Chapter Seven.

Chapter Seven.Doubt.“Thro’ light and shadow thou dost range,Sudden glances sweet and strange,Delicious spites and darling angers,And airy forms of flitting change.”I had not yet had an opportunity of being introduced to Min’s mother.’Pon my word, you exclaim, this looks very serious!I beg to differ from you. We had been brought together legitimately enough, down at the church-decoration-gathering in the school-room: we had been regularly introduced by no less a clerical authority than little Miss Pimpernell, the vicar’s sister: we had then and there associated under the safest chaperonage—good heavens! would not Miss Spight’s jealous green eyes, that were certain to pick out the tiniest blot in her fellow man or woman, and Lady Dasher’s stately, albeit melancholy presence, satisfy you? Thus, the “convenances,” that horrid Anglo-French pseudonym, of the still more horrible bugbear “society,” had no cause to consider themselves neglected and find an excuse for taking umbrage. From this point, our acquaintanceship naturally and gradually ripened. We got intimate: it was our fate, I suppose—what more or less would you have expected?Besides, although, mind you, I do not consider myself in any way bound to allay your curiosity and satisfy your compunctious scruples, you should remember that all of us young parishioners of Saint Canon’s—Horner, Baby Blake, Lizzie Dangler and the rest—had known each other almost from the distant days of childhood; and, consequently, were in the habit oftutoyer-ing one another, using our respective “given” names in familiar conversation. The habit may be a bad one, it is true, but you cannot prevent it sometimes. There is no practice so capable of imitation as that of calling one another by the Christian name. It is just like that of the monkeys all cleaning their teeth along the banks of the Amazon with pieces of stick, because they saw Professor Agassiz setting them an example one fine morning, when engaged on his toilet in company with a tooth-brush. You can’t help yourself: you must bow to the custom and follow suit.In this instance, there was Miss Pimpernell, always addressingheras “Min,” andmeas “Frank.” The Dasher girls and others soon learnt to do the same. What more likely than that we ourselves should fall into a similar friendly system? It was only reasonable; and a result which even a less alert person than yourself would have looked for. At all events, neither of us meant any harm by it; and I am willing to “take my affidavit” to that effect any day you please to name, in any Court of Justice you may appoint.Notwithstanding the intimate footing that now existed between Min and myself, the fact of my non-acquaintance with her mother, annoyed me extremely. You need not flatter yourself, however. It was not in the least on account of any conscientious qualms, like yours.I wished to know her personally from a totally different motive; and yet, in spite of all attempts and stratagems on my part, I never could get a chance of meeting her when I was in the company of some kind friend to act as go-between and soothe the exigencies of introduction; although, when alone I would encounter her frequently. This was very vexing—especially so after a while; and I’ll tell you how it was.As the days flew by, and the new year, born in a moment, grew with giant strides in that hasty growth common to all new years—they have a habit of shooting ahead the first few months of their existence, as if they desired to “force the pace,” and make all the “running” they can—my facilities for intercourse with Min became “small by degrees and beautifully less.” There you have the cause of my annoyance at once.I could see her at the window, certainly. I also frequently passed her mother and herself in the street, or on The Terrace, or along the Prebend’s Walk, when I was taking an airing abroad with dog Catch at my heels; yet, I don’t know how it was, but I invariably chanced to be on the opposite side of the street, or road, or terrace, whenever I thus passed them. I never failed to receive the timid little bow and smile from Min, with a rosy heightening of her complexion the while—to which I had now got so accustomed that, should I have been debarred from their receipt, I would have considered myself very hardly used and felt a morbid inclination to go mad and drown myself. But, Min’s bow was hardly sufficient to introduce me to her mother, even if people could be introduced from opposite sides of roads. Thus it was that I remained a stranger to Mrs Clyde, and did not have a chance of meeting her daughter and talking to her, as I might have done if I could but have visited her at home.I never was able to have a word with her now, never could hear her darling voice repeat my name in those soft accents I loved so well. It was very hard—very hard, indeed! You see, I had ample reasons, beyond the requirements of mere social etiquette, for wishing to know Mrs Clyde.Our suburb, you must know, was an extremely quiet place—“remote, unfriended, solitary, slow.”Although everybody knew everybody, who happened to be anybody at all, there was not much of current sociability and party giving. We were not sociable. On the contrary, we were a very humdrum lot; rising early and going to town to our business and daily toil—such of us as had any sort of business to attend to—and coming back at a fixed regular hour. We were in the habit of having our respective dinners and teas, and, mayhap, suppers, at certain appointed times and seasons—also duly regulated—and subsequently going to bed, to recruit for the same routine on the morrow, without any excitements, or renovation and destruction of tissue worth speaking of.A “tea-party” was quite a sensation in the parish of Saint Canon’s—equivalent to one of the queen’s garden fêtes. Beyond school treats and working parties, to which latter only the clergy and Lady Dorcases were admitted, and the anniversary of Christmas, when we sometimesdidindulge a little in wholesome but subdued gaiety, we went on from year’s beginning to year’s end without balls, or dinners, or dances, or any of those resources which fashionable people have for killing time and keeping up acquaintanceship.We were not “high-toned” people; quite the reverse, in fact, as, I believe, I have previously described. We only “dropped in” of an evening to see friends, and spend a quiet hour or two over bézique and music. On these occasions, a carpet cotillon or quadrille has been sometimes indulged in; but it was the exception and not the rule. We were generally satisfied with much milder pastime; our visits rarely exceeding the interval between tea and “supper” time, when we partook of a friendly, though seedy, abernethy and glass of wine or beer; and then went home virtuously to bed.Our society being thus constituted, it became a matter almost of impossibility to meet any one particular person frequently, excepting out in the street, unless you had the entrée of their house. Hence, I never could chat with Min, as I had done at the decorations; and, naturally, I felt very much aggrieved thereanent.What made it additionally provoking to me was, that Horner had contrived to get introduced to Mrs Clyde almost as soon as she had settled in the place, before I had returned from Paris; and there was Mr Mawley the curate, too, exercising the privilege of his cloth by continually frequenting her house. He drove me to desperation by going in and out, apparently just as the fancy suited him, as if he were a tame cat about the place.His conduct was perfectly odious—that is, to any right-thinking person.Curates and cousins are, I consider, two of the greatest obstacles to an innocent layman’s intimacy with the diviner portion of creation; and, in these days of reform and disestablishment, of hereditary and other conservative grievances, something ought to be done to abolish the persons in question, or at least handicap them so that other deserving young men might have a fair chance in the race for beauty’s smile and Hymen’s chain. They have an enormous advantage, at present, over outside men-folk. Girls like to have a sort of good-natured lap-dog about them, to play with occasionally and run their errands, “do this” and “that” for the asking—like Cornelius the centurion’s obedient servant—and make himself generally useful, without looking for any ulterior reward on account of services rendered. You see, cousins and curates are regarded as “harmless”—“detrimentals with the chill off,” so to speak. His scrap of relationship throws a glimmer of possession around the one, endowing with inherent right every act of his ministry; while his “cloth” invests the other with a halo of sanctity and Platonic freedom that disarms gossip of the usual clothes-peg whereon it hangs its scandal. “Cousin Tom”—by-the-way, did you ever read Mackworth Praed’s lines on the same theme?—is allowed opportunities for, and latitude in, flirtation, which poor Corydon, not a cousin never so remote, may sigh in vain for; and, who would be so despicable as to impute secular motives to the Reverend Hobplush’s tender ministrations towards those sweet young “sisters,” who dote on his sucking sermons and work him carpet slippers and text-markers without limit? Certainly, not I.I do not mean to say, however, that curates and cousins have it all their own way always. There’s a sweet little cupid who “sits up aloft,” like Jack’s guardian angel, to watch o’er the loves of poor laymen. Still, it is very galling, to one of an ardent temperament especially, to mark the anxious solicitude with which “Cousin Tom” may hang over the divine creature—whom you can only look upon from afar as some distant star—without attracting any observations anent his “attentions.” The confounded airs of possession he gives himself, while you are languishing “out in the cold,” in the expressive vernacular, are frightful to contemplate. As for curate Hobplush, he may drop in whenever he pleases, being treated like one of the family circle; while you, miserable creature, can only call at stated intervals, always dreading the horrid possibility of out-staying your welcome, and receiving the metaphorical “cold shoulder”—though love may prompt you to the sacrifice.Such was my position now.There was Mr Mawley visiting at Mrs Clyde’s house some half-a-dozen times a week, for all I knew to the contrary—and of course I imagined the worst—and having endless chances and opportunities of conversing with my darling, in the morning, at noontide, and at night; while poor, wretchedIhad to content myself with a passing bow and smile when we chanced to meet abroad, or I should happen to see her dainty figure at the window as I promenaded past her house.You say I ought to have considered myself lucky to get even that slight modicum of notice?But I didnotso consider myself. I was not by any means contented. Where did you ever find a lover worth his salt who was?To tell the truth, I was horribly jealous of Mawley. He was not at all a bad-looking fellow; and, with all his dogmatic tone and love of argument, had a wonderfully taking way with ladies. Besides, his connection with the Church gave him a considerable pull over me—girls are so impressionable, as a rule, with regard to nice young curates, that they generally have the pick of the parish! Really, all things considered, I’m very much afraid that I had not that kind Christian feeling and charity in my heart towards Mawley that the vicar had enjoined in his Christmas sermon. I did not regard the curate even with that reverence which his Oxford waistcoat should have inspired. I believe that at that particular time I looked upon him with somewhat of the same feeling with which the homicidal Cain regarded his brother Abel about the sacrificing business.Then, there was Horner, too, who was generally looked upon as an “eligible” person, having a respectable position of his own in addition to considerable expectations from his rich uncle, as I told you before. I could see that Mrs Clyde encouraged him. He was always going there, and frequently walking out with them also. I saw him, and it made my heart bitter. One evening, I met him in full costume, with an opera-glass slung round his shoulders, just before he reached their door. He told me that Mrs Clyde had asked him to accompany her daughter and herself to Covent Garden and share their box. They would have waited a considerable time, I thought, before they would have been invited to sharehis! I watched them drive off, and I went home mad. It was getting too grievous for mortal to bear.The house felt suffocating to me that evening. I could not stop in. I determined to go and call on my old friend Miss Pimpernell, and see what she could do to cheer me up.“My dear boy,” she said, as I entered the parlour, where she sat darning the vicar’s socks by the light of a moderator lamp, which stood on a little table close beside her. “My dear boy, what is the matter with you? You look quite haggard, and like a wild man from the woods! Have you had your tea yet? I can ring for some in a moment.”“No, pray don’t, thank you,” I answered. “Miss Pimpernell,” I continued, in a determined voice, “I have had tea enough to-night to last me for a twelvemonth! I can’t bear this any longer. You must introduce me to Mrs Clyde. I have never been able as yet to make her acquaintance, and I want to go to her house as Horner does, and that fellow Mawley.”“Hush, my dear boy!” she said, in her soothing way, as if she were stroking me down the back like she stroked her tabby Tom—one of the mousiest and most petted of cats. “You should not speak so of a clergyman, my dear Frank. Think what the vicar would say if he heard you!”“Oh, never mind Mr Mawley,” I said, somewhat petulantly; “I want to know Mrs Clyde.”“Ah! that’s what’s the matter, is it, Frank? Then why did you not come to old Sally before?”“Well, Miss Pimpernell,” I replied, “I never thought of you until to-night.”“Never thought of me! Youareungallant, Master Frank! But think of me next time, my dear boy, whenever you find yourself in a difficulty; and if Sally Pimpernell can help you out of it, she will, you may depend!”“Oh, thank you, dear Miss Pimpernell! And when will you introduce me to Mrs Clyde?” I asked, thinking it best to “strike the iron” whilst it was “hot.”“Come round to-morrow afternoon, Frank,” she replied. “She is going to be here by appointment, to see me about some charity in which she is interested; and I’ll try and manage it for you then.”“I’ll be here, Miss Pimpernell, without fail,” I said. “I can never be sufficiently obliged to you, if you do it.”“All right, my boy,” she said. “I’m sure I shall be very glad to help you in such a trifling matter. But I do not want any of your soft speeches, Frank! Keep them for somebody else who will appreciate them better;” and she laughed her cheery, merry laugh, wishing me good-night and sending me home much easier in my mind and happier than I had been for many days past.On the following afternoon I was introduced, as my old friend had promised; and you may be certain that I tried to make myself as agreeable as I could be to Min’s mother. I think I succeeded, too; for, when I took my leave early, in order to allow Miss Pimpernell and her visitor an opportunity of discussing the best way of relieving the parish poor, Mrs Clyde gave me an invitation.