"On the day of Macassar's visit in Tavistock Square, Crinoline was dressed in a most elegant morning costume. It was a very light barege muslin, extremely full; and which, as she had assured her friend, Miss Manasseh, of Keppel Street, had been sent home from the establishment in Hanover Square only the day before. I am aware that Miss Manasseh instantly propagated an ill-natured report that she had seen the identical dress in a milliner's room up two pairs back in Store Street; but then Miss Manasseh was known to be envious; and had moreover seen twelve seasons out in those localities, whereas the fair Crinoline, young thing, had graced Tavistock Square only for two years; and her mother was ready to swear that she had never passed the nursery door till she came there. The ground of the dress was a light pea-green, and the pattern was ivy wreaths entwined with pansies and tulips—each flounce showed a separate wreath—and there were nine flounces, the highest of which fairy circles was about three inches below the smallest waist that ever was tightly girded in steel and whalebone.

"Macassar had once declared, in a moment of ecstatic energy, that a small waist was the chiefest grace in woman. How often had the Lady Crinoline's maid, when in the extreme agony of her labour, put a malediction on his name on account of this speech!

"It is unnecessary to speak of the drapery of the arms, which showed the elaborate lace of the sleeve beneath, and sometimes also the pearly whiteness of that rounded arm. This was a sight which would almost drive Macassar to distraction. At such moments as that the hopes of the patriotic poet for the good of the Civil Service were not strictly fulfilled in the heart of Macassar Jones. Oh, if the Lady Crinoline could but have known!

"It is unnecessary also to describe the strange and hidden mechanism of that mysterious petticoat which gave such full dimensions, such ample sweeping proportions to the tout ensemble of the lady's appearance. It is unnecessary, and would perhaps be improper, and as far as I am concerned, is certainly impossible."

Here Charley blushed, as Mrs. Woodward looked at him from over the top of the paper.

"Let it suffice to say that she could envelop a sofa without the slightest effort, throw her draperies a yard and a half from her on either side without any appearance of stretching, completely fill a carriage; or, which was more frequently her fate, entangle herself all but inextricably in a cab.

"A word, however, must be said of those little feet that peeped out now and again so beautifully from beneath the artistic constructions above alluded to-of the feet, or perhaps rather of the shoes. But yet, what can be said of them successfully? That French name so correctly spelt, so elaborately accented, so beautifully finished in gold letters, which from their form, however, one would say that the cordonnier must have imported from England, was only visible to those favoured knights who were occasionally permitted to carry the shoes home in their pockets.

"But a word must be said about the hair dressed a l'imperatrice, redolent of the sweetest patchouli, disclosing all the glories of that ingenuous, but perhaps too open brow. A word must be said; but, alas! how inefficacious to do justice to the ingenuity so wonderfully displayed! The hair of the Lady Crinoline was perhaps more lovely than abundant: to produce that glorious effect, that effect which has now symbolized among English lasses the head-dress a l'imperatrice as the one idea of feminine beauty, every hair was called on to give its separate aid. As is the case with so many of us who are anxious to put our best foot foremost, everything was abstracted from the rear in order to create a show in the front. Then to complete the garniture of the head, to make all perfect, to leave no point of escape for the susceptible admirer of modern beauty, some dorsal appendage was necessary of mornings as well as in the more fully bedizened period of evening society.

"Everything about the sweet Crinoline was wont to be green. It is the sweetest and most innocent of colours; but, alas! a colour dangerous for the heart's ease of youthful beauty. Hanging from the back of her head were to be seen moss and fennel, and various grasses—rye grass and timothy, trefoil and cinquefoil, vetches, and clover, and here and there young fern. A story was told, but doubtless false, as it was traced to the mouth of Miss Manasseh, that once while Crinoline was reclining in a paddock at Richmond, having escaped with the young Macassar from the heat of a neighbouring drawing-room, a cow had attempted to feed from her head."

'Oh, Charley, a cow!' said Katie.

'Well, but you see I don't give it as true,' said Charley.

'I shall never get it done if Katie won't hold her tongue,' said Mrs. Woodward.

"But perhaps it was when at the seaside in September, at Broadstairs, Herne Bay, or Dover, Crinoline and her mamma invigorated themselves with the sea-breezes of the ocean—perhaps it was there that she was enabled to assume that covering for her head in which her soul most delighted. It was a Tom and Jerry hat turned up at the sides, with a short but knowing feather, velvet trimmings, and a steel buckle blinking brightly in the noonday sun. Had Macassar seen her in this he would have yielded himself her captive at once, quarter or no quarter. It was the most marked, and perhaps the most attractive peculiarity of the Lady Crinoline's face, that the end of her nose was a little turned up. This charm, in unison with the upturned edges of her cruel- hearted hat, was found by many men to be invincible.

"We all know how dreadful is the spectacle of a Saracen's head, as it appears, or did appear, painted on a huge board at the top of Snow Hill. From that we are left to surmise with what tremendous audacity of countenance, with what terror-striking preparations of the outward man, an Eastern army is led to battle. Can any men so fearfully bold in appearance ever turn their backs and fly? They look as though they could destroy by the glance of their ferocious eyes. Who could withstand the hirsute horrors of those fiery faces?

"There is just such audacity, a courage of a similar description, perhaps we may say an equal invincibility, in the charms of those Tom and Jerry hats when duly put on, over a face of the proper description—over such a face as that of the Lady Crinoline. They give to the wearer an appearance of concentration of pluck. But as the Eastern array does quail before the quiet valour of Europe, so, we may perhaps say, does the open, quick audacity of the Tom and Jerry tend to less powerful results than the modest enduring patience of the bonnet."

'So ends the second chapter—bravo, Charley,' said Mrs. Woodward. 'In the name of the British female public, I beg to thank you for your exertions.'

'The editor said I was to write down turned-up hats,' said Charley. 'I rather like them myself.'

'I hope my new slouch is not an audacious Saracen's head,' said Linda.

'Or mine,' said Katie. 'But you may say what you like about them now; for mine is drowned.'

'Come, girls, there are four more chapters, I see. Let me finish it, and then we can discuss it afterwards.'

"CHAPTER III

"Having thus described the Lady Crinoline——"

'You haven't described her at all,' said Linda; 'you haven't got beyond her clothes yet.'

'There is nothing beyond them,' said Charley.

'You haven't even described her face,' said Katie; 'you have only said that she had a turned-up nose.'

'There is nothing further that one can say about it,' said Charley.

"Having thus described the Lady Crinoline,' continued Mrs. Woodward, 'it now becomes our duty, as impartial historians, to give some account of Mr. Macassar Jones.

"We are not prepared to give the exact name of the artist by whom Mr. Macassar Jones was turned out to the world so perfectly dressed a man. Were we to do so, the signal service done to one establishment by such an advertisement would draw down on us the anger of the trade at large, and the tailors of London would be in league against the Daily Delight. It is sufficient to remark that the artist's offices are not a hundred miles from Pall Mall. Nor need we expressly name the bootmaker to whom is confided the task of making those feet 'small by degrees and beautifully less.' The process, we understand, has been painful, but the effect is no doubt remunerative.

"In three especial walks of dress has Macassar Jones been more than ordinarily careful to create a sensation; and we believe we may assert that he has been successful in all. We have already alluded to his feet. Ascending from them, and ascending not far, we come to his coat. It is needless to say that it is a frock; needless to say that it is a long frock—long as those usually worn by younger infants, and apparently made so for the same purpose. But look at the exquisitely small proportions of the collar; look at the grace of the long sleeves, the length of back, the propriety, the innate respectability, the perfect decorum—we had almost said the high moral worth—of the whole. Who would not willingly sacrifice any individual existence that he might become the exponent of such a coat? Macassar Jones was proud to do so.

"But he had bestowed perhaps the greatest amount of personal attention on his collar. It was a matter more within his own grasp than those great and important articles to which attention has been already drawn; but one, nevertheless, on which he was able to expend the whole amount of his energy and genius. Some people may think that an all-rounder is an all-rounder, and that if one is careful to get an all-rounder one has done all that is necessary. But so thought not Macassar Jones. Some men wear collars of two plies of linen, some men of three; but Macassar Jones wore collars of four plies. Some men—some sensual, self- indulgent men—appear to think that the collar should be made for the neck; but Macassar Jones knew better. He, who never spared him self when the cause was good, he knew that the neck had been made for the collar—it was at any rate evident that such was the case with his own. Little can be said of his head, except that it was small, narrow, and genteel; but his hat might be spoken of, and perhaps with advantage. Of the loose but studied tie of his inch-wide cravat a paragraph might be made; but we would fain not be tedious.

"We will only further remark that he always carried with him a wonderful representation of himself, like to him to a miracle, only smaller in its dimensions, like as a duodecimo is to a folio—a babe, as it were, of his own begetting—a little alter ego in which he took much delight. It was his umbrella. Look at the delicate finish of its lower extremity; look at the long, narrow, and well-made coat in which it is enveloped from its neck downwards, without speck, or blemish, or wrinkle; look at the little wooden head, nicely polished, with the effigy of a human face on one side of it—little eyes it has, and a sort of nose; look closer at it, and you will perceive a mouth, not expressive indeed, but still it is there—a mouth and chin; and is it, or is it not, an attempt at a pair of whiskers? It certainly has a moustache.

