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以下世界名酒英文介绍
pter 1 Shewing How Wrath Began
When Louis Trevelyan was twenty
If the infliction of pain a
me was too weak to speak again.
Mr. Hardie, rushing from the house, found Edward at work outside; he was crying undisguisedly, and with his coat off, working harder at spreading the straw than both the two men together he had got to help him. Mr. Hardie took his hand and wrung it, but could not speak.
In half an hour a trusty agent he had often employed was at the station waiting for the up train, nearly due.
He came back to Albion Villa. Julia met him on the stairs with her fingers to her lips. “She is sleeping; the doctor has hopes. Oh, sir, let us all pray for her day and night.”
Mr. Hardie blessed her; it seemed the face of an angel, so earnest, so lovely, so pious. He went home: and at the door of his own house Peggy met him with anxious looks. He told her what he had done.
“Good Heavens!” said she; “have you forgotten? He says he will kill you the first day he gets out. You told me so yourself.”
“Yes, Baker said so. I can’t help it. I don’t care what becomes of me; I care only for my child. Leave me, Peggy; there, go, go.”
He was no sooner alone than h
h a match.
Julia bowed her head submissively and went to her duties. But when Alfred came to her open-mouthed to complain of her mother’s cruelty, she stopped him at once, and asked him how he could go and write that foolish, unreasonable letter. Why had he not consulted her first? “You have subjected yourself to a rebuff,” said she angrily, “and one from which I should have saved you. Is it nothing that mamma out of pity to me connives at our meeting and spending hours together? Do you think she does no violence to her own wishes here? and is she to meet with no return?”
“What, are you agains
are harsh, and — forgive me for saying so — they are coarse. Such words would separate us two, without my mother, if I were to hear many of them; for they take the bloom off affection, and that mutual reverence, without which no gentleman and lady could be blessed in holy wedlock.”
Alfred was staggered and mortified too: they walked on in silence now.
“Alfred,” said Julia at last, “do not think me behind you in affection, but wiser, for once, and our best friend. I do think we had better see less of one another for a time, my poor Alfred.”
“And why for a time? Why not for ever?”
“If your heart draws no distinction, why not indeed?”
“So be it then: for I will be no woman’s slave. There’s my hand, Julia: let us part friends.”
“Thank you for that, dear Alfred: may you find some one who can love you more — than — I do.”
The words choked her. But he was stronger, because he was in a passion. He reproached her bitterly. “If I had been as weak and inconstant as you are, I might have been out of Drayton House long before I did escape. But I was faithful to my one love. I have some right to sing ‘Aileen Aroon,’ you have none. You are an angel of beauty and goodness; you will go to Heaven, and I shall go to the devil now for want of you; but then you have no constancy nor true fidelity: so that has parted us, and now nothing is left me but to try and hate you.”
He turned furiously on his heel.
“God bless you, go where you will,” faltered Julia.
He replied with a fierce ejaculation of despair, and dashed away.
Thus temper and misunderstanding triumphed, after so many strange and bitter trials had failed.
But alas! it is often so.
Chapter 49
Both the parted lovers were wretched. Julia never complained, but drooped, and read the Psalms, and Edward detected her in tears over them. He questioned her and obtained a lame account; she being far more bent on screening Alfred than on telling the truth.
Edward called on the other; and found him disconsolate, and reading a Heathen philosopher for comfort, and finding none. Edward questioned him, and he was reserved and even sulky. Sir Imperturbable persisted quietly, and he exploded, and out came his wrongs. Edward replied that he was a pretty fellow: wanted it all his own way. “Suppose my mother
She came out much later than usual that day, for to tell the truth, her mother had detained her to show her Alfred’s letter, and her answer.
“Ah, mamma,” said poor Julia, “you don’t love me as you did once. Poor Alfred!”
Mrs. Dodd sighed at this reproach, but said she did not deserve it. No mother in her senses would consent to such a match.
Julia bowed her head submissively and went to her duties. But when Alfred came to her open-mouthed to complain of her mother’s cruelty, she stopped him at once, and asked him how he could go and write that foolish, unreasonable letter. Why had he not consulted her first? “You have subjected yourself to a rebuff,” said she angrily, “and one from which I should have saved you. Is it nothing that mamma out of pity to me connives at our meeting and spending hours together? Do you think she does no violence to her own wishes here? and is she to meet with no return?”
