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and that is what ails you, that you don't get on.
Besides, education does not make a genius —
Cairns was born one/

Dick was not affronted. He laughed, and
rose from his finished breakfast, extending his
arms wearily still : 'If Cairns was born a
genius so was I born a lazy, idle boy,' said he,
and cast himself at full length into the easy
chair which he rolled to the window. After
staring out for a minute at the very few and
limited objects of observation that the street
afforded, he gazed with an air of scrutiny at
Winny, and asked if her bonnet was quite the
thing. It was a fine white dunstable, trimmed
with maize-coloured ribbons and ears of

' It is quite the thing for the country, Dick ;
I always wear a straw bonnet,' said she ; but
she thought of Miss Denham's advice.

* You old maid ! beginning to talk of always


wearing one sort of bonnet. Does anybody
tell you you are pretty ? '

* Nobody, Dick. I don't live much in the
way of flattering speeches — but I am glad if
you think so,' and Winny almost blushed.

* You are pretty — a great deal too pretty to
be mewed up in a schoolroom all the days of
your life. But you have got no money, and I
am afraid that will have to be your lot. Fellows
run after the girls with money — they cannot
afford to marry without. I cannot myself.'

Winny looked at her brother with eyes run-
ning over with laughter, and thought if her
choice lay between wasting her sweetness on
the desert air of spinsterdom, and spending it
on a man like himself, she would most surely die
in the wilderness. The sight of Dick was a
disenchantment. If their mother had been
familiar with such a drowsy morning face and
figure in their poor father who was dead, no
wonder that she promulgated warnings against
rash entrance into the bonds of matrimony!
Winny could not have lived with such a mate
— he would have broken her heart — so she told


herself. And yet she felt a passion of pity for
Dick — yearning pangs of natural affection that
could avail him nothing. Ignorant as she was
of young mens lives in London, she could
discern that Dick's was not a o^ood life ; that
he was slipping all down hill, and very fast

Dick would not encounter Mr Caleb when he
returned for Winny, but sent her quickly away
downstairs. ' Tell him I am engaged — say I am
just going out — I shall see you again w^hen you
are in Welbeck Street, and I'll take you to any-
thing you please then.' He was peremptory
to be rid of her, and Winny did not vex him by
lingering. But neither did she make his excuses
to Mr Caleb — that was not necessary. The
old painter had discernment. Winny's counten-
ance was overcast, and her spirits were sub-
dued. She did not mention her brother, and
Mr Caleb, who had known a score of Dick
Heskeths in his time, was at no loss to guess

They went to the Academy, and saw pictures,
and Winny forgot her new trouble for the time.


But that sort of trouble which is driven into the
shade when fresh and lively interests prevail
has a trick of re-appearing so often. Winny
was perpetually conscious of It as a depressing-
influence and an abatement of her pleasure.
Though Mr Caleb said nothing to her about
Dick, his wife was not so reticent.

' Mr Caleb fears that you have not much
satisfaction in your brother — young men are
often a great plague,' she said with the good
intention of administering comfort, minus the
tact. Winny was not of a mind to discuss Dick
with Mrs Caleb. That lady went on : ' It is an
immense drawback to girls when their fathers
and brothers are a discredit to them. I have a
dear friend, Lizzie Crofton, whose father is a
dreadful character : — last season I was in hopes
that Sandford (you know the name, the portrait-
painter) had serious thoughts of her, and I
dropped him a word of encouragement. He
was round enough : ' There Is not a nicer girl
In London than Lizzie Crofton, but a man
would have to be very far gone to dream of
marrying into that family ' — and he has married


a oflrl out of Essex since. Then Mrs Griffith's
only son has just got into mischief — he is on
bail now ; but it is a terrible thing for his

Winny had grown pale, but she smiled
bravely as she answered : ' Dick is not a dread-
ful character, nor has he got into any terrible
mischief. He was brought up in honest
principles, but he is deficient in energy. He
will hardly be a prosperous man, but I do not
live in fear that he will disgrace us.' Winny
had correctly formulated her floating ideas
about Dick in this speech on the impulse of the
moment. She knew the advantage and enjoy-
ment that she might have derived from her
brother had he been in propitious circumstances^
well-liked and respected, and considerate for
her ; but that was not Dick, and girls cannot
change their brothers, they can only make
the best of them. The tears sprang to her
eyes at this thought, but she resolutely winked
them away.

' I would not fret about him whatever he is,
or is to be/ Mrs Caleb with dispassionate philo-


sophy advised. ' We are going to Mrs Gofton's
reception to-night, so pray don't make your eyes

Winny did not make her eyes red. She
endeavoured, and not unsuccessfully, to cheer
up, and put her trouble behind her. Mrs
Gofton s reception was something quite novel,
and amused her exceedingly — it was the first
grand party, as she naively observed, to which
she had ever been where there was not room
for everybody to sit down, or even to get in-
doors, at once. It was a warm summer even-
ing, and the company overflowed into the
verandah and into the garden. There were pre-
sent many celebrities in literature and art, both
native and foreign, at whom Winny gazed with
much respect, and some surprise that they were
not more unlike common people. An amiable
editor was there with whom she had a corre-
spondence; he engaged her in talk, and told
her who was who, and finally introduced her
to a lady of benevolent aspect, wearing a jewel
on her forehead, who made her sit down on a
little wicker chair by the red couch she nearly


filled. