly curious as
to their capacity for the graces. Paris, to a stranger who does
not visit in the Faubourg St. Germain, is a republic of personal
exterior, where the degree of privilege depends, with Utopian
impartiality, on the style of the outer man; and Paris, therefore,
if he is not already a Bachelor of Arts (qu?—beau's Arts),
usually serves the traveller as an Alma Mater of the pomps and
vanities.

Phil. Ballister, up to the time of his matriculation in Chaussée
D'Antin, was a romantic-looking sloven. From this to a very
dashing coxcomb is but half a step, and, to be rid of the coxcombry
and retain a look of fashion, is still within the easy limits of imitation.
But—to obtain superiority of presence, with no apparent
aid from dress and no describable manner, and to display, at the
same time, every natural advantage in effective relief, and, withal,
to adapt this subtle philtre, not only to the approbation of the
critical and censorious, but to the taste of fair women gifted with
judgment as God pleases—this is a finish not born with any man
(though unsuccessful if it do not seem to be), and never reached
in the apprenticeship of life, and never reached at all by men not
much above their fellows. He who has it, has “bought his doublet
in Italy, his round hose in France, his bonnet in Germany,
and his behavior everywhere,” for he must know, as a chart of
quicksands, the pronounced models of other nations; but to be a
“picked man of countries,” and to have been a coxcomb and a

[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]

man of fashion, are, as a painter would say, but the setting of the
palette toward the making of the chef-d'œuvre.

Business prospered, and the facilities of leisure increased, while
Ballister passed through these transitions of taste, and he found
intervals to travel, and time to read, and opportunity to indulge,
as far as he could with the eye only, his passion for knowledge in
the arts. To all that appertained to the refinement of himself,
he applied the fine feelers of a delicate and passionate construction,
physical and mental, and, as the reader will already have
included, wasted on culture comparatively unprofitable, faculties
that would have been better employed but for the meddling of
Miss Fanny Bellairs.

Ballister's return from France was heralded by the arrival of
statuary and pictures, books, furniture, and numberless articles of
tasteful and costly luxury. The reception of these by the family
at home threw rather a new light on the probable changes in the
long-absent brother, for, from the signal success of the business
he had managed, they had very naturally supposed that it was
the result only of unremitted and plodding care. Vague rumors
of changes in his personal appearance had reached them, such as
might be expected from conformity to foreign fashions, but those
who had seen Philip Ballister in France, and called subsequently
on the family in New York, were not people qualified to judge of
the man, either from their own powers of observation or from any
confidence he was likely to put forward while in their society.
His letters had been delightful, but they were confined to third-person
topics, descriptions of things likely to interest them, &c.,
and Fanny had few addressed personally to herself, having thought
it worth while, for the experiment sake, or for some other reason,

[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]

to see whether love would subsist without its usual pabulum of
tender correspondence, and a veto on love-letters having served
her for a parting injunction at Phil's embarkation for Havre.
However varied by their different fancies, the transformation
looked for by the whole family was substantially the same—the
romantic artist sobered down to a practical, plain man of business.
And Fanny herself had an occasional misgiving as to her relish
for his counting-house virtues and manners; though, on the detection
of the feeling, she immediately closed her eyes upon it, and
drummed up her delinquent constancy for “parade and inspection.”

All bustles are very much alike (we use the word as defined in
Johnson), and the reader will appreciate our delicacy, besides, in
not intruding on the first re-union of relatives and lovers long
separated.

The morning after Philip Ballister's arrival, the family sat long
at breakfast. The mother's gaze fastened untiringly on the features
of her son—still her boy—prying into them with a vain
effort to reconcile the face of the man with the cherished picture
of the child with sunny locks, and noting little else than the work
of inward change upon the countenance and expression. The
brother, with the predominant feeling of respect for the intelligence
and industry of one who had made the fortunes of the
house, read only subdued sagacity in the perfect simplicity of his
whole exterior. And Fanny—Fanny was puzzled. The bourgeoisie
and ledger-bred hardness of manner which she had looked
for were not there, nor any variety of the “foreign slip-slop”
common to travelled youth, nor any superciliousness, nor (faith!)
any wear and tear of youth and good looks—nothing that she
expected—nothing! Not even a French guard-chain!

[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]

What there was in her cousin's manners and exterior, however,
was much more difficult to define by Miss Bellairs than what
there was not. She began the renewal of their intercourse with
very high spirits, herself—the simple nature and unpretendingness
of his address awakening only an unembarrassed pleasure at
seeing him again—but she soon began to suspect there was an
exquisite refinement in this very simplicity, and to wonder at
“the trick of it;” and, after the first day passed in his society,
her heart beat when he spoke to her, as it did not use to beat
when she was sitting to him for her picture, and listening to his
passionate love-making. And, with all her faculties, she studied
him. What was the charm of his presence? He was himself,
and himself only. He seemed perfect, but he seemed to have
arrived at perfection like a statue, not like a picture—by what
had been taken away, not by what had been laid on. He was as
natural as a bird, and as graceful and unembarrassed. He neither
forced conversation, nor pressed the little attentions of the drawing-room,
and his attitudes were full of repose; yet she was completely
absorbed in what he said, and she had been impressed
imperceptibly with his high-bred politeness, and the singular
elegance of his person. Fanny felt there was a change in her
relative position to her cousin. In what it consisted, or which
had the advantage, she was perplexed to discover—but she bit
her lips as she caught herself thinking that if she were not engaged
to marry Philip Ballister, she should suspect that she had just
fallen irrecoverably in love with him.

It would have been a novelty in the history of Miss Bellairs
that any event to which she had once consented, should admit of
reconsideration; and the Ballister family, used to her strong will,
were confirmed fatalists as to the coming about of her ends and

[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]

aims. Her marriage with Philip, therefore, was discussed, cœur
ouvert, from his first arrival, and, indeed, in her usual fashion of
saving others the trouble of making up their minds, “herself had
named the day.” This, it is true, was before his landing, and
was, then, an effort of considerable magnanimity, as the expectant
Penelope was not yet advised of her lover's state of preservation
or damages by cares and keeping. If Philip had not found his
wedding-day fixed on his arrival, however, he probably would
have had a voice in the naming of it, for, with Fanny's new inspirations
as to his character, there had grown up a new flower in
her garden of beauties—timidity! What bird of the air had sown
the seed in such a soil was a problem to herself—but true it was!—
the confidant belle had grown a blushing trembler! She would
as soon have thought of bespeaking her wings for the sky, as to
have ventured on naming the day in a short week after.

The day was named, however, and the preparations went on—
nem. con.—the person most interested (after herself) accepting
every congratulation and allusion, touching the event, with the
most impenetrable suavity. The marbles and pictures, upholstery
and services, were delivered over to the order of Miss Bellairs,
and Philip, disposed, apparently, to be very much a recluse in
his rooms, or, at other times, engrossed by troops of welcoming
friends, saw much less of his bride elect than suited her wishes,
and saw her seldom alone. By particular request, also, he took
no part in the 'plenishing and embellishing of the new abode—not
permitted even to inquire where it was situated; and, under this
cover, besides the pleasure of having her own way, Fanny concealed
a little secret, which, when disclosed, she now felt, would
figure forth to Philip's comprehension, her whole scheme of future
happiness. She had taken the elder brother into her counsels a

[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]

fortnight after Philip's return, and, with his aid and consent, had
abandoned the original idea of a house in town, purchased a beautifully-secluded
estate and cottage ornée, on the East river, and
transferred thither all the objects of art, furniture, &c One
room only of the maternal mansion was permitted to contribute
its quota to the completion of the bridal dwelling—the wing,
never since inhabited, in which Philip had made his essay as a
painter—and, without variation of a cobweb, and, with whimsical
care and effort on the part of Miss Fanny, this apartment was
reproduced at Revedere—her own picture on the easel, as it
stood on the night of his abandonment of his art, and palette,
pencils and colors in tempting readiness on the table. Even the
fire-grate of the old studio had been re-set in the new, and the
cottage throughout had been refitted with a view to occupation
in the winter. And to sundry hints on the part of the elder
brother, that some thought should be given to a city residence—
for the Christmas holydays at least—Fanny replied, through a
blush, that she would never wish to see the town—with Philip at
Revedcre!

Five years had ripened and mellowed the beauty of Fanny
Bellairs, and the same summer-time of youth had turned into
fruit the feeling left by Philip in bud and flower. She was ready
now for love. She had felt the variable temper of society, and
there was a presentiment in the heart, of receding flatteries, and
the winter of life. It was with mournful self-reproach that she
thought of the years wasted in separation, of her own choosing,
from the man she loved; and, with the power to recall time, she
would have thanked God with tears of joy for the privilege of
retracing the chain of life to that link of parting. Not worth a

[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]

day of those lost years, she bitterly confessed to herself, was the
wealth they had purchased.

It lacked as little as one week of “the happy day,” when the
workmen were withdrawn from Revedere, and the preparations
for a family breakfast, to be succeeded by the agreeable surprise
to Philip of informing him he was at home, were finally completed.
One or two very intimate friends were added to the
party, and the invitations (from the elder Ballister) proposed
simply a déjeuner sur l'herbe in the grounds of an unoccupied
villa, the property of an acquaintance.