“Mr Lorton,” said she, “I should be glad if you would come round and see us on Wednesday evening—I think you know our address? My daughter is going to have a few friends in for a little music; and we shall both be happy if you will join us. Miss Pimpernell tells me you are very musical.”“With great pleasure,” I answered, in society’s stock phraseology. With the “greatest” pleasure, I might have said, as I could almost have jumped for joy. Just fancy! all that I had longed for was accorded in a moment. My good fairy must undoubtedly have been hovering about the vicarage premises that day; and I strongly suspect my good fairy in this instance, as was the case also in many other circumstances of my life, being none other than my very unfairylike old friend, little Miss Pimpernell, the vicar’s kind-hearted sister.Did I not look forward to Wednesday evening? Did I not, when the time for me to dress at last came round after an excruciatingly long interval, bestow the most elaborate and unheard-of pains on my toilet, almost rivalling Horner’s generally unimpeachable “get up”? Did I not proceed in the utmost joy and gladness towards the habitation of my darling?I should rather think I did!And yet, when I crossed the threshold of Miss Clyde’s house, I was seized with a sudden vague impression of uneasiness. I felt a, to me, singular sensation of nervousness, shyness, “mauvais honte”—just as if a cold key had been put down my back—for which I was at a loss to account. Those who know me say that bashfulness is one of the least of my virtues; and, I do not think that I am constitutionally timid—so why this feeling? Was it not a foreboding of evil? I believe it was, for everything went wrong with me that night, instead of my having a surfeit of pleasure, as I had sanguinely expected.“Hope told a flattering tale.” My good fairy deceived me. My unpropitious star was again in the ascendant.In fact, my bad genius reigned supreme, in spite of such counteracting influences as my being at last admitted to Min’s home and permitted to watch her gliding movements about the room, hear her liquid voice, catch the bright looks from her glancing grey eyes, speak to her, smile with her, adore her.Yes, in spite of all this, my bad influence reigned supreme; and, I’m afraid, something wrong must have been done at my baptism to disgust my better genii.In the first place, I arrived too soon, which was a calamity in itself. There is always pardon for one who goes late to an evening party—nay, it often enhances his reputation. Absolution may even be extended to the calculating individual who ravenously times his arrival by the supper hour; but, for a simple-minded person, unaccustomed to the usages of polite society, to believe in the invariability of fixed appointments and, taking an invitation au pied de la lettre, make his appearance a full hour before any other guest would dare to “turn up,” from the fear of being thought unfashionable, is simply monstrous! His behaviour is perfectly inexcusable; and, as a punishment, he should in future be compelled for a certain time to dine at our Saxon forefathers’ early hour, and go to bed at the sound of the curfew bell instituted by their Norman conquerors—that is how I would teach him manners!I committed this grievous fault on the present occasion. I had been so anxious to get there in good time and not miss a minute of Min’s charming company, that, like our friend Paddy who ate his breakfast over night in order to save time in the morning, I overdid it, arriving there too early. I saw this at once from Mrs Clyde’s face when I was announced, the unhappy premier of all the coming guests.Perhaps it was only my fancy, as I’m extremely sensitive on such points, for she received me courteously enough, pressing the welcoming cup of coffee and hospitable muffin in an adjoining ante-room on my notice; but, I thought I could perceive, below the veneer of social civility, a sort of “how-tiresome-of-you-to-come-before-anybody-else” look in her eyes, which made me extremely small in my own estimation.It was a horrible interval waiting for the other guests to come and support me. I made a vow there and then that I would never again present myself wherever I might be invited out until a full hour beyond the specified time—and I’ve generally kept it, too!Min did not treat me cavalierly, however, notwithstanding that I had arrived in advance of expectation.Shewas all kindness and grace, endeavouring to make the “mauvais quart d’heure” of my solitary guesthood pass away as little uncomfortably to me as possible.She asked me to come and see her flowers in the bay window of the drawing-room, which she had fitted up as a tiny conservatory; while her mother sat down to the piano and played dreamy music in a desultory fashion. I like dreamy music, although it always makes me melancholy—indeed, all music affects me the same way, in spite of my not being by any means what you would call a sad person. On the contrary, I am supposed to be one of the most light-hearted fellows imaginable, and, certainly, laugh more than I ever cry. However, mirth and sadness are closer allies than people generally suspect. All emotion proceeds, more or less, from hysteria.While Mrs Clyde was playing, Min and I got talking. She thanked me for coming early; and upbraided the absent guests for thinking it fashionable to come later than bidden.We discussed the rival merits of a scarlet japonica and a double fuchsia, giving the palm of merit to the former, though the latter had some wondrous lobes; and I was also asked my opinion whether her favourite maidenhair fern would survive a sudden and unaccountable blight which had fallen upon it a few days before.She then showed me the identical violets I had given her that Christmas morning, now so long passed by: she had tipped the stalks with sealing wax and preserved them in cotton wool, so that they looked as fresh as when first gathered.“There!” she said, with an air of triumph. “There, Mr Lorton! I have kept them ever since.”“Mr Lorton!” I repeated, “who is he? I don’t know him.”“Well, ‘Frank,’ then—will that please you better, you tiresome thing?”“You know you promised,” I said, apologetically.“Did I?” she asked, with charming naïvété.“Why, have you forgotten that night already?” I said, in a melancholy tone.“Don’t be so lugubrious,” she said. “You have to amuse me. You mustn’t remember all my promises.”“Are they so unsubstantial?” I asked.“No, they’re not, sir!” she said, stamping her foot in affected anger. “But what do you say to my keeping your violets so long, Frank?”“What do I say?” I repeated after her, looking my delight into her eyes; when, a frantic chord, struck deep down in the bass by Mrs Clyde, marking the finish of some piece of Wagner’s, recalled us both to every-day life.As nobody else had yet arrived, Min challenged me to a game of chess.I allowed her to win the first game easily.She pouted, saying that she supposed I thought it below my dignity to put forth my best energies in playing against a lady!Thereupon, Ididexert myself; but, she was just as provokingly dissatisfied.I took her queen. She protested it was unfair.I offered to restore it to her; she would not have it at any price;—she wished me to play the game, she said, just as if I were playing with a man.I checkmated her. She got up in a pet, saying that chess was a nasty, stupid, tiresome thing, and that she would not play it any longer.O, the contrariness of feminine nature!Other people now began to drop in; and it wasmyturn to get put out.I heard it was Min’s birthday, which I had not known before. I saw that they remembered it; while, I, had not brought her even a paltry flower!Everybody was wishing her “many happy returns of the day.” I had not done so; neither had I any opportunity of atoning for my neglect, as she was too busy receiving the new comers; but, indeed, I would have been too proud to excuse myself after witnessing Mr Mawley’s “effusion.”He seemed to me to be guilty of unpardonable effrontery in holding Min’s hand such an unconscionably long time in his, when presenting a miserable shop-bouquet; and, as for the lackadaisical airs of that insufferable donkey, Horner—I can find no words adequate wherewith to express what I thought; he was positively sickening!I did not have another chance of speaking to Min either; that is, unless I chose to bawl what I had to say across a crowded room; and, I need hardly say, I did not exactly care about that!She appeared to me to be very inconsistent, too.She seemed really much more interested in Mawley’s conversation thanIthought any reasonable person could be; whilehewas grinning and carrying on at a rate, which, if I had been Mrs Clyde, I would not have allowed for a moment.O, the equilibriant temperament of the “superior” sex!Min teased me yet further.She sang every song that Mawley and Horner asked her for, playing the accompaniments for the latter when he favoured the company with his idea of ballad vocalisation.Horner thought he possessed a fine tenor voice: I didn’t think so, especially on this evening!But, no matter what these two asked her to do, she did. IfI, however, requested any particular song, she said she did not believe she could manage it; her voice could not compass it; she had lent it out; or, she hadn’t got it!Was it not enough to provoke one? Wouldn’t you have been affected by it?In addition to Horner and Mawley, there was also an odious cousin of hers, called “Jack,” or “Tom,” or “Ned,” or some other abominably familiar abbreviation, who hung over the piano stool, and said “Min, do this,” and “Min, do that,” in a way that drove me to frenzy.I hate cousins! I don’t see the necessity for them. I’m sure people can get along very well without their existence. I would do away with them to-morrow by act of Parliament, if I only had the power.When everybody else who had a voice at all had exercised their vocal powers, Mrs Clyde at last asked me to sing.Instead of declining, as I would have done at any other time, on account of her slight, I bowed my acquiescence and went to the piano.To tell you the truth, I was glad of the opportunity afforded me for carrying out a petty piece of revenge against Min, of which I had suddenly bethought me.I had composed a little song, you must know, that I believed highly applicable to her at the moment, although when I had written it she was no more in my mind than Adam or Eve, or both!I sang it, looking into her face the while, as she stood by the instrument; and these were the words. I gave them expression enough, you may be sure.“My lady’s eyes are soft and blue, deep-changing as theiris hue;But, eyes deceiveHearts ‘worn on sleeve,’And make us oft their power rue!“Her little mouth—a ‘sunny south’—wafts perfumedkisses to the wind;But, winds blow cold,And kiss of old,A trait’rous symbol was, I find!“For pearly teeth and rosebud lips, whose honied wealththe zephyr sips,But bait the lairWhere fickle fair,Like Scylla, wreck men’s stately ships—“And witching eyes and plaintive sighs, and looks of loveand tender words—Love’s tricking arts -Are poison’d darts,More awesome far than pendant swords!”“Thank you,” said Mrs Clyde; “it is very pretty. Your own, I suppose?”“Yes,” I said. I did not feel disposed to be more communicative.“What do you call it?” asked Min, carelessly.“‘Per Contra,’” I answered. “Don’t you think it a suitable title?”“Yes,I understand” she said. “Thank you,Mr Lorton!”She spoke, with marked emphasis.A little time afterwards, when I was sitting moodily in a corner, with a book before me which I was supposed to be looking at, but whose bare title escapes my recollection, Min came to my side; and, she began overhauling some volumes of music that were piled up in a heap on the floor.“Mr Lorton,” she said, hesitatingly.That “Mr Lorton” set my teeth on edge.I made no reply.“Frank!”“Yes,” I said, testily.I felt very angry with her for her attentions to Horner and Mawley, and, as I thought, neglect of me; so, I wished to let her know it.“Frank,” she repeated, “didn’t you mean that song at me?”“Yes, I did,” I replied, very grumpily.“Foolish fellow!” she said; “what a very bad opinion you must have of me, although I did not know my eyes were blue before! You said the other night they were grey,” and she smiled bewitchingly. But, I wouldn’t be coaxed into good humour.“Ce m’est égal,” I answered coldly, “whatever they are.”“You are very cross!” she said pettishly; “I will go and talk to Mr Mawley, until you get into a better mood, sir, and are more amiable.”“I’m sure,” said I, loftily, “that I would not be the means of depriving you of his valuable and entertaining society.”Min laughed provokingly. “At all events,” she said, “he is not cross with me about nothing; andsomepeople might learn better manners from him, Mr Lorton!”“Pray do not let me detain you from such a charming companion, Miss Clyde,” I said, with distant politeness.“Even poor Mr Horner can be agreeable and amusing, andyouwon’t even try to be. I will go to him,” she continued, still striving to get me to be more sociable; but I was obstinate and ill-tempered.An angel would not have pacified me. How could I have been so rude to her?I was a brute.“Ah,” I exclaimed, “hisconversation is truly intellectual!”She was quite vexed now.“You are very unkind,” she said. “You speak ill-naturedly of everybody, and are cross with me on my birthday! I won’t speak to you, Frank, again this evening; there, see if I do!” and she turned away from me with a tremble in her voice, and an indignant look in the, now, flashing, grey eyes.She kept her promise.Much as I tried, when my ill-temper had subsided, to get speech with her, I was not allowed a word. Even when leaving the house, I only received a bow. She would not shake hands, to show that I was forgiven.I had stopped to the very last in order to sit out Horner.Hewould not budge first, andIwould not budge first; so now we started off together, our homeward routes being identical.You may imagine that I felt very amicably disposed towards him. I was ripe for a quarrel, or at least a separation; and Horner soon gave me an opening.He began to praise Min’s looks and voice, and the manner in which she had sung the songshehad asked her for, including the onehehad given her that evening.Really, the cool impudence of Horner was something astounding! What right had he to criticise her? He spoke just as if she belonged to him, I assure you!This was too much, after what I had already gone through.“Which way are you going?” I asked him suddenly.“Gaw-ing?” he said, in a surprised tone. “Why, stwaight on, of cawse—stwaight on!”“Then, I’m going roundhere!” I said, wheeling off abruptly at a right angle from the road we had been pursuing, and going out of my way in order to get rid of him.Flesh and blood could no longer stand his unmeaning, yet gibing platitudes.“Bai-ey Je-ove!” he exclaimed. “But, stawp, my deah fellah. Lorton, I asshaw you I only meant to say—ah—that Miss Clyde sang my songs most divinely—ah—and that she’s—ah—a vewy nice gahl—ah!”Confound him!What business had he to say or think anything of the sort?I could faintly hear his voice exclaim “Bai-ey Je-ove!” in the distance, after some seconds’ interval, during which we had become widely separated.I was as thoroughly out of temper as I could possibly be.I was angry with everybody in the world, Min not excepted, and with the world itself; but, at myself, more than all.

