PENELOPE'S ENGLISH EXPERIENCES

Being extracts from the commonplace book of Penelope Hamilton

by Kate Douglas Wiggin. 

 To my Boston friend Salemina. 

 No Anglomaniac, but a true Briton. 

Contents. 

 Part First--In Town. 

 I. The weekly bill. II. The powdered footman smiles. III. Eggs a la coque. IV. The English sense of humour. V. A Hyde Park Sunday. VI. The English Park Lover. VII. A ducal tea-party. VIII. Tuppenny travels in London. IX. A Table of Kindred and Affinity. X. Apropos of advertisements. XI. The ball on the opposite side. XII. Patricia makes her debut. XIII. A Penelope secret. XIV. Love and lavender. 

 Part Second--In the Country. 

 XV. Penelope dreams. XVI. The decay of Romance. XVII. Short stops and long bills. XVIII. I meet Mrs. Bobby. XIX. The heart of the artist. XX. A canticle to Jane. XXI. I remember, I remember. XXII. Comfort Cottage. XXIII. Tea served here. XXIV. An unlicensed victualler. XXV. Et ego in Arcadia vixit. 

Part First--In Town. 

Chapter I. The weekly bill. 

Smith's Hotel, 10 Dovermarle Street. 

Here we are in London again, --Francesca, Salemina, and I. Salemina isa philanthropist of the Boston philanthropists limited. I am an artist. Francesca is-- It is very difficult to label Francesca. She is, at herpresent stage of development, just a nice girl; that is about all: thesense of humanity hasn't dawned upon her yet; she is even unaware thatpersonal responsibility for the universe has come into vogue, and so sheis happy. 

Francesca is short of twenty years old, Salemina short of forty, I shortof thirty. Francesca is in love, Salemina never has been in love, Inever shall be in love. Francesca is rich, Salemina is well-to-do, I ampoor. There we are in a nutshell. 

We are not only in London again, but we are again in Smith's privatehotel; one of those deliciously comfortable and ensnaring hostelries inMayfair which one enters as a solvent human being, and which one leavesas a bankrupt, no matter what may be the number of ciphers on one'sletter of credit; since the greater one's apparent supply of wealth, the greater the demand made upon it. I never stop long in Londonwithout determining to give up my art for a private hotel. There must bemillions in it, but I fear I lack some of the essential qualificationsfor success. I never could have the heart, for example, to charge astruggling young genius eight shillings a week for two candles, andthen eight shillings the next week for the same two candles, which thestruggling young genius, by dint of vigorous economy, had managed topreserve to a decent height. No, I could never do it, not even if I werecertain that she would squander the sixteen shillings in Bond Streetfripperies instead of laying them up against the rainy day. 

It is Salemina who always unsnarls the weekly bill. Francesca spends anevening or two with it, first of all, because, since she is so young, we think it good mental-training for her, and not that she everaccomplishes any results worth mentioning. She begins by making threecolumns headed respectively F. , S. , and P. These initials stand forFrancesca, Salemina, and Penelope, but they resemble the signs forpounds, shillings, and pence so perilously that they introduce an addeddistraction. 

She then places in each column the items in which we are all equal, suchas rooms, attendance, fires, and lights. Then come the extras, which aredifferent for each person: more ale for one, more hot baths for another;more carriages for one, more lemon squashes for another. Francesca'scolumn is principally filled with carriages and lemon squashes. Youwould fancy her whole time was spent in driving and drinking, if youjudged her merely by this weekly statement at the hotel. 

When she has reached the point of dividing the whole bill into threeparts, so that each person may know what is her share, she adds thethree together, expecting, not unnaturally, to get the total amount ofthe bill. Not at all. She never comes within thirty shillings of thedesired amount, and she is often three or four guineas to the good or tothe bad. One of her difficulties lies in her inability to rememberthat in English money it makes a difference where you place a figure, whether, in the pound, shilling, or pence column. Having been educatedon the theory that a six is a six the world over, she charged me withsixty shillings' worth of Apollinaris in one week. I pounced on theerror, and found that she had jotted down each pint in the shillinginstead of in the pence column. 

After Francesca had broken ground on the bill in this way, Salemina, onthe next leisure evening, draws a large armchair under the lamp and putson her eye-glasses. We perch on either arm, and, after identifying ourown extras, we summon the butler to identify his. There are a goodmany that belong to him or to the landlady; of that fact we are alwaysconvinced before he proves to the contrary. We can never see (until hemakes us see) why the breakfasts on the 8th should be four shillingseach because we had strawberries, if on the 8th we find strawberriescharged in the luncheon column and also in the column of desserts andices. And then there are the peripatetic lemon squashes. Dawson callsthem 'still' lemon squashes because they are made with water, not withsoda or seltzer or vichy, but they are particularly badly named. 'Still'forsooth! when one of them will leap from place to place, appearingnow in the column of mineral waters and now in the spirits, now in thesuppers, and again in the sundries. We might as well drink Chablis orPommery by the time one of these still squashes has ceased wandering, and charging itself at each station. The force of Dawson's intellect issuch that he makes all this moral turbidity as clear as crystal whilehe remains in evidence. His bodily presence has a kind of illuminatingpower, and all the errors that we fancy we have found he traces to theiroriginal source, which is always in our suspicious and inexperiencedminds. As he leaves the room he points out some proof of unexampledmagnanimity on the part of the hotel; as, for instance, the fact thatthe management has not charged a penny for sending up Miss Monroe'sbreakfast trays. Francesca impulsively presses two shillings into hishonest hand and remembers afterwards that only one breakfast was servedin our bedrooms during that particular week, and that it was mine, nothers. 

The Paid Out column is another source of great anxiety. Francesca is aperson who is always buying things unexpectedly and sending them homeC. O. D. ; always taking a cab and having it paid at the house; alwayssending telegrams and messages by hansom, and notes by the Boots. 

I should think, were England on the brink of a war, that the PrimeMinister might expect in his office something of the same hubbub, uproar, and excitement that Francesca manages to evolve in this privatehotel. Naturally she cannot remember her expenditures, or extravagances, or complications of movement for a period of seven days; and when sheattacks the Paid Out column she exclaims in a frenzy, 'Just look atthis! On the 11th they say they paid out three shillings in telegrams, and I was at Maidenhead!' Then because we love her and cannot bear tosee her charming forehead wrinkled, we approach from our respectivecorners, and the conversation is something like this:--

Salemina. "You were not at Maidenhead on the 11th, Francesca; it was the12th. "

Francesca. "Oh! so it was; but I sent no telegrams on the 11th. "

Penelope. "Wasn't that the day you wired Mr. Drayton that you couldn'tgo to the Zoo?"

Francesca. "Oh yes, so I did: and to Mr. Godolphin that I could. Iremember now; but that's only two. "

Salemina. "How about the hairdresser whom you stopped coming fromKensington?"

Francesca. "Yes, she's the third, that's all right then; but what in theworld is this twelve shillings?"

Penelope. "The foolish amber beads you were persuaded into buying in theBurlington Arcade?"

Francesca. "No, those were seven shillings, and they are splittingalready. "

Salemina. "Those soaps and sachets you bought on the way home the daythat you left your purse in the cab?"

Francesca. "No; they were only five shillings. Oh, perhaps they lumpedthe two things; if seven and five are twelve, then that is just whatthey did. (Here she takes a pencil. ) Yes, they are twelve, so that'sright; what a comfort! Now here's two and six on the 13th. That wasyesterday, and I can always remember yesterdays; they are my strongpoint. I didn't spend a penny yesterday; oh yes! I did pay half a crownfor a potted plant, but it was not two and six, and it was a half-crownbecause it was the first time I had seen one and I took particularnotice. I'll speak to Dawson about it, but it will make no difference. Nobody but an expert English accountant could find a flaw in one ofthese bills and prove his case. "

By this time we have agreed that the weekly bill as a whole issubstantially correct, and all that Salemina has to do is to estimateour several shares in it; so Francesca and I say good night and leaveher toiling like Cicero in his retirement at Tusculum. By midnight shehas generally brought the account to a point where a half-hour's freshattention in the early morning will finish it. Not that she makes itcome out right to a penny. She has been treasurer of the Boston Band ofBenevolence, of the Saturday Morning Sloyd Circle, of the Club for theReception of Russian Refugees, and of the Society for the Brooding ofBuddhism; but none of these organisations carries on its existence bymeans of pounds, shillings, and pence, or Salemina's resignationwould have been requested long ago. However, we are not disposed to becaptious; we are too glad to get rid of the bill. If our united thirdsmake four or five shillings in excess, we divide them equally; if itcomes the other way about, we make it up in the same manner; alwaysmeeting the sneers of masculine critics with Dr. Holmes's remark that afaculty for numbers is a sort of detached-lever arrangement that can beput into a mighty poor watch. 

Chapter II. The powdered footman smiles. 

Salemina is so English! I can't think how she manages. She had not beenan hour on British soil before she asked a servant to fetch in somecoals and mend the fire; she followed this Anglicism by a request fora grilled chop, 'a grilled, chump chop, waiter, please, ' and so on fromtriumph to triumph. She now discourses of methylated spirits as if shehad never in her life heard of alcohol, and all the English equivalentsfor Americanisms are ready for use on the tip of her tongue. She says'conserv't'ry' and 'observ't'ry'; she calls the chambermaid 'Mairy, 'which is infinitely softer, to be sure, than the American 'Mary, 'with its over-long a; she ejaculates 'Quite so!' in all the pauses ofconversation, and talks of smoke-rooms, and camisoles, and luggage-vans, and slip-bodies, and trams, and mangling, and goffering. She also eatsjam for breakfast as if she had been reared on it, when every one knowsthat the average American has to contract the jam habit by patient andcontinuous practice. 

This instantaneous assimilation of English customs does not seem to beaffectation on Salemina's part; nor will I wrong her by fancying thatshe went through a course of training before she left Boston. From themoment she landed you could see that her foot was on her native heath. She inhaled the fog with a sense of intoxication that the east winds ofNew England had never given her, and a great throb of patriotism swelledin her breast when she first met the Princess of Wales in Hyde Park. 

As for me, I get on charmingly with the English nobility andsufficiently well with the gentry, but the upper servants strike terrorto my soul. There is something awe-inspiring to me about an Englishbutler. If they would only put him in livery, or make him wear a silverbadge; anything, in short, to temper his pride and prevent one frommistaking him for the master of the house or the bishop within hisgates. When I call upon Lady DeWolfe, I say to myself impressively, asI go up the steps: 'You are as good as a butler, as well born and wellbred as a butler, even more intelligent than a butler. Now, simplybecause he has an unapproachable haughtiness of demeanour, which you canrespectfully admire, but can never hope to imitate, do not cower beneaththe polar light of his eye; assert yourself; be a woman; be an Americancitizen!' All in vain. The moment the door opens I ask for Lady DeWolfein so timid a tone that I know Parker thinks me the parlour-maid'ssister who has rung the visitors' bell by mistake. If my lady is within, I follow Parker to the drawing-room, my knees shaking under me atthe prospect of committing some solecism in his sight. Lady DeWolfe'shusband has been noble only four months, and Parker of course knows it, and perhaps affects even greater hauteur to divert the attention of thevulgar commoner from the newness of the title. 

Dawson, our butler at Smith's private hotel, wields the same blightinginfluence on our spirits, accustomed to the soft solicitations of thenegro waiter or the comfortable indifference of the free-born American. We never indulge in ordinary democratic or frivolous conversation whenDawson is serving us at dinner. We 'talk up' to him so far as we areable, and before we utter any remark we inquire mentally whether he islikely to think it good form. Accordingly, I maintain throughoutdinner a lofty height of aristocratic elegance that impresses even theimpassive Dawson, towards whom it is solely directed. To the amazementand amusement of Salemina (who always takes my cheerful inanitiesat their face value), I give an hypothetical account of my afternoonengagements, interlarding it so thickly with countesses andmarchionesses and lords and honourables that though Dawson has passedsoup to duchesses, and scarcely ever handed a plate to anything lessthan a baroness, he dilutes the customary scorn of his glance, andmakes it two parts condescending approval as it rests on me, PenelopeHamilton, of the great American working class (unlimited). 

Apropos of the servants, it seems to me that the British footman hasrelaxed a trifle since we were last here; or is it possible that hereaches the height of his immobility at the height of the London season, and as it declines does he decline and become flesh? At all events, Ihave twice seen a footman change his weight from one leg to the other, as he stood at a shop entrance with his lady's mantle over his arm;twice have I seen one stroke his chin, and several times have I observedothers, during the month of July, conduct themselves in many respectslike animate objects with vital organs. Lest this incendiary statementbe challenged, levelled as it is at an institution whose stability andorder are but feebly represented by the eternal march of the stars intheir courses, I hasten to explain that in none of these cases cited wasit a powdered footman who (to use a Delsartean expression) withdrew willfrom his body and devitalised it before the public eye. I have observedthat the powdered personage has much greater control over his musclesthan the ordinary footman with human hair, and is infinitely hissuperior in rigidity. Dawson tells me confidentially that if a footmansmiles there is little chance of his rising in the world. He says asense of humour is absolutely fatal in that calling, and that he hasdischarged many a good footman because of an intelligent and expressiveface. 

I tremble to think of what the powdered footman may become when heunbends in the bosom of the family. When, in the privacy of his ownapartments, the powder is washed off, the canary-seed pads removed fromhis aristocratic calves, and his scarlet and buff magnificence exchangedfor a simple neglige, I should think he might be guilty of almost anyindiscretion or violence. I for one would never consent to be the wifeand children of a powdered footman, and receive him in his moments ofreaction. 

Chapter III. Eggs a la coque. 

Is it to my credit, or to my eternal dishonour that I once made apowdered footman smile, and that, too, when he was handing a butteredmuffin to an earl's daughter?

It was while we were paying a visit at Marjorimallow Hall, Sir Owenand Lady Marjorimallow's place in Surrey. This was to be our firstappearance in an English country house, and we made elaboratepreparations. Only our freshest toilettes were packed, and these werearranged in our trunks with the sole view of impressing the lady's-maidwho should unpack them. We each purchased dressing-cases and newfittings, Francesca's being of sterling silver, Salemina's of tripleplate, and mine of celluloid, as befitted our several fortunes. Saleminaread up on English politics; Francesca practised a new way of dressingher hair; and I made up a portfolio of sketches. We counted, therefore, on representing American letters, beauty, and art to that portion of thegreat English public staying at Marjorimallow Hall. (I must interject aparenthesis here to the effect that matters did not move precisely as weexpected; for at table, where most of our time was passed, Francesca hadfor a neighbour a scientist, who asked her plump whether the religionof the American Indian was or was not a pure theism; Salemina's partnerobjected to the word 'politics' in the mouth of a woman; while myattendant squire adored a good bright-coloured chromo. But this isanticipating. )

Three days before our departure, I remarked at the breakfast-table, Dawson being absent: "My dear girls, you are aware that we have orderedfried eggs, scrambled eggs, buttered eggs, and poached eggs ever sincewe came to Dovermarle Street, simply because we do not know how to eatboiled eggs prettily from the shell, English fashion, and cannot breakthem into a cup or a glass, American fashion, on account of the effectupon Dawson. Now there will certainly be boiled eggs at MarjorimallowHall, and we cannot refuse them morning after morning; it will becowardly (which is unpleasant), and it will be remarked (which isworse). Eating them minced in an egg-cup, in a baronial hall, with theremains of a drawbridge in the grounds, is equally impossible; if we dothat, Lady Marjorimallow will be having our luggage examined, to seeif we carry wigwams and war-whoops about with us. No, it is clearlynecessary that we master the gentle art of eating eggs tidily anddaintily from the shell. I have seen English women--very dull ones, too--do it without apparent effort; I have even seen an English infantdo it, and that without soiling her apron, or, as Salemina would say, 'messing her pinafore. ' I propose, therefore, that we order soft-boiledeggs daily; that we send Dawson from the room directly breakfast isserved; and that then and there we have a class for opening eggs, lowestgrade, object method. Any person who cuts the shell badly, or permitsthe egg to leak over the rim, or allows yellow dabs on the plate, orupsets the cup, or stains her fingers, shall be fined 'tuppence' andlocked into her bedroom for five minutes. "

The first morning we were all in the bedroom together, and, therebeing no blameless person to collect fines, the wildest civil disorderprevailed. 

On the second day Salemina and I improved slightly, but Francesca hadpassed a sleepless night, and her hand trembled (the love-letter mailhad come in from America). We were obliged to tell her, as we collected'tuppence' twice on the same egg, that she must either remain at home, or take an oilcloth pinafore to Marjorimallow Hall. 

But 'ease is the lovely result of forgotten toil, ' and it is only aquestion of time and desire with Americans, we are so clever. Othernations have to be trained from birth; but as we need only an ounceof training where they need a pound, we can afford to procrastinate. Sometimes we procrastinate too long, but that is a trifle. On the thirdmorning success crowned our efforts. Salemina smiled, and I told ananecdote, during the operation, although my egg was cracked in theboiling, and I question if the Queen's favourite maid-of-honour couldhave managed it prettily. Accordingly, when eggs were brought to thebreakfast-table at Marjorimallow Hall, we were only slightly nervous. Francesca was at the far end of the long table, and I do not know howshe fared, but from various Anglicisms that Salemina dropped, as shechatted with the Queen's Counsel on her left, I could see that her nervewas steady and circulation free. We exchanged glances (there was themistake!), and with an embarrassed laugh she struck her egg a hastyblow. 

Her egg-cup slipped and lurched; a top fraction of the egg flew inthe direction of the Q. C. , and the remaining portion oozed, in yellowconfusion, rapidly into her plate. Alas for that past mistress ofelegant dignity, Salemina! If I had been at Her Majesty's table, Ishould have smiled, even if I had gone to the Tower the next moment;but as it was, I became hysterical. My neighbour, a portly member ofParliament, looked amazed, Salemina grew scarlet, the situation wascharged with danger; and, rapidly viewing the various exits, I chose thehumorous one, and told as picturesquely as possible the whole story ofour school of egg-opening in Dovermarle Street, the highly arduousand encouraging rehearsals conducted there, and the stupendous failureincident to our first public appearance. Sir Owen led the good-naturedlaughter and applause; lords and ladies, Q. C. 's and M. P. 's joined inwith a will; poor Salemina raised her drooping head, opened and ate asecond egg with the repose of a Vere de Vere--and the footman smiled!

Chapter IV. The English sense of humour. 