With the subsiding of the excitement of return, the early associations
which had temporarily confused and colored the feelings
of Philip Ballister, settled gradually away, leaving uppermost
once more the fastidious refinement of the Parisian. Through
this medium, thin and cold, the bubbles from the breathing of
the heart of youth, rose rarely and reluctantly. The Ballisters
held a good station in society, without caring for much beyond
the easy conveniences of life, and Fanny, though capable of any
degree of elegance, had not seen the expediency of raising the
tone of her manners above that of her immediate friends. Without
being positively distasteful to Philip, the family circle, Fanny
included, left him much to desire in the way of society, and,
unwilling to abate the warmth of his attentions while with them,
he had latterly pleaded occupation more frequently, and passed his
time in the more congenial company of his library of art. This
was the less noticed that it gave Miss Bellairs the opportunity to
make frequent visits to the workmen at Revedere, and, in the
polished devotion of her betrothed, when with her, Fanny saw
nothing reflected but her own daily increasing tenderness and
admiration.

[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]

The morning of the féte came in like the air an overture—a
harmony of all the instruments of summer. The party were at
the gate of Revedere by ten, and the drive through the avenue to
the lawn drew a burst of delighted admiration from all. The
place was exquisite, and seen in its glory, and Fanny's heart was
brimming with gratified pride and exultation. She assumed at
once the dispensation of the honors, and beautiful she looked with
her snowy dress and raven ringlets flitting across the lawn, and
queening it like Perdita among the flowers. Having narrowly
escaped bursting into tears of joy when Philip pronounced the
place prettier than anything he had seen in his travels, she was,
for the rest of the day, calmly happy; and, with the grateful
shade, the delicious breakfast in the grove, the rambling and
boating on the river, the hours passed off like dreams, and no
one even hinted a regret that the house itself was under lock and
bar. And so the sun set, and the twilight came on, and the
guests were permitted to order round their carriages and depart,
the Ballisters accompanying them to the gate. And, on the
return of the family through the avenue, excuses were made for
idling hither and thither, till lights began to show through the
trees, and, by the time of their arrival at the lawn, the low windows
of the cottage poured forth streams of light, and the open
doors, and servants busy within, completed a scene more like
magic than reality. Philip was led in by the excited girl who
was the fairy of the spell, and his astonishment at the discovery
of his statuary and pictures, books and furniture, arranged in
complete order within, was fed upon with the passionate delight
of love in authority.

When an hour had been spent in examining and admiring the
different apartments, an inner room was thrown open, in which

[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]

supper was prepared, and this fourth act in the day's drama was
lingered over in untiring happiness by the family.

Mrs. Ballister, the mother, rose and retired, and Philip pleaded
indisposition, and begged to be shown to the room allotted to him.
This was ringing-up the curtain for the last act sooner than had
been planned by Fanny, but she announced herself as his chamberlain,
and, with her hands affectionately crossed on his arm, led
him to a suite of rooms in a wing still unvisited, and, with a good-night
kiss, left him at the open door of the revived studio, furnished
for the night with a bachelor's bed. Turning upon the
threshold, he closed the door with a parting wish of sweet
dreams, and Fanny, after listening a moment with a vain hope of
overhearing some expression of pleasure, and lingering again on
her way back, to be overtaken by her surprised lover, sought her
own bed without rejoining the circle, and passed a sleepless and
happy night of tears and joy.

Breakfast was served the next morning on a terrace overlooking
the river, and it was voted by acclamation, that Fanny never
before looked so lovely. As none but the family were to be present,
she had stolen a march on her marriage wardrobe, and added
to her demi-toilet a morning cap of exquisite becomingness.
Altogether, she looked deliciously wife-like, and did the honors
of the breakfast-table with a grace and sweetness that warmed
out love and compliments even from the sober soil of household
intimacy. Philip had not yet made his appearance, and they
lingered long at table, till at last a suggestion, that he might be ill,
started Fanny to her feet, and she ran to his door before a servant
could be summoned.

The rooms were open, and the bed had not been occupied.
The candle was burned to the socket, and on the easel, resting

[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]

against the picture, was a letter addressed—“Miss Fanny Bellairs.”

“I have followed up to this hour, my fair cousin, in the path
you have marked out for me. It has brought me back, in this
chamber, to the point from which I started under your guidance,
and if it had brought me back unchanged—if it restored me my
energy, my hope, and my prospect of fame, I should pray Heaven
that it would also give me back my love, and be content—
more than content, if it gave me back also my poverty. The
sight of my easel, and of the surroundings of my boyish dreams
of glory, have made my heart bitter. They have given form and
voice to a vague unhappiness, which has haunted me through all
these absent years—years of degrading pursuits and wasted
powers—and it now impels me from you, kind and lovely as you
are, with an aversion I can not control. I cannot forgive you.
You have thwarted my destiny. You have extinguished with
sordid cares a lamp within me, that might, by this time, have
shone through the world. And what am I, since your wishes are
accomplished? Euriched in pocket, and bankrupt in happiness
and self-respect.

“With a heart sick, and a brain aching for distinction, I have
come to an unhonored stand-still at thirty! I am a successful
tradesman, and in this character I shall probably die. Could I
begin to be a painter now, say you? Alas! my knowledge of the
art is too great for patience with the slow hand! I could not
draw a line without despair. The pliant fingers and the plastic
mind must keep pace to make progress in art. My taste is fixed,
and my imagination uncreative, because chained down by

[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]

certainties; and the shortsighted ardor and daring experiment which are
indispensible to sustain and advance the follower in Raphael's
footsteps, are too far behind for my resuming. The tide ebbed
from me at the accursed burning of my pencils by your pitiless
hand, and from that hour I have felt hope receding. Could I be
happy with you, stranded here in ignoble idleness, and owing to
you the loss of my whole venture of opportunity? No, Fanny?—
surely no!

“I would not be unnecessarily harsh. I am sensible of your
affection and constancy. I have deferred this explanation unwisely,
till the time and place make it seem more cruel. You
are at this very moment, I well know, awake in your chamber,
devoting to me the vigils of a heart overflowing with tenderness.
And I would—if it were possible—if it were not utterly beyond
my powers of self-sacrifice and concealment—I would affect a
devotion I can not feel, and carry out this error through a life of
artifice and monotony. But here again, the work is your own,
and my feelings revert bitterly to your interference. If there
were no other obstacle to my marrying you—if you were not
associated repulsively with the dark cloud on my life, you are not
the woman I could now enthrone in my bosom. We have
diverged since the separation which I pleaded against, and which
you commanded. I need for my idolatry, now, a creature to
whom the sordid cares you have sacrificed me to, are utterly
unknown—a woman born and educated in circumstances where
want is never feared, and where calculation never enters. I must
lavish my wealth, if I fulfil my desire, on one who accepts it like
the air she breathes, and who knows the value of nothing but
love—a bird with a human soul and form, believing herself free
of all the world is rich in, and careful only for pleasure and the

[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]

happiness of those who belong to her. Such women, beautiful
and highly educated, are found only in ranks of society between
which and my own I have been increasing in distance—nay,
building an impassible barrier, in obedience to your control.
Where I stop, interdicted by the stain of trade, the successful
artist is free to enter. You have stamped me plebeian—you
would not share my slow progress toward a higher sphere, and
you have disqualified me for attaining it alone. In your mercenary
and immovable will, and in that only, lies the secret of our
twofold unhappiness.

“I leave you, to return to Europe. My brother and my
friends will tell you I am mad and inexcusable, and look upon
you as a victim. They will say that, to have been a painter, were
nothing to the carcer that I might mark out for my ambition, if
ambition I must have, in polities. Politics in a country where
distinction is a pillory! But I could not live here. It is my
misfortune that my tastes are so modified by that long and compulsory
exile, that life, here, would be a perpetual penance.
This unmixed air of merchandise suffocates me. Our own home
is tinctured black with it. You yourself, in this rural Paradise
you have conjured up, move in it like a cloud. The counting-house
rings in your voice, calculation draws together your brows,
you look on everything as a means, and know its cost; and the
calm and means-forgetting fruition, which forms the charm and
dignity of superior life, is utterly unknown to you. What
would be my happiness with such a wife? What would be yours
with such a husband? Yet I consider the incompatibility
between us as no advantage on my part—on the contrary, a
punishment, and of your inflicting. What shall I be, anywhere, but

[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]

a Tantalus—a fastidious ennuyé, with a thirst for the inaccessible
burning in my bosom continually!

“I pray you let us avoid another meeting before my departure.
Though I cannot forgive you as a lover, I can think of you with
pleasure as a cousin, and I give you, as your due, (“damages,” the
law would phrase it,) the portion of myself which you thought
most important when I offered you my all. You would not take
me without the fortune, but perhaps you will be content with the
fortune without me. I shall immediately take steps to convey to
you this property of Revedere, with an income sufficient to maintain
it, and I trust soon to hear that you have found a husband
better worthy of you than your cousin—

p421-091 LIGHT VERVAIN.

“And thou light vervam, too—thou next come, after
Provoking souls to mirth and easy laughter.”
—Old Somebody.

[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]

Rome, May 30, 1832.

Dined with F—, the artist, at a trattoria. F— is a man of
genius, very adventurous and imaginative in his art, but never
caring to show the least touch of these qualities in his conversation.
His pictures have given him great vogue and consideration
at Rome, so that his daily experience furnishes staple enough for
his evening's chit-chat, and he seems, of course, to be always
talking of himself. He is very generally set down as an egotist.
His impulse to talk, however, springs from no wish for selfglorification,
but rather from an indolent aptness to lay hands on
the readiest and most familiar topic, and that is a kind of egotism
to which I have very little objection—particularly with the mind
fatigued, as it commonly is in Rome, by a long day's study of
works of art.