“Thro’ light and shadow thou dost range,Sudden glances sweet and strange,Delicious spites and darling angers,And airy forms of flitting change.”

“Thro’ light and shadow thou dost range,Sudden glances sweet and strange,Delicious spites and darling angers,And airy forms of flitting change.”

I had not yet had an opportunity of being introduced to Min’s mother.

’Pon my word, you exclaim, this looks very serious!

I beg to differ from you. We had been brought together legitimately enough, down at the church-decoration-gathering in the school-room: we had been regularly introduced by no less a clerical authority than little Miss Pimpernell, the vicar’s sister: we had then and there associated under the safest chaperonage—good heavens! would not Miss Spight’s jealous green eyes, that were certain to pick out the tiniest blot in her fellow man or woman, and Lady Dasher’s stately, albeit melancholy presence, satisfy you? Thus, the “convenances,” that horrid Anglo-French pseudonym, of the still more horrible bugbear “society,” had no cause to consider themselves neglected and find an excuse for taking umbrage. From this point, our acquaintanceship naturally and gradually ripened. We got intimate: it was our fate, I suppose—what more or less would you have expected?

Besides, although, mind you, I do not consider myself in any way bound to allay your curiosity and satisfy your compunctious scruples, you should remember that all of us young parishioners of Saint Canon’s—Horner, Baby Blake, Lizzie Dangler and the rest—had known each other almost from the distant days of childhood; and, consequently, were in the habit oftutoyer-ing one another, using our respective “given” names in familiar conversation. The habit may be a bad one, it is true, but you cannot prevent it sometimes. There is no practice so capable of imitation as that of calling one another by the Christian name. It is just like that of the monkeys all cleaning their teeth along the banks of the Amazon with pieces of stick, because they saw Professor Agassiz setting them an example one fine morning, when engaged on his toilet in company with a tooth-brush. You can’t help yourself: you must bow to the custom and follow suit.

In this instance, there was Miss Pimpernell, always addressingheras “Min,” andmeas “Frank.” The Dasher girls and others soon learnt to do the same. What more likely than that we ourselves should fall into a similar friendly system? It was only reasonable; and a result which even a less alert person than yourself would have looked for. At all events, neither of us meant any harm by it; and I am willing to “take my affidavit” to that effect any day you please to name, in any Court of Justice you may appoint.

Notwithstanding the intimate footing that now existed between Min and myself, the fact of my non-acquaintance with her mother, annoyed me extremely. You need not flatter yourself, however. It was not in the least on account of any conscientious qualms, like yours.

I wished to know her personally from a totally different motive; and yet, in spite of all attempts and stratagems on my part, I never could get a chance of meeting her when I was in the company of some kind friend to act as go-between and soothe the exigencies of introduction; although, when alone I would encounter her frequently. This was very vexing—especially so after a while; and I’ll tell you how it was.

As the days flew by, and the new year, born in a moment, grew with giant strides in that hasty growth common to all new years—they have a habit of shooting ahead the first few months of their existence, as if they desired to “force the pace,” and make all the “running” they can—my facilities for intercourse with Min became “small by degrees and beautifully less.” There you have the cause of my annoyance at once.

I could see her at the window, certainly. I also frequently passed her mother and herself in the street, or on The Terrace, or along the Prebend’s Walk, when I was taking an airing abroad with dog Catch at my heels; yet, I don’t know how it was, but I invariably chanced to be on the opposite side of the street, or road, or terrace, whenever I thus passed them. I never failed to receive the timid little bow and smile from Min, with a rosy heightening of her complexion the while—to which I had now got so accustomed that, should I have been debarred from their receipt, I would have considered myself very hardly used and felt a morbid inclination to go mad and drown myself. But, Min’s bow was hardly sufficient to introduce me to her mother, even if people could be introduced from opposite sides of roads. Thus it was that I remained a stranger to Mrs Clyde, and did not have a chance of meeting her daughter and talking to her, as I might have done if I could but have visited her at home.

I never was able to have a word with her now, never could hear her darling voice repeat my name in those soft accents I loved so well. It was very hard—very hard, indeed! You see, I had ample reasons, beyond the requirements of mere social etiquette, for wishing to know Mrs Clyde.

Our suburb, you must know, was an extremely quiet place—“remote, unfriended, solitary, slow.”

Although everybody knew everybody, who happened to be anybody at all, there was not much of current sociability and party giving. We were not sociable. On the contrary, we were a very humdrum lot; rising early and going to town to our business and daily toil—such of us as had any sort of business to attend to—and coming back at a fixed regular hour. We were in the habit of having our respective dinners and teas, and, mayhap, suppers, at certain appointed times and seasons—also duly regulated—and subsequently going to bed, to recruit for the same routine on the morrow, without any excitements, or renovation and destruction of tissue worth speaking of.

