ROSE, BLANCHE,
AND
VIOLET.

BY

G. H. LEWES, ESQ.

AUTHOR OF "RANTHORPE,"
"BIOGRAPHICAL HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY," ETC. ETC.

Il n'y a point de vertu proprement dite, sans victoire sur
nous-mêmes, et tout ce qui ne nous coûte rien, ne vaut rien.

DE MAISTRE.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON:
SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 65, CORNHILL.
——
1848.

London:
Printed by STEWART and MURRAY,
Old Bailey.

CONTENTS.

——

BOOK II.—(Continued.)

CHAPTER

XXI.—[The Elopement Delayed]
XXII.—[How they went to London]
XXIII.—[Cecil's Jealousy]
XXIV.—[The Denouement]

BOOK III.

CHAPTER

I.—[Rose Vyner to Fanny Worsley]
II.—[The Woman with a Mission]
III.—[What was said of the Walton Sappho]
IV.—[Prophecies Fulfilled]
V.—[The Astute Mrs. Vyner]
VI.—[Faint Hearts and Fair Ladies]
VII.—[Bold Stroke for a Lover]
VIII.—[Woman's Caprice]
IX.—[Consequences]

BOOK IV.

CHAPTER

I.—[The Boarding-House]
II.—[Inmates of a Suburban Boarding-House]
III.—[Happy Labour, Happy Life]
IV.—[How Mrs. Vyner was Beneficent]
V.—[The Curse of Idleness]
VI.—[A Sketch of Frank Forrester]
VII.—[Cecil's First False Step]
VIII.—[The Poetess in London]
IX.—[Husband and Wife]

BOOK V.

CHAPTER

I.—[Love Feigned and Love Concealed]
II.—[Doubts Changed into Certainties]
III.—[Declaration]
IV.—[The Tempest Lours]
V.—[Vacillation]
VI.—[The Trial]
VII.—[Father And Child]
VIII.—[The Crisis]

ROSE, BLANCHE, AND VIOLET.

BOOK II.

(Continued.)

CHAPTER XXI.
THE ELOPEMENT DELAYED.

Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds
Towards Phœbus' mansion; such a waggoner
As phaeton would whip you to the west.
Come, gentle night; come, loving black browed night
Give me my Romeo.
Romeo and Juliet.

Captain Heath and the postilion were not the only persons impatient at the unexpected delay. Cecil leaning against a tree, watching with anxious eyes the window of Blanche's bed-room for the signal, and counting the weary minutes, as they dragged with immeasurable tediousness through their course of sixty seconds, began at length to suppose that she would never come.

Nor was the unhappy Blanche herself the least impatient of the four. The whole mystery of the delay was the presence of Violet in her room. She had repeatedly announced her intention of going to bed, but Violet gave no signs of retiring, and their conversation continued.

It more than once occurred to her to place Violet in her confidence, but certain misgivings restrained her. The fact is, Blanche had been uneasy at Cecil's attentions to Violet, during the first period of their acquaintance with him; an uneasiness which she now understood to have been jealousy; and naturally felt reluctant to speak of her engagement to one who had almost been her sister's lover.

It happened that Cecil's name came up during their conversation, and Violet turning her large eyes upon her sister's face, said,—

"Shall I tell you my suspicion, Blanche? Cecil Chamberlayne is fast falling in love with you: you colour; you know it then? perhaps return it? Oh, for God's sake tell me that you do not return it!"

"Why should I not?" replied Blanche, greatly hurt.

"My poor Blanche!" said Violet, tenderly kissing her, "I have hurt you, but it is with a surgeon's knife, which inflicts pain to save pain. If it is not too late—if you are only at the brink of the abyss, not in it—let me implore you to draw back, and to examine your situation calmly. Oh! do not waste your heart on such a man."

There was an earnestness in her manner which only made her language more galling, and Blanche somewhat pettishly replied,—

"You did not always think so. At one time you were near wasting your heart, as you call it, upon him."

"I was," gravely replied Violet, "and a fortunate accident opened my eyes in time. You, who seemed to have watched me so closely, may have noticed that for some time I have ceased to encourage his attentions."

"Since he has ceased to pay them," retorted Blanche.

Violet smiled a scornful smile.

Neither spoke for a few minutes.

"I have a great mind to ascend the ladder," said the impatient Cecil to himself, and see if it is only womanly weakness which detains her."

"Can they have been detected?" Captain Heath asked himself for the twentieth time.

"Blanche," said Violet at last, "you greatly misunderstand me; but what is worse, you greatly misunderstand him. Listen!"

She then narrated the whole of her episode with Cecil: her first yearnings towards him—her interest, and almost love; then the scene at the Grange; his conduct in the affair with the bull; she recalled to Blanche the mutual coldness which must have been observed until after Cecil's confession respecting his cowardice, which so far cleared him in her eyes, that she was amiable to him for the rest of the evening; she then told her of reflections made that night when alone, and the result to which she had arrived, and concluded by saying:—

"I am most willing to admit his fascinating manners, his varied accomplishments, and some good qualities; but he is weak, selfish, and capricious. He is not a proper husband for you, the more so as he is poor, and has not the character which will enable him to battle with the world. Rich, he would not make you a good husband; poor, he will be a curse to you, and throw the blame of his misery upon you."

Blanche remained perfectly quiet during this dissection of her lover's character, and not a change in her countenance betrayed that it had in the least affected her. Nor had it. Perfectly incredulous, she listened to her sister, seeing only the distortion of prejudice in her language.

"Have you finished, Violet?" she quietly asked.

"I have."

"Then give me a night to consider."

"Yes, consider it calmly; think of the man on whom you are about to bestow your affections, and ask yourself seriously, Is he the man I ought to choose?—— Good-night, Blanche!"

"Good-night. God bless you!" said Blanche, hugging her fervently, which Violet attributed to the emotion excited by their conversation, but which really was the embrace of parting.

A few minutes afterwards, Blanche was descending the ladder, a small packet in her hand, and was received in the arms of her impatient lover.

CHAPTER XXII.
HOW THEY WENT TO LONDON.

