Rose, Blanche, and Violet, Vol III

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cecil replied that he did not.

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

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

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

"She amuses me," said Blanche.

"Lucky for you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Enjoy yourself! God bless you, dearest!"

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

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

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

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

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

Cecil laughed, as he replied,—

"You have hit it, by George!"

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

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

"What has been due, old fellow?"

"Why, what she intends to give us."

Thus securely did Cecil rely upon that source of aid.

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

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

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

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

"Invested, Frank! in what, pray?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Assuredly: it is the age of progress."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Had the Greeks a 'Boz?'"

She turned from him with a look of withering contempt.

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

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

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

"They are waiting up for me at home."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Never; nor do I intend."

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

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

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

"Make your game, gentlemen."

"The game is made."

"Seven's the main."

"Red wins."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Pshaw! if she chose——!"

"When will your opera be ready, dearest?"

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

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

"Why thank God for that, Cecil?"

"Why? because it is a great blessing."

"And should we not think children a blessing?

"No!"

She hesitated; and then went on,—

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

"No; I don't like brats."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The devil!" was his brutal exclamation.

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

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

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

She crept from him, and sank upon a chair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blanche smiled faintly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"VIOLET."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And what distressed you, my love?"

"Oh, I cannot tell you."

"Yes; do dear, do tell me."

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

"I will."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That is good news, indeed."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What! you want to try another coup?"

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

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

"How? how?"

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

"I see, I see!"

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

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

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

"How so, Frank?"

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

"Whew!"

"That's it."

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

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

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

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

Frank won five and forty pounds.

Cecil lost every penny.

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

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

Cecil seized them with a greedy clutch.

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

Cecil threw the five sovereigns on the red.

The cards were dealt with leisurely precision.

"Après," said the dealer.

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

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

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

"Make your game, gentlemen!"

"The game is made."

"Red wins."

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

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

"The game is made."

"Red wins."

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

"Take up five," suggested Frank.

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

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

"Red wins," again said the dealer.

Twenty pounds were now heaped upon the red.

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

"Yes," said Cecil, resolutely.

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

"Red wins," again said the dealer.

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

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

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

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

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

"The game is made."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We had better cut now," said Frank.

"Not yet."

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

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

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

"I must."

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

Cecil did so.

"Black wins," said the dealer.

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

Cecil smiled.

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

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

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

He won again.

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

"That's right."

"Waiter, some champagne!"

"And a cigar, waiter!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He held a gold breguet before her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How else should I gain it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

GEORGE SAND.—André.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The devil you did!"

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

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

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

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

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

"So you lost?"

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

"Humph! I came to borrow."

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

"Bravo!"

"Have you a stamp about you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You are."

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

He shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He started, and could not answer her.

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

He was sobered in an instant.

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

"Why are you so silent?"

"I suffer horribly."

"From what?"

He beat his brow distractedly.

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

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

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

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

"It is the world which will separate us."

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

"Alas!"

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

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

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

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

"Then you love me not?"

He did not answer.

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

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

"Believe me, this is a situation——"

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

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

"Sir Chetsom Chetsom."

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

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

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

"Where is your mistress, then?"

"In her dressing-room, Sir Chetsom."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She rose and moved towards the door.

"Hester! Hester!"

She turned round again.

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

"Begin. What have you to say?"

"I found you in tears just now."

"You did; what then?"

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

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

"Wretchedness!"

"You wretched?"

"Intensely!"

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

She made no reply.

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

She continued silent.

"I insist upon knowing."

"Insist then," she replied, quietly.

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

"But your insistance is useless."

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

"What? What am I to remember?"

"That you—that I may enforce——"

An ironical laugh was her answer.

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

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

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

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

"I do not wish to understand you then."

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

"Very serious."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do so."

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

"Good-morning!"

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

"Good-morning."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"CADOGAN PLACE, 13th June 1841.

"Not for six thousand.

"H. M."

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

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

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

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

"Hester, I cannot exist without you."

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

"You smile; then I am forgiven."

"Yes; but I keep to my resolution."

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

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

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

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

"Then that is a settled matter!"

Sir Chetsom was the happiest of men.

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

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

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

Pietro.—"This Malevole is one of the most prodigious affectations that ever conversed with nature. A man, or rather a monster: more discontent than Lucifer, when he was thrust out of the Presence. His appetite is as insatiable as the grave: as far from any content as from heaven."

JOHN MARSTON.—The Malcontent.

Mrs. Meredith Vyner was radiant again; if not happy, she was at least sprightly, occupied, and flattered. She had not forgotten Marmaduke, she had not forgiven him; but although his image sometimes lowered upon her, she banished it with a smile of triumph, for she was loved!

The silent, shy, and saturnine George Maxwell had taken Marmaduke's place, as cavalier servente; and across his dark, forbidding face there shone a gleam of sunshine, as he now watched the sylph-like enchantress, who for so long had made him more and more misanthropical by her gay indifference to him, and who at last had perceived his love.

Marmaduke, his hated favoured rival, was dismissed; and not only was a rival dismissed, but he, George, was admitted in his place.

The history of these two may be told in a few words. Maxwell, silent and watchful so long as Marmaduke was a visitor at the house, suddenly became more talkative and demonstrative when he found Marmaduke's visits cease. Hopes rose within him. He spoke with another accent, and with other looks to Mrs. Vyner. She was not long in understanding him. Once opening her eyes to his love, she saw as in a flash of light, the whole history of his passion, she understood the conduct of the silent, jealous lover, and deeply flattered at such constancy and unencouraged affection, began to turn a favourable eye upon him. Smarting herself from wounded affection, she could the more readily and truly sympathize with him. In a few weeks—for passion grows with strange rapidity, and days are epochs in its history—she gave him to understand that he was not indifferent to her. Of Marmaduke she spoke freely to him, telling him the same story she had told her husband; and he believed her: what will not lovers believe!

No word of love as yet had passed their lips, and yet they understood each other. Indeed, so plain was the avowal of her looks, that a man less shy and suspicious than Maxwell would long ago have declared his passion, certain of a return. But he was withheld by the very fierceness of his passion, and by his horror at ridicule. Maxwell was one of those men who never enter the water till they can swim—who never undertake anything till they are certain of succeeding, held back by the fear of failure. One trait in his character will set this disposition clearly forth: he had a fine tenor voice, and sang with some mastery, but he never could be prevailed upon to sing before any one, except his family, because he was waiting till he could execute as well as Rubini or Mario. Meanwhile, he was intensely jealous of those who, not having reached that standard, did sing; and his scornful criticisms on their curious presumption, was nothing but miserable spite at their not having so sensitive a vanity as his own.

Maxwell was in truth a bad, mean-spirited, envious, passionate man, in whom vanity, ludicrously susceptible and exacting, fostered the worst of passions, jealousy and revenge. He was misanthropical: not because his own high-thoughted soul turned from the pettiness of mankind with intolerant disgust,—not because he had pryed too curiously into the corruptions of human nature, without at the same time having been fortunate enough to know familiarly all that is great, and loving, and noble in the human heart—but simply because his life was a perpetual demand upon the abnegation, affection, and admiration of others, and because that demand could not, in the nature of things, be satisfied. It has been said that a man who affects misanthropy is a coxcomb, for real misanthropy is madness. Not always madness: seldom so; it is generally inordinate and unsatisfied vanity. A man hates his fellow-creatures because they, unwittingly, are always irritating him by refusing to submit to the exactions of his vanity: he construes their neglect into insult, their indifference into envy. He envies them for succeeding where he dare not venture; he hates them for not acknowledging his own standard of himself. Maxwell was one of these.

Conceive such a man suddenly caught in the meshes of a brilliant coquette like Mrs. Meredith Vyner! Conceive him after two years of angry expectation, during which she has never bestowed a smile on him which was not unmeaning, now awakening to the conviction that his merits are recognised, that his love is returned, that he has inspired a guilty passion!

The guilt added intensity to his joy: it was so immense a triumph!

What a pair! Love has been well said to delight in antitheses, otherwise we might stare at the contrast afforded by this little, hump-backed, golden-haired, coquettish, heartless woman, and this saturnine, gloomy, stupid, bad-hearted man.

Poor Meredith Vyner could not comprehend it. The evidence of his eyes told him plainly how the case stood; but his inexperienced mind refused to accept the evidence of his senses. What could she see in so grim and uninteresting an animal? Marmaduke was quite another man; affection for him was intelligible at least; but Maxwell! And what could Maxwell see in her? Why, she was the very contradiction of all he must feel in his own breast!

In that contradiction was the charm: Maxwell did himself instinctively, but involuntarily, that justice; he would assuredly have hated a duplicate of himself, even more intensely than he hated others.

Meredith Vyner endeavoured once or twice to come to an "explanation" with his wife; for he was master in his own house, and would be, or he was greatly deceived. But she answered him with a few galling sarcasms (adding general allusions to the miseries of young wives subject to the absurd jealousies of foolish, old men), and ending in—hysterics! There was no combating hysterics, and Vyner was always defeated.

Mrs. Vyner again went into society as usual, the only difference being that she was generally accompanied by Maxwell instead of her husband. Rose often stayed at home, but sometimes went with her. Time had not made her forget Julius St. John, but it had brought back the elasticity of her spirits; and except an occasional sigh of regret, or a short reverie, she was much the same as she had been before.

One Saturday on which they went to Dr. Whiston's soirée, Rose accompanied them, and was delighted to see Cecil there in high spirits, and beautifully dressed. Blanche's condition of course prevented her being there.

"But she is quite well, is she not?"

"Charming, and looks lovelier than ever."

"I have not been to see her this week. Mama has not been able to let me have the carriage. How gets on your new picture?"

"Famously. How beautiful you are looking to-night, Rose!"

"Of course I am; do I ever fail? But tell me, what is the subject of your picture?"

He put his finger on his lips.

"That's a secret. I let none know anything about it, as I intend surprising you all."

"Papa is so proud of you now, that I think if you were to go to him, all would be made up."

"That's kind, certainly; now I no longer need him, he is willing to acknowledge his son-in-law. No, Rosy, no; I have made advances enough; he must make them now."

"But think how delightful it would be for us all!"

"I know that; besides, I know it must come. He will make the first advance; and he shall make it."

The secret of Cecil's holding back was not pride, but calculation. He fancied that if Vyner made the first advances to him, he could make terms; and his recent losses at the gaming-table had made him sensible of the precariousness of his present resources.

As they moved through the crowd, and were passing into the second room, they came face to face with Mrs. St. John and Julius.

There was no avoiding a recognition. Rose blushed deeply, and felt extremely embarrassed; but recovering herself, she held out her hand to Mrs. St. John, who took it coldly.

Cecil and Julius shook hands cordially.

"Have you long been returned?" asked Rose in a low voice.

"Six weeks," was the laconic reply. "I hope Mr. Vyner is quite well, and Mrs. Vyner?'

"Mama is here—in the other room," she said, with an effort.

She made a movement as if to pass on; her eye met Julius's as she bowed, but his face, though deadly pale, gave no sign of agitation.

In another instant, they were in the next room; and Rose, with well acted indifference, occupied herself with the specimens exhibited on the table, addressing common-place remarks to Cecil, much to his astonishment.

"Is it all over, then, Rose?" he said.

"All. Oh, do look at this machine for teaching the blind to write—how very curious."

"Are you serious, Rose?"

"Serious! Didn't you see the cut direct?"

"You take it calmly!"

"Would you have a scene? Shall I faint? Shall I pretend to be stabbed to the heart? Shall I act a part?"

"Pretend! Are you not acting now?"

"Not I. If you think their reception has pained me, pray undeceive yourself; it is no more than I expected. Months ago I made up my mind. I know what to think of him. I am glad he has behaved so; very glad, very glad. It now puts everything beyond a doubt. Very glad."

She muttered "very glad" to herself as she sat down in a chair just left by a dowager, and tried to cheat herself into the belief that she really was glad. In truth, she was at that moment more indignant than unhappy. The coldness of her reception, both by mother and son, had exasperated her. Had he looked pleased to see her, had he even looked very pained, she would have at once given him to understand that his retreat had been precipitate, and that she was ready to accept him with delight. But his coldness piqued her; she refrained from addressing a word to him; and was now indulging in somewhat bitter reflections on his conduct.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Vyner had been eloquent in her admiration of Cecil and his genius, to Lady F——, with whom she was talking. Maxwell, from time to time, threw in a sarcasm, and was evidently uneasy at hearing any one praised so highly.

"Well, but you know, my dear sir," said Lady F——, "he must be monstrous clever, or he would never make so much money."

Maxwell shrugged his shoulders, and said, with considerable significance in the tone,—

"That depends upon how he makes it."

Mrs. Vyner looked at him surprised. A little while afterwards, when they were standing retired apart from the company, she asked him what he meant by his reply to Lady F——, respecting Cecil's money-making.

"I mean this: he doesn't make money by his genius," Maxwell replied, with sneering emphasis.

"By what, then?"

Maxwell refused at first to answer.

"What can you be hinting at? By what means does he make his money?"

"By ... there, I may as well tell you; you must soon hear it ... by gambling."

A shudder of disgust ran over her frame.

"Are you sure—quite sure of this?"

"Quite: I had it from a man who plays nightly at the same table with him."

"How horrible! isn't it?"

"No," he replied, with a sardonic smile: "it's genius."

She looked at him astonished: at that moment, she hated him. Well would it have been for her if she had taken the warning of that moment, and flung from her the viper that was crawling to her heart. But she forgot it. Maxwell's smile passed away, and was replaced by one of tenderness for her.

Rose and her mother were both thoughtful as they rode home that night.

The next day, Rose communicated to her father what Cecil had said at Dr. Whiston's, and begged him to write to Cecil, and announce his forgiveness. Vyner, who would have been well pleased to do so, spoke with his wife about it.

"He is a credit to us now," added Vyner.

"Oh! yes, a great credit."

"Don't you think so?"

"How should I not? Vyner is an old name—a good name—it can gain no fresh éclat from honours, but it may from infamy."

"From infamy, Mary?"

"Cecil Chamberlayne, your creditable son-in-law, is a gambler."

"Good heavens!"

"His cab and tiger, his dinners, his trinkets—all come from that infamous source: it is his means of livelihood."

"My poor, poor Blanche!" exclaimed the wretched father, as the tears came into his eyes. "But she shall not stay with him .... I will take her away ... She shall come to us .... she shall."

In vain his wife interposed; he ordered the carriage, and drove at once to Cecil's house.

Blanche was trimming a baby cap, when her father entered the room. With a cry of delight she sprang up, and rushed into his arms. He hugged her fondly, and the tears rolled down his cheeks as he pressed his child sadly to his bosom.

It was some time before either of them spoke.

"My poor child!" he said at last.

"Your happy child, papa; I am so happy! I knew you would forgive me soon. Oh! why is not Cecil here to join with me in gratitude?"

"Blanche," he said with an effort, "I am come to take you away with me: will you come?"

She looked her answer.

"That is right, ... that is right .... Pack up your things, then, at once."

"Pack up what things?" she asked in astonishment.

"Whatever you want to take with you .... Come .... don't stay in this house a moment longer than you can help."

Her astonishment increased.

"Do you mean me to leave my home?"

"Yes."

"And .... my husband?"

"Yes."

"Leave my husband?—leave my Cecil? Why, papa, what can have put that into your head? Do you suppose, I am not happy here? ... He is the best of husbands!"

Meredith Vyner had recourse to his snuff-box, as in all emergencies. He inserted thumb and index finger into it, and trifled mechanically with the grains, while seeking for some argument.

"Do, dear papa, relieve me from this suspense .... What is it you mean?"

"Are you serious, Blanche?—is he a good husband?'

"I adore him; he is the kindest creature on earth."

Vyner took a huge pinch. That did not clear his ideas, and he sat silently brushing off the grains which had congregated in the wrinkles of his waistcoat, very much puzzled what to say.

"Papa, there is something on your mind. If it is anything against Cecil .... anything a wife ought not to hear, spare me, and do not utter it. If it is anything else, spare me the suspense, and tell me at once what it is."

"Blanche, my dearest child, I came here to save you from ruin, and I will save you. You must quit your husband."

"Why?"

"Is not my word sufficient? I say you must. Your welfare depends upon it."

"Why?—I say again—why?"

"Are you—no, you cannot be aware of how your husband gains a livelihood."

She coloured violently and trembled. He noticed it, and read the avowal in her agitation.

"You do know it then?"

She burst into tears.

"Well, my dear child, since you know it, that saves me an unpleasant explanation. But you must leave him; you cannot stay here longer: you cannot share his infamy; you shall not be dragged into his ruin. It has been a miserable match; I have always grieved over it; always knew it would end wretchedly. But to come to this!—to this! No, Blanche, you cannot remain here. Come and live at home; there at least you will not live in infamy."

She wept bitterly, but offered no remark.

"Come, Blanche," he said, taking her hand, "you will leave this place, will you not? You will live with us. I cannot promise to make you happy, but at least I can save you from the wretched existence of a gambler's wife. Come—come."

"I cannot!" she sobbed.

"Rouse yourself: conquer this emotion. Think of your future—think of your child!"

She shuddered.

"Think of the child you are to bring into the world. Must it also share in the ruin which its father will inevitably draw upon you? My dear Blanche, you must have courage; for your own sake—for your child's sake—you must quit this house. Come home to me. I am unhappy myself; I want to have some one about me I can love: Rose is the only one: Violet is away: your mother—but don't let me speak of her. You see, Blanche, dear, I want you; you will fill a place at home; you will be so petted; and the little one will have every comfort—and his aunt Rose—but don't sob so, my child: do restrain yourself. You will come, eh?"

"I cannot!"

Vyner took another pinch of snuff, and was disconcerted; there was such wretchedness, but such resolution in her tone, that he felt his arguments had been powerless.

Her sobs were pitiful to hear, and his own eyes were filled with tears, in spite of his rising anger at what he considered her obstinacy.

"Why can you not?"

"Because he is my husband—one whom I have chosen for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, to cherish, and to obey, till death do us part—one from whom death alone shall part me, for I love him, he loves me, and by his side I can smilingly await poverty, even ruin."

"Even infamy!" exclaimed Vyner.

"Even infamy!" she replied, in a low sad tone.

"This is madness."

"It is love—it is duty. I know the wretched fate which must befall us. I foresee it: but if it had already fallen, I should say the same. I cannot leave him! I may be miserable; we may be brought to beggary; my child may want every necessary—oh! I have not shut my eyes to that terrible prospect! I have seen it; it has wrung my heart, but I cannot—would not, if I could—leave him who is all my happiness. Cecil is more than my husband: he is all that I hold dearest in life: he is the father of that child whose future you so gloomily foresee; shall that child—shall my child not smile upon its father? You do not know what you ask."

"I ask you to be happy."

"I am so. Without Cecil I could not be so. Let misfortune come to me in any shape, so that it rob me not of him, and I can bear it; only not that—only not that!"

"Bless you for those words, my own beloved!" said a voice which made them both start and look up.

Cecil stood before them. He had overheard the greater part of their conversation, and had opened the door without their noticing it, absorbed as they were in their own emotions.

Vyner took three rapid pinches, and felt greatly confused. Blanche threw herself into her husband's arms, and sobbed aloud.

"Bless you, my own Blanche, for the unshaken depth of your love. It shall not be thrown away. I will no longer be unworthy of it. I have been a villain—yes, sir, I confess I have been a weak and selfish villain; seduced by my necessities, and by vile temptations, I have nearly brought this dear girl to ruin. But this morning has saved me. I have seen the peril—I will—hear me, sir, solemnly swear, by all that is sacred—by all my hopes of happiness—by this dear head now resting on my heart—I swear never again, on any pretext, to touch a card—to enter a house of play! Will you believe me? You hear my oath—a gentleman's word ought to be sufficient, but you have my oath—will you believe it?"

Blanche pressed him convulsively to her, and laughed hysterically in her joy.

Vyner rose, and taking Cecil's hand, said,—

"Chamberlayne, you are a man of honour; I respect you. What you have now done effaces the past. We are reconciled. I will assure you two hundred pounds a year during my life, which, with your own income, will suffice, I hope, to keep you in decent comfort, and will enable you to employ your talents honourably, and, I hope, profitably. My house is open to you. We are reconciled, are we not?"

Cecil pressed his hand warmly.

"I have been angry with you," Vyner continued, "but my anger is gone—what says our favourite?"

Non Dindymene, non adytis quatit
Mentem sacerdotum incola Pythius
Non Liber æque, non acuta
Si geminant Corybantes æra
Tristes ut iræ—

Eh? is it not so? The past then is forgotten?"

"Oh, sir," said Cecil, wiping away a tear, "I do not deserve such kindness.... I have been a wretch.... But my future conduct shall thank you—I cannot now!"

"All I ask is—make Blanche happy."

Cecil looked down upon her upturned face, and met her loving glance with a look of unutterable tenderness; then drawing her head to him, he pressed his lips upon her eyes; she threw her arms around him, and exclaimed,—

"How can I help being happy with him?"

Much affected by this scene, Vyner again pressed Cecil's hand with great warmth, kissed his child, wiped his eyes, and withdrew; for his heart was full.

Cecil was very earnest in his repentance, and sincerely meant to keep the oath he pledged. He at once sold his cab and horse; discharged his tiger; reduced his expenses in every practicable way; paid the great bulk of his debts; ceased to visit the club; ordered the servant to deny him to Frank Forrester, whenever that worthy called; and was assiduous at his painting.

Having thus shut himself out from temptation, and begun again the career of an honourable man, he ought once more to have been happy. He was so for a few days. Blanche's recovered gaiety, and her grateful fondness, made him bless the change. But the excitement soon wore off; and in getting into the broad monotonous rut of daily life, he began to miss the variety and excitement of his former pursuits.

He could not work with pleasure: he had lost all the "delight" which "physics pain." Work to him was drudgery, and it was no more. His spirits became low. From Blanche he hid the change as well as he could; but he could not hide it from himself. He would stand for half an hour before his easel, absorbed in reveries, and not once putting pencil to the canvass. He would sit for hours in an easy chair, smoking, or affecting to read; but his mind incessantly occupied playing imaginary games at rouge et noir, in which he was invariably a winner.

There is this excuse for the gambler: the temptation besets him in a more powerful shape than almost any other temptation to which man is exposed. Imagination, stimulated by cupidity, is treacherously active. The games being games of chance, imagination plays them not only with alarming distinctness, but with most delusive success. Heaps of gold glitter before the infatuated dreamer; and although he rouses himself with a sigh to find that he has only been dreaming, yet the dream has had the vividness of reality to him. Many and many an unhappy wight has started up from such dreams, goaded with a sense of their reality, and persuaded that, if he only play the game as he has just played it in imagination, he must infallibly win; has pawned his last remnant, or robbed his employers, to rush to the gaming-table, and venture everything on the strength of that conviction. Ruined, perhaps dishonoured, people have exclaimed, The wretch! or The scoundrel! and have been stern in their indignant condemnation of his pitiable folly. But little do they know to what fearful temptations he has succumbed; little do they know the fascination of the gaming-table to one who has played much, and whose hours have been crowded with imaginary games, in which he has been eminently successful.