A “tea-party” was quite a sensation in the parish of Saint Canon’s—equivalent to one of the queen’s garden fêtes. Beyond school treats and working parties, to which latter only the clergy and Lady Dorcases were admitted, and the anniversary of Christmas, when we sometimesdidindulge a little in wholesome but subdued gaiety, we went on from year’s beginning to year’s end without balls, or dinners, or dances, or any of those resources which fashionable people have for killing time and keeping up acquaintanceship.

We were not “high-toned” people; quite the reverse, in fact, as, I believe, I have previously described. We only “dropped in” of an evening to see friends, and spend a quiet hour or two over bézique and music. On these occasions, a carpet cotillon or quadrille has been sometimes indulged in; but it was the exception and not the rule. We were generally satisfied with much milder pastime; our visits rarely exceeding the interval between tea and “supper” time, when we partook of a friendly, though seedy, abernethy and glass of wine or beer; and then went home virtuously to bed.

Our society being thus constituted, it became a matter almost of impossibility to meet any one particular person frequently, excepting out in the street, unless you had the entrée of their house. Hence, I never could chat with Min, as I had done at the decorations; and, naturally, I felt very much aggrieved thereanent.

What made it additionally provoking to me was, that Horner had contrived to get introduced to Mrs Clyde almost as soon as she had settled in the place, before I had returned from Paris; and there was Mr Mawley the curate, too, exercising the privilege of his cloth by continually frequenting her house. He drove me to desperation by going in and out, apparently just as the fancy suited him, as if he were a tame cat about the place.

His conduct was perfectly odious—that is, to any right-thinking person.

Curates and cousins are, I consider, two of the greatest obstacles to an innocent layman’s intimacy with the diviner portion of creation; and, in these days of reform and disestablishment, of hereditary and other conservative grievances, something ought to be done to abolish the persons in question, or at least handicap them so that other deserving young men might have a fair chance in the race for beauty’s smile and Hymen’s chain. They have an enormous advantage, at present, over outside men-folk. Girls like to have a sort of good-natured lap-dog about them, to play with occasionally and run their errands, “do this” and “that” for the asking—like Cornelius the centurion’s obedient servant—and make himself generally useful, without looking for any ulterior reward on account of services rendered. You see, cousins and curates are regarded as “harmless”—“detrimentals with the chill off,” so to speak. His scrap of relationship throws a glimmer of possession around the one, endowing with inherent right every act of his ministry; while his “cloth” invests the other with a halo of sanctity and Platonic freedom that disarms gossip of the usual clothes-peg whereon it hangs its scandal. “Cousin Tom”—by-the-way, did you ever read Mackworth Praed’s lines on the same theme?—is allowed opportunities for, and latitude in, flirtation, which poor Corydon, not a cousin never so remote, may sigh in vain for; and, who would be so despicable as to impute secular motives to the Reverend Hobplush’s tender ministrations towards those sweet young “sisters,” who dote on his sucking sermons and work him carpet slippers and text-markers without limit? Certainly, not I.

I do not mean to say, however, that curates and cousins have it all their own way always. There’s a sweet little cupid who “sits up aloft,” like Jack’s guardian angel, to watch o’er the loves of poor laymen. Still, it is very galling, to one of an ardent temperament especially, to mark the anxious solicitude with which “Cousin Tom” may hang over the divine creature—whom you can only look upon from afar as some distant star—without attracting any observations anent his “attentions.” The confounded airs of possession he gives himself, while you are languishing “out in the cold,” in the expressive vernacular, are frightful to contemplate. As for curate Hobplush, he may drop in whenever he pleases, being treated like one of the family circle; while you, miserable creature, can only call at stated intervals, always dreading the horrid possibility of out-staying your welcome, and receiving the metaphorical “cold shoulder”—though love may prompt you to the sacrifice.

Such was my position now.

There was Mr Mawley visiting at Mrs Clyde’s house some half-a-dozen times a week, for all I knew to the contrary—and of course I imagined the worst—and having endless chances and opportunities of conversing with my darling, in the morning, at noontide, and at night; while poor, wretchedIhad to content myself with a passing bow and smile when we chanced to meet abroad, or I should happen to see her dainty figure at the window as I promenaded past her house.

You say I ought to have considered myself lucky to get even that slight modicum of notice?

But I didnotso consider myself. I was not by any means contented. Where did you ever find a lover worth his salt who was?

To tell the truth, I was horribly jealous of Mawley. He was not at all a bad-looking fellow; and, with all his dogmatic tone and love of argument, had a wonderfully taking way with ladies. Besides, his connection with the Church gave him a considerable pull over me—girls are so impressionable, as a rule, with regard to nice young curates, that they generally have the pick of the parish! Really, all things considered, I’m very much afraid that I had not that kind Christian feeling and charity in my heart towards Mawley that the vicar had enjoined in his Christmas sermon. I did not regard the curate even with that reverence which his Oxford waistcoat should have inspired. I believe that at that particular time I looked upon him with somewhat of the same feeling with which the homicidal Cain regarded his brother Abel about the sacrificing business.

Then, there was Horner, too, who was generally looked upon as an “eligible” person, having a respectable position of his own in addition to considerable expectations from his rich uncle, as I told you before. I could see that Mrs Clyde encouraged him. He was always going there, and frequently walking out with them also. I saw him, and it made my heart bitter. One evening, I met him in full costume, with an opera-glass slung round his shoulders, just before he reached their door. He told me that Mrs Clyde had asked him to accompany her daughter and herself to Covent Garden and share their box. They would have waited a considerable time, I thought, before they would have been invited to sharehis! I watched them drive off, and I went home mad. It was getting too grievous for mortal to bear.

The house felt suffocating to me that evening. I could not stop in. I determined to go and call on my old friend Miss Pimpernell, and see what she could do to cheer me up.

“My dear boy,” she said, as I entered the parlour, where she sat darning the vicar’s socks by the light of a moderator lamp, which stood on a little table close beside her. “My dear boy, what is the matter with you? You look quite haggard, and like a wild man from the woods! Have you had your tea yet? I can ring for some in a moment.”

“No, pray don’t, thank you,” I answered. “Miss Pimpernell,” I continued, in a determined voice, “I have had tea enough to-night to last me for a twelvemonth! I can’t bear this any longer. You must introduce me to Mrs Clyde. I have never been able as yet to make her acquaintance, and I want to go to her house as Horner does, and that fellow Mawley.”

“Hush, my dear boy!” she said, in her soothing way, as if she were stroking me down the back like she stroked her tabby Tom—one of the mousiest and most petted of cats. “You should not speak so of a clergyman, my dear Frank. Think what the vicar would say if he heard you!”

“Oh, never mind Mr Mawley,” I said, somewhat petulantly; “I want to know Mrs Clyde.”

“Ah! that’s what’s the matter, is it, Frank? Then why did you not come to old Sally before?”

“Well, Miss Pimpernell,” I replied, “I never thought of you until to-night.”

“Never thought of me! Youareungallant, Master Frank! But think of me next time, my dear boy, whenever you find yourself in a difficulty; and if Sally Pimpernell can help you out of it, she will, you may depend!”

“Oh, thank you, dear Miss Pimpernell! And when will you introduce me to Mrs Clyde?” I asked, thinking it best to “strike the iron” whilst it was “hot.”

“Come round to-morrow afternoon, Frank,” she replied. “She is going to be here by appointment, to see me about some charity in which she is interested; and I’ll try and manage it for you then.”

“I’ll be here, Miss Pimpernell, without fail,” I said. “I can never be sufficiently obliged to you, if you do it.”

“All right, my boy,” she said. “I’m sure I shall be very glad to help you in such a trifling matter. But I do not want any of your soft speeches, Frank! Keep them for somebody else who will appreciate them better;” and she laughed her cheery, merry laugh, wishing me good-night and sending me home much easier in my mind and happier than I had been for many days past.

On the following afternoon I was introduced, as my old friend had promised; and you may be certain that I tried to make myself as agreeable as I could be to Min’s mother. I think I succeeded, too; for, when I took my leave early, in order to allow Miss Pimpernell and her visitor an opportunity of discussing the best way of relieving the parish poor, Mrs Clyde gave me an invitation.

“Mr Lorton,” said she, “I should be glad if you would come round and see us on Wednesday evening—I think you know our address? My daughter is going to have a few friends in for a little music; and we shall both be happy if you will join us. Miss Pimpernell tells me you are very musical.”

“With great pleasure,” I answered, in society’s stock phraseology. With the “greatest” pleasure, I might have said, as I could almost have jumped for joy. Just fancy! all that I had longed for was accorded in a moment. My good fairy must undoubtedly have been hovering about the vicarage premises that day; and I strongly suspect my good fairy in this instance, as was the case also in many other circumstances of my life, being none other than my very unfairylike old friend, little Miss Pimpernell, the vicar’s kind-hearted sister.

Did I not look forward to Wednesday evening? Did I not, when the time for me to dress at last came round after an excruciatingly long interval, bestow the most elaborate and unheard-of pains on my toilet, almost rivalling Horner’s generally unimpeachable “get up”? Did I not proceed in the utmost joy and gladness towards the habitation of my darling?

I should rather think I did!

And yet, when I crossed the threshold of Miss Clyde’s house, I was seized with a sudden vague impression of uneasiness. I felt a, to me, singular sensation of nervousness, shyness, “mauvais honte”—just as if a cold key had been put down my back—for which I was at a loss to account. Those who know me say that bashfulness is one of the least of my virtues; and, I do not think that I am constitutionally timid—so why this feeling? Was it not a foreboding of evil? I believe it was, for everything went wrong with me that night, instead of my having a surfeit of pleasure, as I had sanguinely expected.

“Hope told a flattering tale.” My good fairy deceived me. My unpropitious star was again in the ascendant.

In fact, my bad genius reigned supreme, in spite of such counteracting influences as my being at last admitted to Min’s home and permitted to watch her gliding movements about the room, hear her liquid voice, catch the bright looks from her glancing grey eyes, speak to her, smile with her, adore her.

Yes, in spite of all this, my bad influence reigned supreme; and, I’m afraid, something wrong must have been done at my baptism to disgust my better genii.