I do not see why we hear that the Englishman is deficient in a sense ofhumour. His jokes may not be a matter of daily food to him, as they areto the American; he may not love whimsicality with the same passion, norinhale the aroma of a witticism with as keen a relish; but he likes funwhenever he sees it, and he sees it as often as most people. It maybe that we find the Englishman more receptive to our bits of femininenonsense just now, simply because this is the day of the Americanwoman in London, and, having been assured that she is an entertainingpersonage, young John Bull is willing to take it for granted so long asshe does not try to marry him, and even this pleasure he will allow heron occasion, --if well paid for it. 

The longer I live, the more I feel it an absurdity to label nations withnational traits, and then endeavour to make individuals conform to therequired standard. It is possible, I suppose, to draw certain broaddistinctions, though even these are subject to change; but the habit ofgeneralising from one particular, that mainstay of the cheap and obviousessayist, has rooted many fictions in the public mind. Nothing, for instance, can blot from my memory the profound, searching, andexhaustive analysis of a great nation which I learned in my smallgeography when I was a child, namely, 'The French are a gay and politepeople, fond of dancing and light wines. '

One young Englishman whom I have met lately errs on the side ofover-appreciation. He laughs before, during, and after every remarkI make, unless it be a simple request for food or drink. This is anacquaintance of Willie Beresford, the Honourable Arthur Ponsonby, who was the 'whip' on our coach drive to Dorking, --dear, delightful, adorable Dorking, of hen celebrity. 

Salemina insisted on my taking the box seat, in the hope that theHonourable Arthur would amuse me. She little knew him! He sapped meof all my ideas, and gave me none in exchange. Anything so unspeakablyheavy I never encountered. It is very difficult for a woman who doesn'tknow a nigh horse from an off one, nor the wheelers from the headers (oris it the fronters?), to find subjects of conversation with a gentlemanwho spends three-fourths of his existence on a coach. It was the moredifficult for me because I could not decide whether Willie Beresford wascross because I was devoting myself to the whip, or because Francescahad remained at home with a headache. This state of affairs continuedfor about fifteen miles, when it suddenly dawned upon the HonourableArthur that, however mistaken my speech and manner, I was trying to beagreeable. This conception acted on the honest and amiable soul likemagic. I gradually became comprehensible, and finally he gave himself upto the theory that, though eccentric, I was harmless and amusing, so wegot on famously, --so famously that Willie Beresford grew ridiculouslygloomy, and I decided that it could not be Francesca's headache. 

The names of these English streets are a never-failing source of delightto me. In that one morning we drove past Pie, Pudding, and PetticoatLanes, and later on we found ourselves in a 'Prudent Passage, ' whichopened, very inappropriately, into 'Huggin Lane. ' Willie Beresford saidit was the first time he had ever heard of anything so disagreeable asprudence terminating in anything so agreeable as huggin'. When he hadbeen severely reprimanded by his mother for this shocking speech, I saidto the Honourable Arthur:--

"I don't understand your business signs in England, --this 'Company, Limited, ' and that 'Company, Limited. ' That one, of course, is quiteplain" (pointing to the front of a building on the village street), "'Goat's Milk Company, Limited'; I suppose they have but one or twogoats, and necessarily the milk must be Limited. "

Salemina says that this was not in the least funny, that it wasabsolutely flat; but it had quite the opposite effect upon theHonourable Arthur. He had no command over himself or his horses for someminutes; and at intervals during the afternoon the full felicity ofthe idea would steal upon him, and the smile of reminiscence would flitacross his ruddy face. 

The next day, at the Eton and Harrow games at Lord's cricket-ground, hepresented three flowers of British aristocracy to our party, and askedme each time to tell the goat-story, which he had previously toldhimself, and probably murdered in the telling. Not content withthis arrant flattery, he begged to be allowed to recount some of myinternational episodes to a literary friend who writes for Punch. Idemurred decidedly, but Salemina said that perhaps I ought to bewilling to lower myself a trifle for the sake of elevating Punch! Thishome-thrust so delighted the Honourable Arthur that it remained hisfavourite joke for days, and the overworked goat was permitted to enjoythat oblivion from which Salemina insists it should never have emerged. 

Chapter V. A Hyde Park Sunday. 

The Honourable Arthur, Salemina, and I took a stroll in Hyde Park oneSunday afternoon, not for the purpose of joining the fashionable throngof 'pretty people' at Stanhope Gate, but to mingle with the common herdin its special precincts, --precincts not set apart, indeed, by anylegal formula, but by a natural law of classification which seems to beinherent in the universe. It was a curious and motley crowd--a littledull, perhaps, but orderly, well-behaved, and self-respecting, withhere and there part of the flotsam and jetsam of a great city, a ragged, sodden, hopeless wretch wending his way about with the rest, thankfulfor any diversion. 

Under the trees, each in the centre of his group, large or smallaccording to his magnetism and eloquence, stood the park 'shouter, 'airing his special grievance, playing his special part, preaching hisspecial creed, pleading his special cause, --anything, probably, forthe sake of shouting. We were plainly dressed, and did not attractobservation as we joined the outside circle of one of these groups afteranother. It was as interesting to watch the listeners as the speakers. I wished I might paint the sea of faces, eager, anxious, stolid, attentive, happy, and unhappy: histories written on many of them; othersblank, unmarked by any thought or aspiration. I stole a sidelong look atthe Honourable Arthur. He is an Englishman first, and a man afterwards(I prefer it the other way), but he does not realise it; he thinks he isjust like all other good fellows, although he is mistaken. He and WillieBeresford speak the same language, but they are as different as Malayand Eskimo. He is an extreme type, but he is very likeable and verywell worth looking at, with his long coat, his silk hat, and the whiteMalmaison in his buttonhole. He is always so radiantly, fascinatinglyclean, the Honourable Arthur, simple, frank, direct, sensible, and hebores me almost to tears. 

The first orator was edifying his hearers with an explanation of thedrama of The Corsican Brothers, and his eloquence, unlike that of theother speakers, was largely inspired by the hope of pennies. It was anovel idea, and his interpretation was rendered very amusing to usby the wholly original Yorkshire accent which he gave to the Frenchpersonages and places in the play. 

An Irishman in black clerical garb held the next group together. He wasin some trouble, owing to a pig-headed and quarrelsome Scotchman in thefront rank, who objected to each statement that fell from his lips, thusinterfering seriously with the effect of his peroration. If the Irishmanhad been more convincing, I suppose the crowd would have silenced thescoffer, for these little matters of discipline are always attended toby the audience; but the Scotchman's points were too well taken; hewas so trenchant, in fact, at times, that a voice would cry, 'Coom up, Sandy, an' 'ave it all your own w'y, boy!' The discussion continuedas long as we were within hearing distance, for the Irishman, thoughamiable and ignorant, was firm, the 'unconquered Scot' was on his nativeheath of argument, and the listeners were willing to give them both ahearing. 

Under the next tree a fluent Cockney lad of sixteen or eighteen yearswas declaiming his bitter experiences with the Salvation Army. He hadbeen sheltered in one of its beds which was not to his taste, and it hadfound employment for him which he had to walk twenty-two miles to get, and which was not to his liking when he did get it. A meeting ofthe Salvation Army at a little distance rendered his speech moreinteresting, as its points were repeated and denied as fast as made. 

Of course there were religious groups and temperance groups, and groupsdevoted to the tearing down or raising up of most things except theGovernment; for on that day there were no Anarchist or Socialistshouters, as is ordinarily the case. 

As we strolled down one of the broad roads under the shade of the nobletrees, we saw the sun setting in a red-gold haze; a glory of vividcolour made indescribably tender and opalescent by the kind of luminousmist that veils it; a wholly English sunset, and an altogether lovelyone. And quite away from the other knots of people, there leaned againsta bit of wire fence a poor old man surrounded by half a dozen childrenand one tired woman with a nursing baby. He had a tattered book, whichseemed to be the story of the Gospels, and his little flock sat on thegreensward at his feet as he read. It may be that he, too, had been ashouter in his lustier manhood, and had held a larger audience togetherby the power of his belief; but now he was helpless to attract any butthe children. Whether it was the pathos of his white hairs, his garb ofshreds and patches, or the mild benignity of his eye that moved me, Iknow not, but among all the Sunday shouters in Hyde Park it seemed to methat that quavering voice of the past spoke with the truest note. 

Chapter VI. The English Park Lover. 

The English Park Lover, loving his love on a green bench in KensingtonGardens or Regent's Park, or indeed in any spot where there is a greenbench, so long as it is within full view of the passer-by, --this Englishpublic lover, male or female, is a most interesting study, for we havenot his exact counterpart in America. He is thoroughly respectable, Ishould think, my urban Colin. He does not have the air of a gay deceiverroving from flower to flower, stealing honey as he goes; he looks, onthe contrary, as if it were his intention to lead Phoebe to the altaron the next bank holiday; there is a dead calm in his actions whichbespeaks no other course. If Colin were a Don Juan, surely he would bea trifle more ardent, for there is no tropical fervour in hismatter-of-fact caresses. He does not embrace Phoebe in the park, apparently, because he adores her to madness; because her smile islike fire in his veins, melting down all his defences; because theintoxication of her nearness is irresistible; because, in fine, hecannot wait until he finds a more secluded spot: nay, verily, heembraces her because--tell me, infatuated fruiterers, poulterers, soldiers, haberdashers (limited), what is your reason? For it does notappear to the casual eye. Stormy weather does not vex the calm of thePark Lover, for 'the rains of Marly do not wet' when one is in love. By a clever manipulation of four arms and four hands they can managean umbrella and enfold each other at the same time, though a femininemacintosh is well known to be ill adapted to the purpose, and acontinuous drizzle would dampen almost any other lover in the universe. 

The park embrace, as nearly as I can analyse it, seems to be one partinstinct, one part duty, one part custom, and one part reflex action. Ihave purposely omitted pleasure (which, in the analysis of the ordinaryembrace, reduces all the other ingredients to an almost invisiblefaction), because I fail to find it; but I am willing to believe thatin some rudimentary form it does exist, because man attends to nopurely unpleasant matter with such praiseworthy assiduity. Anythingmore fixedly stolid than the Park Lover when he passes his arm round hischosen one and takes her crimson hand in his, I have never seen; unless, indeed, it be the fixed stolidity of the chosen one herself. I had notat first the assurance even to glance at them as I passed by, blushingmyself to the roots of my hair, though the offenders themselves neverchanged colour. Many a time have I walked out of my way or lowered myparasol, for fear of invading their Sunday Eden; but a spirit of inquiryawoke in me at last, and I began to make psychological investigations, with a view to finding out at what point embarrassment would appear inthe Park Lover. I experimented (it was a most arduous and unpleasanttask) with upwards of two hundred couples, and it is interesting torecord that self-consciousness was not apparent in a single instance. It was not merely that they failed to resent my stopping in the pathdirectly opposite them, or my glaring most offensively at them, nor thatthey even allowed me to sit upon their green bench and witness theirchaste salutes, but it was that they did fail to perceive me atall! There is a kind of superb finish and completeness about theirindifference to the public gaze which removes it from ordinaryimmodesty, and gives it a certain scientific value. 

Chapter VII. A ducal tea-party. 

Among all my English experiences, none occupies so important a place asmy forced meeting with the Duke of Cimicifugas. (There can be no harm inmy telling the incident, so long as I do not give the right names, which are very well known to fame. ) The Duchess of Cimicifugas, who ischarming, unaffected, and lovable, so report says, has among her chosenfriends an untitled woman whom we will call Mrs. Apis Mellifica. I mether only daughter, Hilda, in America, and we became quite intimate. Itseems that Mrs. Apis Mellifica, who has an income of 20, 000 pounds ayear, often exchanges presents with the duchess, and at this time shehad brought with her from the Continent some rare old tapestries withwhich to adorn a new morning-room at Cimicifugas House. These tapestrieswere to be hung during the absence of the duchess in Homburg, and wereto greet her as a birthday surprise on her return. Hilda Mellifica, who is one of the most talented amateur artists in London, and who hasexquisite taste in all matters of decoration, was to go down to theducal residence to inspect the work, and she obtained permission fromLady Veratrum (the confidential companion of the duchess) to bring mewith her. I started on this journey to the country with all possibledelight, little surmising the agonies that lay in store for me in themercifully hidden future. 

The tapestries were perfect, and Lady Veratrum was most amiable andaffable, though the blue blood of the Belladonnas courses in her veins, and her great-grandfather was the celebrated Earl of Rhus Tox, whorendered such notable service to his sovereign. We roamed through thesplendid apartments, inspected the superb picture-gallery, where scoresof dead-and-gone Cimicifugases (most of them very plain) were glorifiedby the art of Van Dyck, Sir Joshua, or Gainsborough, and admired thepriceless collections of marbles and cameos and bronzes. It was aboutfour o'clock when we were conducted to a magnificent apartment for abrief rest, as we were to return to London at half-past six. As LadyVeratrum left us, she remarked casually, 'His Grace will join us attea. '

The door closed, and at the same moment I fell upon the brocaded satinstate bed and tore off my hat and gloves like one distraught. 

"Hilda, " I gasped, "you brought me here, and you must rescue me, for Iabsolutely decline to drink tea with a duke. "

"Nonsense, Penelope, don't be absurd, " she replied. "I have neverhappened to see him myself, and I am a trifle nervous, but it cannot bevery terrible, I should think. "

"Not to you, perhaps, but to me impossible, " I said. "I thought he wasin Homburg, or I would never have entered this place. It is not that Ifear nobility. I could meet Her Majesty the Queen at the Court of St. James without the slightest flutter of embarrassment, because I knowI could trust her not to presume on my defencelessness to enter intoconversation with me. But this duke, whose dukedom very likely datesback to the hour of the Norman Conquest, is a very different person, and is to be met under very different circumstances. He may ask me mypolitics. Of course I can tell him that I am a Mugwump, but what if heasks me why I am a Mugwump?"

"He will not, " Hilda answered. "Englishmen are not wholly devoid offeeling!"

"And how shall I address him?" I went on. "Does one call him 'yourGrace, ' or 'your Royal Highness'? Oh for a thousandth-part of theunblushing impertinence of that countrywoman of mine who called yourfuture king 'Tummy'! but she was a beauty, and I am not pretty enough tobe anything but discreetly well-mannered. Shall you sit in his presence, or stand and grovel alternately? Does one have to curtsy? Very well, then, make any excuses you like for me, Hilda: say I'm eccentric, sayI'm deranged, say I'm a Nihilist. I will hide under the scullery table, fling myself in the moat, lock myself in the keep, let the portcullisfall on me, die any appropriate early English death, --anything ratherthan curtsy in a tailor-made gown; I can kneel beautifully, Hilda, ifthat will do: you remember my ancestors were brought up on kneeling, andyours on curtsying, and it makes a great difference in the muscles. "

Hilda smiled benignantly as she wound the coil of russet hair round hershapely head. "He will think whatever you do charming, and whatever yousay brilliant, " she said; "that is the advantage in being an Americanwoman. "

Just at this moment Lady Veratrum sent a haughty maid to ask us if wewould meet her under the trees in the park which surrounds the house. I hailed this as a welcome reprieve to the dreaded function of tea withthe duke, and made up my mind, while descending the marble staircase, that I would slip away and lose myself accidentally in the grounds, appearing only in time for the London train. This happy mode of issuefrom my difficulties lent a springiness to my step, as we followed awaxwork footman over the velvet sward to a nook under a group of copperbeeches. But there, to my dismay, stood a charmingly appointed tea-tableglittering with silver and Royal Worcester, with several liveriedservants bringing cakes and muffins and berries to Lady Veratrum, whosat behind the steaming urn. I started to retreat, when thereappeared, walking towards us, a simple man, with nothing in the leastextraordinary about him. 

"That cannot be the Duke of Cimicifugas, " thought I, "a man in acorduroy jacket, without a sign of a suite; probably it is a BanishedDuke come from the Forest of Arden for a buttered muffin. "

But it was the Duke of Cimicifugas, and no other. Hilda was presentedfirst, while I tried to fire my courage by thinking of the PuritanFathers, and Plymouth Rock, and the Boston Tea-Party, and the battle ofBunker Hill. Then my turn came. I murmured some words which might havebeen anything, and curtsied in a stiff-necked self-respecting sort ofway. Then we talked, --at least the duke and Lady Veratrum talked. Hildasaid a few blameless words, such as befitted an untitled English virginin the presence of the nobility; while I maintained the probationarysilence required by Pythagoras of his first year's pupils. My idea wasto observe this first duke without uttering a word, to talk with thesecond (if I should ever meet a second), to chat with the third, and tosecure the fourth for Francesca to take home to America with her. 

Of course I know that dukes are very dear, but she could afford anyreasonable sum, if she found one whom she fancied; the principalobstacle in the path is that tiresome American lawyer with whomshe considers herself in love. I have never gone beyond that firstexperience, however, for dukes in England are as rare as snakes inIreland. I can't think why they allow them to die out so, --the dukes, not the snakes. If a country is to have an aristocracy, let there beenough of it, say I, and make it imposing at the top, where it showsmost, especially since, as I understand it, all that Victoria has to dois to say, 'Let there be dukes, ' and there are dukes. 

Chapter VIII. Tuppenny travels in London. 

If one really wants to know London, one must live there for years andyears. 

This sounds like a reasonable and sensible statement, yet the moment itis made I retract it, as quite misleading and altogether too general. 

We have a charming English friend who has not been to the Tower sincehe was a small boy, and begs us to conduct him there on the very nextSaturday. Another has not seen Westminster Abbey for fifteen years, because he attends church at St. Dunstan's-in-the-East. Another saysthat he should like to have us 'read up' London in the red-coveredBaedeker, and then show it to him, properly and systematically. Another, a flower of the nobility, confesses that he never mounted the top ofan omnibus in the evening for the sake of seeing London after dark, butthat he thinks it would be rather jolly, and that he will join us insuch a democratic journey at any time we like. 

We think we get a kind of vague apprehension of what London means fromthe top of a 'bus better than anywhere else, and this vague apprehensionis as much as the thoughtful or imaginative observer will ever arriveat in a lifetime. It is too stupendous to be comprehended. The mindis dazed by its distances, confused by its contrasts; tossed fromthe spectacle of its wealth to the contemplation of its poverty, thebrilliancy of its extravagances to the stolidity of its miseries, the luxuries that blossom in Mayfair to the brutalities that lurk inWhitechapel. 

We often set out on a fine morning, Salemina and I, and travel twentymiles in the day, though we have to double our twopenny fee severaltimes to accomplish that distance. 

We never know whither we are going, and indeed it is not a matter ofgreat moment (I mean to a woman) where everything is new and strange, and where the driver, if one is fortunate enough to be on a frontseat, tells one everything of interest along the way, and instructs oneregarding a different route back to town. 