I do not defend the gambler: God forbid! I am merely endeavouring to present a psychological explanation of the very common phenomenon, which people generally regard as produced only by some innate wickedness. The gambler knows the folly of his act: no one so well! He knows that the bank must win, and in his cooler moments will demonstrate the matter clearly to you. But then comes this seductive imagination, like a syren, picturing to him gorgeous realities: he is dazzled, fascinated, and succumbs.

To resist imagination, to trample down temptation, a man needs strength of will; but this is precisely the quality men are most deficient in; and here, as almost everywhere, we find that vice is not, as Plato says, ignorance, but weakness!

Cecil held out manfully against temptation, and everyone believed him cured. No one knew what was constantly passing in his mind, or they would not have been so secure.

Meanwhile Blanche had passed safely through her blissful trial, and a little girl was nestled at her side. The joy and rapture of the happy parents, the delight of Rose, the pride of Vyner, and the supreme indifference of Mrs. Vyner, may well be conceived. Little Rose Blanche, that was her name, was more welcomed, and more caressed than if she had come into the world to preserve great estates from passing into other hands; and how she escaped being killed by the excess of attention and variety of advice, is only another illustration of the mysterious escapes of infancy: a period when it would seem some good genii must be always on the alert to prevent the ever imminent catastrophe. There is said to be a special god who looks after drunkards, and preserves them in their helpless state; but what are the perils of a drunkard to the perils of an infant surrounded with nurses, relations, and female friends?

Rose Blanche throve, however, and grew into a dimply, rosy babe enough, incomparably more beautiful than any other babe ever seen, as mother, father, nurse, and aunt incessantly testified. It did squall a little, to be sure, and Cecil who had irritable nerves could not be brought to consider that musical. But men! what do they know of babies?

My dear madam, answer me frankly, did you ever know a man who was worth listening to on that subject? Did you ever meet with one whose head was not crammed with absurd notions thereupon? Is not your husband, in particular, characterized by the most preposterous incapacity—is he not fidgety, crotchety, absurd? I knew it.

Let me not, therefore, admit one word of Cecil's respecting Rose Blanche, who promised to have more beauty, intelligence, and heart, than any other infant then sprawling in long clothes, or then looking with profound impenetrable calmness upon the wondrous universe to which it had been so recently introduced.

A beam of sunshine had been let into the existence of Blanche and Cecil, a beam which stretching far out into the future gilded the distant horizon, so that they, and all, pronounced great happiness in store for them. The exquisite expression of maternal love made Blanche incomparably beautiful; and Cecil, as he watched her gazing downwards on the infant at her breast, in that deep stillness of seraphic love, whose calm intensity Raphael, alone has succeeded in pourtraying,—would bend forward and press his lips upon her forehead chastened, purified, and exalted. In those moments he was another man; ennui fled, discouragement was conquered, and the cards were not before his mind's eye.

Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend—
Seeking a higher object. Love was given,
Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end:
For this the passion to excess was driven,
That self might be annulled:—her bondage prove
The fetters of a dream, opposed to love.
                                                        WORDSWORTH.—Laodamia.

DEAREST MARMADUKE,

I must write to you. I have been on the point of doing so often, very often, and now I learn from Rose that you have written to ask her if she could send you news of my health from time to time. Thank you, Marmaduke, thank you for the delicacy which has dictated your respect for my resolution—thank you for not having attempted to discover my retreat. You see I disclose it to you now—I am with my kind old uncle—I let you know it, confiding in your not abusing the knowledge, and attempting to see me. We cannot meet. I could not endure it. But we can write. Your letters will be a solace to me; to write to you will be an exquisite pleasure. Yes, Marmaduke, I long to pour out my soul to you; I long to tell you all I think, all I do; and you will tell me what you think, and what you do, will you not? There is no issue from our fate; we must bear it, but we shall bear it with less murmuring if we can speak to each other without reserve.

"My health, you will be glad to learn, is good. Exercise keeps up my strength, in spite of what I have suffered. I am almost all day on horseback with my uncle, and that keeps me strong. Shot is of course my inseparable companion; the dear beast sympathizes with me, I am sure; and sometimes when I sit still, my soul carried away in some sad reverie, I see his intelligent eyes fixed inquiringly on my face, and then I say, 'where is Marmaduke?' and he pricks his ears, wags his tail, and runs to the door to listen if indeed you are coming; disappointed, he returns to his place to look sadly at me, as if he knew that your presence alone would bring the smile again upon my face.

"I am much calmer than I was. Renewed health has doubtless a great deal to do with it, for misery is but malady; the healthy are not long unhappy. I now resign myself to the inevitable, and no longer beat my distracted wings against my cage. Happy I am not, and cannot hope to be; but I am calm, and in my calmness it seems to me that the privilege of writing to you, and of knowing that you think of me, is a privilege which the happiest might envy.

"I read much. Tell me what books you are reading that I may read them too, and so be with you in spirit, even in your studies. Mind you obey me in this particular, and tell me all the books you read. Do not be afraid of frightening me by the dryness of the subject. I have been a miscellaneous and unwomanly reader. Papa's and uncle's libraries have always been at my disposal, and although I have studied no one subject, and am consequently very, very ignorant, yet in my unrestrained liberty I have read all sorts of books, from treatises of philosophy to novels. You know papa made us all learn a little Latin, that he might explain Horace to us; so that I have got a tincture of learning, just enough to make men's books intelligible, and not enough to make me a blue.

"Therefore, let me read what you read; I shall, perhaps, understand a serious book all the better from knowing that you have understood it; for I want my mind to be as little below your level as culture can make it.

"Describe to me your daily habits and avocations. Rose tells me that you are seen nowhere; that you have ceased to visit all your old friends. What replaces them?

"I do not ask you if you think of me. I know you do. My own heart tells me so. I know your character; with all its manly strength, it has womanly tenderness in it, like the honey Samson found in the lion's mouth; and that tenderness is my guarantee that I am not forgotten; that, although separated by an insuperable barrier, we are not less united in heart. You will not cease to love me because I cannot be yours; you will not love me less because I am forced to deny you. No, Marmaduke, love such as yours is not selfish: it is something higher than self, and I will not pay you the ill compliment of doubting it. Could I do so, I should be selfish enough to appeal to your feelings, to entreat you to love me ever, and not to think of another. I should be jealous could I doubt you—but I cannot doubt.

"God bless you, Marmaduke, may you be happy! Write to me soon; and write only of yourself.

"VIOLET."

You o'erjoyed spirits, wipe your long-wet eyes!
                                JOHN MARSTON.—The Malcontent.

There was a charming ball at Mrs. Langley Turner's. The rooms were full without being crowded, and the company was brilliant: rank, beauty, and talent, gave their éclat to the scene.

Mrs. Meredith Vyner and Rose were there; George Maxwell of course, and to Rose's extreme delight, Julius St. John. She was at first annoyed at recognising him, but her second thoughts showed her that the present was an excellent opportunity for exhibiting her indifference. She was, accordingly, in high spirits, or seemed to be so; accepted the homage paid her with saucy coquetry; danced, talked, and laughed as if her heart were as light as innocence could make it. A careless bow had been her only salute of Julius, and she passed by him several times without affecting not to observe him.

She noticed that he had grown thinner and paler. His face had grown more thoughtful, but his demeanour was perfectly calm.

Late in the evening, Rose was examining the flowers, and thinking of the handsome young guardsman who had just left her side, when she felt some one approach her. It was Julius. She resumed her inspection of the flowers.

"If you are not engaged for the next quadrille, Miss Vyner," he said in a low but firm tone, "may I hope for the honour?"

"I am engaged," she replied quietly, and then moved half-way round the flower-stand, as if to discover fresh beauties.

Julius did not mistake the refusal; but he was not to be so easily discouraged.

"Are you also engaged for the quadrille after that?"

"I am."

There was less firmness in her tone; he thought it trembled.

"And .... I hope I am not intrusive .... and the next?"

Rose fancied that a refusal would look like fear, so she mastered her voice, and replied, with the stereotyped smile,—

"I shall have much pleasure."

He bowed, and withdrew.

Rose's gaiety was somewhat damped; she tried to be lively, but there was a depression on her spirits she could not shake off. It seemed as if her eyes could fix themselves nowhere but in the direction in which Julius stood.

She tried to look away, but she soon found herself again watching him.

Meanwhile, Maxwell was remonstrating with Mrs. Vyner upon the little desire she exhibited to be near him, to speak to him.

"We must think of appearances," she replied; "here every action is noticed and commented-on."

"But other men sit by you; you talk to them."

"Yes; as a blind. If I am seen much with you, people will begin to gossip."

"What if they do?" he brutally replied.

"What if they do! Are you indifferent to it?"

"You do not seem to be, at any rate," he said, sarcastically. "You have grown very respectful of appearances of late. You never thought of them with Mr. Ashley."

"Because I did not care for him."

"You looked as if you did; you acted as if you did; and every one supposed you did."

"But they were wrong. I was not careful then, because there was no danger of my committing myself. With you, it is very different."

"So it appears."

"Now you are angry."

"I am."

"What about?"

"Your indifference."

"Foolish fellow!" she said playfully.

"Oh, yes, it is very easy to say that; but I feel I have cause to be angry. You pretend to love me, yet you can leave me here in the room, and chatter away to any fool who pleases to accost you. One would think I was indifferent to you."

"One would think! who would? would you? What does it matter to you if the world thinks me indifferent to you?"

"It matters a great deal."

"How so?"

"Of course it does; it always matters to a man to have a charming woman care for him. People envy him his good fortune. They think more highly of him."

"And you wish to be envied?"

"I do not wish it to be supposed that I am so unattractive that no woman can care for me."

"It would please you, then, if people gossipped about us?"

"I don't say that exactly; though I don't see what harm their gossip could do us."

She fixed her grey eyes upon him with a strange expression. In an instant she read his character—its intense selfishness was revealed; and she began to doubt whether he, too, might not be playing with her, as Marmaduke had played; or worse, whether his love might not be the mere prompting of a wretched vanity, which sought her conquest as a trophy, not as a desire.

"Mr. Maxwell, we differ so entirely in our views, that it would be useless to prolong this discussion. I have only this more to say: so far from giving the world any right to gossip about me, in reference to you, it is my determination to relinquish the pleasure of your acquaintance from this time forward. When you have learned what is due to me, I may resume it; not till then."

She rose, as she said this, and walked across the room to Mrs. Langley Turner, by whose side she sat down; while Maxwell gazed on her with mingled feelings of astonishment and rage, his brow darkening, his lips compressed, and every nerve within him trembling.

Mrs. Vyner was wrong in her suspicions. It was not vanity, it was jealousy which prompted his words. He suffered tortures from seeing her smile, and chat with other men, and scarcely notice him. He was sincere in his wish for her to distinguish him above all the rest; not simply to gratify his vanity, but to assure him that she really loved him enough to brave everything for him. Besides, he could not understand how her love allowed her to keep away from his side. Prudence never chilled him. Appearances never restrained him. He could have sat by her all the evening—every evening—it was what he most desired; and he did not understand how she could forego the same pleasure.

Maxwell was narrow-minded, even stupid; but his passions were intense; and at this moment he felt as if he could murder her. He quitted the ball in a state of deep concentrated anger, brooding on what he considered his wrongs.

Julius came to claim Rose for the quadrille. They were silent at first, and embarrassed.

"How did you like Italy?" she said, by way of breaking the silence.

"Not at all."

"Indeed! then you are singular. I thought every one must like it. Perhaps you prefer contradiction?'

"No; I was in no frame of mind to enjoy anything."

She trembled slightly; the chaine des dames, by obliging her to quit his side, prevented her speaking. When they again stood quietly beside each other, he continued,—

"We went to see everything, and the only result was, that we so tired ourselves during the day, that we slept soundly at night."

"But the pictures, the statues, the architecture, the people?"

"I saw them all; but they all wearied me."

"You were rehearsing Childe Harold, I suppose?" she said, with a feeble attempt at liveliness, which her voice belied.

"If I had been acting a part—even of misanthropy—I should have enjoyed myself unhappily ... It is your l'été."

She advanced, and the conversation was again interrupted. Nothing more was said during the rest of the quadrille; both were absorbed in their own thoughts.

He led her to a seat, and took another beside her. After a pause of some moments, she said,—

"So you were unhappy in Italy?"

He looked earnestly into her eyes as he answered,—

"Does that surprise you? Were you not already aware of it? Had I not cause?"

She blushed deeply, as she said,—

"No; you had .... no cause .... if you had stayed in England .... you might have got over it."

His lower jaw fell as she concluded this phrase. She felt herself on the eve of a declaration, and by a strong effort turned it off in that way.

At this moment a partner came to carry her off for a waltz, and Julius was left to his own reflections. He reproached himself for having so far betrayed his feelings; but in truth they had been wrung from him, as from her, by the irresistible fascination of the moment.

On closer inspection, it seemed to him, as if there had been in her manner a tenderness and embarrassment which implied a wish for reconciliation, if not a regret for the past.

Prompted by this idea, he went up to Mrs. Vyner, and began a long conversation with her, at the termination of which he asked if he might be allowed to pay his respects to her some morning.

"Always delighted to receive you, Mr. St. John, that you must know; indeed, I should pick a quarrel with you for not having called before, but that I suppose you have some excellent excuse."

"Then, to-morrow?"

"To-morrow we shall be at home."

The morrow came, and Julius, resolved at any rate not to lose Rose as a friend (beautiful sophistry of lovers!), was punctual in his visit. He was there before every one else. Vyner and his wife were alone in the drawing-room.

"Let Miss Vyner know that Mr. St. John is here," said Mrs. Vyner to the servant.

In a few minutes Rose came down: a volume was in her hand, and it caught the eye of her lover as soon as she appeared. She was very agitated, but shook him by the hand as if nothing particular was about to transpire. She tried to join in the conversation, but could never finish a sentence.

Mrs. Vyner left the room shortly afterwards, and then Rose suddenly remembered that papa had bought a new and rare edition of Horace, which she was sure Mr. St. John would like to see.

Julius expressed enthusiastic eagerness.

Vyner thought he could lay his hand on it in a minute, and trotted away to his study for that purpose.

No sooner had he left the room than Rose, blushing and trembling, said,—

"Here is a book .... I meant to give it you .... before you left the Hall .... that night."

She could say no more. He snatched the volume from her hand: it was Leopardi. A thrill of rapture ran through his whole being; and, in a voice choked with emotion, he said,—

"Rose .... dearest Rose .... is this .... is this the answer to my .... to my letter?"

"It is."

He clasped her in his arms, and, with hysterical passion, groaned, as he held her to his heart.

"Here is my treasure .... Eh?" said Vyner, opening the door, and discovering the lovers in that unambiguous embrace.

"Tell him all," whispered Rose in Julius's ear, as she fled in confusion from the room.

Julius did tell all; and that very hour Vyner gave his delighted consent.

Claude.—"Miserable trickster! you know that your weapon is harmless!—You have the courage of the mountebank, sir, not the bravo."

BULWER.—Lady of Lyons.

That very day a strangely different scene took place in that house.

Mrs. Vyner was in that famous boudoir before described; Maxwell was gloomily pacing it to and fro. He was there for the purpose of having an "explanation"; but he found her more than a match for him, and was now trying to beat from his stupid brain a convincing argument.

"You don't love me," he at last exclaimed.

"Have you come here to tell me that? If so, I would have you observe, that you have chosen a singularly inappropriate occasion."

"I say you don't love me," he repeated, and his eyes sparkled with malignant fire.

"Perhaps not. You do not take the way to make me love you."

This was said with such an air of quiet indifference, that he paused to look at her, as if he could read on her brow a confirmation of what she said.

"I do not love you then!" he said bitterly. "I have not loved you for two years .... not saying; a word about it .... loving you in secret .... seeing others more favoured, seeing others looking into your face as I dare not look .... suffering tortures of jealousy .... I do not take the way to gain your love! what way should I then take?"

"Be amiable .... women are not captivated by scowls .... George, you are unjust to me. Sit down, and listen to me calmly. Remember my position."

"You take care I shall not forget it."

"Would you then forget it?"

"Yes; for it keeps you from me. It is in your mouth at all times. 'My position' is your excuse for everything."

"And is it not a valid excuse?"

"No; it is not: it is a mere excuse. Remember your position, indeed! why do you love another man than your husband, if your position forbids it?"

She looked at him in surprise, but even her tiger eyes quailed beneath the savage glance of her brutal lover. She felt that he was her master! He was not to be led as Marmaduke had been led, because in him there was none of the generous principle, or chivalric sensibility, which made Marmaduke, in spite of his impetuosity, pliable and manageable. He had almost as much vehemence, and infinitely more brutality. She saw all this; yet she loved him. Strange paradox of human nature, she loved the fierce, narrow-minded, ungenerous Maxwell, with a far deeper passion than she had felt for the generous, open-hearted, high-spirited Marmaduke! It may be that she felt more sympathy with a being of a lower order; or it may be that Maxwell alone had conquered her: certain it is, that she felt for him another kind of passion, and was more his slave than he hers. By a not uncommon transposition of places, he, who as an unacknowledged lover had been the most abject slave, became, when acknowledged, the most unflinching tyrant. This is generally the case with brute natures.

It is not to be supposed that she submitted quietly. She was too fond of power to relinquish it without a struggle; but although ridicule was a weapon she wielded with unsparing skill, and a weapon he dreaded more than any other; yet even that was but a small sword which was beaten down by the heavy sabre of his fierce sarcasm.

"You do not answer me," he said, irritated at her silence.

"Until you can speak to me as a gentleman," she replied, "I shall remain silent."

"That is an easy way of ending an argument."

"There is an easier."

"Is there, indeed?"

"And more efficient—do not force me to it."

"Pray what is it?"

"To leave the room."

She rose and walked to the door. He seized her wrist.

"Let me go, sir; you hurt me..... This violence is manly—but it is like you..... Let me go..... Will you force me to ring the bell, and have you ordered out of the house?"

"Ring the bell! you dare not ring it! I defy you..... What could you say? what do I do here? .... Ring it, by all means!"

She was stung by his manner, and looking on him with intense scorn, said,—

"I will."

As she moved towards the bell, he drew a pistol from his pocket. She started, terrified at the sight.

"You brave me, do you?" he said, hoarse with passion; "you brave me; well! ring!"

Her hand was on the bell: she hesitated.

"What means that? Do you intend to murder me?"

"I do!"

She did not start, she did not scream; a smile of unutterable scorn passed over her face.

"Ring it, I tell you."

"You wish me to order you to be turned out?"

"I wish to end this struggle—and I declare to God that I will end it, either in my favour, or with your life. I am reckless; choose you! You think I am a fool; you are mistaken: I am no fool; nor shall you make me one. You say you love me; I hope for your sake you speak truly; if you do not, you shall not live to torture me."

"Your hand trembles."

"It is with passion, then. It is because the crisis has arrived. It is because this is the moment that must decide everything."

Her hand was still upon the bell. Her calmness puzzled and exasperated him, and when she said with a slight irony in her tone,—

"And you really talk of shooting me, to prove your love?"

He levelled the pistol at her, and shouted,—

"Ring the bell, and try me!"

"I will. But first allow me to observe, that if there is one thing more despicable than the threat you make, it is to commit the exquisitely ridiculous mistake of acting such a part as you now act. Passion might excuse the deed; nothing can efface the childish stupidity of the pretence. Mr. Maxwell, when next you get up a scene like this, at least take care that your pistol is loaded; yours has no cap!"

Having uttered this in the coldest, calmest tone imaginable, she rang the bell.

A cry burst from him as he looked down, and saw in truth, that there was no cap on the nipple. He thrust the pistol into his pocket, and threw himself into a chair in wild confusion.

The servant entered.

"Order a cab for Mr. Maxwell," Mrs. Vyner said.

The servant retired, and they were again alone. Not a word passed. Overwhelmed with rage and shame, Maxwell sat brooding on his stormy thoughts. Mrs. Vyner watched him with scorn: he had lost the hold over her which his violence had gained: she now thought that he was not so terrible as Marmaduke had been, and from having feared, she now despised him.

"The cab is at the door," said the servant.

Maxwell did not move. His dark thoughts occupied him. It had been no vulgar threat, for the pistol was really loaded, although the cap had been forgotten; but he understood the contempt with which she must regard him, and he was ruminating projects of vengeance.

She had taken up a book and was affecting to read, as if undisturbed by his presence; he was made aware of it by the rustle of the leaves as she turned them over; and conscious of the disadvantage of his position, he at length arose, and looking at her malignantly, said,—

"You fancy me an actor; I am one; my first appearance has been in a farce; laugh, laugh! my next will be in a tragedy!"

And with a low bow he retired.

Les lettres d'amour ne portent l'émotion que dans le cœur qui inspire et qui partage le feu qui les a dictées. Par elles-mêmes elles se ressemblent toutes: mais chaque être épris d'amour trouve dans celle qui lui est adressée une puissance irrésistible, une nouveauté incomparable.

GEORGE SAND.—La Comtesse de Rudolstadt.

Your letter, dearest Marmaduke, was a great joy to me, but the joy was dashed with pain as I came to the close, and read there the hope you express of our speedy union. No, that cannot be. Oh, do you not feel that it cannot be? do you not feel that it does not depend upon my love, but upon the irrevocable past? I thought I had made you understand all my feelings on this unhappy subject, and that I might write to you freely without awakening in either of us a hope which cannot be gratified. Your letter has greatly pained me; pained me because you seem to think that, inasmuch as we both love, we must be united—that love will bear down all obstacles and triumph at last. But no; that cannot be. If there were the remotest chance of it, do you think I should not catch at such a hope with all the impatient eagerness of love? Have I nothing to subdue? Have I no temptations to overcome? Think, Marmaduke, my noble Marmaduke, think of what I have suffered and must still suffer when I look upon our fate, and yet can say, am forced to say, we must never meet! I fled from London, fled from you, because I feared the insidious counsels of my heart. My reason tells me that I acted rightly—do you not feel so too?

I had looked forward to this correspondence with such longing! I had pictured all the rapture it would give us both; and see! the first letter from you rips up old wounds, and draws from me bitter, bitter tears.

