"Give me your address in London or or New York. I will write to you there, and you may rely that I will do everything for you I can." When his friend was gone Mr. Heron sat for some time thinking, brooding, meditating. The ladies of Emersonville would have been surprised if they had seen him there. He looked careworn, almost haggard. At last he rang the bell and summoned his valet. "Smith," he said, "to-day is Tuesday, isn't it?" "Yes, sir." "I am going to leave this place on Friday; you will stop a day longer and square up everything, and then come on with the luggage. Mind you are not to mention this to anybody." Mr. Smith was very much surprised, but being a well-trained servant, he didn't let his surprise appear. He asked where they were going. "To Chicago first of all, then to New York, and then back to England probably." On the Friday afternoon mentioned Mr. Heron was starting to pay a visit to the Claytons. A letter was brought him, which he opened and read rapidly. It was from Mr. George Clayton, and to the effect that he had altered his plans and was not going to England. He intended to pass the rest of the winter in Cuba, and then to visit some of the South American countries. Hence the letters of introduction were unnecessary. Mr. Heron drew a deep breath of relief as he laid down the letter. "This is a respite," he cried, "and yet He started out to walk, and almost au tomatically took the street that led to Mr. Clayton's house. He found Minnie alone. "Mamma is paying visits, and papa is still at the office," she said, "so you will have to be content with my society. Can you endure a tête-à-tête, do you think?" She smiled half lovingly, half mischievously, at him, and held out her hand. He raised it to his lips. For a moment he bent over her as she reclined in her low rocking-chair. 66 Percy," ," she said, "sit on that ottoman. I like to see you at my feet, you know, now and then at least, and talk. I am just dying to hear what you have to say. And then I've something to tell you." He took not the ottoman, but a chair, and sat silent for some time. 66 'Why, Percy," exclaimed Minnie, “you don't look very cheerful. "I shan't feel flattered if you continue to look so doleful. Why, what is the matter?" For his effort after a smile was a dismal failure. "Minnie Miss Clayton," at last he said, speaking very slowly, "I have a confession to make. What I have to say will make you hate me, or rather despise me altogether." He hesitated, and Minnie was about to speak. "Let me get it all out at once," he said. "Let me tell you first of all that I am an impostor, that I have been living here all this time on false pretences, that I am a low, common adventurer- -a swindler a "Mr. Heron," said Minnie, "before you call yourself any more names, will you have the goodness to explain what you mean?" "This that I have pretended to be rich when I am almost a beggar that I have let you suppose I was well connected when He hesitated for a moment, and then went on with a rush, as it were. "My father, Miss Clayton, kept a barber's shop in the Euston Road -a second-rate thoroughfare in London." Minnie's head seemed to become a chaos, a confused whirl. She remembered vaguely to have read of a Frenchman who (at Chicago, she thought) had given himself out for a count, had been received everywhere, and had only been discovered to be a swindler when he had escaped with much plunder from confiding jewel lers. Then on the other hand, there was the liking every one had for Mr. Heron; he seemed so amiable, so intelligent, such a perfect gentleman too. Then her own feelings and the sleigh-ride of a few days before a burning sense of shame was the first distinct feeling to struggle out of the tumult in her mind. "Miss Clayton," he went on, "I have come to tell you my whole story, and I hope you will let me go through with it. In an hour or two I am leaving this town, and you will never see me again. But I must speak first, and when you have heard all, if you can find some little shadow of excuse for me, if you can believe that I am not utterly base and villanous I hope you will. "When I was about sixteen it was discovered that I had a talent for music. But my father couldn't pay for my education. I had to go to business of some kind or other, and earn my living. I pass over some years of hopeless drudgery, dull, pack-horse work. At last my father died, and I was alone in the world, or nearly so. My mother had been dead for some years. Í sold my father's business, furniture, everything. He had left some small savings, and I got all together and devoted myself to the study of music. My teacher was kind and encouraging, and prophesied brilliant success for me. But before my training was properly complete, he died, and I was left almost friendless; for I had counted on him to set me going in my profession. My money was almost gone. I hadn't been as careful as I ought I had always