We have our favourite 'buses, of course; but when one appears, and wejump on while it is still in motion, as the conductor seems to prefer, and pull ourselves up the cork-screw stairway, --not a simple matter inthe garments of sophistication, --we have little time to observe morethan the colour of the lumbering vehicle. 

We like the Cadbury's Cocoa 'bus very much; it takes you by St. Mary-le-Strand, Bow-Bells, the Temple, Mansion House, St, Paul's, andthe Bank. 

If you want to go and lunch, or dine frugally, at the Cheshire Cheese, eat black pudding and drink pale ale, sit in Dr. Johnson's old seat, and put your head against the exact spot on the wall where hisrested, --although the traces of this form of worship are all tooapparent, --then you jump on a Lipton's Tea 'bus, and are depositedat the very door. All is novel, and all is interesting, whether it becrowded streets of the East End traversed by the Davies' Pea-Fed Bacon'buses, or whether you ride to the very outskirts of London, throughgreen fields and hedgerows, by the Ridge's Food or Nestle's Milk route. 

There are trams, too, which take one to delightful places, though theseats on top extend lengthwise, after the old 'knifeboard pattern, 'and one does not get so good a view of the country as from the 'gardenseats' on the roof of the omnibus; still there is nothing we like betteron a warm morning than a good outing on the Vinolia tram that we pick upin Shaftesbury Avenue. There is a street running from Shaftesbury Avenueinto Oxford Street, which was once the village of St. Giles, one of thedozens of hamlets swallowed up by the great maw of London, and it stilllooks like a hamlet, although it has been absorbed for many years. Weconstantly happen on these absorbed villages, from which, not a centuryago, people drove up to town in their coaches. 

If you wish to see another phase of life, go out on a Saturday evening, from nine o'clock on to eleven, starting on a Beecham's Pill 'bus, andkeep to the poorer districts, alighting occasionally to stand with thecrowd in the narrower thoroughfares. 

It is a market night, and the streets will be a moving mass of men andwomen buying at the hucksters' stalls. Everything that can be sold ata stall is there: fruit, vegetables, meat, fish, crockery, tin-ware, children's clothing, cheap toys, boots, shoes, and sun-bonnets, all inreckless confusion. The vendors cry their wares in stentorian tones, vying with one another to produce excitement and induce patronage, whilegas-jets are streaming into the air from the roofs and flaring from thesides of the stalls; children crying, children dancing to the strains ofan accordion, children quarrelling, children scrambling for the refusefruit. In the midst of this spectacle, this din and uproar, the womenare chaffering and bargaining quite calmly, watching the scales to seethat they get their full pennyworth or sixpennyworth of this or that. Tothe student of faces, of manners, of voices, of gestures; to the personwho sees unwritten and unwritable stories in all these groups of men, women, and children, the scene reveals many things: some comedies, manytragedies, a few plain narratives (thank God!) and now and then--onlynow and then--a romance. As to the dark alleys and tenements on thefringe of this glare and brilliant confusion, this Babel of sound andant-bed of moving life, one can only surmise and pity and shudder;close one's eyes and ears to it a little, or one could never sleep forthinking of it, yet not too tightly lest one sleep too soundly, andforget altogether the seamy side of things. One can hardly believe thatthere is a seamy side when one descends from his travelling observatorya little later, and stands on Westminster Bridge, or walks along theThames Embankment. The lights of Parliament House gleam from a hundredwindows, and in the dark shadows by the banks thousands of coloureddiscs of light twinkle and dance and glow like fairy lamps, and arereflected in the silver surface of the river. That river, as full ofmystery and contrast in its course as London itself--where is suchanother? It has ever been a river of pageants, a river of sighs; a riverinto whose placid depths kings and queens, princes and cardinals, havewhispered state secrets, and poets have breathed immortal lines; astream of pleasure, bearing daily on its bosom such a freight of youthand mirth and colour and music as no other river in the world can boast. 

Sometimes we sally forth in search of adventures in the thick of a'London particular, ' Mr. Guppy's phrase for a fog. When you are onceensconced in your garden seat by the driver, you go lumbering througha world of bobbing shadows, where all is weird, vague, grey, dense; andwhere great objects loom up suddenly in the mist and then disappear;where the sky, heavy and leaden, seems to descend bodily upon your head, and the air is full of a kind of luminous yellow smoke. 

A Lipton's Tea 'bus is the only one we can see plainly in this sortof weather, and so we always take it. I do not wish, however, to befollowed literally in these modest suggestions for omnibus rides, because I am well aware that they are not sufficiently specific for theordinary tourist who wishes to see London systematically and without anyloss of time. If you care to go to any particular place, or reach thatplace by any particular time, you must not, of course, look at the mostconspicuous signs on the tops and ends of the chariots as we do; youmust stand quietly at one of the regular points of departure and try todecipher, in a narrow horizontal space along the side, certain littlewords that show the route and destination of the vehicle. They saythat it can be done, and I do not feel like denying it on my ownresponsibility. Old Londoners assert that they are not blinded orconfused by Pears' Soap in letters two feet high, scarlet on a goldground, but can see below in fine print, and with the naked eye, such legends as Tottenham Court Road, Westbourne Grove, St. Pancras, Paddington, or Victoria. It is certainly reasonable that the omnibusesshould be decorated to suit the inhabitants of the place rather thanforeigners, and it is perhaps better to carry a few hundred stupid soulsto the wrong station daily than to allow them to cleanse their handswith the wrong soap, or quench their thirst with the wrong (which is tosay the unadvertised) beverage. 

The conductors do all in their power to mitigate the lot of unhappystrangers, and it is only now and again that you hear an absent-mindedor logical one call out, 'Castoria! all the w'y for a penny. '

We claim for our method of travelling, not that it is authoritative, butthat it is simple--suitable to persons whose desires are flexible andwhose plans are not fixed. It has its disadvantages, which may indeedbe said of almost anything. For instance, we had gone for two successivemornings on a Cadbury's Cocoa 'bus to Francesca's dressmaker inKensington. On the third morning, deceived by the ambitious andunscrupulous Cadbury, we mounted it and journeyed along comfortablythree miles to the east of Kensington before we discovered our mistake. It was a pleasant and attractive neighbourhood where we found ourselves, but unfortunately Francesca's dressmaker did not reside there. 

If you have determined to take a certain train from a certain station, and do not care for any other, no matter if it should turn out to bejust as interesting, then never take a Lipton's Tea 'bus, for it is themost unreliable of all. If it did not sound so learned, and if I did notfeel that it must have been said before, it is so apt, I should quoteHorace, and say, 'Omnibus hoc vitium est. ' There is no 'bus unseized bythe Napoleonic Lipton. Do not ascend one of them supposing for a momentthat by paying fourpence and going to the very end of the route you willcome to a neat tea station, where you will be served with the cheeringcup. Never; nor with a draught of Cadbury's cocoa or Nestle's milk, although you have jostled along for nine weary miles in company withtheir blatant recommendations to drink nothing else, and though you mayhave passed other 'buses with the same highly-coloured names glaring atyou until they are burned into the grey matter of your brain, to remainthere as long as the copy-book maxims you penned when you were a child. 

These pictorial methods doubtless prove a source of great financialgain; of course it must be so, or they would never be prosecuted; butalthough they may allure millions of customers, they will lose two inour modest persons. When Salemina and I go into a cafe for tea we askthe young woman if they serve Lipton's, and if they say yes, we takecoffee. This is self-punishment indeed (in London!), yet we feel thatit may have a moral effect; perhaps not commensurate with the physicaleffect of the coffee upon us, but these delicate matters can never beadjusted with absolute exactitude. 

Sometimes when we are to travel on a Pears' Soap 'bus we buy beforehanda bit of pure white Castile, cut from a shrinking, reserved, exclusivebar with no name upon it, and present it to some poor woman when wearrive at our journey's end. We do not suppose that so insignificant aprotest does much good, but at least it preserves one's individualityand self-respect. 

Chapter IX. A Table of Kindred and Affinity. 

On one of our excursions Hilda Mellifica accompanied us, and we alightedto see the place where the Smithfield martyrs were executed, and tovisit some of the very old churches in that vicinity. We found hangingin the vestibule of one of them something quite familiar to Hilda, butvery strange to our American eyes: 'A Table of Kindred and Affinity, wherein whosoever are related are forbidden in Scripture and our Laws toMarry Together. '

Salemina was very quiet that afternoon, and we accused her afterwards ofbeing depressed because she had discovered that, added to the battalionsof men in England who had not thus far urged her to marry them, therewere thirty persons whom she could not legally espouse even if they didask her!

I cannot explain it, but it really seemed in some way that our chancesof a 'sweet, safe corner of the household fire' had materially decreasedwhen we had read the table. 

"It only goes to prove what Salemina remarked yesterday, " I said: "thatwe can go on doing a thing quite properly until we have seen the rulefor it printed in black and white. The moment we read the formula wefail to see how we could ever have followed it; we are confused by itscomplexities, and we do not feel the slightest confidence in our abilityto do consciously the thing we have done all our lives unconsciously. "

"Like the centipede, " quoted Salemina:--

 "'The centipede was happy quite Until the toad, for fun, Said, "Pray, which leg goes after which?" Which wrought his mind to such a pitch, He lay distracted in a ditch Considering how to run!'"

"The Table of Kindred and Affinity is all too familiar to me, " sighedHilda, "because we had a governess who made us learn it as a punishment. I suppose I could recite it now, although I haven't looked at it for tenyears. We used to chant it in the nursery schoolroom on wet afternoons. I well remember that the vicar called one day to see us, and thegoverness, hearing our voices uplifted in a pious measure, drew himunder the window to listen. This is what he heard--you will see howadmirably it goes! And do not imagine it is wicked: it is merely theLaw, not the Gospel, and we framed our own musical settings, so that wehad no associations with the Prayer Book. "

Here Hilda chanted softly, there being no one in the old churchyard:--

"A woman may not marry with her Grandfather. Grandmother's Husband, Husband's Grandfather.. Father's Brother. Mother's Brother. Father'sSister's Husband.. Mother's Sister's Husband. Husband's Father'sBrother. Husband's Mother's Brother.. Father. Step-Father. Husband'sFather.. Son. Husband's Son. Daughter's Husband.. Brother. Husband'sBrother. Sister's Husband.. Son's Son. Daughter's Son. Son's Daughter'sHusband.. Daughter's Daughter's Husband. Husband's Son's Son. Husband'sDaughter's Son .. Brother's Son. Sister's Son. Brother's Daughter'sHusband.. Sister's Daughter's Husband. Husband's Brother's Son. Husband's Sister's Son. "

"It seems as if there were nobody left, " I said disconsolately, "saveperhaps your Second Cousin's Uncle, or your Enemy's Dearest Friend. "

"That's just the effect it has on one, " answered Hilda. "We always usedto conclude our chant with the advice:--

"And if there is anybody, after this, in the universe. Left to. Marry.. Marry him as expeditiously. As you. Possibly. Can.. Because there arevery few husbands omitted from this table of. Kindred and. Affinity.. And it behoveth a maiden to snap them up without any delay. Willing orunwilling. Whenever and. Wherever found. "

"We were also required to learn by heart the form of Prayer withThanksgiving to be used Yearly upon the Fifth Day of November for thehappy deliverance of King James I. And the Three Estates of England fromthe most traitorous and bloody-intended Massacre by Gunpowder; also theprayers for Charles the Martyr and the Thanksgiving for having put anend to the Great Rebellion by the Restitution of the King and RoyalFamily after many Years' interruption which unspeakable Mercies werewonderfully completed upon the 29th of May in the year 1660!"

"1660! We had been forty years in America then, " soliloquised Francesca;"and isn't it odd that the long thanksgivings in our country must allhave been for having successfully run away from the Gunpowder Treason, King Charles the Martyr, and the Restituted Royal Family; yet here weare, you and I, the best of friends, talking it all over. "

As we jog along, or walk, by turns, we come to Buckingham Street, and looking up at Alfred Jingle's lodgings say a grateful word of Mr. Pickwick. We tell each other that much of what we know of London andEngland seems to have been learned from Dickens. 

Deny him the right to sit among the elect, if you will; talk of histendency to farce and caricature; call his humour low comedy, andhis pathos bathos--although you shall say none of these things in mypresence unchallenged; the fact remains that every child, in Americaat least, knows more of England--its almshouses, debtors' prisons, andlaw-courts, its villages and villagers, its beadles and cheap-jacks andhostlers and coachmen and boots, its streets and lanes, its lodgings andinns and landladies and roastbeef and plum-pudding, its ways, manners, and customs, --knows more of these things and a thousand others fromDickens's novels than from all the histories, geographies, biographies, and essays in the language. Where is there another novelist who has sopeopled a great city with his imaginary characters that there is hardlyroom for the living population, as one walks along the ways?

O these streets of London! There are other more splendid shades inthem, --shades that have been there for centuries, and will walk besideus so long as the streets exist. One can never see these shades, saveas one goes on foot, or takes that chariot of the humble, the omnibus. Ishould like to make a map of literary London somewhat after LeighHunt's plan, as projected in his essay on the World of Books; for to thebook-lover 'the poet's hand is always on the place, blessing it. ' Onecan no more separate the association from the particular spot than onecan take away from it any other beauty. 

'Fleet Street is always Johnson's Fleet Street' (so Leigh Hunt says);'the Tower belongs to Julius Caesar, and Blackfriars to Suckling, Vandyke, and the Dunciad... I can no more pass through Westminsterwithout thinking of Milton, or the Borough without thinking of Chaucerand Shakespeare, or Gray's Inn without calling Bacon to mind, orBloomsbury Square without Steele and Akenside, than I can preferbrick and mortar to wit and poetry, or not see a beauty upon it beyondarchitecture in the splendour of the recollection. '

Chapter X. Apropos of advertisements. 

Francesca wishes to get some old hall-marked silver for her hometea-tray, and she is absorbed at present in answering advertisements ofpeople who have second-hand pieces for sale, and who offer to bring themon approval. The other day, when Willie Beresford and I came in fromWestminster Abbey (where we had been choosing the best locations forour memorial tablets), we thought Francesca must be giving a 'small andearly'; but it transpired that all the silver-sellers had called at thesame hour, and it took the united strength of Dawson and Mr. Beresford, together with my diplomacy, to rescue the poor child from theirclutches. She came out alive, but her safety was purchased at the costof a George IV. Cream-jug, an Elizabethan sugar-bowl, and a Boadiceatea-caddy, which were, I doubt not, manufactured in Wardour Streettowards the close of the nineteenth century. 

Salemina came in just then, cold and tired. (Tower and National Gallerythe same day. It's so much more work to go to the Tower nowadays thanit used to be!) We had intended to take a sail to Richmond on a pennysteamboat, but it was drizzling, so we had a cosy fire instead, slippedinto our tea-gowns, and ordered tea and thin bread-and-butter, a basketof strawberries with their frills on, and a jug of Devonshire cream. Willie Beresford asked if he might stay; otherwise, he said, he shouldhave to sit at a cold marble table on the corner of Bond Street andPiccadilly, and take his tea in bachelor solitude. 

"Yes, " I said severely, "we will allow you to stay; though, as you arecoming to dinner, I should think you would have to go away some time, if only in order that you might get ready to come back. You've been heresince breakfast-time. "

"I know, " he answered calmly, "and my only error in judgment was that Ididn't take an earlier breakfast, in order to begin my day here sooner. One has to snatch a moment when he can, nowadays; for these rooms areso infested with British swells that a base-born American stands verylittle chance!"

Now I should like to know if Willie Beresford is in love with Francesca. What shall I do--that is what shall we do--if he is, when she is in lovewith somebody else? To be sure, she may want one lover for foreign andanother for domestic service. He is too old for her, but that is alwaysthe way. When Alcides, having gone through all the fatigues of life, took a bride in Olympus, he ought to have selected Minerva, but he choseHebe. 

I wonder why so many people call him 'Willie' Beresford, at his age. Perhaps it is because his mother sets the example; but from her lipsit does not seem amiss. I suppose when she looks at him she recallsthe past, and is ever seeing the little child in the strong man, motherfashion. It is very beautiful, that feeling; and when a girl surprisesit in any mother's eyes it makes her heart beat faster, as in thepresence of something sacred, which she can understand only because sheis a woman, and experience is foreshadowed in intuition. 

The Honourable Arthur had sent us a dozen London dailies and weeklies, and we fell into an idle discussion of their contents over the teacups. I had found an 'exchange column' which was as interesting as it wasnovel, and I told Francesca it seemed to me that if we managed wisely wecould rid ourselves of all our useless belongings, and gradually amassa collection of the English articles we most desired. "Here is anopportunity, for instance, " I said, and I read aloud-"'S. G. , ofKensington, will post 'Woman' three days old regularly for a box of cutflowers. '"

"Rather young, " said Mr. Beresford, "or I'd answer that advertisementmyself. "

I wanted to tell him I didn't suppose that he could find anything tooyoung for his taste, but I didn't dare. 

"Salemina adores cats, " I went on. "How is this, Sally, dear?--'A handsome orange male Persian cat, also a tabby, immense coat, brushes and frills, is offered in exchange for an electro-platedrevolving covered dish or an Allen's Vapour Bath. '"

"I should like the cat, but alas! I have no covered dish, " sighedSalemina. 

"Buy one, " suggested Mr. Beresford. "Even then you'd be getting abargain. Do you understand that you receive the male orange cat for thedish, and the frilled tabby for the bath, or do you get both in exchangefor either of these articles? Read on, Miss Hamilton. "

"Very well, here is one for Francesca-"'A harmonium with seven stopsis offered in exchange for a really good Plymouth cockerel hatched inMay. '"

"I should want to know when the harmonium was hatched, " said Francescaprudently. "Now you cannot usurp the platform entirely, my dear Pen. Listen to an English marriage notice from the Times. It chances to bethe longest one to-day, but there were others just as remarkable inyesterday's issue. 