"Such were Mr. Macassar Jones and his umbrella. He was an excellent clerk, and did great credit to the important office to which he was attached—namely, that of the Episcopal Audit Board. He was much beloved by the other gentlemen who were closely connected with him in that establishment; and may be said, for the first year or two of his service, to have been, not exactly the life and soul, but, we may perhaps say with more propriety, the pervading genius of the room in which he sat.

"But, alas! at length a cloud came over his brow. At first it was but a changing shadow; but it settled into a dark veil of sorrow which obscured all his virtues, and made the worthy senior of his room shake his thin grey locks once and again. He shook them more in sorrow than in anger; for he knew that Macassar was in love, and he remembered the days of his youth. Yes; Macassar was in love. He had seen the lovely Crinoline. To see was to admire; to admire was to love; to love—that is, to love her, to love Crinoline, the exalted, the sought-after, the one so much in demand, as he had once expressed himself to one of his bosom friends—to love her was to despair. He did despair; and despairing sighed, and sighing was idle.

"But he was not all idle. The genius of the man had that within it which did not permit itself to evaporate in mere sighs. Sighs, with the high-minded, force themselves into the guise of poetry, and so it had been with him. He got leave of absence for a week, and shut himself up alone in his lodgings; for a week in his lodgings, during the long evenings of winter, did he remain unseen and unheard of. His landlady thought that he was in debt, and his friends whispered abroad that he had caught scarlatina. But at the end of the seven days he came forth, pale indeed, but with his countenance lighted up by ecstatic fire, and as he started for his office, he carefully folded and put into his pocket the elegantly written poem on which he had been so intently engaged."

'I'm so glad we are to have more poetry,' said Katie. 'Is it another song?'

'You'll see,' said Mrs. Woodward.

"Macassar had many bosom friends at his office, to all of whom, one by one, he had confided the tale of his love. For a while he doubted to which of them he should confide the secret of his inspiration; but genius will not hide its head under a bushel; and thus, before long, did Macassar's song become the common property of the Episcopal Audit Board. Even the Bishops sang it, so Macassar was assured by one of his brother clerks who was made of a coarser clay than his colleague—even the Bishops sang it when they met in council together on their own peculiar bench.

"It would be useless to give the whole of it here; for it contained ten verses. The last two were those which Macassar was wont to sing to himself, as he wandered lonely under the elms of Kensington Gardens.

"'Oh, how she walks, And how she talks, And sings like a bird serene; But of this be sure While the world shall endure, The loveliest lady that'll ever be seen Will still be the Lady Crinoline, The lovely Lady Crinoline.

With her hair done all a l'imperatrice, Sweetly done with the best of grease, She looks like a Goddess or Queen,— And so I declare, And solemnly swear, That the loveliest lady that ever was seen Is still the Lady Crinoline, The lovely Lady Crinoline.'"

'And so ends the third chapter,' said Mrs. Woodward.

Both Katie and Linda were beginning to criticize, but Mrs. Woodward repressed them sternly, and went on with

"CHAPTER IV

"'It was a lovely day towards the end of May that Macassar Jones, presenting himself before the desk of the senior clerk at one o'clock, begged for permission to be absent for two hours. The request was preferred with meek and hesitating voice, and with downcast eyes.

"The senior clerk shook his grey locks sadly! sadly he shook his thin grey locks, for he grieved at the sight which he saw. 'Twas sad to see the energies of this young man thus sapped in his early youth by the all-absorbing strength of a hopeless passion. Crinoline was now, as it were, a household word at the Episcopal Audit Board. The senior clerk believed her to be cruel, and as he knew for what object these two hours of idleness were requested, he shook his thin grey locks in sorrow.

"'I'll be back at three, sir, punctual,' said Macassar.

"'But, Mr. Jones, you are absent nearly every day for the same period.'

"'To-day shall be the last; to-day shall end it all,' said Macassar, with a look of wretched desperation.

"'What—what would Sir Gregory say?' said the senior clerk.

"Macassar Jones sighed deeply. Nature had not made the senior clerk a cruel man; but yet this allusion was cruel. The young Macassar had drunk deeply of the waters that welled from the fountain of Sir Gregory's philosophy. He had been proud to sit humbly at the feet of such a Gamaliel; and now it rent his young heart to be thus twitted with the displeasure of the great master whom he so loved and so admired.

"'Well, go, Mr. Jones,' said the senior clerk, 'go, but as you go, resolve that to-morrow you will remain at your desk. Now go, and may prosperity attend you!'

"'All shall be decided to-day,' said Macassar, and as he spoke an unusual spark gleamed in his eye. He went, and as he went the senior clerk shook his thin grey hairs. He was a bachelor, and he distrusted the charms of the sex.

"Macassar, returning to his desk, took up his hat and his umbrella, and went forth. His indeed was a plight at which that old senior clerk might well shake his thin grey hairs in sorrow, for Macassar was the victim of mysterious circumstances, which, from his youth upwards, had marked him out for a fate of no ordinary nature. The tale must now be told."

'O dear!' said Linda; 'is it something horrid?'

'I hope it is,' said Katie; 'perhaps he's already married to some old hag or witch.'

'You don't say who his father and mother are; but I suppose he'll turn out to be somebody else's son,' said Linda.

'He's a very nice young man for a small tea-party, at any rate,' said Uncle Bat.

"The tale must now be told," continued Mrs. Woodward. "In his early years Macassar Jones had had a maiden aunt. This lady died—"

'Oh, mamma, if you read it in that way I shall certainly cry,' said Katie.

'Well, my dear, if your heart is so susceptible you had better indulge it.' "This lady died and left behind her——"

'What?' said Linda.

'A diamond ring?' said Katie.

'A sealed manuscript, which was found in a secret drawer?' suggested Linda.

'Perhaps a baby,' said Uncle Bat.

"And left behind her a will——"

'Did she leave anything else?' asked Norman.

'Ladies and gentlemen, if I am to be interrupted in this way, I really must resign my task,' said Mrs. Woodward; 'we shall never get to bed.'

'I won't say another word,' said Katie.

"In his early years Macassar had had a maiden aunt. This lady died and left behind her a will, in which, with many expressions of the warmest affection and fullest confidence, she left L3,000 in the three per cents——"

'What are the three per cents?' said Katie.

'The three per cents is a way in which people get some of their money to spend regularly, when they have got a large sum locked up somewhere,' said Linda.

'Oh!' said Katie.

'Will you hold your tongue, miss?' said Mrs. Woodward.

"Left L3,000 in the three per cents to her nephew. But she left it on these conditions, that he should be married before he was twenty-five, and that he should have a child lawfully born in the bonds of wedlock before he was twenty-six. And then the will went on to state that the interest of the money should accumulate till Macassar had attained the latter age; and that in the event of his having failed to comply with the conditions and stipulations above named, the whole money, principal and interest, should be set aside, and by no means given up to the said Macassar, but applied to the uses, purposes, and convenience of that excellent charitable institution, denominated the Princess Charlotte's Lying-in Hospital.

"Now the nature of this will had been told in confidence by Macassar to some of his brother clerks, and was consequently well known at the Episcopal Audit Board. It had given rise there to a spirit of speculation against which the senior clerk had protested in vain. Bets were made, some in favour of Macassar, and some in that of the hospital; but of late the odds were going much against our hero. It was well known that in three short months he would attain that disastrous age, which, if it found him a bachelor, would find him also denuded of his legacy. And then how short a margin remained for the second event! The odds were daily rising against Macassar, and as he heard the bets offered and taken at the surrounding desks, his heart quailed within him.

"And the lovely Crinoline, she also had heard of this eccentric will; she and her mother. L3,000 with interest arising for some half score of years would make a settlement by no means despicable in Tavistock Square, and would enable Macassar to maintain a house over which even Crinoline need not be ashamed to preside. But what if the legacy should be lost! She also knew to a day what was the age of her swain; she knew how close upon her was that day, which, if she passed it unwedded, would see her resolved to be deaf for ever to the vows of Macassar. Still, if she managed well, there might be time—at any rate for the marriage.

"But, alas! Macassar made no vows; none at least which the most attentive ear could consider to be audible. Crinoline's ear was attentive, but hitherto in vain. He would come there daily to Tavistock Square; daily would that true and valiant page lay open the path to his mistress's feet; daily would Macassar sit there for a while and sigh. But the envious hour would pass away, while the wished-for word was still unsaid; and he would hurry back, and complete with figures, too often erroneous, the audit of some diocesan balance.

"'You must help him, my dear,' said Crinoline's mamma.

"'But he says nothing, mamma,' said Crinoline in tears.

"'You must encourage him to speak, my dear.'

"'I do encourage him; but by that time it is always three o'clock, and then he has to go away.'