It must cease, unless you can accept my hard conditions. It must cease, Marmaduke, for I dare not let it continue. I could not trust myself—I should allow myself to be persuaded—your hopes would become my hopes—your prayers would melt my resolution. I know it. I know my own heart; I know its strength and its weakness, and I feel that it would be madness in me to expose myself to the temptation of corresponding with you on that subject. You would defeat me at last; and I must not, I will not be defeated! Therefore, promise me at once to accept my conditions, promise to love me as one whom an inevitable fate has separated from you, and for ever. Let us at the outset understand the relation which can alone exist between us. We love, but we must love without hope. Let us accept our fate—a fate which our murmurs or our struggles cannot alter, and in this resignation our love will be as a guiding star to light us through life; let our souls blend into one; let our hearts never be separated, and we shall live together in spirit, though distant from each other. This is not the happy lot which might have been ours, but it is the happiest which remains for us. Isolated we shall be; without home, without family; but life will still have one sacred feeling one immeasurable delight, and above the turmoils and petty cares of the world there will be a heaven for us.

Will you accept my love upon such terms? Will you struggle with yourself as I have struggled, and conquer as I have conquered?

I may seem cold in writing thus! Oh, do not think it; do not think that this conquest has been lightly made! I love you, love you with the passionate excess of a fervid nature: but the stern necessities of our condition imprison me in this reserve. It is because I see no outlet that I am so firm; and it is only since I have clearly seen my lot is inevitable that I have learned to be calm and happy. Write to me without delay, write to tell me that you do not misunderstand me—that you do not think me cold: oh, you cannot think that! Write to me to tell me that you see, as I see, how our only chance of happiness is in resignation—in love without hope. Write to me to tell me that my love will be as a star to you in your ambitious career, and that when the busy day is done, and night with all its deep repose comes on, your thoughts will then rise from the occupations of the day to that serener sphere where souls commingle. For my love will be this to you, dearest; I know it, since I interpret my own heart for you.

VIOLET.

Little Rose Blanche throve apace; but Cecil's painting proceeded slowly, and his mind was still more busy with those imaginary games in which his success was greater and greater every day.

Rose and Julius were in that feverish condition which is common to lovers, whirled amidst the bustle of marriage preparations.

Fevers are not usually enviable things; but that is a kind of fever which we all envy. The Present how crowded, how occupied, how intense! the Future, how radiant, how dream-peopled! The pulse beats, the brain is over-excited, the step is light (and the head also), the face wears an aspect of everlasting beatitude, the hand is generous, the whole man is in a dream.

Some people, indeed, "wondered" at the match; some very ill-favoured men couldn't, for the life of them, imagine what she could see in that ugly fellow: while others, less charitable (they were females), would be sorry to hint at anything illiberal, but they really did think that Rose Vyner, though a lively girl enough, and all that sort of thing, was scarcely the girl to make a good wife. But none of these opinions reached the ears of the parties concerned; and the circle of the Vyners, and the St. Johns was, with few exceptions, sincerely rejoiced at the approaching marriage.

One afternoon, while Cecil was laboriously painting, Frank Forrester knocked at his door.

"Not at home, sir," said the girl, resolutely.

"Bah!" said Frank, introducing his person into the passage.

"Indeed he is not, sir; and he's very particularly engaged."

"You see, my lily of Westminster .... for you are a lily, damn my whiskers!" said Frank, passing his arm round her waist, and kissing her smutty and reluctant cheek; "you see I understand perfectly well, that it is your business to say your master's not at home...."

"Yes, sir; he told me so strictly."

"But it is my business not to believe you ... so announce me, you peony of Pimlico! announce me .... No; I'll announce myself."

So saying, Frank marched up stairs, and without ceremony walked into the atélier.

Cecil was embarrassed at seeing him.

"What's this? cut so old a chum as Frank Forrester! Not at home to Frank! Damn my whiskers! it is enough to make one give the lie to those prime histories of ancient friendship; the Damons and Pythiases didn't say not at home to each other, I presume.... What's the start, Cis, my boy? How is it we never see you? How is it I am denied whenever I present my agreeable person at your inhospitable door?"

Cecil briefly explained to him the change which had taken place in his finances and his habits.

"Quite right too, Cis. Damn it! there's nothing to be done at rouge et noir. I have quite given it up! Unfortunately, not before it cleaned me out. You see," he added, looking down upon his costume, "I am not magnificent .... I don't flourish."

To judge by his appearance, indeed, he did not flourish; and Cecil could not help being painfully struck with the contrast between his costume now, and when last he saw him. Rings, chains, studs, shirt pin, and cane were gone. The hat was greasy, and glossy from being carefully brushed after repeated wettings; the cut-away coat was so threadbare, and its collar so greasy, that it seemed as if it had been worn for ten years, and was hourly in danger of falling to pieces. The double-breasted waistcoat, the brilliant shawl-pattern of which was now greatly faded, was buttoned up to the throat. The sky-blue trousers, worn at the seams, and bagged at the knees, were tightly strapped over a pair of decent boots. Altogether, there was such unmistakeable poverty, coupled with such an attempt at style, that his appearance was singularly painful. It was not humble poverty; it was faded splendour. It was the wreck of a man about town.

His face also showed the effects of the change. Poverty had brought with it a forced abstinence from that excitement which hitherto had sustained him; and every one knows the effects which follow any cessation of accustomed stimulus. Frank having been used to live freely, sometimes intemperately, now drank water. Accustomed to the excitement of the gaming-table, he now could rarely indulge in it. Some men, forced to abstain from wine, would have taken to spirits, or even beer; but Frank damned his whiskers, and declared he was a gentleman, and had never learned to "guzzle": if he could not get wine, and good wine, he would not defile his palate with vulgar drinks.

"What are you doing?" asked Cecil.

"Living the life of a beast, damn my whiskers! dining off a solitary chop, lounging about to be cut by former associates, making vain attempts to induce my friends to go through the matter of form of putting their names to a bill, and moralizing on the fragility of human friendship, and the limits of human credit."

"Well, but have you no means of getting a livelihood?'

"What means? You don't expect me to turn painter, and be moral like yourself, do you?"

"No, indeed; but still, my dear Frank, you must do something."

"Something will turn up, perhaps."

"But if nothing should turn up, what can the end be?"

"Oh! a new broom and a crossing! That's a dernière ressource;—not a bad one, either. A man 'sees life' at a crossing;—besides, the occupation's healthy—all in the open air. I should make a fortune at it. Damme! a gentleman with a broom—that would produce an effect, I think!"

Cecil shook his head, though he could not refrain from smiling at Frank's coolness.

"You haven't such a thing as a sovereign about you, eh?" said Frank, combing the long thin hair over the top of his head, so as to hide his daily increasing baldness.

"Yes, Frank, I have, and very much at your service."

"You're a trump!" said Frank, jumping up, and shaking him by the hand. "I have asked that question of eight of my friends within the last two days, and—it was very unfortunate—but at that moment not one of them could lay his hand upon such a thing, damn my whiskers!"

Cecil passed the sovereign to him.

"At any rate, I shall dine to-day," Frank exclaimed.

"Is that anything new, then?"

"So completely novel, that it has not occurred this whole week. In fact, I haven't what I call dined for a month; I have only stifled the baser cravings of hunger, but not satisfied those higher and, perhaps, more imperious cravings of the man who knows how to dine. For, as you know, it is one thing to eat, another thing to eat as an intellectual being should eat. It breaks my heart to pass the club windows, and know how many facilities there are within of dining as a man with an immortal soul should dine,—and to reflect how few among the diners know how to accomplish that solemnity."

"Well, but do you mean to say that, in your present state of finances, you intend spending that sovereign on your dinner?"

"That, or the greater part of it," replied Frank, with considerable seriousness. "I have a strong desire to dine. I can support hunger, I can live upon a crust (if forced), but, damn my whiskers! from time to time I must satisfy the higher cravings of my nature, and dine."

"Frank, you shall dine to-day, and at my invitation; save that sovereign for next week. I warn you, that you will seldom get one from me after this; for I myself am poor. So make the most of it; but to-day we'll dine together."

"We will; the suggestion does credit to your head and heart, Cis."

After a dinner at the Thatched House, limited in the number of dishes, but selected with the skill of a Frank Forrester, and assisted by a bottle of Barsac, two bottles of Æil-de-perdrix, and a bottle of Romané, the two friends were seated at the table in that state of indolent beatitude which succeeds a scientifically-chosen repast. The pulse is heightened, but digestion is light; the brain is active, yet somewhat dreamy; the will seems lulled, and anything like an effort seems impossible.

Sipping their Burgundy, Frank and Cecil sat talking over the various experiences of their lives, especially with women—a subject on which men are usually communicative during such hours. Frank was inexhaustible in stories, which made Cecil roll with laughter, or listen with breath-suspended interest. Meanwhile the lights grew dimmer, and their brains grew heavier: the Burgundy was steadily overcoming them. Frank perceiving it, made a movement to go. Cecil tried to persuade him to have another bottle, but he was resolute; and having paid the bill, they departed.

The fresh air somewhat dissipated the effect of the wine, but Cecil was now in a state of craving for a fresh sensation; and when Frank announced his intention of trying his luck with the sovereign he had borrowed, Cecil noisily declared he would go with him.

"Not that I intend to play, though. No, no, I've given that up; that won't do. But come along, Frank; anything for a lark. Lalla-liety! Lalla-liety!" he shouted, in a feeble falsetto, as if announcing to the universe that he was not the boy to go home till morning did appear.

When they entered the gaming-house, Cecil, though perfectly aware of everything he did and said, was still what is called "far gone"; and the dazzling lights, the well-known cries, the chink of the money, the click of the rake against the coin, the murmur of conversation, all conspired to intoxicate him.

While Frank played, he walked about the room, observing the various countenances of the players. In one corner sat a young man of about three and twenty, haggard and pale: he was weeping silently, the tears rolling unheeded down his cheeks, and falling upon the ground, while every now and then a stifled sob seemed to tear his breath. He had lost all.

There was something so painful in this retired sorrow; that Cecil, who was contemplating him with a sort of drunken compassion, went up to him, and said,—

"Do not be downcast, sir, fortune may change. Have you lost much?"

"Seventeen pounds," sobbed the young man; "but it was my all—I am ruined! utterly ruined! Fortune cannot change for me, for I shall never have another sixpence, to tempt her with. O my poor mother! my poor mother!"

A tear stood in Cecil's eye, and he hiccupped. He was debating with himself whether he should give the unhappy youth a chance of recovering his gains. At last, slipping a half sovereign into his hand, he said,—

"There—risk that. But if you win back your money, promise me solemnly never to play again. You may not another time find one to give you a chance."

The bloodshot eyes of the youth flashed fire as he saw the piece of gold in his hand. He tried to utter his thanks, but a sort of gurgling murmur was all that escaped. He instantly went to the table and began to play. Cecil, interested in his fate, stood beside him.

He won, and won, and won. In a quarter of an hour, in spite of several losses, he had recovered his seventeen pounds, and five more with them. He repaid Cecil the half sovereign, and clasping his hand, said fervently:—"God bless you! you have saved a fellow-creature!" and ran rather than walked out of the house.

No sooner had he departed than, strange inconsistency! Cecil began to play.

The young man's presence had been a restraint on him, which not even the intoxicating sight of the gold could overcome. He had presented himself as a Mentor to that young man, and could not in his presence descend from the pedestal; accordingly he was irritably anxious for his protégé to win, and to depart. All the time he had been standing at the table, a sort of fever of cupidity possessed him. He staked imaginary sums, and always, or almost always, won. Yes, even with the game played before him, he juggled with himself almost as much as when alone in his atélier he played those successful games. Whoever has stood at a table where a game of chance is being played, and has, in imagination only, participated, must remember this:—We choose a side; if it is victorious, we reflect how great would have been our gain; if it is unsuccessful, we say to ourselves, "There would have been a loss;" but we do not, to our minds, realize that loss with anything like the vividness with which we realize the gain; and, moreover, we constantly shelter ourselves under the idea that "most likely we should not, after all, have chosen that side."

This was the process going on in Cecil's mind as he stood by that table, and saw the game played; and he was impatient for his protégé to begone: so impatient that he cared not whether the youth won or lost; and indeed at one period when the losses were frequent, he was rather disappointed to see a gain follow them, because it deferred the youth's exit. Such is human egotism!

No sooner was he freed from this restraint than, heedless of the whispers of his conscience, he flung down a sovereign, and was soon absorbed in the game.

Frank presently came round to him, having lost back twenty pounds which he had won, and now begged another loan. Cecil took up a dozen sovereigns from the heap before him, and handed them to him with a caution to be careful.

Till deep in the night they played, and Cecil left the house a winner of sixty pounds. Frank had lost the twelve lent him, and was savage against fate. Cecil, half intoxicated as he was, and glorying in his winnings, still felt a pressing sense of remorse, at having been seduced. But he vowed that it should never recur again; and told Frank if ever he proposed to go into another gaming-house, from that instant their friendship would be at an end.

"I have been led astray to-night," he said, "but I dare not repeat it. I know what the end must be; and nothing shall make me forget my oath; so remember, Frank, the first word with which you tempt me, is the word that parts us for ever!"

"I tempt you, indeed! I didn't propose it to-night, did I? Besides, I have abjured the fickle goddess myself. I touch no more cards. Damn my whiskers!"

Cecil rose the next morning with a fearful consciousness of having broken his oath, and of having again plunged into the mire from which he had been extricated. He was ashamed of his weakness, but tried to convince himself that it was a moment of intoxication, and would not recur.

That night he took Blanche to her father's; the next night he invited Rose to come to them, which invitation, as Julius was included in it, was accepted.

Thus were two days placed as barriers between him and temptation. He felt the desire so strong within him to return to the gaming-table, that he was obliged to place himself in a position which would make that return almost impossible. But the third night, he had no engagement. The passion had grown stronger from the restraint: it subdued him! He struggled with it; he tried to gain courage in reflecting on the miseries which would ensue; but the "still small voice," though heard, was impotent. Passion bullied Reason into silence; unable to answer its arguments it gagged them with a reckless "don't care!"

Struggles were vain: the gamester would fulfil his destiny.

                    When the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart,
How oft in spirit have I turned to thee,
O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer through the woods!
                                                                        WORDSWORTH.

Mira queste mine
E le carte, e le tete, e i marmi, e i templi,
Pensa qual terra premi; e se destarti
Non può la luce di cotanti esempli,
Che stai? Levati e parti.
                                                                        LEOPARDI.

Julius and Rose were married, and a brighter day never shone upon our island than that which saw these two admirable creatures united.

Vyner's heart was heavy as he gave her away; for although he had the highest opinion of Julius, and thought the match in every way an excellent one, yet Rose was the only child he had now at home with him; and his affection, rejected by his wife, had turned itself once more towards his children.

They set off for a wedding tour, down the Wye into Wales. Who shall depict their silent, deep, unspeakable happiness, as they felt themselves now for ever united? Words have no power of expressing such feelings: there is no standard to which to refer an experience which transcends all former experience. Either the reader has felt this bliss; or he will, some day, feel it. To his own experience I must refer him.

Everything then has a certain newness; yet everything comes as such a matter of course! All emotions glide through the soul with such a soft sure pace, that they excite no surprise even by their novelty. The lovers "feel as if they had been married years;" and yet a curious sense of novelty is always present. They do not feel what they expected to feel; yet are they not surprised. In fact, they are all feeling; all deep, vivid, unspeakable emotion. Hand clasped in hand, lip pressed to lip, eyes fixed on eyes, hours of silent and unbroken bliss pass swiftly on, as if the wide universe were shrunk into one spot, as if a whole eternity were not too great to be filled by that one passion.

Love is the intensest form of life. No wonder, then, that all human beings crave it; no wonder that we all feel a perennial interest in it, and that the look of tenderness we detect in its passage from one loved being to another, stirs strange memories in our hearts, and breaks like a smile over our souls; no wonder that in the cunning pages of the poet, we are fascinated by his pictured reflex of those feelings which belong to our common humanity!

Rose and Julius, so fitly formed to be united, each soul being, in Plato's language, the half of the other—the two souls rushing into a perfect one, and making a harmonious life between them: she so gay, witty, wild, frank, and gentle; he so grave, high-souled, earnest-minded, and so noble; she so beautiful, and he so honest—how could they fail to be happy?

To Tinterne's lovely scenes they at first repaired: a delicious spot, made for honeymoons, did not honeymoons fortunately make every place a paradise. The beauty of the spot was sweetly accordant with their minds; and they were delighted to alternate the admiration of nature with their adoration of each other. The sky seemed more blue, significant, and tender, after witnessing a kiss snatched amidst the tangled overgrowth of shrubs (with most unfeminine indifference, too, be it said, in passing, to the crumpling of bonnets!); and the sunny slopes looked still more verdant, as these lovers chased each other, like happy children, down them.

I am not going to betray any more of the secrets of those Eleusinian mysteries of love: the initiated will understand them; and they alone are fit to hear them.

How Julius and Rose admired Tinterne Abbey! Everybody does. Everybody remembers Wordsworth's magnificent lines; and it is the glorious privilege of poetry to open our eyes to the divinity of beauty which lies around us, and to confer on nature herself a splendour not her own. But lovers have no need of an hierophant: beauty to them is visible without the poet's aid; for they themselves are poets. And to our lovers the abbey was more exquisite than to any wayfarer's eye seeking only the picturesque.

"I am often puzzled," said Julius, as they stood within the majestic ruin, "to explain how it is that the proportion we so much admire in ancient and in Gothic architecture should be the endless despair of the moderns. With all our perfection of geometry and masonry, we are miserably behind our forefathers in the first principle of art: proportion. We build more comfortable houses; but we cannot build a palace, a temple, or a monument. The Comfortable we attain: our efforts after the Beautiful are singularly feeble and abortive. I suppose those writers are correct who place the cause of failure in the absence of that religious idea which animated the ancients. Certainly it seems as if we measured with the rule and compass, rather than with the mind: we aggregate materials, instead of incarnating an idea. We use the symbols of other times, and build churches and cathedrals with the columns and façades from sunny Greece, and the Gothic nave and cross from Germany and France; the flying buttress and the pointed arch side by side the architraves and pediments of Greece!"

"You will call me a little ignoramus," replied Rose; "but I can't help it: I prefer this abbey in its ruins to any perfect work of art. No doubt, in its original state it must have been very lovely; but look at it now! With no roof but heaven, no painted windows, but, instead, those charming glimpses of the hills around; and the chinks in the walls—the ruin with its moss and lichens, and the soft shadows thrown on this grassy pavement by the fragments of beauty which are still remaining—is not all this more beautiful than a work of art?"

Julius looked into her eyes and thought she was right; but what stopped his lips from replying, I leave to the reader's imagination: to my ears it had a very musical sound.

It was in vain they tried to be æsthetical and talk architecture; the time and mood were not made for it; and even the exquisite beauty which surrounded them could only draw from them fragmentary remarks. But if they did not express much, they felt a great deal.

It was not a spot to stand on without having the thoughts constantly withdrawn from the present to the past, of which it was a fragment. The mind would wander. On that very spot where they stood, had many a pious monk bowed himself down in prayer: asking, in the contrition of a weary spirit, for pardon and for courage. The faith which moved him has passed away, effaced beneath the giant march of time; the tessellated pavement no longer echoes the slow and heavy tread of monks, but has been broken and scattered, and has passed away with the faith it served; and, like that faith, exists only in broken fragments, curious amongst the weeds that have usurped its place. The painted windows

                    Richly dight,
Shedding a dim, religious light—

are no more: yon broken, crumbling shaft, springing up like an aspiring soul to the sky, no longer holds the glass

            Diamonded with panes of quaint device,
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings.

Looking on these fragments which speak feelingly of the decay and change of all things, a soft melancholy would invade their minds.

"Everything then changes, is it so?" asked Rose.

"Everything," he replied, "but love; and that sustains the world."

Did I not say that lovers were poets? Here is Julius talking a language that would surprise himself, were it not the natural expression of his feelings. And Rose—instead of being witty and sparkling—Rose was throughout their tour so serious and sentimental, that no one would have recognised her; but she was intensely happy in her melancholy, and would not have changed it for all the gaieties in the world.

While I contemplate, not without a touch of envy, this change and its cause, it occurs to me, that as I am, unluckily, in no danger of falling into the error myself, I may, to follow my usual bent, moralize for a moment on this all interesting subject of honeymoons.

Rightly is the first month of marriage called a honeymoon: a period of unceasing sweetness, cloying at last upon the palled and exhausted palate, unless it have something higher and better upon which to rest than its mere sweetness. Before the year is out, the "happy pair" have, alas! too often found indifference succeed to this all-exacting, all-impatient passion; a consummation not easily to be avoided, but perhaps, to be delayed.

Many ingenious writers have tried their hands at a definition of love; may I not venture after them?

Love, in its commonest form, I take to be an enthusiasm with which the mind intensifies and dignifies its desires. Unhappily, in most cases, it is only a passing enthusiasm, dying away with the gratification of its desires; and dying, because not founded on lasting qualities; dying, because the sympathies are not involved, because the moral requirements are not responded to with the same facility as the physical. A love, whose root is in passion, and only in passion, cannot be supposed to survive the first ardour of that passion. It is only when above and beyond that passion, giving it force and perpetually renewing it as from a central fire, there exists what I should call a moral passion,—an intense moral desire,—that the love can be durable. The sensuous desire is violent but limited; the moral desire is infinite: the craving which soul feels for perfect communion with soul, and the infinite variety with which that desire is maintained, give to love its lustre and its immortality.

But how are we to distinguish between these two kinds of love? How is a man to know whether he loves in the complete and exalted manner last described, and not in the limited, instinctive, perishable manner? There, I confess, lies the mystery. Time alone can solve it. No man can well discriminate in his own case, and precisely for the reason that love is an enthusiasm, which not only intensifies, but also dignifies his desires, so that in his eyes, his passion appears exalted, imperishable, unchangeable.

How many an unhappy wretch has awakened from a dream of passion, to find that after all it was only his enthusiasm which dignified the object which dignified his passion, and threw around it the lustre of immortal youth!

To think of this, to see in your own experience so many examples, is enough to make you register a vow that you will never—no never again fall in love. The vow may be registered; Love, who "laughs at locksmiths," knows the durability of such barriers as vows; and, looking down with the saucy pity of that imp Puck, exclaims—

Lord! what fools these mortals be!

It was November. Rose and Julius had returned to London to continue their felicity in a new sphere: they were quite a model couple, and were so happy that several people "of experience" shook their heads sceptically, and exclaimed:—"Ah, well! early times yet, early times!"

What a world of envy in a little phrase!

Meredith Vyner grew morose. His domestic comfort was now utterly destroyed, for his wife was entirely estranged from him; and he was without hope of her ever returning to the former state of hypocritical fondness. Beyond this, Violet would not remain in the house with her step-mother; so that except in his visits to Rose he saw no one that he loved. Blanche was also separated from him: her husband absolutely interdicted all communication between her and her father. This was the result of a violent quarrel on the old subject of his gambling, and of her father's attempt to get her from him.