a taste for luxury, and I was obliged to look for pupils. I had a difficulty in finding any, but after a while I had a few. I taught the five-finger exercises to reluctant little boys and girls. I hated the work and I was wretchedly paid. I struggled on and I worked hard. The jingling old piano I possessed used to resound for six hours a day. I hoped that I might one day be famous by-and-by attain some recognition. At last I got so far that I was asked to perform at an important concert where only musicians appear. The occasion was very unfortunate. The attendance was meagre and not responsive. I was nervous, and I failed. I had missed my chance. But I took to writing music. I composed songs, sonatinas, and rhapsodies,' went through the whole cycle of musical composition, but to no purpose. I could never find a publisher or a conductor to give my works a hearing. I was disheartened and disgusted altogether with my wretched, penurious life. One day, I remember it well, I came back to my lodgings and found two postal packets waiting for me. I knew what they were only too well - MSS. returned from music-publishers and the sight of them almost enraged me. After a while I opened the packets and found a great surprise. One was a returned score, the other was a letter from a lawyer informing me that an aunt, whom I hardly knew at all, had died leaving me all her property. She had kept a public-house. The only time I saw her was behind her own bar, fat and florid, overdressed and vulgar-like all my connections. She was good-natured, and she had, though I didn't know it, been present at the concert where I broke down, and out of pity for me she left me all she had. It amounted, with the goodwill of the business and so on, to over 2.000l. My first feeling of elation soon gave way to the thought that this did not do much for me after all. The interest of that money wouldn't carry me very far, and if I spent the principal I should soon be as badly off as ever. I despaired of my career, and soon formed a resolution. At all events I would be free for a time, and escape the dog's life I was leading. Then the idea occurred to me to pass my self off for a man in good position, and try to make a rich marriage. A mean and miserable idea, but it didn't seem so then. I was sick of the scanty bread and water of honesty, and ready to see if quackery and imposition wouldn't succeed better. And a rich marriage seemed the most practicable thing. That idea brought me across the Atlantic, chance brought me here. You know the rest." Minnie had listened to this long speech attentively, but like one in a dream. His voice seemed faint and far away. Now she nerved herself to speak. "You have pleaded your cause with great ability, Mr. Heron she hesitated before this word" but that doesn't alter the fact that you are an adventurer and what you called yourself just now. We certainly took you for a gentleman. We are not very skilled in reading character in this city, it seems. We are too hospitable to anonymous strangers." "I have a right, Miss Clayton, to the name you know me by. I never claimed the prefix. I know I acquiesced in the mistake. I never contradicted it, and I allowed every one to believe it." "Mr. Heron," said Minnie coldly, "it is quite unnecessary to say anything to settle the exact amount of fraud you have been guilty of. I would recommend you | She felt deeply humiliated. She had be to go away before your story is known. Our people are impulsive and not accustomed to draw fine distinctions. If you stopped here you might meet with some unpleasantness." "I leave this very day in an hour," was the reply. "But there is one thing I must say first. It is just this. I never intended to entrap any confiding girl into marriage. If I found any woman who could really care for me I meant to tell her exactly how things stood. I am sure I meant this. But when I saw you my scheme seemed all of a sudden base and vile. I knew I ought to get away from here, but I couldn't. I loved you, Minnie, from the very first, wholly and entirely. And I shall always love you sincerely, passionately, hopelessly. And perhaps you will remem. ber that I have told you all this of my own free will. Here is the photograph you gave me yesterday. You don't know how I would like to keep it, but I have no right. And I hope, though you will always think badly of me, that some day you will think as little badly of me as you can. You will say, 'He was an adventurer, an impostor, but he really loved me.' As for me, I know I have been horribly wrong all through, but my punishment is heavy enough, the punishment of never being able to forget you, never being able to help loving you." Minnie did not speak nor look at him, and he moved slowly away. In the porch he met Miss Susie, on a visit to her friend. come the victim of a vulgar adventurer. She had been entrapped into a confession of love. The memory of that