"'On the 17th instant, at Emmanuel Church (Countess of Padelford'sconnection), Weston-super-Mare, by the Rev. Canon Vernon, B. D. , Rectorof St. Edmund the King and Martyr, Suffolk Street, uncle of bride, assisted by the Rev. Otho Pelham, M. A. , Vicar of All Saints, UpperNorwood, Dr. Philosophial Konrad Rasch, of Koetzsenbroda, Saxony, to Evelyn Whitaker Rake, widow of the late Richard Balaclava Rake, Barrister-at-law of the Inner Temple and Bombay, and third survivingdaughter of George Frederic Goldspink, C. B. , of Sydenham House, CraigHill, Commissioner of Her Majesty's Customs, and formerly of the WarOffice. '"

By the time this was finished we were all quite exhausted, but werevived like magic when Salemina read us her contribution:--

"'A NAME ENSHRINED IN LITERATURE AND RENOWNED IN COMMERCE, --MissWillard, Waddington, Essex. Deal with her whenever you possibly can. When you want to purchase, ask her for anything under the canopy ofheaven, from jewels, bijouterie, and curios to rare books and high-classarticles of utility. When you want to sell, consign only to her, fromchoice gems to mundane objects. All transactions embodying the germsof small profits are welcome. As a sample of her stock please note:A superlatively exquisite, essentially beautiful, and important laceflounce for sale, at a reasonable price. Also a bargain of peerlesslychoice character. --Six grandly glittering paste cluster buttons, ofimportant size, emitting dazzling rays of incomparable splendour andlustre. Don't readily forget this or her name and address, --Clara (Miss)Willard (the Lady Trader), Waddington, Essex. Immaculate promptitude andscrupulous liberality observed: therefore, on these credentials, ye mustdeal with her; it is the duty of intellect to be reciprocal. '"

Just here Dawson entered, evidently to lay the dinner-cloth, but, seeingthat we had a visitor, he took the tea-tray and retired discreetly. 

"It is five-and-thirty minutes past six, Mr. Beresford, " I said. "Do youthink you can get to the Metropole and array yourself and return in lessthan an hour? Because, even if you can, remember that we ladies haveelaborate toilets in prospect, --toilets intended for the completeprostration of the British gentry. Francesca has a yellow gown whichwill drive Bertie Godolphin to madness. Salemina has laid out a soft, dovelike grey and steel combination, directed towards the Church ofEngland; for you may not know that Sally has a vicar in her train, Mr. Beresford, and he will probably speak to-night. As for me-"

Before these shocking personalities were finished Salemina and Francescahad fled to their rooms, and Mr. Beresford took up my broken sentenceand said, "As for you, Miss Hamilton, whatever gown you wear, you aresure to make one man speak, if you care about it; but, I suppose, youwould not listen to him unless he were English"; and with that shot hedeparted. 

I really think I shall have to give up the Francesca hypothesis, and, alas! I am not quite ready to adopt any other. 

We discussed international marriages while we were at our toilets, Salemina and I prinking by the light of one small candle-end, whileFrancesca, as the youngest and prettiest, illuminated her charms withthe six sitting-room candles and three filched from the little table inthe hall. 

I gave it as my humble opinion that for an American woman an Englishhusband was at least an experiment; Salemina declared that for thatmatter a husband of any nationality was an experiment. Francesca endedthe conversation flippantly by saying that in her judgment no husband atall was a much more hazardous experiment. 

Chapter XI. The ball on the opposite side. 

We are all three rather tired this morning, --Salemina, Francesca, andI, --for we went to one of the smartest balls of the London season lastnight, and were robbed of half our customary allowance of sleep inconsequence. 

It may be difficult for you to understand our weariness, when I confessthat the ball was not quite of the usual sort; that we did not danceat all; and, what is worse, that we were not asked, either to tread ameasure, or sit out a polka, or take 'one last turn. '

To begin at the beginning, there is a large vacant house directlyopposite Smith's Private Hotel, and there has been hanging from itsbalcony, until very lately, a sign bearing the following notice:--

 THESE COMMANDING PREMISES WITH A SUPERFICIAL AREA OF 10, 000 FT. AND 50 FT. FRONTAGE TO DOVERMARLE ST. WILL BE SOLD BY AUCTION ON TUESDAY, JUNE 28TH, BY MESSRS. SKIDDY, YADDLETHORPE AND SKIDDY LAND AGENTS AND SURVEYORS 27 HASTINGS PLACE, PALL MALL. 

A few days ago, just as we were finishing a late breakfast, an elderlygentleman drove up in a private hansom, and alighted at this vacanthouse on the opposite side. Behind him, in a cab, came two men, whounlocked the front door, went in, came out on the balcony, cut the wiressupporting the sign, took it down, opened all the inside shutters, and disappeared through some rear entrance. The elderly gentleman wentupstairs for a moment, came down again, and drove away. 

"The house has been sold, I suppose, " said Salemina; "and for my part Ienvy the new owner his bargain. He is close to Piccadilly, has that bitof side lawn with the superb oak-tree, and the duke's beautiful gardensso near that they will seem virtually his own when he looks from hisupper windows. "

At tea-time the same elderly gentleman drove up in a victoria, with avery pretty young lady. 

"The plot thickens, " said Francesca, who was nearest the window. "Do yousuppose she is his bride-elect, and is he showing her their future home, or is she already his wife? If so, I fear me she married him for histitle and estates, for he is more than a shade too old for her. "

"Don't be censorious, child, " I remonstrated, taking my cup idly acrossthe room, to be nearer the scene of action. "Oh, dear! there is a slightdiscrepancy, I confess, but I can explain it. This is how it happened:The girl had never really loved, and did not know what the feeling was. She did know that the aged suitor was a good and worthy man, and hermother and nine small brothers and sisters (very much out at the toes)urged the marriage. The father, too, had speculated heavily in consortsor consuls, or whatever-you-call-'ems, and besought his child not toexpose his defalcations and losses. She, dutiful girl, did as she wasbid, especially as her youngest sister came to her in tears and said, 'Unless you consent we shall have to sell the cow!' So she went to thealtar with a heart full of palpitating respect, but no love to speak of;that always comes in time to heroines who sacrifice themselves and sparethe cows. "

"It sounds strangely familiar, " remarked Mr. Beresford, who was with us, as usual. "Didn't a fellow turn up in the next chapter, a young nephewof the old husband, who fell in love with the bride, unconsciously andagainst his will? Wasn't she obliged to take him into the conservatory, at the end of a week, and say, 'G-go! I beseech you! for b-both oursakes!'? Didn't the noble fellow wring her hand silently, and leave herlooking like a broken lily on the-"

"How can you be so cynical, Mr. Beresford? It isn't like you!" exclaimedSalemina. "For my part, I don't think the girl is either his bride orhis fiancee. Probably the mother of the family is dead, and the fatheris bringing his eldest daughter to look at the house: that's my idea ofit. "

This theory being just as plausible as ours, we did not discuss it, hoping that something would happen to decide the matter in one way oranother. 

"She is not married, I am sure, " went on Salemina, leaning over the backof my chair. "You notice that she hasn't given a glance at the kitchenor the range, although they are the most important features of thehouse. I think she may have just put her head inside the dining-roomdoor, but she certainly didn't give a moment to the butler's pantry orthe china closet. You will find that she won't mount to the fifth floorto see how the servants are housed, --not she, careless, pretty creature;she will go straight to the drawing-room. "

And so she did; and at the same instant a still younger and prettiercreature drove up in a hansom, and was out of it almost before theadmiring cabby could stop his horse or reach down for his fare. She flewup the stairway and danced into the drawing-room like a young whirlwind;flung open doors, pulled up blinds with a jerk, letting in the sunlighteverywhere, and tiptoed to and fro over the dusty floors, holding up hermuslin flounces daintily. 

"This must be the daughter of his first marriage, " I remarked. 

"Who will not get on with the young stepmother, " finished Mr. Beresford. 

"It is his youngest daughter, " corrected Salemina, --"the youngestdaughter of his only wife, and the image of her deceased mother, whowas, in her time, the belle of Dublin. "

She might well have been that, we all agreed; for this young beauty wasquite the Irish type, such black hair, grey-blue eyes, and wonderfullashes, and such a merry, arch, winsome face, that one loved her on theinstant. 

She was delighted with the place, and we did not wonder, for thesunshine, streaming in at the back and side windows, showed us roomsof noble proportions opening into one another. She admired the balcony, although we thought it too public to be of any use save for floweringplants; she was pleased with a huge French mirror over the marblemantle; she liked the chandeliers, which were in the worst possibletaste; all this we could tell by her expressive gestures; and shefinally seized the old gentleman by the lapels of his coat and dancedhim breathlessly from the fireplace to the windows and back again, whilethe elder girl clapped her hands and laughed. 

"Isn't she lovely?" sighed Francesca, a little covetously, although sheis something of a beauty herself. 

"I am sorry that her name is Bridget, " said Mr. Beresford. 

"For shame!" I cried indignantly. "It is Norah, or Veronica, orGeraldine, or Patricia; yes, it is Patricia, --I know it as well as if Ihad been at the christening. --Dawson, take the tea-things, please; anddo you know the name of the gentleman who has bought the house on theopposite side?"

"It is Lord Brighton, miss. " (You would never believe it, but we findthe name is spelled Brighthelmston. ) "He hasn't bought the 'ouse; he hastaken it for a week, and is giving a ball there on the Tuesday evening. He has four daughters, miss, and two h'orphan nieces that generallyspends the season with 'im. It's the youngest daughter he is bringingout, that lively one you saw cutting about just now. They 'ave noballroom, I expect, in their town 'ouse, which accounts for theirrenting one for this occasion. They stopped a month in this 'otel lastyear, so I have the honour of m'luds acquaintance. "

"Lady Brighthelmston is not living, I should judge, " remarked Salemina, in the tone of one who thinks it hardly worth while to ask. 

"Oh, yes, miss, she's alive and 'earty; but the daughters manageseverythink, and what they down't manage the h'orphan nieces does. The'ouse is run for the young ladies, but m'ludanlady seems to enjoy it. "

Dovermarle Street was so interesting during the next few days that wecould scarcely bear to leave it, lest something exciting should happenin our absence. 

"A ball is so confining!" said Francesca, who had come back from thecorner of Piccadilly to watch the unloading of a huge van, and foundthat it had no intention of stopping at Number Nine on the oppositeside. 

First came a small army of charwomen, who scrubbed the house from topto bottom. Then came men with canvas for floors, bronzes and jardinieresand somebody's family portraits from an auction-room, chairs and sofasand draperies from an upholsterer's. 

The night before the event itself I announced my intention of staying inour own drawing-room the whole of the next day. "I am more interested inPatricia's debut, " I said, "than anything else that can possibly happenin London. What if it should be wet, and won't it be annoying if it is acold night and they draw the heavy curtains close together?"

But it was beautiful day, almost too warm for a ball, and the heavycurtains were not drawn. The family did not court observation; it wasserenely unconscious of such a thing. As to our side of the street, Ithink we may have been the only people at all interested in the affairnow so imminent. The others had something more sensible to do, I fancy, than patching up romances about their neighbours. 

At noon the florists decorated the entrance with palms, covered thebalcony with a gay awning, and hung the railing with brilliant massesof scarlet and yellow flowers. At two the caterers sent silver, tables, linen, and dishes, and a Broadwood grand piano was installed; but athalf-past seven, when we sat down to dinner, we were a trifle anxious, because so many things seemed yet to do before the party could be acomplete success. 

Mr. Beresford and his mother were dining with us, and we had sentinvitations to our London friends, the Hon. Arthur Ponsonby and BertieGodolphin, to come later in the evening. These read as follows:--

 Private View The pleasure of your company is requested at the coming-out party of The Hon. Patricia Brighthelmston July --- 189- On the opposite side of the street. Dancing about 10-30. 9 Dovermarle Street. 

At eight o'clock, as we were finishing our fish course, which chancedto be fried sole, the ball began literally to roll, and it required thegreatest ingenuity on Francesca's part and mine to be always down in ourseats when Dawson entered with the dishes, and always at the window whenhe was absent. 

An enormous van had appeared, with half a dozen men walking behind it. In a trice, two of them had stretched a wire trellis across one wallof the drawing-room, and two more were trailing roses from floor toceiling. Others tied the dark wood of the stair railing with tallMadonna lilies; then they hung garlands of flowers from corner to cornerand, alas! could not refrain from framing the mirror in smilax, norfrom hanging the chandeliers with that same ugly, funereal, andartificial-looking vine, --this idea being the principal stock-in-tradeof every florist in the universe. 

We could not catch even a glimpse of the supper-rooms, but we saw a manin the fourth story front room filling dozens of little glass vases, each with its single malmaison, rose, or camellia, and despatching themby an assistant to another part of the house; so we could imagine fromthis the scheme of decoration at the tables. --No, not new, perhaps, butsimple and effective. 

By the time we had finished our entree, which happened to be lambcutlets and green peas, and had begun our roast, which was chicken andham, I remember, they had put wreaths at all the windows, hung Japaneselanterns on the balcony and in the oak-tree, and transformed the houseinto a blossoming bower. 

At this exciting juncture Dawson entered unexpectedly with our sweet, and for the first and only time caught us literally 'red-handed. ' LetBritish subjects be interested in their neighbours, if they will (andwhen they refrain I am convinced that it is as much indifference as goodbreeding), but let us never bring our country into disrepute with anEnglish butler! As there was not a single person at the table whenDawson came in, we were obliged to say that we had finished dinner, thank you, and would take coffee; no sweet to-night, thank you. 

Willie Beresford was the only one who minded, but he rather likes cherrytart. It simply chanced to be cherry tart, for our cook at Smith'sPrivate Hotel is a person of unbridled fancy and endless repertory. Shesometimes, for example, substitutes rhubarb for cherry tart quite outof her own head; and when balked of both these dainties, and thrownabsolutely on her own boundless resources, will create a dish of stewedgreen gooseberries and a companion piece of liquid custard. Theseunrelated concoctions, when eaten at the same moment, as is herintention, always remind me of the lying down together of the lion andthe lamb, and the scheme is well-nigh as dangerous, under any othercircumstances than those of the digestive millennium. I tremble to thinkwhat would ensue if all the rhubarb and gooseberry bushes in Englandshould be uprooted in a single night. I believe that thousands of cooks, those not possessed of families or Christian principles, would drownthemselves in the Thames forthwith, but that is neither here nor there, and the Honourable Arthur denies it. He says, "Why commit suicide? Ain'tthere currants?"

I had forgotten to say that we ourselves were all en grande toilette, down to satin slippers, feeling somehow that it was the only properthing to do; and when Dawson had cleared the table and ushered in theother visitors, we ladies took our coffee and the men their cigarettesto the three front windows, which were open as usual to our balcony. 

We seated ourselves there quite casually, as is our custom, somewhathidden by the lace draperies and potted hydrangeas, and whatever we sawwas to be seen by any passer-by, save that we held the key to the wholestory, and had made it our own by right of conquest. 

Just at this moment--it was quarter-past nine, although it was stillbright daylight--came a little procession of servants who disappearedwithin the doors, and, as they donned caps and aprons, would now andthen reappear at the windows. Presently the supper arrived. We didnot know the number of invited guests (there are some things not evenrevealed to the Wise Woman), but although we were a trifle nervous aboutthe amount of eatables, we were quite certain that there would be nodearth of liquid refreshment. 

Contemporaneously with the supper came a four-wheeler with a man and awoman in it. 

Sal. "I wonder if that is Lord and Lady Brighthelmston?"

Mrs. B. "Nonsense, my dear; look at the woman's dress. "

W. B. "It is probably the butler, and I have a premonition that that isgood old Nurse with him. She has been with family ever since the birthof the first daughter twenty-four years ago. Look at her cap ribbons;note the fit of the stiff black silk over her comfortable shoulders; youcan almost hear her creak in it!"

B. G. "My eye! but she's one to keep the goody-pot open for theyoungsters! She'll be the belle of the ball so far as I'm concerned. "

Fran. "It's impossible to tell whether it's the butler or paterfamilias. Yes, it's the butler, for he has taken off his coat and is looking atthe flowers with the florist's assistant. "

B. G. "And the florist's assistant is getting slated like one o'clock!The butler doesn't like the rum design over the piano; no more do I. Whatever is the matter with them now?"

They were standing with their faces towards us, gesticulating wildlyabout something on the front wall of the drawing-room; a place quitehidden from our view. They could not decide the matter, although thebutler intimated that it would quite ruin the ball, while the assistantmopped his brow and threw all the blame on somebody else. Nurse came in, and hated whatever it was the moment her eye fell on it. She couldn'tthink how anybody could abide it, and was of the opinion that hisludship would have it down as soon as he arrived. 

Our attention was now distracted by the fact that his ludship didarrive. It was ten o'clock, but barely dark enough yet to make thelanterns effective, although they had just been lighted. 

There were two private carriages and two four-wheelers, from whichpaterfamilias and one other gentleman alighted, followed by a smallfeminine delegation. 

"One young chap to brace up the gov'nor, " said Bertie Godolphin. "Thenthe eldest daughter is engaged to be married; that's right; only threedaughters and two h'orphan nieces to work off now!"

As the girls scampered in, hidden by their long cloaks, we couldnot even discover the two we already knew. While they were divestingthemselves of their wraps in an upper chamber, Nurse hovering over themwith maternal solicitude, we were anxiously awaiting their criticisms ofour preparations. 

Chapter XII. Patricia makes her debut. 

For three days we had been overseeing the details. Would they approvethe result? Would they think the grand piano in the proper corner? Werethe garlands hung too low? Was the balcony scheme effective? Was ourmenu for the supper satisfactory? Were there too many lanterns? Lord andLady Brighthelmston had superintended so little, and we so much, that wefelt personally responsible. 

Now came musicians with their instruments. The butler sent fourmelancholy Spanish students to the balcony, where they began to tunemandolins and guitars, while an Hungarian band took up its position, weconjectured, on some extension or balcony in the rear, the existence ofwhich we had not guessed until we heard the music later. Then thebutler turned on the electric light, and the family came into thedrawing-rooms. 

They did admire them as much as we could wish, and we, on our part, thoroughly approved of the family. We had feared it might prove dull, plain, dowdy, though wellborn, with only dear Patricia to enliven it;but it was well-dressed, merry, and had not a thought of glancing at thewindows or pulling down the blinds, bless its simple heart!

The mother entered first, wearing a grey satin gown and a diamond crownthat quite established her position in the great world. Then girls, andmore girls: a rose-pink girl, a pale green, a lavender, a yellow, and our Patricia, in a cloud of white with a sparkle of silver, and adiamond arrow in her lustrous hair. 

What an English nosegay they made, to be sure, as they stood in the backof the room while paterfamilias approached, and calling each in turn, gave her a lovely bouquet from a huge basket held by the butler. 

Everybody's flowers matched everybody's frock to perfection; those ofthe h'orphan nieces were just as beautiful as those of the daughters, and it is no wonder that the English nosegay descended uponpaterfamilias, bore him into the passage, and if they did not kisshim soundly, why did he come back all rosy and crumpled, smoothing hisdishevelled hair, and smiling at Lady Brighthelmston? We speedily namedthe girls Rose, Mignonette, Violet, and Celandine, each after the colourof her frock. 