"'You should be quicker, my dear. You should encourage him more at once. Now try to-day; if you can't do anything to-day I really must get your papa to interfere.'

"Crinoline had ever been an obedient child, and now, as ever, she determined to obey. But it was a hard task for her. In three months he would be twenty-five—in fifteen months twenty-six. She, however, would do her best; and then, if her efforts were unavailing, she could only trust to Providence and her papa.

"With sad and anxious heart did Macassar that day take up his new silk hat, take up also his darling umbrella, and descend the sombre steps of the Episcopal Audit Office. 'Seven to one on the Lying-in,' were the last words which reached his ears as the door of his room closed behind him. His was a dreadful position. What if that sweet girl, that angel whom he so worshipped, what if she, melted by his tale of sorrow—that is, if he could prevail on himself to tell it—should take pity, and consent to be hurried prematurely to the altar of Hymen; and then if, after all, the legacy should be forfeited! Poverty for himself he could endure; at least he thought so; but poverty for her! could he bear that? What if he should live to see her deprived of that green headdress, robbed of those copious draperies, reduced to English shoes, compelled to desert that shrine in Hanover Square, and all through him! His brain reeled round, his head swam, his temples throbbed, his knees knocked against each other, his blood stagnated, his heart collapsed, a cold clammy perspiration covered him from head to foot; he could hardly reach the courtyard, and there obtain the support of a pillar. Dreadful thoughts filled his mind; the Thames, the friendly Thames, was running close to him; should he not put a speedy end to all his misery? Those horrid words, that 'seven to one on the Lying-in,' still rang in his ears; were the chances really seven to one against his getting his legacy? 'Oh!' said he, 'my aunt, my aunt, my aunt, my aunt, my aunt!'

"But at last he roused the spirit of the man within him. 'Faint heart never won fair lady,' seemed to be whispered to him from every stone in Somerset House. The cool air blowing through the passages revived him, and he walked forth through the wide portals, resolving that he would return a happy, thriving lover, or that he would return no more—that night. What would he care for Sir Gregory, what for the thin locks of the senior clerk, if Crinoline should reject him?

"It was his custom, as he walked towards Tavistock Square, to stop at a friendly pastry-cook's in Covent Garden, and revive his spirits for the coming interview with Banbury tarts and cherry- brandy. In the moments of his misery something about the pastry- cook's girl, something that reminded him of Crinoline, it was probably her nose, had tempted him to confide to her his love. He had told her everything; the kind young creature pitied him, and as she ministered to his wants, was wont to ask sweetly as to his passion.

"'And how was the lovely Lady Crinoline yesterday?' asked she. He had entrusted to her a copy of his poem.

"'More beauteous than ever,' he said, but somewhat indistinctly, for his mouth was clogged with the Banbury tart.

"'And good-natured, I hope. Indeed, I don't know how she can resist,' said the girl; 'I'm sure you'll make it all right to- day, for I see you've got your winning way with you.'

"Winning way, with seven to one against him! Macassar sighed, and spilt some of his cherry-brandy over his shirt front. The kind- hearted girl came and wiped it for him. 'I think I'll have another glass,' said he, with a deep voice. He did take another glass—and also ate another tart.

"'He'll pop to-day as sure as eggs, now he's taken them two glasses of popping powder,' said the girl, as he went out of the shop. 'Well, it's astonishing to me what the men find to be afraid of.'

"And so Macassar hastened towards Tavistock Square, all too quickly; for, as he made his way across Great Russell Street, he found that he was very hot. He leant against the rail, and, taking off his hat and gloves, began to cool himself, and wipe away the dust with his pocket-handkerchief. 'I wouldn't have minded the expense of a cab,' said he to himself, 'only the chances are so much against me: seven to one!'

"But he had no time to lose. He had had but two precious hours at his disposal, and thirty minutes were already gone. He hurried on to Tavistock Square, and soon found that well-known door open before him.

"'The Lady Crinoline sits upstairs alone,' said the page, 'and is a-thinking of you.' Then he added in a whisper, 'Do you go at her straight, Mr. Macassar; slip-slap, and no mistake.'

"All honour to the true and brave!

"CHAPTER V

"As Macassar walked across the drawing-room, Crinoline failed to perceive his presence, although his boots did creak rather loudly. Such at least must be presumed to have been the case, for she made no immediate sign of having noticed him. She was sitting at the open window, with her lute in hand, gazing into the vacancy of the square below; and as Macassar walked across the room, a deep sigh escaped from her bosom. The page closed the door, and at the same moment Crinoline touched her lute, or rather pulled it at the top and bottom, and threw one wild witch note to the wind. As she did so, a line of a song escaped from her lips with a low, melancholy, but still rapturous cadence—

'His heart is at his office, his heart is always there.'

"'Oh, Mr. Macassar, is that you?' she exclaimed. She struggled to rise, but, finding herself unequal to the effort, she sank back again on a chair, dropped her lute on a soft footstool, and then buried her face in her hands. It was dreadful for Macassar to witness such agony.

"'Is anything the matter?' said he.

"'The matter!' said she. 'Ah! ah!'

"'I hope you are not sick?' said he.

"'Sick!' said she. 'Well, I fear I am very sick.'

"'What is it?' said he. 'Perhaps only bilious,' he suggested.

"'Oh! oh! oh!' said she.

"'I see I'm in the way; and I think I had better go,' and so he prepared to depart. 'No! no! no!' said she, jumping up from her chair. 'Oh! Mr. Macassar, don't be so cruel. Do you wish to see me sink on the carpet before your feet?'

"Macassar denied the existence of any such wish; and said that he humbly begged her pardon if he gave any offence.

"'Offence!' said she, smiling sweetly on him; sweetly, but yet sadly. 'Offence! no—no offence. Indeed, I don't know how you could—but never mind—I am such a silly thing. One's feelings will sometimes get the better of one; don't you often find it so?'

"'O yes! quite so,' said Macassar. 'I think it's the heat.'

"'He's a downright noodle,' said Crinoline's mamma to her sister- in-law, who lived with them. The two were standing behind a chink in the door, which separated the drawing-room from a chamber behind it.

"'Won't you sit down, Mr. Macassar?' Macassar sat down. 'Mamma will be so sorry to miss you again. She's calling somewhere in Grosvenor Square, I believe. She wanted me to go with her; but I could not bring myself to go with her to-day. It's useless for the body to go out, when the heart still remains at home. Don't you find it so?'

"'Oh, quite so,' said Macassar. The cherry-brandy had already evaporated before the blaze of all that beauty, and he was bethinking himself how he might best take himself off. Let the hospital have the filthy lucre! He would let the money go, and would show the world that he loved for the sake of love alone! He looked at his watch, and found that it was already past two.

"Crinoline, when she saw that watch, knew that something must be done at once. She appreciated more fully than her lover did the value of this world's goods; and much as she doubtless sympathized with the wants of the hospital in question, she felt that charity should begin at home. So she fairly burst out into a flood of tears.

"Macassar was quite beside himself. He had seen her weep before, but never with such frightful violence. She rushed up from her chair, and passing so close to him as nearly to upset him by the waft of her petticoats, threw herself on to an ottoman, and hiding her face on the stump in the middle of it, sobbed and screeched, till Macassar feared that the buttons behind her dress would crack and fly off.

"'Oh! oh! oh!' sobbed Crinoline.

"'It must be the heat,' said Macassar, knocking down a flower-pot in his attempt to open the window a little wider. 'O dear, what have I done?' said he. 'I think I'd better go.'

"'Never mind the flower-pot,' said Crinoline, looking up through her tears. 'Oh! oh! oh! oh! me. Oh! my heart.'

"Macassar looked at his watch. He had only forty-five minutes left for everything. The expense of a cab would, to be sure, be nothing if he were successful; but then, what chance was there of that?

"'Can I do anything for you in the Strand?' said he. 'I must be at my office at three.'

"'In the Strand!' she screeched. 'What could he do for me in the Strand? Heartless—heartless—heartless! Well, go—go—go to your office, Mr. Macassar; your heart is there, I know. It is always there. Go—don't let me stand between you and your duties— between you and Sir Gregory. Oh! how I hate that man! Go! why should I wish to prevent you? Of course I have no such wish. To me it is quite indifferent; only, mamma will be so sorry to miss you. You don't know how mamma loves you. She loves you almost as a son. But go—go; pray go!'

"And then Crinoline looked at him. Oh! how she looked at him! It was as though all the goddesses of heaven were inviting him to come and eat ambrosia with them on a rosy-tinted cloud. All the goddesses, did we say? No, but one goddess, the most beautiful of them all. His heart beat violently against his ribs, and he felt that he was almost man enough for anything. Instinctively his hand went again to his waistcoat pocket.

"'You shan't look at your watch so often,' said she, putting up her delicate hand and stopping his. 'There, I'll look at it for you. It's only just two, and you needn't go to your office for this hour;' and as she squeezed it back into his pocket, he felt her fingers pressing against his heart, and felt her hair—done all a l'imperatrice—in sweet contact with his cheek. 'There, I shall hold it there,' said she, 'so that you shan't look at it again.'