In the first place, I arrived too soon, which was a calamity in itself. There is always pardon for one who goes late to an evening party—nay, it often enhances his reputation. Absolution may even be extended to the calculating individual who ravenously times his arrival by the supper hour; but, for a simple-minded person, unaccustomed to the usages of polite society, to believe in the invariability of fixed appointments and, taking an invitation au pied de la lettre, make his appearance a full hour before any other guest would dare to “turn up,” from the fear of being thought unfashionable, is simply monstrous! His behaviour is perfectly inexcusable; and, as a punishment, he should in future be compelled for a certain time to dine at our Saxon forefathers’ early hour, and go to bed at the sound of the curfew bell instituted by their Norman conquerors—that is how I would teach him manners!

I committed this grievous fault on the present occasion. I had been so anxious to get there in good time and not miss a minute of Min’s charming company, that, like our friend Paddy who ate his breakfast over night in order to save time in the morning, I overdid it, arriving there too early. I saw this at once from Mrs Clyde’s face when I was announced, the unhappy premier of all the coming guests.

Perhaps it was only my fancy, as I’m extremely sensitive on such points, for she received me courteously enough, pressing the welcoming cup of coffee and hospitable muffin in an adjoining ante-room on my notice; but, I thought I could perceive, below the veneer of social civility, a sort of “how-tiresome-of-you-to-come-before-anybody-else” look in her eyes, which made me extremely small in my own estimation.

It was a horrible interval waiting for the other guests to come and support me. I made a vow there and then that I would never again present myself wherever I might be invited out until a full hour beyond the specified time—and I’ve generally kept it, too!

Min did not treat me cavalierly, however, notwithstanding that I had arrived in advance of expectation.Shewas all kindness and grace, endeavouring to make the “mauvais quart d’heure” of my solitary guesthood pass away as little uncomfortably to me as possible.

She asked me to come and see her flowers in the bay window of the drawing-room, which she had fitted up as a tiny conservatory; while her mother sat down to the piano and played dreamy music in a desultory fashion. I like dreamy music, although it always makes me melancholy—indeed, all music affects me the same way, in spite of my not being by any means what you would call a sad person. On the contrary, I am supposed to be one of the most light-hearted fellows imaginable, and, certainly, laugh more than I ever cry. However, mirth and sadness are closer allies than people generally suspect. All emotion proceeds, more or less, from hysteria.

While Mrs Clyde was playing, Min and I got talking. She thanked me for coming early; and upbraided the absent guests for thinking it fashionable to come later than bidden.

We discussed the rival merits of a scarlet japonica and a double fuchsia, giving the palm of merit to the former, though the latter had some wondrous lobes; and I was also asked my opinion whether her favourite maidenhair fern would survive a sudden and unaccountable blight which had fallen upon it a few days before.

She then showed me the identical violets I had given her that Christmas morning, now so long passed by: she had tipped the stalks with sealing wax and preserved them in cotton wool, so that they looked as fresh as when first gathered.

“There!” she said, with an air of triumph. “There, Mr Lorton! I have kept them ever since.”

“Mr Lorton!” I repeated, “who is he? I don’t know him.”

“Well, ‘Frank,’ then—will that please you better, you tiresome thing?”

“You know you promised,” I said, apologetically.

“Did I?” she asked, with charming naïvété.

“Why, have you forgotten that night already?” I said, in a melancholy tone.

“Don’t be so lugubrious,” she said. “You have to amuse me. You mustn’t remember all my promises.”

“Are they so unsubstantial?” I asked.

“No, they’re not, sir!” she said, stamping her foot in affected anger. “But what do you say to my keeping your violets so long, Frank?”

“What do I say?” I repeated after her, looking my delight into her eyes; when, a frantic chord, struck deep down in the bass by Mrs Clyde, marking the finish of some piece of Wagner’s, recalled us both to every-day life.

As nobody else had yet arrived, Min challenged me to a game of chess.

I allowed her to win the first game easily.

She pouted, saying that she supposed I thought it below my dignity to put forth my best energies in playing against a lady!

Thereupon, Ididexert myself; but, she was just as provokingly dissatisfied.

I took her queen. She protested it was unfair.

I offered to restore it to her; she would not have it at any price;—she wished me to play the game, she said, just as if I were playing with a man.

I checkmated her. She got up in a pet, saying that chess was a nasty, stupid, tiresome thing, and that she would not play it any longer.

O, the contrariness of feminine nature!

Other people now began to drop in; and it wasmyturn to get put out.

I heard it was Min’s birthday, which I had not known before. I saw that they remembered it; while, I, had not brought her even a paltry flower!

Everybody was wishing her “many happy returns of the day.” I had not done so; neither had I any opportunity of atoning for my neglect, as she was too busy receiving the new comers; but, indeed, I would have been too proud to excuse myself after witnessing Mr Mawley’s “effusion.”

He seemed to me to be guilty of unpardonable effrontery in holding Min’s hand such an unconscionably long time in his, when presenting a miserable shop-bouquet; and, as for the lackadaisical airs of that insufferable donkey, Horner—I can find no words adequate wherewith to express what I thought; he was positively sickening!

I did not have another chance of speaking to Min either; that is, unless I chose to bawl what I had to say across a crowded room; and, I need hardly say, I did not exactly care about that!

She appeared to me to be very inconsistent, too.

She seemed really much more interested in Mawley’s conversation thanIthought any reasonable person could be; whilehewas grinning and carrying on at a rate, which, if I had been Mrs Clyde, I would not have allowed for a moment.

O, the equilibriant temperament of the “superior” sex!

Min teased me yet further.

She sang every song that Mawley and Horner asked her for, playing the accompaniments for the latter when he favoured the company with his idea of ballad vocalisation.

Horner thought he possessed a fine tenor voice: I didn’t think so, especially on this evening!

But, no matter what these two asked her to do, she did. IfI, however, requested any particular song, she said she did not believe she could manage it; her voice could not compass it; she had lent it out; or, she hadn’t got it!

Was it not enough to provoke one? Wouldn’t you have been affected by it?

In addition to Horner and Mawley, there was also an odious cousin of hers, called “Jack,” or “Tom,” or “Ned,” or some other abominably familiar abbreviation, who hung over the piano stool, and said “Min, do this,” and “Min, do that,” in a way that drove me to frenzy.

I hate cousins! I don’t see the necessity for them. I’m sure people can get along very well without their existence. I would do away with them to-morrow by act of Parliament, if I only had the power.

When everybody else who had a voice at all had exercised their vocal powers, Mrs Clyde at last asked me to sing.

Instead of declining, as I would have done at any other time, on account of her slight, I bowed my acquiescence and went to the piano.

To tell you the truth, I was glad of the opportunity afforded me for carrying out a petty piece of revenge against Min, of which I had suddenly bethought me.

I had composed a little song, you must know, that I believed highly applicable to her at the moment, although when I had written it she was no more in my mind than Adam or Eve, or both!

I sang it, looking into her face the while, as she stood by the instrument; and these were the words. I gave them expression enough, you may be sure.

“My lady’s eyes are soft and blue, deep-changing as theiris hue;But, eyes deceiveHearts ‘worn on sleeve,’And make us oft their power rue!“Her little mouth—a ‘sunny south’—wafts perfumedkisses to the wind;But, winds blow cold,And kiss of old,A trait’rous symbol was, I find!“For pearly teeth and rosebud lips, whose honied wealththe zephyr sips,But bait the lairWhere fickle fair,Like Scylla, wreck men’s stately ships—“And witching eyes and plaintive sighs, and looks of loveand tender words—Love’s tricking arts -Are poison’d darts,More awesome far than pendant swords!”

“My lady’s eyes are soft and blue, deep-changing as theiris hue;But, eyes deceiveHearts ‘worn on sleeve,’And make us oft their power rue!“Her little mouth—a ‘sunny south’—wafts perfumedkisses to the wind;But, winds blow cold,And kiss of old,A trait’rous symbol was, I find!“For pearly teeth and rosebud lips, whose honied wealththe zephyr sips,But bait the lairWhere fickle fair,Like Scylla, wreck men’s stately ships—“And witching eyes and plaintive sighs, and looks of loveand tender words—Love’s tricking arts -Are poison’d darts,More awesome far than pendant swords!”

“Thank you,” said Mrs Clyde; “it is very pretty. Your own, I suppose?”

“Yes,” I said. I did not feel disposed to be more communicative.

“What do you call it?” asked Min, carelessly.

“‘Per Contra,’” I answered. “Don’t you think it a suitable title?”

“Yes,I understand” she said. “Thank you,Mr Lorton!”

She spoke, with marked emphasis.

A little time afterwards, when I was sitting moodily in a corner, with a book before me which I was supposed to be looking at, but whose bare title escapes my recollection, Min came to my side; and, she began overhauling some volumes of music that were piled up in a heap on the floor.

“Mr Lorton,” she said, hesitatingly.

That “Mr Lorton” set my teeth on edge.

I made no reply.

“Frank!”

“Yes,” I said, testily.

I felt very angry with her for her attentions to Horner and Mawley, and, as I thought, neglect of me; so, I wished to let her know it.

“Frank,” she repeated, “didn’t you mean that song at me?”

“Yes, I did,” I replied, very grumpily.

“Foolish fellow!” she said; “what a very bad opinion you must have of me, although I did not know my eyes were blue before! You said the other night they were grey,” and she smiled bewitchingly. But, I wouldn’t be coaxed into good humour.

“Ce m’est égal,” I answered coldly, “whatever they are.”

“You are very cross!” she said pettishly; “I will go and talk to Mr Mawley, until you get into a better mood, sir, and are more amiable.”

“I’m sure,” said I, loftily, “that I would not be the means of depriving you of his valuable and entertaining society.”

Min laughed provokingly. “At all events,” she said, “he is not cross with me about nothing; andsomepeople might learn better manners from him, Mr Lorton!”

“Pray do not let me detain you from such a charming companion, Miss Clyde,” I said, with distant politeness.

“Even poor Mr Horner can be agreeable and amusing, andyouwon’t even try to be. I will go to him,” she continued, still striving to get me to be more sociable; but I was obstinate and ill-tempered.

An angel would not have pacified me. How could I have been so rude to her?

I was a brute.

