He handed out the ladies one after another, as though his life had been passed in handing out ladies, as, indeed, it probably had—in handing them out and handing them in; and when Mrs. Val's 'private' carriage passed on, he was just as courteous to the Misses Neverbend and Katie in their cab, as he had been to the greater ladies who had descended from the more ambitious vehicle. As Katie said afterwards to Linda, when she found the free use of her voice in their own bedroom, 'he was a darling little duck of a man, only he smelt so strongly of tobacco.'

But when they were once in the garden, Victoire had no time for anyone but Mrs. Val and Clementina. He had done his duty by the Misses Neverbend and those other two insipid young English girls, and now he had his own affairs to look after. He also knew that Miss Golightly had L20,000 of her own!

He was one of those butterfly beings who seem to have been created that they may flutter about from flower to flower in the summer hours of such gala times as those now going on at Chiswick, just as other butterflies do. What the butterflies were last winter, or what will become of them next winter, no one but the naturalist thinks of inquiring. How they may feed themselves on flower-juice, or on insects small enough to be their prey, is matter of no moment to the general world. It is sufficient that they flit about in the sunbeams, and add bright glancing spangles to the beauty of the summer day.

And so it was with Victoire Jaquetanape. He did no work. He made no honey. He appeared to no one in the more serious moments of life. He was the reverse of Shylock; he would neither buy with you nor sell with you, but he would eat with you and drink with you; as for praying, he did little of that either with or without company. He was clothed in purple and fine linen, as butterflies should be clothed, and fared sumptuously everyday; but whence came his gay colours, or why people fed him with pate and champagne, nobody knew and nobody asked.

Like most Frenchmen of his class, he never talked about himself. He understood life, and the art of pleasing, and the necessity that he should please, too well to do so. All that his companions knew of him was that he came from France, and that when the gloomy months came on in England, the months so unfitted for a French butterfly, he packed up his azure wings and sought some more genial climate, certain to return and be seen again when the world of London became habitable.

If he had means of living no one knew it; if he was in debt no one ever heard of it; if he had a care in the world he concealed it. He abounded in acquaintances who were always glad to see him, and would have regarded it as quite de trop to have a friend. Nevertheless time was flying on with him as with others; and, butterfly as he was, the idea of Miss Golightly's L20,000 struck him with delightful amazement—500,000 francs! 500,000 francs! and so he resolved to dance his very best, warm as the weather undoubtedly was at the present moment.

'Ah, he was charmed to see madame and mademoiselle look so charmingly,' he said, walking between mother and daughter, but paying apparently much the greater share of attention to the elder lady. In this respect we Englishmen might certainly learn much from the manners of our dear allies. We know well enough how to behave ourselves to our fair young countrywomen; we can be civil enough to young women—nature teaches us that; but it is so seldom that we are sufficiently complaisant to be civil to old women. And yet that, after all, is the soul of gallantry. It is to the sex that we profess to do homage. Our theory is, that feminine weakness shall receive from man's strength humble and respectful service. But where is the chivalry, where the gallantry, if we only do service in expectation of receiving such guerdon as rosy cheeks and laughing eyes can bestow?

It may be said that Victoire had an object in being civil to Mrs. Val. But the truth is, all French Victoires are courteous to old ladies. An Englishman may probably be as forward as a Frenchman in rushing into a flaming building to save an old woman's life; but then it so rarely happens that occasion offers itself for gallantry such as that. A man, however, may with ease be civil to a dozen old women in one day.

And so they went on, walking through parterres and glass-houses, talking of theatres, balls, dinner-parties, picnics, concerts, operas, of ladies married and single, of single gentlemen who should be married, and of married gentlemen who should be single, of everything, indeed, except the flowers, of which neither Victoire nor his companions took the slightest notice.

'And madame really has a dance to-night in her own house?'

'O yes,' said Mrs. Val; 'that is, just a few quadrilles and waltzes for Clementina. I really hardly know whether the people will take the carpet up or no.' The people, consisting of the cook and housemaid—for the page had, of course, come with the carriage—were at this moment hard at work wrenching up the nails, as Mrs. Val was very well aware.

'It will be delightful, charming,' said Victoire.

'Just a few people of our own set, you know,' said Mrs. Val: 'no crowd, or fuss, or anything of that sort; just a few people that we know are nice, in a quiet homely way.'

'Ah, that is so pleasing,' said M. Victoire: 'that is just what I like; and is mademoiselle engaged for—?'

No. Mademoiselle was not engaged either for—or for—or for— &c., &c., &c.; and then out came the little tablets, under the dome of a huge greenhouse filled with the most costly exotics, and Clementina and her fellow-labourer in the cause of Terpsichore went to work to make their arrangements for the evening.

And the rest of the party followed them. Gertrude was accompanied by an Englishman just as idle and quite as useless as M. Victoire, of the butterfly tribe also, but not so graceful, and without colour.

And then came the Misses Neverbend walking together, and with them, one on each side, two tall Frenchmen, whose faces had been remodelled in that mould into which so large a proportion of Parisians of the present day force their heads, in order that they may come out with some look of the Emperor about them. Were there not some such machine as this in operation, it would be impossible that so many Frenchmen should appear with elongated, angular, hard faces, all as like each other as though they were brothers! The cut of the beard, the long prickly-ended, clotted moustache, which looks as though it were being continually rolled up in saliva, the sallow, half-bronzed, apparently unwashed colour—these may all, perhaps, be assumed by any man after a certain amount of labour and culture. But how it has come to pass that every Parisian has been able to obtain for himself a pair of the Emperor's long, hard, bony, cruel-looking cheeks, no Englishman has yet been able to guess. That having the power they should have the wish to wear this mask is almost equally remarkable. Can it be that a political phase, when stamped on a people with an iron hand of sufficient power of pressure, will leave its impress on the outward body as well as on the inward soul? If so, a Frenchman may, perhaps, be thought to have gained in the apparent stubborn wilfulness of his countenance some recompense for his compelled loss of all political wilfulness whatever.

Be this as it may, the two Misses Neverbend walked on, each with a stubborn long-faced Frenchman at her side, looking altogether not ill pleased at this instance of the excellence of French manners. After them came Linda, talking to some acquaintance of her own, and then poor dear little Katie with another Frenchman, sterner, more stubborn-looking, more long-faced, more like the pattern after whom he and they had been remodelled, than any of them.

Poor little Katie! This was her first day in public. With many imploring caresses, with many half-formed tears in her bright eyes, with many assurances of her perfect health, she had induced her mother to allow her to come to the flower-show; to allow her also to go to Mrs. Val's dance, at which there were to be none but such very nice people. Katie was to commence her life, to open her ball with this flower-show. In her imagination it was all to be one long bright flower-show, in which, however, the sweet sorrowing of the sensitive plant would ever and anon invite her to pity and tears. When she entered that narrow portal she entered the world, and there she found herself walking on the well-mown grass with this huge, stern, bearded Frenchman by her side! As to talking to him, that was quite out of the question. At the gate some slight ceremony of introduction had been gone through, which had consisted in all the Frenchmen taking off their hats and bowing to the two married ladies, and in the Englishmen standing behind and poking the gravel with their canes. But in this no special notice had of course been taken of Katie; and she had a kind of idea, whence derived she knew not, that it would be improper for her to talk to this man, unless she were actually and bona fide introduced to him. And then, again, poor Katie was not very confident in her French, and then her companion was not very intelligible in his English; so when the gentleman asked, 'Is it that mademoiselle lofe de fleurs?' poor little Katie felt herself tremble, and tried in vain to mutter something; and when, again essaying to do his duty, he suggested that 'all de beaute of Londres did delight to valk itself at Chisveek,' she was equally dumb, merely turning on him her large eyes for one moment, to show that she knew that he addressed her. After that he walked on as silent as herself, still keeping close to her side; and other ladies, who had not the good fortune to have male companions, envied her happiness in being so attended.

But Alaric and Charley were coming, she knew; Alaric was her brother-in-law now, and therefore she would be delighted to meet him; and Charley, dear Charley! she had not seen him since he went away that morning, now four days since; and four days was a long time, considering that he had saved her life. Her busy little fingers had been hard at work the while, and now she had in her pocket the purse which she had been so eager to make, and which she was almost afraid to bestow.

'Oh, Linda,' she had said, 'I don't think I will, after all; it is such a little thing.'

'Nonsense, child, you wouldn't give him a worked counterpane; little things are best for presents.'

'But it isn't good enough,' she said, looking at her handiwork in despair. But, nevertheless, she persevered, working in the golden beads with constant diligence, so that she might be able to give it to Charley among the Chiswick flowers. Oh! what a place it was in which to bestow a present, with all the eyes of all the world upon her!

And then this dance to which she was going! The thought of what she would do there troubled her. Would anyone ask her to dance? Would Charley think of her when he had so many grown-up girls, girls quite grown up, all around him? It would be very sad if at this London party it should be her fate to sit down the whole evening and see others dance. It would suffice for her, she thought, if she could stand up with Linda, but she had an idea that this would not be allowed at a London party; and then Linda, perhaps, might not like it. Altogether she had much upon her mind, and was beginning to think that, perhaps, she might have been happier to have stayed at home with her mamma. She had not quite recovered from the effect of her toss into the water, or the consequent excitement, and a very little misery would upset her. And so she walked on with her Napoleonic companion, from whom she did not know how to free herself, through one glass- house after another, across lawns and along paths, attempting every now and then to get a word with Linda, and not at all so happy as she had hoped to have been.

At last Gertrude came to her rescue. They were all congregated for a while in one great flower-house, and Gertrude, finding herself near her sister, asked her how she liked it all.

'Oh! it is very beautiful,' said Katie, 'only—'

'Only what, dear?'

'Would you let me come with you a little while! Look here'—and she crept softly around to the other side of her sister, sidling with little steps away from the Frenchman, at whom, however, she kept furtively looking, as though she feared that he would detect her in the act. 'Look here, Gertrude,' she said, twitching her sister's arm; 'that gentleman there—you see him, don't you? he's a Frenchman, and I don't know how to get away from him.'