How the old post-chaise rattled merrily along the hard road, as if conscious of the precious burden which it bore! There was no moon: the sky was overcast. Lights glimmered from the windows of distant houses at rare intervals; and the watch-dog's lonely bark was occasionally heard—a sort of mournful sound, which told how deep the night had gone.

With what wild passion—with what inextinguishable delight the lovers pressed close to each other, in that rumbling chaise! The sense of peril and of escape was mixed with the indescribable rapture of two beings conscious that all barriers are borne down, and that they at length belong to each other.

Away! away! from home, with its restraints, its perils, and its doubts—far into the wide world of love and hope!—from father, sisters, friends—from luxuries and comforts, cheaply held by those who know not the reverse—to the protecting bosom of a husband, dearer than all the world beside; and with him to begin the battle of life, which love will make an everlasting triumph!

Away goes the rumbling chaise! too slowly for its inmates, whose impatience needs wings; too swiftly for the wretched man, who sits behind, communing with his own bitter thoughts.

What a slight partition divided the delirious lovers from the unhappy wretch who rode behind them—a partition which divided the joys of paradise from the pangs of purgatory. The captain had not only to endure the misery of unhappy love, but also the, to him, horrible torture of believing the girl he loved had given herself up to a villain, who did not intend to marry her.

"If I do force him to marry her," he said, "what happiness can she expect from such a scoundrel? Her character will be saved; but her heart will be broken ... If he refuses ... if I shoot him ... she will hate me ... will not less revere his memory ... and will have lost her name!"

And merrily the chaise rattled on.

It reached London at last. There the captain got down, and, hailing a cab, bade the driver follow the post-chaise, at a slight distance. It stopped at an hotel. They alighted, and went in.

The captain followed them to the hotel. His first act was to write this letter to Meredith Vyner.

(Don't read this aloud.)

"My DEAR VYNER,

"Before this reaches you, the flight of your daughter with Chamberlayne will have been known to you. Make yourself as easy as possible under the deplorable calamity; for I am in the same hotel with them, and will see them duly married.

"You will be astonished to hear me talk of their marriage, and of my forwarding it, instead of taking every step to prevent it. But, when I tell you that marriage is now imperative—that it is, alas! what we must all now eagerly desire—my conduct will be intelligible. Put your perfect trust in me. You know my affection for your children, and my regard for the honour of the family."

Great, indeed, was the consternation at the Hall, on the morning when the flight was discovered. At first it was imagined Blanche had gone off with Captain Heath; but when Cecil's absence was also discovered, the real state of the case was acknowledged. But the captain's absence still remained a mystery. That he should be implicated in the elopement, seemed impossible. His known dislike to Cecil, and his great regard for the whole family, contradicted such a suspicion. Yet wherefore was he not forthcoming?

This threw such a mystery over the whole affair, they knew not what conclusion to form; some doubts began to arise as to whether it really was an elopement. Such matters were not usually managed by three persons. And yet the moonlight ramble by the three on the preceding evening did not that look as if there were some understanding between them?

To this Rose objected, that as they had been willing to accept of her company, it was evident there could have been nothing in it beyond a mere ramble.

It was observable that the one who suggested and most warmly maintained the probability of there being no elopement in the case, but only perhaps some bit of fun, was Mrs. Meredith Vyner, who absolutely dissuaded her husband from taking any steps towards pursuing the fugitives by this reasoning:—

"Either they have eloped, or they are executing some joke. I incline to the latter; but even admitting the former, you know dear,—it is perfectly useless your following them, until you know what route they have taken, and as yet we have got no clue whatever. While you are hurrying to Gretna, they may be quietly housed in London, and so you have all the bother and agitation for nothing."

Like all indolent men, Vyner was glad to have an excuse for sitting still and doing nothing. But what was Mrs. Vyner's motive for dissuading him? Simply this: she believed in the elopement, and was delighted at it. Not only was there one daughter "off her hands"—one rival the less—but by the act of setting her father's consent at defiance, gave him the power of refusing to give any dowry, or even a trousseau, with something like an excuse for so doing. Mrs. Vyner had already run her husband too deeply into debt, not to keep a sharp eye on any means of economy that did not affect her comforts or caprices; and money spent upon "her dear girls," was always considered worse than lost.

On the arrival of Captain Heath's letter, all the mystery was revealed; and great was the talk it occasioned!

CHAPTER XXIII.
CECIL'S JEALOUSY.

A husband's jealousy, which cunning men would pass upon their wives for a compliment, is the worst can be made them; for indeed it is a compliment to their beauty, but an affront to their honour.

WYCHERLEY: The Gentleman Dancing Master.

The captain had just sealed his letter when he saw Cecil leave the hotel alone. He determined to profit by the opportunity, and seek Blanche. He found her writing.

As she recognised him, she gave a low scream, and then springing up, exclaimed:—

"Is my father with you? Oh! intercede for us. Gain his consent."

"I am alone, Blanche."

"Alone?"

"I came with you from Wytton. The same carriage brought us both; you rode inside, and I behind."

"What! .... is .... what! are you going to....?"

"To watch over you, dear Blanche, as a brother would. To force him to marry you."

"Force! why, what do you mean? Cecil is but this instant gone for the license."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Sure? He said so; and shall I doubt his word?"

"Why then did he bring you here? Why did he not take you to Gretna?"

"Because he feared we might be pursued, and they would be sure to follow that route."

"Hm! Yes, it is possible. And till you are married?"

"I am to stay with an old lady—a relation of his. He will prepare her to receive me this morning."

He sighed. So strange is human nature, that the idea of Cecil behaving delicately and honourably in the transaction, was at first a disappointment and an additional grief to him! He could not bear to think his rival less contemptible than he had held him to be, nor could he with pleasure find that his own services were not needed. Blanche wanted no protector. Nevertheless, partly out of a lingering suspicion that all would not go on so smoothly as it promised, and partly from the very want he felt to consider himself of some use to his beloved Blanche, he refused entirely to credit her statement of Cecil's intentions, and declared that he would remain to watch.

"At any rate, allow me to give you away," he said, "I shall then be sure that all is right. Can you refuse me?"

She held out her hand to him by way of answer. He raised it respectfully to his lips, gazed sorrowfully at her, and withdrew.