“What, are you against me too?” said poor Alfred.
“No, it is you who are our enemy with your unreasonable impatience.”
“I am not so cold-blooded as you are, certainly.”
“Humility and penitence would become you better than to retort on me. I love you both, and pray God on my knees to show me how to do my duty to both.”
“That is it; you are not single-hearted like me. You want to please all the world, and reconcile the irreconcilable. It won’t do: you will have to choose between your mother and me at last.”
“Then of course I shall choose my mother.”
“Why?”
“Because she claims my duty as well as my love; because she is bowed down with sorrow, and needs her daughter just now more than you do; besides, you are my other self, and we must deny ourselves.”
“We have no more right to be unjust to ourselves than to anybody else; injustice is injustice.”
“Alfred, you are a high-minded Heathen, and talk Morality. Morality is a snare. What I pray to be is a Christian, as your dear sister was, and to deny myself; and you make it, oh so difficult.”
“So I suppose it will end in turning out your heathen and then taking your curate. Your mother would consent to that directly.”
“Alfred,” said Julia with dignity, “these words are harsh, and — forgive me for saying so — they are coarse. Such words would separate us two, without my mother, if I were to hear many of them; for they take the bloom off affection, and that mutual reverence, without which no gentleman and lady could be blessed in holy wedlock.”
Alfred was staggered and mortified too: they walked on in silence now.
“Alfred,” said Julia at last, “do not think me behind you in affection, but wiser, for once, and our best friend. I do think we had better see less of one another for a time, my poor Alfred.”
“And why for a time? Why not for ever?”
“If your heart draws no distinction, why not indeed?”
“So be it then: for I will be no woman’s slave. There’s my hand, Julia: let us part friends.”
“Thank you for that, dear Alfred: may you find some one who can love you more — than — I do.”
The words choked her. But he was stronger, because he was in a passion. He reproached her bitterly. “If I had been as weak and inconstant as you are, I might have been out of Drayton House long before I did escape. But I was faithful to my one love. I have some right to sing ‘Aileen Aroon,’ you have none. You are an angel of beauty and goodness; you will go to Heaven, and I shall go to the devil now for want of you; but then you have no constancy nor true fidelity: so that has parted us, and now nothing is left me but to try and hate you.”
He turned furiously on his heel.
“God bless you, go where you will,” faltered Julia.
He replied with a fierce ejaculation of despair, and dashed away.
Thus temper and misunderstanding triumphed, after so many strange
Chapter 24
MR. HARDIE was taken by surprise for once, and had not a word to say, but looked in his son’s face, mute and gasping as a fish.
During this painful silence his children eyed him
driven mad met him in the passage, her motherly eyes full of tears for him, and both hands held out to him like a pitying angel. “Oh, Mr. Hardie,” she said in a broken voice, and took him, and led him, wonder-struck, stupefied, shivering with dark fears, to the room where his crushed daughter lay.ng or other East Indiaman — brown cheek, honest speech, heart of gold — fell deep in love and worshipped her at a distance. His timidity and social insignificance made him harmless; so egotist Fountain had him in to dessert to spin yarns; egotist Bazalgette invited him to her house to flirt with. At this latter place he found Hardie and Talboys both courting Lucy; this drove him mad, and in his fury he p
our proposal — should you then think it consistent with your dignity to renew it.”
As hostile testators used to leave the disinherited one shilling, not out of a shilling’s worth of kindly feeling, but that he might not be able to say his name was omitted through inadvertency, so Mrs. Dodd inserted this postscript merely to clench the nail and tantalise her enemy. It was a masterpiece of feminine spite.
She would have been wonderstruck could she have seen how Alfred received her missive.
To be sure he sat in a cold stupor of dejection for a good half hour; but at the end of that time he lifted up his head, and said quietly, “So be it. I’ll get the trial over, and my sanity established, as soon as possible: and then I’ll hire a yacht and hunt her husband till I find him.”