'How to get away from him?' said Gertrude. 'That's M. Delabarbe de l'Empereur, a great friend of Mrs. Val's, and a very quiet sort of man, I believe; he won't eat you.'

'No, he won't eat me, I know; but I can't look at anything, because he will walk so close to me! Mayn't I come with you?'

Gertrude told her she might, and so Katie made good her escape, hiding herself from her enemy as well as she could behind her sister's petticoats. He, poor man, was perhaps as rejoiced at the arrangement as Katie herself; at any rate he made no attempt to regain his prey, but went on by himself, looking as placidly stern as ever, till he was absorbed by Mrs. Val's more immediate party, and then he devoted himself to her, while M. Jaquetanape settled with Clementina the properest arrangement for the waltzes of the evening.

Katie was beginning to be tranquilly happy, and was listening to the enthusiasm of Ugolina Neverbend, who declared that flowers were the female poet's fitting food—it may be doubted whether she had ever tried it—when her heart leaped within her on hearing a sharp, clear, well-known voice, almost close behind her. It was Charley Tudor. After her silent promenade with M. Delabarbe de l'Empereur, Katie had been well pleased to put up with the obscure but yet endurable volubility of Ugolina; but now she felt almost as anxious to get quit of Ugolina as she had before been to shake off the Frenchman.

'Flowers are Nature's chef-d'oeuvre,' said Ugolina; 'they convey to me the purest and most direct essence of that heavenly power of production which is the sweetest evidence which Jehovah gives us of His presence.'

'Do they?' said Katie, looking over her shoulder to watch what Charley was doing, and to see whether he was coming to notice her.

'They are the bright stars of His immediate handiwork,' said Ugolina; 'and if our dim eyes could read them aright, they would whisper to us the secret of His love.'

'Yes, I dare say they would,' said Katie, who felt, perhaps, a little disappointed because Charley lingered a while shaking hands with Mrs. Val and Clementina Golightly.

It was, however, but for a moment. There was much shaking of hands to be done, and a considerable taking off of hats to be gone through; and as Alaric and Charley encountered the head of the column first, it was only natural that they should work their way through it gradually. Katie, however, never guessed—how could she?—that Charley had calculated that by reaching her last he would be able to remain with her.

She was still listening to Ugolina, who was mounting higher and higher up to heaven, when she found her hand in Charley's. Ugolina might now mount up, and get down again as best she could, for Katie could no longer listen to her.

Alaric had not seen her yet since her ducking. She had to listen to and to answer his congratulations, Charley standing by and making his comments.

'Charley says you took to the water quite naturally, and swam like a duck,' said Alaric.

'Only she went in head foremost,' said Charley.

'All bathers ought to do that,' said Alaric; 'and tell me, Katie, did you feel comfortable when you were in the water?'

'Indeed I don't recollect anything about it,' said she, 'only that I saw Charley coming to me, just when I was going to sink for the last time.'

'Sink! Why, I'm told that you floated like a deal board.'

'The big hat and the crinoline kept her up,' said Charley; 'she had no idea of sinking.'

'Oh! Charley, you know I was under the water for a long time; and that if you had not come, just at that very moment, I should never have come up again.'

And then Alaric went on, and Charley and Katie were left together.

How was she to give him the purse? It was burning a hole in her pocket till she could do so; and yet how was she to get it out of her possession into his, and make her little speech, here in the public garden? She could have done it easily enough at home in the drawing-room at Surbiton Cottage.

'And how do you like the gardens?' asked Charley.

'Oh! they are beautiful; but I have hardly been able to see anything yet. I have been going about with a great big Frenchman —there, that man there—he has such a queer name.'

'Did his name prevent your seeing?'

'No, not his name; I didn't know his name then.

But it seemed so odd to be walking about with such a man as that. But I want to go back, and look at the black and yellow roses in that house, there. Would you go with me? that is, if we may. I wonder whether we may!'

Charley was clearly of opinion that they might, and should, and would; and so away they sallied back to the roses, and Katie began to enjoy the first instalment of the happiness which she had anticipated. In the temple of the roses the crowd at first was great, and she could not get the purse out of her pocket, nor make her speech; but after a while the people passed on, and there was a lull before others filled their places, and Katie found herself opposite to a beautiful black rose, with no one close to her but Charley.

'I have got something for you,' she said; and as she spoke she felt herself to be almost hot with blushing.

'Something for me!' said Charley; and he also felt himself abashed, he did not know why.

'It's only a very little thing,' said Katie, feeling in her pocket, 'and I am almost ashamed to ask you to take it. But I made it all myself; no one else put a stitch in it,' and so saying, and looking round to see that she was not observed, she handed her gift to Charley.

'Oh! Katie, dearest Katie,' said he, 'I am so much obliged to you—I'll keep it till I die.'

'I didn't know what to make that was better,' said she.

'Nothing on earth could possibly be better,' said he.

'A plate of bread and butter and a purse are a very poor return for saving one's life,' said she, half laughing, half crying.

He looked at her with his eyes full of love; and as he looked, he swore within himself that come what might, he would never see Norah Geraghty again, but would devote his life to an endeavour to make himself worthy of the angel that was now with him. Katie the while was looking up anxiously into his face. She was thinking of no other love than that which it became her to feel for the man who had saved her life. She was thinking of no other love; but her young heart was opening itself to a very different feeling. She was sinking deep, deep in waters which were to go near to drown her warm heart; much nearer than those other waters which she fancied had all but closed for ever over her life.

She looked into his face and saw that he was pleased; and that, for the present, was enough for her. She was at any rate happy now. So they passed on through the roses, and then lost themselves among the geraniums, and wondered at the gigantic rhododendrons, and beautiful azaleas, and so went on from house to house, and from flower-bed to flower-bed, Katie talking and Charley listening, till she began to wonder at her former supineness, and to say both to herself and out loud to her companion, how very, very, very glad she was that her mother had let her come.

Poor Katie!—dear, darling, bonny Katie!—sweet sweetest, dearest child! why, oh why, has that mother of thine, that tender-hearted loving mother, put thee unguarded in the way of such peril as this? Has she not sworn to herself that over thee at least she would watch as a hen does over her young, so that no unfortunate love should quench thy young spirit, or blanch thy cheek's bloom? Has she not trembled at the thought of what would have befallen thee, had thy fate been such as Linda's? Has she not often—oh, how often!—on her knees thanked the Almighty God that Linda's spirit was not as thine; that this evil had happened to the lamb whose temper had been fitted by Him to endure it? And yet—here thou art—all unguarded, all unaided, left by thyself to drink of the cup of sweet poison, and none near to warn thee that the draught is deadly.

Alas!—'twould be useless to warn thee now. The false god has been placed upon the altar, the temple all shining with gems and gold has been built around him, the incense-cup is already swinging; nothing will now turn the idolater from her worship, nothing short of a miracle.

Our Katie's childish days are now all gone. A woman's passion glows within her breast, though as yet she has not scanned it with a woman's intelligence. Her mother, listening to a child's entreaty, had suffered her darling to go forth for a child's amusement. It was doomed that the child should return no more; but in lieu of her, a fair, heart-laden maiden, whose every fondest thought must henceforth be of a stranger's welfare and a stranger's fate.

But it must not be thought that Charley abused the friendship of Mrs. Woodward, and made love to Katie, as love is usually made— with warm words, assurances of affection, with squeezing of the hand, with sighs, and all a lover's ordinary catalogue of resources. Though we have said that he was a false god, yet he was hardly to be blamed for the temple, and gems, and gold, with which he was endowed; not more so, perhaps, than the unconscious bud which is made so sacred on the banks of the Egyptian river. He loved too, perhaps as warmly, though not so fatally as Katie did; but he spoke no word of his love. He walked among the flowers with her, laughing and listening to her in his usual light-hearted, easy manner; every now and again his arm would thrill with pleasure, as he felt on it the touch of her little fingers, and his heart would leap within him as he gazed on the speaking beauty of her face; but he was too honest-hearted to talk to the young girl, to Mrs. Woodward's child, of love. He talked to her as to a child—but she listened to him and loved him as a woman.

And so they rambled on till the hour appointed for quitting this Elysium had arrived. Every now and again they had a glimpse of some one of their party, which had satisfied Katie that they were not lost. At first Clementina was seen tracing with her parasol on the turf the plan of a new dance. Then Ugolina passed by them describing the poetry of the motion of the spheres in a full flow of impassioned eloquence to M. Delabarbe de l'Empereur: 'C'est toujours vrai; ce que mademoiselle dit est toujours vrai,' was the Frenchman's answer, which they heard thrice repeated. And then Lactimel and Captain Val were seen together, the latter having disappointed the prophecies which had been made respecting him. Lactimel had an idea that as the Scotts were great people, they were all in Parliament, and she was endeavouring to persuade Captain Val that something ought to be done for the poor.

'Think,' said she, 'only think, Captain Scott, of all the money that this fete must cost.'

'A doosed sight,' said the captain, hardly articulating from under his thick, sandy-coloured moustache, which, growing downwards from his nose, looked like a heavy thatch put on to protect his mouth from the inclemency of the clouds above. 'A doosed sight,' said the captain.

'Now suppose, Captain Scott, that all this money could be collected. The tickets, you know, and the dresses, and——'

'I wish I knew how to do it,' said the captain.

Lactimel went on with her little scheme for expending the cost of the flower-show in bread and bacon for the poor Irish of Saffron Hill; but Charley and Katie heard no more, for the mild philosopher passed out of hearing and out of sight.

At last Katie got a poke in her back from a parasol, just as Charley had expended half a crown, one of Mr. M'Ruen's last, in purchasing for her one simple beautiful flower, to put into her hair that night.

'You naughty puss!' said Gertrude, 'we have been looking for you all over the gardens. Mrs. Val and the Miss Neverbends have been waiting this half-hour.' Katie looked terribly frightened. 'Come along, and don't keep them waiting any longer. They are all in the passage. This was your fault, Master Charley.'

'O no, it was not,' said Katie; 'but we thought——'

'Never mind thinking,' said Gertrude, 'but come along.' And so they hurried on, and were soon replaced in their respective vehicles, and then went back to town.