I had passed the morning at the Barberini palace with a party
of picture-hunters, and I made some remark as to the variety of
impressions made upon the minds of different people by the same
picture. Apropos of this remark, F— told me a little anecdote,

[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]

which I must try to put down by way of a new shoal in the chart
of human nature.

“It is very much the same with everything else,” said F—;
“no two people see with the same eyes, physically or morally;
and faith, we might save ourselves a great deal of care and bother
if we did but keep it in mind.”

“As how?” I asked, for I saw that this vague remark was
premonitory of an illustration.

“I think I introduced young Skyring to you at a party somewhere?”

“A youth with a gay waistcoat and nothing to say? Yes.”

“Well—your observation just now reminded me of the different
estimate put by that gentleman and myself upon something,
and if I could give you any idea of my month's work in his
behalf, you would agree with me that I might have spared myself
some trouble—keeping in mind, as I said before, the difference in
optics.

“I was copying a bit of foreshortening from a picture in the
Vatican, one day, when this youth passed without observing me.
I did not immediately recollect him. He was dressed like a
figure in a tailor's window, and, with Mrs. Stark in his hand, was
hunting up the pictures marked with four notes of admiration;
and I, with a smile at the waxy dandyism of the man, turned to
my work and forgot him. Presently his face recurred to me, or
rather his sister's face, which some family likeness had insensibly
recalled, and, getting another look, I recognised in him an old,
though not very intimate playmate of my boyish days. It immediately
occurred to me that I could serve him a very good turn
by giving him the entrée to society here, and quite as

[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

immediately, it occurred to me to doubt whether it were worth my
while.”

“And what changed your mind,” I asked, “for of course you
came to the conclusion that it was not?”

“Oh, for his sake alone I should have left him as he was, a
hermit in his varnished boots—for he had not an acquaintance in
the city—but Kate Skyring had given me roses when roses were
to me, each a world; and for her sake, though I was a rejected
lover, I thought better of my demurrer. Then I had a little
pique to gratify—for the Skyrings had rather given me the de
haut en bas in declining the honor of my alliance (lucky for me,
since it brought me here and made me what I am), and I was not
indisposed to show that the power to serve, to say the least, was
now on my side.”

“Two sufficient, as well as dramatic reasons for being civil to a
man.”

“Only arrived at, however, by a night's deliberation, for it
cost me some trouble of thought and memory to get back into my
chrysalis and imagine myself at all subject to people so much
below my present vogue—whatever that is worth! Of course I
don't think of Kate in this comparison, for a woman one has once
loved is below nothing. We'll drink her health, God bless
her!”

(A bottle of Lagrima.)

“I left my card on Mr. Skyring the next morning, with a note
enclosing three or four invitations which I had been at some
trouble to procure, and a hope from myself of the honor of his
company to a quiet dinner. He took it as a statue would take a
shower-bath, wrote me a note in the third person in reply to mine
in the first, and came in ball-dress and sulphur gloves at

[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]

precisely the canonical fifteen minutes past the hour. Good old
Thorwalsden dined with me, and an English viscount for whom I
was painting a picture, and between my talking Italian to the
venerable sculptor, and Skyring's belording and belordshipping
the good-natured nobleman, the dinner went trippingly off—the
Little Pedlington of our mutual nativity furnishing less than its
share to the conversation.

“We drove, all together, to the Palazzo Rossi, for it was the
night of the Marchesa's soirée. As sponsor, I looked with some
satisfaction at Skyring in the ante-room, his toggery being quite
unexceptionable, and his maintien very uppish and assured. I
presented him to our fair hostess, who surveyed him as he approached
with a satisfactory look of approval, and no one else
chancing to be near, I left him to improve what was rather a rare
opportunity—a tète-à-tète with the prettiest woman in Rome.
Five minutes after, I returned to reconnoitre, and there he stood,
stroking down his velvet waistcoat, and looking from the carpet
to the ceiling, while the marchioness was quite red with embarrassment
and vexation. He had not opened his lips! She had
tried him in French and Italian (the dunce had told me that he
spoke French too), and finally she had ventured upon English,
which she knew very little of, and still he neither spoke nor ran
away!

“`Perhaps Monsieur would like to dance,' said the marchioness,
gliding away from him with a look of inexpressible relief,
and trusting to me to find him a partner.

“I had no difficulty in finding him a partner, for (that far) his
waistcoat `put him on velvet'—but I could not trust him alone
again; so, having presented him to a very pretty woman and got
them vis-à-vis in the quadrille, I stood by to supply the

[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]

short-comings. And little of a sinecure it was! The man had nothing
to say; nor, confound him, had he any embarrassment on the subject.
He looked at his varnished pumps, and coaxed his coat to
his waist, and set back his neck like a goose bolting a grasshopper,
and took as much interest in the conversation as a footman behind
your chair—deaf and dumb apparently, but perfectly at his ease.
He evidently had no idea that there was any distinction between
men except in dress, and was persuaded that he was entirely successful
as far as he had gone: and, as to my efforts in his behalf,
he clearly took them as gratuitous on my part—probably thinking,
from the difference in our exteriors, that I had paid myself
in the glory of introducing him.

“Well—I had begun so liberally that I could scarce refuse to
find my friend another partner, and, after that, another and
another—I, to avoid the odium of inflicting a bore on my fair
acquaintances, feeling compelled to continue my service as chorus
in the pantomime—and, you will scarce believe me when I tell
you that I submitted to this bore nightly for a month! I could
not get rid of him. He would not be let go. Without offending
him mortally, and so undoing all my sentimental outlay for Kate
Skyring and her short-sighted papa, I had nothing for it but to
go on till he should go off—ridden to death with him in every
conceivable variety of bore.”

“And is he gone?”

“Gone. And now, what thanks do you suppose I got for all
this?”

“A present of a pencil-case?”

“No, indeed! but a lesson in human nature that will stick by
me much longer. He called at my studio yesterday morning to
say good-bye. Through all my sense of his boredom and relief at

[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]

the prospect of being rid of him, I felt embarrassed when he came
in, thinking how difficult it would be for him to express properly
his sense of the obligation he was under to me. After half an
hour's monologue (by myself) on pictures, &c., he started up
and said he must go. `And by-the-by,' said he, coloring a little,
`there is one thing I want to say to you, Mr. F—! Hang it, it
has stuck in my throat ever since I met you! You've been very
polite and I'm obliged to you, of course—but I don't like your
devilish patronizing manner! Good-bye, Mr. F—!”

The foregoing is a leaf from a private diary which I kept at
Rome. In making a daily entry of such passing stuff as interests
us, we sometimes, amid much that should be ticketed for oblivion,
record that which has a bearing, important or amusing, on the
future; and a late renewal of my acquaintance with Mr. F—,
followed by a knowledge of some fortunate changes in his worldly
condition, has given that interest to this otherwise unimportant
scrap of diary which will be made apparent presently to the
reader. A vague recollection that I had something in an old
book which referred to him, induced me to look it up, and I was
surprised to find that I had noted down, in this trifling aneedote,
what turned out to be the mainspring of his destiny.

F— returned to his native country after five years study of
the great masters of Italy. His first pictures painted at Rome
procured for him, as is stated in the diary I have quoted, a high
reputation. He carried with him a style of his own which was
merely stimulated and heightened by his first year's walk through
the galleries of Florence, and the originality and boldness in his
manner of coloring seemed to promise a sustained novelty of the
art. Gradually, however, the awe of the great masters seemed

[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]

to overshadow his confidence in himself, and, as he travelled and
deepened his knowledge of painting, he threw aside feature after
feature of his own peculiar style, till at last he fell into the track
of the great army of imitators, who follow the immortals of the
Vatican as doomed ships follow the Flying Dutchman.

Arrived at home, and depending solely on his art for a subsistence,
F— commenced the profession to which he had served so
long an apprenticeship. But his pictures sadly disappointed his
friends. After the first specimens of his acquired style in the
annual exhibitions, the calls at his rooms became fewer and farther
between, and his best works were returned from the galleries
unsold. Too proud to humor the popular taste by returning to
what he considered an inferior stage of his art, he stood still with
his reputation ebbing from him, and as his means, of course,
depended on the tide of public favor, he was soon involved in
troubles before which his once-brilliant hopes rapidly faded.

At this juncture he received the following letter:—

“You will be surprised on glancing at the signature to this
letter. You will be still more surprised when you are reminded
that it is a reply to an unanswered one of your own—written
years ago. That letter lies by me, expressed with all the diffidence
of boyish feeling. And it seems as if its diffidence would
encourage me in what I wish to say. Yet I write far more
tremblingly than you could have done.

“Let me try to prepare the way by some explanation of the
past.

“You were my first lover. I was not forbidden, at fourteen,
to express the pleasure I felt at your admiration, and you cannot
have forgotten the ardor and simplicity with which I returned it.

[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]

I remember giving you roses better than I remember anything so
long ago. Now—writing to you with the same feeling warm at
my heart—it seems to me as if it needed but a rose, could I give
it you in the same garden, to make us lovers again. Yet I know
you must be changed. I scarce know whether I should go on
with this letter.

“But I owe you reparation. I owe you an answer to this
which lies before me; and, if I err in answering it as my heart
burns to do, you will at least be made happier by knowing that
when treated with neglect and repulsion, you were still beloved.