When Cecil returned, and learned from her that the captain was in the same hotel, that he had seen Blanche, and that she had consented to his giving her away, he stormed with rage.

"Heath again! Is the viper always to be in my path, and imagine I shall not crush him at last? What is the meaning of his thrusting himself between us?" he asked her, with great fierceness. "What the devil is at the bottom of it? What makes him so anxious to have you married? I am a beggar, and he knows it; yet first one thing, then the other, he has nothing but schemes to make me marry you. Wanted me to be a quill-driver, that I might be rich enough to marry. Marry, marry, marry! By God! there is something in it which I will discover."

"Cecil, dearest Cecil, you terrify me!"

He paced angrily up and down the room, without attending to her. A horrible suspicion had taken possession of his mind: he thought that Captain Heath had not only been her lover, but that his passion had been returned, and that it was to conceal the consequences of their guilty love that a marriage with any one seemed so desirable.

"I see it all," he said to himself, as he strode about the room; "they have selected me as their gull. It is a collusion. From whom, but from her, should he have known we had taken that moonlight stroll in the shrubbery? Why should he take upon himself the office of sentinel? Why offer me a situation? Why follow us up to town? How should he know we were to elope? Why should he, in God's name, be anxious to have her married, when it is quite clear he loves her, or has loved her, himself? He owned it last night—owned that he loved her! I do believe, when he carried off the ladder, he knew I was in the room, and adopted that mode of making me irretrievably commit myself.—But it is not too late.—We are not married yet!"

How curiously passion colours facts! No one will say that Cecil had not what is called abundant "evidence" for his suspicion, and the evidence was coherent enough to justify to his own mind all that he thought. It is constantly so in life. We set out with a presumption, and all the "facts" fit in so well with the presumption, that we forget it is after all not the facts, but the interpretation which is the important thing we seek and instead of seeking this we have begun by assuming it; whereas had we assumed some other interpretation, we should perhaps have found the facts quite as significant, although the second interpretation would be diametrically opposed to the former.

Had Cecil, instead of seeking for corroborative facts to pamper his own irritable jealousy, just asked himself whether the characters of Blanche and the captain were not quite sufficient of themselves to throw discredit on any suspicion of the kind—whether, indeed, he ought to entertain such an idea of such persons, unless overwhelmed by the most clear, precise, unequivocal evidence—he would have saved himself all the tortures of jealousy, and would not have desecrated the worship of his love by thoughts so debasing and so odious.

Blanche, perfectly bewildered, sat silent and trembling, keeping her eyes fixed upon the strangely altered bearing of her lover.

Stopping from his agitated walk, he suddenly stood still, folded his arms, gazed at her with quiet fierceness, and said,—

"As Captain Heath takes so much interest in, you, perhaps he will have no objection to escort you back to your father."

"Cecil! ... Cecil! ... In Heaven's name, what do you mean?" she said, half rising from her chair; but afraid to trust her trembling limbs, she sank back again, and looked at him in helpless astonishment.

"My meaning is very plain, very," he said, with intense coldness. "You are free to return to your family, or not to return, if you prefer remaining with Captain Heath. Perhaps," he added sarcastically, "as he is so partial to marriage, he will marry you himself."

She strove to speak, but a choking sensation at the throat prevented her. She saw him leave the room without having strength to recall him, without ever making a motion to prevent him.

In mute despair, she heard his heavy tread upon the stairs, and like a person stunned, felt no command of her faculties, scarcely felt anything beyond a stupid bewildering prostration of the soul.

With flushed face and heated brain, Cecil rushed into the street, and wandered distractedly away. The fresh air somewhat cooled his burning brow, and the exercise gradually enabled him to recover his self-possession. He began to doubt whether he had not been rash in his suspicions.

"It is quite true that Heath has taken a most extraordinary part in the whole affair; but I remember now, that, during our interview in my room, he seemed by no means anxious I should marry her; indeed I taunted him with wishing to get me out of the way. He offered me the secretaryship to enable me to marry, and when I refused that he set his face against ... I have been an ass! ...

"And yet his conduct is inexplicable. He loves her, and she knows it.... What a web entangles me! ... I will return and question her; she cannot deceive me ... she is not altogether lost ... I will try her."

With this purpose he returned.

Meanwhile, Captain Heath had found Blanche weeping bitterly, under the degrading accusation of Cecil's jealousy; and having extorted from her some incoherent sentences, which made him aware of what had passed, he said, "My dear Blanche, I am going to bid you have courage for an act of fortitude. You must struggle with yourself—you must reason calmly for a moment."

"Oh, tell me, tell me what to do. How shall I eradicate his suspicions?"

"You cannot do it. In one so weak and capricious—one who could think so unworthily of you, and upon such ridiculous appearances—jealousy is incurable. It will bring endless misery upon you. It will destroy all love, all confidence. If he suspects you already, what is to secure you from his suspicions hereafter? Blanche, you must quit this. Return with me to your father's; he will receive you kindly."

"No, no, no," sobbed the unhappy girl.

"Yes, Blanche. It is a hard alternative, but it is the best. You ought to rejoice in his injustice, because it displays him in his true colours. He tells you what you have to expect."

"I love him."

"Alas! I know it; but you see how he repays your love."

She only sobbed in answer.

"He will make you miserable for ever. Now, before the irrevocable step is taken, release yourself from such a fate: return with me."

She wept, but could not speak.

Heath's arguments at last prevailed; and, in a tone of terrible despair, she exclaimed, "Take me home, then."

A flash of joy passed over his sad face as he heard this heart-broken phrase, which assured him that, however his beloved Blanche might suffer at first, she was at least saved from the certain misery of becoming the wife of Cecil Chamberlayne.

On reaching the hotel, Cecil ran rapidly up stairs, and on the first landing stood aghast, at seeing Blanche coming down, leaning on the captain's arm. She was weeping, and her face was hidden by the handkerchief with which she wiped her eyes.

"Where are you taking her?" Cecil fiercely asked.

"Home," was the stern reply.

"Home! Whose home? yours?"

"To her father."

"And by whose authority?" he said, in a low, hoarse, almost suffocated voice.

"Her own," was the crushing answer.

They passed on.

Cecil, amazed, bewildered, could merely utter, in a tone of sad and reproachful inquiry, "Blanche!"