'Well, I do think the Chiswick Gardens is the nicest place in all the world,' said Katie, leaning back in the cab, and meditating on her past enjoyment.

'They are very pretty—very,' said Lactimel Neverbend. 'I only wish every cottar had such a garden behind his cottage. I am sure we might manage it, if we set about it in the right way.'

'What! as big as Chiswick?' said Katie.

'No; not so big,' said Lactimel; 'but quite as nicely kept.'

'I think the pigs would get in,' said Katie.

'It would be much easier, and more important too, to keep their minds nicely,' said Ugolina; and there the pigs could never get in.'

'No; I suppose not,' said Katie.

'I don't know that,' said Lactimel.



CHAPTER XXVI

KATIE'S FIRST BALL

In spite of Mrs. Val's oft-repeated assurance that they would have none but nice people, she had done her best to fill her rooms, and not unsuccessfully. She had, it is true, eschewed the Golightly party, who resided some north of Oxford Street, in the purlieus of Fitzroy Square, and some even to the east of Tottenham Court Road. She had eschewed the Golightlys, and confined herself to the Scott connexion; but so great had been her success in life, that, even under these circumstances, she had found herself able to fill her rooms respectably. If, indeed, there was no absolute crowding, if some space was left in the front drawing-room sufficient for the operations of dancers, she could still attribute this apparent want of fashionable popularity to the selections of the few nice people whom she had asked. The Hon. Mrs. Val was no ordinary woman, and understood well how to make the most of the goods with which the gods provided her.

The Miss Neverbends were to dine with the Tudors, and go with them to the dance in the evening, and their brother Fidus was to meet them there. Charley was, of course, one of the party at dinner; and as there was no other gentleman there, Alaric had an excellent opportunity, when the ladies went up to their toilets, to impress on his cousin the expediency of his losing no time in securing to himself Miss Golightly's twenty thousand pounds. The conversation, as will be seen, at last became rather animated.

'Well, Charley, what do you think of the beautiful Clementina?' said Alaric, pushing over the bottle to his cousin, as soon as they found themselves alone. 'A 'doosed' fine girl, as Captain Val says, isn't she?'

'A 'doosed' fine girl, of course,' said Charley, laughing. 'She has too much go in her for me, I'm afraid.'

'Marriage and children will soon pull that down. She'd make an excellent wife for such a man as you; and to tell you the truth, Charley, if you'll take my advice, you'll lose no time in making up to her. She has got that d—— French fellow at her heels, and though I don't suppose she cares one straw about him, it may be well to make sure.'

'But you don't mean in earnest that you think that Miss Golightly would have me?'

'Indeed I do—you are just the man to get on with girls; and, as far as I can see, you are just the man that will never get on in any other way under the sun.'

Charley sighed as he thought of his many debts, his poor prospects, and his passionate love. There seemed, indeed, to be little chance that he ever would get on at all in the ordinary sense of the word. 'I'm sure she'd refuse me,' said he, still wishing to back out of the difficulty. 'I'm sure she would—I've not got a penny in the world, you know.'

'That's just the reason—she has got lots of money, and you have got none.'

'Just the reason why she should refuse me, you should say.'

'Well—what if she does? There's no harm done. 'Faint heart never won fair lady.' You've everything to back you—Mrs. Val is led by Undy Scott, and Undy is all on your side.'

'But she has got guardians, hasn't she?'

'Yes—her father's first cousin, old Sam Golightly. He is dying; or dead probably by this time; only Mrs. Val won't have the news brought to her, because of this party. He had a fit of apoplexy yesterday. Then there's her father's brother-in-law, Figgs; he's bedridden. When old Golightly is off the hooks altogether, another will be chosen, and Undy talks of putting in my name as that of a family friend; so you'll have everything to assist you.'

Charley looked very grave. He had not been in the habit of discussing such matters, but it seemed to him, that if Alaric was about to become in any legal manner the guardian of Miss Golightly's fortune, that that in itself was reason enough why he, Alaric, should not propose such a match as this. Needy men, to be sure, did often marry rich ladies, and the world looked on and regarded it only as a matter of course; but surely it would be the duty of a guardian to protect his ward from such a fate, if it were in his power to do so.

Alaric, who saw something of what was going on in his cousin's mind, essayed to remove the impression which was thus made. 'Besides, you know, Clementina is no chicken. Her fortune is at her own disposal. All the guardians on earth cannot prevent her marrying you if she makes up her mind to do so.'

Charley gulped down his glass of wine, and then sat staring at the fire, saying nothing further. It was true enough that he was very poor—true enough that Miss Golightly's fortune would set him on his legs, and make a man of him—true enough, perhaps, that no other expedient of which he could think would do so. But then there were so many arguments that were 'strong against the deed.' In the first place, he thought it impossible that he should be successful in such a suit, and then again it would hardly be honest to obtain such success, if it were possible; then, thirdly, he had no sort of affection whatsoever for Miss Golightly; and fourthly, lastly, and chiefly, he loved so dearly, tenderly, loved poor Katie Woodward.

As he thought of this, he felt horror-stricken with himself at allowing the idea of his becoming a suitor to another to dwell for an instant on his mind, and looking up with all the resolution which he was able to summon, he said—'It's impossible, Alaric, quite impossible! I couldn't do it.'

'Then what do you mean to do?' said Alaric, who was angry at having his scheme thus thwarted; 'do you mean to be a beggar?—or if not, how do you intend to get out of your difficulties?'

'I trust not a beggar,' said Charley, sadly.

'What other hope have you? what rational hope of setting yourself right?'

'Perhaps I may do something by writing,' said Charley, very bashfully.

'By writing! ha, ha, ha,' and Alaric laughed somewhat cruelly at the poor navvy—' do something by writing! what will you do by writing? will you make L20,000—or 20,000 pence? Of all trades going, that, I should say, is likely to be the poorest for a poor man—the poorest and the most heart-breaking. What have you made already to encourage you?'

'The editor says that 'Crinoline and Macassar' will come to L4 10s.'

'And when will you get it?'

'The editor says that the rule is to pay six months after the date of publication. The Daily Delight is only a new thing, you know. The editor says that, if the sale comes up to his expectations, he will increase the scale of pay.'

'A prospect of L4 10s. for a fortnight's hard work! That's a bad look-out, my boy; you had better take the heiress.'

'It may be a bad look-out,' said Charley, whose spirit was raised by his cousin's sneers—'but at any rate it's honest. And I'll tell you what, Alaric, I'd sooner earn L50 by writing for the press, than get L1,000 in any other way you can think of. It may be a poor trade in one way; and authors, I believe, are poor; but I am sure it has its consolations.'

'Well, Charley, I hope with all my heart that you may find them. For my own part, seeing what a place the world is, seeing what are the general aspirations of other men, seeing what, as it appears to me, the Creator has intended for the goal of our labours, I look for advancement, prosperity, and such rank and station as I may be able to win for myself. The labourer is worthy of his hire, and I do not mean to refuse such wages as may come in my way.'

'Yes,' said Charley, who, now that his spirit was roused, determined to fight his battle manfully, 'yes, the labourer is worthy of his hire; but were I to get Miss Golightly's fortune I should be taking the hire without labour.'

'Bah!' said Alaric.

'It would be dishonest in every way, for I do not love her, and should not love her at the moment that I married her.'

'Honesty!' said Alaric, still sneering; 'there is no sign of the dishonesty of the age so strong as the continual talk which one hears about honesty!' It was quite manifest that Alaric had not sat at the feet of Undy Scott without profiting by the lessons which he had heard.

'With what face,' continued he, 'can you pretend to be more honest than your neighbours?'

'I know that it is wrong, and unmanly too, to hunt a girl down merely for what she has got.'

'There are a great many wrong and unmanly men about, then,' said Alaric. 'Look through the Houses of Parliament, and see how many men there have married for money; aye, and made excellent husbands afterwards. I'll tell you what it is, Charley, it is all humbug in you to pretend to be better than others; you are not a bit better;—mind, I do not say you are worse. We have none of us too much of this honesty of which we are so fond of prating. Where was your honesty when you ordered the coat for which you know you cannot pay? or when you swore to the bootmaker that he should have the amount of his little bill after next quarter-day, knowing in your heart at the time that he wouldn't get a farthing of it? If you are so honest, why did you waste your money to-day in going to Chiswick, instead of paying some portion of your debts? Honest! you are, I dare say, indifferently honest as the world goes, like the rest of us. But I think you might put the burden of Clementina's fortune on your conscience without feeling much the worse for it after what you have already gone through.'

Charley became very red in the face as he sat silent, listening to Alaric's address—nor did he speak at once at the first pause, so Alaric went on. 'The truth, I take it, is, that at the present moment you have no personal fancy for this girl.'

'No, I have not,' said Charley.

'And you are so incredibly careless as to all prudential considerations as to prefer your immediate personal fancies to the future welfare of your whole life. I can say no more. If you will think well of my proposition, I will do all I can to assist you. I have no doubt you would make a good husband to Miss Golightly, and that she would be very happy with you. If you think otherwise there is an end of it; but pray do not talk so much about your honesty—your tailor would arrest you to-morrow if he heard you.'

'There are two kinds of honesty, I take it,' said Charley, speaking with suppressed anger and sorrow visible in his face, 'that which the world sees and that which it does not see. For myself, I have nothing to say in my own defence. I have made my bed badly, and must lie on it as it is. I certainly will not mend it by marrying a girl that I can never love. And as for you, Alaric, all who know you and love you watch your career with the greatest hope. We know your ambition, and all look to see you rise in the world. But in rising, as you will do, you should remember this—that nothing that is wrong can become right because other people do it.'

'Well, Charley,' said the other, 'thank you for the lecture. I did not certainly expect it from you; but it is not on that account the less welcome. And now, suppose we go upstairs and dress for Mrs. Val;' and so they went upstairs.