"'Will you stay till I bid you go?' said Crinoline.

"Macassar declared that he did not care a straw for the senior clerk, or for Sir Gregory either. He would stay there for ever, he said.

"'What! for ever in mamma's drawing-room?' said Crinoline, opening wide her lovely eyes with surprise.

"'For ever near to you,' said Macassar.

"'Oh, Mr. Macassar,' said Crinoline, dropping her hand from his waistcoat, and looking bashfully towards the ground, 'what can you mean?'

"Down went Macassar on his knees, and down went Crinoline into her chair. There was perhaps rather too much distance between them, but that did not much matter now. There he was on both knees, with his hands clasped together as they were wont to be when he said his prayers, with his umbrella beside him on one side, and his hat on the other, making his declaration in full and unmistakable terms. A yard or two of floor, more or less, between them, was neither here nor there. At first the bashful Crinoline could not bring herself to utter a distinct consent, and Macassar was very nearly up and away, in a returning fit of despair. But her good-nature came to his aid; and as she quickly said, 'I will, I will, I will,' he returned to his posture in somewhat nearer quarters, and was transported into the seventh heaven by the bliss of kissing her hand.

"'Oh, Macassar!' said she.

"'Oh, Crinoline!' said he.

"'You must come and tell papa to-morrow,' said she.

"He readily promised to do so.

"'You had better come to breakfast; before he goes into the city,' said she.

"And so the matter was arranged, and the lovely Lady Crinoline became the affianced bride of the happy Macassar.

"It was past three when he left the house, but what did he care for that? He was so mad with joy that he did not even know whither he was going. He went on straight ahead, and came to no check, till he found himself waving his hat over his head in the New Road. He then began to conceive that his conduct must have been rather wild, for he was brought to a stand-still in a crossing by four or five cabmen, who were rival candidates for his custom.

"'Somerset House, old brick!' he shouted out, as he jumped into a hansom, and as he did so he poked one of the other cabbies playfully in the ribs with his umbrella.

"'Is mamma don't know as 'ow 'e's hout, I shouldn't vonder,' said the cabman—and away went Macassar, singing at the top of his voice as he sat in the cab—

'The loveliest lady that ever was seen Is the lovely Lady Crinoline.'

"The cab passed through Covent Garden on its way. 'Stop at the pastry-cook's at the corner,' said Macassar up through the little trap-door. The cab drew up suddenly. 'She's mine, she's mine!' shouted Macassar, rushing into the shop, and disregarding in the ecstasy of the moment the various customers who were quietly eating their ices. 'She's mine, she's mine!

With her hair done all a l'imperatrice, Sweetly done with the best of grease.

And now for Somerset House.'

"Arrived at those ancient portals, he recklessly threw eighteenpence to the cabman, and ran up the stone stairs which led to his office. As he did so the clock, with iron tongue, tolled four. But what recked he what it tolled? He rushed into his room, where his colleagues were now locking their desks, and waving abroad his hat and his umbrella, repeated the chorus of his song. 'She's mine, she's mine—

The loveliest lady that ever was seen Is the lovely Lady Crinoline;

and she's mine, she's mine!'

"Exhausted nature could no more. He sank into a chair, and his brother clerks stood in a circle around him. Soon a spirit of triumph seemed to actuate them all; they joined hands in that friendly circle, and dancing with joyful glee, took up with one voice the burden of the song—

'Oh how she walks, And how she talks, And sings like a bird serene, But of this be sure, While the world shall endure, The loveliest lady that ever was seen Is still the Lady Crinoline— The lovely Lady Crinoline.'

"And that old senior clerk with the thin grey hair—was he angry at this general ebullition of joy? O no! The just severity of his discipline was always tempered with genial mercy. Not a word did he say of that broken promise, not a word of the unchecked diocesan balance, not a word of Sir Gregory's anger. He shook his thin grey locks; but he shook them neither in sorrow nor in anger. 'God bless you, Macassar Jones,', said he, 'God bless you!'

"He too had once been young, had once loved, had once hoped and feared, and hoped again, and had once knelt at the feet of beauty. But alas! he had knelt in vain.

"'May God be with you, Macassar Jones,' said he, as he walked out of the office door with his coloured bandana pressed to his eyes. 'May God be with you, and make your bed fruitful!'

"'For the loveliest lady that ever was seen Is the lovely Lady Crinoline,'

shouted the junior clerks, still dancing in mad glee round the happy lover.

"We have said that they all joined in this kindly congratulation to their young friend. But no. There was one spirit there whom envy had soured, one whom the happiness of another had made miserable, one whose heart beat in no unison with these jocund sounds. As Macassar's joy was at its height, in the proud moment of his triumph, a hated voice struck his ears, and filled his soul with dismay once more.

"'There's two to one still on the Lying-in,' said this hateful Lucifer.

"And so Macassar was not all happy even yet, as he walked home to his lodgings.

"CHAPTER VI

"We have but one other scene to record, but one short scene, and then our tale will be told and our task will be done. And this last scene shall not, after the usual manner of novelists, be that of the wedding, but rather one which in our eyes is of a much more enduring interest. Crinoline and Macassar were duly married in Bloomsbury Church. The dresses are said to have come from the house in Hanover Square. Crinoline behaved herself with perfect propriety, and Macassar went through his work like a man. When we have said that, we have said all that need be said on that subject.

"But we must beg our readers to pass over the space of the next twelve months, and to be present with us in that front sitting- room of the elegant private lodgings, which the married couple now prudently occupied in Alfred Place. Lodgings! yes, they were only lodgings; for not as yet did they know what might be the extent of their income.

"In this room during the whole of a long autumn day sat Macassar in a frame of mind not altogether to be envied. During the greater portion of it he was alone; but ever and anon some bustling woman would enter and depart without even deigning to notice the questions which he asked. And then after a while he found himself in company with a very respectable gentleman in black, who belonged to the medical profession. 'Is it coming?' asked Macassar. 'Is it, is it coming?'

"'Well, we hope so—we hope so,' said the medical gentleman. 'If not to-day, it will be to-morrow. If I should happen to be absent, Mrs. Gamp is all that you could desire. If not to-day, it will certainly be to-morrow,'—and so the medical gentleman went his way.

"Now the coming morrow would be Macassar's birthday. On that morrow he would be twenty-six.

"All alone he sat there till the autumn sun gave way to the shades of evening. Some one brought him a mutton chop, but it was raw and he could not eat; he went to the sideboard and prepared to make himself a glass of negus, but the water was all cold. His water at least was cold, though Mrs. Gamp's was hot enough. It was a sad and mournful evening. He thought he would go out, for he found that he was not wanted; but a low drizzling rain prevented him. Had he got wet he could not have changed his clothes, for they were all in the wardrobe in his wife's room. All alone he sat till the shades of evening were hidden by the veil of night.

"But what sudden noise is that he hears within the house? Why do those heavy steps press so rapidly against the stairs? What feet are they which are so busy in the room above him? He opens the sitting-room door, but he can see nothing. He has been left there without a candle. He peers up the stairs, but a faint glimmer of light shining through the keyhole of his wife's door is all that meets his eye. 'Oh, my aunt! my aunt!' he says as he leans against the banisters. 'My aunt, my aunt, my aunt!'

"What a birthday will this be for him on the morrow! He already hears the sound of the hospital bells as they ring with joy at the acquisition of their new wealth; he must dash from his lips, tear from his heart, banish for ever from his eyes, that vision of a sweet little cottage at Brompton, with a charming dressing- room for himself, and gas laid on all over the house.

"'Lodgings! I hate, I detest lodgings!' he said to himself. 'Connubial bliss and furnished lodgings are not compatible. My aunt, my aunt, for what misery hast thou not to answer! Oh, Mrs. Gamp, could you be so obliging as to tell me what o'clock it is?' The last question was asked as Mrs. Gamp suddenly entered the room with a candle. Macassar's watch had been required for the use of one of the servants.

"'It's just half-past heleven, this wery moment as is,' said Mrs. Gamp; 'and the finest boy babby as my heyes, which has seen a many, has ever sat upon.'

"Up, up to the ceiling went the horsehair cushion of the lodging- house sofa—up went the footstool after it, and its four wooden legs in falling made a terrible clatter on the mahogany loo- table. Macassar in his joy got hold of Mrs. Gamp, and kissed her heartily, forgetful of the fumes of gin. 'Hurrah!' shouted he,' hurrah, hurrah, hurrah! Oh, Mrs. Gamp, I feel so—so—so—I really don't know how I feel.'

"He danced round the room with noisy joy, till Mrs. Gamp made him understand how very unsuited were such riotous ebullitions to the weak state of his lady-love upstairs. He then gave over, not the dancing but the noise, and went on capering round the room with suppressed steps, ever and anon singing to himself in a whisper,

'The loveliest lady that ever was seen Is still the Lady Crinoline.'