“I think it was not long before the receipt of this letter that
my father first spoke to me of our attachment. Till then I had
only thought of loving you. That you were graceful and manly,
that your voice was sweet, and that your smile made me happy,
was all I could have told of you without reflection. I had never
reasoned upon your qualities of mind, though I had taken an
unconscious pride in your superiority to your companions, and
least of all had I asked myself whether those abilities for making
your way in the world, which my father denied you, were among
your boyish energies. With a silent conviction that you had no
equal among your companions, in anything, I listened to my
father's disparagement of you, bewildered and overawed—the
very novelty and unexpectedness of the light in which he spoke
of you, sealing my lips completely. Perhaps resistance to his
will would have been of no avail, but, had I been better prepared
to reason upon what he urged, I might have expressed to you
the unwillingness of my acquiescence. I was prevented from
seeing you till your letter came, and then all intercourse with
you was formally forbidden. My father said he would himself

[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]

reply to your proposal. But it was addressed to me, and I have
only recovered possession of it by his death.

“Though it may seem like reproaching you for yielding me
without an effort, I must say, to complete the history of my own
feelings, that I nursed a vague hope of hearing from you until
your departure for Italy, and that this hope was extinguished not
without bitter tears. The partial resentment that mingled with
this unhappiness aided me doubtless in making up my mind to
forget you, and for a while, for years I may say, I was possessed
by other excitements and feelings. It is strange, however, that,
though scarce remembering you when waking, I still saw you
perpetually in my dreams.

“And, so far, this is a cold and easy recital. How shall I
describe to you the next change, the re-awakening of this smothered
and slumbering affection! How shall I evade your contempt
when I tell you that it awoke with your renown! But my
first feeling was not one of love. When your name began to come
to us in the letters of travellers and in the rumor of literary
circles, I felt as if something that belonged to me was praised
and honored; a pride, an exulting and gratified pride, that feeling
seemed to be, as if the heart of my childhood had been
staked on your aspirations, and was borne up with you, a part
and a partaker of your fame. With all my soul I drank in the
news of your successes in the art; I wrote to those who came
home from Italy; I questioned those likely to have heard of you,
as critics and connoisscurs; I devoted all my reading to the literature
of the arts, and the history of painters, for my life was
poured into yours irresistibly, by a power I could not, and cannot
now control. My own imagination turned painter, indeed, for I
lived on revery, calling up, with endless variations, pictures of

[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]

yourself amid the works of your pencil, visited and honored as I
knew you were, yet unchanged in the graceful and boyish beauty
I remembered. I was proud of having loved you, of having been
the object of the earliest and purest preference of a creature of
genius; and through this pride, supplanting and overflowing it,
crept and strengthened a warmer feeling, the love I have the
hardihood to avow. Oh! what will you think of this boldness!
Yet to conceal my love were now a severer task than to wait the
hazard of your contempt.

“One explanation—a palliative, perhaps you will allow it to
be, if you are generous—remains to be given. The immediate
impulse of this letter was information from my brother, long
withheld, of your kindness to him in Rome. From some perverseness
which I hardly understand, he has never before hinted
in my presence that he had seen you in Italy, and it was only by
needing it as an illustration of some feeling which seemed to have
piqued him, and which he was expressing to a friend, that he
gave the particulars of your month of devotion to him. Knowing
the difference between your characters, and the entire want of
sympathy between your pursuits and my brother's, to what
motive could I attribute your unusual and self-sacrificing kindness?

“Did I err—was I presumptuous, in believing that it was
from a forgiving and tender memory of myself?

“You are prepared now, if you can be, for what I would say.
We are left alone, my brother and I, orphan heirs to the large
fortune of my father. I have no one to control my wishes, no
one's permission to ask for any disposition of my hand and fortune.
Will you have them? In this question is answered the

[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]

sweet, and long-treasured, though long neglected letter, lying
beside me.

Mrs. F—, as will be seen from the style of her letter, is a
woman of decision and cleverness, and of such a helpmeet, in the
way of his profession as well as in the tenderer relations of life,
F— was sorely in need. By her common-sense counsels and
persuasion, he has gone back, with his knowledge of the art, to the
first lights of his own powerful genius, and, with means to command
leisure and experiment, he is, without submitting the
process to the world, perfecting a manner which will more than
redeem his early promise.

As his career, though not very uncommon or dramatic, hinged
for its more fortunate events on an act of high-spirited politeness,
I have thought, that, in this age of departed chivalry, the story
was worth preserving for its lesson.

p421-102 BROWN'S DAY WITH THE MIMPSON'S.

[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]

We got down from an omnibus in Charing-Cross.

“Sovereign or ha'penny?” said the cad, rubbing the coin between
his thumb and finger.

“Sovereign of course!” said B— confidently, pocketing
the change which the man had ready for the emergency in a bit
of brown paper.

It was a muggy, misty, London twilight. I was coming up to
town from Blackheath, and in the crowded vehicle had chanced
to encounter my compatriot B— (call it Brown), who had
been lionizing the Thames tunnel. In the course of conversation,
it came out that we were both on the town for our dinner; and, as
we were both guests at the Traveller's Club, we had pulled the
omnibus-string at the nearest point, and, after the brief dialogue
recorded above, strolled together down Pall-Mall.

As we sat waiting for our fish, one of us made a remark as to
the difference of feel between gold and copper coin, and Brown,
fishing in his pocket for money to try the experiment, discovered
that the doubt of the cad was well founded, for he had unconsciously
passed a halfpenny for a sovereign.

“People are very apt to take your coin at your own

[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]

valuation!” said Brown, with a smile of some meaning, “and when
they are in the dark as to your original coinage (as the English
are with regard to Americans abroad), it as easy to pass for gold
as for copper. Indeed, you may pass for both in a day, as I have
lately had experience. Remind me presently to tell you how.
Here comes the fried sole, and it's troublesome talking when
there are bones to fight shy of—the `flow of sole' to the contrary
notwithstanding.”

I will take advantage of the hiatus to give the reader a slight
idea of my friend, as a preparation for his story.

Brown was the “mirror of courtesy.” He was also the mirror
of vulgarity. And he was the mirror of everything else. He
had that facility of adaptation to the society he was in, which
made him seem born for that society, and that only; and, without
calculation or forethought—by an unconscious instinct, indeed—
he cleverly reflected the man and manners before him.
The result was a popularity of a most varied quality. Brown
was a man of moderate fortune and no profession. He had
travelled for some years on the continent, and had encountered
all classes of Englishmen, from peers to green-grocers; and, as he
had a visit to England in prospect, he seldom parted from the
most chance acquaintance without a volunteer of letters of introduction,
exchange of addresses, and similar tokens of having
“pricked through his castle wall.” When he did arrive in London,
at last, it was with a budget like the postman's on Valentine's
day, and he had only to deliver one letter in a score to be
put on velvet in any street or square within the bills of mortality.
Sagacious enough to know that the gradations of English society
have the facility of a cat's back (smooth enough from the head
downward), he began with a most noble duke, and at the date of

[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]

his introduction to the reader, was on the dinner-list of most of
the patricians of May Fair.

Presuming that you see your man, dear reader, let us come at
once to the removal of the cloth.

“As I was calling myself to account, the other day, over my
breakfast,” said Brown, filling his glass and pushing the bottle,
“it occurred to me that my round of engagements required some
little variation. There's a `toujours perdrix,' even among lords
and ladies, particularly when you belong as much to their sphere,
and are as likely to become a part of it, as the fly revolving in
aristocratic dust on the wheel of my lord's carriage. I thought,
perhaps, I had better see some other sort of people.

“I had, under a presse-papier on the table, about a hundred
letters of introduction—the condemned remainder, after the
selection, by advice, of four or five only. I determined to cut
this heap like a pack of cards, and follow up the trump.

“`John Mimpson, Esq., House of Mimpson and Phipps,
Mark's Lane, London.'

“The gods had devoted me to the acquaintance of Mr. (and
probably Mrs.) John Mimpson. After turning over a deal of
rubbish in my mind, I remembered that the letter had been given
me five years before by an American merchant—probably the
correspondent of the firm in Mark's Lane. It was a sealed letter,
and said in brackets on the back, `Introducing Mr. Brown.'
I had a mind to give it up and cut again, for I could not guess on
what footing I was introduced, nor did I know what had become
of the writer—nor had I a very clear idea how long a letter of
recommendation will hold its virtue. It struck me again that
these difficulties rather gave it a zest, and I would abide by the
oracle. I dressed, and, as the day was fine, started to stroll

[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]

leisurely through the Strand and Fleet street, and look into the
shop-windows on my way—assuring myself, at least, thus much
of diversion in my adventure.

“Somewhere about two o'clock, I left daylight behind, and
plunged into Mark's Lane. Up one side and down the other—
“Mimpson and Co.' at last, on a small brass plate, set in a green
baize door. With my unbuttoned coat nearly wiped off my
shoulder by the strength of the pulley, I shoved through, and
emerged in a large room, with twenty or thirty clerks perched on
high stools, like monkeys in a menagerie.

“`First door right!' said the nearest man, without raising his
eyes from the desk, in reply to my inquiry for Mr. Mimpson.

“I entered a closet, lighted by a slanting skylight, in which
sat my man.

“`Mr. John Mimpson?'

“`Mr. John Mimpson!'