Katie's heart beat high as she got out of the carriage—Mrs. Val's private carriage had been kept on for the occasion—and saw before and above her on the stairs a crowd of muslin crushing its way on towards the room prepared for dancing. Katie had never been to a ball before. We hope that the word ball may not bring down on us the adverse criticism of the Morning Post. It was probably not a ball in the strictly fashionable sense of the word, but it was so to Katie to all intents and purposes. Her dancing had hitherto been done either at children's parties, or as a sort of supplemental amusement to the evening tea-gatherings at Hampton or Hampton Court. She had never yet seen the muse worshipped with the premeditated ceremony of banished carpets, chalked floors, and hired musicians. Her heart consequently beat high as she made her way upstairs, linked arm-in-arm with Ugolina Neverbend.

'Shall you dance much?' said Ugolina.

'Oh, I hope so,' said Katie.

'I shall not. It is an amusement of which I am peculiarly fond, and for which my active habits suit me.' This was probably said with some allusion to her sister, who was apt to be short of breath. 'But in the dances of the present day conversation is impossible, and I look upon any pursuit as barbaric which stops the "feast of reason and the flow of soul."'

Katie did not quite understand this, but she thought in her heart that she would not at all mind giving up talking for the whole evening if she could only get dancing enough. But on this matter her heart misgave her. To be sure, she was engaged to Charley for the first quadrille and second waltz; but there her engagements stopped, whereas Clementina, as she was aware, had a whole book full of them. What if she should get no more dancing when Charley's good nature should have been expended? She had an idea that no one would care to dance with her when older partners were to be had. Ah, Katie, you do not yet know the extent of your riches, or half the wealth of your own attractions!

And then they all heard another little speech from Mrs. Val. 'She was really quite ashamed—she really was—to see so many people; she could not wish any of her guests away, that would be impossible—though perhaps one or two might be spared,' she said in a confidential whisper to Gertrude. Who the one or two might be it would be difficult to decide, as she had made the same whisper to every one; 'but she really was ashamed; there was almost a crowd, and she had quite intended that the house should be nearly empty. The fact was, everybody asked had come, and as she could not, of course, have counted on that, why, she had got, you see, twice as many people as she had expected.' And then she went on, and made the same speech to the next arrival.

Katie, who wanted to begin the play at the beginning, kept her eye anxiously on Charley, who was still standing with Lactimel Neverbend on his arm. 'Oh, now,' said she to herself, 'if he should forget me and begin dancing with Miss Neverbend!' But then she remembered how he had jumped into the water, and determined that, even with such provocation as that, she must not be angry with him.

But there was no danger of Charley's forgetting. 'Come,' said he, 'we must not lose any more time, if we mean to dance the first set. Alaric will be our vis-a-vis—he is going to dance with Miss Neverbend,' and so they stood up. Katie tightened her gloves, gave her dress a little shake, looked at her shoes, and then the work of the evening began.

'I shouldn't have liked to have sat down for the first dance,' she said confidentially to Charley,' because it's my first ball.'

'Sit down! I don't suppose you'll be let to sit down the whole evening. You'll be crying out for mercy about three or four o'clock in the morning.'

'It's you to go on now,' said Katie, whose eyes were intent on the figure, and who would not have gone wrong herself, or allowed her partner to do so, on any consideration. And so the dance went on right merrily.

'I've got to dance the first polka with Miss Golightly,' said Charley.

'And the next with me,' said Katie.

'You may be sure I shan't forget that.'

'You lucky man to get Miss Golightly for a partner. I am told she is the most beautiful dancer in the world.'

'O no—Mademoiselle.......is much better,' said Charley, naming the principal stage performer of the day. 'If one is to go the whole hog, one had better do it thoroughly.'

Katie did not quite understand then what he meant, and merely replied that she would look at the performance. In this, however, she was destined to be disappointed, for Charley had hardly left her before Miss Golightly brought up to her the identical M. Delabarbe de l'Empereur who had so terribly put her out in the gardens. This was done so suddenly, that Katie's presence of mind was quite insufficient to provide her with any means of escape. The Frenchman bowed very low and said nothing. Katie made a little curtsy, and was equally silent. Then she felt her own arm gathered up and put within his, and she stood up to take her share in the awful performance. She felt herself to be in such a nervous fright that she would willingly have been home again at Hampton if she could; but as this was utterly impossible, she had only to bethink herself of her steps, and get through the work as best she might.

Away went Charley and Clementina leading the throng; away went M. Jaquetanape and Linda; away went another Frenchman, clasping in his arms the happy Ugolina. Away went Lactimel with a young Weights and Measures—and then came Katie's turn. She pressed her lips together, shut her eyes, and felt the tall Frenchman's arms behind her back, and made a start. 'Twas like plunging into cold water on the first bathing day of the season—'ce n'est que le premier pas que coute.' When once off Katie did not find it so bad. The Frenchman danced well, and Katie herself was a wicked little adept. At home, at Surbiton, dancing with another girl, she had with great triumph tired out the fingers both of her mother and sister, and forced them to own that it was impossible to put her down. M. de l'Empereur, therefore, had his work before him, and he did it like a man—as long as he could.

Katie, who had not yet assumed the airs or will of a grown-up young lady, thought that she was bound to go on as long as her grand partner chose to go with her. He, on the other hand, accustomed in his gallantry to obey all ladies' wishes, considered himself bound to leave it to her to stop when she pleased. And so they went on with apparently interminable gyrations. Charley and the heiress had twice been in motion, and had twice stopped, and still they were going on; Ugolina had refreshed herself with many delicious observations, and Lactimel had thrice paused to advocate dancing for the million, and still they went on; the circle was gradually left to themselves, and still they went on; people stood round, some admiring and others pitying; and still they went on. Katie, thinking of her steps and her business, did not perceive that she and her partner were alone; and ever and anon, others of course joined in—and so they went on—and on—and on.

M. Delabarbe de l'Empereur was a strong and active man, but he began to perceive that the lady was too much for him. He was already melting away with his exertions, while his partner was as cool as a cucumber. She, with her active young legs, her lightly filled veins, and small agile frame, could have gone on almost for ever; but M. de l'Empereur was more encumbered. Gallantry was at last beat by nature, his overtasked muscles would do no more for him, and he was fain to stop, dropping his partner into a chair, and throwing himself in a state of utter exhaustion against the wall.

Katie was hardly out of breath as she received the congratulations of her friends; but at the moment she could not understand why they were quizzing her. In after times, however, she was often reproached with having danced a Frenchman to death in the evening, in revenge for his having bored her in the morning. It was observed that M. Delabarbe de l'Empereur danced no more that evening. Indeed, he very soon left the house.

Katie had not been able to see Miss Golightly's performance, but it had been well worth seeing. She was certainly no ordinary performer, and if she did not quite come up to the remarkable movements which one sees on the stage under the name of dancing, the fault was neither in her will nor her ability, but only in her education. Charley also was peculiarly well suited to give her 'ample verge and room enough' to show off all her perfections. Her most peculiar merit consisted, perhaps, in her power of stopping herself suddenly, while going on at the rate of a hunt one way, and without any pause or apparent difficulty going just as fast the other way. This was done by a jerk which must, one would be inclined to think, have dislocated all her bones and entirely upset her internal arrangements. But no; it was done without injury, or any disagreeable result either to her brain or elsewhere. We all know how a steamer is manoeuvred when she has to change her course, how we stop her and ease her and back her; but Miss Golightly stopped and eased and backed all at once, and that without collision with any other craft. It was truly very wonderful, and Katie ought to have looked at her.

Katie soon found occasion to cast off her fear that her evening's happiness would be destroyed by a dearth of partners. Her troubles began to be of an exactly opposite description. She had almost envied Miss Golightly her little book full of engagements, and now she found herself dreadfully bewildered by a book of her own. Some one had given her a card and a pencil, and every moment she could get to herself was taken up in endeavouring to guard herself from perfidy on her own part. All down the card, at intervals which were not very far apart, there were great C's, which stood for Charley, and her firmest feeling was that no earthly consideration should be allowed to interfere with those landmarks. And then there were all manner of hieroglyphics— sometimes, unfortunately, illegible to Katie herself—French names and English names mixed together in a manner most vexatious; and to make matters worse, she found that she had put down both Victoire Jaquetanape and Mr. Johnson of the Weights, by a great I, and she could not remember with whom she was bound to dance the lancers, and to which she had promised the last polka before supper. One thing, however, was quite fixed: when supper should arrive she was to go downstairs with Charley.

'What dreadful news, Linda!' said Charley; 'did you hear it?' Linda was standing up with Mr. Neverbend for a sober quadrille, and Katie also was close by with her partner. 'Dreadful news indeed!'

'What is it?' said Linda.

'A man can die but once, to be sure; but to be killed in such a manner as that, is certainly very sad.'

'Killed! who has been killed?' said Neverbend.

'Well, perhaps I shouldn't say killed. He only died in the cab as he went home.'

'Died in a cab! how dreadful!' said Neverbend. 'Who? who was it, Mr. Tudor?'

'Didn't you hear? How very odd! Why M. de l'Empereur, to be sure. I wonder what the coroner will bring it in.'

'How can you talk such nonsense, Charley?' said Linda.

'Very well, Master Charley,' said Katie. 'All that comes of being a writer of romances. I suppose that's to be the next contribution to the Daily Delight.'

Neverbend went off on his quadrille not at all pleased with the joke. Indeed, he was never pleased with a joke, and in this instance he ventured to suggest to his partner that the idea of a gentleman expiring in a cab was much too horrid to be laughed at.

'Oh, we never mind Charley Tudor,' said Linda; 'he always goes on in that way. We all like him so much.'

Mr. Neverbend, who, though not very young, still had a susceptible heart within his bosom, had been much taken by Linda's charms. He already began to entertain an idea that as a Mrs. Neverbend would be a desirable adjunct to his establishment at some future period, he could not do better than offer himself and his worldly goods to the acceptance of Miss Woodward; he therefore said nothing further in disparagement of the family friend; but he resolved that no such alliance should ever induce him to make Mr. Charles Tudor welcome at his house. But what could he have expected? The Internal Navigation had ever been a low place, and he was surprised that the Hon. Mrs. Val should have admitted one of the navvies inside her drawing-room.