sleigh-ride overwhelmed her with burning shame. He had kissed her. The thought outraged her self-respect. She felt insulted, disgraced. And she could not get free from the idea; it seemed to cling to her, to twine about her like a serpent, to sting, to bite. On the piano was the piece of music he had given her. The words seemed to mock her now: Der mich liebt, den lieb' ich wieder, Und ich weiss, ich bin geliebt. She tore the poor sheet into shreds, and then-then she threw herself on the couch, buried her face on the cushions, and burst into a tempest of tears. That was how she was found by her friend Susie, who came in full of curiosity and of pity for "poor Mr. Heron." EPILOGUE. THREE years after. Heron had returned ashamed of himself and humbly ready for any work. And he had patiently gone back to the little boys and girls and "First Instruction Book," and the five-finger exercises and "Lilla's a Lady." And he had worked in writing, not symphonies, but modest little rondos and cavatinas, which publishers had begun not to be afraid of. And he had gone over his old compositions carefully, excising, rewriting, and altering. And he had thumped away at a piano no less rickety than the one he had left-thumped away patiently, industriously, for whether he would attain success as an executant or a composer was still uncertain. Indeed, it was uncer tain for a long time whether he would attain success at all, but he labored for it with tremendous energy. And in all and through all and beneath all there was the underlying hope that he might be able by and-by to show certain people across the Atlantic that he was something better than a vulgar adventurer after all. Minnie perhaps in years to come might play his music to her husband and tell him his story not quite unkindly. And he found himself capable of patience. "He that will have a cake out of the wheat must needs tarry the grinding." He could wait; he waited, and at last he had achieved a great success. He had got the opportu nity of playing one of his compositions to an audience accustomed to Beethoven and Schubert. And this time he had not failed. The musical critics had praised 66 They had been standing at the door of the Bristol Hotel. "Won't you come in," said Mr. Clayton," and have lunch?” But Mrs. Clayton did not second the invitation, and he declined. his performance highly, and still more "Don't you believe it," was the rehighly his composition; one had even sponse. "Nathaniel certainly did fool echoed Herr Neumeister's praises, and round for some time after you left, but at had hailed the rising of a new star, the dis- last he concluded to try change of air. covery of a new genius who might hereafter He's been married now nigh upon a year reflect glory on his country, not yet the to a girl in Cincinnati." native land of great musicians. The audience had been very kind, and when for an encore he by a sudden inspiration had played his Minnie" impromptu, they had been enthusiastic, enraptured. He had left the hall feeling that at any rate he had taken a great step; the "Instruction Book" and its "easily fingered" melodies need trouble him no more. This was quite clear after a visit to a certain firm of music-publishers. He had called there by appointment, and came away thinking them the most considerate and courteous of men. He walked slowly down Bond Street, wondering if he was really going to be famous after all. At the corner of Burlington Gardens, he was stopped by an exclamation, "Why, if that isn't Mr. Heron now!" "Miss Trump!" he cried out in some astonishment. "Mrs. George S. Clayton," corrected the gentleman of that name. "We've been married a good deal more than a year. This is February, and we were married a year ago last December. Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December.' But what are you doing, any way? Are you still as fond of music as ever?" "You haven't changed the least little bit," said the wife. "By the bye," said Mr. Clayton, "when we were at Monte Carlo last winter we met another Mr. P. Heron. There was a lot of other initials, but I didn't keep count of them. Seems there are two of you. But the other one isn't as goodlooking as you. Red hair and freckles; not at all bright either. I was going to tell him about you, but Susie said I'd best not." Mr. Heron couldn't help seeing that the lady gave a nudge to her husband, who chattered away on other topics - the bad weather, the theatres, and so on. By-and-by he managed to ask after the Claytons; he dared not allude to Minnie singly. "Why, they're ". the young man be gan, but another warning nudge induced him to substitute "quite well and hearty for whatever he would have said. "Minnie" but this time a glance from his wife silenced him altogether. "Is now Mrs. M'Carthy, I suppose?" Mr. Heron continued. "Give George your address; we shall want to see you again," she said. And as he took her hand at parting, her