"But there are only five, and there ought to be six, " whisperedSalemina, as if she expected to be heard across the street. 

"One--two--three--four--five, you are right, " said Mr. Beresford. "Theplainest of the lot must be staying in Wales with a maiden aunt who hasa lot of money to leave. The old lady isn't so ill that they can't givethe ball, but just ill enough so that she may make her will wrong ifleft alone; poor girl, to be plain, and then to miss such a ball asthis, --hello! the first guest! He is on time to be sure; I hate to befirst, don't you?"

The first guest was a strikingly handsome fellow, irreproachably dressedand unmistakably nervous. 

"He is afraid he is too early!"

"He is afraid that if he waits he'll be too late!"

"He doesn't want the driver to stop directly in front of the door. "

"He has something beside him on the seat of the hansom. "

"The tissue paper has blown off: it is flowers. "

"It is a piece! Jove, this IS a rum ball!"

"What IS the thing? No wonder he doesn't drive up to the door and go inwith it!"

"It is a HARP, as sure as I am alive!"

Then electrically from Francesca, "It is Patricia's Irish lover! Iforget his name. "

"Rory!"

"Shamus!"

"Michael!"

"Patrick!"

"Terence!"

"Hush!" she exclaimed at this chorus of Hibernian Christian names, "itis Patricia's undeclared impecunious lover. He is afraid that she won'tknow his gift is a harp, and afraid that the other girls will. He fearedto send it, lest one of the sisters or h'orphan nieces should get it; itis frightful to love one of six, and the cards are always slipping off, and the wrong girl is always receiving your love-token or your offer ofmarriage. "

"And if it is an offer, and the wrong woman gets it, she always accepts, somehow, " said Mr. Beresford; "It's only the right one who declines!"and here he certainly looked at me pointedly. 

"He hoped to arrive before any one else, " Francesca went on, "and putthe harp in a nice place, and lead Patricia up to it, and make herwonder who sent it. Now poor dear (yes, his name is sure to be Terence), he is too late, and I am sure he will leave it in the hansom, he will beso embarrassed. "

And so he did, but alas! the driver came back with it in an instant, the butler ran down the long path of crimson carpet that covered thesidewalk, the first footman assisted, the second footman pursued Terenceand caught him on the staircase, and he descended reluctantly, onlyto receive the harp in his arms and send a tip to the cabman, whom ofcourse he was cursing in his heart. 

"I can't think why he should give her a harp, " mused Bertie Godolphin. "Such a rum thing, a harp, isn't it? It's too heavy for her to 'tote, 'as you say in the States. "

"Yes, we always say 'tote, ' particularly in the North, " I replied; "butperhaps it is Patricia's favourite instrument. Perhaps Terence firstsaw her at the harp, and loved her from the moment he heard her sing the'Minstrel Boy' and the 'Meeting of the Waters. '"

"Perhaps he merely brought it as a sort of symbol, " suggested Mr. Beresford; "a kind of flowery metaphor signifying that all Ireland, inhis person, is at her disposal, only waiting to be played upon. "

"If that is what he means, he must be a jolly muff, " remarked theHonourable Arthur. "I should think he'd have to send a guidebook withthe bloomin' thing. "

We never knew how Terence arranged about the incubus; we only saw thathe did not enter the drawing room with it in his arms. He was wellreceived, although there was no special enthusiasm over his arrival; butthe first guest is always at a disadvantage. 

He greeted the young ladies as if he were in the habit of meeting themoften, but when he came to Patricia, well, he greeted her as if he couldnever meet her often enough; there was a distinct difference, and evenMrs. Beresford, who had been incredulous, succumbed to our view of thecase. 

Patricia took him over to the piano to see the arrangement of somelilies. He said they were delicious, but looked at her. 

She asked him if he did not think the garlands lovely. 

He said, "Perfectly charming, " but never lifted his eyes higher than herface. 

"Do you like my dress?" her glance seemed to ask. 

"Wonderful!" his seemed to reply, as he stealthily put out his hand andtouched a soft fold of its white fluffiness. 

I could hear him think, as she leaned into the curve of the Broadwoodand bent over the flowers--

 'Have you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall of the snow Before the soil hath smutched it? Have you felt the wool of beaver? Or swan's down ever? Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier? Or the nard i' the fire? Or have tasted the bag of the bee? Oh, so white! oh, so soft! oh, so sweet is she!'

A footman entered, bearing the harp, which he placed on a table in thecorner. He disclaimed all knowledge of it, having probably been wellpaid to do so, and the unoccupied girls gathered about it like beesabout a honeysuckle, while Patricia and Terence stayed by the piano. 

"To think it may never be a match!" sighed Francesca, "and they are suchan ideal pair! But it is easy to see that the mother will oppose it, andalthough Patricia is her father's darling, he cannot allow her to marrya handsome young pauper like Terence. "

"Cheer up!" said Bertie Godolphin reassuringly. "Perhaps someunrelenting beggar of an uncle will die of old age next and leave himthe title and estates. "

"I hope she will accept him to-night, if she loves him, estates orno estates, " said Salemina, who, like many ladies who have electedto remain single, is distinctly sentimental, and has not an ounce ofworldly wisdom. 

"Well, I think a fellow deserves some reward, " remarked Mr. Beresford, "when he has the courage to drive up in a hansom bearing a green harpwith yellow strings in his arms. It shows that his passion has quiteeclipsed his sense of humour. By the way, I am not sure but I shouldchoose Rose, after all; there's something very attractive about Rose. "

"It is the fact that she is promised to another, " laughed Francescasomewhat pertly. 

"She would make an admirable wife, " Mrs. Beresfordinterjected--absent-mindedly; "and so of course Terence will not chooseher, and similarly neither would you, if you had the chance. "

At this Mrs. Beresford's son glances up at me with twinkling eyes, andI can hardly forbear smiling, so unconscious is she that his choice isalready made. However, he replies: "Who ever loved a woman for her solidvirtues, mother? Who ever fell a victim to punctuality, patience, or frugality? It is other and different qualities which colour thepersonality and ensnare the heart; though the stodgy and reliable traitshold it, I dare say, when once captured. Don't you know Berkeley says, 'D--n it, madam, who falls in love with attributes?'"

Meantime Violet and Celandine have come out on the balcony, and seeingthe tinkling musicians there, have straightway banished them to anotherpart of the house. 

"A good thing, too!" murmured Bertie Godolphin, "making a beastly row inthat 'nailing' little corner, collecting a crowd sooner or later, don'tyou know, and putting a dead stop to the jolly little flirtations. "

The Honourable Arthur glanced critically at Celandine. "I should make upto her, " he said thoughtfully. "She's the best groomed one of the wholestud, though why you call her Celandine I can't think. "

"It's a flower, and her dress is yellow, can't you see, man? You've gotno sense of colour, " said the candid Bertie. "I believe you'd just assoon be a green parrot with a red head as not. "

And now the guests began to arrive; so many of them and so near togetherthat we hardly had time to label them as they said good evening, andtold dear Lady Brighthelmston how pretty the decorations were, and howprevalent the influenza had been, and how very sultry the weather, andhow clever it was of her to give her party in a vacant house, and what adelightful marriage Rose was making, and how well dear Patricia looked. 

The sound of the music drifted into the usually quiet street, and byhalf-past eleven the ball was in full splendour. Lady Brighthelmstonstood alone now, greeting all the late arrivals; and we could catch aglimpse now and then of Violet dancing with a beautiful being in a whiteuniform, and of Rose followed about by her accepted lover, both of themcontent with their lot, but with feet quite on the solid earth. 

Celandine was a bit of a flirt, no doubt. She had many partners, walkedin the garden with them impartially, divided her dances, sat on thestairs. Wherever her yellow draperies moved, nonsense, merriment, andchatter followed in her wake. 

Patricia danced often with Terence. We could see the dark head, darkerand a bit taller than the others, move through the throng, the diamondarrow gleaming in its lustrous coils. She danced like a flower blown bythe wind. Nothing could have been more graceful, more stately. The bendof her slender body at the waist, the pose of her head, the line ofher shoulder, the suggestion of dimple in her elbow--all were so manyseparate allurements to the kindling eye of love. 

Terence certainly added little to the general brilliancy and gaiety ofthe occasion, for he stood in a corner and looked at Patricia wheneverhe was not dancing with her, 'all eye when one was present, all memorywhen one was gone. '

Chapter XIII. A Penelope secret. 

Shortly after midnight our own little company broke up, loath toleave the charming spectacle. The guests departed with the greatestreluctance, having given Dawson a half-sovereign for waiting up tolock the door. Mrs. Beresford said that it seemed unendurable to leavematters in such an unfinished condition, and her son promised to comevery early next morning for the latest bulletins. 

"I leave all the romances in your hands, " he whispered to me; "do letthem turn out happily, do!"

Salemina also retired to her virtuous couch, remembering that she was tovisit infant schools with a great educational dignitary on the morrow. 

Francesca and I turned the gas entirely out, although we had beensitting all the evening in a kind of twilight, and slipping on ourdressing-gowns sat again at the window for a farewell peep into thepast, present, and future of the 'Brighthelmston set. '

At midnight the dowager duchess arrived. She must at least have been adowager duchess, and if there is anything greater, within the bounds ofa reasonable imagination, she was that. Long streamers of black tullefloated from a diamond soup-tureen which surmounted her hair. Narrowpuffings of white traversed her black velvet gown in all directions, making her look somewhat like a railway map, and a diamond fan-chaindefined, or attempted to define, what was in its nature neitherdefinable nor confinable, to wit, her waist, or what had been, in earlyyouth, her waist. 

The entire company was stirred by the arrival of the dowager duchess, and it undoubtedly added new eclat to what was already a fashionableevent; for we counted three gentlemen who wore orders glittering onribbons that crossed the white of their immaculate linen, and there wasan Indian potentate with a jewelled turban who divided attention withthe dowager duchess's diamond soup-tureen. 

At twelve-thirty Lord Brighthelmston chided Celandine for flirting toomuch. 

At twelve-forty Lady Brighthelmston reminded Violet (who was a h'orphanniece) that the beautiful being in the white uniform was not the eldestson. 

At twelve-fifty there arrived an elderly gentleman, before whom theservants bowed low. Lord Brighthelmston went to fetch Patricia, whochanced to be sitting out a dance with Terence. The three came out onthe balcony, which was deserted, in the near prospect of supper, and thepersonage--whom we suspected to be Patricia's godfather--took from hiswaistcoat pocket a string of pearls, and, clasping it round her whitethroat, stooped gently and kissed her forehead. 

Then at one o'clock came supper. Francesca and I had secretly providedfor that contingency, and curling up on a sofa we drew toward us alittle table which Dawson had spread with a galantine of chicken, somecress sandwiches, and a jug of milk. 

At one-thirty we were quite overcome with sleep, and retired to ourbeds, where of course we speedily grew wakeful. 

"It is giving a ball, not going to one, that is so exhausting!" yawnedFrancesca. "How many times have I danced all night with half the fatiguethat I am feeling now!"

The sound of music came across the street through the closed door of oursitting-room. Waltz after waltz, a polka, a galop, then waltzes again, until our brains reeled with the rhythm. As if this were not enough, when our windows at the back were opened wide we were quite within reachof Lady Durden's small dance, where another Hungarian band discoursedmore waltzes and galops. 

"Dancing, dancing everywhere, and not a turn for us!" grumbledFrancesca. "I simply cannot sleep, can you?"

"We must make a determined effort, " I advised; "don't speak again, andperhaps drowsiness will overtake us. "

It finally did overtake Francesca, but I had too much to think about--myown problems as well as Patricia's. After what seemed to be hours oftossing I was helplessly drawn back into the sitting-room, just to seeif anything had happened, and if the affair was ever likely to come toan end. 

It was half-past two, and yes, the ball was decidedly 'thinning out. '

The attendants in the lower hall, when they were not calling carriages, yawned behind their hands, and stood first on one foot, and then on theother. 

Women in beautiful wraps, their heads flashing with jewels, descendedthe staircase, and drove, or even walked, away into the summer night. 

Lady Brighthelmston began to look tired, although all the world, as itsaid good night, was telling her that it was one of the most delightfulballs of the season. 

The English nosegay had lost its white flower, for Patricia was notin the family group. I looked everywhere for the gleam of her silveryscarf, everywhere for Terence, while, the waltz music having ceased, theSpanish students played 'Love's Young Dream. '

I hummed the words as the sweet old tune, strummed by the tinklingmandolins, vibrated clearly in the maze of other sounds:--

 'Oh! the days have gone when Beauty bright My heart's chain wove; When my dream of life from morn till night Was Love, still Love. New hope may bloom and days may come, Of milder, calmer beam, But there's nothing half so sweet in life As Love's Young Dream. '

At last, in a quiet spot under the oak-tree, the lately risen moon foundPatricia's diamond arrow and discovered her to me. The Japanese lanternshad burned out; she was wrapped like a young nun, in a cloud of whitethat made her eyelashes seem darker. 

I looked once, because the moonbeam led me into it before I realised;then I stole away from the window and into my own room, closing the doorsoftly behind me. 

We had so far been looking only at conventionalities, preliminaries, things that all (who had eyes to see) might see; but this wasdifferent--quite, quite different. 

They were as beautiful under the friendly shadow of their urban oak-treeas were ever Romeo and Juliet on the balcony of the Capulets. I may nottell you what I saw in my one quickly repented-of glance. That would bevulgarising something that was already a little profaned by my innocentparticipation. 

I do not know whether Terence was heir, even ever so far removed, to anytitle or estates, and I am sure Patricia did not care: he may have beenvulgarly rich or aristocratically poor. I only know that they loved eachother in the old yet ever new way, without any ifs or ands or buts; thathe worshipped, she honoured; he asked humbly, she gave gladly. 

How do I know? Ah! that's a 'Penelope secret, ' as Francesca says. 

Perhaps you doubt my intuitions altogether. Perhaps you believe inyour heart that it was an ordinary ball, where a lot of stupid peoplearrived, danced, supped, and departed. Perhaps you do not think his namewas Terence or hers Patricia, and if you go so far as that in blindnessand incredulity I should not expect you to translate properly what Isaw last night under the oak-tree, the night of the ball on the oppositeside, when Patricia made her debut. 

Chapter XIV. Love and lavender. 

How well I remember our last evening in Dovermarle Street!

At one of our open windows behind the potted ferns and blossominghydrangeas sat Salemina, Bertie Godolphin, Mrs. Beresford, theHonourable Arthur, and Francesca; at another, as far off aspossible, sat Willie Beresford and I. Mrs. Beresford had sanctioned apost-prandial cigar, for we were not going out till ten, to see, for thesecond time, an act of John Hare's Pair of Spectacles. 

They were talking and laughing at the other end of the room; Mr. Beresford and I were rather quiet. (Why is it that the people with whomone loves to be silent are also the very ones with whom one loves totalk?)

The room was dim with the light of a single lamp; the rain had ceased;the roar of Piccadilly came to us softened by distance. A belated vendorof lavender came along the sidewalk, and as he stopped under the windowsthe pungent fragrance of the flowers was wafted up to us with his song. 

 'Who'll buy my pretty lavender? Sweet lavender, Who'll buy my pretty lavender? Sweet bloomin' lavender. '

The tune comes to me laden with odours. Is it not strange that thefragrances of other days steal in upon the senses together with thesights and sounds that gave them birth?

Presently a horse and cart drew up before an hotel, a little furtheralong, on the opposite side of the way. By the light of the street lampunder which it stopped we could see that it held a piano and two personsbeside the driver. The man was masked, and wore a soft felt hat and avelvet coat. He seated himself at the piano and played a Chopin waltzwith decided sentiment and brilliancy; then, touching the keys idly fora moment or two, he struck a few chords of prelude and turned towardsthe woman who sat beside him. She rose, and, laying one hand on thecorner of the instrument, began to sing one of the season's favourites, 'The Song that reached my Heart. ' She also was masked, and even herfigure was hidden by a long dark cloak the hood of which was drawn overher head to meet the mask. She sang so beautifully, with such style andsuch feeling, it seemed incredible to hear her under circumstances likethese. She followed the ballad with Handel's 'Lascia ch'io pianga, 'which rang out into the quiet street with almost hopeless pathos. Whenshe descended from the cart to undertake the more prosaic occupationof passing the hat beneath the windows, I could see that she limpedslightly, and that the hand with which she pushed back the heavy darkhair under the hood was beautifully moulded. They were all mystery thatcouple; not to be confounded for an instant with the common herd ofLondon street musicians. With what an air of the drawing-room did heof the velvet coat help the singer into the cart, and with what elegantabandon and ultra-dilettantism did he light a cigarette, reseat himselfat the piano, and weave Scots ballads into a charming impromptu! Iconfess I wrapped my shilling in a bit of paper and dropped it over thebalcony with the wish that I knew the tragedy behind this little streetdrama. 

Willie Beresford was in a royal mood that night. You know the mood, inwhich the heart is so full, so full, it overruns the brim. He boughtthe entire stock of the lavender seller, and threw a shilling tothe mysterious singer for every song she sung. He even offered togive--himself--to me! And oh! I would have taken him as gladly as everthe lavender boy took the half-crown, had I been quite, quite sure ofmyself! A woman with a vocation ought to be still surer than other womenthat it is the very jewel of love she is setting in her heart, and nota sparkling imitation. I gave myself wholly, or believed that I gavemyself wholly, to art, or what I believed to be art. And is thereanything more sacred than art?--Yes, one thing!

It happened something in this wise. 

The singing had put us in a gentle mood, and after a long perorationfrom Mr. Beresford, which I do not care to repeat, I said very softly(blessing the Honourable Arthur's vociferous laughter at one ofSalemina's American jokes), "But I thought perhaps it was Francesca. Areyou quite sure?"

He intimated that if there were any fact in his repertory of which hewas particularly and absolutely sure it was this special fact. 

"It is too sudden, " I objected. "Plants that blossom on shipboard-"

"This plant was rooted in American earth, and you know it, Penelope. Ifit chanced to blossom on the ship, it was because it had already buddedon the shore; it has borne transplanting to a foreign soil, and itgrows in beauty and strength every day: so no slurs, please, concerningocean-steamer hothouses. "

"I cannot say yes, yet I dare not say no; it is too soon. I must go offinto the country quite by myself and think it over. "

"But, " urged Mr. Beresford, "you cannot think over a matter of thiskind by yourself. You'll continually be needing to refer to me for data, don't you know, on which to base your conclusions. How can you tellwhether you're in love with me or not if-- (No, I am not shouting atall; it's your guilty conscience; I'm whispering. ) How can you tellwhether you're in love with me, I repeat, unless you keep me underconstant examination?"

