present man was getting a little tired of signing checks. "These fellows," he said, "expect a thing to pay the moment it is started. They ought to be proud to invest their spare money for the benefit of literature." "Of course they ought," replied Vionnet. "Of course it's what you'd do yourself, if you were a capitalist, Mr. Harington.” "Would I? I'll be hanged if I'd ever write another line, or if ever a periodical of any kind should enter my house. No: I'd buy a yacht, and go to the South Sea Islands, out of the reach of print." "You'd find English missionaries there, distributing religious tracts. You English have the saddest and gloomiest religion in the world, and you do your best to make other people as sad and gloomy as yourselves." "Aye, we are stupid enough in that respect. We think what is good for us must be good for other people." "To return to your journal," said Vionnet, after a pause. "I can't find you a capitalistand I suppose you know best where that sort of game is hunted down. But if you wouldn't mind taking a certain line of policy, I think I could secure you a subsidy. You might use it yourself, or hand it to your proprietor, as you thought best," he continued, laughing. "What line of policy do you want taken ?" asked Harington. "That sort of thing seldom answers, you know." "I don't believe in it at all myself: it is seldom advantageous to either party. But I happen to hear of such things now and then. At this moment there is a great personage on the other side of the Channel who wants certain matters explained to the English public. think he is mistaken, but that's his affair. wants a series of articles printed, and will give ten pounds an article. Is it worth your while to take them? They will of course be so written as to suit the style of your journal." "This is the proper way to see a sunrise," said the Frenchman. "I have seen one or two on the mornings of great battles," remarked Harington. “You appreciate a sunrise when you're not very likely to see a sunset." "It is a kind of appreciation I should hardly care about. By-the-way, it is getting on towards my bed-time: if I stay up too late I get chilled. You had better sleep here: I can find you a room: then we can talk over business at breakfast.' "All right," said Harington. "I am rather fond of sleeping wherever I happen to find myself." He found himself, on the present occasion, in a comfortable chamber, furnished not at all in the French fashion, but with a bedstead of ample width and length, and abundant material for tubbing, including a shower-bath. "This is very jolly," he said to his entertainer. "With a clear conscience one might manage to sleep pretty well here." "We'll breakfast about twelve," said Vionnet, "if that will suit you." Tom Harington, pretty well tired, was soon between the sheets, dreaming of Vionnet's promised subsidy, and of the irresistible fascinations of divine Mrs. Blogg. CHAPTER XXXIX. KETTLEDRUM AT BLOGG'S. "Tea veniente die, tea decedente bibamus." Ir must not be imagined that the astute M. Vionnet had forgotten Madame de Longueville Ior that he was not somewhat surprised at reHeceiving from her no copies of correspondence between Cecile and her lover. He could not quite understand the suspension of this correspondence. When he thought about it, he merely thought that there was perhaps a lover's quarTen pounds a week struck Tom Harington | rel, or that Colonel Trafford had gone abroad, as being a sensible and satisfactory sum. He did not refuse. He drank a long draught of champagne-cup to the health of the "great personage." He thought that he had made rather a good night's work by interfering to save M. Vionnet from a thrashing. There was a faint gleam of dawn in the east by the time the two acquaintances had finished their colloquy. The garden below looked inviting: there was green lawn surrounding parterres of geranium, verbena, heliotrope, petunia: some great plane-trees, giants, with patches of white rind upon their trunks, defying the smoke of London, waved abundant foliage in the air of summer. These, the favorite trees of Helen of Troy, are naturalized in the squares and gardens of Troynovant. or something of the sort. That Madame could connive at meetings between Colonel Trafford and Mademoiselle de Castelnau did not for a moment occur to him, chiefly because he felt that she was in the power of those who employed him, and that she dared not deviate from the orders given her. So, as there was other business in town which required his attention, he grew absorbed in that business, and gave Madame de Longueville a holiday. It will be seen from this fact that spies are like other men in one regard-they don't understand women. If you want to calculate what a woman will do in any emergency, think of every thing she possibly can do, and the thing you don't think of is what she will do. This is as certain as any thing in Euclid. Hyperion's daughter, Lady of the Light, was Vionnet, as we have seen, had instructions to about to emerge