Having settled this little plan, he looked out for Julia, whose sympathy he felt in need of after such a stern blow.
She came out much later than usual that day, for to tell the truth, her mother had detained her to show her Alfred’s letter, and her answer.
“Ah, mamma,” said poor Julia, “you don’t love me as you did once. Poor Alfred!”
Mrs. Dodd sighed at this reproach, but said she did not deserve it. No mother in her senses would consent to such a match.
Julia bowed her head submissively and went to her duties. But when Alfred came to her open-mouthed to complain of her mother’s cruelty, she stopped him at once, and asked him how he could go and write that foolish, unreasonable letter. Why had he not consulted her first? “You have subjected yourself to a rebuff,” said she angrily, “and one from which I should have saved you. Is it nothing that mamma out of pity to me connives at our meeting and spending hours together? Do you think she does no violence to her own wishes here? and is she to meet with no return?”
“What, are you against me too?” said poor Alfred.
“No, it is you who are our enemy with your unreasonable impatience.”
“I am not so cold-blooded as you are, certainly.”
“Humility and penitence would become you better than to retort on me. I love you both, and pray God on my knees to show me how to do my duty to both.”
“That is it; you are not single-hearted like me. You want to please all the world, and reconcile the irreconcilable. It won’t do: you will have to choose between your mother and me at last.”
“Then of course I shall choose my mother.”
“Why?”
“Because she claims my duty as well as my love; because she is bowed down with sorrow, and needs her daughter just now more than you do; besides, you are my other self, and we must deny ourselves.”
“We have no more right to be unjust to ourselves than to anybody else; injustice is injustice.”
“Alfred, you are a high-minded Heathen, and talk Morality. Morality is a snare. What I pray to be is a Christian, as your dear sister was, and to deny myself; and you make it, oh so difficult.”
“So I suppose it will end in turning out your heathen and then taking your curate. Your mother would consent to that directly.”
“Alfred,” said Julia with dignity, “these words are harsh, and — forgive me for saying so — they are coarse. Such words would separate us two, without my mother, if I were to hear many of them; for they take the bloom off affection, and that mutual reverence, without which no gentleman and lady could be blessed in holy wedlock.”
Alfred was staggered and mortified too: they walked on in silence now.
“Alfred,” said Julia at last, “do not think me behind you in affection, but wiser, for once, and our best friend. I do think we had better see less of one another for a time, my poor Alfred.”
“And why for a time? Why not for ever?”
“If your heart draws no distinction, why not indeed?”
“So be it then: for I will be no woman’s slave. There’s my hand, Julia: let us part friends.”
“Thank you for that, dear Alfred: may you find some one who can love you more — than — I do.”
The words choked her. But he was stronger, because he was in a passion. He reproached her bitterly. “If I had been as weak and inconstant as you are, I might have been out of Drayton House long before I did escape. But I was faithful to my one love. I have some right to sing ‘Aileen Aroon,’ you have none. You are an angel of beauty and goodness; you will go to Heaven, and I shall go to the devil now for want of you; but then you have no constancy nor true fidelity: so that has parted us, and now nothing is left me but to try and hate you.”
He turned furiously on his heel.
“God bless you, go where you will,” faltered Julia.
He replied with a fierce ejaculation of despair, and dashed away.
Thus temper and misunderstanding triumphed, after so many strange and bitter trials had failed.
But alas! it is often so.
Chapter 49
Both the parted lovers were wretched. Julia never complained, but drooped, and read the Psalms, and Edward detected her in tears over them. He questioned her and obtained a lame account; she being far more bent on screening Alfred than on telling the truth.
Edward called on the other; and found him disconsolate, and reading a Heathen philosopher for comfort, and finding none. Edward questioned him, and he was reserved and even sulky. Sir Imperturbable persisted quietly, and he exploded, and out came his wrongs. Edward replied that he was a pretty fellow: wanted it all his own way. “Suppose my mother, with her present feelings, was to take a leaf out of your book, and use all her power; where would you be then? Come, old fellow, I know what love is, and one of us shall have the girl he loves, unless any harm should come to my poor father owing to your blunder — oh, that would put it out of the question, I feel — but let us hope better. I pulled you out of the fire, and somehow I seem to like you better than ever after that; let me pull you out of this mess too.”