"A few minutes afterwards a knock at the door was heard, and the monthly nurse entered. She held something in her embrace; but he could not see what. He looked down pryingly into her arms, and at the first glance thought that it was his umbrella. But then he heard a little pipe, and he knew that it was his child.

"We will not intrude further on the first interview between Macassar and his heir."

* * * * *

'And so ends the romantic history of "Crinoline and Macassar",' said Mrs. Woodward; 'and I am sure, Charley, we are all very much obliged to you for the excellent moral lessons you have given us.'

'I'm so delighted with it,' said Katie; 'I do so like that Macassar.'

'So do I,' said Linda, yawning; 'and the old man with the thin grey hair.'

'Come, girls, it's nearly one o'clock, and we'll go to bed,' said the mother. 'Uncle Bat has been asleep these two hours.'

And so they went off to their respective chambers.



CHAPTER XXIII

SURBITON COLLOQUIES

All further conversation in the drawing-room was forbidden for that night. Mrs. Woodward would have willingly postponed the reading of Charley's story so as to enable Katie to go to bed after the accident, had she been able to do so. But she was not able to do so without an exercise of a species of authority which was distasteful to her, and which was very seldom heard, seen, or felt within the limits of Surbiton Cottage. It would moreover have been very ungracious to snub Charley's manuscript, just when Charley had made himself such a hero; and she had, therefore, been obliged to read it. But now that it was done, she hurried Katie off to bed, not without many admonitions.

'Good night,' she said to Charley; 'and God bless you, and make you always as happy as we are now. What a household we should have had to-night, had it not been for you!'

Charley rubbed his eyes with his hand, and muttered something about there not having been the slightest danger in the world.

'And remember, Charley,' she said, paying no attention to his mutterings, 'we always liked you—liked you very much; but liking and loving are very different things. Now you are a dear, dear friend—one of the dearest.'

In answer to this, Charley was not even able to mutter; so he went his way to the inn, and lay awake half the night thinking how Katie had kissed his hand: during the other half he dreamt, first that Katie was drowned, and then that Norah was his bride.

Linda and Katie had been so hurried off, that they had only been just able to shake hands with Harry and Charley. There is, however, an old proverb, that though one man may lead a horse to water, a thousand cannot make him drink. It was easy to send Katie to bed, but very difficult to prevent her talking when she was there.

'Oh, Linda,' she said, 'what can I do for him?'

'Do for him?' said Linda; 'I don't know that you can do anything for him. I don't suppose he wants you to do anything.' Linda still looked on her sister as a child; but Katie was beginning to put away childish things.

'Couldn't I make something for him, Linda—something for him to keep as a present, you know? I would work so hard to get it done.'

'Work a pair of slippers, as Crinoline did,' said Linda.

Katie was brushing her hair at the moment, and then she sat still with the brush in her hand, thinking. 'No,' said she, after a while, 'not a pair of slippers—I shouldn't like a pair of slippers.'

'Why not?' said Linda.

'Oh—I don't know—but I shouldn't.' Katie had said that Crinoline was working slippers for Macassar because she was in love with him; and having said so, she could not now work slippers for Charley. Poor Katie! she was no longer a child when she thought thus.

'Then make him a purse,' said Linda.

'A purse is such a little thing.'

'Then work him the cover for a sofa, like what mamma and I are doing for Gertrude.'

'But he hasn't got a house,' said Katie.

'He'll have a house by the time you've done the sofa, and a wife to sit on it too.'

'Oh, Linda, you are so ill-natured.'

'Why, child, what do you want me to say? If you were to give him one of those grand long tobacco pipes they have in the shop windows, that's what he'd like the best; or something of that sort. I don't think he cares much for girls' presents, such as purses and slippers.'

'Doesn't he?' said Katie, mournfully.

'No; not a bit. You know he's such a rake.'

'Oh! Linda; I don't think he's so very bad, indeed I don't; and mamma doesn't think so; and you know Harry said on Easter Sunday that he was much better than he used to be.'

'I know Harry is very good-natured to him.'

'And isn't Charley just as good-natured to Harry? I am quite sure he is. Harry has only to ask the least thing, and Charley always does it. Do you remember how Charley went up to town for him the Sunday before last?'

'And so he ought,' said Linda. 'He ought to do whatever Harry tells him.'

'Well, Linda, I don't know why he ought,' said Katie. 'They are not brothers, you know, nor yet even cousins.'

'But Harry is very—so very—so very superior, you know,' said Linda.

'I don't know any such thing,' said Katie.

'Oh! Katie, don't you know that Charley is such a rake?'

'But rakes are just the people who don't do whatever they are told; so that's no reason. And I am quite sure that Charley is much the cleverer.'

'And I am quite sure he is not—nor half so clever; nor nearly so well educated. Why, don't you know the navvies are the most ignorant young men in London? Charley says so himself.'

'That's his fun,' said Katie: 'besides, he always makes little of himself. I am quite sure Harry could never have made all that about Macassar and Crinoline out of his own head.'

'No! because he doesn't think of such nonsensical things. I declare, Miss Katie, I think you are in love with Master Charley.'

Katie, who was still sitting at the dressing-table, blushed up to her forehead; and at the same time her eyes were suffused with tears. But there was no one to see either of those tell-tale symptoms, for Linda was in bed.

'I know he saved my life,' said Katie, as soon as she could trust herself to speak without betraying her emotion—'I know he jumped into the river after me, and very, very nearly drowned himself; and I don't think any other man in the world would have done so much for me besides him.'

'Oh, Katie! Harry would in a moment.'

'Not for me; perhaps he might for you—though I'm not quite sure that he would.' It was thus that Katie took her revenge on her sister.

'I'm quite sure he would for anybody, even for Sally.' Sally was an assistant in the back kitchen. 'But I don't mean to say, Katie, that you shouldn't feel grateful to Charley; of course you should.'

'And so I do,' said Katie, now bursting out into tears, overdone by her emotion and fatigue; 'and so I do—and I do love him, and will love him, if he's ever so much a rake! But you know, Linda, that is very different from being in love; and it was very ill- natured of you to say so, very.'

Linda was out of bed in a trice, and sitting with her arm round her sister's neck.

'Why, you darling little foolish child, you! I was only quizzing,' said she. 'Don't you know that I love Charley too?'

'But you shouldn't quiz about such a thing as that. If you'd fallen into the river, and Harry had pulled you out, then you'd know what I mean; but I'm not at all sure that he could have done it.'

Katie's perverse wickedness on this point was very nearly giving rise to another contest between the sisters. Linda's common sense, however, prevailed, and giving up the point of Harry's prowess, she succeeded at last in getting Katie into bed. 'You know mamma will be so angry if she hears us,' said Linda, 'and I am sure you will be ill to-morrow.'

'I don't care a bit about being ill to-tomorrow; and yet I do too,' she added, after a pause, 'for it's Sunday. It would be so stupid not to be able to go out to-morrow.'

'Well, then, try to go to sleep at once'—and Linda carefully tucked the clothes around her sister.

'I think it shall be a purse,' said Katie.

'A purse will certainly be the best; that is, if you don't like the slippers,' and Linda rolled herself up comfortably in the bed.

'No—I don't like the slippers at all. It shall be a purse. I can do that the quickest, you know. It's so stupid to give a thing when everything about it is forgotten, isn't it?'

'Very stupid,' said Linda, nearly asleep.

'And when it's worn out I can make another, can't I?'

'H'm'm'm,' said Linda, quite asleep.

And then Katie went asleep also, in her sister's arms.

Early in the morning—that is to say, not very early, perhaps between seven and eight—Mrs. Woodward came into their room, and having inspected her charges, desired that Katie should not get up for morning church, but lie in bed till the middle of the day.

'Oh, mamma, it will be so stupid not going to church after tumbling into the river; people will say that all my clothes are wet.'

'People will about tell the truth as to some of them,' said Mrs. Woodward; 'but don't you mind about people, but lie still and go to sleep if you can. Linda, do you come and dress in my room.'

'And is Charley to lie in bed too?' said Katie. 'He was in the river longer than I was.'

'It's too late to keep Charley in bed,' said Linda, 'for I see him coming along the road now with a towel; he's been bathing.'

'Oh, I do so wish I could go and bathe,' said Katie.

Poor Katie was kept in bed till the afternoon. Charley and Harry, however, were allowed to come up to her bedroom door, and hear her pronounce herself quite well.

'How d'ye do, Mr. Macassar?' said she.

'And how d'ye do, my Lady Crinoline?' said Harry. After that Katie never called Charley Mr. Macassar again.

They all went to church, and Katie was left to sleep or read, or think of the new purse that she was to make, as best she might.

And then they dined, and then they walked out; but still without Katie. She was to get up and dress while they were out, so as to receive them in state in the drawing-room on their return. Four of them walked together; for Uncle Bat now usually took himself off to his friend at Hampton Court on Sunday afternoon. Mrs. Woodward walked with Charley, and Harry and Linda paired together.