"That seems sensible, though I dare say it is full of sophistry; but Ihave made up my mind to go into the country and paint while Salemina andFrancesca are on the Continent. One cannot think in this whirl. A winterseason in Washington followed by a summer season in London, --one wantsa breath of fresh air before beginning another winter season somewhereelse. Be a little patient, please. I long for the calm that steals overme when I am absorbed in my brushes and my oils. "

"Work is all very well, " said Mr. Beresford with determination, "but Iknow your habits. You have a little way of taking your brush, and withone savage sweep painting out a figure from your canvas. Now if I amon the canvas of your heart, --I say 'if' tentatively and modestly, as becomes me, --I've no intention of allowing you to paint me out;therefore I wish to remain in the foreground, where I can say 'Strike, but hear me, ' if I discover any hostile tendencies in your eye. But Iam thankful for small favours (the 'no' you do not quite dare say, forinstance), and I'll talk it over with you to-morrow, if the Britishgentry will give me an opportunity, and if you'll deign to give me amoment alone in any other place than the Royal Academy. "

"I was alone with you to-day for a whole hour at least. "

"Yes, first at the London and Westminster Bank, second in TrafalgarSquare, and third on the top of a 'bus, none of them congenial spots toa man in my humour. Penelope, you are not dull, but you don't seem tounderstand that I am head over-"

"What are you two people quarrelling about?" cried Salemina. "Come, Penelope, get your wrap. Mrs. Beresford, isn't she charming in her newLiberty gown? If that New York wit had seen her, he couldn't have said, 'If that is Liberty, give me Death!' Yes, Francesca, you must wearsomething over your shoulders. Whistle for two four-wheelers, Dawson, please. "

Part Second--In the country. 

Chapter XV. Penelope dreams. 

 West Belvern, Holly House August 189-. 

I am here alone. Salemina has taken her little cloth bag and hernotebook and gone to inspect the educational and industrial methods ofGermany. If she can discover anything that they are not already doingbetter in Boston, she will take it back with her, but her state ofmind regarding the outcome of the trip might be described as one ofincredulity tinged with hope. Francesca has accompanied Salemina. Notthat the inspection of systems is much in her line, but she prefersit to a solitude a deux with me when I am in a working mood, and shecomforts herself with the anticipation that the German army is veryattractive. Willie Beresford has gone with his mother to Aix-les-Bains, like the dutiful son that he is. They say that a good son makes a good--But that subject is dismissed to the background for the present, forwe are in a state of armed neutrality. He has agreed to wait until theautumn for a final answer, and I have promised to furnish one by thattime. Meanwhile, we are to continue our acquaintance by post, which is aconcession I would never have allowed if I had had my wits about me. 

After paying my last week's bill in Dovermarle Street, including feesto several servants whom I knew by sight, and several others whoseacquaintance I made for the first time at the moment of departure, I glanced at my ebbing letter of credit and felt a season of economysetting in upon me with unusual severity; accordingly, I made anexperiment of coming third-class to Belvern. I handed the guard ashilling, and he gave me a seat riding backwards in a carriage withseven other women, all very frumpish, but highly respectable. Ashe could not possibly have done any worse for me, I take it that heconsidered the shilling a graceful tribute to his personal charms, but as having no other bearing whatever. The seven women stared at methroughout the journey. When one is really of the same blood, andwhen one does not open one's lips or wave the stars and stripes in anypossible manner, how do they detect the American? These women lookedat me as if I were a highly interesting anthropoidal ape. It was notbecause of my attire, for I was carefully dressed down to a third-classlevel; yet when I removed my plain Knox hat and leaned my headback against my travelling-pillow, an electrical shudder of intenseexcitement ran through the entire compartment. When I stooped to tie myshoe another current was set in motion, and when I took Charles Reade'sWhite Lies from my portmanteau they glanced at one another as if to say, 'Would that we could see in what language the book is written!' As atravelling mystery I reached my highest point at Oxford, for there Ipurchased a small basket of plums from a boy who handed them in at thewindow of the carriage. After eating a few, I offered the rest to adowdy elderly woman on my left who was munching dry biscuits from apaper bag. 'What next?' was the facial expression of the entire company. My neighbour accepted the plums, but hid them in her bag; plainlythinking them poisoned, and believing me to be a foreign conspirator, conspiring against England through the medium of her inoffensive person. In the course of the four-hours' journey, I could account for thestrange impression I was making only upon the theory that it is unusualto comport oneself in a first-class manner in a third-class carriage. All my companions chanced to be third-class by birth as well as byticket, and the Englishwoman who is born third-class is sometimesdeficient in imagination. 

Upon arriving at Great Belvern (which must be pronounced 'Bevern') Itook a trap, had my luggage put on in front, and start on my quest forlodgings in West Belvern, five miles distant. Several addresses had beengiven me by Hilda Mellifica, who has spent much time in this region, andwho begged me to use her name. I told the driver that I wished to finda clean, comfortable lodging, with the view mentioned in the guide-book, and with a purple clematis over the door, if possible. The last pointastounded him to such a degree that he had, I think, a serious idea ofgiving me into custody. (I should not be so eccentrically spontaneouswith these people, if they did not feed my sense of humour by theiramazement. )

We visited Holly House, Osborne, St. James, Victoria, and Albert houses, Tank Villa, Poplar Villa, Rose, Brake, and Thorn Villas, as well asHawthorn, Gorse, Fern, Shrubbery, and Providence Cottages. All hadapartments, but many were taken, and many more had rooms either darkand stuffy or without view. Holly House was my first stopping-place. Whywill a woman voluntarily call her place by a name which she can neverpronounce? It is my landlady's misfortune that she is named 'Obbs, andmine that I am called 'Amilton, but Mrs. 'Obbs must have rushed witheyes wide open on 'Olly 'Ouse. I found sitting-room and bedroom at HollyHouse for two guineas a week; everything, except roof, extra. Thiswas more than, in my new spirit of economy I desired to pay, but afterexhausting my list I was obliged to go back rather than sleep in thehighroad. Mrs. Hobbs offered to deduct two shillings a week if I stayeduntil Christmas, and said she should not charge me a penny for thelinen. Thanking her with tears of gratitude, I requested dinner. Therewas no meat in the house, so I supped frugally off two boiled eggs, a stodgy household loaf, and a mug of ale, after which I climbed thestairs, and retired to my feather-bed in a rather depressed frame ofmind. 

Visions of Salemina and Francesca driving under the linden-trees inBerlin flitted across my troubled reveries, with glimpses of WillieBeresford and his mother at Aix-les-Bains. At this distance, and in thedead of night, my sacrifice in coming here seemed fruitless. Why did Inot allow myself to drift for ever on that pleasant sea which has beenlapping me in sweet and indolent content these many weeks? Of what useto labour, to struggle, to deny myself, for an art to which I can neverbe more than the humblest handmaiden? I felt like crying out, as didonce a braver woman's soul than mine, 'Let me be weak! I have beenseeming to be strong so many years!' The woman and the artist in me havealways struggled for the mastery. So far the artist has triumphed, andnow all at once the woman is uppermost. I should think the two oughtto be able to live peaceably in the same tenement; they do manage it insome cases; but it seems a law of my being that I shall either be allone or all the other. 

The question for me to ask myself now is, "Am I in love with loving andwith being loved, or am I in love with Willie Beresford?" How many womenhave confounded the two, I wonder?

In this mood I fell asleep, and on a sudden I found myself in a dear NewEngland garden. The pillow slipped away, and my cheek pressed a fragrantmound of mignonette, the self-same one on which I hid my tear-stainedface and sobbed my heart out in childish grief and longing for themother who would never hold me again. The moon came up over theBelvern Hills and shone on my half-closed lids; but to me it was a verydifferent moon, the far-away moon of my childhood, with a river ripplingbeneath its silver rays. And the wind that rustled among the poplarbranches outside my window was, in my dream, stirring the pink petals ofa blossoming apple-tree that used to grow beside the bank of mignonette, wafting down sweet odours and drinking in sweeter ones. And presentlythere stole in upon this harmony of enchanting sounds and delicatefragrances, in which childhood and womanhood, pleasure and pain, memoryand anticipation, seemed strangely intermingled, the faint music of avoice, growing clearer and clearer as my ear became familiar with itscadences. And what the dream voice said to me was something like this:--

'If thou wouldst have happiness, choose neither fame, which doth notlong abide, nor power, which stings the hand that wields it, nor gold, which glitters but never glorifies; but choose thou Love, and holdit for ever in thy heart of hearts; for Love is the purest and themightiest force in the universe, and once it is thine all other giftsshall be added unto thee. Love that is passionate yet reverent, tenderyet strong, selfish in desiring all yet generous in giving all; loveof man for woman and woman for man, of parent for child and friend forfriend--when this is born in the soul, the desert blossoms as the rose. Straightway new hopes and wishes, sweet longings and pure ambitions, spring into being, like green shoots that lift their tender heads insunny places; and if the soil be kind, they grow stronger and morebeautiful as each glad day laughs in the rosy skies. And by and bysinging-birds come and build their nests in the branches; and theseare the pleasures of life. And the birds sing not often, because ofa serpent that lurketh in the garden. And the name of the serpent isSatiety. He maketh the heart to grow weary of what it once danced andleaped to think upon, and the ear to wax dull to the melody of soundsthat once were sweet, and the eye blind to the beauty that once ledenchantment captive. And sometimes--we know not why, but we shall knowhereafter, for life is not completely happy since it is not heaven, norcompletely unhappy since it is the road thither--sometimes the light ofthe sun is withdrawn for a moment, and that which is fairest vanishesfrom the place that was enriched by its presence. Yet the garden isnever quite deserted. Modest flowers, whose charms we had not notedwhen youth was bright and the world seemed ours, now lift their headsin sheltered places and whisper peace. The morning song of the birdsis hushed, for the dawn breaks less rosily in the eastern skies, but attwilight they still come and nestle in the branches that were sunned inthe smile of love and watered with its happy tears. And over the graveof each buried hope or joy stands an angel with strong comforting handsand patient smile; and the name of the garden is Life, and the angel isMemory. '

Chapter XVI. The decay of Romance. 

I have changed my Belvern, and there are so many others left to choosefrom that I might live in a different Belvern each week. North, South, East, and West Belvern, New Belvern, Old Belvern, Great Belvern, LittleBelvern, Belvern Link, Belvern Common, and Belvern Wells. They are allnestled together in the velvet hollows or on the wooded crowns of thematchless Belvern Hills, from which they look down upon the fairestplains that ever blessed the eye. One can see from their heights ascore of market towns and villages, three splendid cathedrals, each in adifferent county, the queenly Severn winding like a silver thread amongthe trees, with soft-flowing Avon and gentle Teme watering the verdantmeadows through which they pass. All these hills and dales were oncethe Royal Forest, and afterwards the Royal Chase, of Belvern, coveringnearly seven thousand acres in three counties; and from the lonelyheight of the Beacon no less than

 'Twelve fair counties saw the blaze'

of signals, when the country was threatened by a Spanish invasion. Asfor me, I mourn the decay of Romance with a great R; we have it stillamong us, but we spell it with a smaller letter. It must be so muchmore interesting to be threatened with an invasion, especially a Spanishinvasion, than with a strike, for instance. The clashing of swords andthe flashing of spears in the sunshine are so much more dazzling andinspiring than a line of policemen with clubs! Yes, I wish it were theage of chivalry again, and that I were looking down from these hillsinto the Royal Chase. Of course I know that there were wicked andselfish tyrants in those days, before the free press, the jury system, and the folding-bed had wrought their beneficent influences upon thecommon mind and heart. Of course they would have sneered at BrowningSocieties and improved tenements, and of course they did not carea penny whether woman had the ballot or not, so long as man had thebottle; but I would that the other moderns were enjoying the modernimprovements, and that I were gazing into the cool depths of those deepforests where there were once good lairs for the wolf and wild boar. Ishould like to hear the baying of the hounds and the mellow horns of thehuntsman. I should like to see the royal cavalcade emerging from one ofthose wooded glades: monarch and baron bold, proud prelate, abbot andprior, belted knight and ladye fair, sweeping in gorgeous array underthe arcades of the overshadowing trees, silver spurs and jewelledtrappings glittering in the sunlight, princely forms bending low overthe saddles of the court beauties. Why, oh why, is it not possible tobe picturesque and pious in the same epoch? Why may not chivalry andcharity go hand in hand? It amuses me to imagine the amazement ofthe barons, bold and belted knights, could they be resuscitated for asufficient length of time to gaze upon the hydropathic establishmentswhich dot their ancient hunting-grounds. It would have been verydifficult to interest the age of chivalry in hydropathy. 

Such is the fascination of historic association that I am sure, ifI could drag my beloved but conscientious Salemina from some foreignsoup-kitchen which she is doubtless inspecting, I could make even hermourn the vanished past with me this morning, on the Beacon's toweringhead. For Salemina wearies of the age of charity sometimes, as every onedoes who is trying to make it a beautiful possibility. 

Chapter XVII. Short stops and long bills. 

The manner of my changing from West to North Belvern was this. When Ihad been two days at Holly House, I reflected that my sitting-room facedthe wrong way for the view, and that my bedroom was dark and not largeenough to swing a cat in. Not that there was the remotest necessityof my swinging cats in it, but the figure of speech is always useful. Neither did I care to occupy myself with the perennial inspection andpurchase of raw edibles, when I wished to live in an ideal world andpaint a great picture. Mrs. Hobbs would come to my bedside in themorning and ask me if I would like to buy a fowl. When I looked upon thefowl, limp in death, with its headless neck hanging dejectedly over theedge of the plate, its giblets and kidneys lying in immodest confusionon the outside of itself, and its liver 'tucked under its wing, poorthing, ' I never wanted to buy it. But one morning, in taking my walk, I chanced upon an idyllic spot: the front of the whitewashed cottageembowered in flowers, bird-cages built into these bowers, a littlenotice saying 'Canaries for Sale, ' and an English rose of a baby sittingin the path stringing hollyhock buds. There was no apartment sign, butI walked in, ostensibly to buy some flowers. I met Mrs. Bobby, lovedher at first sight, the passion was reciprocal, and I wheedled herinto giving me her own sitting-room and the bedroom above it. It onlyremained now for me to break my projected change of residence to mypresent landlady, and this I distinctly dreaded. Of course Mrs. Hobbssaid, when I timidly mentioned the subject, that she wished she hadknown I was leaving an hour before, for she had just refused a ladyand her husband, most desirable persons, who looked as if they would bepermanent. Can it be that lodgers radiate the permanent or transitoryquality, quite unknown to themselves?

I was very much embarrassed, as she threatened to become tearful; andas I was determined never to give up Mrs. Bobby, I said desperately, "Imust leave you, Mrs. Hobbs, I must indeed; but as you seem to feel sobadly about it, I'll go out and find you another lodger in my place. "

The fact is, I had seen, not long before, a lady going in and out ofhouses, as I had done on the night of my arrival, and it occurred tome that I might pursue her, and persuade her to take my place in HollyHouse and buy the headless fowl. I walked for nearly an hour before Iwas rewarded with a glimpse of my victim's grey dress whisking round thecorner of Pump Street. I approached, and, with a smile that was intendedto be a justification in itself, I explained my somewhat unusualmission. She was rather unreceptive at first; she thought evidently thatI was to have a percentage on her, if I succeeded in capturing heralive and delivering her to Mrs. Hobbs; but she was very weary anddiscouraged, and finally fell in with my plans. She accompanied me home, was introduced to Mrs. Hobbs, and engaged my rooms from the followingday. As she had a sister, she promised to be a more lucrative incumbentthan I; she enjoyed ordering food in a raw state, did not care forviews, and thought purple clematis vines only a shelter for insects:so every one was satisfied, and I most of all when I wrestled with Mrs. Hobb's itemised bill for two nights and one day. Her weekly account mustbe rolled on a cylinder, I should think, like the list of Don Juan'samours, for the bill of my brief residence beneath her roof was quitethree feet in length, each of the following items being set down everytwenty-four hours:--

 Apartments. Ale. Bath. Kidney beans. Candles. Vegetable marrow. Tea. Eggs. Butter. Bread. Cut off joint. Plums. Potatoes. Chops. Kipper. Rasher. Salt. Pepper. Vinegar. Sugar. Washing towels. Lights. Kitchen fire. Sitting-room fire. Attendance. Boots. 

The total was seventeen shillings and sixpence, and as Mrs. Hobbs wroteupon it, in her neat English hand, 'Received payment, with respectfulthanks, ' she carefully blotted the wet ink, and remarked casually thatservice was not included in 'attendance, ' but that she would leave theamount to me. 

Chapter XVIII. I meet Mrs. Bobby. 

Mrs. Bobby and I were born for each other, though we have been a longtime in coming together. She is the pink of neatness and cheeriness, andshe has a broad, comfortable bosom on which one might lay a motherlesshead, if one felt lonely in a stranger land. I never look at her withoutremembering what the poet Samuel Rogers said of Lady Parke: 'She is sogood that when she goes to heaven she will find no difference save thather ankles will be thinner and her head better dressed. '

No raw fowls visit my bedside here; food comes as I wish it to come whenI am painting, like manna from heaven. Mrs. Bobby brings me three timesa day something to eat, and though it is always whatever she likes, Ialways agree in her choice, and send the blue dishes away empty. Sheasked me this morning if I enjoyed my 'h'egg, ' and remarked that she hadonly one fowl, but it laid an egg for me every morning, so I might knowit was 'fresh as fresh. ' It is certainly convenient: the fowl lays theegg from seven to seven-thirty, I eat it from eight to eight-thirty; nohaste, no waste. Never before have I seen such heavenly harmony betweensupply and demand. Never before have I been in such visible and unbrokenconnection with the source of my food. If I should ever desire two eggs, or if the fowl should turn sulky or indolent, I suppose Mrs. Bobby wouldhave to go half a mile to the nearest shop, but as yet everything hasworked to a charm. The cow is milked into my pitcher in the morning, andthe fowl lays her egg almost literally in my egg-cup. One of the littleBobbies pulls a kidney bean or a tomato or digs a potato for my dinner, about half an hour before it is served. There is a sheep in the garden, but I hardly think it supplies the chops; those, at least, are notraised on the premises. 