from her palace when Haring- waste a little money-a mere bagatelle, conton and Vionnet strolled through the open win-sidering whence it came-on securing the advodow into the garden. cacy by English journals of a certain scheme. "Are you ready for breakfast?" asked the Frenchman, when with much trouble he had induced Harington to open his eyes. He had lived long enough in England to know | cence by the cool atmosphere in which it had the futility of this process, and to be aware that dwelt. Tom Harington drank his liquid, though Englishmen are said to be ruled by their felt refreshed, and tumbled asleep again. It newspapers, they are not by any means. Eng-was a real tumble-like that of a pigeon in the lishmen, he was well assured, are governed by summer air. So deep did he fall into the their breeches pockets. However, it was his voluptuous abyss of sleep, that Vionnet could simple duty to obey orders: and his chance hardly wake him when he entered his room an meeting with Tom Harington gave him an op- hour or two later. portunity of beginning to carry out his instructions. He rather liked the idea of showing himself grateful to Harington for saving him from what had seemed likely to be an uncommonly good thrashing. I'll say this for Tom: had he known what a scoundrel he was rescuing, or how thoroughly that scoundrel deserved the punishment from which he rescued him, he would not have moved a step to help him. For the man who was "pitching into " Vionnet was one Captain de Rohan, a famous Garibaldian, who had excellent reason for what he was doing. Next morning, Harington awoke late, and could not at first remember where he was. This, by-the-way, was not an uncommon case with Tom-who had an easy erratic habit of settling down at night wherever there was a bed handy. He is without exception the most independent fellow in Europe: nothing disconcerts him if you were to assure him that he would be hanged next morning, he would say, "All right; let's have supper." And after a joyous supper he would go quietly to bed, and be perfectly content to go into the other world after breakfast. "This is not Sarum Street," he said to himself, when he awoke next morning. He turned himself lazily round, and looked towards the light. "I behold trees growing outside the window, and I should greatly like to see a tree grow in Sarum Street. Moreover, this is a spring mattress on which I repose, and it is my belief that Mrs. Codd's mattresses are stuffed with potatoes and hard-boiled eggs, with a few flints occasionally to vary the pressure. is pleasant. I shall go to sleep again." This He turned round with that intent, but could not effect his purpose. "Where the deuce am I?" he said, renewing his soliloquy. “I begin to have a vague reminiscence of a fellow who played Mephistopheles to my Faust last night, and led this innocent child into much peril. I hope I've woke up in the right world. People who have cloven feet ought not to be allowed to wear boots. Whatever world it is, I'm horribly thirsty. Is there a bell ? There is. I'll ring." He rang, and within two minutes there was a modest tap at the door. "Enter," he cried. A little soubrette opened the door. "Bring me some brandy-and-seltzer iced," he said, emphasizing the last word as if he were doubtful whether ice would live in the locality wherein he found himself. But there was no mistake about it. The seltzer was cured of its desire for efferves "What the devil's the matter ?" asked Tom, still half asleep. "Parbleu!" said Vionnet, "you English are incorrigible. Why, you have been drinking brandy already." "Of course I have," replied Tom. "Brandy in the morning!" shrieked Vionnet (it was then two o'clock); "why, it would kill any body but an Englishman. You should have had some Beaune and iced water." "All right," said Tom Harington, who was beginning to wake. "It won't kill me. I'll have the Beaune at once, if you like to fetch a bottle. You needn't bring any iced water." 66 'Cochon d'Anglais," said Vionnet to himself. But he rang for the Beaune, and had the satisfaction of seeing Tom Harington drink it from a tumbler in less time than it takes me to state the fact. If any reader doubts this, let him be made aware that Tom Harington is a very fast drinker, and that I am a very slow writer. "Now I'll dress," said Tom. "What time is it?" "About half-past two," said Vionnet, consulting a superb gold watch, which looked like sixty guineas' worth, and made Tom wonder what Attenborough would lend upon it. "By Jove! I wonder whether I've any thing to do to-day. What day of the week is it, old fellow ?" 