'Now,' said Charley to himself, 'now would have been the time to have told Mrs. Woodward everything, but for that accident of yesterday. Now I can tell her nothing; to do so now would be to demand her sympathy and to ask for assistance;' and so he determined to tell her nothing.

But the very cause which made Charley dumb on the subject of his own distresses made Mrs. Woodward inquisitive about them. She knew that his life was not like that of Harry—steady, sober, and discreet; but she felt that she did not like him, or even love him the less on this account. Nay, it was not clear to her that these failings of his did not give him additional claims on her sympathies. What could she do for him? how could she relieve him? how could she bring him back to the right way? She spoke to him of his London life, praised his talents, encouraged him to exertion, besought him to have some solicitude, and, above all, some respect for himself. And then, with that delicacy which such a woman, and none but such a woman, can use in such a matter, she asked him whether he was still in debt.

Charley, with shame we must own it, had on this subject been false to all his friends. He had been false to his father and his mother, and had never owned to them the half of what he owed; he had been false to Alaric, and false to Harry; but now, now, at such a moment as this, he would not allow himself to be false to Mrs. Woodward.

'Yes,' he said, 'he was in debt—rather.'

Mrs. Woodward pressed him to say whether his debts were heavy— whether he owed much.

'It's no use thinking of it, Mrs. Woodward,' said he; 'not the least. I know I ought not to come down here; and I don't think I will any more.'

'Not come down here!' said Mrs. Woodward. 'Why not? There's very little expense in that. I dare say you'd spend quite as much in London.'

'Oh—of course—three times as much, perhaps; that is, if I had it—but I don't mean that.'

'What do you mean?' said she.

Charley walked on in silence, with melancholy look, very crestfallen, his thumbs stuck into his waistcoat pockets.

'Upon my word I don't know what you mean,' said Mrs. Woodward. 'I should have thought coming to Hampton might perhaps—perhaps have kept you—I don't exactly mean out of mischief.' That, however, in spite of her denial, was exactly what Mrs. Woodward did mean.

'So it does—but—' said Charley, now thoroughly ashamed of himself.

'But what?' said she.

'I am not fit to be here,' said Charley; and as he spoke his manly self-control all gave way, and big tears rolled down his cheeks.

Mrs. Woodward, in her woman's heart, resolved, that if it might in any way be possible, she would make him fit, fit not only to be there, but to hold his head up with the best in any company in which he might find himself.

She questioned him no further then. Her wish now was not to torment him further, but to comfort him. She determined that she would consult with Harry and with her uncle, and take counsel from them as to what steps might be taken to save the brand from the burning. She talked to him as a mother might have done, leaning on his arm, as she returned; leaning on him as a woman never leans on a man whom she deems unfit for her society. All this Charley's heart and instinct fully understood, and he was not ungrateful.

But yet he had but little to comfort him. He must return to town on Monday; return to Mr. Snape and the lock entries, to Mr. M'Ruen and the three Seasons—to Mrs. Davis, Norah Geraghty, and that horrid Mr. Peppermint. He never once thought of Clementina Golightly, to whom at that moment he was being married by the joint energies of Undy Scott and his cousin Alaric.

And what had Linda and Norman been doing all this time? Had they been placing mutual confidence in each other? No; they had not come to that yet. Linda still remembered the pang with which she had first heard of Gertrude's engagement, and Harry Norman had not yet been able to open his seared heart to a second love.

In the course of the evening a letter was brought to Captain Cuttwater, which did not seem to raise his spirits.

'Whom is your letter from, uncle?' said Mrs. Woodward.

'From Alaric,' said he, gruffly, crumpling it up and putting it into his pocket. And then he turned to his rum and water in a manner that showed his determination to say nothing more on the matter.

In the morning Harry and Charley returned to town. Captain Cuttwater went up with them; and all was again quiet at Surbiton Cottage.



CHAPTER XXIV

MR. M'BUFFER ACCEPTS THE CHILTERN HUNDREDS

It was an anxious hour for the Honourable Undecimus Scott when he first learnt that Mr. M'Buffer had accepted the Stewardship of the Chiltern Hundreds. The Stewardship of the Chiltern Hundreds! Does it never occur to anyone how many persons are appointed to that valuable situation? Or does anyone ever reflect why a Member of Parliament, when he wishes to resign his post of honour, should not be simply gazetted in the newspapers as having done so, instead of being named as the new Steward of the Chiltern Hundreds? No one ever does think of it; resigning and becoming a steward are one and the same thing, with this difference, however, that one of the grand bulwarks of the British constitution is thus preserved.

Well, Mr. M'Buffer, who, having been elected by the independent electors of the Tillietudlem burghs to serve them in Parliament, could not, in accordance with the laws of the constitution, have got himself out of that honourable but difficult position by any scheme of his own, found himself on a sudden a free man, the Queen having selected him to be her steward for the district in question. We have no doubt but that the deed of appointment set forth that her Majesty had been moved to this step by the firm trust she had in the skill and fidelity of the said Mr. M'Buffer; but if so her Majesty's trust would seem to have been somewhat misplaced, as Mr. M'Buffer, having been a managing director of a bankrupt swindle, from which he had contrived to pillage some thirty or forty thousand pounds, was now unable to show his face at Tillietudlem, or in the House of Commons; and in thus retreating from his membership had no object but to save himself from the expulsion which he feared. It was, however, a consolation for him to think that in what he had done the bulwarks of the British constitution had been preserved.

It was an anxious moment for Undy. The existing Parliament had still a year and a half, or possibly two years and a half, to run. He had already been withdrawn from the public eye longer than he thought was suitable to the success of his career. He particularly disliked obscurity for he had found that in his case obscurity had meant comparative poverty. An obscure man, as he observed early in life, had nothing to sell. Now, Undy had once had something to sell, and a very good market he had made of it. He was of course anxious that those halcyon days should return. Fond of him as the electors of Tillietudlem no doubt were, devoted as they might be in a general way to his interests still, still it was possible that they might forget him, if he remained too long away from their embraces. 'Out of sight out of mind' is a proverb which opens to us the worst side of human nature. But even at Tillietudlem nature's worst side might sometimes show itself.

Actuated by such feelings as these, Undy heard with joy the tidings of M'Buffer's stewardship, and determined to rush to the battle at once. Battle he knew there must be. To be brought in for the district of Tillietudlem was a prize which had never yet fallen to any man's lot without a contest. Tillietudlem was no poor pocket borough to be disposed of, this way or that way, according to the caprice or venal call of some aristocrat. The men of Tillietudlem knew the value of their votes, and would only give them according to their consciences. The way to win these consciences, to overcome the sensitive doubts of a free and independent Tillietudlem elector, Undy knew to his cost.

It was almost a question, as he once told Alaric, whether all that he could sell was worth all that he was compelled to buy. But having put his neck to the collar in this line of life, he was not now going to withdraw. Tillietudlem was once more vacant, and Undy determined to try it again, undaunted by former outlays. To make an outlay, however, at any rate, in electioneering matters, it is necessary that a man should have in hand some ready cash; at the present moment Undy had very little, and therefore the news of Mr. M'Buffer's retirement to the German baths for his health was not heard with unalloyed delight.

He first went into the city, as men always do when they want money; though in what portion of the city they find it, has never come to the author's knowledge. Charley Tudor, to be sure, did get L5 by going to the 'Banks of Jordan;' but the supply likely to be derived from such a fountain as that would hardly be sufficient for Undy's wants. Having done what he could in the city, he came to Alaric, and prayed for the assistance of all his friend's energies in the matter. Alaric would not have been, and was not unwilling to assist him to the extent of his own immediate means; but his own immediate means were limited, and Undy's desire for ready cash was almost unlimited.

There was a certain railway or proposed railway in Ireland, in which Undy had ventured very deeply, more so indeed than he had deemed it quite prudent to divulge to his friend; and in order to gain certain ends he had induced Alaric to become a director of this line. The line in question was the Great West Cork, which was to run from Skibbereen to Bantry, and the momentous question now hotly debated before the Railway Board was on the moot point of a branch to Ballydehob. If Undy could carry the West Cork and Ballydehob branch entire, he would make a pretty thing of it; but if, as there was too much reason to fear, his Irish foes should prevail, and leave—as Undy had once said in an eloquent speech at a very influential meeting of shareholders—and leave the unfortunate agricultural and commercial interest of Ballydehob steeped in Cimmerian darkness, the chances were that poor Undy would be well nigh ruined.

Such being the case, he had striven, not unsuccessfully, to draw Alaric into the concern. Alaric had bought very cheaply a good many shares, which many people said were worth nothing, and had, by dint of Undy's machinations, been chosen a director on the board. Undy himself meanwhile lay by, hoping that fortune might restore him to Parliament, and haply put him on that committee which must finally adjudicate as to the great question of the Ballydehob branch.

Such were the circumstances under which he came to Alaric with the view of raising such a sum of money as might enable him to overcome the scruples of the Tillietudlem electors, and place himself in the shoes lately vacated by Mr. M'Buffer.