A stifled, agonizing sob burst from her; but clinging closer to her protector, she hurried him on.

Cecil leaned against the banister for support. As Blanche reached the bottom of the stairs, she could not resist giving a parting look; and the anguish of the face which then met her eye so completely changed her feelings, that, forgetting all Captain Heath had said, she flew up the stairs and threw herself into Cecil's arms, exclaiming, "My own beloved, you will not send me from you?"

He pressed her frantically to his heart, and carried her back to their apartment.

Captain Heath's face was contracted by a fearful spasm as he slowly sought his own room. Once more were his hopes crushed; once more had he to renounce the visions of exquisite bliss which filled his soul. On the point of for ever separating Blanche from her unworthy lover, as he had imagined, and with the opening which that separation made for his own future prospects, he now again saw that the struggle was useless, and that Blanche was irretrievably lost to him.

CHAPTER XXIV.
THE DENOUEMENT.

Four days afterwards, Meredith Vyner received this letter:—

"They are married at last; and are now gone to Broadstairs for the honeymoon. It is a sad affair; but it was inevitable. May she be happy!

"I was to have given her away; but, from some caprice on his part, it was not permitted; and the office was performed by one of his club friends, a certain Mr. Forrester. I was present, however; though not invited. From one of the side pews, I witnessed the ceremony. The last words of dear Blanche were, that I should intercede for her with you; which, God knows, I would, did I think that a father's heart needed the intercession! But your kind nature is quite assurance enough to me.

"I am forced to go to Italy, to join my brother; and, as I have no time to lose, Mrs. Vyner will, I dare say, excuse my taking formal leave. Pray, let my trunks be packed, and forwarded to me, at Southampton, where I shall be to-morrow.

"You shall hear further from me soon; now I am too busy to write more."

In the calm tone of this letter there is the same stoicism which always enabled this brave man if not to conquer, at least to conceal his emotions. Who could have suspected the misery which really lay concealed in those few lines?

The adroitness with which he recommended Blanche to her father's generosity, showed how affection will sharpen the wits, and make even the most candid people cunning, to attain their ends. He knew that Mrs. Vyner had too much need of money, not to grudge any bestowed upon the girls; and that Vyner himself was little likely to suffer his regard for his child, such as it was, to withstand his wife's persuasion. Therefore, to have pleaded in Blanche's favour, would have been to call down certain defeat. Instead of that, he adroitly assumed that Vyner could not need any intercession—could not, as a father, do otherwise than pardon his daughter. To refuse the pardon, would therefore be to act contrary to all expectation. The question was thus not discussed, but settled.

The second point in his letter is, the journey to Italy: that needs only a very brief comment: he hoped, in the confusion of foreign scenes, to distract his thoughts from grief.

Farewell, then, thou brave, honest, self-sacrificing man! May travel bring oblivion! may time bring consolation to thy sad and noble heart!

BOOK III.

CHAPTER I.
ROSE VYNER TO FANNY WORSLEY.

WYTTON HALL, 14th Oct. 1840.

MY DEAR FANNY,

Since poor Blanche's unfortunate marriage—and yet why should I call it unfortunate? has she not married the man of her choice, and is not that the great ideal we maidens all aspire to? However, as it is the fashion here to speak of it as a "most unfortunate business," over which mama weeps (I don't clearly see why) and papa storms, I have caught the trick, and called it so to you.

To resume this broken sentence; or rather to begin it anew: since Blanche's fortunate marriage, our days have passed equably enough; but although not characterized by any "incidents," nor affording any "news," they have not been stupid. Life has not been stagnant. The slow growth of passions has proceeded without interruption. Marmaduke Ashley has become the devoted slave of Violet. I call him her Brazilian Othello. I made her very angry yesterday, by telling her that she should be less cruelly haughty to him, "for is he not," said I, "a man and a brother?" They would make a superb couple, for although I tease her with references to gentlemen of colour, and with congratulatory remarks respecting the chain being "broken, and Africa being free," you must know that his complexion is not really darker than that of a Spaniard. And you know how lovely she is—no you don't, you have not seen her since she shook off girlish things, and cannot imagine how she has altered.

Poor Marmaduke, although he has made some impression on her, will have, I fear, to languish a long while ere the haughty beauty condescends to step down from her pedestal. Almost as long as I shall have to wait before the modest Julius will understand, without my being forced to tell him, that he is not absolutely indifferent to a certain saucy girl at whom he makes sweet eyes.

You can't imagine how, every day, my admiration deepens for the little man. I am always finding some new illustration of his excellence; always hearing something which confirms my opinion of his nobility of soul. Yesterday, I found that he was studying hard for the bar, not because he was without fortune, but because he would not consent to his mother being poorer at the death of his father than she had been before. He was the heir to all the property, except a jointure; but he refused to enter into possession while his mother lived, and as every man ought, he says, to be able to gain his own livelihood, he has determined to gain his at the bar.

He has recently been exerting himself to procure a good subscription list to a volume of poems. Here is the title. "GLOOMS AND GLEAMS. By One who has suffered."

I am as a weed
Torn from the rock, on ocean's foam to sail,
Where'er the wave or tempest's breath prevail.
BYRON.

The mysterious one—the one who has suffered (what not specified!) is a newly discovered wonder—the Sappho of Walton—the daughter of a linen-draper.

According to Julius she is really a clever deserving girl, a little wild in her notions, but with all the generosity of genius, which redeems her affectations and her follies. She is too poor to venture on publication herself; and I have just found that Julius, unable to secure a sufficient sum by subscription, has undertaken to pay the printing expenses. He stipulated that this should be a secret; but her grateful father disclosed it to Mrs. Roberts (our housekeeper) who disclosed it to me. Imagine the gossip there will be in Walton over this publication! How the papas and mamas, the uncles and maiden aunts will moralize over the corruption of the age, and the wild audacious vanity of their townswoman! A poetess in Walton? Why a volume of poems—(unless they were low church effusions or the inspirations of "advanced Christians"—) is itself a rarity. You know how slightly tainted with literature the small towns of England usually are? I doubt if any are so colourless as Walton. Dickens penetrates here—where does not his genial sunshine penetrate?—but no other name of those blown from the brazenly impudent trumpet of fame has ever found an echo in Walton. A poetess is, consequently, looked upon as something short of a sorceress: a fearful and Appalling Illustration of the Reckless March of Intellect which Devastates the World!