“After this brief dialogue of accost, I produced my letter, and
had a second's leisure to examine my new friend while he ran his
eye over the contents. He was a rosy, well-conditioned, tight.
skinned little man, with black hair, and looked like a pear on a
chair. (Hang the bothering rhymes!) His legs were completely
hid under the desk, so that the ascending eye began with his
equatory line, and whether he had no shoulders or no neck, I could
not well decide—but it was a tolerably smooth plane from his
seat to the top curl of his sinciput. He was scrupulously well
dressed, and had that highly washed look which marks the city
man in London—bent on not betraying his `diggins' by his complexion.

“I answered Mr. Mimpson's inquiries about our mutual friend
with rather a hazardous particularity, and assured him he was

[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]

quite well (I have since discovered that he has been dead three
years), and conversation warmed between us for ten minutes, till
we were ready to part sworn friends. I rose to go, and the
merchant seemed very much perplexed.

“`To-morrow,' said he, rubbing the two great business bumps
over his eyebrows—`no—yes—that is to say, Mrs. Mimpson—
well, it shall be to-morrow! Can you come out to Rose Lodge,
and spend the day to-morrow?'

“`With great pleasure,' said I, for I was determined to follow
my trump letter to extremities.

“`Mrs. Mimpson,' he next went on to say, as he wrote down
the geography of Rose Lodge—`Mrs. Mimpson expects some
friends to-morrow—indeed, some of her very choice friends. If
you come early, you will see more of her than if you just save your
dinner. Bring your carpet-bag, of course, and stay over night.
Lunch at two—dine at seven. I can't be there to receive you
myself, but I will prepare Mrs. Mimpson to save you all trouble
of introduction. Hampstead road. Good morning, my dear
sir.'

“So, I am in for a suburban bucolie, thought I, as I regained
daylight in the neighborhood of the Mansion House.

“It turned out a beautiful day, sunny and warm; and had I
been sure of my navigation, and sure of my disposition to stay all
night, I should have gone out by the Hampstead coach, and made
the best of my way, carpet-bag in hand. I went into Newman's
for a postchaise, however, and, on showing him the written address,
was agreeably surprised to find he knew Rose Lodge. His boys
had all been there.

“Away I went through the Regent's park, behind the blood-posters,
blue jacket and white hat, and, somewhere about one

[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]

o'clock, mounted Hampsted Hill, and in ten minutes thence was
at my destination. The postboy was about driving in at the open
gate, but I dismounted and sent him back to the inn to leave his
horses, and then, depositing my bag at the porter's lodge, walked
up the avenue. It was a much finer place, altogether, than I
expected to see.

“Mrs. Mimpson was in the garden. The dashing footman
who gave me the information led me through a superb drawing-room,
and out at a glass door upon the lawn, and left me to make
my own way to the lady's presence.

“It was a delicious spot, and I should have been very glad to
ramble about by myself till dinner, but, at a turn in the grandwalk,
I came suddenly upon two ladies.

“I made my bow, and begged leave to introduce myself as
Mr. Brown.'

“With a very slight inclination of the head, and no smile
whatever, one of the ladies asked me if I had walked from town,
and begged her companion (without introducing me to her) to
show me in to lunch. The spokester was a stout and tall woman,
who had rather an aristocratic nose, and was not handsome, but,
to give her her due, she had made a narrow escape of it. She
was dressed very showily, and evidently had great pretensions;
but, that she was not at all glad to see Mr. Brown, was as apparent
as was at all necessary. As the other, and younger lady,
who was to accompany me, however, was very pretty, though
dressed very plainly, and had, withal, a look in her eye which
assured me she was amused with my unwelcome apparition, I
determined, as I should not otherwise have done, to stay it out,
and accepted her convoy with submissive civility—very much
inclined, however, to be impudent to somebody, somehow.

[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]

“The lunch was on a tray in a side-room, and I rang the bell
and ordered a bottle of champagne. The servant looked surprised,
but brought it, and meantime I was getting through the
weather and the other commonplaces, and the lady, saying little,
was watching me very calmly. I liked her looks, however, and
was sure she was not a Mimpson.

“`Hand this to Miss Armstrong!' said I to the footman,
pouring out a glass of champagne.

“`Miss Bellamy, you mean, sir.'

“I rose and bowed, and, with as grave a courtesy as I could
command, expressed my pleasure at my first introduction to Miss
Bellamy—through Thomas, the footman! Miss Bellamy burst
into a laugh, and was pleased to compliment my American manners,
and in ten minutes we were a very merry pair of friends,
and she accepted my arm for a stroll through the grounds, carefully
avoiding the frigid neighborhood of Mrs. Mimpson.

“Of course I set about picking Miss Bellamy's brains for what
information I wanted. She turned out quite the nicest creature
I had seen in England—fresh, joyous, natural, and clever; and, as
I was delivered over to her bodily, by her keeper and feeder, she
made no scruple of promenading me through the grounds till the
dressing bell—four of the most agreeable hours I have to record
in my travels.

“By Miss Bellamy's account, my advent that day was looked
upon by Mrs. Mimpson as an enraging calamity. Mrs. Mimpson
was, herself, fourth cousin to a Scotch lord, and the plague of her
life was the drawback to the gentility of her parties in Mimpson's
mercantile acquaintance. She had married the little man for his
money, and had thought, by living out of town, to choose her
own society, with her husband for her only incumbrance; but

[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]

Mimpson vowed that he should be ruined in Mark's Lane, if he
did not house and dine his mercantile fraternity and their envoys
at Rose Lodge, and they had at last compromised the matter.
No Yankee clerk, or German agent, or person of any description,
defiled by trade, was to be invited to the Lodge without a three
days' premonition to Mrs. Mimpson, and no additions were to be
made, whatever, by Mr. M., to Mrs. M's dinners, soirées,
matinées, archery parties, suppers, déjeuners, tableaux, or private
theatricals. This holy treaty, Mrs. Mimpson presumed, was
written `with a gad of steel on a leaf of brass'—inviolable as her
cousin's coat-of-arms.

“But there was still `Ossa on Pelion.' The dinner of that
day had a diplomatic aim. Miss Mimpson (whom I had not yet
seen) was ready to `come out,' and her mother had embarked
her whole soul in the enterprise of bringing about that début at
Almack's. Her best card was a certain Lady S—, who
chanced to be passing a few days in the neighborhood, and this
dinner was in her honor—the company chosen to impress her
with the exclusiveness of the Mimpsons, and the prayer for her
ladyship's influence (to procure vouchers from one of the patronesses)
was to be made, when she was `dieted to their request.'
And all had hitherto worked to a charm. Lady S— had accepted—
Ude had sent his best cook from Crockford's—the
Belgian chargé and a Swedish attaché were coming—the day was
beautiful, and the Lodge was sitting for its picture; and, on the
very morning, when every chair at the table was ticketed and
devoted, what should Mr. Mimpson do, but send back a special
messenger from the city, to say that he had forgotten to mention
to Mrs. M. at breakfast, that he had invited Mr. Brown! Of
course he had forgotten it, though it would have been as much

[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]

as his eyes were worth to mention it in person to Mrs. Mimpson.

“To this information, which I give you in a lump, but which
came to light in the course of rather a desultory conversation,
Miss Bellamy thought I had some title, from the rudeness of my
reception. It was given in the shape of a very clever banter, it
is true, but she was evidently interested to set me right with
regard to Mr. Mimpson's good intentions in my behalf, and, as
far as that and her own civilities would do it, to apologise for the
inhospitality of Rose Lodge. Very kind of the girl—for I was
passing, recollect, at a most ha'penny valuation.

“I had made some casual remark touching the absurdity of
Almack's aspirations in general, and Mrs. Mimpson's in particular,
and my fair friend, who of course fancied an Almack's ticket
as much out of Mr. Brown's reach as the horn of the new moon,
took up the defence of Mrs. Mimpson on that point, and undertook
to dazzle my untutored imagination by a picture of this
seventh heaven—as she had heard it described—for, to herself,
she freely confessed, it was not even within the limits of dream-land.
I knew this was true of herself, and thousands of highlyeducated
and charming girls in England; but still, looking at
her while she spoke, and seeing what an ornament she would be
to any ballroom in the world, I realized, with more repugnance
than I had ever felt before, the arbitrary barriers of fashion and
aristocracy. As accident had placed me in a position to `look on
the reverse of the shield,' I determined, if possible, to let Miss
Bellamy judge of its color with the same advantage. It is not
often that a plebeian like myself has the authority to

[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]

“We were near the open window of the library, and I stepped
in and wrote a note to Lady — (one of the lady patronesses,
and the kindest friend I have in England), asking for three
vouchers for the next ball. I had had occasion once or twice
before to apply for similar favors, for countrywomen of my
own, passing through London on their travels, and I knew that
her ladyship thought no more of granting them than of returning
bows in Hyde Park. I did not name the ladies for whom the
three tickets were intended, wishing to reserve the privilege of
handing one to Miss Mimpson, should she turn out civil and presentable.
The third, of course, was to Miss Bellamy's chaperon,
whoever that might be, and the party might be extended to a
quartette by the `Monsieur De Trop' of the hour—cela selon.
Quite a dramatic plot—wasn't it?

“I knew that Lady — was not very well, and would be
found at home by the messenger (my post-boy), and there was
time enough between soup and coffee to go to London and back,
even without the spur in his pocket.