Cecil's passion for gambling had returned with more than its former force and recklessness. Vyner had discovered it; had suppressed the allowance; lectured Cecil sharply, and endeavoured to persuade Blanche to leave him. A complete rupture was the consequence.

The miserable old man saw his daughter's impending ruin, and saw that he was impotent to save her from it. This, added to his domestic sorrows, made him morose. He was a changed being. He became dirtier and dirtier. He never quoted Horace. The dust collected on his manuscripts like the grains of snuff upon his waistcoat, without any effort on his part to shake them off. Life to him was purposeless, joyless.

Mrs. Vyner was as lively and dissipated as ever. No care sat upon her brow; no sorrow darkened her existence. For some weeks after the scene between her and Maxwell, he ceased to see her; a circumstance which made her husband for a moment rejoice; he believed that a rupture having taken place, his wife would return to him. The hope was not of long duration. She, at first indifferent, became at last uneasy at Maxwell's absence. She loved him, she was accustomed to his presence, she liked the excitement of his love, with its fierce whims, its brutal expressions, and its passionate, unrestrained vehemence. She missed him.

Unable longer to bear his absence, she wrote a long and touching letter, in which real feeling aided her natural adroitness, and gained the victory.

Maxwell was on the point of giving way, when it reached him. Obstinate, violent, and revengeful as he was, he too was so uneasy at being absent from her, that he was glad to have such an excuse for forgiveness. He felt as if he could have stabbed her to the heart; yet he was softened in an instant by her letter.

Peace was made between them. He promised never again to doubt her love; she promised never again to offend him. Things resumed their old course; yes, even to the renewal of his jealousy and his threats; but on the whole Mrs. Vyner's brow was smooth!

Not very long after the reconciliation, they were together at a party at Mrs. Langley Turner's. Among the company there happened to be Lord * * * *, notorious in his early days for his successful gallantries, and not having yet relinquished the ambition of making conquests. He sat next to Mrs. Vyner, who was that evening in high spirits, and looked enchantingly piquante. She was a violent radical in her opinions, and a great tuft-hunter; a title was always resplendent in her eyes, no matter what the wearer might be like. It is easily conceivable therefore, how, both as a coquette and a tuft-hunter, she should have been inordinately gratified at the attentions of Lord * * * *. She put forth all her fascinations; and although from time to time she met the dark scowl of Maxwell, who was observing her like a panther watching from his jungle, she only answered his anger with a scornful smile, and continued her attentions to the old nobleman.

As Maxwell saw her rise to depart, he hurried down stairs to the cloak-room, and there awaited her with the intention of expressing his anger, as he handed her into the carriage; but to his rage he saw Lord * * * * accompany her down stairs, gallantly cover her white shoulders with the shawl, and then handing her to the carriage, take leave of her in the most significant manner.

Maxwell with difficulty restrained himself from challenging his rival on the spot.

The next day when he called on Mrs. Vyner, he saw a cab drive from the door: it was Lord * * * * coming from his first visit. Maxwell refused to go in.

Day after day he saw that cab standing there for an hour or two together; he waited in the street the whole time, and in his impatience the hour seemed quadrupled. It was enough to irritate the least jealous of men; him it drove to phrenzy.

Pale with passion he at last went in, and found the two together. She received him with easy unconcern, as if he were no more than an habitué. Lord * * * * looked somewhat "glum" at his presence, and after a few commonplaces, rose and departed.

"So," said Maxwell to her when they were alone, "my place is taken, is it?"

"What! jealous again?"

"Not jealous, but convinced."

"Convinced of your own folly?"

"Yes."

"Then, there are hopes of a reformation. George, don't scowl in that way; you are not handsome at any time, and when you scowl, least of all."

"Mary, you must see him no more."

"Him? explain: I hate enigmas."

"Lord * * * * I insist upon it."

"Now, don't be absurd, pray! Why should I not see a man old enough to be my father?"

"But not too old to be your lover."

"The old story! What a queer creature you are! Why, who ever could suppose there was danger in a man of his age—he hasn't an unbleached hair on his head."

"Perhaps not; but a coronet hides that."

"Ha! ha! ha! Oh, you green-eyed monster! Really, you are capital fun, though you don't mean it."

"Beware, beware!"

"Ah! now you are getting tragic ... have you an unloaded pistol about you by chance?"

A dark smile passed over his face.

"Mary, listen to me: I am very serious. Laugh, if you please, at my jealousy, but at any rate, acknowledge that I have a right to insist on a cessation of his visits."

"I acknowledge nothing of the kind. Why am I to be deprived of seeing whom I please? My husband does not object to my receiving Lord * * * * why should you?"

"Because you take pleasure in those visits."

"I do."

"They flatter you."

"They do."

"He flatters you."

"He is gallant enough to find my society agreeable—that is more than I can say for yours at this moment."

"You think it a feather in your cap to have a worthless old nobleman dangling after you."

"Perhaps I do; what then?"

"I will not allow it."

"Come, come; this is getting a little too imperious."

"I will not allow it, I say."

"Your permission is not necessary."

"I tell you it shall not be!"

"George—I am serious now—as you raise your voice—if you know me, you must know that I may be persuaded to anything, but I am not to be driven. Obstinacy may not be an amiable quality; but it is a quality which belongs to me. Cease that tone of command therefore; you will get nothing by it."

"I shall not cease that tone. I shall adopt any tone I please."

"Do so; then don't wonder if I refuse to listen to you."

"But, by God! you shall listen."

"Try me."

Her eyes dilated as she said this, though her voice was perfectly calm. She was getting almost as angry as he was. The spirit of opposition was abetted by the resolution she had formed not to rebut the attentions of Lord * * * *, and she now was roused for the struggle.

And yet, flattered as she undoubtedly was, by the admiration of the old roué, she loved Maxwell well enough to have sacrificed that delight, had he taken another course, had he implored instead of threatened; but that was not in his nature, and his brutal imperiousness roused her to rebellion.

He had become livid with passion, and it was only with great effort that he could articulate—

"Don't play with me ... you know not the danger ... I warn you ... I warn you."

"And I laugh at your threats."

"You think I am not serious?"

"I do not care a straw whether you are serious or not."

"You are resolved then?"

"Quite."

"Oh, beware! beware! do not drive me to the last extremity...."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"By God!" he exclaimed, striking a small table with his fist.

"See," she said, "you have broken my china—a real bit of rococo; that's what it is to be ungentlemanly and violent."

"Mary ... This is .... You are rushing to destruction! Look here; I am almost mad ... but I know what I say ... choose whether you will obey me—if you do not, as I live, I will blow your brains out, and then my own!"

"Mr. Maxwell, if you think I am to be frightened by your ravings, if you think I am to obey your ridiculous caprices, if you think you are to be my master, you are egregiously mistaken. Leave the house: I hate you!"

Her look expressed her hate, as she said this.

He was convulsed; the veins started on his forehead; his chest heaved laboriously, and his eyes were dilated with fury, but he uttered no sound.

"Your love is degradation! Your soul is as ignoble as your manners are brutal! I have put up with this too long. I have been contaminated by your presence, and now, I hate you!"

A sort of gurgle, like the death rattle, sounded in his throat; his face was purple.

"I hate you!" she added. "Is that clear? Do you understand me now!"

With his eyes fixed horribly upon her furious countenance, he put his handkerchief to his mouth; when he removed it, she saw that it was stained with blood.

A sudden sickness overcame her, and she trembled.

He did not speak another word, but staggered rather than walked towards the door. Slowly he descended the stairs, and with his handkerchief still at his mouth reached home. The paroxysm of passion had burst a small bloodvessel.

Left to herself, Mrs. Vyner sank on a couch shivering, and her teeth chattering together from the combined effects of rage, excitement, and fear.

The heavy pall of a terrible doom seemed stretched over her future: dark, mysterious, and awful. She shuddered as she thought of what had passed, and only recovered a slight decree of calmness as the thought occurred to her that perhaps that broken bloodvessel might put an end to him!

For what will love's exalting not go through,
'Till long neglect and utter selfishness
Shames the fond pride it takes in its distress?
                                                            LEIGH HUNT.—Rimini.

Cecil had removed to miserable lodgings at Hammersmith, consisting of two rooms, and those wretchedly furnished; he had also reduced his expenses by giving up his atélier, and was now, without pretence at concealment, a gambler, and nothing else.

Blanche's grief when she first discovered his relapse was not so great as might have been expected, simply because she had to defend him against the bitter accusations of her father, and in the effort to excuse her husband in the eyes of another, she succeeded in greatly excusing him in her own.

There were doubtless many sleepless nights she had to pass, moodily contemplating the probable consequences of their fate; but when Cecil came home, her sorrow fled. Either he had won, and then his gaiety charmed her, and she allowed herself to be seduced into sharing his sanguine expectations; or else he had lost, and then she had to comfort and console him, and in that effort to assuage his grief, forgot her own.

There was something indescribably affecting in the tender solicitude and unshaken love of this gentle creature for her wretched husband; she had truly married him for better and for worse, in sickness and in health, in joy and in sorrow, and no adversity could alter the current of that love, which flowed from the everlasting fountain of her heart. He had blighted her youth; he had blighted the existence of their child; but she loved him perhaps still more dearly than on that happy day when the priest had joined them at the altar. He had been weak, contemptible, even infamous; but he had never ceased to be the idol of her heart.

One day she missed her watch; that watch which Cecil had given her, and which had always been at her side. She hunted about the house for it. All day she was in great distress at having lost it, and endeavoured in vain to persuade herself that perhaps Cecil had taken it out with him. He returned at two o'clock in the morning. Her first question was,

"Darling, have you my watch?"

"No," said he sulkily.

"Oh, dear! oh, dear! it is lost, then—I have lost it—some one has stolen it!"

"Pooh! don't make a fuss—it's all right."

"Have you got it?'

"No; but I know where it is."

"Where?"

"In a place where it is quite safe—never fear!"

She understood him. He had pawned it, and the proceeds had gone where every shilling went.

Another day she missed the baby's coral with its golden bells. This time she said nothing; she knew too well what must have become of it, and she burst into tears as she thought of the fearful situation of a father robbing his own child to feed an infatuated passion!

One by one, every article upon which money could be raised had disappeared, until he possessed literally nothing more than the clothes he stood up in.

It was in vain she argued with herself that he, as the master, had a right to sell his own property, to sell anything and everything he pleased; she could not drive away the idea of there being something sneaking in this furtive disposal of his goods; an open sale might be necessitated, but this silent disappearance by stealth of article after article was horrible. She never knew what was gone until she wanted it; and at last her uneasiness became so great that she trembled to seek the most trifling thing.

Blanche's eyes were not shut to all the weakness of her husband's character, though her affection made her sophisticate with herself to an extraordinary extent. She saw the deplorable effects of his infatuation, and tried her best to wean him from it; but she always trusted that he would see the folly of the pursuit, and that, after a certain amount of experience, he would be cured. Meanwhile, that hope grew fainter and fainter, as time, instead of lessening, seemed to increase his passion.

To Vyner, Julius, Rose, and Violet, it seemed perfectly incomprehensible that Blanche should continue to love such a wretch as Cecil.

"His conduct," Vyner would say, "is enough to have estranged an angel."

Yet the fact is, that his conduct had not in the least degree alienated her affection from him; and the explanation of this fact resides in the moral axiom (the truth of which a large experience of human nature cannot fail to illustrate), that affection depends upon character, not upon conduct.

We love those most with whom we sympathize most, not those from whom we have received the greatest benefits. The husband who ill-treats his wife (as people say) is often idolized, while the husband who idolizes his wife is often looked upon as a "good sort of person" at the best. No doubt, the ill-treated wife suffers from, and resents each act of ill-treatment; as the kindly-treated wife is pleased and grateful for each act of kindness; but in the one case, occasional acts cannot destroy that sympathy which is the bond of love; nor in the other case, can the occasional kindnesses create it. Again, I say it is character, not conduct, which creates affection.

It was Cecil's character that Blanche sympathized with. His affectionate, caressing manners—his gaiety, his cleverness, and as she thought genius, were qualities the charm of which could not be resisted. Then he loved her so truly! not enough, indeed, to forego, for her sake, the excitement of the gaming-table: not enough to prevent his sacrificing her with himself to this infatuation: but that was because he was incapable of self-mastery. And if he was weak, she sympathized with his weakness.

Turn the phrase how we will, it always comes back to these simple pregnant words: she loved him!

O why, when Love doth wound, doth it not then
Strike deeper down—and kill!
                                                                        Old Play.

There was not a farthing in the house. Cecil was out on the chimerical expedition of borrowing a few pounds from one of his gaming-table acquaintances. Continual assistance had been lent them by Vyner and by Julius; but, of course, these sums were dissipated in the usual way; and so recent had been the assistance, that even Cecil had not the face to apply again.

Blanche was weeping over the cradle of her child, whom she had just rocked asleep, when the door opened, and the servant put in her head to say,—

"Please, mum, a gentleman."

In another instant, Captain Heath stood before her with outstretched hand, and embarrassed countenance: she grasped his hand in both of hers and pressed it warmly, for she felt that a deliverer was near. Since last they had met, what changes in her life! What had they both not undergone! He was much thinner, and looked older. Sorrow had deeply lined his noble brow, and dimmed his kind blue eye. He had sought in travel to forget the cause of his voluntary exile; and had learned, if not to forget, at least to master his feelings. When men have passed the impressionable and changeable age of youth, love becomes a more serious and enduring passion with them—it becomes consolidated in their manhood. And Captain Heath—too old not to have lost all the volatility of youth, but still too young to have lost its fervour—found that his passion for Blanche was ineffaceable.

Had he, then, returned with any hopes? No; his was one of those strong, brave, manly natures which know how to endure any calamity, any condition, so soon as it is recognised as inevitable; they endure, without childish repining, what they know must be endured; they brace their minds to the struggle, and they conquer at least that weak and fretful anxiety which attends upon those who cannot calmly look fate in the face.

He returned, but it was to watch over his beloved; and on his return, what was his horror to hear of the situation into which her wretched husband had precipitated her!

Blanche was embarrassed, yet delighted. From childhood she had known him, and loved him almost as a father; and to her old affection there was now added, the unconscious flattery of her knowledge of his love for her. No woman is ever insensible to such flattery; the man who loves her, though hopelessly, is always interesting in her eyes. Blanche was eminently a woman.

"How kind of you to come and see us," she said, "and in such a place as this! But then you are one of our true friends, and poverty cannot scare you."

"Yes, Blanche, I am your friend: always remember that, and in any difficulty, be sure not to forget it. But let me see your child: she is asleep?—what a beauty! How you must love it! Dear little thing, how quiet its breathing! may I kiss it? will she wake up?"

"No; kiss her gently: she is so used to it!"

He stooped down, and kissed its warm, soft cheek, and then gazed at it for some minutes in silence. With a mother's pride, Blanche watched him, occasionally looking down upon her darling, with that yearning tenderness, which only mothers know.

A low sigh escaped from him as he turned away from the cradle.

"Have you been long in England?" she asked.

"I came home last week. This is my second visit."

"Your first was to papa, I suppose?"

"Yes. Things are in a sad state there, Blanche. Your father is very much altered. But what could he expect? What could induce him to marry again?"

"Mama's conduct is shocking!—To think of a wife forgetting herself so!—Did you see her?"

"Yes, and she was as civil to me as ever, talked as hypocritically—and spoke of you in terms that made me excessively angry."

"What did she say?"

"It was not what she said, so much as the manner of saying it: the tone of pity, of false pity, affecting to look upon you as if..."

"And what... Did she speak of ... of Cecil!"

Heath was silent.

"Ah! I know she did; but you must not believe her; indeed, it is not true—indeed, he is not."

"Is it possible?"

"That is .... she must have exaggerated.... He has been imprudent, unfortunate.... but he is the kindest, best of men.... They are all against him; they do not understand him; they require a man of genius to be as formal and regular as other men .... absurd, is it not? .... Are not all men of genius ... are they not?"

"Unhappily!" replied Heath.

"I know you would not join the cabal against him. You are more liberal! Oh! if you knew his heart, how good it is!—I wish he were here..."

At this moment little Rose Blanche cried; and her mother took her up. The little creature was terrified at first seeing the captain, and clung to her mother for protection; but after a little coaxing, she became pacified, and in a few minutes was in his arms and playing with his dark moustache, which greatly interested her.

This interruption saved Heath from an embarrassing situation, and threw the conversation entirely upon the child, of whom the fond mother had innumerable anecdotes to relate, all of which went to the establishment of the fact, that for intelligence and goodness, no such baby was to be met with in the three kingdoms. Heath was too happy to let the conversation continue in that strain, and having spent an agitated yet delicious hour with her, he thought it time to go.

"My dear Blanche," he said at last, "I came here upon a matter of business, which I must not forget in the pleasure of seeing you. My residence in Italy has developed in me a taste for pictures. I am not rich; but I am alone in the world, and can afford to indulge my taste. Your husband is an artist, and I am come to command a picture from him. I leave the subject, size, and price, entirely to him. Let him execute whatever his genius prompts him; and I am quite sure I shall be the gainer by leaving the price to him. Meanwhile, as you are not in flourishing circumstances, here is a cheque for fifty pounds, on account. When he wants more, he knows where to apply."

He placed a cheque in her hand as he said this. She understood but too well this delicate mode of assisting them, and a tear rose into her eye as she pressed his hand significantly: she could not speak. He embraced her child repeatedly, and, with a fond protecting look, bade her good-bye.

Left alone, she burst into tears: they were tears of gratitude and tears of shame: gratitude for the beautiful and delicate friendship of the act and its manner: shame at finding herself reduced to such a state, that she was forced to accept alms from her former lover.

As she grew calmer, the thought rose within her, that perhaps this might be the saving of Cecil—that he, finding employment, might resolutely set to work, and—no longer forced to seek a subsistence by gaming,—resume his honourable career.

Building cloud-castles on the landscape of the future, she was light and joyous when Cecil returned, and flung herself upon his neck, with almost frantic delight.

Cecil received those demonstrations of joy with moody sullenness. He had returned exasperated by failure, gloomy with the dark thoughts which lowered upon him, like heavy clouds collected over the sunny fields, boding a coming storm.

"Blanche," he said, "we are beggars."

The smile was still upon her face; she pushed the hair gently from off his forehead.

"There is no hope left. I have tried every body."

"I have had a visitor, darling, since you went out. Guess who it was."

"Julius?"

"No."

"Your father?"

"No."

"A dun?"

"Captain Heath."

"The devil it was!"

"Yes; I thought it would surprise you. Oh! I was so happy to see him!"

"Heath... here!" exclaimed Cecil, his cheek burning as he spoke. "And you saw him? ... received him here ... and in my absence? You did?"

"Was I wrong?" she, trembling, asked.

"Wrong? Oh, no; it was not wrong to receive your lover. You needn't start ... he is your lover, and you know it! You know, moreover, that I hate him... The scoundrel! And he saw you here ... here, in this beggarly place ... in this hole of poverty! And he triumphed over me ... triumphed because his prophecy was fulfilled! Didn't he, too, urge you to leave me? Didn't he, too, tell you I was a villain, dragging you to ruin? Didn't he offer to take you home? .... Speak! don't stare at me in that way! Tell me all the scoundrel said ... quick!"

"Cecil, Cecil, down on your knees, and beg his pardon for having so slandered him! You are not in your senses to speak so—and of him, of him!"

"Slandered him, have I? What! the sneaking wretch who takes advantage of my present situation...."

"To assist you!" indignantly exclaimed Blanche.

"Assist me! and for what purpose? For whose sake—for mine? No; for yours! Oh! I see all his plans—I see them all!"

Cecil, mad with jealousy and rage, dashed his hand upon the table, and swore a fearful oath. It was not that he for a moment suspected his wife; but he had never been able to overcome his jealousy of Heath; and what added tenfold torture to that venomous feeling now, was the thought that Heath had come back to find Blanche reduced to want—to find her in this miserable lodging deprived of all the comforts and necessaries of life. He felt himself horribly humiliated in the eyes of his hated rival; he felt that his rival triumphed over his degradation; and he dreaded lest Blanche should have made an involuntary comparison between her present condition, and what it would have been had she married Heath. All this rapidly crossed his mind, and drove him to fury.

"Cecil," she said, struggling with her tears, "you are unhappy, and that makes you unjust. If you but knew the noble nature of him...."

"Hold your tongue! Am I to sit here and listen to his praises? Noble nature, indeed! Yes, yes, I know it.... I know it."

"Then you know...."

"Silence, I say! Are you going to draw a comparison between us? Are you going to contrast his virtues with my vices? A good subject, but a bold one for a wife to touch upon!"

"Cecil, you break my heart... Will you hear me?"

"No!"

"What have I said or done...."

"You have received, during my absence, a man I hate—a man who, if he again crosses my threshold, I will throw out of the window."

"Look at this!" she said, presenting the cheque to him.

"What is that?"

"If you will not listen to me, trust your own eyes."

"A cheque for fifty pounds—and from him?"

"He came here to command a picture; you are to name your own price; that is on account."

Cecil took the cheque, looked at it, and then at her.

"And do you believe this?" he said, with intense calmness. "Do you really believe that he wants a picture?"

"No; I believe that to be an excuse...."

"An excuse! By God! she knows it!"

"It is a delicate way of assisting us.—That is the conduct of the man whom you have outraged by your suspicions."

Cecil was stupefied. Her perception of the subterfuge quite staggered him.

"So, so—he thinks to buy you, does he?" he at last said, choking with rage.

She coloured deeply with shame, and exclaimed,—

"Oh, Cecil! Cecil!"

"Well then, to buy me! He thinks I am to be patronized.... to be his workman.... to receive his orders.... to receive his money! Blanche, this cheque is either an outrage to you, or an insult to me. Don't speak! .... Not another word."

He rose, and put on his hat.

"Good God! Cecil, what are you about to do?"

"To find out this liberal patron."

"Cecil, Cecil! do be calm!"

"I am. I will fling this cheque in his odious face, and tell him what I think."

She threw herself upon him.

"Cecil! my own darling! listen to your Blanche.... For God's sake, be calm! ... Think of me; think of your child! .... A duel! oh, Cecil! could you leave your child fatherless, Cecil?"

He flung her from him, and rushed out of the house: she reeled and fell. The child began to scream; the old lady living in the parlours hurried up stairs, and found Blanche lifeless on the floor.

Like a madman, Cecil bounded along the streets, goaded by one of those irresistible outbreaks of passion which sometimes mastered him. On reaching the house where Heath formerly lived, and hearing that he no longer lived there, he remembered Heath having just returned from abroad, and that his residence could only be known at his bankers. Thither he went: on his way he passed through Jermyn-street. It was in that street was kept the gaming-house where he had spent so many of his days and nights.