66 "Friday," answered Vionnet. "Confound it! I ought to have been at the 'Whisper' office at ten. What the deuce am I to do ?" "Bathe and dress and breakfast," replied the Frenchman. "This is a world in which the best policy is to take things quietly. If you're away from the office, no doubt they'll manage without you. If they don't, you can blow them up when you get there. Come, say you'll dress, and I'll go and order breakfast:" "All serene," said Tom. "I'll be down in the twinkling of a bedpost.' Vionnet went off to order breakfast, and Tom Harington popped into his shower-bath, exclaiming, on his way, "That fellow's a philosopher, I'll be hanged if he isn't. He takes things coolly-icily, you might say. I thought I was a tolerably cool hand, but this Frenchman beats me." There followed a rush and roar of water, and Tom emerged from his shower-bath looking like. a half-drowned lion. When he made his way to the room in which A they had passed the previous evening, he found | Vionnet alone smoking a cigarette. "This place," said the Frenchman, "is very quiet in the morning, which is one reason why I like it. My friends and countrymen who sleep here go abroad to their engagements, and not till five or six o'clock do many of them return. I have much to think about-many plans to mature; and I often walk up and down that gravel, under the trees, smoking and thinking, for hours together. But you are ready for breakfast, Adolphe ?" Breakfast was ready. Every body knows the sort of thing. Not tea and toast, eggs and bread and butter. No: lamb cutlets aux pointes d'asperges, a mayonnaise of lobster, kidneys aux fines herbes, a delicious omelette, etc., etc., with two or three long-necked bottles of the wines of Bordeaux and the Rhine. "Where are you going after breakfast ?" asked Vionnet. "I must go to my office in the Strand." "Après ?" "I hardly know. I promised to call at my friend Blogg's, to see how the ladies are after their dissipation. Suppose you come with me. You seemed quite delighted with Miss Blogg," he said, laughing. The hansom arrived, and took them rapidly to the street of journalism, the Strand. Tom Harington's paper seemed to have been getting on extremely well without its editor, and he was not long detained at the establishment. While he transacted his mystical business, Vionnet smoked a cigarette, and amused himself by wondering why newspaper offices are for the most part dirty sordid dens, in which you can not spend five minutes without longing for a bath and a change of linen. "You may educate authors as much as you will, But the fragrance of Grub Street remains with them still." Another odd fact is, that though an immense amount of writing is necessarily done in these places, nobody can ever find a good pen there, or a civilized sheet of paper. Byron hath it that "Good workmen never quarrel with their tools," so I suppose that when the writing-fit is on him, a great journalist can write with any thing on any thing. Alexander Dumas is said always to use as writing-implement an ordinary wooden skewer cut to a point, and he has got through as much successful work as most people. Tom Harington having finished his business, they strolled out into the Strand. I always think that street the second in London in point of interest, Piccadilly being of course the first by a long distance. It is an unfragrant street; Rimmel's perfumery and Burgess's pickles infect its atmosphere, and there is always a strong "Well," said Tom Harington, “at any rate odor of cooking. These are drawbacks: but Blogg is a good fellow." "Is he ?" "Yes, and a confoundedly clever fellow both in law and literature. I've an immense admiration for Blogg. He's a young fellow of unquestionable genius. He'll die Lord Chancellor, if he lives long enough. Yes, I like Blogg." "I should think more of him if he could stand a glass or two of wine." 66 Ah," said Tom Harington, "he is very temperate. I wish I could be. His moderation is one of the things for which I admire him." "And you are a countryman of Shakspeare's!" exclaimed Vionnet. "Do you know why men like this poor Blogg are temperate ? Because they dare not be otherwise. Because they have no brain, no backbone, like nos autres. Because they are inferior animals. Pshaw, my dear friend, you are a man who ought to know better. These feeble creatures of the Blogg order have their use in creation, no doubt, but they don't develop into Lord Chancellors. Do you think Lord Westbury is a teetotaller?" Will you "Not likely," said Tom Harington, "I admit. But I must go to my office. come-and then make a call with me on the Blogg family?" the philosophic nose must sometimes suffer, when the philosophic mind is exploring the busy haunts of men. The best street in this metropolis ought to be the street of the future-the true Thames Street, which we now call the Embankment. I don't know what the wiseacres who govern us intend to do with that street: if, however, they do the right thing, and give us a wide carriage-way, and a row of first-class shops, hotels, theatres beyond, Thames Street will be the noblest highway in the world. When such a street exists from London Bridge to Chelsea Bridge, on both sides of the river, foreigners will be forced to acknowledge that London is the finest city in the world. But alas! we are at the mercy of men like King Thwaites, and Bazalgette, his Prime Minister. "Where shall we go?" asked Harington. "You talked of