They were sitting together after dinner when he commenced the subject. He and Mrs. Val and Clementina had done the Tudors the honour of dining with them; and the ladies had now gone up into the drawing-room, and were busy talking over the Chiswick affair, which was to come off in the next week, and after which Mrs. Val intended to give a small evening party to the most elite of her acquaintance.

'We won't have all the world, my dear,' she had said to Gertrude, 'but just a few of our own set that are really nice. Clementina is dying to try that new back step with M. Jaquetanape, so we won't crowd the room.' Such were the immediate arrangements of the Tudor and Scott party.

'So M'Buffer is off at last,' said Scott, as he seated himself and filled his glass, after closing the dining-room door. 'He brought his pigs to a bad market after all.'

'He was an infernal rogue,' said Alaric.

'Well, I suppose he was,' said Undy; 'and a fool into the bargain to be found out.'

'He was a downright swindler,' said Alaric.

'After all,' said the other, not paying much attention to Alaric's indignation, 'he did not do so very badly. Why, M'Buffer has been at it now for thirteen years. He began with nothing; he had neither blood nor money; and God knows he had no social merits to recommend him. He is as vulgar as a hog, as awkward as an elephant, and as ugly as an ape. I believe he never had a friend, and was known at his club to be the greatest bore that ever came out of Scotland; and yet for thirteen years he has lived on the fat of the land; for five years he has been in Parliament, his wife has gone about in her carriage, and every man in the city has been willing to shake hands with him.'

'And what has it all come to?' said Alaric, whom the question of M'Buffer's temporary prosperity made rather thoughtful.

'Well, not so bad either; he has had his fling for thirteen years, and that's something. Thirteen good years out of a man's life is more than falls to the lot of every one. And then, I suppose, he has saved something.'

'And he is spoken of everywhere as a monster for whom hanging is too good.'

'Pshaw! that won't hang him. Yesterday he was a god; to-day he is a devil; to-morrow he'll be a man again; that's all.'

'But you don't mean to tell me, Undy, that the consciousness of such crimes as those which M'Buffer has committed must not make a man wretched in this world, and probably in the next also?'

'Judge not, and ye shall not be judged,' said Undy, quoting Scripture as the devil did before him; 'and as for consciousness of crime, I suppose M'Buffer has none at all. I have no doubt he thinks himself quite as honest as the rest of the world. He firmly believes that all of us are playing the same game, and using the same means, and has no idea whatever that dishonesty is objectionable.'

'And you, what do you think about it yourself?'

'I think the greatest rogues are they who talk most of their honesty; and, therefore, as I wish to be thought honest myself, I never talk of my own.'

They both sat silent for a while, Undy bethinking himself what arguments would be most efficacious towards inducing Alaric to strip himself of every available shilling that he had; and Alaric debating in his own mind that great question which he so often debated, as to whether men, men of the world, the great and best men whom he saw around him, really endeavoured to be honest, or endeavoured only to seem so. Honesty was preached to him on every side; but did he, in his intercourse with the world, find men to be honest? Or did it behove him, a practical man like him, a man so determined to battle with the world as he had determined, did it behove such a one as he to be more honest than his neighbours?

He also encouraged himself by that mystic word, 'Excelsior!' To him it was a watchword of battle, repeated morning, noon, and night. It was the prevailing idea of his life. 'Excelsior'! Yes; how great, how grand, how all-absorbing is the idea! But what if a man may be going down, down to Tophet, and yet think the while that he is scaling the walls of heaven?

'But you wish to think yourself honest,' he said, disturbing Undy just as that hero had determined on the way in which he would play his present hand of cards.

'I have not the slightest difficulty about that,' said Undy; 'and I dare say you have none either. But as to M'Buffer, his going will be a great thing for us, if, as I don't doubt, I can get his seat.'

'It will be a great thing for you,' said Alaric, who, as well as Undy, had his Parliamentary ambition.

'And for you too, my boy. We should carry the Ballydehob branch to a dead certainty; and even if we did not do that, we'd bring it so near it that the expectation of it would send the shares up like mercury in fine weather. They are at L2 12s. 6d. now, and, if I am in the House next Session, they'll be up to L7 10s. before Easter; and what's more, my dear fellow, if we can't help ourselves in that way, they'll be worth nothing in a very few months.'

Alaric looked rather blank; for he had invested deeply in this line, of which he was now a director, of a week's standing, or perhaps we should say sitting. He had sold out all his golden hopes in the Wheal Mary Jane for the sake of embarking his money and becoming a director in this Irish Railway, and in one other speculation nearer home, of which Undy had a great opinion, viz.: the Limehouse Thames Bridge Company. Such being the case, he did not like to hear the West Cork with the Ballydehob branch spoken of so slightingly.

'The fact is, a man can do anything if he is in the House, and he can do nothing if he is not,' said Undy. 'You know our old Aberdeen saying, 'You scratch me and I'll scratch you.' It is not only what a man may do himself for himself, but it is what others will do for him when he is in a position to help them. Now, there are those fellows; I am hand-and-glove with all of them; but there is not one of them would lift a finger to help me as I am now; but let me get my seat again, and they'll do for me just anything I ask them. Vigil moves the new writ to-night; I got a line from him asking me whether I was ready. There was no good to be got by waiting, so I told him to fire away.'

'I suppose you'll go down at once?' said Alaric.

'Well, that as may be—at least, yes; that's my intention. But there's one thing needful—and that is the needful.'

'Money?' suggested Alaric.

'Yes, money—cash—rhino—tin—ready—or by what other name the goddess would be pleased to have herself worshipped; money, sir; there's the difficulty, now as ever. Even at Tillietudlem money will have its weight.'

'Can't your father assist you?' said Alaric.

'My father! I wonder how he'd look if he got a letter from me asking for money. You might as well expect a goose to feed her young with blood out of her own breast, like a pelican, as expect that a Scotch lord should give money to his younger sons like an English duke. What would my father get by my being member for Tillietudlem? No; I must look nearer home than my father. What can you do for me?'

'I?'

'Yes, you,' said Undy; 'I am sure you don't mean to say you'll refuse to lend me a helping hand if you can. I must realize by the Ballydehobs, if I am once in the House; and then you'd have your money back at once.'

'It is not that,' said Alaric; 'but I haven't got it.'

'I am sure you could let me have a thousand or so,' said Undy. 'I think a couple of thousand would carry it, and I could make out the other myself.'

'Every shilling I have,' said Alaric, 'is either in the Ballydehobs or in the Limehouse Bridge. Why don't you sell yourself?'

'So I have,' said Undy; 'everything that I can without utter ruin. The Ballydehobs are not saleable, as you know.'

'What can I do for you, then?'

Undy set himself again to think. 'I have no doubt I could get a thousand on our joint names. That blackguard, M'Ruen, would do it.'

'Who is M'Ruen?' asked Alaric.

'A low blackguard of a discounting Jew Christian. He would do it; but then, heaven knows what he would charge, and he'd make so many difficulties that I shouldn't have the money for the next fortnight.'

'I wouldn't have my name on a bill in such a man's hands on any account,' said Alaric.

'Well, I don't like it myself,' said Undy; 'but what the deuce am I to do? I might as well go to Tillietudlem without my head as without money.'

'I thought you'd kept a lot of the Mary Janes,' said Alaric.

'So I had, but they're gone now. I tell you I've managed L1,000 myself. It would murder me now if the seat were to go into other hands. I'd get the Committee on the Limehouse Bridge, and we should treble our money. Vigil told me he would not refuse the Committee, though of course the Government won't consent to a grant if they can help it.'

'Well, Undy, I can let you have L250, and that is every shilling I have at my banker's.'

'They would not let you overdraw a few hundreds?' suggested Undy.

'I certainly shall not try them,' said Alaric.

'You are so full of scruple, so green, so young,' said Undy, almost in an enthusiasm of remonstrance. 'What can be the harm of trying them?'

'My credit.'

'Fal lal. What's the meaning of credit? How are you to know whether you have got any credit if you don't try? Come, I'll tell you how you can do it. Old Cuttwater would lend it you for the asking.'

To this proposition Alaric at first turned a deaf ear; but by degrees he allowed Undy to talk him over. Undy showed him that if he lost the Tillietudlem burghs on this occasion it would be useless for him to attempt to stand for them again. In such case, he would have no alternative at the next general election but to stand for the borough of Strathbogy in Aberdeenshire; whereas, if he could secure Tillietudlem as a seat for himself, all the Gaberlunzie interest in the borough of Strathbogy, which was supposed to be by no means small, should be transferred to Alaric himself. Indeed, Sandie Scott, the eldest hope of the Gaberlunzie family, would, in such case, himself propose Alaric to the electors. Ca'stalk Cottage, in which the Hon. Sandie lived, and which was on the outskirts of the Gaberlunzie property, was absolutely within the boundary of the borough.