A new direction was given to his thoughts: insensibly they left the subject of Captain Heath to merge into that of play. Still he walked on, but less swiftly. The idea of the splendid martingale he had recently discovered, which this fifty pounds would enable him to play, would not leave him.

He walked more and more slowly. Fifty pounds—it might make his fortune.

After all, Heath might possibly have desired a picture. The fool! as if he knew anything about pictures—he, the heavy guardsman, purchase pictures!

Yet, if he was rich, that was one way of spending his money. There was nothing but what was perfectly legitimate in an artist receiving a commission;—all artists receive them.

And with this fifty pounds a fortune was within his grasp.

He no longer walked, he crawled. This money was certainly his, if he chose to take it; why should he refuse? To be sure, the money of that scoundrel! All an excuse, too: Blanche knew it was an excuse.

He quickened his pace again. He was at the banking-house: he pushed the door, and entered.

"I can return him the money to-morrow. I will say Blanche changed it. Out of my winnings I can repay it."

He handed the cheque to the cashier.

"How will you take it, sir?" demanded the cashier.

"Gold," was the brief answer.

His eyes sparkled as the fifty sovereigns were shovelled across the counter; and he left the bank with lights dancing before him.

The fascination of the gaming-table was too much for him; all his sense of dignity vanished before it; even his very jealous rage seemed thus powerless against it. Humiliated as he felt at the idea of accepting charity from his rival, he could not reject it when it came to feed his passion for play. Although he had not a farthing in the house, although utter destitution threatened him, he would not, to save himself from it, have accepted Heath's assistance; but he could accept it when it enabled him to play.

To one of his old haunts he went. The first man he saw there was the large-whiskered, jovial, and eccentric gentleman whom he had noticed on the second evening: of his entering a house of play: he had since lost sight of him. The little man stroked his bushy whiskers fondly over his face, and, offering Cecil a pinch of snuff, expressed his pleasure at meeting him again.

"Come to try the goddess, sir?" he inquired. "Fickle goddess! now smiling, now frowning—quite a woman! I am no great hand myself; but, as far as a few crowns go, I find it a pleasant game—decidedly pleasant. Would you like to regulate yourself by my card?—duly pricked, you see. There have been three runs upon the black; once it turned up eleven times. Shall we take a glass of wine together? Yes;—waiter! some wine."

"No wine for me, thank you; I never touch it before dinner. Have you seen Mr. Forrester here to-day?"

"The gentleman with the large moustachios?—Yes; he has been playing, and won; but he went away about a quarter of an hour ago."

Cecil took his seat at the table. Gambling by day has, somehow, a more hideous aspect than by night: I suppose because it looks so little like an amusement, and so much like a mere affair of cupidity. But Cecil had grown used to this, as to other loathsome aspects of his vice, and sat down to the table with as much sang froid as if he were about to transact the most ordinary piece of business.

He had not been playing long, winning and losing in pretty equal succession, when Frank came back.

"What, again!" said Cecil. "I thought you had gone for the day: I heard you had departed with your winnings."

"The fact is, that I found my winnings rapidly decreasing, so I thought a little interval might very properly elapse; after which fortune again might be on my side. Besides, old boy, you must know that I haven't dined for eight days;—and when I say dined, I don't mean dining in the true sense, but in the common, vulgar, pauper sense of the word. I have made no meal which could represent a dinner. For eight days I haven't touched meat, damn my whiskers! So, being as ravenous as a hyena, I determined that to-day, at least, I would dine."

"And have you?"

"Have I, Cis? Why it's not yet five: do you imagine that under any circumstance I could lower myself so far as to dine at the shopkeeper's hour? No, damn it! one may be hard up, but one does not forget one is a gentleman!"

"Have you ordered your dinner then?"

"More than ordered it—paid for it. I went to the butcher's, and bought two pounds of magnificent steak: this I carried to a small Public, hard by, with the strictest injunctions as to the dressing of it—saw the cook myself, and am satisfied she knows what's what. It is to be ready at half-past six precisely, with no end of fried potatoes, and a bottle of their old crusted, which I know from experience is a wine that a gentleman can drink. The dinner you will say is not epicurean, but at any rate it is certain, because I have paid for it all. Now I don't mind risking the rest of my winnings. My mind is at rest: the baser appetites are provided for."

He began to play also; and he won.

"I told you luck would change," he said.

But he soon lost again, and lost repeatedly.

"Never mind, I have secured a dinner for to-day, which will last a week."

Cecil was equally unfortunate; the run seemed to be decidedly against him.

At last Frank threw down his final half-crown. It went like the others. He started up, and hurried away, without saying good-bye; indeed, giving no other expression of his feelings than was convoyed in an energetic denunciation of his whiskers.

Cecil played on; and as he saw the sovereigns disappear in spite of his famous martingale, his heart sank within him, and the gloom of despair seemed to paralyse his mind. Suffering horrible agony from the intense excitement of each coup, he yet played mechanically, almost listlessly, he lost, and won, and lost again, with fearful alternation of sick despair and dull joy. It was as if he were staking his heart's blood on each turn.

Frank returned, not without a certain hilarity in his manner.

"Where have you been?" Cecil faintly inquired.

"To my worthy host of the Coach and Horses, at whose house my dinner is commanded. It struck me that I could very well dispense with wine to-day—the more so as it costs six shillings a bottle, and here one gets it for nothing—so I negociated with the worthy publican, and sold him the wine back again for two half-crowns. Here they are. What d'ye think of that? Is that management of financial difficulties, eh?"

A sickly smile was the only answer Cecil gave, for at that moment he had just lost his fourth coup running. The two half-crowns seemed to bring back Frank's luck, for he won rapidly; Cecil, who played the same colours, also won. Winning and losing, and losing and winning, so the game went on, with alternate rising and falling of hopes, and in the rapidity with which small gains mounted up to large sums, and those sums dwindled down again, crowding as much excitement as would have filled a month of ordinary life.

"Done! cleaned out!" exclaimed Frank, as he saw himself once more penniless.

A sharp pang shot across Cecil's face, as he threw down his last sovereign on the red.

"Après," said the dealer.

Cecil had now only ten shillings remaining of the fifty pounds. In breath-suspended agony he watched the cards.

"Red wins!" said the dealer.

He breathed again, and looked round to smile at Frank; but that worthy had again departed to negociate the sale of his dinner.

Yes; this dinner, so cherished, so anticipated, paid for in advance, on which the imagination had luxuriated as on a kingly banquet; this dinner was sold for a miserable trifle, that he might risk one more coup at that table where so many men had ruined themselves before!

Cecil continued in luck until Frank returned; this time with no hilarity on his face, but a quiet gravity, which seemed prepared for the worst; and when he lost the last shilling he broke out into a short, sharp, hysterical laugh, and turning to Cecil, said with forced calmness,—

"I shall not dine to-day."

"Pleasant game this, sir," said the bushy-whiskered gentleman, coming up to where Frank sat, "take a pinch of snuff, sir?" Frank accepted with grace, and began chatting with the smiling gentleman, who was very communicative, and informed Frank that he had that afternoon won no less than ten half-crowns by backing the red.

"Quite right, sir," said Frank, "red is the colour."

"No doubt about it."

"Yes, yes. By the way, you haven't a half-crown about you at this minute, have you? I am cleared out for the day."

"Why, I certainly have such a thing, but..."

"Say no more, my dear fellow," said Frank, shaking him warmly by the hand, "half a crown will be abundance, I only want to try the red once. I'm really obliged to you for the offer of the loan, and shall accept it with pleasure. Now-a-days one does not often meet with such a trump! If ever you should run low, you know, in me you will always find one ready to reciprocate a civility."

The smiling gentleman rubbed his whiskers and filled his nose with snuff; but he concluded by slipping the half-crown into Frank's hand, who instantly threw it on the red.

Cecil had thrown his last five pounds upon the red, and with straining eyeballs watched the falling cards.

"Black wins," said the dealer.

Frank saw the croupier rake away his half-crown, and with it Cecil's five pounds.

A low cry burst from Cecil, as he learned his fate; and, leaning his elbows on the table, he let his head fall into his hands, and sobbed aloud.

The dealers and croupiers, accustomed to every expression of grief, sat with immoveable, expressionless faces, pursuing their routine with an indifference which was quite ghastly. The players looked upon him with different feelings: some with compassion, some with contempt, some with sympathetic fear. But above his wretched sobs were heard the unvarying tones of, "Gentlemen, make your game; the game is made."

Frank touched Cecil on the shoulder, and beckoned him to come away. Mechanically Cecil did so, and they stepped together out into the dull, dismal, November evening, and walked through the mist and lightly falling snow, without uttering a word.

At Park Lane they parted; a pressure of the hand was the only expression of their feelings which passed between them. Sick at heart, they both felt that nothing could be said to comfort them.

The lights glimmered dimly through the dirty air of that November evening, and the snow fell, and the rain, and the whole scene was drear and desolate, as Cecil wandered on, crushed in spirit, savage from remorse, exasperated by his impotent efforts to shake off the galling remembrance that he was now Heath's debtor—that he had taken his money, and could not throw it back at him.

Wild thoughts of suicide chased across his soul, like dancing lights over a bleak moor at night; but they did not long abide with him.

O God! O God! that it were possible
To undo things done,—to call back yesterday!
That Time could turn his swift and sandy glass
To untell days, or to redeem these hours!
            HEYWOOD.—A Woman Killed with Kindness.

When Blanche returned to her senses, she found herself in the arms of her landlady, who was bathing her forehead with vinegar and water.

"My husband!" she murmured; "where is my husband?"

"Oh, he's not come back yet. There, you are better now, aren't you?"

"Thank you; yes, I can walk now."

"Don't attempt it just yet."

"I must. I must go out."

"Go out such a day as this! Why, see how it snows."

"I must. You see I can stand. Oh, pray God, I may not be too late."

"But where do you wish to go, my dear? Can't I send my girl for you?"

"Where? Where? Ay, indeed. He did not tell me where. But then Cecil will not know where to find .... Thank God! Thank God!"

She sank down again upon the chair, relieved of her terrible anxiety; for she doubted not that if Cecil were unable to meet with Captain Heath, he would soon grow calmer, and look at things more rationally.

She waited for his return, however, with extreme uneasiness, fearful lest he should not have missed the captain; and dreading lest he should still continue his jealous suspicions. Free from all sentiment of jealousy herself, she could not understand Cecil's excessive susceptibility; and knowing Captain Heath so well as she did, she was perfectly convinced that her husband's jealousy was quite motiveless. This made her feel secure on this subject. Her deep sense of her own innocence, and of Heath's high-mindedness, made her convinced that Cecil must see the matter in its true light, so soon as he should calmly consider it.

It was nearly seven o'clock before her anxiety was relieved by hearing his knock at the door; but she screamed with terror as he entered the room. Although his coat and hat were covered with snow, he had left his chest exposed to the cold, and his shirt-collar and front were dripping with wet. He had evidently been altogether heedless of his person, and had given no thought of protecting it from the weather.

His face was pale and haggard, his eyes dull and blood-shot, his lips compressed—his whole aspect that of one who has just committed some fearful crime. She interrogated his face with watchful terror. He avoided her eye.

He seated himself in silence, and began brushing the snow off his hat. That completed, he placed his wet feet on the fender, and looked stedfastly at the fire.

Unable to bear this suspense, she went up to him, and laying her hand upon his shoulder, said timidly,—

"Have you seen him?"

"No."

She felt greatly relieved. He continued to look at the fire, but gave no signs of wishing to prolong the conversation. She drew a stool by his side, and sat down upon it; and in silence they both contemplated the evanescent shapes in the burning coals.

Having sat thus for some time, Blanche rose and went into the next room, and presently returned with her baby in her arms, asleep, which she gently laid upon Cecil's lap.

He turned a dull, sad eye upon her, inquiringly, and then looked down upon the sleeping infant on his knee.

"Unhappy child!" he said, and the tears rolled down his cheeks, as he gazed upon the sleeping babe, unconscious of the sorrow it awakened in its father's heart, and the remorse for infatuated villany, the consequences of which must eventually fall upon its head.

"Take her away," he said, "take her away. Why do you bring her to me?"

"To make you happy."

"To make me more miserable than I was before—to reproach me—me, her father, that she has not a better home, warmer clothing! Take her away."

Blanche, sobbing, took the child and laid it again in its cradle.

"Blanche you must write a note for me," he said, after a pause.

"To whom, dearest?"

No reply.

"To whom am I to write?"

"To—Captain Heath!" he said, with an effort.

She started at the name, alarmed and wondering.

"What am I to say?"

"Whatever you please—you are sure to succeed."

"But tell me what the object is?"

"Money."

"Money?"

"For my picture—I am to paint him one, am I not? he has ordered it. Well! I want money in advance."

Blanche would have been highly delighted at such a speech, had it been uttered in a different tone, and had not Captain Heath, already, that very day, given a cheque in advance.

She made no reply.

"Well!" he said, "are you ready? Write it at once."

"But the fifty pounds...."

"Gone! I met a man to whom I owed it—he demanded payment—I was forced to let him have the cheque. You can explain it all to Heath, and tell him I must have ten pounds more to buy materials with. Tell him what you please, but get the money."

He resumed his contemplation of the fire after this speech, and scarcely opened his lips again for the evening. Blanche wrote the letter, but it was with loathing, and she hated herself while she was doing it, and was sure Captain Heath would also hate her.

Glad as she would have been to see her husband relinquish his absurd jealousy of the captain, it came with quite a different aspect when that relinquishment was not a matter of conviction, but of degraded calculation. She guessed at once the truth of the whole history; she saw that Cecil had gambled away the fifty pounds, and that he had not only reconciled himself to it, but had made up his mind to extort from the generosity of the captain certain sums which would enable him to indulge his unhappy passion.

What a situation for a loving wife! Never before, not even in his worst exhibitions of selfishness and weakness, had Blanche despised her husband; but she could not master the feeling now; a lurking sense of contempt would intrude itself upon her thoughts.

The letter was sent under cover to her father.

All the next day Cecil sat over the fire, sometimes whistling, but mostly quite silent. He was playing over again the games which he had lost on the previous day: and now, as he played them, he calculated rightly, and always won.

Blanche observed that he exhibited singular impatience for the arrival of the postman; and when the day entirely passed over without bringing a letter, he constantly muttered to himself, "Very extraordinary!"

The next morning his impatience was greater, and when the two o'clock postman brought a letter for her from Rose, and nothing from Captain Heath, he began to swear and mutter to himself, till she was quite terrified.

He took up his hat and lounged out, without saying a word as to where he was going.

About three, Captain Heath called. Blanche was frightened lest Cecil should return and find him there; and was also alarmed at the probable storm which would burst upon her in consequence of this visit.

Heath saw her embarrassment, and attributed it to a sense of shame at her husband's conduct; for the note was so incoherently written, that he divined pretty nearly the whole truth of the matter.

"I have brought a cheque for your husband," he said, "because I did not wish to trust it to the post—also, because I wished to say a word to you. Blanche, I take the privilege of an old, a very old friend, to speak frankly to you; therefore, you must not be offended with me when I ask you to receive another ten pounds in advance for the picture, besides the cheque which your husband has requested. I mean the second sum to be received by you, for household expenses—to be kept a secret by you—you can keep a secret from your husband, can you not?"

"Why do you wish it?"

"Because, Blanche, affairs are not in a flourishing condition with you at present; and as your husband owes a good deal of money, perhaps, if he knew you had this sum, instead of allowing it to be devoted to your immediate necessities, he might also play that away."

She blushed deeply, as she perceived that he had guessed the truth.

"I wish, therefore, that you would give him this cheque from me, which he has asked, but that you would say nothing, if you can help it, about the other sum. I am asking, perhaps, that which I ought not to ask. I am overstepping, perhaps, the bounds of friendship, and interfering in domestic concerns where I have no sort of right to interfere. But it is my friendship which dictates the wish, and which must be my excuse. I do not bind you to any condition; I do not even wish you to keep the matter a secret, if it is at all repugnant to your feelings: but I would strenuously advise you to do so. Act just as you think fitting and proper; do not imagine that I wish in any way to dictate to you; but, as a brother might counsel you, I would venture to suggest, that on many accounts it would be well if you did not speak of this."

"Kindest, best of men!" she exclaimed, pressing his hand. She could say no more.

He quietly laid the cheque upon the mantelpiece, and slipped ten sovereigns into the pocket of her apron. He then, to change the subject, asked after Rose Blanche, who was brought to him immediately.

Blanche, after a long struggle with herself, at last said,—

"Captain Heath, you know me well enough to believe that I am neither insensible to your friendship, nor ungrateful for it—do you not?"

"Assuredly, dear Blanche."

"And if I were to say anything to you that might look ungrateful, you would not believe that it sprang from ingratitude? you would at once see that I was forced by circumstances, not by my own will?"

He shook slightly, as he answered,—

"I could not doubt you."

"You do not believe me to be capricious?"

"I do not."

"And if I were to beg you .... to .... if I were to say.... do not come here any more....?"

Her voice faltered, and died away in a whisper. He started as the words fell on his ear, and turned first red, then pale again.

There was a moment of embarrassed silence.

"Oh! do not believe," she passionately exclaimed, "that it comes from me; do not fancy that I should ever.... But I cannot do what my heart dictates: I owe obedience to another."

He saw at once what was in her mind; he saw that Cecil's absurd jealousy was at the bottom of her agitation: and in a low but firm tone, he said,—

"Blanche, do not continue. I understand you. I never was a favourite of his, and he naturally enough does not desire my acquaintance; in which case, of course, I must relinquish the pleasure of seeing you. Do not sob, Blanche—you cannot help this. Such cases are frequent. I shall not regard you less—shall not be less your friend, because I am not permitted to see you. Perhaps, if he knew me better, he might think otherwise of me; but sympathy is not to be commanded, and too many people dislike me, for me to be either surprised or hurt at his opinion. Besides, I have already interfered too much between you. He thinks my conduct unwarrantable—perhaps it was—and he dislikes me. There, you see I look at the matter in its true light. I do not blame you—I do not blame him. A husband is not forced to accept the friends of his wife."

At this moment Cecil returned.

Heath coloured as he saw him enter the room; Blanche turned aside her head to conceal her tears, but not before Cecil's glance had detected them; a fierce pain shot across Cecil's heart, as if a burning iron had entered it, but with a hypocritical smile he extended his hand to the captain, and expressed himself delighted to see him.

The situation was excessively uncomfortable for all three. The captain could not depart, it would have looked so pointed, yet to remain was torture. Blanche was terrified, and silent. Cecil, who in an instant saw that Heath's presence betokened a fresh assistance from him, stifled the horrible jealousy which his presence awakened, and resolved not to lose the benefit. He began a common-place conversation, and soon led it to the subject of the commissioned picture, for which he declared he had been inspired with a magnificent idea.

Heath's replies were brief and cold; but Cecil was not to be daunted. So completely had his vice corrupted him, that he had lost all sense of dignity, and only looked upon the captain as a victim from whom to draw sums of money. That Heath loved his wife he knew; and doubted not but that from such an affection he should draw golden results. That Blanche did not return the captain's love, he was firmly convinced—and yet that conviction could not allay his jealousy. Awful moral perplexity and corruption! Despicable weakness and meanness! Here was a man base enough to barter his honour, yet not strong enough to resist the petty irritation of the pettiest jealousy!

As the captain took his leave, Cecil said:—

"We are generally at home,—if you should be in this neighbourhood, pray don't forget to give us a look in. It is but a miserable place to come to—but old friends, you know."

Blanche's eye met the captain's, and most significantly expressed,—"Don't accept the invitation."

Heath merely bowed his acceptance, and departed, marvelling much whether it was corruption or irony which dictated Cecil's speech.

Cecil made no observation to Blanche respecting the captain's presence; but took up the cheque with delight, and forthwith proceeded to get it cashed, and to carry the money to Leicester-square, whence, after spending the afternoon and night at play, with various alternations of fortune, he came away a winner of thirteen pounds.

He was in excellent spirits on his return home. Blanche said nothing respecting the ten sovereigns in her possession.

I am so well acquainted with despair,
I know not how to hope; I believe all.
                                                                        DECKAR.

Oh! press me, baby, with thy hand,
    It loosens something at my chest;
About that tight and deadly band
    I feel thy little fingers prest.
                                                                    WORDSWORTH.

Although the life of a gamester is full of emotion, full of successes and reverses, the incidents are all so very similar that I need not enter into more details. Suffice it, that Cecil made such frequent applications to Captain Heath, that a point blank refusal came at last; much to Blanche's satisfaction, for she deeply felt the humiliation of seeing him plundered in that shameless way to feed the gaming-table. She knew that it was for her sake Heath gave the money; and she knew that it only added fresh fuel to her husband's unhappy passion.

The last few weeks had completely banished from her heart all hope of an amendment. Not only had Cecil shamelessly applied to Heath for money in advance on a picture which he had made no attempt even to commence; but he had, by one act, opened her eyes to the extent of his reckless infatuation.

It was about a fortnight after Captain Heath's visit, when, as Cecil sat in his usual attitude over the fire, indolently smoking a cigar, Blanche said to him,—

"When are you going to paint that picture, dearest, which you have engaged for?"

"In good time."

"But why not do it at once?"

"He did not stipulate that it was to be done at once, did he?"

"No; but there can be no reason why you should not do it. You have nothing else in hand. Besides, when that is finished you can paint another; and you know how badly we want money."

"Badly enough, God knows!"

"I do not like to accept the advances he makes us, when I see you not working at the picture."

"Bah!"

"You must do it sooner or later; why not now? Come, Cecil, make an effort—begin it."

"Begin when I haven't even money to buy the necessary materials. Write to him and tell him I have a splendid subject, but that really——"

"That is unnecessary. I have money—I will go and get you all you want."

"You, Blanche! And where did you get money from?'

"Never mind," she replied playfully. "Perhaps it was a little fairy. Enough that I have some."

"Oh, I'm not curious; so that you have got money, that is all I care about. How much?"

"There again! Not curious! Why, you are as curious as a woman. Don't inquire."

"Very well. Get me the things, that's all."

She went into the next room, and he heard her unlock a drawer. He continued calmly smoking; she put on her bonnet and tripped down stairs.

No sooner did he hear the street door shut than he rose and walked into her bed-room to search for the money. He saw a drawer with a key in it, but on opening it he found nothing there. He next unlocked all the other drawers, but without result.

There was nothing now in the room likely to conceal any money, and he began to think that perhaps she had only a few shillings, which she had carried away with her. Almost mechanically he opened the small drawer of her wash-hand stand, and there he saw six sovereigns glittering in the farther corner. His face lighted up with a strange expression as they met his eye, and rapidly clutching them, and turning over the drawer to see if it concealed any more, he took his hat, and was out of the house in an instant.