Julius has already secured her an influential patron in Sir Chetsom Chetsom, and his brother Tom Chetsom. The baronet is possessor of the Dingles, a fine estate within three miles of Walton, and is looked up to as one of the great people of the county. Such a figure as he is! I must sketch him for your amusement.

Sir Chetsom Chetsom is not without considerable daring, for with the weight of six or seven and sixty years upon his shoulders, he makes a gallant dash at thirty. His whiskers are miraculously black, always well-oiled, and stiffly curled; his eyebrows are of another black in virtue of his inheritance from nature; and his hair is of a third black in virtue of Truefit's well directed efforts at wigmanity. This threefold darkness, unsuspicious of a gray hair, overshadows a sallow, wrinkled brow and cheeks, upon which a hare's foot imitates the ruddy glow of youth with a sort of Vauxhall-by-daylight-splendour. Under the genuine eyebrows, float two colourless eyes, between which a high and well-shaped nose rears its haughty form. Frightfully regular teeth, without a speck, without a gap, fill up the gash which represents his mouth. A well-padded chest, and well-stayed waist, ending in shrunken legs and excruciatingly tight-booted feet complete the physique of this Adonis. His dress is a perpetual book of fashions!

Of the morale I know little, except that he never plays cards—flatters himself he has not come to that yet—talks fluently of valtzing (particular about sounding the w as v, as a young gentleman after his first German lesson), adores Fanny Elssler, calls Grisi a naice leetle giarl enough, thinks himself, and wishes to be accepted as, a remorseless Lovelace, and is always afraid of talking too long with one woman, lest he should "compromise her."

This ferocious lady-killer, whom you will at once place amongst that very terrific and numerous class of men which I have christened Murders, has a brother, whom I wonder he does not disown, so frankly does that brother bear his age. Tom Chetsom, "jolly Tom Chetsom," as he is called, is "a tun of a man," with a bald, shiny pate fringed with straggling grey hair, a rubicund face, a vinous nose, and a moist, oystery eye, rolling in rheum. Yet this implacable exhibition of age in a younger brother is tolerated by the baronet, who is blind enough, or stupid enough, not to be aware of the comment it is on his own resplendent juvenility!

Tom Chetsom, careless bon vivant as he seems, and is, conceals beneath that rubicund jollity an astute selfishness, and a real knowledge of life and human nature, to which his elder brother makes great pretension. But that which the elder seems to be without being it, the younger is without seeming it, as Browning would say.

Well, these are the patrons selected for our Walton Sappho. They are to launch her into the "great world." Sir Chetsom has permitted the dedication of Glooms and Gleams to himself. He is to introduce the volume into the "first circles," while Tom Chetsom is to bruit its fame in all the clubs.

I have not yet seen the poetess herself; but propose to fall in with the general "rage," and pay a visit at the Grange some day when she is there. I will give you a full description.

And there is an end of my budget.

CHAPTER II.
THE WOMAN WITH A MISSION.

Ein starker Geist in einem zarten Leib
Ein zwitter zwischen Mann und Weib,
Gleich ungeschickt zum Herrschen und zum Lieben,
Ein kind mit eines Riesen Waffen
Ein Mittelding von Weisen und von Affen!
SCHILLER.—Die Berühmte Frau.

Marmaduke and Violet, "so justly formed to meet by nature," have not, it may be supposed, remained insensible to each other's charms. The elopement of Blanche gave him several opportunities of making eloquent remarks on the superiority of affection—the riches of the heart—to mere worldly wealth; and to utter several stinging sarcasms on those who gave up the worship of a loving heart, for the trumpery advantages of an establishment and a position.

These sarcasms were, of course, meant for Mrs. Meredith Vyner, who accepted them in bland silence, or made vague defences, saying that women were often misguided, because the whole of the facts were not known.

Violet so entirely responded to his sentiments, and, without knowing the previous connection between him and her mother, so unhesitatingly applied those sarcasms to her, that she became more and more attracted to him, from the fact that they alone seemed rightly to have read her mother's character.

Mrs. Meredith Vyner saw, with strangely mingled jealousy and pleasure, the growing attachment of these two. She did not love Marmaduke: she had never loved him in any high or generous sense of the term. But he had filled her girlish imagination, and he still exercised a certain fascination over her. She admired his beauty; she delighted in the sense of power exercised over so fiery and impetuous a creature; it was exquisite flattery. To see her place occupied in his heart was, therefore, singularly irritating. His anger was an avowal of his love. His threats of vengeance, much as she might dread them, were the threats of one who suffered in his love. And so clearly did she perceive this, that it occasioned no surprise to observe how, in the same measure as his attachment grew to Violet, his anger seemed to abate, his mind no longer to run upon its old topics of inconstancy and vengeance. No surprise, but great jealousy!

Other feelings mingled with this. She could not but be delighted to think that Marmaduke had ceased to harbour any schemes against her peace: the tiger was pacified, or attracted by other prey. This was not all. She hated Violet, and watched the development of this passion with curious eagerness, because in it she foresaw two sources of misery to her daughter. If they married, she thought they would be mutually wretched, and it was in her power at any time to make Violet horribly jealous, by informing her of Marmaduke's early attachment. That was one source; another was, with a little coquetry and cunning on her part, to bring him once more at her feet, which, she doubted not, she could still effect.

Under the "still life" of what seemed the most uneventful of country residences, under the smooth current of every-day occupations, such were the tempests rumbling in the deeps, and ready at an instant to burst forth! The drama was really there; it seemed to be elsewhere. The development and collision of passions, out of which the dramas of life are constructed, were circumscribed within the walls of the Hall and the Grange. But it was elsewhere that the noisy bustle of event—noisy because of its emptiness—attracted the attention of spectators, and seemed, by the talk occasioned, to have absorbed all the interest which could possibly lie in the elements afforded by the neighbourhood.