“Pull away,” cried the impetuous youth. “I’ll trust you with my life: ay, with more than my life, with my love; for you are the man for me: reason is always uppermost with you:
Give me the man that is not passion’s slave,
And I will wear him in my heart’s core, ay ——”
“Oh bother that. If you are in earnest, don’t mouth, but put on your hat and come over.”
He assented; but in the middle of putting on his coat, made this little observation: “Now I see how wise the ancients were: yes, friendship is better than love; calmer, more constant, free from the heats and chills of that impetuous passion; its pure bosom is ruffled by none of love’s jealousies and irritabilities. Solem e mundo tollunt qui tollunt amicitiam.”
“Oh bother quoting; come and shake hands with Julia.” They went over; Mrs. Dodd was in the city. Edward ushered in Alfred, saying, “Here is the other Impetuosity;” and sagely retired for a few minutes. When he came back they were sitting hand in hand, he gazing on her, she inspecting the carpet. “That is all right,” said Edward drily: “now the next thing is, you must go back to Oxford directly, and read for your first class.”
The proposal fell like a blight upon the reconciled lovers. But Edward gave potent reasons.
MR. HARDIE found his daughter lying ashy pale on a little bed in the drawing-room of Albion Villa. She was now scarce conscious. The old doctor sat at her head looking very grave; and Julia kneeled over her beloved friend, pale as herself; with hands clasped convulsively, and great eyes of terror and grief.
That vivid young face, full of foreboding and woe, struck Mr. Hardie the moment he entered, and froze his very heart. The strong man quivered and sank slowly like a felled tree by the bedside; and his face and the poor girl’s, whose earthly happiness he had coldly destroyed, nearly met over his crushed daughter.
“Jane, my child,” he gasped; “my poor little Jane!”s, and said feebly, but with a sweet smile, “He is coming, love; all shall be well.” Then to herself as it were, and looking up with a gentle rapture in her pale face —
“Blessed are the peacemakers; for they shall be called the children of God.”
On this thought she seemed to feed with innocent joy; but for a long ti
While waiting for their answers, a word about the parties and their niece.
Our Mrs. Dodd, born Lucy Fountain, was left at nineteen to the care of two guardians: 1, her Uncle Fountain, an old bachelor, who loved comfort, pedigree, and his own way; 2, her Aunt Bazalgette, who loved flirting, dressing, and her own way; both charming people, when they got their own way; verjuice, when they didn’t: and, to conclude, egotists deep as ocean. From guardians they grew match-makers and rivals by proxy: uncle schemed to graft Lucy on to a stick called Talboys, that came in with the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, known in pedigrees as “the Norman Conquest.” Aunt, wife of a merchant of no Descent, except from a high stool, devoted her to Richard Hardie. An unlooked-for obstacle encountered both: Lucy was not amorous. She loved these two egotists and their quadrupeds; but there she stopped dead short. They persisted; and, while they pulled her to and fro and ruffled her native calm, David Dodd, first mate of the Something or other East Indiaman — brown cheek, honest speech, heart of gold — fell deep in love and worshipped her at a distance. His timidity and social insignificance made him harmless; so egotist Fountain had him in to dessert to spin yarns; egotist Bazalgette invited him to her house to flirt with. At this latter place he found Hardie and Talboys both courting Lucy; this drove him mad, and in his fury he popped. Lucy declined him secundum artem: he went away blessing her, with a manly sob or two. Lucy cried a little and took a feminine spite against his rivals, who remained to pester her. Now Talboys, spurred by uncle, had often all but popped; only some let, hindrance, or just impediment had still interposed: once her pony kept prancing at each effort he made towards Hymen; they do say the subtle virgin kept probing the brute with a hair pin, and made him caracole and spill the treacle as fast as it came her way. However, now Talboys elected to pop by sea. It was the element his ancestors had invaded fair England by; and on its tranquil bosom a lover is safe from prancing steeds, and the myriad anti-pops of terra firma. Miss Lucy consented to the won my armour, and said quietly, we were not so poor but we could pay for a piece of cloth should I be so unfortunate as to spoil it; and I offered in plain terms to deposit the price as security. But he turned as stiff at that as his yard measure; ‘that was not Cross and Co.‘s way of doing business,’ he said. But it is unreasonable to be dejected at a repulse or two; and I am not out of spirits; not much:” with this her gentle mouth smiled; and her patient eyes were moist.