When Blanche returned and found him gone, her heart misgave her; with trembling limbs she staggered into the bed-room—opened the drawer—and saw her fears confirmed. It is impossible to render the despair which seized her at this discovery. That little incident was more frightful to her, was more damning evidence of the unconquerable nature of his vice than any she had yet known; and helpless, hopeless she sank upon the bed, not to weep, but to brood upon the awful prospect of her life.

It was not grief which laid her prostrate, it was a stupor: a dull, heavy agony, like a shroud closing her from life, from hope, from happiness. Before, her heart had been wrung; she had been humiliated, she had been tortured; but in the bitterest moments, she had never been utterly prostrate,—never absolutely without gleam of hope. Now, her husband stood before her as irreclaimable,—marching with frightful rapidity to his doom, and dragging with him, a wife and child.

That child's cries on awaking, partly aroused her. She felt the necessity for an effort; she felt that another demanded she should not give way to the stupor which oppressed her. She put the child to her breast; but, alas! the shock she had received had dried up its life-giving fountains, and the disappointed infant sucked in vain. Tears gushed from her, as she became aware of this new misfortune—tears, scalding yet refreshing tears, which melted down her stubborn grief into something more like human woe; and relieved by them, she rose to make some food for the hungry babe, whose impatient cries recalled her to a sense of duties, which allowed not the passive indulgence of sorrow. Cecil, meanwhile, had lost the little treasure he had obtained possession of in so despicable a manner; and having lost it, remained sauntering about the streets, without courage to return home to face his wife. Exhausted at last by fatigue, he came back.

Not a word passed between them. He got into bed feeling humbled and exasperated, yet not having courage even to put a bullying face on the matter. She was brushing her hair, and he heard the sighs which she struggled to suppress, but he feigned sleep, and would not hear them.

She crept into bed, anxious not to awake him; and through the long night he heard her weeping, so that it almost broke his heart: yet he feigned sleep, and dared not speak!

From that time, there was always a sort of barrier between them. A wall had grown up between their loves, formed out of shame, remorse, pity and hopelessness. They never alluded to the incident which caused it; but they both felt that it was constantly present in each other's minds.

Their existence was wretched indeed. Vyner and Julius took care that Blanche should want for no necessities—food, clothing, little articles of necessity were all regularly sent in by them; and the rent was paid by Vyner himself. But no more money could Cecil extort from them on any pretext. They knew well enough, that to give him money was only to give him opportunities of playing, and so they limited their charity to seeing that Blanche and her child, were not in absolute want.

One day as Cecil was sauntering down Piccadilly, he was astonished to see Frank Forrester, in a superb cab, with tiger behind, drive up to Burlington Arcade, and there, arrayed in dashing style, step out as if the lord and master of three thousand a year, at least.

The contrast between his appearance at that moment, and the last time Cecil had seen him, when in the final stage of seediness, he had gambled away even his dinner, so amazed Cecil, that he rubbed his eyes as one awaking from a dream.

"Ah! Cis, my boy, how are you?" said Frank, grasping him by the hand. "Why, you're quite a stranger.—I am so glad to see you. Flourishing now, damn my whiskers! flourishing, Cis, as you perceive. Nobby style, eh? Correct thing that, I hope."

"Quite—But whence this change?"

"Oh! tell you that presently. Just step up the arcade with me.—I'm only going to look in upon Jeffs, to see if Paul de Kock's last novel has arrived, and then command me."

He put his arm within Cecil's, and marched up the arcade, playing with an elegant watch-chain which drooped from his waistcoat button, and winking at every woman they passed.

When they turned into Jeffs' shop, that worthy bibliopole, albeit accustomed daily to a strange variety of customers, from noblemen and their flunkies, to dingy, sallow, foreigners, redolent of garlic, and bearded like pards, opened his eyes at such a strange apparition as the resplendent, insolent Frank, arm in arm with the careworn, battered, shabby, Cecil.

"Paul de Kock arrived yet?" said Frank.

"No, sir," replied Jeffs, "but we expect our case to-morrow."

"I think your to-morrow never arrives—at any rate, your case doesn't arrive with it. Is your case a pleasing fiction, or a reality?"

"It will be here to-morrow, sir, I have no doubt. In fact I expected it yesterday."

"Well, then, send me up Paul de Kock the instant you get it; will you?"

"Certainly, sir."

"Come along, Cis, my boy."

"You are quite a grand seigneur, I perceive, Frank," said Cecil, as they strolled out of the shop. "Cab—tiger—chains—French novels—have you come into an inheritance?"

"Something like it, but jump into my cab, and I'll tell you all about it."

They got in, and Frank, handling the reins with no small degree of pride, drove into the Park, and thus explained his present fortune.

"The fact is, Cis, I have discovered the true method of playing. I broke the bank at No. 14, last Saturday; and have won no trifle since. You see all the martingales yet invented have some inherent imperfection. They go smoothly enough in theory; but damn the practice, say I!"

"Is not yours a martingale, then?'

"No: it is simply playing with skill. To explain it in a few words: you know that there are constantly runs upon a colour; sometimes it is the red, sometimes the black. You also know that they dodge about, and that the red will alternately win and lose every successive coup. My plan is to wait quietly while the game is dodging, and directly I see a run, I back in heavily. If the red has turned up three times, the chances are, that there is to be a run on that colour, and I back it till it loses. D'ye understand?'

"Perfectly. But I don't so clearly see how you must win at it."

"Bah—that's the very best proof! In every martingale, don't you on the contrary clearly see how you must win, but does that prevent your losing when you begin to play? So, you may not see how I must win, but I see how I do win—that's enough for me."

They dined together that day, and Frank, who had a box at Drury Lane, proposed that Cecil should accompany him, but Cecil was too unwell, and went home brooding on his friend's prosperity, and playing imaginary games with fantastic success.

All the next day he was moody and irritable. He would not even notice his child, but walked up and down his small room, or sat with his feet on the fender, cowering over the fire, his head buried in his hands.

Towards evening, he wrote to Captain Heath a hypocritical letter, the object of which was, as may be expected, to extract a few pounds from him. He was less moody after sending this off; but Blanche observed a strange wandering in his thoughts.

On the morrow he received a cold, firm answer from the captain, who stated that he had already advanced as much money on the picture as he could afford to pay for it, and that he was therefore forced to refuse.

"Damn him!" Cecil muttered, as he read the letter and crumpled it between his fingers.

Blanche guessed the contents by that action; but she made no remark.

For at least an hour did he sit looking fixedly on the ground, keeping the crumpled letter in his closed hand; and then she saw him slowly open it, smooth the paper, and examine it attentively. While she was thus watching his countenance, curious as to what could be his motive for examining so minutely a handwriting he knew, he suddenly looked up at her. A strange expression distorted his face as he shouted,—

"What the devil are you looking at me for?"

"I ... I ... Cecil..."

"You don't suspect anything, do you?" he fiercely asked.

"Suspect, Cecil; and what?"

"What's that to you?" he said brusquely, and again turned away his head.

She began to fear that he was getting insane.

"Are you not well, dearest?"

"No."

"What is the matter?"

"Nothing. Don't bother me! It must be near dinner, is it not?"

"Yes. Are you hungry?"

"Very; go and see about it."

She left the room.

A few minutes afterwards he was seated at the table, with Captain Heath's letter before him, carefully copying the writing, and comparing his copy with the original. He smiled grimly at his own success; and after several further trials, he forged a check for eighty pounds, which he had just folded and thrust into his waistcoat pocket, when Blanche returned with the dinner.

His agitation and the eager manner with which he caught up some scraps of paper, and threw them into the fire, did not escape her.

He sat down to dinner, but he could not swallow a morsel; and his hand shook so, that he dared not venture to raise it to his mouth.

"You are ill, dearest," she said. "I am sure you are."

"Pooh! it's want of exercise. I will take a walk."

"Do not go out such weather as this; see how fast the snow falls."

"It won't hurt me. I must go out."

She dared not further interpose; and in a few minutes he was gone.

Left alone, she meditated on the singular change in his manner—on his fierceness when he had observed her watching him—his paleness—his agitation—and his throwing those pieces of paper into the fire.

She opened his writing-case. There, among some loose pieces of blank paper, she found one with some writing on it. A film overspread her eyes, as she recognised in it a copy of Captain Heath's writing—so like it, that had not the characters been traced on a stray slip of paper, she could never have suspected it to be other than his writing.

Rushing upon her like an overwhelming tide, came the swift and terrible thoughts which revealed that her husband had committed a forgery. In the desperate hope that she might not yet be too late to save him from the last act—that she might yet meet him at the banker's and save him—she threw a shawl around her, put on her bonnet, and in an instant she was in a cab driving furiously to Charing Cross; in her anxiety too much excited to feel the horror of her situation.

As the cab dashed round the corner, by Charles the First's statue, she saw Cecil hurry from Messrs. Drummonds' banking-house. She saw no more: her brain swam round. When the driver opened the cab door, he found her in a swoon.

It did not last long: she recovered herself; and wildly looking round her, remembered in an instant all that had passed.

"To South Audley Street!" she impatiently exclaimed.

To Captain Heath's she drove, and astonished the servant very much by hurrying up stairs, and rushing into the room as if life and death depended on her speed.

"Good God, Blanche! what is this?" he exclaimed, as the half lifeless woman threw herself speechless into his arms.

It was a long time before she could speak; and even then, in such incoherent sentences that it was with difficulty Heath understood what she meant to tell him; but he found that it was something terrible, and about Cecil; and he redoubled his attention, trying to piece together into a coherent narrative, the broken utterances of this wretched wife.

At last he understood her, and tears of deep compassion stood in his eyes as he said,—

"Cheer up, dear Blanche, cheer up! It is not so bad after all. You terrified me at first. He has only drawn on me in anticipation. You know I still owe him money for the picture,—he has paid himself,—he was doubtless close pressed."

"But," she sobbed, "he has forged."

"He has been irregular, that is all; he should have warned me of it. However, now you have told me, it is all safe. Quiet yourself."

"Oh, that I should have lived for this!"

"Courage, courage."

"Dishonoured! My Cecil dishonoured!"

"Not yet, Blanche. He has been imprudent, that is all—imprudent."

"Dishonoured!" she exclaimed, distractedly.

"Do you not see, that now I am informed of what has passed I shall be on my guard? He has been imprudent; no one knows it but ourselves. You can gently point out to him the imprudence—and he is saved. Only yesterday I heard of a situation for him in the Colonies—an excellent place. Away from England, he will have broken from his present connexion, and lose his unfortunate habits. A new sphere will call forth fresh energy. He may be saved yet, Blanche; only take courage."

She took his hand, and kissed it in mute thankfulness, but her sobs still tore her bosom, and all his persuasion could not calm her.

Now that she felt the great danger was past, she had time to feel the immensity of the blow—she could grieve.

Heath allowed her to weep without trying to soothe her; for he saw that the great crisis was over; and silently compassionating the sorrow of this broken-hearted creature, to dry whose eyes, he would have sold the world, he sat by her side holding her hand, from time to time replying to its convulsive pressure.

She rose at last to go home. He accompanied her to the door—saw her take Rose Blanche from the servant girl, and cover it with frantic kisses; and then departed sad and thoughtful to his own solitary home.

He could not, in his sympathy with her, forbear picturing to himself the contrast of what her fate would have been had she married him instead of Cecil; nor could he refrain from bitterly commenting on the truth of his own prophecies that Cecil would make her unhappy. No lover ever believes that his beloved can possibly be happy with his rival; but Heath had too clearly read Cecil's character, not to feel assured that, rivalry out of the question, Blanche was badly matched in wedding one so weak and selfish.

In one of the low gambling houses, in Leicester-square, Cecil sat, as in a dream, risking the fruits of his crime. His brain whirled round, and his heart beat every time the door opened, for he could not drive away the fear that his forgery had been detected, and that they were coming to arrest him.

He had dishonoured himself to play this new game which Frank had explained to him, and now that the crime was committed he could not profit by it!

Such a game required, above all others, consummate coolness, and self-mastery; Cecil was more agitated, his brain was more confused than ever it had been, and he played utterly at random. It would be difficult to conceive greater torture than that which he endured, for he won without satisfaction, and lost with agony; his brain was not so confused but that he had a distinct perception of his situation, and of the necessity for playing every coup as if for life; but at the same time his brain was so drugged with horror and despair, that his will seemed paralyzed, and he was forced, as by an unseen hand, into the ruin which he saw yawning before him.

While the cards were dealt with mechanical precision by the impassive dealer, and Cecil's crime-furnished gold was passing away before his eyes, visions of his happy youth, of his early days of marriage, and healthy activity, floated before his mind; and he, the gambler, on the edge of that dark gulph which gaped before him, turned back his thoughts to those sunny days when his soul was stainless, and his life was full of love and hope, of activity and happiness; it was like a small wild flower on a mass of loosening rock, which the next gust of wind will quite unloosen, and tumble thundering into the ravine.

He thought of his mother, and of her dying injunctions, and her words of blessing fell upon his ear, just as the dealer in his passionless voice proclaimed,—

"Black wins."

And a heap of gold was swept away before him.

For hours did this tortured gamester play, becoming gradually inured to the pain he suffered, and deadened to the whispers of his conscience.

It was now eleven o'clock. The room was full of players. A succession of new faces replaced those who one by one fell off, contented with their winnings, or, and this was by far the most frequent case, desperate from their losses. But Cecil never moved. He called for wine occasionally, but nothing interrupted his play.

His last three sovereigns were staked upon the black: his life was on the hazard of that one deal. Even the old players, accustomed to every species of intense emotion, could not keep their eyes off Cecil, as with parted lips, straining eyes, and purple face, he watched the rapid progress of the game. Intensely they felt the moment was supreme.

He lost!

With a burst of uncontrollable despair, he snatched the rake from the hand of the croupier, who had just swept away his money, and with both hands snapped it in two; a murmur followed this act of violence, which only seemed preparatory to something worse; but he glared round upon the players with such a look of mad fury that they were awe-stricken.

Instead of any further violence, however, he broke out into a wild hysterical laugh, which made their blood run cold, and staggered out of the house.

In that moment which had preceded his wild laugh, a vision of his young wife and child destitute,—starving,—thinned with want and sickness, had appeared to him, and, as in a flash, revealed to him the hideous extent of his ruin.

Beggared, dishonoured, stained with a profitless crime, nought remained for him but death; and in death he resolved to still the throbbing of his agony.

As he stumbled into Leicester Square, he ran up against one of those unfortunate women, who, flaunting in satin and faded frippery, make the streets hideous after sunset.

"Now then, my dear, are you going to rush into my arms without an invitation?

'Was ever woman in this humour wooed?
Was ever woman in this humour won?'"

The fumes of bad wine poisoned the breath of the speaker, but the tones struck so strangely upon Cecil's ears, that they arrested him even on the path of death.

He seized her by the wrist, and dragged her under a lamp-post. As the light fell upon both their faces, and he recognised in the wretched woman arrayed in the garb of shame, the Hester Mason whom he had known so prosperous and ambitious—and, as she recognised in the emaciated haggard wreck before her, the only man she had ever loved, he gasped with inexpressible emotion, she wept with intense shame.

Not a word passed between them. With a suffocating sense of bitter humiliation, she wrested herself from his grasp, and darted down Cranbourne Alley. He put his hand to his brow, as if to repress its throbbing, and slowly walked on.

The cause of Hester's degradation was one which always has, and one fears always will, people our streets with those unhappy women, whom the law refuses either to acknowledge or to suppress—refuses either to protect or to punish: a lasting stigma upon our civilization!

When Sir Chetsom Chetsom was killed, she had to look about her for means of subsistence; and at first imagined that literature would be an ample field.

Thanks to the diffusion of knowledge, and to the increasing taste for reading, it is now very possible for man or woman to earn a decent and honourable livelihood by the pen; but if possible, it is not easy, and is always, with the best of talents, eminently precarious. For a woman still more so than for a man. Above all, the woman must have good friends, must be "respectable," and fortunate.

Hester had no good friends; she had many acquaintances, but no one who interested himself in her success, no one, at any rate, who both could and would assist her. Moreover, she was not "respectable;" and what was the consequence? dissolute editors were afraid of her contributions "on the score of morals."

To be brief, Hester struggled in vain to get employment; and in great danger of starving, she determined to go back to Walton. Her father consented to receive his unhappy child, and promised that "bye-gones should be bye-gones."

She had better have taken a situation as servant of all-work in a lodginghouse, than have returned to her home after what had occurred. She found her father, indeed, glad enough to receive her, and willing enough to forgive the past, on condition of not absolutely forgetting it: from time to time he could not refrain from "throwing it in her teeth," when he was at a loss for an argument or an invective.

This is always the case when a fallen daughter returns home, or when she commits the one unpardonable fault, and stays at home: her parents, her brothers, and sisters—oh! especially the sisters—never forget that fault. It is held over her head in terrorem. It is an ever-present warning and illustration. Bridling up in their unshaken chastity—too often unshaken because untempted—the sisters make her feel in a hundred ways, that her fault is unpardoned and unpardonable. Exasperated by this incessant and unjust retribution for a fault which the girl feels deserves more pity, she is at last driven from home and takes refuge in the streets, because her virtuous family cannot forget!

It has been often remarked that women are more pitiless towards each other, on that very point where common sympathy should make them most tolerant; and little do they know the extent of the mischief their intolerance creates.

Hester had not to suffer from the sneers and allusions of chaste and offended sisters, but she had to endure worse—the sneers and slights of the whole offended town. The reader remembers how Walton was scandalized at her flirtation, how shocked at her flight; let him then imagine the howl of outraged purity which saluted her repentant return! She, indeed, come back to a town she had disgraced! She to show herself amongst the daughters of respectable people! She to be allowed to wallow in corruption, and then as soon as she found that course led to no good, to return again to her home as if nothing had occurred! The minx!

Mrs. Ruddles hoped her husband would take notice of it from the pulpit: such an example as it was to other girls!

Mrs. Spedley expected to see many imitations of such conduct; it was such a premium on vice!

The post-mistress hoped she was as charitable as most people, but she knew what was due to herself, and as long as that creature remained in Walton, she, the post-mistress, could not think of purchasing anything at her father's shop.

Nor, for that matter, could Mrs. Spedley.

Mrs. Ruddles had never for an instant thought of such a thing. It would be a positive encouragement. Mrs. Ruddles herself had daughters. She knew something, she thought, of what constituted a well-regulated mind. She had no fears for her Arabella, Mary, and Martha Jane; but Mrs. Ruddles knew the ill effects of example.

When Hester appeared in the street, all the women instantly crossed to the other side. If she went into a shop to make a purchase, the shop immediately became empty. Women avoided her as if she were a walking pestilence.

En revanche the men ogled her with effrontery, and even middle-aged rotundities with large families, gave themselves killing airs when in her presence.

The stupid ignorance of men! I declare the older I grow the more amazed I am at the dull, purblind, inexcusable ignorance in which one-half of the human race seems destined to remain with respect to the other half, in spite of all experience. To meet with a man who has not some gross prejudice, founded on the most blundering misconception with regard to the nature of women, and on that point, too, which one would imagine they would best understand, is really one of the rarest occurrences. The vast majority of men never seem to escape from the ideas they form about women at school; and no contradiction in the shape of experience seems to suggest to them that those ideas are essentially false. To hear men—and men of the world too—talk about women, is to hear the strangest absurdities and platitudes you can listen to on any subject; to be let into the secret of their conduct towards women, is only to see the ludicrous results to which such erroneous opinions lead them.

It is a tempting subject, but I am not going to pursue this diatribe. I have an illustration to give instead.

Hester Mason having committed a faux pas, was instantly, and from that very cause, looked upon by all the men, young and old, as a woman "to be had for the asking." In their simplicity, they could admit of no gradations between a Lucretia and Messalina. If a woman were not as chaste as ice, she must necessarily be utterly abandoned. If one man had succeeded in overcoming her scruples, of course another might. The dolts!

Perhaps it is owing to our prudery, which keeps so strict a surveillance over every word and act, that the smallest licence seems to imply the extremity of licentiousness!

The school-boy notion of the facility of women was at the bottom of their minds, and with beautiful simplicity some of the "knowing dogs" commenced the attack upon Hester's virtue, without even thinking it necessary to adopt a semblance of respect and attachment.

Certainly Hester was not a woman, under any circumstances, to have admitted the addresses of these men; but now, the undisguised insolence and fatuity of their approaches not only made her cheek burn with shame, but made her heart sick with disgust.

With scorn and withering sarcasms she discomfited them one after the other. The contemptible fools instantly joined the chorus of the women; and with good proof that at any rate, she was not altogether abandoned, they were unanimous in their execration of her infamy.

If women were not purer, stronger, and honester than the dull and coarse imaginations of most men depict them, what a world this would be! what children would these women bring forth!

Those men who have known women, known how great their influence for good and for evil, known what a well of feeling, of pure, spontaneous nature, untarnished by contact with the world, there lies hidden in a woman's breast; those who have known how this nature has moulded their own minds, refined its coarseness, giving beauty to its strength, will exclaim with me: what a world would this be were women what men generally suppose them!

Here is Hester Mason, certainly not a good specimen of her sex: vain, capricious, wilful, sensual, perverted by sounding sophisms respecting the rights of women, and the injustice of the marriage laws; she acts up to her opinions, and throws herself away upon a rich and titled noodle for the sake of furthering her ambitious projects; she finds out her mistake, returns home repentant, and instantly a number of ill-conditioned, coarse-minded, coarse-mannered men imagine she cannot hesitate to stoop to them! Believing that she acted from unrestrained licentiousness, they interpreted one act, in this school-boy fashion, and hoped to profit by her weakness. But they found out their mistake; or rather never found it out, for they attributed her refusal to viler motives than those to which they would have attributed her consent.

The insult of their proposals struck deep into her heart—deeper far than the scorn of her own sex; and it made her so wretched, that, at last, it drove her once more from her home. Yes, home became insupportable, and in a moment of desperation she fled; fled to London, and there endeavoured to seek oblivion in the turbulent vortex of a career which one shudders to contemplate.

Of all the tortures, of all the humiliations to which she had submitted, none equalled that of meeting Cecil. In her strange unhappy life there had been but one short dream, and that was her love for Cecil; even when he had rejected her love, and humiliated her by his rejection, she still felt towards him something of that elevating, purifying attachment which forms a sort of serene heaven smiling upon the most abject condition—which is, as it were, the ideal region where the purest, brightest thoughts take refuge. And to meet him in the streets—to appear before his eyes in the flaunting finery of disgrace—to let him see the abyss into which she had fallen! Poor girl! if her errors had no other expiation than that, bitterly would she have expiated them.

While the wretched girl wandered distractedly on her way, goaded by the pangs of shame and remorse, the still more wretched Cecil, calm in his concentrated despair, was walking along the river side, pursued by the Eumenides, eager to reach a quiet spot where he might end his blighted existence.