“Ah,” I exclaimed, “hisconversation is truly intellectual!”

She was quite vexed now.

“You are very unkind,” she said. “You speak ill-naturedly of everybody, and are cross with me on my birthday! I won’t speak to you, Frank, again this evening; there, see if I do!” and she turned away from me with a tremble in her voice, and an indignant look in the, now, flashing, grey eyes.

She kept her promise.

Much as I tried, when my ill-temper had subsided, to get speech with her, I was not allowed a word. Even when leaving the house, I only received a bow. She would not shake hands, to show that I was forgiven.

I had stopped to the very last in order to sit out Horner.Hewould not budge first, andIwould not budge first; so now we started off together, our homeward routes being identical.

You may imagine that I felt very amicably disposed towards him. I was ripe for a quarrel, or at least a separation; and Horner soon gave me an opening.

He began to praise Min’s looks and voice, and the manner in which she had sung the songshehad asked her for, including the onehehad given her that evening.

Really, the cool impudence of Horner was something astounding! What right had he to criticise her? He spoke just as if she belonged to him, I assure you!

This was too much, after what I had already gone through.

“Which way are you going?” I asked him suddenly.

“Gaw-ing?” he said, in a surprised tone. “Why, stwaight on, of cawse—stwaight on!”

“Then, I’m going roundhere!” I said, wheeling off abruptly at a right angle from the road we had been pursuing, and going out of my way in order to get rid of him.

Flesh and blood could no longer stand his unmeaning, yet gibing platitudes.

“Bai-ey Je-ove!” he exclaimed. “But, stawp, my deah fellah. Lorton, I asshaw you I only meant to say—ah—that Miss Clyde sang my songs most divinely—ah—and that she’s—ah—a vewy nice gahl—ah!”

Confound him!

What business had he to say or think anything of the sort?

I could faintly hear his voice exclaim “Bai-ey Je-ove!” in the distance, after some seconds’ interval, during which we had become widely separated.

I was as thoroughly out of temper as I could possibly be.

I was angry with everybody in the world, Min not excepted, and with the world itself; but, at myself, more than all.

Chapter Eight.Only about a little Bird.Oh! let them ne’er, with artificial note,To please a tyrant, strain their little bill;But sing what heaven inspires, and wanderwhere they will!I was ten times angrier with myself when I got home.What a fool I had been—what an idiot—to have thrown away my chances as I had done! I had wished for “the roc’s egg” to complete my happiness; and I had obtained it with a vengeance.My roc’s egg had been the “open sesame” to Mrs Clyde’s castle. I had sighed for it, striven for it, gained it at last; and, a fine mess I had made of it, all things considered!What must she think me?An ill-bred, untutored, unlicked cub, most probably!I did not let myself off easily, I promise you. My conscience gave it to me well, and I could find no satisfactory terms in which I could express my opinion of my own surly behaviour.I think if some people only knew the bitter pangs that social culprits afterwards experience within themselves for their slips and slidings by the way, they would be less harsh in their judgments and unsparing in their condemnation than they usually are. Sending him to Coventry is a poor punishment in comparison with the offender’s own remorse. He finds the “labor et opus redintegrare gradum” hard enough, without that Rhadamanthus, “society,” making the ascent slippery for him!As I recalled the incidents of the evening, I could not help allowing to my conscience that Mr Mawley the curate, whom I disliked, had shown himself a gentleman, where I had only acted like a snob; while Horner, a man whom I, in my conceit, had looked down upon and affected to despise as an empty-headed fop and nonentity, was a prince beside me!They had but played their respective social parts, and accepted the gifts that the gods provided; while I—dunder-headed dolt that I was—had conducted myself worse than a budding school-boy who had but just donned swallow-tails, and made his first entry into society!Jealousy had been the cause of it all, of course; but, although I have always held, and will continue to believe, that the presence of that “green-eyed monster,” as the passion is euphuistically termed, is inseparable from all cases of real, thorough, heart-felt, engrossing love—still, jealousy is no excuse for ill-manners. “Noblesse oblige” always. There is no half-way medium; no middle course to take.Then, fancy my being such a brute as to quarrel with Min, merely because she could not avoid being courteous to her guests! The fact of their being personally obnoxious to me, did not affect the scale one way or the other; she could not helpthat. I doubt whether she even knew it.I was unable to forgive myself, and wondered if she would excuse my conduct, and speak to me again; although, I really deserved social extinction.But, I surely could not belie her angel nature, I thought? When she came to know all I had suffered that evening, and the miserable self-upbraidings I had since endured, she would pity me, and forgive me, forgetting all that had occurred “as a dream when one awaketh?” I was sure she would; and I gained renewed courage from the impression.I now bethought me how I should next present myself before her. In accordance with the usages of conventionality, it would be right for me to make an early call at Mrs Clyde’s, in recognition of her late assembly; and, unless I should chance to meet Min out alone, I would have no chance of making my apology before then, while, even on that occasion, the presence of her mother might prevent my speaking to her as openly as I wished. What should I do?I determined, under the circumstances, and from the fact of our being such old friends—she had said so herself, had she not?—that I would make her a little peace-offering, in the shape of a present of some sort or other.This did not occur to me with the idea of propitiating her as an offended goddess, sacrifices being out of date in the existing era—except those to Moloch! No, such a thought never occurred to me for a moment.Min was not the class of girl whose pardon or good-will could be purchased, as is frequently the case, perhaps, with others of her sex!What suggested the scheme to me was, my not having made her any birthday gift, as her other friends, without exception, had done. It is “never too late to mend;” so, why should I not take her a little present now, to show her that she lived in my heart and had not been intentionally forgotten? If she accepted my offering, good. I should then be certain that she extenuated my gaucherie at her party, whether I got speech with her or no. Yes, that would be the proper course for me to pursue. Would you not have thought so in a like contingency?The present being decided on, what should I get for her? Flowers, photographs, books, music, and all those delicate nothings, which people generally tender as souvenirs for other people’s acceptance, she had in abundance.None of these would do at all. I wanted her to have some special, out-of-the-way something from me, which would always call the giver before her mind whenever she saw it. You may think my wish a selfish one, perhaps, but we generally like to be remembered by those we love. I think so, at least; and, I do not believe I am a very exceptional individual.What should my gift be? It would not be proper for me to offer, nor was it likely that her mother would allow her to accept, anything very valuable, or of intrinsic worth: such as a watch, which I first thought of. Besides, she had a watch already—one that kept time, unlike most ladies’ “time-keepers”—and a particularly pretty one it was, too; so, that was out of the question at once. Jewellery would be just as inadmissible. What on earth should my present consist of?Why, a bird, of course! How stupid I was growing, to be sure! I really had become quite dull. A bird would be the very thing of all others to suit her, so I need not worry my brains any longer. She had plenty of flowers in her bay window conservatory, besides a tiny crystal fountain, that leaped and sparkled to the astounding altitude of some eighteen inches, and which, on festive occasions, ran Florida-water or Eau-de-Cologne. In addition to these, she required, to my mind, a bird to complete the effect of the whole. A bird she, accordingly, should have.I had often heard her say that she loved birds dearly. Not wild songsters, however, who sing best in their native freedom of the skies, like the spotted-breasted, circle-carolling lark, the thicket-haunting blackbird, and the sweet-throated thrush.—It would have afforded her no pleasure to prison up one of these in a cage. But, a little fledgling that had never known what it was to roam at its own sweet will, and who, when offered the liberty of the air, would hardly care to “take advantage of the situation;”thatwould be the bird which she would like to have, I was certain.I knew just such an one. I had him, in fact. He was “Dicky Chips:”—the funniest, quaintest, most intelligent, and most amusing little bullfinch you ever clapped eyes on.I resolved that Dicky Chips should be Min’s property from henceforth.Whenever she watched him going through his varied pantomimic rôle, and heard his well-turned, whistling notes—he had a rare ear for music—she would think ofhimwho gave him to her, although he might then be far away. I decided the point at once before going to bed. Dicky Chips should, like Caliban, have a new master, or rather mistress; and be a new man, or rather bird, to adopt Mr Toots’ peculiar ellipto-synthetical style of speaking. Where do you think I got hold of him? Do you know a travelling naturalist who goes about London during the summer months—and all over the country, too, for that matter, as I’ve met him north of Tweed, and down also at the Land’s End, in Cornwall?He has birds for sale, and he sells them only at that period.Where he hides himself when winter, dark and drear, approaches, I’m sure I cannot tell; but I’ve never seen himthenperambulating the streets. He may possibly, at that season, join company with Jamrack—that curiosity of the animal world; or, he may hibernate in the Seven Dials, as most feather-fanciers do; or, he may retire to his private mansion in Belgrave Square; or, again, he may, peradventure, go abroad “to increase his store,” in the fashion of Norval’s father, the “frugal swain” who fattened his flocks on the Grampian Hills—though, I prefer South Down mutton, myself!The bird-seller may do either and all of these things in the winter months; but, I only know his summer habitude:—then he is always to be observed going about the streets with birds for sale.Do I mean the gentleman who wheels about a costermonger’s table-cart, whereon he makes a number of unfortunate canaries pull about tiny carriages, with yokes, shaped like those of the Roman chariots, and fire cannons, and appear as if they liked it; while a decrepit white mouse runs up a cane flag-staff, supporting himself finally, and very uncomfortably, on the top?No; I do not mean anything of the sort. The person I refer to is quite a different character.He is generally to be seen driving in a large, full-bodied gipsy waggon, or covered-in break, with open sides and a tarpaulin roof, in which he has, carefully stowed away, tiers upon tiers of cages, that contain almost every description of English and foreign birds; not excluding, also, sundry small pet animals—monkeys, squirrels, and toy dogs, to wit.He invariably accommodates two horribly-ugly, black-faced pugs, underneath the driving seat of his vehicle; and you may generally hear his approach, when distant more than a mile, through the chirping, and squeaking, and squalling, of his motley cargo.Canaries are there by the hundred, packed up separately in those square little wooden boxes, each fitted with a small, red, goblet-shaped pitcher and seed-rack, in which they are imported from Germany; parrots, macaws, cockatoos, and lories; larks, thrushes, blackbirds; starlings, magpies, and such like—down to the common hedge-sparrow and poor little Jenny wren.There, now! I have pointed out the distinguishing characteristics of the itinerant bird-fancier; and, should you never have seen him before, you will be able at once to recognise him in case of your possibly encountering him in the future.Well, one day, meeting this gentleman “drumming around” our suburb, I had the curiosity to stop and inspect his live freight. In doing so I lighted upon Dicky Chips, as I subsequently christened him: a sturdy little bullfinch, who looked somewhat out of place, and lonesome, amongst his screaming companions from foreign lands. I purchased him for a trifle, and have never since regretted the bargain, for, he was a dear, bright little fellow; so tractable, too, and intelligent, that I was able to educate him to a pitch of excellence, which, I believe, no bullfinch in England ever reached, before or since.When invited properly, he would dance a hornpipe, whistling his own music in sharp staccato notes, as from a piccolo. He could likewise “present arms” with a little straw musket which I had provided for him; besides feigning to be dead, and allowing you to take him up by the legs, his head hanging down, apparently lifeless, the while, without stirring—although he would sometimes, if you kept him too long in this position, open one of his beady black eyes, and seem to give you a sly wink, as if to say, “A joke is a joke, certainly; but you may, perhaps, carry it too far!” I could not enumerate half his accomplishments in this line; and, as for whistling operatic tunes—the most difficult ones, with unlimited roulades, were his especial choice—“Bai-ey Je-ove!” as Horner would say, you should only have heard him.As I allowed him to go in and out of his cage at pleasure, he roamed the garden according to his own sweet will, whenever and wherever he pleased, without reservation; and he, I may add, seldom abused the privilege. Some time after I had given him to Min, he actually found his way back one morning to our house again. I shall never forget the circumstance: you should have witnessed his delight at seeing the old place and his old friends again! He flirted, he danced, he rolled in paroxysms of joy on the little table by the window, whereon he had been accustomed to go through his performances:—he chirped, he whistled; in fact, he behaved just like a mad bird.But he did not desert his mistress, mind you. I think he even got fonder of her than he had even been of me. Still, often after discovering that he could thus vary the monotony of his existence by paying a visit to his old domicile—which only lay a short distance from his new quarters—he would come round; and, after spending an hour or two with me, when he would conscientiously insist on going through the entire round of his accomplishments without any invitation on my part, as if to show that he yet retained his early instructions well in mind, he would return to Min’s house, and the no less warm affection that awaited him there.This was the little present that I intended for a birthday gift to my darling: one that I valued beyond gold. The very next afternoon I carried him round to her in my coat-pocket—he having a tiny cage that just fitted into it comfortably “to at.”Fortunately, I found Min alone in the drawing-room, when I was ushered in. She was sitting on the sofa reading, and, although she rose up on my entrance, she only bowed, looking distant, and somewhat embarrassed.This did not look well for my chances of forgiveness, and for getting her to accept Dicky Chips, did it?I went up to her impulsively.“Min!” I exclaimed, “can you, will you, excuse and forgive me for acting so rudely last night? I cannot forgive myself; and I shall be miserable till you pardon me!”She looked down gravely a minute.“What made you so naughty, sir?” she asked at length, looking up again with a dancing light in the clear grey eyes, and a smile on her pretty little mouth.“I thought that you did not want me, Min; and I wished myself away, when I saw you speaking to every one else that came, as if you did not care to speak to me. I was very unhappy, and—”“Oh, Frank!” she said; “unhappy!”“Yes,” I said, “I was never more so in my life. I believed you preferred speaking to Mr Mawley and Horner, to talking to me, and I thought it very unkind of you.”“Well, do not think so again, sir,” she said, with such a pretty affectation of sternness, and laughing one of her light, silvery laughs.“And you did not wish me away?” I asked, anxiously.“Of course not,” she answered. “Why should I have done so? You would not have been invited, sir, if your noble presence had not been wished for, Master Frank.”“And you didn’t care so much for Mawley after all?” I continued, rendered bolder by her changed manner.“You must not ask too many questions, sir!” she said. “This just shows how very unreasonable you were! How could I have neglected everybody else to speak to you, only, all the evening; what would they have thought, sir? what would mamma have said? Besides, you were not very entertaining, Master Frank; you were very cross, sir; you know you were!”“But you forgive me now, Min, don’t you?” I implored.“Yes,” she said, “if you promise never to be cross with me again.”“What, cross withyou?” I exclaimed.“You were, though, last night,” she said, with a little toss of her well-shaped head.I thought the time had now arrived for making my little peace-offering; and yet, I felt as shy and nervous about it as did poor “Young John,” the gaoler’s son of the Marshalsea, when he went to call on Little Dorrit’s father in the grand Bond Street hotel, and drew his humble present of a bundle of cigars from his coat-pocket.“Min,” I said, “you have heard me speak of a clever little bird I had—Dicky Chips?”“Oh, yes,” she said. “You mean the nice little fellow you taught to do so many funny things? Nothing has happened to him, I hope, Frank? I should be so very sorry,” she added, sympathisingly, “for I know you are very fond of him.”“No,” said I hesitatingly; “nothing has happened to him, exactly; that is, Min, I have brought him over for you; and, unless you accept him, I shall think you are still angry with me, and have not forgiven me.”I thereupon pulled the little chap, cage and all, out of my pocket, and presented him to her.“Oh, Frank!” she exclaimed, in her sweet, earnest accents, with a ring of emotion in them. “He’s such a little pet of yours; and you have had him so long! I would not take him from you for the world!”“Then,” said I, just as earnestly, “you have not forgiven me. Oh, Min! when you promised to do so!” And I took up my hat as if to go away.We argued the point; but, the end of the matter was, that Dicky Chips was made over to his new mistress, with all his goods, chattels, and appurtenances. A happy bird he might consider himself henceforth, I knew. He would be idolised—a very nice situation, indeed, for a bullfinch!By-and-by I got closer to Min, as we were standing up, talking together and making Dicky go through a few of his tricks on the drawing-room table.“Min,” said I, softly, bending over her and looking down into her honest, truth-telling grey eyes—“my darling!”But, at that precise moment, the door opened; and, in walked Mrs Clyde.