The next day, just after breakfast, was announced a gentleman fro
in a flutter: “It is to ask you a favour. I am unhappy — about one thing.”
She then leaned one hand softly on his shoulder, and curving her lovely supple neck looked round into his face and watched it as she preferred her petition: “It is about Jane and you. I cannot bear to part you two in this way: only think six days you have not spoken, and I am the cause.”
“Not the only cause, love.”
“I don’t know, darling. But it is very cruel. I have got my dear mother and Edward; you have nobody — but Me. Alfred,” said she with gentle impetuosity, “now is your time; your papa is away.”
art with Peggy. I will serve Mammon no more. I will attend Thine ordinances. I will live soberly, honestly, and godly all the remainder of my days; only do Thou spare my child. She is Thy servant, and does Thy work on earth, and there is nothing on earth I love but her.”
And now the whistle sounded, the train moved, and his messenger was flying fast to London, with a note to Dr. Wycherley:
“DEAR SIR — My poor daughter lies dangerously wounded, and perhaps at the point of death. She cries for her brother. He must come down to us instantly with the bearer of this. Send one of your people with him if you like. But it is not necessary. I enclose a blank cheque, signed, which please fill at your discretion. — I am, with thanks, yours in deep distress,
“RICHARD HARDIE”
Chapter 38
DR. SHORT arrived, approved Dr. Phillips’s treatment, and said the case was severe but not hopeless, and he would call again. A bed was prepared in the house for Mr. Hardie: but neither he nor any of the Dodds closed an eye that sorrowful night.
About midnight, after a short slumber, the sufferer became uneasy, and begged to be left with Julia. Julia was sent for, and found her a good deal excited. She inquired more than once if they were quite alone, and then asked for paper and a pencil. She wrote a few lines, and made Julia put them in a cover and seal them. “Now. dear friend,” she said, “promise me not to open this, nor even to let your mother; it is not for your happiness that what I have written should be seen by her or you; no, no, much better not. Come; dear friend, pledge me your honour.” Julia pledged her honour.
Then Jane wrote on the cover, “From a dying sister.” Julia saw that; and wept sore.
Jane comforted her. “Do not weep for me, love: I am content to go, or stay. This is not my doing; so I know it must be for the best. He is leading me by a way that I know not. Oh, my beloved friend, how sweet it is to lie in His hands, and know no will but His. Ay, I thank Him for crossing my will, and leading me to Himself by His own good way, and not by poor blind, foolish mine.”
In this spirit of full resignation she abode constant, and consoled her weeping friends from time to time, whenever she was quite herself.
About daybreak, being alone with her father, she shed a few tears at his lonely condition. “I fear you will miss me,” said she. “Take my advice, dear; be reconciled with Alfred at once, and let Julia be your daughter, since I am leaving you. She is all humility and heart. Dying, I prize her and her affection more highly; I seem to see characters clearer, all things clearer, than I did before my summons came.”
The miserable father tried to be playful and scold her: “You must not talk nor think of death,” he said. “Your bridal-day is to come first; I know all; Edward Dodd has told me he loves you. He is a fine noble fellow; you shall marry him: I wish it. Now, for his sake, summon all your resolution, and make up your mind to live. Why, at your age, it needs but to say, ‘I will live, I will, I will;’ and when all the prospect is so smiling, when love awaits you at the altar, and on every side! If you could leave your poor doting father, do not leave your lover: and here he is with his mother crying for you. Let me comfort him; let me tell him you will live for his sake and mine.”
Even this could not disturb the dying Christian. “Dear Edward,” she said; “it is sweet to know he loves me. Ah, well, he is young; he must live without me till I become but a tender memory of his youth. And oh, I pray for him that he may cherish the words I have spoken to him for his soul’s good far longer than he can remember these features that are hastening to decay.”