The snow fell in large flakes that cold January night; and as each flake sank gently on the quiet bosom of the river, and silently disappeared in it, leaving no other trace than the smallest possible circle, it seemed to him an image of his own disappearance from this stormy, sunless world. In the deep, quiet bosom of Eternity was he about to vanish: from this scene of turmoil and disgrace, he was to drop into the swiftly flowing river of Eternity, in it to be absorbed like to those flakes of snow. There was comfort in that thought.

He walked on, thinking of what his wife and child would do when left by him. He thought sadly of Blanche's misery; for he knew the depth of her affection for him—for him who had so ill repaid it, who had brought such shame and sorrow on her head; but he endeavoured to console himself with the reflection that her father would take care of her, and that, perhaps, the best thing that could occur to her was to become a widow.

In those lucid moments which precede the last solemn act, he reviewed his conduct with melancholy clearness; and, undimmed by sophisms, his conduct appeared to him in its true light.

He grew calmer as he walked. He thought of his child with something like satisfaction, when he reflected that she was too young to know anything of her father's disgrace; and that, before she grew old enough even to prattle about him, all would be forgotten.

Then he thought of Hester, in her miserable finery, and followed her in imagination through the rapid stages of her inevitable career.

And he thought of Frank, then so prosperous, but soon, as he foresaw, to be dragged down from his prosperity to the destitution which must quickly follow; and he saw him dying in an hospital.

And the thought of death was sweeter to him, as he walked musingly on.

A light was dimly shining in Blanche's bedroom, and she was seated by the window looking out into the night, awaiting the return of him who was to return no more. Her child was sleeping calmly; no hint of the anguish which ploughed the hearts of its parents troubled its quiet breathing.

The clock struck twelve.

A heavy sigh issued from the watcher as the strokes fell upon her ear, and she rose to snuff the enormous wick of the neglected candle. She then resumed her seat at the window.

"When will he come?" she asked herself, sadly.

She feared to meet him—feared to look upon his face, after what had passed; feared lest he, upon whose brow she had been wont to see the imperial stamp of genius—in whose eye the lustre of a glorious mind, on whose lips the smile of unutterable tenderness,—there should now be legible the stamp of infamy, the dull look of shame, the cynical sneer of recklessness.

She feared to meet him, yet she could not repress her impatience to see him: a vague dread that he might not return, shifted to and fro before her mind, and kept her anxiously watching.

The clock struck one.

Her candle was guttering in the socket, and she lighted another. She bent over the cradle of her sleeping infant with a searching look of love; and seeing that it slept peacefully, she again resumed her seat at the window.

The snow had ceased to fall. The bright stars were lustrous in the deep, dark, moonless heavens, in which they seemed suspended. The ground was white with the untrodden snow, as also were the tops of the houses, and the branches of the trees. Not a breath of wind stirred. All was silent without, hushed in the repose of night. Not a footstep was heard; not even the distant barking of some watchful dog.

Cold, cheerless, desolate as a leafless tree, was the night out into which the watcher looked, awaiting her husband's return; but he came not, would not come!

The clock struck two.

The watcher stirred the fire, and drew the shawl closer around her. She was cold; but it was not the cold of that winter night which numbed her limbs, it was the cold icy fear which momently assumed a more definite and consistent shape.

She no longer asked: "when will he come?"

Her teeth chattered as the thought that he would never come, grew more and more like a certainty.

There was a shroud upon the earth: a pure, white, stainless shroud, prepared for one who was yet young, but who had lived too long.

To her widowed eyes this garment of snow, which nature wore, became a terrible symbol, and the stars seemed to look down upon her in infinite compassion.

He came not; could not come. The silent river had opened to receive him, and was now flowing swiftly and silently over his lifeless corpse.

The clock struck three.

A cry of agony broke from the watcher as those three small strokes with horrible distinctness fell upon her ear and seemed to utter,—

"He is dead!"

But she remained at her window looking; out into the night. For two hours longer did she sit there, and then dropped into a feverish sleep, visited by happy, though broken, dreams.

She dreamed that she had dreamed her husband had committed a forgery, and that she awoke to find it but a dream: how great her joy, as she clasped him by the hand and told him all! and how his tender eyes bent down upon her as he said,—

"What! think that of me!"

And she awoke—awoke to find herself seated at the window—the dull winter morning struggling into obscure day—the snow heaped up on the window ledge, and covering everything without—and the crushing reality was once more threatening her!

Set down, set down that sorrow, 't is all mine.
                                                                                    DECKAR.

Her candle was burnt out; the fire had only a few live embers which went out directly she attempted to revive it. She was numbed with cold; weary with grief; and threw herself upon the bed.

Sleep was impossible. A settled, though vague, conviction that Cecil would not return had taken possession of her mind. She fancied that he must have lost the money, and was now lying concealed for fear of the consequences of his crime.

As the morning fairly broke, she put on her things, and hurried to Captain Heath to ask his assistance and advice. He was at breakfast when she arrived, and her appearance so wan, and yet so strangely supernaturally calm, made him fear the worst.

"Cecil has not returned," she said quietly. "What is to be done?"

The captain at once guessed the truth, and was silent.

"He is ashamed to return," she said. "How are we to learn where he is?"

He remained silent.

"If we were to advertise in the papers," she suggested, "could we not by that means let him know that his ... imprudence ... has been overlooked?"

"Yes, yes. That is the only plan."

"Will you do it?"

"At once; but go you home, he may return every minute."

"You think, then, he will return?" she asked with more emotion in her voice than she had hitherto betrayed.

He trembled slightly as he answered,—

"At any rate ... you had better be there."

She pressed his hand mournfully, and withdrew, leaving Heath amazed and alarmed at the quietude of her manner.

On reaching Hammersmith she saw at some distance before her, a large crowd of people hurrying along. She quietly wondered what it could be; perhaps a fire; perhaps a man led to the station house; perhaps a show which the crowd followed wondering.

She walked on, till she saw the crowd stop at her own house, and then she flew, urged on by some quick sudden fear—she pierced the crowd—she entered the house—in the passage were four men bearing a corpse on a shutter: her heart told her whose corpse it was before her eyes had recognised it.

She saw no more.

When next she became conscious, she found herself in her old bedroom at her father's, her sister Violet seated by her bedside, gazing inquiringly upon her. The fever was subsiding, and her life was saved.

"Mrs. Dombey, it is very necessary that there should be some understanding arrived at between us. Your conduct does not please me, madam .... I have made you my wife. You bear my name. You are associated with my position and my reputation."

CHARLES DICKENS.

On the day on which Cecil had forged the cheque, Meredith Vyner entered his wife's boudoir with the intention of coming to a serious explanation with her.

Several times, lately, had the word "separation" been pronounced between them, without, however, her attaching much importance to it. She knew that he was miserable, she knew that his love for her had been worn away, but she knew also that he was weak, and thought he would never have courage enough to proceed to extremities.

In this she made a great mistake. Vyner was weak, it is true, but he was also obstinate; he was easily cajoled, but not easily driven from any plan he had once resolved on. Unable to resist the wildest caprices of his wife, while he loved her, she lost all power over him in losing his affection. This she did not suspect. Like many other people, she altogether miscalculated the nature of her power over him, and imagined that what she really gained by cajolery and pretended affection, she gained by mere cunning and strength of will.

Their relative positions were altogether changed. Vyner, no longer the doating husband, was now the obstinate man. He saw that it was impossible to live happily with her, and saw that if his children were once more around him—if Violet especially were once more at home—he could again resume his peaceful routine of existence.

"I am come to speak seriously to you," he said, as seating himself opposite to her, he drew out his deliberative snuff-box.

"And I am in no humour for it," she replied, "my head aches. My nerves are irritable this morning."

"What I have to say must be said, and the sooner it is said the better for both of us."

She was surprised at the firmness of his manner.

"It is on the old subject," he added; "I need not again recapitulate the many strong objections your conduct this last year has given rise to, but I wish once for all to understand whether you intend persisting in it, or whether you will pay a little more attention to what is due both to me and yourself."

"How tiresome you are on that subject! When will you understand that a young woman cannot have an old head upon her shoulders, unless it is also an ugly one? I shall be grave and sedate enough in time, I dare say; meanwhile, allow me to observe, that, although I may be fond of admiration, yet I know perfectly well what is due to myself."

"If you know it, you do not demean yourself in consequence."

"That is the question. I maintain that I do; and I suppose I am old enough to know what is right on such matters."

He shook his head.

"Can you name any one instance in which I have overstepped the limits to which even English rigidity confines a young woman?"

"Your encouragement of the attentions of Mr. Ashley...."

"Again, Mr. Ashley!"

"Of Mr. Maxwell...."

She burst out laughing; but the laugh was hollow.

"Of Lord * * * * who every day...."

"Why he's as old as you are!"

Vyner winced at the epigram, which indeed was cruel and insulting.

"It is a pity you did not think of the great disparity in our ages before you married me, Mrs. Vyner."

"A great pity."

"I have often thought so of late."

"How much better had you thought so before you made me an offer!"

"It was the greatest mistake I ever made, but—

'Sic visum Veneri, cui placeat impares
Formas atque animos sub juga aënea
Sævo mittere cum joco!'"

Vyner had often made that quotation to himself, and now launched it with great satisfaction, as was evident by the noisy pinch of snuff with which he closed it.

Mrs. Vyner shrugged her shoulders.

"You have spoken," he said, "of incompatibilities, and I fear they exist. But, Mrs. Vyner, if you have destroyed my domestic happiness, you shall not destroy my future comfort. I will not be made a laughing-stock abroad, and be made miserable at home. I say I will not. I am come, therefore, to offer you an alternative."

"Let me hear it."

"You must cease to see Mr. Maxwell and Lord * * * *"

"Impossible!"

"I say you must. Moreover, you must change your manner entirely, both to other men and to your husband."

"What manner am I to adopt?"

"That which befits a well-conducted wife."

"Mr. Vyner, you are insulting."

"In demanding you to do your duty?"

"No; in asserting that I do anything derogatory."

"You have strange ideas, Mrs. Vyner, on that point."

"Perhaps so; but they are mine."

"They are not mine, however."

"That is unfortunate!"

"Very. I am demanding nothing extraordinary, I imagine, in insisting that you should cease to flirt with others, and should pay more respect and deference to my wishes than you have done of late. I do not demand affection..."

She again shrugged her shoulders; he perceived it.

"Because," he continued, "I know that is absurd; whatever regard you may once have had for me is gone. I do not even demand gratitude for the kindness I have ever shown you—and you must admit that I have been an indulgent husband—foolishly so. But I have a right to demand from a wife a fulfilment at least of the most ordinary duties of a wife, and a certain amount of respect, or the show of it at any rate. This I have a right to demand, and this I will have."

Mrs. Vyner was not a woman to brook such a dictatorial tone even from the man she loved; and we have seen how Maxwell, when he adopted it, only irritated her to an unusual degree; from Vyner, whom she had been accustomed to sway as she pleased; from Vyner whom she disliked, and somewhat despised, this tone was, therefore, excessively offensive.

Her lip quivered as she replied, "This is a subject upon which we can never agree. I hold myself to be quite competent to judge of my own actions, and until I have done anything to forfeit the good opinion of the world, I shall continue to act as I think proper."

"That is your final determination?"

"It is. I hope it will be unnecessary for me to repeat it."

"In coming here I expected this, so I came prepared."

"Let me hear your alternative."

"A separation."

She started; not at the word—that she had heard before—but at the quiet, dogged resolution of the tone. A flush of angry pride ran over her cheeks and brow.

"It is very terrible, your alternative!" she said, ironically.

"Are you prepared to accept it?"

"Perfectly."

"Very well, then, in that case, I have only to see about the settlements, and in a week or two, at the farthest, the affair can be arranged."

He put back his snuff-box into his huge pocket, as he said this, and walked out of the room with a calmness that lent dignity to his lumpish figure.

She drooped her head upon her hand, and reflected. Revolted pride, anger, and fear were struggling in her breast. Irritated as she was by her husband's manner, she could not reflect upon the separation without uneasiness.

As his wife, she had an enviable position; separated from him, she not only lost the advantages of that position, in a deprivation of wealth, but also in a deprivation of the consideration with which the world regarded her. A woman separated from her husband is always equivocally placed; even when the husband is notorious as a bad character, as a man of unendurable temper, or bitten with some disgraceful vice, society always looks obliquely at the woman separated from him; and when she has no such glaring excuse, her position is more than equivocal. "Respectable" women will not receive her; or do so with a certain nuance of reluctance. Men gossip about her, and regard her as a fair mark for their gallantries.

Mrs. Vyner knew all this thoroughly; she had refused to know women in that condition; at Mrs. Langley Turner's, where she had more than once encountered these black sheep, she had turned aside her head, and by a thousand little impertinent airs made them feel the difference between her purity and their disgrace. A separation, therefore, was not a thing to be lightly thought of; yet the idea of obeying Vyner, of accepting his conditions, made her cheek burn with indignation.

Absorbed in thought she sat, weighing, as in a delicate balance, the conflicting considerations which arose within her, and ever and anon asking herself,—"What has become of Maxwell?"

Maxwell had just recovered from the effect of that broken bloodvessel which terminated the paroxysm of passion Mrs. Vyner's language and conduct had thrown him into.

At the very moment when she was asking herself, "What has become of Maxwell?" he concluded his will, arranged all his papers, burnt many letters, and, going to a drawer, took from them a pair of pocket pistols with double barrels.

He was very pale, and his veins seemed injected with bile in lieu of blood; but he was excessively calm.

In one so violent, in one whose anger was something more like madness than any normal condition of the human mind, who from childhood upwards had been unrestrained in the indulgence of his passion, this calmness was appalling.

He loaded the four barrels with extreme precision, having previously cleared the touchholes, and not only affixed the caps with care, but also took the precaution of putting some extra caps in his waistcoat pocket in case of accidents.

His hand did not tremble once; on his brow there was no scowl; on his colourless lips no grim smile; but calm, as if he were about the most indifferent act of his life, and breathing regularly as if no unusual thought was in his mind, he finished the priming of those deadly instruments, and placed them in his pocket.

Once more did he read over his will; and then having set everything in order, rang the bell.

"Fetch a cab," he said quietly to the servant who entered.

"Are you going out, sir?" asked the astonished servant.

"Don't you see I am?"

"Yes, sir,—only you are but just out of bed...."

"I am quite well enough."

There was no reply possible. The cab was brought. He stepped into it, and drove to Mrs. Vyner's.

Although she was thinking of him at the very moment when he was announced, she started at the sound of his name. His appearance startled her still more. She saw that he could only just have risen from a bed of sickness, and that sickness she knew had been caused by the vehemence of his love for her.

Affectionate as was her greeting, it brought no smile upon his lips, no light into his glazed eyes.

"The hypocrite!" was his mental exclamation.

"Oh! Maxwell, how I have longed to see you," she said "you left me in anger, and I confess I did not behave well to you; but why have you not been here before? did you not know that I was but too anxious to make it up with you?"

"How should I know that?" he quietly asked.

"How! did you not know my love for you?"

"I did not," he said, perfectly unmoved.

"You did not? Oh you ungrateful creature! Is that the return I am to meet with? Is it to say such things that you are here?"

A slight smile played in his eyes for a moment, but his lips were motionless.

"Come," she said, "you have been angry with me—I have been wrong—let us forget and forgive."

He did not touch her proffered hand, but said,—

"If for once in your life you can be frank, be so now."

"I will. What am I to say?"

Carelessly putting both hands into his coat pockets, and grasping the pistols, he rose, stretched out his coat tails, and stood before her in an attitude usual with him, and characteristic of Englishmen generally, when standing with their backs to the fire.

"You promise to be frank?" he said.

"I do."

"Then tell me whether Lord * * * * * was here yesterday."

"He was."

"Will he be here to-morrow?"

"Most likely."

"Then you have not given him his congé?"

"Not I."

Maxwell paused and looked at her keenly, his right hand grasping firmly the pistol in his pocket.

"Then may I ask the reason of your very civil reception of me to-day?"

"The reason! Civil!"

"Yes, the reason, the motive: you must have one."

"Is not my love...."

"You promised to be frank," he said, menacingly.

"I did—I am so."

"Then let us have no subterfuge of language—speak plainly—it will be better for you."

"Maxwell, if you are come here to irritate me with your jealousy, and your absurd doubts, you have chosen a bad time. I am not well. I am not happy. I do not wish to quarrel with you—do not force me to it."

"Beware!" he said, in deep solemn tones.

"Beware you! George, do not provoke me—pray do not. Sit down and talk reasonably. What is it you want to ask me?"

"I repeat: the motive for your civility to me?"

"And I repeat: my love."

"Your love!"

"There again! Why will you torment me with this absurd doubt? Why should you doubt me? Have I any interest in deceiving you? You are not my husband.—It is very strange that when I do not scruple to avow my love, you should scruple to believe me."

"My scruples arise from my knowledge of you: you are a coquette."

"I know it; but not to you."

"Solemnly—do you love me?"

"Solemnly—I do!"

He paused again, as unprepared for this dissimulation. She withstood his gaze without flinching.

An idea suddenly occurred to him.

"Mary, after what I have seen, doubts are justifiable. Are you prepared to give me a proof?"

"Yes, any; name it."

"Will you go with me to France?"

"Run away with you?"

"You refuse!" he said, half drawing a pistol from his pocket.

She was bewildered. The suddenness of the proposition, and its tremendous importance staggered her.

A deep gloom concentrated on his face; the crisis had arrived, and he only awaited a word from her to blow her brains out.

With the indescribable rapidity of thought, her mind embraced the whole consequences of his offer—weighed the chances—exposed the peril of her situation with her husband, and permitted her to calculate whether, since separation seemed inevitable, there would not be an advantage in accepting Maxwell's offer. "He loves me," she said; "loves me as no one ever loved before. With him I shall be happy."

"I await your decision," he said.

"George, I am yours!"

She flung herself upon his neck. He was so astonished at her resolution, that at first he could not believe it, and his hands still grasped the pistols; but by degrees her embrace convinced him, and clasping her in his arms, he exclaimed,—

"Your love has saved you! You shall be a happy woman—I will be your slave!"

The discovery of Mrs. Vyner's flight was nearly coincident with the announcement of Cecil's suicide. Poor Vyner was like a madman. He reproached himself for having spoken so harshly to his wife, for having driven her to this desperate act, and thus causing her ruin. Had he been more patient, more tolerant! She was so young, so giddy, so impulsive, he ought to have had more consideration for her!

It was quite clear to Vyner's mind that he had behaved very brutally, and that his wife was an injured innocent.

In the midst of this grief, there came the horrible intelligence of Cecil's end. There again Vyner reproached himself. Why did he allow Blanche to marry that unhappy young man? On second thoughts, "he had never allowed it"; but yet it was he who encouraged Cecil—who invited him to his seat—who pressed him to stay!

In vain did Captain Heath remonstrate with him on this point; Vyner was at that moment in a remorseful, self-reproachful spirit, which no arguments could alter. He left everything to Captain Heath's management, with the helplessness of weak men, and sat desolate in his study, wringing his hands, taking ounces of snuff, and overwhelming himself with unnecessary reproaches.

Blanche, in a brain fever, was removed to her father's, where she was watched by the miserable old man, as if he had been the cause of her sorrow. Violet was sent for from her uncle's, and established herself once more in the house. Now her step-mother was gone, she could devote herself to her father.

Blanche's return to consciousness was unhappily also a return to that fierce sorrow which nothing but time could assuage. She was only induced to live by the reflection that her child needed her care. But what a prospect was it for her! How could she ever smile again! How could she ever cease to weep for her kind, affectionate, erring, but beloved Cecil!

It is the intensity of all passion which makes us think it must be eternal; and it is this very intensity which makes it so short-lived. In a few months Blanche occasionally smiled; her grief began to take less the shape of a thing present, and more that of a thing past; it was less of a sensation, and more of a reverie.

At first the image of her husband was a ghastly image of dishonour and early wreck; his face wore the stern keen look of suspicion which had agitated her when last she saw him alive; or else it wore the placidity of the corpse which she had last beheld. Behind that ghastly image stood the background of their happy early days of marriage, so shortlived, yet so exquisite!

In time the ghastliness faded away, and round the image of her husband, there was a sort of halo—the background gradually invaded the foreground, till at last the picture had no more melancholy in it than there is in some sweet sunset over a quiet sea. The tears she shed were no longer bitter: they were the sweet and pensive tears shed by that melancholy which finds pleasure in its own indulgence.

Grief had lost its pang. Her mind, familiarized with her loss, no longer dwelt upon the painful, but on the beautiful side of the past. Her child was there to keep alive the affectionate remembrance of its father, without suggesting the idea of the moody, irritable, ungenerous husband, which Cecil had at the last become.

Like a child crying itself to sleep—passing from sorrow into quiet breathing—her grief had passed into pensiveness. Cecil's image was as a star smiling down upon her from heaven: round it were clustered quiet, happy thoughts, not the less happy because shadowed with a seriousness which had been grief.

Vyner soon recovered from the double shock he had sustained, and was now quite happy again with his two girls, and his excellent friend Heath, as his constant companions; while Julius and Rose were seldom two days absent from them.

For the sake of Blanche they now returned to Wytton Hall, and there her health was slowly but steadily restored.

Captain Heath was her companion in almost every walk and drive; reading to her the books she wished; daily becoming a greater favourite with little Rose Blanche, who would leave even her nurse to come to him; and daily feeling serener, as his love grew not deeper, but less unquiet: less, as he imagined, like a lover's love, and more like that of an elder brother.

Blanche was happier with him than with any one else; not that she loved him, not even that she divined his love; since Cecil's death, his manner had been even less demonstrative than it had ever been before, and it would have been impossible for the keenest observer to have imagined there was anything like love in his attentions.

What quiet blissful months those were which they then passed: Vyner once more absorbed in his Horace; Blanche daily growing stronger, and less melancholy; Heath living as one in a dream; Violet hearing, with a woman's pride in him she loves, of Marmaduke's immense success in parliament, where he was already looked up to as the future Chatham or Burke.

Every time Violet saw Marmaduke's name in the papers, her heart fluttered against the bars of its prison, and she groaned at the idea of being separated from him. Indeed her letters to Rose were so full of Marmaduke, that Rose planned with Julius a little scheme to bring the two unexpectedly together, as soon as Violet returned to town.

"I am sure Violet loves him," said Rose; "I don't at all understand what has occurred to separate them. Violet is silent on the point, and is uneasy if I allude to it. But don't you agree with me, Julius, that she must love him?"

"I think it very probable."

"Probable! Why not certain?"

"Because, you know, I am apt to be suspicious on that subject."