One grievance I did have at first, but Mrs. Bobby removed the thornfrom the princess' pillow as soon as it was mentioned. Our next-doorneighbour had a kennel of homesick, discontented, and sleepless puppiesof various breeds, that were in the habit of howling all night untilMrs. Bobby expostulated with Mrs. Gooch in my behalf. She told me thatshe found Mrs. Gooch very snorty, very snorty indeed, because the pupswere an 'obby of her 'usbants; whereupon Mrs. Bobby responded that ifMrs. Gooch's 'usbant 'ad to 'ave an 'obby, it was a shame it 'ad to be'owling pups to keep h'innocent people awake o' nights. The puppies wereremoved, but I almost felt guilty at finding fault with a dog in thiscountry. It is a matter of constant surprise to me, and it always giveme a warm glow in the region of the heart, to see the supremacy of thedog in England. He is respected, admired, loved, and considered, as hedeserves to be everywhere, but as he frequently is not. He is admittedon all excursions; he is taken into the country for his health; he is afactor in all the master' plans; in short, the English dog is a memberof the family, in good and regular standing. 

My interior surroundings are all charming. My little sitting-room, outof which I turned Mrs. Bobby, is bright with potted ferns and floweringplants, and on its walls, besides the photographs of a large andunusually plain family, I have two works of art which inspire me anewevery time I gaze at them: the first a scriptural subject, treated by anenthusiastic but inexperienced hand, 'Susanne dans le Bain, surprise parles Deux Vieillards'; the second, 'The White Witch of Worcester on herWay to the Stake at High Cross. ' The unfortunate lady in the latterpicture is attired in a white lawn wrapper with angel sleeves, and isfollowed by an abbess with prayer-book, and eight surpliced choir-boyswith candles. I have been long enough in England to understand thesignificance of the candles. Doubtless the White Witch had paid fourshillings a week for each of them in her prison lodging, and shenaturally wished to burn them to the end. 

One has no need, though, of pictures on the walls here, for the universeseems unrolled at one's very feet. As I look out of my window the lastthing before I go to sleep, I see the lights of Great Belvern, thedim shadows of the distant cathedral towers, the quaint priory sevencenturies old, and just the outline of Holly Bush Hill, a sacred seat ofmagic science when the Druids investigated the secrets of the stars, and sought, by auspices and sacrifices, to forecast the future and topenetrate the designs of the gods. 

It makes me feel very new, very undeveloped, to look out of that window. If I were an Englishwoman, say the fifty-fifth duchess of something, Icould easily glow with pride to think that I was part and parcel of suchantiquity; the fortunate heiress not only of land and titles, butof historic associations. But as I am an American with a very recentbackground, I blow out my candle with the feeling that it is rathergrand to be making history for somebody else to inherit. 

Chapter XIX. The heart of the artist. 

I am almost too comfortable with Mrs. Bobby. In fact I wished to bejust a little miserable in Belvern, so that I could paint with a frenzy. Sometimes, when I have been in a state of almost despairing lonelinessand gloom, the colours have glowed on my canvas and the lines haveshaped themselves under my hand independent of my own volition. Now, tucked away in a corner of my consciousness is the knowledge that I neednever be lonely again unless I choose. When I yield myself fully to thesweet enchantment of this thought, I feel myself in the mood to paintsunshine, flowers, and happy children's faces; yet I am sadly lackingin concentration, all the same. The fact is, I am no artist in the truesense of the word. My hope flies ever in front of my best success, andthat momentary success does not deceive me in the very least. I knowexactly how much, or rather how little, I am worth; that I lack theimagination, the industry, the training, the ambition, to achieve anylasting results. I have the artistic temperament in so far that it isimpossible for me to work merely for money or popularity, or indeed foranything less than the desire to express the best that is in me withoutfear or favour. It would never occur to me to trade on present approvaland dash off unworthy stuff while I have command of the market. I amquite above all that, but I am distinctly below that other mental andspiritual level where art is enough; where pleasure does not signify;where one shuts oneself up and produces from sheer necessity; where oneis compelled by relentless law; where sacrifice does not count; whereideas throng the brain and plead for release in expression; where effortis joy, and the prospect of doing something enduring lures the soul onto new and ever new endeavour: so I shall never be rich or famous. 

What shall I paint to-day? Shall it be the bit of garden underneath mywindow, with the tangle of pinks and roses, and the cabbages growingappetisingly beside the sweet-williams, the woodbine climbing over thebrown stone wall, the wicket-gate, and the cherry-tree with its fruithanging red against the whitewashed cottage? Ah, if I could only paintit so truly that you could hear the drowsy hum of the bees among thethyme, and smell the scented hay-meadows in the distance, and feel thatit is midsummer in England! That would indeed be truth, and that wouldbe art. Shall I paint the Bobby baby as he stoops to pick the cowslipsand the flax, his head as yellow and his eyes as blue as the flowersthemselves; or that bank opposite the gate, with its gorse bushes ingolden bloom, its mountain-ash hung with scarlet berries, its tuftsof harebells blossoming in the crevices of rock, and the quaint lowclock-tower at the foot? Can I not paint all these in the full glow ofsummer-time in my secret heart whenever I open the door a bit and admitits life-giving warmth and beauty? I think I can, if I can only quitdreaming. 

I wonder how the great artists worked, and under what circumstancesthey threw aside the implements of their craft, impatient of all butthe throb of life itself? Could Raphael paint Madonnas the week of hisbetrothal? Did Thackeray write a chapter the day his daughter wasborn? Did Plato philosophise freely when he was in love? Were thereinterruptions in the world's great revolutions, histories, dramas, reforms, poems, and marbles when their creators fell for a brief momentunder the spell of the little blind tyrant who makes slaves of us all?It must have been so. Your chronometer heart, on whose pulsations youcan reckon as on the procession of the equinoxes, never gave anything tothe world unless it were a system of diet, or something quite uncolouredand unglorified by the imagination. 

Chapter XX. A canticle to Jane. 

There are many donkeys owned in these nooks among the hills, and someof the thriftier families keep donkey-chairs (or 'cheers, ' as they callthem) to let to the casual summer visitor. This vehicle is a regularBath chair, into which the donkey is harnessed. Some of them have a tinydriver's seat, where a small lad sits beating and berating the donkeyfor the incumbent, generally a decrepit dowager from London. Otherchairs are minus this absurd coachman's perch, and in this sort I takemy daily drives. I hire the miniature chariot from an old woman whodwells at the top of Gorse Hill, and who charges one and fourpence thehour, It is a little more when she fetches the donkey to the door, orwhen the weather is wet or the day is very warm, or there is an unusualbreeze blowing, or I wish to go round the hills; but under ordinarycircumstances, which may at any time occur, but which never do, one andfour the hour. It is only a shilling, if you have the boy to driveyou; but, of course, if you drive yourself, you throw the boy out ofemployment, and have to pay extra. 

It was in this fashion and on these elastic terms that I first met you, Jane, and this chapter shall be sacred to you! Jane the long-eared, Janethe iron-jawed, Jane the stubborn, Jane donkeyer than other donkeys, --ina word, MULIER! It may be that Jane has made her bow to the publicbefore this. If she has ever come into close relation with man or womanpossessed of the instinct of self-expression, then this is certainly nother first appearance in print, for no human being could know Jane andfail to mention her. 

Pause, Jane, --this you will do gladly, I am sure, since pausing isthe one accomplishment to which you lend yourself with specialenergy, --pause, Jane, while I sing a canticle to your character. Janeis a tiny--person, I was about to say, for she has so strong anindividuality that I can scarcely think of her as less than human--Janeis a tiny, solemn creature, looking all docility and decorum, with longhair of a subdued tan colour, very much worn off in patches, I fear, bythe offending toe of man. 

I am a member of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and I hope that I am as tender-hearted as most women; nevertheless, Ican understand how a man of weak principle and violent temper, or a manpossessed of a desire to get to a particular spot not favoured by Jane, or by a wish to reach any spot by a certain hour, --I can understand howsuch a man, carried away by helpless wrath, might possibly ruffle Jane'ssad-coloured hair with the toe of his boot. 

Jane is small, yet mighty. She is multum in parvo; she is the rock ofGibraltar in animate form; she is cosmic obstinacy on four legs. Whenfollowing out the devices and desires of her own heart, or resistingthe devices and desires of yours, she can put a pressure of five hundredtons on the bit. She is further fortified by the possession of legswhich have iron rods concealed in them, these iron rods terminatingin stout grip-hooks, with which she takes hold on mother earth with anexpression that seems to say, --

 'This rock shall fly From its firm base as soon as I. '

When I start out in the afternoon, Mrs. Bobby frequently asks me where Iam going. I always answer that I have not made up my mind, though whatI really mean to say is that Jane has not made up her mind. She nevermakes up her mind until after I have made up mine, lest by some unhappyaccident she might choose the very excursion that I desire myself. 

Chapter XXI. I remember, I remember. 

For example, I wish to visit St. Bridget's Well, concerning which thereare some quaint old verses in a village history:--

 'Out of thy famous hille, There daylie springyeth, A water passynge stille, That alwayes bringyeth Grete comfort to all them That are diseased men, And makes them well again To prayse the Lord. 

 'Hast thou a wound to heale, The wyche doth greve thee; Come thenn unto this welle; It will relieve thee; Nolie me tangeries, And other maladies, Have there theyr remedies, Prays'd be the Lord. '

St. Bridget's Well is a beautiful spot, and my desire to see it is aperfectly laudable one. In strict justice, it is really no concern ofJane whether my wishes are laudable or not; but it only makes thecase more flagrant when she interferes with the reasonable plans of areasonable being. Never since the day we first met have I harboured athought that I wished to conceal from Jane (would that she could say asmuch!); nevertheless she treats me as if I were a monster of caprice. AsI said before, I wish to visit St. Bridget's Well, but Jane absolutelyrefuses to take me there. After we pass Belvern churchyard we approachtwo roads: the one to the right leads to the Holy Well; the one to theleft leads to Shady Dell Farm, where Jane lived when she was a girl. Atthe critical moment I pull the right rein with all my force. In vain:Jane is always overcome by sentiment when she sees that left-hand road. She bears to the left like a whirlwind, and nothing can stop her madcareer until she is again amid the scenes so dear to her recollection, the beloved pastures where the mother still lives at whose feet shebrayed in early youth!

Now this is all very pretty and touching. Her action has, in truth, itssprings in a most commendable sentiment that I should be the last tounderrate. Shady Dell Farm is interesting, too, for once, if one canswallow one's wrath and dudgeon at being taken there against one's will;and one feels that Jane's parents and Jane's early surroundings mustbe worth a single visit, if they could produce a donkey of such unusualcapacity. Still, she must know, if she knows anything, that a persondoes not come from America and pay one and fourpence the hour (orthereabouts) merely in order to visit the home of her girlhood, which isneither mentioned in Baedeker nor set down in the local guide-books as afeature of interest. 

Whether, in addition to her affection for Shady Dell Farm, she has anobjection to St. Bridget's Well, and thus is strengthened by adouble motive, I do not know. She may consider it a relic ofpopish superstition; she may be a Protestant donkey; she is aDissenter, --there's no doubt about that. 

But, you ask, have you tried various methods of bringing her to termsand gaining your own desires? Certainly. I have coaxed, beaten, prodded, prayed. I have tried leading her past the Shady Dell turn; she walksall over my feet, and then starts for home, I running behind until Ican catch up with her. I have offered her one and tenpence the hour; sheremained firm. One morning I had a happy inspiration; I determined onconquering Jane by a subterfuge. I said to myself: "I am going to startfor St. Bridget's Well, as usual; several yards before we reach the tworoads, I shall begin pulling, not the right, but the left rein. Janewill lift her ears suddenly, and say to herself: 'What! has this girlfallen in love with my birthplace at last, and does she now prefer itto St. Bridget's Well? Then she shall not have it!' Whereupon Janewill race madly down the right-hand road for the first time, I pullingsteadily at the left rein to keep up appearances, and I shall at lastrealise my wishes. "

This was my inspiration. Would you believe that it failed utterly? Itshould have succeeded, and would with an ordinary donkey, but Jane sawthrough it. She obeyed my pull on the left rein, and went to Shady DellFarm as usual. 

Another of Jane's eccentricities is a violent aversion to perambulators. As Belvern is a fine, healthy, growing country, with steadily increasingpopulation, the roads are naturally alive with perambulators; or atleast alive with the babies inside the perambulators. These are the morealarming to the timid eye in that many of them are double-barrelled, so to speak, and are loaded to the muzzle with babies; for not onlydo Belvern babies frequently appear as twins, but there are often twoyoungsters of a perambulator age in the same family at the same time. To weave that donkey and that Bath 'cheer' through the narrow streetsof the various Belverns without putting to death any babies, and withoutengendering the outspoken condemnation of the screaming mothers andnurserymaids, is a task for a Jehu. Of course Jane makes it moredifficult by lunging into one perambulator in avoiding another, but sheprefers even that risk to the degradation of treading the path I wishher to tread. 

I often wish that for one brief moment I might remove the lid of Jane'sbrain and examine her mental processes. She would not exasperate me sodeeply if I could be certain of her springs of action. Is she old, isshe rheumatic, is she lazy, is she hungry? Sometimes I think she meanswell, and is only ignorant and dull; but this hypothesis grows less andless tenable as I know her better. Sometimes I conclude that she doesnot understand me; that the difference in nationality may trouble her. If an Englishman cannot understand an American woman all at once, why should an English donkey? Perhaps it takes an American donkey tocomprehend an American woman. Yet I cannot bring myself to drive anyother donkey; I am always hoping to impress myself on her imagination, and conquer her will through her fancy. Meanwhile, I like to feel myselfin the grasp of a nature stronger than my own, and so I hold to Jane, and buy a photograph of St. Bridget's Well!

Chapter XXII. Comfort Cottage. 

It was about two o'clock in the afternoon, and I suddenly hearda strange sound, that of our fowl cackling. Yesterday I heard hertell-tale note about noon, and the day before just as I was eating mybreakfast. I knew that it would be so! The serpent has entered Eden. That fowl has laid before eight in the morning for three weeks withoutinterruption, and she has now entered upon a career of wild and recklessuncertainty which compels me to eat eggs from twelve to twenty-fourhours old, just as if I were in London. 

 Alas for the rarity Of regularity Under the sun!

A hen, being of the feminine gender, underestimates the majesty of orderand system; she resents any approach to the unimaginative monotony ofthe machine. Probably the Confederated Fowl Union has been meddlingwith our little paradise where Labour and Capital have dwelt in heavenlyunity until now. Nothing can be done about it, of course; even if itwere possible to communicate with the fowl, she would say, I suppose, that she would lay when she was ready, and not before; at least, that iswhat an American hen would say. 

Just as I was brooding over these mysteries and trying to hatch out someconclusions, Mrs. Bobby knocked at the door, and, coming in, curtsiedvery low before saying, "It's about namin' the 'ouse, miss. "

"Oh yes. Pray don't stand, Mrs. Bobby; take a chair. I am not verybusy; I am only painting prickles on my gorse bushes, so we will talk itover. "

I shall not attempt to give you Mrs. Bobby's dialect in reporting myvarious interviews with her, for the spelling of it is quite beyond mypowers. Pray remove all the h's wherever they occur, and insertthem where they do not; but there will be, over and beyond this, anintonation quite impossible to render. 

Mrs. Bobby bought her place only a few months ago, for she lived inCheltenham before Mr. Bobby died. The last incumbent had probably beenof Welsh extraction, for the cottage had been named 'Dan-y-cefn. ' Mrs. Bobby declared, however, that she wouldn't have a heathenish name postedon her house, and expect her friends to pronounce it when she couldn'tpronounce it herself. She seemed grieved when at first I could not seethe absolute necessity of naming the cottage at all, telling her that inAmerica we named only grand places. She was struck dumb with amazementat this piece of information, and failed to conceive of the confusionthat must ensue in villages where streets were scarcely named or housesnumbered. I confess it had never occurred to me that our manner of doingwas highly inconvenient, if not impossible, and I approached the subjectof the name with more interest and more modesty. 

"Well, Mrs. Bobby, " I began, "it is to be Cottage; we've decided that, have we not? It is to be Cottage, not House, Lodge, Mansion, or Villa. We cannot name it after any flower that blows, because they are alltaken. Have all the trees been used?"

"Thank you, miss, yes, miss, all but h'ash-tree, and we 'ave no h'ash. "

"Very good, we must follow another plan. Family names seem to be chosen, such as Gower House, Marston Villa, and the like. 'Bobby Cottage' is notpretty. What was your maiden name, Mrs. Bobby?"

"Buggins, thank you, miss. 'Elizabeth Buggins, Licensed to sellPoultry, ' was my name and title when I met Mr. Bobby. "

"I'm sorry, but 'Buggins Cottage' is still more impossible than 'BobbyCottage. ' Now here's another idea: where were you born, Mrs. Bobby?"

"In Snitterfield, thank you, miss. "

"Dear, dear! how unserviceable!"

"Thank you, miss. "

"Where was Mr. Bobby born?"

"He never mentioned, miss. "

(Mr. Bobby must have been expansive, for they were married twentyyears. )

"There is always Victoria or Albert, " I said tentatively, as I wiped mybrushes. 

"Yes, miss, but with all respect to her Majesty, them names give me aturn when I see them on the gates, I am that sick of them. "

"True. Can we call it anything that will suggest its situation? Is therea Hill Crest?"

"Yes, miss, there is 'Ill Crest, 'Ill Top, 'Ill View, 'Ill Side, 'IllEnd, H'under 'Ill, 'Ill Bank, and 'Ill Terrace. "

"I should think that would do for Hill. "

"Thank you, miss. 'Ow would 'The 'Edge' do, miss?"

"But we have no hedge. " (She shall not have anything with an h in it, ifI can help it. )

"No, miss, but I thought I might set out a bit, if worst come to worst. "

"And wait three or four years before people would know why the cottagewas named? Oh no, Mrs. Bobby. "

"Thank you, miss. "

"We might have something quite out of the common, like 'ProvidenceCottage, ' down the bank. I don't know why Mrs. Jones calls it ProvidenceCottage, unless she thinks it's a providence that she has one at all;or because, as it's just on the edge of the hill, she thinks it's aprovidence that it hasn't blown off. How would you like 'Peace' or'Rest' Cottage?"