calling on the ladies who are graced with the musical name of Blogg." "It is rather early yet. Suppose we try a steamer, and see if there is any air on the riv speculates as to what different parts of the universe they would be found in, if the engine-boiler were to burst, and blow them to atoms. Then Harington thought some brandy and iced water at the "Shades" would do him good, but could not induce his friend to join him. Vionnet liked to keep his brain cool, and knew better than to scorch it with alcohol. After much further dallying of one kind and another-for Tom could never make up his mind to go straight anywhere-they found themselves in a carriage on the Metropolitan Railway, making their way through that noisy cacodorous tunnel to the modest mansion of the Bloggs. 66 'I've got a box at the Mastodon Theatre for them to-night, if they like to go. There's a new play by Cassius Balderdash, which will make a terrific sensation." "Those young ladies seem fond of going to theatres with you," 99 said Vionnet. "Does Blogg like it?" thousand feet without hurting himself, and the balloon bursts with the villain in it." "Dear me!" said Mrs. Blogg, mincingly. "I wonder how they manage to do it?" "There is nothing," remarked Vionnet, gravely, "in which you English have so much improved as in your drama. Shakspeare, if he could reappear, would be amazed at such a magnificent play as this by Mr. Balderdash." Vionnet was right, I think. The visitors were regaled with biscuits and sherry, excellent Marsala from the grocer's, at one guinea per dozen. By-the-way, that was a good saying of my friend Mr. Hannay's on the war between grocers and publicans-when, the former having become venders of wine, the latter took to selling tea. "The grocers fired grape," he said; "and the others returned it with canister?” The grocer's acid sherry was not the sole beverage; afternoon tea arrived, and was dispensed by Mrs. Blogg with that elegance and "Don't know. He likes the supper after it. grace for which she is famous. It was weak He does what his wife tells him." "Admirable husband!" The Bloggs lived in one of those dreary suburban streets in which every house is exactly like its neighbor-streets of such intolerable monotony that their existence suffices to account for the fact that Hanwell and Colney Hatch are always full of patients. Rather than inhabit one of those dingy houses, I would dwell in a mud hovel on any breezy common in the loneliest parts of England-rather indeed would I be a gypsy, and bivouac in leafy lanes, and eat roast hedgehog and grilled squirrel (both nicer than any thing you'll get in the way of an entrée at the Windham) and never enter a ceiled house again. The two ladies were sitting in state in the drawing-room: there are no parlors in these days-they went out when comfort gave way to show, and conversation to gossip. It struck the ever-observant eye of Vionnet that Mrs. and Miss Blogg had been quarrelling, but if so, they were all sweetness and smiles when the gentle men entered. And they both eagerly accepted the proposal of going to the Mastodon Theatre that evening. "It is a grand play," said Harington: "Balderdash has surprised himself. It's called Belladonna, or, Blown up in a Balloon. Belladonna is the heroine, you know. She's the Principal of a Ladies' College, but devotes her holidays to pursuits of a less reputable but more lucrative kind." At this point Miss Blogg blushed. and not good; as with wine, so with tea, reducing the duty has flooded the market with vile rubbish. Our Frenchman preferred it to the sherry. While Tom Harington was flirting in a murmur with Mrs. Blogg, Vionnet engaged Miss Blogg in conversation. "Oh!" she said, "we were talking yesterday about the seminary at which I held an appointment. Do you know I had a letter this morning from the mysterious pupil ?" "Really. What about ?" "About nothing, to tell you the truth. She fancied I was still at Sydenham, and asked me to send her by post the book she left behind— some volume of silly poetry." "Is that all ?" "Oh no: she is much more civil to me in her letter than she used to be in conversation—I suppose because she wants me to do something for her. There's the letter," said Miss Blogg, taking it from her work-basket. "She writes from The Villa, Blackwater. She says they are enjoying themselves immensely; Madame de Longueville has quite forgotten that she is a schoolmistress; and a Miss Sheldon, who went with them, has taught them to swim and to row, and catches big trout for breakfast. She isn't in the slightest hurry to come back to Sydenham. Besides, she says, there's a gentleman there whom she happens to know, who has a sailing-yacht, which is so very nice. old acquaintance, she says-Colonel Trafford." An There was a sudden crash, which caused Tom Harington to spring to his feet. The hitherto imperturbable Vionnet was holding in his hand a cup and saucer, the former full of diabolically hot tea. At the name of Colonel Trafford he dropped it, and the boiling liquid