"I know you are," she said, laughing and shaking her locks at him, "and a pretty judge you are of a woman's heart!"

Julius allowed himself to be persuaded that Violet really did love Marmaduke, and accordingly some weeks afterwards, when the Vyners had returned, Julius arranged a pic-nic in which Marmaduke was to join, without Violet's knowledge. Fearful lest she should refuse to accompany them if she saw him before starting, it was agreed that Marmaduke should meet them at Richmond.

Imagine with what feverish impatience he awaited them, and with what a sinking, anxious heart he appeared amongst them. Violet blushed, and looked at Rose; the laughter in her eyes plainly betrayed her share in the plot, in defiance of the affected gravity of her face. He shook hands with such of the company as he knew personally, was introduced to the others, and then quietly seated himself beside Violet, in a manner so free from either embarrassment or gallantry, that it put her quite at her ease. She had determined, from the first, to frustrate Rose's kindly-intentioned scheme; and she felt that she had strength enough to do so. But his manner at once convinced her that, however he might have been brought there, it was with no intention of taking any advantage of their meeting to open forbidden subjects.

Marmaduke was in high spirits, and talked quite brilliantly. Violet was silent; but from time to time, as he turned to address a remark to her, he saw her look of admiration, and that inspired him.

I need not describe the pic-nic, for time presses, and pic-nics are all very much alike. Enough if we know that the day was spent merrily and noisily, and that dinner was noisier and merrier than all: the champagne drank, amounting to something incredible.

Evening was drawing in. The last rays of a magnificent sunset were fading in the western sky, and the cool breeze springing up warned the company that it was time to prepare for their return.

The boisterous gaiety of the afternoon and dinner had ceased. Every one knows the effect of an exhilarating feast, followed by a listless exhausted hour or two; when the excitement produced by wine and laughter has passed away, a lassitude succeeds, which in poetical minds induces a tender melancholy, in prosaic minds a desire for stimulus or sleep.

As the day went down, all the guests were exhausted, except Marmaduke and Violet, who, while the others were gradually becoming duller and duller, had insensibly wandered away, engrossed in the most enchanting conversation.

"Did I not tell you?" whispered Rose, as she pointed out to Julius the retreating figures of her sister and Marmaduke.

Away the lovers wandered, and although their hearts were full of love, although their eyes were speaking it as eloquently as love can speak, not a syllable crossed their lips which could be referred to it. A vague yearning—a dim, melancholy, o'ermastering feeling held its empire over their souls. The witching twilight, closing in so strange a day, seemed irresistibly to guide their thoughts into that one channel which they had hitherto so dexterously avoided. Her hand was on his arm—he pressed it tenderly, yet gently—so gently!—to his side. He gazed into her large lustrous eyes, and intoxicated by their beauty and tenderness, he began to speak.

"It is getting late. We must return. We must separate. Oh! Violet, before we separate, tell me that it is not for ever——"

"Marmaduke!" she stammered out, alarmed.

"Dearest, dearest Violet, we shall meet again—you will let me see you—will you not?"

She was silent, struggling.

They walked on a few paces; then he again said,—

"You will not banish me entirely—you will from time to time——"

"No, Marmaduke," she said, solemnly; "no, it will not be right. You need not look so pained—I—have I nothing to overcome when I forego the delight of seeing you? But it must not be. You know that it cannot be."

"I know nothing of the kind!" he impetuously exclaimed; "I only know that you do not love me!"

She looked reproachfully at him; but his head was turned away.

"Cold, cold as marble," he muttered as they walked on.

She did not answer him. Lovers are always unreasonable and unjust. He was furious at her "coldness;" she was hurt at his misunderstanding her. She could have implored him to be more generous; but he gave her no encouragement—he spoke no word—kept his look averted. Thus neither tried to explain away the other's misconception; neither smoothed the other's ruffled anger. In silence they walked on, environed by their pride. The longer they kept silent, the bitterer grew their feelings;—the more he internally reprobated her for coldness, the more she was hurt at his refusal to acknowledge the justness of her resolution, after all that had passed between them by letter.

In this painful state of feeling, they joined their companions just as the boats were got ready.

Rose looked inquiringly at Violet; but Violet averted her head. Julius was troubled to perceive the evident anger of Marmaduke.

The boats pushed off. The evening was exquisite, and Rose murmured to Julius the words of their favourite Leopardi:—

Dolce e chiara è la notte, e senza vento,
E queta sovra i tetti e in mezzo agli orti
Posa la luna, e di lontan rivela
Serena ogni montagna.

Wearied by the excitement of the day, they were almost all plunged in reveries from which they made no effort to escape. The regular dip of the oars in the water, and the falling drops shaken from them, had a musical cadence, which fell deliciously on the ear. It was a dreamy scene. The moon rose, and shed her gentle light upon them, as they moved along, in almost unbroken silence, upon the silver stream. The last twitter of the birds had ceased; the regular and soothing sounds of the oars alone kept them in a sort of half consciousness of being awake.

Marmaduke and Violet were suffering tortures. She occasionally stole a glance at him, and with redoubled pain read upon his haughty face the expression of anger and doubt which so much distressed her. The large tears rolled over her face. She leaned over the boat side to hide them, and as she saw the river hurrying on beneath her, she thought of the unhappy Cecil, and of his untimely end. Over his dishonoured corpse had this cold river flowed, as gently as now it flowed beneath her... From Cecil her thoughts wandered to Wytton Hall, and her early inclination for him—to her scene in the field with the bull—to her first meeting with Marmaduke; and then she thought no more of Cecil.

Thus they were rowed through the silent evening. On reaching town, the party dispersed.

Marmaduke and Violet separated with cold politeness, and each went home to spend a miserable night.

For some days did Marmaduke brood over her refusal, and as he reflected on the strength of her character, and the slight probability that she would ever yield—her very frankness told him that—he took a sudden and very loverlike resolution that he would quit England, and return to Brazil.

Preparations for his departure were not delayed an instant, and with his usual impetuosity he had completed every arrangement before another would have fairly commenced.

Leave-taking began. He wrote to Vyner announcing his intention, and saying that he proposed doing himself the pleasure of bidding them adieu. He had the faint hope, which was very faint, that Violet might be present, and that he might see her for the last time. Lovers attach a very particular importance to a last farewell, and angry as Marmaduke was with Violet, the idea of quitting England for ever, without once more seeing her, was extremely painful to him.

It was a dull, drizzly day, enough to depress the most elastic of temperaments. Violet was in her father's study, looking out upon the mist of rain and cloud, debating with herself whether she should be present during Marmaduke's visit or not. After what had passed, she tried to persuade herself that it was fortunate he was going to quit England, fearing that her resolution would never hold out against his renewed entreaties; but it was in vain she sophisticated with herself, her heart told her that she was wretched, intensely wretched at his departure.

Her father's voice roused her from this reverie, and she passed into the drawing-room, where a few minutes afterwards the servant entered, and announced "Mr. Ashley."

A stream of fire seemed suddenly to pour along her veins; but by the time he had shaken hands with Vyner and Blanche, and had turned to her, she was comparatively calm. His face was very sallow, and there was a nervous quivering of his delicate nostrils, which indicated the emotion within, but which was unobserved by her, as her eyes were averted.

The conversation was uneasy and common-place. Marmaduke's manner was calm and composed, but his voice was low. Violet sat with her eyes upon the carpet, deadly pale, and with colourless lips. Blanche, who did not quite understand the relation between them, but who knew that Violet loved him, was anxious on her account. Vyner alone was glib and easy. He talked of parliament, and remarked, that the best thing he knew of it was, that the members always quoted Horace.

As the interview proceeded, Marmaduke's grave, cold manner became slightly tinged with irony and bitterness; and when Vyner said to him, "Apropos, what—if the question be permissible—what induces you to leave us? are you to be away long?"

He replied, with a marked emphasis, "Very long."

"Is Brazil, then, so very attractive?"

"England ceases to be attractive. I want breathing space. There I can, as Tennyson sings,—

'Burst all the links of habit—there to wander far away,
On from island unto island, at the gateways of the day.'"

Blanche, mildly interposing, said,—

"But what does he also sing, and in the same poem?

'Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.'"

Violet's eyes were fixed upon the ground.

"And, after all—poetry aside—what are you going to do with yourself in that hot climate?"

"To marry, perhaps," he said, carelessly, and with a forced laugh.

Violet shook all over; but she did not raise her eyes.

"An heiress?" asked Vyner.

"No,—to continue Tennyson,—

'I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race.'"

There was singular bitterness, as he added,—

"In those climates, the passions are not cramped by the swaddling clothes of civilisation; their franker natures better suit my own impulsiveness; when they love they love—they do not stultify their hearts with intricate sophisms."

Violet now raised her large eyes, and, with mournful steadiness, reproached him by a look, for the words he had just uttered. He met her look with one as steady, but flashing with scorn.

"Well, for my part," said Vyner, tapping his snuff-box, "Brazil would have little attraction for me, especially if the women are violent. I can't bear violent women."

Marmaduke had expected some remark from Violet in answer to his speech; but that one look was her only answer, and she was now as intently examining the carpet as before. He noticed her paleness, and the concentrated calmness of her manner, and it irritated him the more.

Blanche, with true feminine sagacity, saw it was desirable, in every case, that Violet should have an opportunity of speaking with him alone, so walked out of the room, and in a few minutes sent the servant with a message to Vyner that he was wanted for an instant down stairs.

The lovers were now alone, and horribly embarrassed. They wanted to break the uneasy silence, but neither of them could utter a word.

At last Violet, feeling that it was imperative on her to say something, murmured, without looking at him,—

"And when do you start?"

"On Monday."

Another pause ensued; perhaps worse this time than before, because of the unsuccessful attempt.

"I wonder whether it still rains?" he said, after a few moments' silence, and walked to the window to look out.

Left thus sitting by herself—an emblem of the far more terrible desertion which was to follow—Violet looked in upon her desolate heart, and felt appalled at the prospect. The imperious cry of passion sounded within her, and would not be gagged: the pent-up tide burst away the barriers, and rushed precipitately onwards, carrying before it all scruples like straws upon a stream.

"Marmaduke!" she exclaimed.

He turned from the window; she had half-risen from her seat; he walked up to her.

She flung herself into his arms.

"Is this true, Violet? Speak—are you mine—mine?"

She pressed him closer to her. It is only men who find words in such moments; and Marmaduke was as eloquent as love and rapture could make him.

When she did speak, it was in a low fluttering tone, her pale face suffused with blushes, as she told him, that to live apart from him was impossible;—either he must stay, or take her with him.

Meanwhile, Vyner had been prettily rated by Blanche for his dulness in not perceiving that the lovers wanted to be alone.

"But are you certain, Blanche, that they are lovers? For my part, I wish it were so; but although Violet certainly has a regard for him, I have reason to believe, that he has none for her."

Blanche sighed and said,—

"Then let us go back, for in that case, they will only be uncomfortable together."

* * * * * *

N.B.—The journey to Brazil was indefinitely postponed.

1845.

"Je l'aurais supprimée si j'écrivais un roman; je sais que l'héroine ne doit avoir qu'un goùt; qu'il doit être pour quelqu'un de parfait et ne jamais finir; mais le vrai est comme il peut, et n'a de mérite que d'être ce qu'il est."

MADAME DE STAAL DE LAUNAY.

The moon was serenely shining one soft July night, exactly ten years from the date of the prologue to this long drama, when a young woman crept stealthily from the door of an old and picturesque-looking house, at the extremity of the town of Angoulême, and with many agitated glances thrown back, as one who feared pursuit, ran, rather than walked, on to the high road.

The moonbeams falling on that pale, wan, terror-stricken face, revealed the scarcely recognisable features of the gay, daring, fascinating girl, whom ten years before we saw upon the sands, behind Mrs. Henley's house, parting, in such hysterical grief, from the lover whom she then thought never could be absent from her heart, and whom a few months afterwards she jilted for twelve thousand a year. Yes, that pale, wan woman was Mrs. Meredith Vyner; and she fled from the man for whom she had sacrificed her name!

Her face was a pathetic commentary upon her life. No longer were those tiger eyes lighted up with the fire of daring triumph, no longer were those thin lips curled with a smiling cruel coquetry, no longer drooped those golden ringlets with a fairy grace. The eyes were dull with grief; the lips were drawn down with constant fretfulness; the whole face sharpened with constant fear and eagerness. Her beauty had vanished—her health was broken—her gaiety was gone. Crushed in spirit, she was a houseless fugitive, escaping from the most hateful of tyrants.

Retribution, swift and terrible, had fallen upon her head. From the moment when, in obedience to that wild impulse, she had fled from her husband with her saturnine lover, her life had been one protracted torture. Better, oh! better far, would it have been for her to have refused him, and to have died by his hand, than to have followed him to such misery as she had endured!

It would take me long to recount in detail the sad experience of the last two years. She found herself linked to a man, whose diabolical temper made her shudder when he frowned, and whose mad, unreasonable, minute jealousy kept her in constant terror. She dared not look at another man. She was never allowed to quit his sight for an instant. If she sighed, it made him angry; if she wept, it drew down reproaches upon her, and insinuations that she repented of the step she had taken, and wished to leave him. A day's peace or happiness with such a man was impossible. He had none of the amiable qualities which might have made her forget her guilty position. Dark, passionate, suspicious, ungenerous, and exacting, he was always brooding over the difference between the claims he made upon her admiration and love, and the mode in which she responded to those claims. His tyrannous vanity, could only have been propitiated by the most abject and exorbitant adulation—adulation in word, look, and act. She had sacrificed herself, but that was only one act, and he demanded a continued sacrifice. No woman had ever loved him before, yet nothing less than idolatry, or the simulation of it, would content him. He could not understand how she should have any other thought than that of ministering to his exacting vanity.

Now, of all women, Mrs. Vyner was the last to be capable of such a passion; and certainly, under such circumstances, no woman could have given way to the passion, had she felt it. In constant terror and perpetual remorse, what time had she for the subtleties of love? She dreaded and despised him. She saw that her fate was inextricably inwoven with his; and—what a humiliation!—she saw that he did not love her!

No, Maxwell did not love her. She had not been with him a month before he became aware of the fact himself. It is a remark I have often made, that men thwarted in their desires confound their own wilfulness with depth of passion. With fierce energy, they will move heaven and earth to gain what, when gained, they disregard. This is usually considered as a proof of the strength of their love; it only shows the strength of their self-love.

It was Maxwell's irritated vanity which made him so persisting in his pursuit of Mrs. Vyner. It was his wounded vanity which made him capable of murdering her; not his love: for love, even when wounded, is still a generous feeling;—it is sympathy, and admits no hate.

What, then, was Maxwell's object in living with Mrs. Vyner after the discovery that he did not really love her? Why did he not quit her, or at least allow her to quit him?

His vanity! precisely that: the same exacting vanity which prompted all his former actions, prompted this. He felt that she did not idolize him; he knew she would be glad to quit him;—and there was torture in the thought. Had she really loved him with passionate self-oblivion, he would have deserted her. As it was, the same motive which had roused his desire for her possession, which had made him force her to sacrifice everything for his sake, was as active now as then. If she left him, he was still, except for the one act of her elopement, as far from his goal as before.

It may seem strange that, not loving her, he should prize so highly the demonstrations of affection from her; but those who have probed the dark and intricate windings of the heart, know the persistency of an unsatisfied desire, and, above all, know the tyrannous nature of vanity. To this must be added the peculiar condition of Maxwell: the condition of a man intensely vain, who had never before been loved, and who had, as it were, staked his existence on subduing this one woman's heart.

What a life was theirs! A life of ceaseless suspicion, and of ceaseless dread—of bitter exasperation, and of keen remorse—of unsatisfied demands, and of baffled hope.

It lasted nearly two years. Then Maxwell, at the conclusion of some brutal quarrel, burst another bloodvessel, and his life was despaired of. Mary was his nurse; he would have no other. She had to sit up with him; to attend upon him; to submit to his petty irritability, made worse by illness; to watch him in his restless slumbers, hoping that each time he closed his eyes would be the last.

One night—it was the very night on which this chapter opened—she sat by his side absorbed in gloomy thought. The candle was flaring in the socket. Everything was still. The dying man slept peacefully. With her hands drooping upon her lap, she sat allowing her thoughts to wander; and they wandered into the dim future, when, released from her tyrant, she was once more a happy woman. Long did she indulge in that sweet reverie, and when it ceased, she turned her head mechanically to look upon the sleeper. He was wide awake: his dull eyes were fixed intently upon her; and a shiver ran all over her body as she met that gaze!

"I am not dead yet!" he said, as if he had interpreted her thoughts.

She trembled slightly. With a sneer, he closed his eyes again.

Silently she sat by his side, communing with her own dark thoughts. He slept again; slept soundly. She rose, and moved about the room; it did not awaken him. She took courage:—crept down stairs, unfastened the door—and fled.

Fled, and left her tyrant dying;—fled, and left him without a human being to attend upon him—left him to die there like a dog; or to recover, if it should chance so. She cared not; her only thought was flight; and, winged with terror, she flew from the accursed home of guilt and wretchedness; and felt her heart beat distractedly, as, a homeless, penniless wanderer, she urged her steps along that dusty road under the quiet shining moon.

Ten days afterwards, Meredith Vyner received a long letter from his wife, detailing the misery of her penniless condition, and imploring pecuniary aid. The poor, old man wept bitterly over the letter, and again reproached himself with having been the cause of her ruin. He could not forget that he had loved her—had been happy with her. He forgave her for not having loved one so old as himself; and wrote to her the following reply:—

WYTTON HALL, 2nd August, 1845.

"MY DEAR WIFE,

"We have both need of forgiveness—you have mine. I know I am not young enough to be loved by you:

Durum! sed levius fit patientia
Quidquid corrigere est nefas,

as our favourite says—not that the quotation is very good. But if you can have patience, as I can have; if you can forget all 'incompatibilities,' and live quietly and not unhappily with me, come back again, and all shall be forgotten. I will do my best to make you happy, I promise that nothing of what has passed shall ever be recurred to. You shall again be mistress of my house and fortune.

"But I do not wish to force you even to this. If, on deliberate reflection, you think you cannot live comfortably with me, I have given instructions to Messrs. Barton and Hadley to remit you, wherever you may choose to reside, eight hundred pounds a year. Upon this you can live in all comfort in France. With every wish for your happiness,

"Believe me, my dear Wife,
        "Yours affectionately,
                "H. S. MEREDITH VYNER."

This letter never reached Mrs. Vyner. Believing that her application had been treated with the silent scorn it deserved, she left the town, and toiled her way to a neighbouring town, where a young woman, formerly one of her maids, kept a small magazin de modes, and offered a temporary asylum. There she endeavoured to earn a subsistence by teaching English; and at first, success crowned her efforts; but having been recognised by an English traveller spending a few days there, the fact of her having eloped from her husband became bruited about, and all her pupils left her.

She was forced to quit the place, and to seek refuge and oblivion in Paris. What bitter humiliations, and what severe trials, she had there to undergo may be readily conceived. A mystery hangs over her fate; she was seen once on the Boulevard du Temple, miserably dressed, and so aged by suffering, that every trace of beauty had disappeared; but nothing has since been heard of her.

Concerning the other persons of this tale, I have few particulars to add.

Mrs. Langley Turner has married Lord ——, and now gives as many parties as before, only they are fearfully dull: perhaps because so much more "select;" for it is a very serious truth, that your high people are anything but entertaining.

Frank Forrester has seen many ups and downs; but the last time I saw him, his cab splashed me with mud as I lounged down St. James's-street.

Rose has two chubby children, who promise to have the spirit of the mother; they keep the nursery in a constant uproar!

Violet has one large, dark-eyed, solemn boy, who, though not a twelvemonth old, looks at you with such thoughtful seriousness, that you are puzzled what to say to him; and I refrained tickling him under the chin, lest he should consider it as unseemly trifling; and as to talking to him about his tootsy-pootsies being vezzy pitty—that never could enter the mind even of the most ignorant nurse.

Marmaduke continues his political career with dignity and success; Violet cheering him on, and loving him with all her large heart, so that Rose declares, except herself and Julius, she knows of nobody so happy as these two;—Violet disputes the exception.

And Captain Heath? The narration of his happiness is a bonne bouche I have reserved for the last.

The whole family were at Wytton Hall, and though so happy in themselves, frequent were their inquiries as to when the captain was to come down—only one person never asked that question, and that person was Blanche; the reason of her silence I leave to be guessed.

He came at last; came not to see the mild, affectionate greeting of a sister from his much loved Blanche, but the delight, embarrassment, and pain of one who loved and dared not avow it. He had been absent three months. During that absence, she discovered her love. At first, she merely felt a certain weariness; next, succeeded melancholy; next, impatience to see him; and finally, the yearning of her heart proclaimed she loved him.

Yes: such is the imperfection of poor human nature, that it cannot reach the circulating library standard; with our best efforts to be forlorn and disconsolate, we will accept of society and consolation; with the strongest idea of the virtue of constancy, a loving heart cannot but love!

Blanche was embarrassed when she saw her lover again! and he, poor fellow! was too modest to understand her embarrassment. In vain did they ramble about the grounds together, not a syllable did he breathe of his love. Blanche began to be almost fretful.

One morning they were playing with Rose Blanche together, and the little toddler having climbed upon his knee, declared she intended to "mazzy Captain Heath some day;" upon which her mama said a leetle pettishly: "No, my darling, Captain Heath is not a marrying man. He is to be an old bachelor."

Captain Heath made no reply, for he could not tell her why he was condemned to be an old bachelor.

Yet, that very afternoon, as they were strolling through the wood together, and the conversation turned upon her child, he was moved by some mysterious impulse, to take her hand in his, and with a faltering voice, to say,—

"Blanche ... dearest Blanche ... forgive me for what I am now going to say ... refuse the offer if you will, but do not be offended with me for making it ... Your child, Blanche, is growing up ... She will soon need a better protector than even your love ... she ... I hope you will not misunderstand me ... I know you cannot love me ... though I have loved you so many years ... but I am grown used to that ... I have loved you, Blanche, for years, scarcely ever with the hope of a return, and latterly, with the certainty, that my love was hopeless ... But when I offer myself as a husband ... as a protector to you, and to your child ... I do that which, if it would not pain you, I feel to be right ... I want to have a husband's authority for devoting my life to you. I do not ask your love...!"

Her head was turned away, and her eyes were filling with tears—tears of exquisite pain, of inexpressible delight; as these words, "I do not ask your love," thrilled through her, she suddenly turned and looked him full in the face.

Was it her blushing tremor, was it her undisguised tenderness which spoke so clearly to the yearning heart of her lover? I know not. Love has a language of its own, untranslatable by any words of ours, and that language in its mystic, yet unequivocal voice, told Captain Heath, that he was loved.

Printed by STEWART and MURRAY, Old Bailey.