Oh! let them ne’er, with artificial note,To please a tyrant, strain their little bill;But sing what heaven inspires, and wanderwhere they will!

Oh! let them ne’er, with artificial note,To please a tyrant, strain their little bill;But sing what heaven inspires, and wanderwhere they will!

I was ten times angrier with myself when I got home.

What a fool I had been—what an idiot—to have thrown away my chances as I had done! I had wished for “the roc’s egg” to complete my happiness; and I had obtained it with a vengeance.

My roc’s egg had been the “open sesame” to Mrs Clyde’s castle. I had sighed for it, striven for it, gained it at last; and, a fine mess I had made of it, all things considered!

What must she think me?

An ill-bred, untutored, unlicked cub, most probably!

I did not let myself off easily, I promise you. My conscience gave it to me well, and I could find no satisfactory terms in which I could express my opinion of my own surly behaviour.

I think if some people only knew the bitter pangs that social culprits afterwards experience within themselves for their slips and slidings by the way, they would be less harsh in their judgments and unsparing in their condemnation than they usually are. Sending him to Coventry is a poor punishment in comparison with the offender’s own remorse. He finds the “labor et opus redintegrare gradum” hard enough, without that Rhadamanthus, “society,” making the ascent slippery for him!

As I recalled the incidents of the evening, I could not help allowing to my conscience that Mr Mawley the curate, whom I disliked, had shown himself a gentleman, where I had only acted like a snob; while Horner, a man whom I, in my conceit, had looked down upon and affected to despise as an empty-headed fop and nonentity, was a prince beside me!

They had but played their respective social parts, and accepted the gifts that the gods provided; while I—dunder-headed dolt that I was—had conducted myself worse than a budding school-boy who had but just donned swallow-tails, and made his first entry into society!

Jealousy had been the cause of it all, of course; but, although I have always held, and will continue to believe, that the presence of that “green-eyed monster,” as the passion is euphuistically termed, is inseparable from all cases of real, thorough, heart-felt, engrossing love—still, jealousy is no excuse for ill-manners. “Noblesse oblige” always. There is no half-way medium; no middle course to take.

Then, fancy my being such a brute as to quarrel with Min, merely because she could not avoid being courteous to her guests! The fact of their being personally obnoxious to me, did not affect the scale one way or the other; she could not helpthat. I doubt whether she even knew it.

I was unable to forgive myself, and wondered if she would excuse my conduct, and speak to me again; although, I really deserved social extinction.

But, I surely could not belie her angel nature, I thought? When she came to know all I had suffered that evening, and the miserable self-upbraidings I had since endured, she would pity me, and forgive me, forgetting all that had occurred “as a dream when one awaketh?” I was sure she would; and I gained renewed courage from the impression.

I now bethought me how I should next present myself before her. In accordance with the usages of conventionality, it would be right for me to make an early call at Mrs Clyde’s, in recognition of her late assembly; and, unless I should chance to meet Min out alone, I would have no chance of making my apology before then, while, even on that occasion, the presence of her mother might prevent my speaking to her as openly as I wished. What should I do?

I determined, under the circumstances, and from the fact of our being such old friends—she had said so herself, had she not?—that I would make her a little peace-offering, in the shape of a present of some sort or other.

This did not occur to me with the idea of propitiating her as an offended goddess, sacrifices being out of date in the existing era—except those to Moloch! No, such a thought never occurred to me for a moment.

Min was not the class of girl whose pardon or good-will could be purchased, as is frequently the case, perhaps, with others of her sex!

What suggested the scheme to me was, my not having made her any birthday gift, as her other friends, without exception, had done. It is “never too late to mend;” so, why should I not take her a little present now, to show her that she lived in my heart and had not been intentionally forgotten? If she accepted my offering, good. I should then be certain that she extenuated my gaucherie at her party, whether I got speech with her or no. Yes, that would be the proper course for me to pursue. Would you not have thought so in a like contingency?

The present being decided on, what should I get for her? Flowers, photographs, books, music, and all those delicate nothings, which people generally tender as souvenirs for other people’s acceptance, she had in abundance.

None of these would do at all. I wanted her to have some special, out-of-the-way something from me, which would always call the giver before her mind whenever she saw it. You may think my wish a selfish one, perhaps, but we generally like to be remembered by those we love. I think so, at least; and, I do not believe I am a very exceptional individual.