“The bell rang, and Miss Bellamy took herself off to dress.
I went to my carpet bag in the bachelor quarters of the house,
and through a discrect entretien with the maid who brought me
hot water, became somewhat informed as to my fair friend's position
in the family. She was the daughter of a gentleman who
had seen better days. They lived in a retired cottage in the
neighborhood; and, as Miss Bellamy and a younger sister were
both very highly accomplished, they were usually asked to the
Lodge, whenever there was company to be entertained with their
music.

“I was early in the drawing-room, and found there Mrs.
Mimpson and a tall dragoon of a young lady I presumed to be her

[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]

daughter. She did not introduce me. I had hardly achieved
my salutary salaam when Miss Bellamy came in opportunely,
and took me off their hands, and, as they addressed no conversation
to us, we turned over music, and chatted in the corner while
the people came in. It was twilight in the reception-room, and
I hoped, by getting on the same side of the table with Lady
S— (whom I had the honor of knowing), to escape recognizance
till we joined the ladies in the drawing-room after dinner.
As the guests arrived, they were formally introduced to Miss
Mimpson by the mother, and everybody but myself was formally
presented to Lady S—, the exception not noticeable, of course,
among thirty people. Mr. Mimpson came late from the city,
possibly anxious to avoid a skirmish on the subject of his friend
Brown, and he entered the room barely in time to hand Lady
S— in to dinner.

“My tactics were ably seconded by my unconscious ally. I
placed myself in such a position at table, that, by a little management,
I kept Miss Bellamy's head between me and Lady
S—, and my name was not so remarkable as to draw attention
to me when called on to take wine with the peccant spouse of the
Scotch lord's cousin. Meantime I was very charmingly entertained—
Miss Bellamy not having, at all, the fear of Mrs. Mimpson
before her eyes, and apparently finding the Yankee supercargo,
or cotton clerk, or whatever he might be, quite worth trying her
hand upon. The provender was good, and the wine was enough
to verify the apocrypha—at least for the night—`a man remembering
neither sorrow nor debt' with such glorious claret.

“As I was vis-a-vis to Miss Mimpson, and only two plates
removed from her mother, I was within reach of some syllable or
some civility, and one would have thought that good breeding

[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]

might exact some slight notice for the devil himself, under one's
own roof by invitation; but the large eyes of Miss Aurelia and
her mamma passed over me as if I had on the invisible ring of
Gyges. I wonder, by-the-way, whether the ambitious youths
who go to London and Paris with samples, and come back and
sport `the complete varnish of a man' acquired in foreign society—
I wonder whether they take these rubs to be part of their
polishing!

“The ladies rose and left us, and as I had no more occasion
to dodge heads, or trouble myself with humility, I took Lady
S—'s place at old Mimpson's right hand, and was immediately
recognized with great empressement by the Belgian chargé, who
had met me `very often, in very agreeable society.' Mimpson
stared, and evidently took it for a bit of flummery or a mistake;
but he presently stared again, for the butler came in with a coronetted
note on his silver tray, and the seal side up, and presented
it to me with a most deferential bend of his white coat.
I felt the vouchers within, and pocketed it without opening, and
we soon after rose and went to the drawing-room for our coffee.

“Lady S— sat with her back to the door, beseiged by Mrs.
Mimpson; and, at the piano, beside Miss Bellamy, who was preparing
to play, stood one of the loveliest young creatures possible
to fancy. A pale and high-bred looking lady in widow's weeds
sat near them, and I had no difficulty in making out who were
the after-dinner additions to the party. I joined them, and was
immediately introduced by Miss Bellamy to her mother and
sister, with whom (after a brilliant duet by the sisters) I strolled
out upon the lawn for an hour—for it was a clear night, and the
moon and soft air almost took me back to Italy. And (perhaps

[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]

by a hint from Miss Bellamy) I was allowed to get on very expeditiously
in my acquaintance with her mother and sister.

“My new friends returned to the drawing-room, and, as the
adjoining library was lighted, I went in and filled up the blank
vouchers with the names of Mrs. Bellamy and her daughters. I
listened a moment to the conversation in the next room. The
subject was Almack's, and was discussed with great animation.
Lady S—, who seemed to me trying to escape the trap they
had baited for her, was quietly setting forth the difficulties of
procuring vouchers, and recommending to Mrs. Mimpson not to
subject herself to the mortification of a refusal. Old Mimpson
backed up this advice with a stout approval, and this brought
Mrs. Mimpson out `horse and foot,' and she declared that she
would submit to anything, do anything, give anything, rather
than fail in this darling object of her ambition. She would feel
under eternal inexpressible obligations to any friend who would
procure, for herself and daughter, admission for but one night to
Almack's.

“And then came in the sweet voice of Miss Bellamy, who
`knew it was both wrong and silly, but she would give ten years
of her life to go to one of Almack's balls, and, in a long conversation
she had had with Mr. Brown on the subject that morning—
'

“`Ah!' interrupted Lady S—, `if it had been the Mr.
Brown, you would have had very little trouble about it.'

“`And who is the Mr. Brown?' asked Mrs. Mimpson.

“`The pet and protegé of the only lady patroness I do not
visit,' said Lady S—, and unluckily, too, the only one who
thinks the vouchers great rubbish, and gives them away without
thought or scruple.'

[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]

“At that moment I entered the room.

“`Good heavens!' screamed Lady S—, `is that his
ghost? Why, Mr. Brown!' she gasped, giving me her hand
very cautiously, `do you appear when you are talked of, like—
like—like—'

“`Like the devil? No! But I am here in the body, and
very much at your ladyship's service,' said I, `for of course you
are going to the Duke's to-night, and so am I. Will you take me
with you, or shall my po-sha follow where I belong—in your
train?”

“`I'll take you, of course,' said her ladyship, rising, `but first
about these vouchers. You have just come, and didn't hear our
discussion. Mrs. Mimpson is extremely anxious that her
daughter should come out at Almack's, and, as I happened to
say, the moment before you entered, you are the very person
to procure the tickets from Lady—. How very odd that
you should come in just then! But tell us—can you?'

“A dead silence followed the question. Mrs. Mimpson sat
with her eyes on the floor, the picture of dismay and mortification.
Miss Mimpson blushed and twisted her handkerchief, and Miss
Bellamy looked at her hostess, half amused and half distressed.

“I handed the three vouchers to Miss Bellamy, and begged
her acceptance of them, and then, turning to Lady S—,
without waiting for a reply, regretted that, not having had the
pleasure of being presented to Miss Mimpson, I had not felt
authorised to include her in my effort to oblige Miss Bellamy.

“And, what with old Mimpson's astonishment, and Lady
S—'s immediate tact in covering, by the bustle of departure,
what she did not quite understand, though she knew it was some
awkward contre-temps or other, I found time to receive Miss

[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]

Bellamy's thanks, and get permission from the mother to call and
arrange this unexpected party, and, in ten minutes, I was on my
way to London with Lady S—, amusing her almost into fits
with my explanations of the Mimpson mystery.

“Lady S— was to be still at Hampstead for a few days,
and, at my request, she called with me on the Bellamys, and
invited the girls up to town. Rose Bellamy, the younger, is at
this moment one of the new stars of the season accordingly, and
Miss Bellamy and I carry on the war, weekly, at Almack's, and
nightly at some wax-light paradise or other, and Lady S—
has fallen in love with them both, and treats them like daughters.

“So you see, though I passed for a ha'penny with the Mimpson's,
I turned out a sovereign to the Bellamys.

“Pass the bottle!”

p421-117 MR. AND MRS. FOLLETT; OR, THE DANGERS OF MEDDLING WITH MARRIED PEOPLE.

[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]

There are two commodities, much used by gentlemen, neither
of which will bear tinkering or tampering with—matrimony and
patent leather. Their necessities are fair weather and untroubled
wear and tear. Ponder on the following melancholy example!

My friend Follett married a lady, contrary to my advice. I
gave the advice contrary to my wont and against my will. He
would have it. The lady was a tolerably pretty woman, on
whose original destiny it was never written that she should be a
belle. How she became one is not much matter; but nature
being thoroughly taken by surprise with her success, had neglected
to provide the counterpoise. I say it is no great matter
how she became a belle—nor is it—for, if such things were to be
accounted for to the satisfaction of the sex, the world have little
time for other speculations; but I will devote a single paragraph
to the elucidation of this one of many mysteries, for a reason
I have. Fœnam habet in cornu.

Poets are the least fastidious, and the least discriminating of
men, in their admiration of women (vide Byron), partly because
their imagination, like sunshine, glorifies all that turns to it,

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without which they were not poets, is both indolent and imperial,
from both causes waiting always to be sought. In some circles,
bards are rather comets than stars, and the one whose orbit for a
few days intersected that of Miss Adele Burham, was the exclusive
marvel of the hour. Like other poets, the one of which I
speak was concentrative in his attentions, and he chose (why, the
gods knew better than the belles of the season) to have neither
eyes nor ears, flowers, flatteries, nor verses, for any other than
Miss Burnham. He went on his way, but the incense, in which
he had enveloped the blest Adele, lingered like a magic atmosphere
about her, and Tom Follett and all his tribe breathed it in
blind adoration. I trust the fair reader has here nodded her
head, in evidence that this history of the belleship of Miss
Burnham is no less brief than natural and satisfactory.