And so the ball went on. Mr. Johnson came duly for the lancers, and M. Jaquetanape for the polka. Johnson was great at the lancers, knowing every turn and vagary in that most intricate and exclusive of dances; and it need hardly be said that the polka with M. Jaquetanape was successful. The last honour, however, was not without evil results, for it excited the envy of Ugolina, who, proud of her own performance, had longed, but hitherto in vain, to be whirled round the room by that wondrously expert foreigner.

'Well, my dear,' said Ugolina, with an air that plainly said that Katie was to be treated as a child, 'I hope you have had dancing enough.'

'Oh, indeed I have not,' said Katie, fully appreciating the purport and cause of her companion's remark; 'not near enough.'

'Ah—but, my dear—you should remember,' said Ugolina; 'your mamma will be displeased if you fatigue yourself.'

'My mamma is never displeased because we amuse ourselves, and I am not a bit fatigued;' and so saying Katie walked off, and took refuge with her sister Gertrude. What business had any Ugolina Neverbend to interfere between her and her mamma?

Then came the supper. There was a great rush to get downstairs, but Charley was so clever that even this did not put him out. Of course there was no sitting down; which means that the bashful, retiring, and obedient guests were to stand on their legs; while those who were forward, and impudent, and disobedient, found seats for themselves wherever they could. Charley was certainly among the latter class, and he did not rest therefore till he had got Katie into an old arm-chair in one corner of the room, in such a position as to enable himself to eat his own supper leaning against the chimney-piece.

'I say, Johnson,' said he, 'do bring me some ham and chicken— it's for a lady—I'm wedged up here and can't get out—and, Johnson, some sherry.'

The good-natured young Weights obeyed, and brought the desired provisions.

'And Johnson—upon my word I'm sorry to be so troublesome—but one more plateful if you please—for another lady—a good deal, if you please, for this lady, for she's very hungry; and some more sherry.'

Johnson again obeyed—the Weights are always obedient—and Charley of course appropriated the second portion to his own purposes.

'Oh, Charley, that was a fib—now wasn't it? You shouldn't have said it was for a lady.'

'But then I shouldn't have got it.'

'Oh, but that's no reason; according to that everybody might tell a fib whenever they wanted anything.'

'Well, everybody does—everybody except you, Katie.'

'O no,' said Katie—'no they don't—mamma, and Linda, and Gertrude never do; nor Harry Norman, he never does, nor Alaric.'

'No, Harry Norman never does,' said Charley, with something like vexation in his tone. He made no exception to Katie's list of truth-tellers, but he was thinking within himself whether Alaric had a juster right to be in the catalogue than himself. 'Harry Norman never does, certainly. You must not compare me with them, Katie. They are patterns of excellence. I am all the other way, as everybody knows.' He was half laughing as he spoke, but Katie's sharp ear knew that he was more than half in earnest, and she felt she had pained him by what she had said.

'Oh, Charley, I didn't mean that; indeed I did not. I know that in all serious things you are as truthful as they are—and quite as good—that is, in many ways.' Poor Katie! she wanted to console him, she wanted to be kind, and yet she could not be dishonest.

'Quite as good! no, you know I am not.'

'You are as good-hearted, if not better; and you will be as steady, won't you, Charley? I am sure you will; and I know you are more clever, really more clever than either of them.'

'Oh! Katie.'

'I am quite sure you are. I have always said so; don't be angry with me for what I said.'

'Angry with you! I couldn't be angry with you.'

'I wouldn't, for the world, say anything to vex you. I like you better than either of them, though Alaric is my brother-in-law. Of course I do; how could I help it, when you saved my life?'

'Saved your life! Pooh! I didn't save your life. Any boy could have done the same, or any waterman about the place. When you fell in, the person who was nearest you pulled you out, that was all.'

There was something almost approaching to ferocity in his voice as he said this; and yet when Katie timidly looked up she saw that he had turned his back to the room, and that his eyes were full of tears. He had felt that he was loved by this child, but that he was loved from a feeling of uncalled-for gratitude. He could not stop to analyse this, to separate the sweet from the bitter; but he knew that the latter prevailed. It is so little flattering to be loved when such love is the offspring of gratitude. And then when that gratitude is unnecessary, when it has been given in mistake for supposed favours, the acceptance of such love is little better than a cheat!

'That was not all,' said Katie, very decidedly. 'It never shall be all in my mind. If you had not been with us I should now have been drowned, and cold, and dead; and mamma! where would she have been? Oh! Charley, I shall think myself so wicked if I have said anything to vex you.'

Charley did not analyse his feelings, nor did Katie analyse hers. It would have been impossible for her to do so. But could she have done it, and had she done it, she would have found that her gratitude was but the excuse which she made to herself for a passionate love which she could not have excused, even to herself, in any other way.

He said everything he could to reassure her and make her happy, and she soon smiled and laughed again.

'Now, that's what my editor would call a Nemesis,' said Charley.

'Oh, that's a Nemesis, is it?'

'Johnson was cheated into doing my work, and getting me my supper; and then you scolded me, and took away my appetite, so that I couldn't eat it; that's a Nemesis. Johnson is avenged, only, unluckily, he doesn't know it, and wickedness is punished.'

'Well, mind you put it into the Daily Delight. But all the girls are going upstairs; pray let me get out,' and so Katie went upstairs again.

It was then past one. About two hours afterwards, Gertrude, looking for her sister that she might take her home, found her seated on a bench, with her feet tucked under her dress. She was very much fatigued, and she looked to be so; but there was still a bright laughing sparkle in her eye, which showed that her spirits were not even yet weary.

'Well, Katie, have you had enough dancing?'

'Nearly,' said Katie, yawning.

'You look as if you couldn't stand.'

'Yes, I am too tired to stand; but still I think I could dance a little more, only—'

'Only what?'

'Whisper,' said Katie; and Gertrude put down her ear near to her sister's lips. 'Both my shoes are quite worn out, and my toes are all out on the floor.'

It was clearly time for them to go home, so away they all went.



CHAPTER XXVII

EXCELSIOR

The last words that Katie spoke as she walked down Mrs. Val's hall, leaning on Charley's arm, as he led her to the carriage, were these—

'You will be steady, Charley, won't you? you will try to be steady, won't you, dear Charley?' and as she spoke she almost imperceptibly squeezed the arm on which she was leaning. Charley pressed her little hand as he parted from her, but he said nothing. What could he say, in that moment of time, in answer to such a request? Had he made the reply which would have come most readily to his lips, it would have been this: 'It is too late, Katie—too late for me to profit by a caution, even from you—no steadiness now will save me.' Katie, however, wanted no other answer than the warm pressure which she felt on her hand.

And then, leaning back in the carriage, and shutting her eyes, she tried to think quietly over the events of the night. But it was, alas! a dream, and yet so like reality that she could not divest herself of the feeling that the ball was still going on. She still seemed to see the lights and hear the music, to feel herself whirled round the room, and to see others whirling, whirling, whirling on every side of her. She thought over all the names on her card, and the little contests that had taken place for her hand, and all Charley's jokes, and M. de l'Empereur's great disaster; and then as she remembered how long she had gone on twisting round with the poor unfortunate ill-used Frenchman, she involuntarily burst out into a fit of laughter.

'Good gracious, Katie, what is the matter? I thought you were asleep,' said Gertrude.

'So did I,' said Linda. 'What on earth can you be laughing at now?'

'I was laughing at myself,' said Katie, still going on with her half-suppressed chuckle, 'and thinking what a fool I was to go on dancing so long with that M. de l'Empereur. Oh dear, Gertrude, I am so tired: shall we be home soon?' and then she burst out crying.

The excitement and fatigue of the day had been too much for her, and she was now completely overcome. Ugolina Neverbend's advice, though not quite given in the kindest way, had in itself been good. Mrs. Woodward would, in truth, have been unhappy could she have seen her child at this moment. Katie made an attempt to laugh off her tears, but she failed, and her sobs then became hysterical, and she lay with her head on her married sister's shoulder, almost choking herself in her attempts to repress them.

'Dear Katie, don't sob so,' said Linda—'don't cry, pray don't cry, dear Katie.'

'She had better let it have its way,' said Gertrude; 'she will be better directly, won't you, Katie?'

In a little time she was better, and then she burst out laughing again. 'I wonder why the man went on when he was so tired. What a stupid man he must be!'

Gertrude and Linda both laughed in order to comfort her and bring her round.

'Do you know, I think it was because he didn't know how to say 'stop' in English;' and then she burst out laughing again, and that led to another fit of hysterical tears.

When they reached home Gertrude and Linda soon got her into bed. Linda was to sleep with her, and she also was not very long in laying her head on her pillow. But before she did so Katie was fast asleep, and twice in her sleep she cried out, 'Oh, Charley! Oh, Charley!' Then Linda guessed how it was with her sister, and in the depths of her loving heart she sorrowed for the coming grief which she foresaw.

When the morning came Katie was feverish, and had a headache. It was thought better that she should remain in town, and Alaric took Linda down to Hampton. The next day Mrs. Woodward came up, and as the invalid was better she took her home. But still she was an invalid. The doctor declared that she had never quite recovered from her fall into the river, and prescribed quiet and cod-liver oil. All the truth about the Chiswick fete and the five hours' dancing, and the worn-out shoes, was not told to him, or he might, perhaps, have acquitted the water-gods of the injury. Nor was it all, perhaps, told to Mrs. Woodward.

'I'm afraid she tired herself at the ball,' said Mrs. Woodward.

'I think she did a little,' said Linda.

'Did she dance much?' said Mrs. Woodward, looking anxiously.

'She did dance a good deal,' said Linda.

Mrs. Woodward was too wise to ask any further questions.

As it was a fine night Alaric had declared his intention of walking home from Mrs. Val's party, and he and Charley started together. They soon parted on their roads, but not before Alaric had had time to notice Charley's perverse stupidity as to Miss Golightly.

'So you wouldn't take my advice about Clementina?' said he.

'It was quite impossible, Alaric,' said Charley, in an apologetic voice. 'I couldn't do it, and, what is more, I am sure I never shall.'

'No, not now; you certainly can't do it now. If I am not very much mistaken, the chance is gone. I think you'll find she engaged herself to that Frenchman tonight.'

'Very likely,' said Charley.

'Well—I did the best I could for you. Good night, old fellow.'