But, first, a word respecting one of the principal actors. I mean Hester Mason, the poetess. Had Rose's letter, in which, according to promise, she doubtless gave a detailed description of the Walton Sappho fallen into my hands, you should have been treated with her lively account of this important personage: her womanly acuteness and observation would have assuredly delighted you. As it is, my matter-of-fact pen must be the substitute.

Hester Mason was five and twenty, and still wrote Miss before her name; not because adorers were backward, but because they were Waltonians. They had no "spirituality;" they had no "imaginings;" they had no "mission." Life to them had no "earnestness;" they lived without a "purpose." Cowards, they humbled themselves before "conventionalities," and dared not tell society to its face that it was a lie. They went to church; they called themselves Christians, because they followed an antiquated routine, and did not comprehend the later "developements" of Christianity necessitated by the "wants of the age." Above all, they shuddered at the true doctrine of social regeneration, that, namely, of the emancipation of woman, and thought that marriage should be indissoluble. They were humdrums!

Not to one of those could she descend; her soul was too lofty, her passions too "devouring," to waste themselves on such "clods." Indeed, had she been less of a "priestess," she might have been equally exclusive; since the Waltonians were utterly without taste for literature, philosophy, or art; and were as ill looking as the inhabitants of small towns usually are. Hester had been thrice on a visit of a few days to London; she had seen Hyde Park and its brilliant company; she had walked down St. James's-street and Pall Mall, and on the doorsteps of the clubs had seen men who were gods compared with the dandies of Walton. She had feasted upon contemporary literature, and had written burning letters of wild enthusiasm to Bulwer, in imitation of his "Florence Lascelles." She had dreamed ambitious dreams, in which she held a sceptre in London society, and awoke to find herself in Walton!

Hester was handsome, but coarse-featured. Her black hair and eyes gave a certain éclat to a face ornamented with a nose which irredeemably betrayed her low birth, and surmounted by a forehead too high and large for beauty. She was about the middle height, and had a magnificent bust. Her hands were large and coarse; her legs were—to express them in one word, I should say they were Devonshire legs! In her dress, gait, and manner you saw something which, though not positively vulgar, was distinctly not ladylike; a certain brusquerie, almost pertness, and a dogmatism, which is at all times shocking in a woman.

About the time when Julius St. John first interested himself in the publication of her volume of poems, Hester, worn out with awaiting her "ideal," and almost despairing of ever reigning in London society, began so far to humble herself in her own eyes, as to admit the attentions of the surgeon's apprentice, newly arrived at Walton. True it is that James Stone, the foresaid apprentice, had a dash of London about him. He was not a Waltonian, he was not a humdrum; so far from it, that he had the character of a "rake!" He discoursed about the ballet; had been behind the scenes at the theatres; was well-versed in Jullien's promenade concerts (then a novelty); smoked a meerschaum; and when in full-dress turned his shirt-sleeve cuffs over his coat, much to the amazement of the Waltonians, who imagined he had just washed his hands, and had forgotten to turn back his cuffs, so little did they appreciate the dandyism!

It may appear strange, but that little trait of elegance won more of Hester's admiration than all his personal charms, and they were not few, could have effected in a month. It gave him a London air. It made him so superior to the provincial bumpkins, who laughed with coarse ridicule at an elegance they could not understand. It was in vain Hester, bridling, told them that the "pink of fashion and the mould of form"—the all-accomplished Count D'Orsay—wore his cuffs in that way. They only laughed the more, and christened Stone—the Walton De Orsay.

As long as Stone held out against the ridicule which his innovation excited, Hester accorded him her sympathy, and almost her love. But when he yielded to public opinion, and turned back his cuffs to their original place, she suddenly cooled towards him. It was a submission to conventionalities. It was a truckling to society. It was cowardice.

He purchased his pardon, however, and by a speech so adroit that in Walton it must have appeared worthy at least of a Lauzun—had Lauzun's name ever been heard there.

"If I do not yield this trifle to public opinion they will force me to quit this place, and to quit the place would be quitting you."—She forgave him.

But her pardon availed him little. Invited by Mrs. St. John to the Grange, patronized by the "great people" round Walton, her volume on the eve of being launched into the wide sea of literature, she felt all her old ambition revive within her, and scarcely forgave herself for having idled away an hour with such a youth as Stone—too poor for a husband, too insignificant for a lover.

The patronage of Sir Chetsom Chetsom completed her intoxication. That graceless old Lovelace, struck with the beauty of his protégé, saw at once the facilities afforded him for an intrigue. He was constantly at her father's. Her poems made the pretext of his visits. Her charms formed the staple of his conversation; varied by accounts of London society, and visions of the brilliant career which awaited her if she only determined boldly to enter it.

A sorry figure, truly, was the wigged and whiskered baronet for a girl with "bright imaginings," and at five and twenty, to choose as her lover; and yet, if I have contrived to indicate her character properly, the reader will not be surprised at her lending a willing ear to the old boy's artful flatteries.

He was not young, but he was rich. He had no "imaginings," but he could tell of the splendours of the capital. He had no "mission," but he wore bottes vernies. He was without "earnestness," but he talked fluently of all the new works, and had met most of the literary lions in society.

More than all, he was Sir Chetsom Chetsom, and she was Hester Mason the linen-draper's daughter. Rank gives a lustre which dazzles even virtue; and Hester had very few scruples of virtue to struggle against; so that ambition found her an easy victim. She coquetted—she was "cruel" to her adorer; not because she was afraid to yield, but because she wished to sell her honour dearly.

CHAPTER III.
WHAT WAS SAID OF THE WALTON SAPPHO.

"Is it not shocking?" said Mrs. Ruddles, the curate's wife, to Mrs. Spedley, the surgeon's better half, as she sipped the smoking bohea, and commented on the ongoings of Walton, and its "muse" in particular,—"Is it not shocking to witness such depravity? To think of his taking up with such trumpery as Hester Mason!"

"And to think of her encouraging the wicked, old villain!" ejaculated the indignant Mrs. Spedley.

"And her father to shut his eyes!" suggested the post-mistress of Walton.

"What can she expect will be the end of it?"

"I'm sure, I can't say."

"He's married, too," said Stone, angrily; for Stone was now utterly neglected: he had even turned up his shirt cuffs, with D'Orsay magnificence, on the preceding Sunday; and still Hester had not vouchsafed him a look.