scalded his legs. He did not feel the scald: he was too horror-stricken at what he had just heard. "There are some splendid scenes in it. There's the Ladies' College with about a hundred pupils-that ends the first act, with a charming ballet. Then there's Rotten Row with real horses; and the Prince-I mustn't say what Prince-taking off his hat to BelladonBut the great scene is where the villain of the play tries to murder the hero in a bal- "What the deuce is the matter ?" exclaimed loon; but the hero jumps out, and falls about a Harington. na. "A sudden convulsive movement," he replied, regaining his self-possession. "I am occasionally subject to them. I trust you will forgive me, Mrs. Blogg, for startling you and breaking your china." Mrs. Blogg was of course forgiving. And now it occurred to Harington that he must go and dine, and dress for the theatre-so the gentlemen took their leave. "Where shall we dine?" asked Tom. this week, whatever boxes your friend Mr. Harington may get you." And he made a vicious dig at the Dutch cheese as he finished his sentence. "Very well," said Mrs. Blogg. "Sarah, shall we go and dress?" The ladies went. Blogg, in their absence, drank more of the table ale than was at all good for him, and swore mentally at Tom Harington. He never went farther than an execrative soliloquy, and the next time he saw the man he execrated he was as affable to him as if he loved him. Thus indeed he was to Tom Harington "But you'll come to my box, won't you? (of whom he was horribly jealous) on the presAnd then you must sup with me." "I can not join you to-day," answered Vionnet. "I must attend to some important business." "I will try," said Vionnet. ent occasion; and, later in the evening, as he drank Tom's iced Clicquot, and beheld him "Mind you do," exclaimed Harington, as pleasantly flirting with Mrs. Blogg, he mutterthey each climbed into a hansom. ed between his teeth, In the Blogg drawing-room all was not peace. "Really, Arabella," said Miss Blogg, "you flirt a great deal too much with Mr. Harington. I am sure you are making George very unhappy." "Does George tell you so ?" asked the matron, tossing her head. "You know he loves you a great deal too much to say a word on the subject. But I am his sister, and I can see how hurt he is." "Upon my word, Sarah," replied Mrs. Blogg, "you take a great deal upon yourself. I am the mistress of this house, and if I consent to take you in during your holidays, I think you might behave properly to me. Mr. Harington is a gentleman of whose friendship George and I are proud: and when you talk to me as you did just now, it shows that you have wicked thoughts in your head-yes, wicked thoughts, Miss." "Oh, very well," said Miss Blogg. What further interchange of elegant phrases would have occurred between the two can never be known, for at this moment entered Blogg. The ladies were immediately on their good behavior. The attorney was grimy and hungry. Not till he had polished off a good deal of mutton and French beans, washed down by ale at a shilling a gallon, did his wife venture to tell him that there was a box at the Mastodon Theatre ready for their occupa "Don't I wish I had a writ to serve on him!" CHAPTER XL. ON THE LAKE. “Τὰ τοῦ θεοῦ μὲν χρηστὰ, τοῦ δὲ Δαίμονος βαρέα.” IF I could build real castles as readily as I build castles in the air, I would certainly build one by a lake. Those inland waters, in my judgment, possess a peculiar poetry of their own. I like a lake with islands on it. I like to have an island big enough to live upon comfortably. It is a world within a world, to live on an island in a lake amid this insular England, itself an atom on the enormous ocean. When one comes to consider it, in the organization of the universe mere size is slightly considered. The toad or lizard of to-day is descended from an ancestor about the size of the Houses of Parliament-a huge eft, created just that we might not be without reptiles in case we wanted them. This England-I am with Dean Swift, and abjure “Great Britain"—is a mere morsel of an island, yet its speech and its power pervade the world. And when, somewhere about A.D. 2869, we have made satisfactory communication with the other planets in the solar system, it will be found that though this earth is among the smallest it is the chief orb of all. The pleasant lake on whose green margin many of our characters are just now dwelling has been too long neglected. The Hawksmere group were very happy. Sir Alured Vivian had not only recovered his son-he had discovered him. He began to rejoice in being a father. Valentine's brilliant intellect and daring courage delighted him. The blood of the Vivians, he thought, showed no degeneracy. The son whom he had regarded as rather a bore was now the chief interest of his life. He was absolutely surprised to find himself caring for Valentine more than he had ever cared for any of the innumerable women whom he had madly loved, and afterwards madly hated. Curiously, also, Sir Alured was well pleased |