eyes met his and seemed to be asking questions. The interview had been very unpleas ant for him. He felt sunk, hopelessly lowered in his own estimation; his mind reverted to his last day in Emersonville, and the disgrace seemed too deep to be effaced. Whatever he might become, he had been a shameless adventurer. There would be always one place in the world where people had the right to think meanly of him. Two days after he received a telegram. "Meet me 2.30 American Bar, Criterion. - Clayton." He went, and was surprised to find not the son but the father. "Guess you expected to see George," said Mr. Clayton; "but he and Susie went on to Paris this morning. Sit down and have something." He made the usual inquiries about health. 'Quite well," said Mr. Clayton. "The fogs seem to suit us. We have been here some time. We are stopping in a hotel on Jermyn Street, just in the next block." There was an awkward pause, and the arrival of the drinks that had been ordered was a relief. Mr. Heron bent over his glass and trifled with his straw. Mr. Clayton watched him with a sort of halfsmile. "This is a mighty fine city," he said at last. "There are no locomotives running round the streets here." "I owe you "Ah," said the young man, my life and "Ah," said Mr. Clayton, “don't say anything more about that." After a moment he continued: "It was only yesterday that Minnie told me why you cleared out so mighty sudden. Seems your father wasn't an earl after all. You didn't act quite square by us about it, did you now? No doubt you've been sorry for it since. That was three years ago, and we don't "Guess I'll leave you here, young man," said Mr. Clayton. "Minnie will be down directly, I expect. I've got to fetch my wife from Earls Court, where she's been having lunch." Mr. Clayton went away and he was left alone for some time, and then the door opened and the dear figure and face which had never been absent from his memory stood before him visible and actual. When Mr. Clayton returned, he observed that a rose which had been in Minnie's hair was now in Mr. Heron's coat. He was playing vigorously on the piano, Minnie listening smilingly. "That's a mighty fine piece," he said. "What is it?" "Marsch der Davidsbündler gegen die Philister," replied the pianist. Ah, I don't know Dutch; Minnie understands it, I suppose." "I'll run up-stairs and see mother," said Minnie. "Mr. Heron can go away or stop and talk to you, just as he likes." R. SHINDLER. doubt whether the part which imitation has played in the development of our race is often adequately recognized. In many of the lower animals the principle of imitation does not show itself very prominently; most of our domestic animals, profoundly as they are influenced by man, show little tendency to imitate either him or one another. As regards man, they are rather his fellow-workers than his imitators. Amongst the birds, imitation shows itself, but almost exclusively in regard to song; many of our singing birds seem to copy one another; young linnets adopt the notes of various singing birds under which they may be brought up;* thrushes are said to follow the leading of other birds, and I cannot doubt that some or many of the utterances of the clever starling are imitative. Jackdaws, magpies, parrots, are all celebrated for the cleverness with which they learn and imitate sounds both musical and articulate; and the mocking-bird of the United States and the Menura superba of Australia remind us that this imitative quality is not confined to the Old World. But in these birds it would seem as if this quality were confined to sounds-for none of those which I have mentioned show, I believe, any general tendency towards imitation. The skill of the magpie in pronouncing words and even short sentences is well known. But Mr. Blackwall says that after almost daily investigation of its habits, he has never known it to display any unusual capacity for imitation in a state of nature, though when domesticated it appears to have this faculty more highly developed than almost any other British bird.f But when we reach the monkeys the matter is different. Of all the lower animals, they are the most distinguished for their mimicry a mimicry which extends to most of the actions of the body, and even the expressions of the face, but which strangely does not appear to extend to sounds; for it has been observed, and I believe justly, that monkeys, even when long in captivity, never attempt to imitate the sounds of the human voice, but on the contrary retain their own peculiar sounds for pleasure and pain, for anger and joy.‡ It has indeed been suggested that, with regard to the lower animals, the faculty of imitation plays a larger part, and instinct * Barrington, in Blackwall's Researches in Zoology, † Blackwall, Researches, p. 158. p. 301. See Vogt, Mémoire sur les Microcéphales; Mémoires de l'Institut National Génévois, 1866, pp. 168, 169. |