At ten in the morning Mr. Hardie’s messenger returned without Alfred, and with a note from Dr. Wycherley to this effect, that, the order for Alfred’s admission into his asylum being signed by Mr. Thomas Hardie, he could not send him out even for a day except on Thomas Hardie’s authority; it would be a violation of the law. Under the circumstances, however, he thought he might venture to receive that order by telegraph. If, then, Mr. Hardie would telegraph Thomas Hardie in Yorkshire to telegraph him (Wycherley), Alfred should be sent with two keepers wherever Mr. T. Hardie should so direct,
Now Mr. Hardie had already repented of sending for Alfred at all. So, instead of telegraphing Yorkshire, he remained passive, and said sullenly to Mrs. Dodd, “Alfred can’t come, it seems.”
Thus Routine kept the brother from his dying sister.
They told Jane, with aching hearts, there was reason to fear Alfred could not arrive that day.
She only gave a meaning look at Julia, about the paper; and then she said with a little sigh, “God’s will be done.”
This was the last disappointment Heaven allowed Earth to inflict on her; and the shield of Faith turned its edge.
One hour of pain, another of delirium, and now the clouds that darken this mortal life seemed to part and pass, and Heaven to open full upon her. She spoke of her coming change no longer with resignation; it was with rapture. “Oh!” she cried, “to think that from this very day I shall never sin again, shall never again offend Him by unholy temper, by unChrist-like behaviour!”
The strong and healthy wept and groaned aloud; but she they sorrowed for was all celestial bliss. In her lifetime she had her ups and downs of religious fervour; was not without feverish heats, and cold misgivings and depression; but all these fled at that dread hour when the wicked are a prey to dark misgivings, or escape into apathy. This timid girl that would have screamed at a scratch, met the King of Terrors with smiles and triumph. For her the grave was Jordan, and death was but the iron gate of life everlasting. Mors janua vitae. Yet once or twice she took herself to task: but only to show she knew what the All-Pure had forgiven her. “I often was wanting in humility,” she said; “I almost think that if I were to be sent back again into this world of sin and sorrow I am leaving behind, I should grow a little in humility; for I know the ripe Christian is like the ripe corn, holds his head lower than when he was green; and the grave it seems to be ripening me. But what does it matter? since He who died for me is content to take me as I am. Come quickly, Lord Jesus, oh, come quickly! Relieve Thy servant from the burden of the flesh, and of the sins and foibles that cling to it and keep her these many years from Thee.”
This prayer was granted; the body failed more and more; she could not swallow even a drop of wine; she could not even praise her Redeemer; that is to say, she could not speak. Yet she lay and triumphed. With hands put together in prayer, and eyes full of praise and joy unspeakable, she climbed fast to God. While she so mounted in the spirit, her breath came at intervals unusually long, and all were sent for to see Death conquer the body and be conquered by the soul.
At last, after an unnaturally long interval, she drew a breath like a sigh. They waited for another; waited, waited in vain.
She had calmly ceased to live.
The old doctor laid down her hand reverently, and said “She is with us no more.” Then with many tears, “Oh, may we all meet where she is now, and may I go to her the first.”
Richard Hardie was led from the room in a stupor.
Immediately after death all the disfiguring effect of pain retired, and the happy soul seemed to have stamped its own celestial rapture on the countenance at the moment of leaving it; a rapture so wonderful, so divine, so more than mortal calm, irradiated the dead face. The good Christians she left behind her looked on and feared to weep, lest they should offend Him, who had taken her to Himself, and set a visible seal upon the house of clay that had held her. “Oh, mamma,” cried Julia with fervour, “look! look! Can we, dare we, wish that angel back to this world of misery and sin?” And it was some hours before she cooled, and began to hang on Edward’s neck and weep his loss and hers, as weep we mortals must, though the angels of Heaven are rejoicing.
Thus died in the flower of her youth, and by what we call a violent death, the one child Richard Hardie loved; member of a religious party whose diction now and then offends one to the soul: but the root of the matter is in them; allowance made for those passions, foibles, and infirmities of the flesh, even you and I are not entirely free from, they live fearing God, and die loving Him.