What should my gift be? It would not be proper for me to offer, nor was it likely that her mother would allow her to accept, anything very valuable, or of intrinsic worth: such as a watch, which I first thought of. Besides, she had a watch already—one that kept time, unlike most ladies’ “time-keepers”—and a particularly pretty one it was, too; so, that was out of the question at once. Jewellery would be just as inadmissible. What on earth should my present consist of?

Why, a bird, of course! How stupid I was growing, to be sure! I really had become quite dull. A bird would be the very thing of all others to suit her, so I need not worry my brains any longer. She had plenty of flowers in her bay window conservatory, besides a tiny crystal fountain, that leaped and sparkled to the astounding altitude of some eighteen inches, and which, on festive occasions, ran Florida-water or Eau-de-Cologne. In addition to these, she required, to my mind, a bird to complete the effect of the whole. A bird she, accordingly, should have.

I had often heard her say that she loved birds dearly. Not wild songsters, however, who sing best in their native freedom of the skies, like the spotted-breasted, circle-carolling lark, the thicket-haunting blackbird, and the sweet-throated thrush.—It would have afforded her no pleasure to prison up one of these in a cage. But, a little fledgling that had never known what it was to roam at its own sweet will, and who, when offered the liberty of the air, would hardly care to “take advantage of the situation;”thatwould be the bird which she would like to have, I was certain.

I knew just such an one. I had him, in fact. He was “Dicky Chips:”—the funniest, quaintest, most intelligent, and most amusing little bullfinch you ever clapped eyes on.

I resolved that Dicky Chips should be Min’s property from henceforth.

Whenever she watched him going through his varied pantomimic rôle, and heard his well-turned, whistling notes—he had a rare ear for music—she would think ofhimwho gave him to her, although he might then be far away. I decided the point at once before going to bed. Dicky Chips should, like Caliban, have a new master, or rather mistress; and be a new man, or rather bird, to adopt Mr Toots’ peculiar ellipto-synthetical style of speaking. Where do you think I got hold of him? Do you know a travelling naturalist who goes about London during the summer months—and all over the country, too, for that matter, as I’ve met him north of Tweed, and down also at the Land’s End, in Cornwall?

He has birds for sale, and he sells them only at that period.

Where he hides himself when winter, dark and drear, approaches, I’m sure I cannot tell; but I’ve never seen himthenperambulating the streets. He may possibly, at that season, join company with Jamrack—that curiosity of the animal world; or, he may hibernate in the Seven Dials, as most feather-fanciers do; or, he may retire to his private mansion in Belgrave Square; or, again, he may, peradventure, go abroad “to increase his store,” in the fashion of Norval’s father, the “frugal swain” who fattened his flocks on the Grampian Hills—though, I prefer South Down mutton, myself!

The bird-seller may do either and all of these things in the winter months; but, I only know his summer habitude:—then he is always to be observed going about the streets with birds for sale.

Do I mean the gentleman who wheels about a costermonger’s table-cart, whereon he makes a number of unfortunate canaries pull about tiny carriages, with yokes, shaped like those of the Roman chariots, and fire cannons, and appear as if they liked it; while a decrepit white mouse runs up a cane flag-staff, supporting himself finally, and very uncomfortably, on the top?

No; I do not mean anything of the sort. The person I refer to is quite a different character.

He is generally to be seen driving in a large, full-bodied gipsy waggon, or covered-in break, with open sides and a tarpaulin roof, in which he has, carefully stowed away, tiers upon tiers of cages, that contain almost every description of English and foreign birds; not excluding, also, sundry small pet animals—monkeys, squirrels, and toy dogs, to wit.

He invariably accommodates two horribly-ugly, black-faced pugs, underneath the driving seat of his vehicle; and you may generally hear his approach, when distant more than a mile, through the chirping, and squeaking, and squalling, of his motley cargo.

Canaries are there by the hundred, packed up separately in those square little wooden boxes, each fitted with a small, red, goblet-shaped pitcher and seed-rack, in which they are imported from Germany; parrots, macaws, cockatoos, and lories; larks, thrushes, blackbirds; starlings, magpies, and such like—down to the common hedge-sparrow and poor little Jenny wren.

There, now! I have pointed out the distinguishing characteristics of the itinerant bird-fancier; and, should you never have seen him before, you will be able at once to recognise him in case of your possibly encountering him in the future.

Well, one day, meeting this gentleman “drumming around” our suburb, I had the curiosity to stop and inspect his live freight. In doing so I lighted upon Dicky Chips, as I subsequently christened him: a sturdy little bullfinch, who looked somewhat out of place, and lonesome, amongst his screaming companions from foreign lands. I purchased him for a trifle, and have never since regretted the bargain, for, he was a dear, bright little fellow; so tractable, too, and intelligent, that I was able to educate him to a pitch of excellence, which, I believe, no bullfinch in England ever reached, before or since.

When invited properly, he would dance a hornpipe, whistling his own music in sharp staccato notes, as from a piccolo. He could likewise “present arms” with a little straw musket which I had provided for him; besides feigning to be dead, and allowing you to take him up by the legs, his head hanging down, apparently lifeless, the while, without stirring—although he would sometimes, if you kept him too long in this position, open one of his beady black eyes, and seem to give you a sly wink, as if to say, “A joke is a joke, certainly; but you may, perhaps, carry it too far!” I could not enumerate half his accomplishments in this line; and, as for whistling operatic tunes—the most difficult ones, with unlimited roulades, were his especial choice—“Bai-ey Je-ove!” as Horner would say, you should only have heard him.

As I allowed him to go in and out of his cage at pleasure, he roamed the garden according to his own sweet will, whenever and wherever he pleased, without reservation; and he, I may add, seldom abused the privilege. Some time after I had given him to Min, he actually found his way back one morning to our house again. I shall never forget the circumstance: you should have witnessed his delight at seeing the old place and his old friends again! He flirted, he danced, he rolled in paroxysms of joy on the little table by the window, whereon he had been accustomed to go through his performances:—he chirped, he whistled; in fact, he behaved just like a mad bird.

But he did not desert his mistress, mind you. I think he even got fonder of her than he had even been of me. Still, often after discovering that he could thus vary the monotony of his existence by paying a visit to his old domicile—which only lay a short distance from his new quarters—he would come round; and, after spending an hour or two with me, when he would conscientiously insist on going through the entire round of his accomplishments without any invitation on my part, as if to show that he yet retained his early instructions well in mind, he would return to Min’s house, and the no less warm affection that awaited him there.

This was the little present that I intended for a birthday gift to my darling: one that I valued beyond gold. The very next afternoon I carried him round to her in my coat-pocket—he having a tiny cage that just fitted into it comfortably “to at.”

Fortunately, I found Min alone in the drawing-room, when I was ushered in. She was sitting on the sofa reading, and, although she rose up on my entrance, she only bowed, looking distant, and somewhat embarrassed.

This did not look well for my chances of forgiveness, and for getting her to accept Dicky Chips, did it?

I went up to her impulsively.

“Min!” I exclaimed, “can you, will you, excuse and forgive me for acting so rudely last night? I cannot forgive myself; and I shall be miserable till you pardon me!”

She looked down gravely a minute.

“What made you so naughty, sir?” she asked at length, looking up again with a dancing light in the clear grey eyes, and a smile on her pretty little mouth.

“I thought that you did not want me, Min; and I wished myself away, when I saw you speaking to every one else that came, as if you did not care to speak to me. I was very unhappy, and—”

“Oh, Frank!” she said; “unhappy!”

“Yes,” I said, “I was never more so in my life. I believed you preferred speaking to Mr Mawley and Horner, to talking to me, and I thought it very unkind of you.”

“Well, do not think so again, sir,” she said, with such a pretty affectation of sternness, and laughing one of her light, silvery laughs.

“And you did not wish me away?” I asked, anxiously.

“Of course not,” she answered. “Why should I have done so? You would not have been invited, sir, if your noble presence had not been wished for, Master Frank.”

“And you didn’t care so much for Mawley after all?” I continued, rendered bolder by her changed manner.

“You must not ask too many questions, sir!” she said. “This just shows how very unreasonable you were! How could I have neglected everybody else to speak to you, only, all the evening; what would they have thought, sir? what would mamma have said? Besides, you were not very entertaining, Master Frank; you were very cross, sir; you know you were!”

“But you forgive me now, Min, don’t you?” I implored.

“Yes,” she said, “if you promise never to be cross with me again.”

“What, cross withyou?” I exclaimed.

“You were, though, last night,” she said, with a little toss of her well-shaped head.

I thought the time had now arrived for making my little peace-offering; and yet, I felt as shy and nervous about it as did poor “Young John,” the gaoler’s son of the Marshalsea, when he went to call on Little Dorrit’s father in the grand Bond Street hotel, and drew his humble present of a bundle of cigars from his coat-pocket.

“Min,” I said, “you have heard me speak of a clever little bird I had—Dicky Chips?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “You mean the nice little fellow you taught to do so many funny things? Nothing has happened to him, I hope, Frank? I should be so very sorry,” she added, sympathisingly, “for I know you are very fond of him.”

“No,” said I hesitatingly; “nothing has happened to him, exactly; that is, Min, I have brought him over for you; and, unless you accept him, I shall think you are still angry with me, and have not forgiven me.”

I thereupon pulled the little chap, cage and all, out of my pocket, and presented him to her.

“Oh, Frank!” she exclaimed, in her sweet, earnest accents, with a ring of emotion in them. “He’s such a little pet of yours; and you have had him so long! I would not take him from you for the world!”

“Then,” said I, just as earnestly, “you have not forgiven me. Oh, Min! when you promised to do so!” And I took up my hat as if to go away.

We argued the point; but, the end of the matter was, that Dicky Chips was made over to his new mistress, with all his goods, chattels, and appurtenances. A happy bird he might consider himself henceforth, I knew. He would be idolised—a very nice situation, indeed, for a bullfinch!

By-and-by I got closer to Min, as we were standing up, talking together and making Dicky go through a few of his tricks on the drawing-room table.

“Min,” said I, softly, bending over her and looking down into her honest, truth-telling grey eyes—“my darling!”

But, at that precise moment, the door opened; and, in walked Mrs Clyde.

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