When Follett came to me with the astounding information that
he intended to propose to Miss Burnham (he had already proposed
and been accepted, the traitor!) my fancy at once took
the prophetic stride so natural on the first breaking of such news,
and, in the five minutes which I took for reflection, I had travelled
far into that land of few delusions—holy matrimony. Before me,
in all the changeful variety of a magic mirror, came and went
the many phases of which that multiform creature, woman, is
susceptible. I saw her in diamonds and satin, and in kitchenapron
and curl-papers; in delight, and in the dumps; in supplication,
and in resistance; shod like a fairy in French shoes, and
slip-shod (as perhaps fairies are, too, in their bed-rooms and
dairies). I saw her approaching the climacteric of age, and
receding from it—a mother, a nurse, an invalid—mum over her
breakfast, chatty over her tea—doing the honors at Tom's table,
and mending, with sober diligence, Tom's straps and suspenders.
The kaleidoscope of fancy exhausted its combinations.

[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]

“Tom!” said I (looking up affectionately, for he was one of
my weaknesses, was Tom, and I indulged myself in loving him
without a reason), “Miss Burnham is in the best light where she
is. If she cease to be a belle, as of course she will, should she
marry —”

“Of course!” interrupted Tom, very gravely.

“Well, in that case, she lays off the goddess, trust me! You
will like her to dress plainly—”

“Quite plain!”

“And, stripped of her plumage, your bird of Paradise would be
nothing but a very indifferent hen—with the disadvantage of
remembering that she had been a bird of Paradise.”

“But it was not her dress that attracted the brilliant author
of —”

Possibly not. But, as the false gods of mythology are only
known by their insignia, Jupiter by his thunderbolt, and Mercury
by his talaria and caduceus, so a woman, worshipped by accident,
will find a change of exterior nothing less than a laying aside of
her divinity. That's didactic sentence, but you will know what
I mean, when I tell you that I, myself, cannot see a pair of coral
ear-rings without a sickness of the heart, though the woman who
once wore them, and who slighted me twenty years ago, sits before
me in church, without diverting a thought from the sermon.
Don't marry her, Tom!”

Six weeks after this conversation, I was at the wedding, and
the reader will please pass to the rear the six succeeding months—
short time as it seems—to record a change in the bland sky of
matrimony. It was an ellipse in our friendship as well; for advice
(contrary to our wishes and intentions) is apt to be resented, and
I fancied, from the northerly bows I received from Mrs. Follett,

[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]

that my friend had made a merit to her of having married contrary
to my counsel. At the end of this period Tom called
on me.

Follett, I should have said, was a man of that undecided exterior
which is perfectly at the mercy of a cravat or waistcoat.
He looked “snob” or “nob,” according to the care with which
he had made his toilet. While a bachelor, of course, he could
never afford, in public, a negligence or a mistake, and was invariably
an elegant man, harmonious and “pin-point” from straps
to whiskers. But alas! the security of wedded life! When
Tom entered my room, I perused him as a walking homily. His
coat, still made on the old measure, was buttoned only at the top,
the waist being rather snug, and his waistcoat pockets loaded with
the copper which in his gayer days he always left on the counter.
His satin cravat was frayed and brownish, with the tie slipped
almost under his ear. The heel of his right boot (he trod
straight on the other foot) almost looked him in the face. His
pantaloons (the one article of dress in which there are no gradations—
nothing, if not perfect) were bulged and strained. He
wore a frightfully new hat, no gloves, and carried a baggy brown
umbrella, which was, in itself, a most expressive portrait of
“gone to seed.” Tom entered with his usual uppish carriage,
and, through the how-d'ye-dos, and the getting into his chair,
carried off the old manner to a charm. In talking of the weather,
a moment after, his eye fell on his stumpy umbrella, which, with
an unconscious memory of an old affectation with his cane, he was
balancing on the toe of his boot, and the married look slid over
him like a mist. Down went his head between his shoulders,
and down went the corners of his mouth—down the inflation of
his chest like a collapsed balloon; and down, in its youth and

[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]

expression, it seemed to me, every muscle of his face. He had
assumed in a minute the style and countenance of a man ten
years older.

I smiled. How could I but smile!

“Then you have heard of it!” exclaimed Tom, suddenly
starting to his feet, and flushing purple to the roots of his hair.

“Heard of what?”

My look of surprise evidently took him aback; and, seating
himself again with confused apologies, Tom proceeded to “make
a clean breast,” on a subject which I had not anticipated.

It seemed that, far from moulting her feathers after marriage,
according to my prediction, Mrs. Follett clearly thought that she
had not yet “strutted her hour,” and, though everything Tom
could wish, behind the curtain, in society she had flaunted and
flirted, not merely with no diminution of zest from the wedding-day,
but, her husband was of opinion, with a ratio alarmingly
increasing. Her present alliance was with a certain Count
Hautenbas, the lion of the moment, and though doubtless one in
which vanity alone was active, Tom's sense of connubial propriety
was at its last gasp. He could stand it no longer. He
wished my advice in the choice between two courses. Should he
call out the Frenchman, or should he take advantage of the law's
construction of “moral insanity,” and shut her up in a mad-house.

My advice had been of so little avail in the first instance, that
I shrank from troubling Tom with any more of it, and certainly
should have evaded it altogether, but for an experiment I wished
to make, as much for my own satisfaction as for the benefit of
that large class, the unhappy married.

“Your wife is out every night, I suppose, Tom?”

[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]

“Every night when she has no party at home.”

“Do you go with her always?”

“I go for her usually—but the truth is, that, since I married,
parties bore me, and after seeing my wife off, I commonly smoke
and snooze, or read, or run into Bob Thomas's and `talk horse,'
till I have just time to be in at the death.”

“And when you get there, you don't dance?”

“Not I, faith! I haven't danced since I was married!”

“But you used to be the best waltzer of the day.”

“Well, the music sometimes gets into my heels now, but,
when I remember I am married, the fit cools off. The deuce
take it! a married man shouldn't be seen whirling round the room
with a girl in his arms!”

“I presume that, were you still single, you would fancy your
chance to be as good for ladies' favors as any French count's
that ever came over?”

“Ehem! why—yes!”

Tom pulled up his collar.

“And if you had access to her society all day and all night,
and the Frenchman only an hour or two in the evening, any
given lady being the object, you would bet freely on your own
head?”

“I see your drift,” said Tom, with a melancholy smile, “but
it won't do!”

“No, indeed—it is what would have done. You had at the
start a much better chance with your wife than Count Hautenbas;
but husbands and lovers are the `hare and the tortoise' of the
fable. We must resort now to other means. Will you follow my
advice, as well as take it, should I be willing again to burn my
fingers in your affairs?”

[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]

The eagerness of Tom's protestations quite made the amende to
my mortified self-complacency, and I entered zealously into my
little plot for his happiness. At this moment I heartily wish I
had sent him and his affairs to the devil, and (lest I should forget
it at the close of this tale) I here caution all men, single and
double, against “meddling or making,” marring or mending, in
matrimonial matters. The alliteration may, perhaps, impress
this salutary counsel on the mind of the reader.

I passed the remainder of the day in repairing the damage of
Tom's person. I had his whiskers curled and trimmed even, (his
left whisker was an inch nearer his nose than the right), and his
teeth looked to by the dentist. I stood by, to be sure that there
was no carelessness in his selection of patent leathers, and, on his
assuring me that he was otherwise well provided, I suffered him to
go home to dress, engaging him to dine with me at seven.

He was punctual to the hour. By Jove I could scarce believe
it was the same man. The consciousness of being well dressed
seemed to have brightened his eyes and lips, as it certainly
changed altogether his address and movements. He had a narrow
escape of being handsome. After all, it is only a “man of mark,”
or an Apollo, who can well afford to neglect the outer man; and
a judicious negligence, or a judicious plainness, is probably worth
the attention of both the man of mark and the Apollo. Tom was
quite another order of creature—a butterfly that was just now a
worm—and would have been treated with more consideration in
consequence, even by those least tolerant of “the pomps and
vanities.” We dined temperately, and I superseded the bottle by
a cup of strong green tea, at an early moment after the removal
of the cloth, determined to have Tom's wits in as full dress as his
person. Without being at all a brilliant man, he was—the next

[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]

best thing—a steady absorbent; and as most women are more
fond of giving than receiving in all things, but particularly in conversation,
I was not uneasy as to his power of making himself
agreeable. Nor was he, faith!

The ball of the night was at the house of an old friend of my
own, and Mr. and Mrs. Follett were but newly introduced to the
circle. I had the company very clearly in my eye, therefore,
while casting about for dramatis personé, and fixing upon Mrs.
Beverly Fairlie, for the prominent character, I assured success,
though being very much in love with that coquettish widow
myself, I had occasion for some self-denial in the matter. Of
Mrs. Fairlie's weak points (on which it seemed necessary that I
should enlighten Tom), I had information not to be acquired short
of summering and wintering her, and, with my eye solely directed
to its effect upon Mrs. Follett, I put the clues into my friend's
hands in a long after-dinner conversation. As he seemed impatient
to open the campaign, after getting these definite and
valuable instructions, I augured well for his success, and we
entered the ball-room in high spirits.

It was quite enough to say to the mischievous widow that
another woman was to be piqued by any attentions she might
choose to pay Mr. Follett. Having said thus much, and presented
Tom, I sought out Mrs. Follett myself, with the double
purpose of breaking up the monopoly of Mons. Hautenbas, and of
directing her attention, should it be necessary, to the suavities
between Tom and the widow.