There was an inquest next day, followed in due course by a public trial of James Maxley. But these are matters which, though rather curious and interesting, must be omitted, or touched hereafter and briefly.
The effect of Jane’s death on Richard Hardie was deplorable. He saw the hand of Heaven; but did not bow to it: so it filled him with rage, rebellion, and despair. He got his daughter away and hid himself in the room with her; scarce stirring out by night or day. He spoke to no one; he shunned the Dodds: he hated them. He said it was through visiting their house she had met her death, and at their door. He would not let himself see it was he who had sent her there with his lie. He loathed Alfred, calling him the cause of all.
He asked nobody to the funeral: and, when Edward begged permission to come, he gave a snarl like a wild beast and went raging from him. But Edward would go: and at the graveside pitying Heaven relieved the young fellow’s choking heart with tears. But no such dew came to that parched old man, who stood on its other side like the withered Archangel, his eyes gloomy and wild, his white cheek ploughed deep with care and crime and anguish, his lofty figure bowed by his long warfare, his soul burning and sickening by turns, with hatred and rebellion, with desolation and despair.
He went home and made his will; for he felt life hang on him like lead, and that any moment he might kill himself to be rid of it. Strange to say, he left a sum of money to Edward Dodd. A moment before, he didn’t know he was going to do it: a moment after, he was half surprised he had done it, and minded to undo it; but would not take the trouble. He went up to London, and dashed into speculation as some in their despair take to drink. For this man had but two passions; avarice, and his love for his daughter. Bereaved of her, he must either die, or live for gain. He sought the very cave of Mammon; he plunged into the Stock Exchange.
When Mr. Hardie said, “Alfred can’t come, it seems,” Mrs. Dodd misunderstood him, naturally enough. She thought the heartless young man had sent some excuse: had chosen to let his sister die neglected rather than face Julia: “As if she would leave her own room while he was in my house,” said Mrs. Dodd, with sovereign contempt. From this moment she conceived a horror of the young man. Edward shared it fully, and the pair always spoke of him under the title of “the Wretch:” this was when Julia was not by. In her presence he was never mentioned. By this means she would in time forget him, or else see him as they saw him.
And as, after all, they knew little to Mr. Hardie’s disadvantage, except what had come out of “the Wretch’s” mouth, and as moreover their hearts were softened towards the father by his bereavement, and their sight of his misery, and also by his grateful words, they quite acquitted him of having robbed them, and felt sure the fourteen thousand pounds was at the bottom of the sea.
They were a little surprised that Mr. Hardie never spoke nor wrote to them again; but being high-minded and sweet tempered, they set it down to all-absorbing grief, and would not feel sore about it.
And now they must leave the little villa where they had been so happy and so unhappy.
The scanty furniture went first; Mrs. Dodd followed, and arranged it in their apartments. Julia would stay behind to comfort Edward, inconsolable herself. The auction came off. Most of the things went for cruelly little money compared to their value: and with the balance the sad young pair came up to London, and were clasped in their mother’s arms. The tears were in her tender eyes. “It is a poor place to receive my treasures,” she said: Edward looked round astonished: “It was a poor place,” said he, “but you have made a little palace of it, somehow or another.”
“My children’s love can alone do that,” replied Mrs. Dodd, kissing them both again.
Next day they consulted together how they were to live. Edward wished to try and get his father into a public asylum; then his mother would have a balance to live upon out of her income. But Mrs. Dodd rejected this proposal with astonishment. In vain Edward cited the ’Tiser that public asylums are patterns of comfort, and cure twice as many patients as the private ones do. She was deaf alike to the ’Tiser and to statistics. “Do not argue me out of my common sense,” said she. “My husband, your father, in a public asylum, where anybody can go and stare at my darling!”
She then informed them she had written to her Aunt Bazalgette and her Uncle Fountain, and invited them to contribute something towards David’s maintenance.
Edward was almost angry at this. “Fancy asking favours of them,” said he.
“Oh, I must not sacrifice my family to false pride,” said Mrs. Dodd; “besides they are entitled to know.”
‘Dolly, my dear, what do you think of Mr Gibson?’
d misery is, as I believe, the worst form of crime, this retention of
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