'I'm sure I'm much obliged to you. Good night,' said Charley.

Alaric's suggestion with reference to the heiress was quite correct: M. Jaquetanape had that night proposed, and been duly accepted. He was to present himself to his loved one's honourable mother on the following morning as her future son-in-law, comforted and supported in his task of doing so by an assurance from the lady that if her mother would not give her consent the marriage should go on all the same without it. How delightful to have such a dancer for her lover! thought Clementina. That was her 'Excelsior.'

Charley walked home with a sad heart. He had that day given a pledge that he would on the morrow go to the 'Cat and Whistle,' and visit his lady-love. Since the night when he sat there with Norah Geraghty on his knee, now nearly a fortnight since, he had spent but little of his time there. He had, indeed, gone there once or twice with his friend Scatterall, but had contrived to avoid any confidential intercourse with either the landlady or the barmaid, alleging, as an excuse for his extra-ordinary absence, that his time was wholly occupied by the demands made on it by the editor of the Daily Delight. Mrs. Davis, however, was much too sharp, and so also we may say was Miss Geraghty, to be deceived. They well knew that such a young man as Charley would go wherever his inclination led him. Till lately it had been all but impossible to get him out of the little back parlour at the 'Cat and Whistle'; now it was nearly as difficult to get him into it. They both understood what this meant.

'You'd better take up with Peppermint and have done with it,' said the widow. 'What's the good of your shilly-shallying till you're as thin as a whipping-post? If you don't mind what you're after he'll be off too.'

'And the d—— go along with him,' said Miss Geraghty, who had still about her a twang of the County Clare, from whence she came.

'With all my heart,' said Mrs. Davis; 'I shall save my hundred pounds: but if you'll be led by me you'll not throw Peppermint over till you're sure of the other; and, take my word for it, you're——'

'I hate Peppermint.'

'Nonsense; he's an honest good sort of man, and a deal more likely to keep you out of want than the other.'

Hereupon Norah began to cry, and to wipe her beautiful eyes with the glass-cloth. Hers, indeed, was a cruel position. Her face was her fortune, and her fortune she knew was deteriorating from day to day. She could not afford to lose the lover that she loved, and also the lover that she did not love. Matrimony with her was extremely desirable, and she was driven to confess that it might very probably be either now or never. Much as she hated Peppermint, she was quite aware that she would take him if she could not do better. But then, was it absolutely certain that she must lose the lover that so completely suited her taste? Mrs. Davis said it was. Norah herself, confiding, as it is so natural that ladies should do, a little too much in her own beauty, thought that she couldn't but have a chance left. She also had her high aspirations; she desired to rise in the world, to leave goes of gin and screws of tobacco behind her, and to reach some position more worthy of the tastes of a woman. 'Excelsior,' translated doubtless into excellent Irish, was her motto also. It would be so great a thing to be the wife of Charles Tudor, Esq., of the Civil Service, and more especially as she dearly and truly loved the same Charles Tudor in her heart of hearts.

She knew, however, that it was not for her to indulge in the luxury of a heart, if circumstances absolutely forbade it. To eat and drink and clothe herself, and, if possible, to provide eating and drinking and clothes for her future years, this was the business of life, this was the only real necessity. She had nothing to say in opposition to Mrs. Davis, and therefore she went on crying, and again wiped her eyes with the glass-cloth.

Mrs. Davis, however, was no stern monitor, unindulgent to the weakness of human nature. When she saw how Norah took to heart her sad fate, she resolved to make one more effort in her favour. She consequently dressed herself very nicely, put on her best bonnet, and took the unprecedented step of going off to the Internal Navigation, and calling on Charley in the middle of his office.

Charley was poking over the Kennett and Avon lock entries, with his usual official energy, when the office messenger came up and informed him that a lady was waiting to see him.

'A lady!' said Charley: 'what lady?' and he immediately began thinking of the Woodwards, whom he was to meet that afternoon at Chiswick.

'I'm sure I can't say, sir: all that she said was that she was a lady,' answered the messenger, falsely, for he well knew that the woman was Mrs. Davis, of the 'Cat and Whistle.'

Now the clerks at the Internal Navigation were badly off for a waiting-room; and in no respect can the different ranks of different public offices be more plainly seen than in the presence or absence of such little items of accommodation as this. At the Weights and Measures there was an elegant little chamber, carpeted, furnished with leathern-bottomed chairs, and a clock, supplied with cream-laid note-paper, new pens, and the Times newspaper, quite a little Elysium, in which to pass half an hour, while the Secretary, whom one had called to see, was completing his last calculation on the matter of the decimal coinage. But there were no such comforts at the Internal Navigation. There was, indeed, a little room at the top of the stairs, in which visitors were requested to sit down; but even here two men were always at work—at work, or else at play.

Into this room Mrs. Davis was shown, and there Charley found her. Long and intimately as the young navvy had been acquainted with the landlady of the 'Cat and Whistle,' he had never before seen her arrayed for the outer world. It may be doubted whether Sir John Falstaff would, at the first glance, have known even Dame Quickly in her bonnet, that is, if Dame Quickly in those days had had a bonnet. At any rate Charley was at fault for a moment, and was shaking hands with the landlady before he quite recognized who she was.

The men in the room, however, had recognized her, and Charley well knew that they had done so.

'Mr. Tudor,' she began, not a bit abashed, 'I want to know what it is you are a-going to do?'

Though she was not abashed, Charley was, and very much so. However, he contrived to get her out of the room, so that he might speak to her somewhat more privately in the passage. The gentlemen at the Internal Navigation were well accustomed to this mode of colloquy, as their tradesmen not unfrequently called, with the view of having a little conversation, which could not conveniently be held in the public room.

'And, Mr. Tudor, what are you a-going to do about that poor girl there?' said Mrs. Davis, as soon as she found herself in the passage, and saw that Charley was comfortably settled with his back against the wall.

'She may go to Hong-Kong for me.' That is what Charley should have said. But he did not say it. He had neither the sternness of heart nor the moral courage to enable him to do so. He was very anxious, it is true, to get altogether quit of Norah Geraghty; but his present immediate care was confined to a desire of getting Mrs. Davis out of the office.

'Do!' said Charley. 'Oh, I don't know; I'll come and settle something some of these days; let me see when—say next Tuesday.'

'Settle something,' said Mrs. Davis. 'If you are an honest man, as I take you, there is only one thing to settle; when do you mean to marry her?'

'Hush!' said Charley; for, as she was speaking, Mr. Snape came down the passage leading from Mr. Oldeschole's room. 'Hush!' Mr. Snape as he passed walked very slowly, and looked curiously round into the widow's face. 'I'll be even with you, old fellow, for that,' said Charley to himself; and it may be taken for granted that he kept his word before long.

'Oh! it is no good hushing any more,' said Mrs. Davis, hardly waiting till Mr. Snape's erect ears were out of hearing. 'Hushing won't do no good; there's that girl a-dying, and her grave'll be a-top of your head, Mr. Tudor; mind I tell you that fairly; so now I want to know what it to you're a-going to do.' And then Mrs. Davis lifted up the lid of a market basket which hung on her left arm, took out her pocket-handkerchief, and began to wipe her eyes.

Unfortunate Charley! An idea occurred to him that he might bolt and leave her. But then the chances were that she would make her way into his very room, and tell her story there, out before them all. He well knew that this woman was capable of many things if her temper were fairly roused. And yet what could he say to her to induce her to go out from that building, and leave him alone to his lesser misfortunes?

'She's a-dying, I tell you, Mr. Tudor,' continued the landlady, 'and if she do die, be sure of this, I won't be slow to tell the truth about it. I'm the only friend she's got, and I'm not going to see her put upon. So just tell me this in two words—what is it you're a-going to do?' And then Mrs. Davis replaced her kerchief in the basket, stood boldly erect in the middle of the passage, waiting for Charley's answer.

Just at this moment Mr. Snape again appeared in the passage, going towards Mr. Oldeschole's room. The pernicious old man! He hated Charley Tudor; and, to tell the truth, there was no love lost between them. Charley, afflicted and out of spirits as he was at the moment, could not resist the opportunity of being impertinent to his old foe: 'I'm afraid you'll make yourself very tired, Mr. Snape, if you walk about so much,' said he. Mr. Snape merely looked at him, and then hard at Mrs. Davis, and passed on to Mr. Oldeschole's room.

'Well, Mr. Tudor, will you be so good as to tell me what it is you're going to do about this poor girl?'

'My goodness, Mrs. Davis, you know how I am situated—how can you expect me to give an answer to such a question in such a place as this? I'll come to the 'Cat and Whistle' on Tuesday.'

'Gammon!' said the eloquent lady. 'You know you means gammon.'

Charley, perhaps, did mean gammon; but he protested that he had never been more truthfully in earnest in his life. Mr. Oldeschole's door opened, and Mrs. Davis perceiving it, whipped out her handkerchief in haste, and again began wiping her eyes, not without audible sobs. 'Confound the woman!' said Charley to himself; 'what on earth shall I do with her?'

Mr. Oldeschole's door opened, and out of it came Mr. Oldeschole, and Mr. Snape following him. What means the clerk had used to bring forth the Secretary need not now be inquired. Forth they both came, and passed along the passage, brushing close by Charley and Mrs. Davis; Mr. Oldeschole, when he saw that one of the clerks was talking to a woman who apparently was crying, looked very intently on the ground, and passed by with a quick step; Mr. Snape looked as intently at the woman, and passed very slowly. Each acted according to his lights.

'I don't mean gammon at all, Mrs. Davis—indeed, I don't—I'll be there on Tuesday night certainly, if not sooner—I will indeed—I shall be in a desperate scrape if they see me here talking to you any longer; there is a rule against women being in the office at all.'

'And there's a rule against the clerks marrying, I suppose,' said Mrs. Davis.

The colloquy ended in Charley promising to spend the Saturday evening at the 'Cat and Whistle,' with the view of then and there settling what he meant to do about 'that there girl'; nothing short of such an undertaking on his part would induce Mrs. Davis to budge. Had she known her advantage she might have made even better terms. He would almost rather have given her a written promise to marry her barmaid, than have suffered her to remain there till Mr. Oldeschole should return and see her there again. So Mrs. Davis, with her basket and pocket-handkerchief, went her way about her marketing, and Charley, as he returned to his room, gave the strictest injunctions to the messenger that not, on any ground or excuse whatever, was any woman to be again allowed to see him at the office.