"Married! yes; but he could get nobody to live with him; and his wife has been separated many years," observed Mrs. Ruddles; "and no wonder!"

"So that Hester falls with her eyes open ... she can't expect him to marry her—the minx!" said Mrs. Spedley.

"Oh, no. Besides, she looks upon marriage as immoral."

"Ah!"

"Yes, yes: very comfortable notions those are for some people."

"Very. This comes of writing poetry!" gravely and philosophically remarked the surgeon's wife.

Her husband entered at that moment.

"Pretty poetry it is!" he said. "Hang me, if I can make head or tail of it. Long words and inflated sentiments—nothing else!"

"Such trash!" scornfully added Mrs. Ruddles.

"So frivolous!" chimed in Mrs. Spedley.

"As if there was anything in that, to cock up one's head about," pursued Mrs. Ruddles.

"And, to fancy herself so superior to every one else."

"Well, give me good, common sense in a woman," fervently ejaculated Spedley.

"And me."

"And me."

"Oh, and me."

"It was but last night," said Spedley, "that she took upon herself to set me right about the vote by ballot; and, instead of arguing the point, she told me that I was incapable of forming an opinion on it, ignorant as I was of the rapid developments of humanity. To be sure, I was,—how should I know what she meant by that?"

"He—he—he!" tittered Mrs. Spedley.—"Developments of humanity, indeed!"

"That is a philosophy she understands," said Stone, sarcastically; "and will certainly give us an illustration of it herself shortly——"

Stone chuckled immensely at this double entendre; and the ladies, forgetting their prudery in their spite, laughed too, and declared that nothing was more likely.

That is only a sample of what was said in Walton. The whole town was busy with the event. Envy aided tittle-tattle; and not a voice was raised in Hester's defence. Sir Chetsom to visit her! Sir Chetsom to drive up to her door! Sir Chetsom to send her game! Sir Chetsom to take her drives in his curricle. It was enough to make an English community, like that of Walton, mad. How she escaped lapidation is a mystery.

Hester knew the scandal she occasioned, and triumphed in it. To be the mark for jealousy, was a condition affixed to superiority. Detraction was the tribute impotence paid to power. She was hated—she knew it—how could it be otherwise?—was she not a genius? At their gossip she laughed; with society and its sophisms she was at open war.

Having had this one glimpse of the state of opinion in Walton, let us now turn our attention to the Hall. The St. Johns, Marmaduke, Tom Wincot, and the family, are in the drawing room. Julius holds the volume of Hester's poems in his hands, having just finished reading it aloud:—

"Now, Mr. Vyner," said Julius, "do you rescind your harsh judgment; will you not admit that there is at least great facility in these poems?"

"Facility?" replied Vyner. "Yes, yes,

Nempe incomposito dixi pede currere versus.

I find too much of it: fatal facility, betraying the want of that labor limæ, without which no work can have value."

"She will learn the difficult 'art to blot' in time," suggested Julius; "at present she is all exuberance."

"Is not over luxuriance," said Violet, "rather the property of weeds than of flowers?"

"Certainly," said Vyner. "The volume wants weeding sadly. You know what 'Horace' says?—

Ut brevitate opus, ut currat sententia, neu se
Impediat verbis lassas onerantibus aures."

"Well," interrupted Rose; "but not to be so critical, do you not think the volume shows great power?"

"Rather the will to be great than the power," said Marmaduke. "It is daring and extravagant, but it does not seem to me to have the daring and extravagance of genius."

"Doesn't it stwike you as vewy stwange that a young woman should wite in such twemendous misewy? Nothing but seductions, delusions, bwoken hearts, pwostwated spiwits, agonies of wemorse, tewible pwedictions, wetched wevewies, and all that sort of thing! Besides, what does she pwopose when she wepeatedly weitewates the necessity of some better and more weflective Chwistianity?"

"Those are the extravagances I speak of."

"I confess," said Violet, "I do not like the tricks she plays with language: surely all those uncouth compounds, and those obtrusive vowels which everybody else consents to drop, are useless affectations?"

"Those are the conquests of the New School," said Marmaduke.

"I thought that our great poets had found the language harmonious and flexible enough."

"You see, Mr. St. John," said Rose, laughing, "they are determined to pull your poetess to pieces. Don't hear any more. I will admire her with you, and we shall form the fit audience, though few."

The conversation did not cease here; but we have heard enough. Let us hurry, therefore, to Belgravia, where resides Sir Chetsom Chetsom, who has been forced to run up to town for a few days, and is now seated opposite his brother, his hand upon the claret decanter, listening to a brotherly remonstrance.

"I tell you, Chet, she is une intriguante: underneath all that romance and extravagance, I see a very cool calculation. In the letter you have just read me, I divine her character."

"What is there in that to make you suspicious?"

"Oh! no single passage, but the whole tone. Do but consider for a moment. Here are you, a married man, writing love-letters to an unmarried girl; she does not repulse you—she does not even pretend to be offended—she says nothing about your wife, nothing about the unmistakeable nature of your intentions."

"But I tell you, Tom, the giarl is decidedly fond of me."

"Humph."

"You doubt it?"

"Considerably."

"Very well, very well. I, who see her, who watch her, and who flatter myself know something of women—I think so, and that is enough."

"Do you ever look in the glass, Chet?"

"Often."

"And the result is?"

"Very different from what must occur in your case, Tom, if ever you venture on such a piece of temerity."

"And you think yourself still capable of inspiring a passion?"

"The thing is done."

"And you are done, Chet," said Tom Chetsom, placing one bulbous finger at the side of his vinous nose, and closing one oystery eye, by way of pantomimic comment on his words.

"You don't know women, Tom."

"Well, let us grant for a moment that you have made an impression; don't you see the imprudence of having an intrigue so near your home, in a little place where every action is noticed and discussed?"

"I don't care a fig what they discuss. That's the giarl's look out, not mine, damme! If neither she nor her father object to my visits, why should I be squeamish?"

"Why? Because you will be the laughter of the county."

"Thank ye, Tom."

"I'm serious, Chet. Your age is tolerably well known there, and you may imagine the gossip and the ridicule which will attach to any affair of yours with a young girl. It will be the talk of the whole county."