"Begging your pardon, miss, it's neither peace nor rest I gets in itthese days, with a twenty-five pound debt 'anging over me, and threechildren to feed and clothe. "

"I fear we are not very clever, Mrs. Bobby, or we should hit upon theright thing with less trouble. I know what I will do: I will go down inthe road and look at the place for a long time from the outside, and tryto think what it suggests to me. "

"Thank you, miss; and I'm sure I'm grateful for all the trouble you aretaking with my small affairs. "

Down I went, and leaned over the wicket-gate, gazing at the unnamedcottage. The brick pathway was scrubbed as clean as a penny, and thestone step and the floor of the little kitchen as well. The garden wasa maze of fragrant bloom, with never a weed in sight. The fowl cackledcheerily still, adding insult to injury, the pet sheep munched grasscontentedly, and the canaries sang in their cages under the vines. Mrs. Bobby settled herself on the porch with a pan of peas in her neatgingham lap, and all at once I cried:--

"'Comfort Cottage'! It is the very essence of comfort, Mrs. Bobby, evenif there is not absolute peace or rest. Let me paint the signboard foryou this very day. "

Mrs. Bobby was most complacent over the name. She had the greatestconfidence in my judgment, and the characterisation pleased herhousewifely pride, so much so that she flushed with pleasure as she saidthat if she 'ad 'er 'ealth she thought she could keep the place lookingso that the passers-by would easily h'understand the name. 

Chapter XXIII. Tea served here. 

It was some days after the naming of the cottage that Mrs. Bobbyadmitted me into her financial secrets, and explained the difficultiesthat threatened her peace of mind. She still has twenty-five poundsto pay before Comfort Cottage is really her own. With her cow andher vegetable garden, to say nothing of her procrastinating fowl, shemanages to eke out a frugal existence, now that her eldest son is in ablacksmith's shop at Worcester, and is sending her part of his weeklysavings. But it has been a poor season for canaries, and a still poorerone for lodgers; for people in these degenerate days prefer to be nearerthe hotels and the mild gaieties of the larger settlements. It is allvery well so long as I remain with her, and she wishes fervently thatthat may be for ever; for never, she says, eloquently, never in all herCheltenham and Belvern experience, has she encountered such a jewel of alodger as her dear Miss 'Amilton, so little trouble, and always a bit ofpraise for her plain cooking, and a pleasant word for the children, towhom most lodgers object, and such an interest in the cow and the fowland the garden and the canaries, and such kindness in painting thename of the cottage, so that it is the finest thing in the village, andnobody can get past the 'ouse without stopping to gape at it! But whenher American lodger leaves her, she asks, --and who is she that canexpect to keep a beautiful young lady who will be naming her own cottageand painting signboards for herself before long, likely?--but whenher American lodger is gone, how is she, Mrs. Bobby, to put by a fewshillings a month towards the debt on the cottage? These are some of theproblems she presents to me. I have turned them over and over in my mindas I have worked, and even asked Willie Beresford in my weekly letterwhat he could suggest. Of course he could not suggest anything: mennever can; although he offered to come there and lodge for a month attwenty-five pounds a week. All at once, one morning, a happy idea struckme, and I ran down to Mrs. Bobby, who was weeding the onion-bed in theback garden. 

"Mrs. Bobby, " I said, sitting down comfortably on the edge of thelettuce-frame, "I am sure I know how you can earn many a shilling duringthe summer and autumn months, and you must begin the experiment whileI am here to advise you. I want you to serve five-o'clock tea in yourgarden. "

"But, miss, thanking you kindly, nobody would think of stoppin' 'ere fora cup of tea once in a twelvemonth. "

"You never know what people will do until you try them. People will doalmost anything, Mrs. Bobby, if you only put it into their heads, andthis is the way we shall make our suggestion to the public. I will painta second signboard to hang below 'Comfort Cottage. ' It will be much morebeautiful than the other, for it shall have a steaming kettle on it, and a cup and saucer, and the words 'Tea Served Here' underneath, theletters all intertwined with tea-plants. I don't know how tea-plantslook, but then neither does the public. You will set one round table onthe porch, so that if it threatens rain, as it sometimes does, you know, in England, people will not be afraid to sit down; and the otheryou will put under the yew-tree near the gate. The tables must beimmaculate; no spotted, rumpled cloths and chipped cups at ComfortCottage, which is to be a strictly first-class tea station. You willput vases of flowers on the tables, and you will not mix red, yellow, purple, and blue ones in the same vase-"

"It's the way the good Lord mixes 'em in the fields, " interjected Mrs. Bobby piously. 

"Very likely; but you will permit me to remark that the good Lord canmanage things successfully which we poor humans cannot. You will set outyour cream-jug that was presented to Mrs. Martha Buggins by her friendsand neighbours as a token of respect in 1823, and the bowl that waspresented to Mr. Bobby as a sword and shooting prize in 1860, and allyour pretty little odds and ends. You will get everything ready in thekitchen, so that customers won't have to wait long; but you will notprepare much in advance, so that there'll be nothing wasted. "

"It sounds beautiful in your mouth, miss, and it surely wouldn't be any'arm to make a trial of it. "

"Of course it won't. There is no inn here where nice people will stop(who would ever think of asking for tea at the Retired Soldier?), andthe moment they see our sign, in walking or driving past, that momentthey will be consumed with thirst. You do not begin to appreciateour advantages as a tea station. In the first place, there is awatering-trough not far from the gate, and drivers very often stopto water their horses; then we have the lovely garden which everybodyadmires; and if everything else fails, there is the baby. Put that fadedpink flannel slip on Jem, showing his tanned arms and legs as usual, tie up his sleeves with blue bows as you did last Sunday, put my whitetennis-cap on the back of his yellow curls, turn him loose in thehollyhocks, and await results. Did I not open the gate the moment I sawhim, though there was no apartment sign in the window?"

Mrs. Bobby was overcome by the magic of my arguments, and as there werepositively no attendant risks, we decided on an early opening. Thevery next day after the hanging of the second sign, I superintended thearrangements myself. It was a nice thirsty afternoon, and as I filledthe flower-vases I felt such a desire for custom and such a love oftrade animating me that I was positively ashamed. At three o'clock Iwent upstairs and threw myself on the bed for a nap, for I had beensketching on the hills since early morning. It may have been an hourlater when I heard the sound of voices and the stopping of a heavyvehicle before the house. I stole to the front window, and, peepingunder the shelter of the vines, saw a char-a-bancs, on the way fromGreat Belvern to the Beacon. It held three gentlemen, two ladies, andfour children, and everything had worked precisely as I intended. The driver had seen the watering-trough, the gentlemen had seen thetea-sign, the children had seen the flowers and the canaries, andthe ladies had seen the baby. I went to the back window to call anencouraging word to Mrs. Bobby, but to my horror I saw that worthy womandisappearing at the extreme end of the lane in full chase of our cow, that had broken down the fence, and was now at large with some of ourneighbour's turnip-tops hanging from her mouth. 

Chapter XXIV. An unlicensed victualler. 

Ruin stared us in the face. Were our cherished plans to be frustratedby a marauding cow, who little realised that she was imperilling herown means of existence? Were we to turn away three, five, nine thirstycustomers at one fell swoop? Never! None of these people ever saw mebefore, nor would ever see me again. What was to prevent my serving themwith tea? I had on a pink cotton gown, --that was well enough; I hastilybuttoned on a clean painting apron, and seizing a freshly launderedcushion cover lying on the bureau, a square of lace and embroidery, Ipinned it on my hair for a cap while descending the stairs. Everythingwas right in the kitchen, for Mrs. Bobby had flown in the midst of herpreparations. The loaf, the bread-knife, the butter, the marmalade, allstood on the table, and the kettle was boiling. I set the tea to draw, and then dashed to the door, bowed appetisingly to the visitors, showedthem to the tables with a winning smile (which was to be extra), seatedthe children maternally on the steps and laid napkins before them, dashed back to the kitchen, cut the thin bread-and-butter, and broughtit with the marmalade, asked my customers if they desired cream, andtold them it was extra, went back and brought a tray with tea, boilingwater, milk, and cream. Lowering my voice to an English sweetness, anddropping a few h's ostentatiously as I answered questions, I pouredfive cups of tea, and four mugs for the children, and cut morebread-and-butter, for they were all eating like wolves. They praisedthe butter. I told them it was a specialty of the house. They requestedmuffins. With a smile of heavenly sweetness tinged with regret, Ireplied that Saturday was our muffin day; Saturday, muffins; Tuesday, crumpets; Thursday, scones; and Friday, tea-cakes. This inspirationsprang into being full grown, like Pallas from the brain of Zeus. Whilethey were regretting that they had come on a plain bread-and-butter day, I retired to the kitchen and made out a bill for presentation to theoldest man of the party. 

 s. D. Nine teas. . . . 3 6 Cream . . . . 3 Bread-and-butter . . 1 0 Marmalade. . . . 6 ----- 5 3

Feeling five and threepence to be an absurdly small charge for fiveadult and four infant teas, I destroyed this immediately, and made outanother, putting each item fourpence more, and the bread-and-butterat one-and-six. I also introduced ninepence for extra teas for thechildren, who had had two mugs apiece, very weak. This brought the totalto six shillings and tenpence, and I was beset by a horrible temptationto add a shilling or two for candles; there was one young man among thethree who looked as if he would have understood the joke. 

The father of the family looked at the bill, and remarked quizzically, "Bond Street prices, eh?"

"Bond Street service, " said I, curtsying demurely. 

He paid it without flinching, and gave me sixpence for myself. I wasvery much afraid he would chuck me under the chin; they are alwayschucking barmaids under the chin in old English novels, but I have neverseen it done in real life. As they strolled down to the gate, the secondgentleman gave me another sixpence, and the nice young fellow gave mea shilling; he certainly had read the old English novels and rememberedthem, so I kept with the children. One of the ladies then asked if wesold flowers. 

"Certainly, " I replied. 

"What do you ask for roses?"

"Fourpence apiece for the fine ones, " I answered glibly, hoping it wasenough, "thrippence for the small ones; sixpence for a bunch of sweetpeas, tuppence apiece for buttonhole carnations. "

Each of the ladies took some roses and mignonette, and the gentlemen, who did not care for carnations in the least, weakened when I approachedmodestly to pin them in their coats, a la barmaid. 

At this moment one of the children began to tease for a canary. 

"Have you one for sale?" inquired the fond mother. 

"Certainly, madam. " (I was prepared to sell the cottage by this time. )

"What do you ask for them?"

Rapid calculation on my part, excessively difficult without pencil andpaper. A canary is three to five dollars in America, --that is, fromtwelve shilling to a pound; then at a venture, "From ten shillings to aguinea, madam, according to the quality of the bird. "

"Would you like one for your birthday, Margaret, and do you think youcan feed it and take quite good care of it?"

"Oh yes, mamma!"

"Have you a cage?" to me inquiringly. 

"Certainly, madam; it is not a new one, but I shall only charge you ashilling for it. " (Impromptu plan: not knowing whether Mrs. Bobby hadany cages, or if so where she kept them, to remove the canary in Mrs. Bobby's chamber from the small wooden cage it inhabited, close thewindows, and leave it at large in the room; then bring out the cage andsell it to the lady. )

"Very well, then, please select me a good singer for about twelveshillings; a very yellow one, please. "

I did so. I had no difficulty about the colour; but as the birds allstopped singing when I put my hand into the cages, I was somewhat at aloss to choose a really fine performer. I did my best, with the resultthat it turned out to be the mother of several fine families, but novocalist, and the generous young man brought it back for an exchangesome days afterwards; not only that, but he came three times during thenext week and nearly ruined his nervous system with tea. 

The party finally mounted the char-a-bancs, just as I was about to offerthe baby for twenty-five pounds, and dirt cheap at that. Meanwhile Igave the driver a cup of lukewarm tea, for which I refused absolutely toaccept any remuneration. 

I had cleared the tables before Mrs. Bobby returned, flushed andpanting, with the guilty cow. Never shall I forget that good dame'sastonishment, her mild deprecations, her smiles--nay, her tears--as sheinspected my truly English account and received the silver. 

 s. D. Nine teas. . . . 3 6 Cream . . . . 7 Bread-and-butter . . 1 6 Extra teas. . . . 9 Marmalade. . . . 6 Three tips. . . . 2 0 Four roses and mignonette. 1 8 Three carnations . . 6 Canary . . . . 12 0 Cage . . . . 1 0 ------ 24 0

I told her I regretted deeply putting down the marmalade so low assixpence; but as they had not touched it, it did not matter so much, asthe entire outlay for the entertainment had been only about a shilling. On that modest investment, I considered one pound three shillings a veryfair sum to be earned by an inexperienced 'licensed victualler' likemyself, particularly as I am English only by adoption, and not by birth. 

Chapter XXV. Et ego in Arcadia vixit. 

I essayed another nap after this exciting episode. I heard the gate openonce or twice, but a single stray customer, after my hungry and generoushorde, did not stir my curiosity, and I sank into a refreshing slumber, dreaming that Willie Beresford and I kept an English inn, and that Iwas the barmaid. This blissful vision had been of all too short durationwhen I was awakened by Mrs. Bobby's apologetic voice. 

"It is too bad to disturb you, miss, but I've got to go and patch up thefence, and smooth over the matter of the turnips with Mrs. Gooch, who isthat snorty I don't know 'ow ever I can pacify her. There is nothing foryou to do, miss, only if you'll kindly keep an eye on the customer atthe yew-tree table. He's been here for 'alf an hour, miss, and I thinkmore than likely he's a foreigner, by his actions, or may be he's notquite right in his 'ead, though 'armless. He has taken four cups of tea, miss, and Billy saw him turn two of them into the 'olly'ocks. He hasbeen feeding bread-and-butter to the dog, and now the baby is on hisknee, playing with his fine gold watch. He gave me a 'alf-a-crown andrefused to take a penny change; but why does he stop so long, miss? Ican't help worriting over the silver cream-jug that was my mother's. "

Mrs. Bobby disappeared. I rose lazily, and approached the window to keepmy promised eye on the mysterious customer. I lifted back the purpleclematis to get a better view. 

It was Willie Beresford! He looked up at my ejaculation of surprise, and, dropping the baby as if it had been a parcel, strode under thewindow. 

I (gasping). "How did you come here?"

He. "By the usual methods, dear. "

I. "You shouldn't have come without asking. Where are all your finepromises? What shall I do with you? Do you know there isn't an hotelwithin four miles?"

He. "That is nothing; it was four hundred miles that I couldn't endure. But give me a less grudging welcome than this, though I am like astarving dog that will snatch any morsel thrown to him! It is reallyautumn, Penelope, or it will be in a few days. Say you are a little gladto see me. "

(The sight of him so near, after my weeks of loneliness, gave me afeeling so sudden, so sweet, and so vivid that it seemed to smite mefirst on the eyes, and then in the heart; and at the first note of hisconvincing voice Doubt picked up her trailing skirts and fled for ever. )

I. "Yes, if you must know it, I am glad to see you; so glad, indeed, that nothing in the world seems to matter so long as you are here. "

He (striding a little nearer, and looking about involuntarily for aladder). "Penelope, do you know the penalty of saying such sweet thingsto me?"

I. "Perhaps it is because I know the penalty that I'm committing theoffence. Besides, I feel safe in saying anything in this second-storywindow. "

He. "Don't pride yourself on your safety unless you wish to see metransformed into a nineteenth-century Romeo, to the detriment of Mrs. Bobby's creepers. I can look at you for ever, dear, in your pink gownand your purple frame, unless I can do better. Won't you come down?"

I. "I like it very much up here. "

He. "You would like it very much down here, after a little. So youdidn't 'paint me out, ' after all?"

I. "No; on the contrary, I painted you in, to every twig and flower, every hill and meadow, every sunrise and every sunset. "

He. "You MUST come down! The distance between Belvern and Aix when Iwas not sure that you loved me was nothing compared to having you in asecond story when I know that you do. Come down, Pen! Pretty Pen!"

I. "Suppose we compromise. My sitting-room is just below; will you walkin and look at my sketches until I come? You needn't ring; the bell isovergrown with honeysuckle and there is no one to answer it; it mightalmost be an American hotel, but it is Arcadia!"

He. "It is Paradise; and alas! here comes the serpent!"

I. "It isn't a serpent; it is the kindest landlady in England. --Mrs. Bobby, this gentleman is a dear friend of mine from America. Mr. Beresford, this is Mrs. Bobby, the most comfortable hostess in theworld, and the owner of the cottage, the canaries, the tea-tables, andthe baby. --The reason Mr. Beresford was so thirsty, Mrs. Bobby, was thathe has walked here from Great Belvern, so we must give him some supperbefore he returns. "

Mrs. B. "Certainly, miss, he shall have the best in the 'ouse, you candepend upon that. "

He. "Don't let me interfere with your usual arrangements. I am nothungry--for food; I shall do very well until I get back to the hotel. "

I. "Indeed you will not, sir! Billy shall pull some tomatoes andlettuce, Tommy shall milk the cow, and Mrs. Bobby shall make youa savory omelet that Delmonico might envy. Hark! Is that our fowlcackling? It is, --at half-past six! She heard me mention omelet and shemust be calling, 'Now I lay me down to sleep. '"

 . . . . 

But all that is many days ago, and there are no more experiences torelate at present. We are making history very fast, Willie Beresford andI, but much of it is sacred history, and so I cannot chronicle it forany one's amusement. 

Mrs. Beresford is here, or at least she is in Great Belvern, a few milesdistant. I am not painting, these latter days. I have turned the artistside of my nature to the wall just for a bit, and the woman side ishaving full play. I do not know what the world will think about it, ifit stops to think at all, but I feel as if I were 'right side out' forthe first time in my life; and when I take up my brushes again, I shallhave a new world within from which to paint, --yes, and a new worldwithout. 

Good-bye, dear Belvern! Autumn and winter may come into my life, butwhenever I think of you it will be summer-time in my heart. I shall hearthe tinkle of the belled sheep on the hillsides; inhale the fragranceof the flowering vine that climbed in at my cottage window; relive inmemory the days when Love and I first walked together, hand in hand. Dear days of happy idleness; of dreaming dreams and seeing visions; ofmorning walks over the hills; of 'bread-and-cheese and kisses' at noon, with kind Mrs. Bobby hovering like a plump guardian angel over thesimple feast; afternoon tea under the friendly shades of the yew-tree, and parting at the wicket-gate. I can see him pass the clock-tower, thelittle greengrocer shop, the old stocks, the green pump; then he is atthe turn of the road where the stone wall and the hawthorn hedge willpresently hide him from my view. I fly up to my window, push back thevines, catch his last wave of the hand. I would call him back, if Idared; but it would be no easier to let him go the second time, andthere is always to-morrow. Thank God for to-morrow! And if there shouldbe no to-morrow? Then thank God for to-day! And so good-bye again, dearBelvern! It was in the lap of your lovely hills that Penelope first knewdas irdische Gluck; that she first loved, first lived; forgot how to beartist, in remembering how to be woman.