When, therefore, on the fine summer morning, with the early daylight all bright around him, Charley walked home from Mrs. Val's party, he naturally felt sad enough. He had one sixpence left in his pocket; he was engaged to spend the evening of the following day with the delightful Norah at the 'Cat and Whistle,' then and there to plight her his troth, in whatever formal and most irretrievable manner Mrs. Davis might choose to devise; and as he thought of these things he had ringing in his ears the last sounds of that angel voice, 'You will be steady, Charley, won't you? I know you will, dear Charley—won't you now?'

Steady! Would not the best thing for him be to step down to Waterloo Bridge and throw himself over? He still had money enough left to pay the toll—though not enough to hire a pistol. And so he went home and got into bed.

On that same day, the day that was to witness Charley's betrothal to Miss Geraghty, and that of M. Jaquetanape with Miss Golightly, Alaric Tudor had an appointment with Sir Gregory Hardlines at the new office of the Civil Service Examination Board. Alaric had been invited to wait upon the great man, in terms which made him perfectly understand that the communication to be made was one which would not be unpleasing or uncomplimentary to himself. Indeed, he pretty well guessed what was to be said to him. Since his promotion at the Weights and Measures he had gone on rising in estimation as a man of value to the Civil Service at large. Nearly two years had now passed since that date, and in these pages nothing has been said of his official career during the time. It had, however, been everything that he or his friends could have wished it to be. He had so put himself forward as absolutely to have satisfied the actual chief clerk of his office, and was even felt by some of the secretaries to be treading very closely on their heels.

And yet a great portion of his time had been spent, not at the Weights and Measures, but in giving some sort of special assistance to Sir Gregory's Board. The authorities at the Weights and Measures did not miss him; they would have been well content that he should have remained for ever with Sir Gregory.

He had also become somewhat known to the official world, even beyond the confines of the Weights and Measures, or the Examination Board, He had changed his club, and now belonged to the Downing. He had there been introduced by his friend Undy to many men, whom to know should be the very breath in the nostrils of a rising official aspirant. Mr. Whip Vigil, of the Treasury, had more than once taken him by the hand, and even the Chancellor of the Exchequer usually nodded to him whenever that o'ertasked functionary found a moment to look in at the official club.

Things had not been going quite smoothly at the Examination Board. Tidings had got about that Mr. Jobbles was interfering with Sir Gregory, and that Sir Gregory didn't like it. To be sure, when this had been indiscreetly alluded to in the House by one of those gentlemen who pass their leisure hours in looking out for raws in the hide of the Government carcass, some other gentleman, some gentleman from the Treasury bench, had been able to give a very satisfactory reply. For why, indeed, should any gentleman sit on the Treasury bench if he be not able, when so questioned, to give very satisfactory replies? Giving satisfactory replies to ill-natured questions is, one may say, the constitutional work of such gentlemen, who have generally well learned how to do so, and earned their present places by asking the selfsame questions themselves, when seated as younger men in other parts of the House.

But though the answer given in this instance was so eminently satisfactory as to draw down quite a chorus of triumphant acclamations from the official supporters of Government, nevertheless things had not gone on at the Board quite as smoothly as might have been desirable. Mr. Jobbles was enthusiastically intent on examining the whole adult male population of Great Britain, and had gone so far as to hint that female competitors might, at some future time, be made subject to his all-measuring rule and compass. Sir Gregory, however, who, having passed his early days in an office, may, perhaps, be supposed to have had some slight prejudice remaining in favour of ancient customs, was not inclined to travel so quickly. Moreover, he preferred following his own lead, to taking any other lead whatever that Mr. Jobbles might point out as preferable.

Mr. Jobbles wanted to crush all patronage at a blow; any system of patronage would lamentably limit the number of candidates among whom his examination papers would be distributed. He longed to behold, crowding around him, an attendance as copious as Mr. Spurgeon's, and to see every head bowed over the posing questions which he should have dictated. No legion could be too many for him. He longed to be at this great work; but his energies were crushed by the opposition of his colleagues. Sir Gregory thought —and Sir Warwick, though he hardly gave a firm support to Sir Gregory, would not lend his countenance to Mr. Jobbles—Sir Gregory thought that enough would be done for the present, if they merely provided that every one admitted into the Service should be educated in such a manner as to be fit for any profession or calling under the sun; and that, with this slight proviso, the question of patronage might for the present remain untouched. 'Do you,' he would have said to the great officers of Government, 'appoint whom you like. In this respect remain quite unfettered. I, however, I am the St. Peter to whom are confided the keys of the Elysium. Do you send whatever candidates you please: it is for me merely to say whether or not they shall enter.' But Mr. Jobbles would have gone much farther. He would have had all mankind for candidates, and have selected from the whole mass those most worthy of the high reward. And so there was a split at the Examination Board, which was not to be healed even by the very satisfactory reply given by the Treasury gentleman in the House of Commons.

Neither Sir Gregory nor his rival were men likely to give way, and it soon appeared manifest to the powers that be, that something must be done. It therefore came to light that Mr. Jobbles had found that his clerical position was hardly compatible with a seat at a lay board, and he retired to the more congenial duties of a comfortable prebendal stall at Westminster. 'So that by his close vicinity,' as was observed by a newspaper that usually supported the Government, 'he might be able to be of material use, whenever his advice should be required by the Board of Commissioners.' Sir Gregory in the meantime was instructed to suggest the name of another colleague; and, therefore, he sent for Alaric Tudor.

Alaric, of course, knew well what had been going on at the Board. He had been Sir Gregory's confidential man all through; had worked out cases for him, furnished him with arguments, backed his views, and had assisted him, whenever such a course had been necessary, in holding Mr. Jobbles' head under the pump. Alaric knew well on which side his bread was buttered, and could see with a glance which star was in the ascendant; he perfectly understood the points and merits of the winning horse. He went in to win upon Sir Gregory, and he won. When Mr. Jobbles made his last little speech at the Board, and retired to his house in the Dean's yard, Alaric felt tolerably certain that he himself would be invited to fill the vacant place.

And he was so invited. 'That is L1,200 a year, at any rate,' said he to himself, as with many words of submissive gratitude he thanked his patron for the nomination. 'That is L1,200 a year. So far, so good. And now what must be the next step? Excelsior! It is very nice to be a Commissioner, and sit at a Board at Sir Gregory's right hand: much nicer than being a junior clerk at the Weights and Measures, like Harry Norman. But there are nicer things even than that; there are greater men even than Sir Gregory; richer figures than even L1,200 a year!'

So he went to his old office, wrote his resignation, and walked home meditating to what next step above he should now aspire to rise. 'Excelsior!' he still said to himself, 'Excelsior!'

At the same moment Charley was leaving the Internal Navigation, and as he moved with unusual slowness down the steps, he bethought himself how he might escape from the fangs of his Norah; how, if such might still be possible, he might fit himself for the love of Katie Woodward. Excelsior! such also was the thought of his mind; but he did not dare to bring the word to utterance. It was destined that his thoughts should be interrupted by no very friendly hand.



CHAPTER XXVIII

OUTERMAN v TUDOR

Charley sat at his office on the Saturday afternoon, very meditative and unlike himself. What was he to do when his office hours were over? In the first place he had not a shilling in the world to get his dinner. His habit was to breakfast at home at his lodgings with Harry, and then to dine, as best he might, at some tavern, if he had not the good fortune to be dining out. He had a little dinner bill at a house which he frequented in the Strand; but the bill he knew had reached its culminating point. It would, he was aware, be necessary that it should be decreased, not augmented, at the next commercial transaction which might take place between him and the tavern-keeper.

This was not the first time by many in which he had been in a similar plight—but his resource in such case had been to tell the truth gallantly to his friend Mrs. Davis; and some sort of viands, not at all unprepossessing to him in his hunger, would always be forthcoming for him at the 'Cat and Whistle.' This supply was now closed to him. Were he, under his present circumstances, to seek for his dinner from the fair hands of Norah Geraghty, it would be tantamount to giving himself up as lost for ever.

This want of a dinner, however, was a small misfortune in comparison with others which afflicted him. Should or should he not keep his promise to Mrs. Davis, and go to the 'Cat and Whistle' that evening? That was the question which disturbed his equanimity, and hindered him from teasing Mr. Snape in his usual vivacious manner.

And here let it not be said that Charley must be altogether despicable in being so weak; that he is not only a vulgar rake in his present habits, but a fool also, and altogether spiritless, and of a low disposition. Persons who may so argue of him, who so argue of those whom they meet in the real living world, are ignorant of the twists and turns, and rapid changes in character which are brought about by outward circumstances. Many a youth, abandoned by his friends to perdition on account of his folly, might have yet prospered, had his character not been set down as gone, before, in truth, it was well formed. It is not one calf only that should be killed for the returning prodigal. Oh, fathers, mothers, uncles, aunts, guardians, and elderly friends in general, kill seven fatted calves if seven should unfortunately be necessary!

And then there was a third calamity. Charley had, at this moment, in his pocket a certain document, which in civil but still somewhat peremptory language invited him to meet a very celebrated learned pundit, being no less than one of Her Majesty's puisne judges, at some court in Westminster, to explain why he declined to pay to one Nathaniel Outerman, a tailor, the sum of &c., &c., &c.; and the document then went on to say, that any hesitation on Charley's part to accept this invitation would be regarded as great contempt shown to the said learned pundit, and would be treated accordingly. Now Charley had not paid the slightest attention to this requisition from the judge. It would, he conceived, have been merely putting his head into the lion's mouth to do so. But yet he knew that such documents meant something; that the day of grace was gone by, and that Mr. Nathaniel Outerman would very speedily have him locked up.

So Charley sat meditative over his lock entries, and allowed even his proposed vengeance on Mr. Snape to be delayed.

'I say, Charley,' said Scatterall, coming over and whispering to him, 'you couldn't lend me half a crown, could you?'