It was a superb ball, and the music, as Tom said, went to the
heels. The thing he did well was waltzing, and, after taking a
turn or two with Mrs. Fairlie, the rusée dame ran up to Mrs.

[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]

Follett with the most innocent air imaginable, and begged the
loan of her husband for the rest of the evening! I did not half
like the look of earnest with which she entered into the affair,
indeed, and there was little need of my taking much trouble to
enlighten Mrs. Follett; for a woman so surprised with a six
months' husband I never saw. They were so capitally matched,
Tom and the widow, in size, motion, style of waltzing, and all,
that not we only, but the whole party, were occupied with observing
and admiring them. Mrs. Follett and I (for a secret
sympathy, somehow, drew us together, as the thing went on)
kept up a broken conversation, in which the Count was even less
interested than we; and after a few ineffectual attempts to draw
her into the tea-room, the Frenchman left us in pique, and we
gave ourselves up to the observation of the couple who (we
presumed) severally belonged to us. They carried on the war
famously, to be sure! Mrs. Fairlie was a woman who could do
as she liked, because she would; and she cared not a straw for
the very prononcé demonstration of engrossing one man for all
the quadrilles, waltzes, and gallopades, beside going with him to
supper. Once or twice I tried to find an excuse for leaving Mrs.
Follett, to put in an oar for myself; but the little woman clung
to me as if she had not the courage to undertake another person's
amusement, and, new and sudden as the feeling must have been,
she was pale and wretched, with a jealousy more bitter, probably,
than mine. Tom never gave me a look after the first waltz; and
as to the widow, she played her part with rather more zeal than
we set down for her. I passed altogether an uncomfortable
night, for a gay one, and it was a great relief to me when Mrs.
Follett asked me to send Tom for the carriage.

“Be so kind as to send a servant for it,” said Follett, very

[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]

coolly, “and say to Mrs. Follett, that I will join her at home.
I am going to sup, or rather breakfast, with Mrs. Beverly
Fairlie!”

Here was a mess!

“Shall I send the Count for your shawl?” I asked, after giving
this message, and wishing to know whether she was this side of
pride in her unhappiness.

The little woman burst into tears.

“I will sit in the cloak-room till my husband is ready,” she
said; “go to him, if you please, and implore him to come and
speak to me.”

As I said before, I wished the whole plot to the devil. We
had achieved our object, it is true—and so did the man who
knocked the breath out of his friend's body, in killing a fly on his
back. Tom is now (this was years ago) a married flirt of some
celebrity, for, after coming out of the widow's hands with a three
months' education, he had quite forgot to be troubled about Mrs.
Follett; and, instead of neglecting his dress, which was his only
sin when I took him in hand, he now neglects his wife, who sees
him, as women are apt to see their husbands, through other
women's eyes. I presume they are doomed to quite as much
unhappiness as would have fallen to their lot, had I left them
alone—had Mrs. Follett ran away with the Frenchman, and had
Tom died a divorced sloven. But when I think that, beside
achieving little for them, I was the direct means of spoiling Mrs.
Beverly Fairlie for myself, I think I may write myself down as a
warning to meddlers in matrimony.

p421-127 LADY RAVELGOLD. CHAPTER I.

“What would it pleasure me to have my throat cut
With diamonds? or to be smothered quick
With cassia, or be shot to death with pearls?”
Duchess of Malfy.

“I've been i' the Indies twice, and seen strange things—
But two honest women!—One I read of once!”
Rule a Wife.

[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]

It was what is called by people on the continent a “London
day.” A thin, grey mist drizzled down through the smoke which
darkened the long cavern of Fleet street; the sidewalks were
slippery and clammy; the drays slid from side to side on the
greasy pavement, creating a perpetual clamor among the lighter
carriages with which they came in contact; the porters wondered
that “gemmen” would carry their umbrellas up when there was
no rain, and the gentlemen wondered that porters should be permitted
on the sidewalks; there were passengers in box-coats,
though it was the first of May, and beggars with bare breasts,
though it was chilly as November; the boys were looking wistfully
into the hosier's windows who were generally at the pastrycook's;
and there were persons who wished to know the time,

[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]

trying in vain to see the dial of St. Paul's through the gamboge
atmosphere.

It was twelve o'clock, and a plain chariot, with a simple crest
on the panels, slowly picked its way through the choked and disputed
thoroughfare east of Temple Bar. The smart glazed hat
of the coachman, the well-fitted drab greatcoat and gaiters of the
footman, and the sort of half-submissive, half-contemptuous look
on both their faces (implying that they were bound to drive to the
devil if it were miladi's orders, but that the rabble of Fleet
street was a leetle too vulgar for their contact), expressed very
plainly that the lady within was a denizen of a more privileged
quarter, but had chosen a rainy day for some compulsory visit to
“the city.”

At the rate of perhaps a mile an hour, the well-groomed nighthorses
(a pair of smart, hardy, twelve-mile cabs, all bottom, but
little style, kept for night-work and forced journeys) had threaded
the tortuous entrails of London, and had arrived at the arch of a
dark court in Throgmorton street. The coachman put his
wheels snug against the edge of the sidewalk, to avoid being
crushed by the passing drays, and settled his many-caped benjamin
about him; while the footman spread his umbrella, and
making a balustrade of his arm for his mistress's assistance, a
closely-veiled lady descended, and disappeared up the wet and illpaved
avenue.

The green-baize door of Firkins and Co. opened on its silent
hinges and admitted the mysterious visiter, who, inquiring of the
nearest clerk if the junior partner were in, was shown to a small
inner room containing a desk, two chairs, a coal fire, and a young
gentleman. The last article of furniture rose on the lady's
entrance, and, as she threw off her veil, he made a low bow, with

[figure description] Page 112.[end figure description]

the air of a gentleman who is neither surprised nor embarrassed,
and, pushing aside the door-check, they were left alone.

There was that forced complaisance in the lady's manner, on
her first entrance, which produced the slightest possible elevation
of a very scornful lip owned by the junior partner; but the lady was
only forty-five, highborn, and very handsome, and, as she looked
at the fine specimen of nature's nobility, who met her with a look
as proud and yet as gentle as her own, the smoke of Fleet street
passed away from her memory, and she became natural and even
gracious. The effect upon the junior partner was simply that of
removing from his breast the shade of her first impression.

“I have brought you,” said his visiter, drawing a card from
her reticule, “an invitatlon to the “Duchess of Hautaigle's ball.
She sent me half a dozen to fill up for what she calls `ornamentals'—
and I am sure I shall scarce find another who comes so
decidedly under her Grace's category.”

The fair speaker had delivered this pretty speech in the
sweetest and best-bred tone of St. James's, looking the while at
the toe of the small brodequin which she held up to the fire—
perhaps thinking only of drying it. As she concluded her sentence,
she turned to her companion for an answer, and was surprised
at the impassive politeness of his bow of acknowledgment.

“I regret that I shall not be able to avail myself of your ladyship's
kindness,” said the junior partner, in the same wellenunciated
tone of courtesy.

“Then,” replied the lady with a smile, “Lord Augustus
Fitz-Moi, who looks at himself all dinner-time in a spoon, will be
the Apollo of the hour. What a pity such a handsome creature
should be so vain!—By-the-way, Mr. Firkins, you live without
a looking-glass, I see.”

[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]

“Your ladyship reminds me that this is merely a place of
business. May I ask at once what errand has procured me the
honor of a visit on so unpleasant a day?”

A slight flush brightened the cheek and forehead of the beautiful
woman, as she compressed her lips, and forced herself to say
with affected ease, “The want of five hundred pounds.”

The junior partner paused an instant, while the lady tapped
with her boot upon the fender in ill-dissembled anxiety, and then,
turning to his desk, he filled up the check without remark, presented
it, and took his hat to wait on her to the carriage. A
gleam of relief and pleasure shot over her countenance as she
closed her small jewelled hand over it, followed immediately by a
look of embarrassed inquiry into the face of the unquestioning
banker.

“I am in your debt already.”

“Thirty thousand pounds, madam!”

“And for this you think the securities on the estate of Rockland—”

“Are worth nothing, madam! But it rains. I regret that
your ladyship's carriage cannot come to the door. In the oldfashioned
days of sedan-chairs, now, the dark courts of Lothbury
must have been more attractive. By-the-way, talking of Lothbury,
there is Lady Roseberry's féte champétre next week. If
you should chance to have a spare card—”

“Twenty, if you like—I am too happy—really, Mr. Firkins—”

“It's on the fifteenth; I shall have the honor of seeing your
ladyship there! Good-morning! Home, coachman!”

“Does this man love me?” was Lady Ravelgold's first thought,
as she sank back in her returning chariot. “Yet no! he was

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even rude in his haste to be rid of me. And I would willingly
have stayed too, for there is something about him of a mark that
I like. Ay, and he must have seen it—a lighter encouragement
has been interpreted more readily. Five hundred pounds!—
really five hundred pounds! And thirty thousand at the back of
it! What does he mean? Heavens! if he should be deeper
than I thought! If he should wish to involve me first!”

And spite of the horror with which the thought was met in the
mind of Lady Ravelgold, the blush over her forehead died away
into a half smile and a brighter tint in her lips; and, as the carriage
wound slowly on through the confused press of Fleet street
and the Strand, the image of the handsome and haughty young
banker shut her eyes from all sounds without, and she was at her
own door in Grosvenor square before she had changed position,
or wandered half a moment from the subject of those busy
dreams.