Overcome by these and other arguments, Alaric at last consented to ask from Captain Cuttwater the loan of L700. That sum Undy had agreed to accept as a sufficient contribution to that desirable public object, the re-seating himself for the Tillietudlem borough, and as Alaric on reflection thought that it would be uncomfortable to be left penniless himself, and as it was just as likely that Uncle Bat would lend him L700 as L500, he determined to ask for a loan of the entire sum. He accordingly did so, and the letter, as we have seen, reached the captain while Harry and Charley were at Surbiton Cottage. The old gentleman was anything but pleased. In the first place he liked his money, though not with any overweening affection; in the next place, he had done a great deal for Alaric, and did not like being asked to do more; and lastly, he feared that there must be some evil cause for the necessity of such a loan so soon after Alaric's marriage.

Alaric in making his application had not done so actually without making any explanation on the subject. He wrote a long letter, worded very cleverly, which only served to mystify the captain, as Alaric had intended that it should do. Captain Cuttwater was most anxious that Alaric, whom he looked on as his adopted son, should rise in the world; he would have been delighted to think that he might possibly live to see him in Parliament; would probably have made considerable pecuniary sacrifice for such an object. With the design, therefore, of softening Captain Cuttwater's heart, Alaric in his letter had spoken about great changes that were coming, of the necessity that there was of his stirring himself, of the great pecuniary results to be expected from a small present expenditure; and ended by declaring that the money was to be used in forwarding the election of his friend Scott for the Tillietudlem district burghs.

Now, the fact was, that Uncle Bat, though he cared a great deal for Alaric, did not care a rope's end for Undy Scott, and could enjoy his rum-punch just as keenly if Mr. Scott was in obscurity as he could possibly hope to do even if that gentleman should be promoted to be a Lord of the Treasury. He was not at all pleased to think that his hard-earned moidores should run down the gullies of the Tillietudlem boroughs in the shape of muddy ale or vitriolic whisky; and yet this was the first request that Alaric had ever made to him, and he did not like to refuse Alaric's first request. So he came up to town himself on the following morning with Harry and Charley, determined to reconcile all these difficulties by the light of his own wisdom.

In the evening he returned to Surbiton Cottage, having been into the city, sold out stock for L700, and handed over the money to Alaric Tudor.

On the following morning Undy Scott set out for Scotland, properly freighted, Mr. Whip Vigil having in due course moved for a new writ for the Tillietudlem borough in the place of Mr. M'Buffer, who had accepted the situation of Steward of the Chiltern Hundreds.



CHAPTER XXV

CHISWICK GARDENS

The following Thursday was as fine as a Chiswick flower-show-day ought to be, and so very seldom is. The party who had agreed to congregate there—the party, that is, whom we are to meet—was very select. Linda and Katie had come up to spend a few days with their sister. Mrs. Val, Clementina, Gertrude, and Linda were to go in a carriage, for which Alaric was destined to pay, and which Mrs. Val had hired, having selected it regardless of expense, as one which, by its decent exterior and polished outward graces, conferred on its temporary occupiers an agreeable appearance of proprietorship. The two Miss Neverbends, sisters of Fidus, were also to be with them, and they with Katie followed humbly, as became their station, in a cab, which was not only hired, but which very vulgarly told the fact to all the world.

Slight as had been the intimacy between Fidus Neverbend and Alaric at Tavistock, nevertheless a sort of friendship had since grown up between them. Alaric had ascertained that Fidus might in a certain degree be useful to him, that the good word of the Aristides of the Works and Buildings might be serviceable, and that, in short, Neverbend was worth cultivating. Neverbend, on the other hand, when he perceived that Tudor was likely to become a Civil Service hero, a man to be named with glowing eulogy at all the Government Boards in London, felt unconsciously a desire to pay him some of that reverence which a mortal always feels for a god. And thus there was formed between them a sort of alliance, which included also the ladies of the family.

Not that Mrs. Val, or even Mrs. A. Tudor, encountered Lactimel and Ugolina Neverbend on equal terms. There is a distressing habitual humility in many unmarried ladies of an uncertain age, which at the first blush tells the tale against them which they are so painfully anxious to leave untold. In order to maintain their places but yet a little longer in that delicious world of love, sighs, and dancing partners, from which it must be so hard for a maiden, with all her youthful tastes about her, to tear herself for ever away, they smile and say pretty things, put up with the caprices of married women, and play second fiddle, though the doing so in no whit assists them in their task. Nay, the doing so does but stamp them the more plainly with that horrid name from which they would so fain escape. Their plea is for mercy—'Have pity on me, have pity on me; put up with me but for one other short twelve months; and then, if then I shall still have failed, I will be content to vanish from the world for ever.' When did such plea for pity from one woman ever find real entrance into the heart of another?

On such terms, however, the Misses Neverbend were content to follow Mrs. Val to the Chiswick flower-show, and to feed on the crumbs which might chance to fall from the rich table of Miss Golightly; to partake of broken meat in the shape of cast-off adorers, and regale themselves with lukewarm civility from the outsiders in the throng which followed that adorable heiress.

And yet the Misses Neverbend were quite as estimable as the divine Clementina, and had once been, perhaps, as attractive as she is now. They had never waltzed, it is true, as Miss Golightly waltzes. It may be doubted, indeed, whether any lady ever did. In the pursuit of that amusement Ugolina was apt to be stiff and ungainly, and to turn herself, or allow herself to be turned, as though she were made of wood; she was somewhat flat in her figure, looking as though she had been uncomfortably pressed into an unbecoming thinness of substance, and a corresponding breadth of surface, and this conformation did not assist her in acquiring a graceful flowing style of motion. The elder sister, Lactimel, was of a different form, but yet hardly more fit to shine in the mazes of the dance than her sister. She had her charms, nevertheless, which consisted of a somewhat stumpy dumpy comeliness. She was altogether short in stature, and very short below the knee. She had fair hair and a fair skin, small bones and copious soft flesh. She had a trick of sighing gently in the evolutions of the waltz, which young men attributed to her softness of heart, and old ladies to her shortness of breath. They both loved dancing dearly, and were content to enjoy it whenever the chance might be given to them by the aid of Miss Golightly's crumbs.

The two sisters were as unlike in their inward lights as in their outward appearance. Lactimel walked ever on the earth, but Ugolina never deserted the clouds. Lactimel talked prose and professed to read it; Ugolina read poetry and professed to write it. Lactimel was utilitarian. Cui bono?—though probably in less classic phrase—was the question she asked as to everything. Ugolina was transcendental, and denied that there could be real good in anything. Lactimel would have clothed and fed the hungry and naked, so that all mankind might be comfortable. Ugolina would have brought mankind back to their original nakedness, and have taught them to feed on the grasses of the field, so that the claims of the body, which so vitally oppose those of the mind, might remain unheeded and despised. They were both a little nebulous in their doctrines, and apt to be somewhat unintelligible in their discourse, when indulged in the delights of unrestrained conversation. Lactimel had a theory that every poor brother might eat of the fat and drink of the sweet, might lie softly, and wear fine linen, if only some body or bodies could be induced to do their duties; and Ugolina was equally strong in a belief that if the mind were properly looked to, all appreciation of human ill would cease. But they delighted in generalizing rather than in detailed propositions; and had not probably, even in their own minds, realized any exact idea as to the means by which the results they desired were to be brought about.

They toadied Mrs. Val—poor young women, how little should they be blamed for this fault, which came so naturally to them in their forlorn position!—they toadied Mrs. Val, and therefore Mrs. Val bore with them; they bored Gertrude, and Gertrude, for her husband's sake, bore with them also; they were confidential with Clementina, and Clementina, of course, snubbed them. They called Clementina 'the sweetest creature.' Lactimel declared that she was born to grace the position of a wife and mother, and Ugolina swore that her face was perfect poetry. Whereupon Clementina laughed aloud, and elegantly made a grimace with her nose and mouth, as she turned the 'perfect poetry' to her mother. Such were the ladies of the party who went to the Chiswick flower-show, and who afterwards were to figure at Mrs. Val's little evening 'the dansant,' at which nobody was to be admitted who was not nice.

They were met at the gate of the Gardens by a party of young men, of whom Victoire Jaquetanape was foremost. Alaric and Charley were to come down there when their office work was done. Undy was by this time on his road to Tillietudlem; and Captain Val was playing billiards at his club. The latter had given a promise that he would make his appearance—a promise, however, which no one expected, or wished him to keep.

The happy Victoire was dressed up to his eyes. That, perhaps, is not saying much, for he was only a few feet high; but what he wanted in quantity he fully made up in quality. He was a well- made, shining, jaunty little Frenchman, who seemed to be perfectly at ease with himself and all the world. He had the smallest little pair of moustaches imaginable, the smallest little imperial, the smallest possible pair of boots, and the smallest possible pair of gloves. Nothing on earth could be nicer, or sweeter, or finer, than he was. But he did not carry his finery like a hog in armour, as an Englishman so often does when an Englishman stoops to be fine. It sat as naturally on Victoire as though he had been born in it. He jumped about in his best patent leather boots, apparently quite heedless whether he spoilt them or not; and when he picked up Miss Golightly's parasol from the gravel, he seemed to suffer no anxiety about his gloves.