Charley said nothing, but looked on his brother navvy in a manner that made any other kind of reply quite unnecessary.

'I was afraid it was so,' said Scatterall, in a melancholy voice. And then, as if by the brilliance of his thought he had suddenly recovered his spirits, he made a little proposition.

'I'll tell you what you might do, Charley. I put my watch up the spout last week. It's a silver turnip, so I only got fifteen shillings; yours is a Cox and Savary, and it's gold. I'm sure you'd get L3 for it easily—perhaps L3 3s. Now, if you'll do that, and take my turnip down, I'll let you have the turnip to wear, if you'll let me have ten shillings of the money. You see, you'd get clear—let me see how much.' And Scatterall went to work with a sheet of foolscap paper, endeavouring to make some estimate of what amount of ready cash Charley might have in his pocket on completion of this delicate little arrangement.

'You be d—,' said Charley.

'You'll not do it, then?' said Dick.

Charley merely repeated with a little more emphasis the speech which he had just before made.

'Oh, very well,' said Scatterall; 'there couldn't have been a fairer bargain; at least it was all on your side; for you would have had the watch to wear, and nearly all the money too.'

Charley still repeated the same little speech. This was uncivil; for it had evidently been looked on by Scatterall as unsatisfactory.

'Oh, very well,' said that gentleman, now in a state of mild anger—' only I saw that you had a fine new purse, and I thought you'd wish to have something to put in it.'

Charley again repeated his offensive mandate; but he did it in a spirit of bravado, in order to maintain his reputation. The allusion to the purse made him sadder than ever. He put his hand into his breast-pocket, and felt that it was near his heart: and then he fancied that he again heard her words—'You will be steady; won't you, dear Charley?'

At four o'clock, he was by no means in his usual hurry to go away, and he sat there drawing patterns on his blotting-paper, and chopping up a stick of sealing-wax with his penknife, in a very disconsolate way. Scatterall went. Corkscrew went. Mr. Snape, having carefully brushed his hat and taken down from its accustomed peg the old cotton umbrella, also took his departure; and the fourth navvy, who inhabited the same room, went also. The iron-fingered hand of time struck a quarter past four on the Somerset House clock, and still Charley Tudor lingered at his office. The maid who came to sweep the room was thoroughly amazed, and knew that something must be wrong.

Just as he was about to move, Mr. Oldeschole came bustling into the room. 'Where is Corkscrew?' said he. 'Gone,' said Charley. 'And Scatterall?' asked Oldeschole. 'Gone, sir,' said Charley. 'And Mr. Snape?' said the Secretary. 'Oh, he is gone, of course,' said Charley, taking his revenge at last.

'Then, Mr. Tudor, I must trouble you to copy these papers for me at once. They are wanted immediately for Sir Gregory Hardlines.' It was quite clear that Mr. Oldeschole was very much in earnest about the job, and that he was rejoiced to find that he still had one clerk to aid him.

Charley sat down and did the required work. On any other day he would greatly have disliked such a summons, but now he did not care much about it. He made the copies, however, as quickly as he could, and then took them in to Mr. Oldeschole.

The worthy Secretary rewarded him by a lecture; a lecture, however, which, as Charley well understood, was intended all in kindness. He told him how Mr. Snape complained of him, how the office books told against him, how the clerks talked, and all Somerset House made stories of his grotesque iniquities. With penitential air Charley listened and promised. Mr. Oldeschole promised also that bygones should be bygones. 'I wonder whether the old cock would lend me a five-pound note! I dare say he would,' said Charley to himself, as he left the office. He abstained, however, from asking for it.

Returning to his room, he took his hat and went downstairs. As he was sauntering forth through the archway into the Strand, a man with a decent coat but a very bad hat came up to him.

'I'm afraid I must trouble you to go with me, Mr. Tudor,' said the man.

'All right,' said Charley; 'Outerman, I suppose; isn't it?'

'All right,' said the bailiff.

And away the two walked together to a sponging-house in Cursitor Street.

Charley had been arrested at the suit of Mr. Outerman, the tailor. He perfectly understood the fact, and made no special objection to following the bailiff. One case was at any rate off his mind; he could not now, be his will to do so ever so good, keep his appointment with Norah Geraghty. Perhaps it was quite as well for him to be arrested just at this moment, as be left at liberty. It must have come sooner or later. So he walked on with the bailiff not without some feeling of consolation.

The man had suggested to him a cab; but Charley had told him, without the slightest mauvaise honte, that he had not about him the means of paying for a cab. The man again suggested that perhaps he had better go home and get some money, as he would find it in Cursitor Street very desirable to have some. To this Charley replied that neither had he any money at home.

'That's blue,' said the man.

'It is rather blue,' said Charley; and on they went very amicably arm-in-arm.

We need not give any detailed description of Charley's prison- house. He was luckily not detained there so long as to make it necessary that we should become acquainted with his fellow- captives, or even have much intercourse with his jailers. He was taken to the sponging-house, and it was there imparted to him that he had better send for two things—first of all for money, which was by far the more desirable of the two; and secondly, for bail, which even if forthcoming was represented as being at best but a dubious advantage.

'There's Mrs. Davis, she'd bail you, of course, and willing,' said the bailiff.

'Mrs. Davis!' said Charley, surprised that the man should know aught of his personal acquaintances.

'Yes, Mrs. Davis of the 'Cat and Whistle.' She'd do it in course, along of Miss Geraghty.'

Charley perceived with a shudder that his matrimonial arrangements were known and talked of even in the distant world of Cursitor Street. He declined, however, the assistance of the landlady, which no doubt would have been willingly forthcoming, and was divided between his three friends, Alaric, Harry, and Mr. M'Ruen. Alaric was his cousin and his natural resource in such a position, but he had lately rejected Alaric's advice, and now felt a disinclination to call upon him in his difficulty. Harry he knew would assist him, would at once pay Mr. Outerman's bill, and relieve him from all immediate danger; but the sense of what he already owed to Norman made him unwilling to incur further obligations;—so he decided on sending for Mr. M'Ruen. In spite of his being so poorly supplied with immediate cash, it was surmised from his appearance, clothes, and known rank, that any little outlay made in his behalf would be probably repaid, and he was therefore furnished with a messenger on credit. This man was first to call at Mr. M'Ruen's with a note, and then to go to Charley's lodgings and get his brushes, razors, &c., these being the first necessaries of life for which a man naturally looks when once overtaken by such a misfortune as that with which Charley was now afflicted.

In the process of time the brushes and razors came, and so did Mr. M'Ruen.

'This is very kind of you,' said Charley, in rather a doleful voice, for he was already becoming tired of Cursitor Street.

Mr. M'Ruen twisted his head round inside his cravat, and put out three fingers by way of shaking hands with the prisoner.

'You seem pretty comfortable here,' said M'Ruen. Charley dissented to this, and said that he was extremely uncomfortable.

'And what is it that I can do for you, Mr. Tudor?' said M'Ruen.

'Do for me! Why, bail me, to be sure; they won't let me out unless somebody bails me. You know I shan't run away.'

'Bail you!' said M'Ruen.

'Yes, bail me,' said Charley. 'You don't mean to say that you have any objection?'

Mr. M'Ruen looked very sharply at his young client from head to foot. 'I don't know about bail,' he said: 'it's very dangerous, very; why didn't you send for Mr. Norman or your cousin?'

'Because I didn't choose,' said Charley—'because I preferred sending to some one I could pay for the trouble.'

'Ha—ha—ha,' laughed M'Ruen; 'but that's just it—can you pay? You owe me a great deal of money, Mr. Tudor. You are so unpunctual, you know.'

'There are two ways of telling that story,' said Charley; 'but come, I don't want to quarrel with you about that now—you go bail for me now, and you'll find your advantage in it. You know that well enough.'

'Ha—ha—ha,' laughed the good-humoured usurer; 'ha—ha—ha— well, upon my word I don't know. You owe me a great deal of money, Mr. Tudor. Now, what o'clock is it by you, I wonder?'

Charley took out his watch—the Cox and Savary, before alluded to—and said that it was past seven.

'Aye; you've a very nice watch, I see. Come, Mr. Tudor, you owe me a great deal of money, and you are the most unpunctual young man I know; but yet I don't like to see you distressed. I'll tell you what, now—do you hand over your watch to me, just as a temporary loan—you can't want it here, you know; and I'll come down and bail you out to-morrow.'

Charley declined dealing on these terms; and then Mr. M'Ruen at last went away, leaving Charley to his fate, and lamenting quite pathetically that he was such an unpunctual young man, so very unpunctual that it was impossible to do anything to assist him. Charley, however, manfully resisted the second attack upon his devoted watch.

'That's very blue, very blue indeed,' said the master of the house, as Mr. M'Ruen took his departure—'ha'n't you got no huncles nor hants, nor nothin' of that sort?'

Charley declared that he had lots of uncles and aunts, grandfathers and grandmothers, and a perfect wealth of cousins, and that he would send for some of the leading members of his family to-morrow. Satisfied with this, the man supplied him with bread and cheese, gin and water, and plenty of tobacco; and, fortified with these comforts, Charley betook himself at last very lugubriously, to a filthy, uninviting bed.,

He had, we have seen, sent for his brushes, and hence came escape; but in a manner that he had little recked of, and of which, had he been asked, he would as little have approved. Mrs. Richards, his landlady, was not slow in learning from the messenger how it came to pass that Charley wanted the articles of his toilet so suddenly demanded. 'Why, you see, he's just been quodded,' said the boy.

Mrs. Richards was quite enough up to the world, and had dealt with young men long enough, to know what this meant; nor indeed was she much surprised. She had practical knowledge that Charley had no strong propensity to pay his debts, and she herself was not unaccustomed to answer the emissaries of Mr. Outerman and other greedy tradesmen who were similarly situated. To Mrs. Richards herself Charley was not in debt, and she had therefore nothing to embitter her own feelings against him. Indeed, she had all that fondness for him which a lodging-house keeper generally has for a handsome, dissipated, easy-tempered young man; and when she heard that he had been 'quodded,' immediately made up her mind that steps must be taken for his release.