Sir Chetsom knew that quite as well as his knowing brother; but what his brother did not know, was that the great attraction in this intrigue consisted in the very fact so distinctly enunciated: "It will be the talk of the whole county!" He wished it to be so. He anticipated the scandal, and rejoiced thereat. He heard the chorus of virtuous matrons declaiming against his "wickedness," and the sound was exquisitely flattering. He shook his head with an air of knowing satisfaction as he read (in his mind's eye) the paragraphs in the local papers upbraiding him for his villainy. The phrase "The wretch! at his age to be seducing women!" flattered his anticipative ear more sweetly than any strain from Beethoven or Mozart could lull the spirit of a musician.

Tom Chetsom, frank old fellow, never once attempting to conceal a wrinkle, or to disguise a bald patch, could not comprehend his brother's secret pride in being made a butt. He understood the vanity of his brother's dandyism and juvenility: he saw specimens enough of that at his club. But knowing how all men, and above all men Sir Chetsom, shrunk from ridicule, it was a puzzle to him that the inevitable ridicule of his intrigue with Hester should not be a bugbear to frighten him away. He forgot that amidst all the ridicule and reprobation, there would be a tacit acknowledgment of Sir Chetsom's lady-killing powers; and for that acknowledgment he could scarcely pay too dearly.

As a mere safeguard for his vanity, and not out of any illiberality, he had from the first determined upon making no settlement on Hester, in case she should consent to live with him. If his intrigue cost him anything, the laugh would justly be turned against him as a dupe. If it cost him nothing, the world would storm at his meanness, but they would believe in his power.

CHAPTER IV.
PROPHECIES FULFILLED.

"What makes you so serious to-day, Mrs. St. John?" said Violet, about a week afterwards.

"I am getting anxious about my protégé. It was my Julius who introduced her to the notice of Sir Chetsom Chetsom; and I fear no good will come of it."

"Are you, then, of the Walton party?" asked Violet. "And do you lend an ear to all the scandal of that miserable place? Consider Sir Chetsom's age."

"Yes," said Rose; "but consider also his pretensions. We knew Sir Chetsom is old; but he wants to be thought young."

"I assure you," said Mrs. St. John, "it makes me very uneasy. Julius has already taken the liberty of speaking to him on the subject, as strongly as he could; but Sir Chetsom only laughed at what he called virtuous scruples. My only hope is, that Hester looks upon their difference of age and station as a sufficient warrant for an intimacy which she would not otherwise allow. And yet I fear it is not so. I hope I may wrong her. I do not wish to think uncharitably; but from what I have observed of late, I think she is ambitious and unscrupulous."

"We must remember," said Violet, "that her very opinions on the emancipation of woman would lead her to adopt a freedom of manner, which, though it might be very innocent, would be so unlike the conduct of well-educated girls, that we, judging her by the ordinary rules, should be guilty of great injustice."

Mrs. St. John shook her head.

"Mrs. St. John demurs," said Rose.

"I do, indeed. I look with suspicion on those opinions. When I see a woman disdaining the ordinary notions of society, I expect to see her follow out her own opinions, and disdain the ordinary practices of society."

Meredith Vyner joined them.

"We are discussing the old subject, Hester Mason," said Mrs. St. John.

"And giving her all the virtues under the sun, poetry included," said Vyner. "Well, you have chosen a good subject. We don't often meet with such a paragon. Where, indeed, in this prosaic place should we look for such another

Cui Pudor, et Justitiæ soro
Incorrupta Fides, nudaque Veritas,
Quando ullum inveniet parem?

"By the irony of your tone," said Mrs. St. John, "I suspect you have heard something new about her."

"No, nothing new; at least nothing unexpected."

"What is it? Pray, let us hear it."

"The most natural thing in the world she last night went off with Sir Chetsom Chetsom. Interdum deliramus senes, as Plautus saith."

This information was received in silence. Mrs. St. John coloured deeply, and then turned pale. She was greatly hurt, because she considered herself in some measure the cause of this misfortune, by having first brought Hester into notice, and then having introduced her to Sir Chetsom.

It was too true. Hester had gone off; and Sir Chetsom had taken good care that it should not be a secret.

It would need a more graphic brush than mine to paint the tumult of scandalized virtue in Walton at this outrage upon public morals. To paint the swelling indignation of Mrs. Ruddles, the vehemence of offended purity in Mrs. Spedley, the uplifted hands and eyes of the mute but expressive post-mistress, the sarcasms of Stone, the brutal jests of Spedley, the moral declamation of the Rev. Richard Ruddles, the sneers, the epithets of abuse, the prophecies of what "her end would be," the homilies on infidelity, poetry, and "new-fangled notions," and the constantly-reiterated but never-too-old reflections which each and all made upon their own sagacity in having "all along foreseen it."

The howl of Walton reached not Hester's ears; and if it had, it would only have sounded like the shouts of triumph in an ovation.

CHAPTER V.
THE ASTUTE MRS. VYNER.

L'epoux retint cette leçon par cœur.
Onc il ne fut une plus forte dupe
Que ce vieillard, bon homme au demeurant.
LAFONTAINE.—Contes.

On returning to the hall, Meredith Vyner found a letter from Cecil. He retired into his study; for he was one of those who fancy that you cannot possibly read anything with attention elsewhere than in a study. Having deliberately adjusted his spectacles, and taken a liberal pinch, he began the perusal.

Its contents may easily be guessed. It was very penitent, very clever, contained two adroit quotations from 'Horace,' and a well-worked-up petition for pardon. Blanche signed it with him, and added a pretty little postscript of her own.

Mrs. Meredith Vyner having learned from Rose that a letter had arrived, the handwriting of which looked like Cecil's, hastened to join her husband, whom she found not only in his own study, but in what is usually termed a "brown study." He was sitting in an easy-chair. His body slightly bent forward; the spectacles shifted from his nose to his forehead, one arm resting on the inner part of his thigh, the pendent hand grasping the opened letter, the other arm resting on the table, the hand caressing his snuff-box.

"So you have had a letter from your son-in-law?" she said, as she entered.

He handed it to her. She read it slowly. On looking into his face as she returned it to him, she saw that he had forgiven them.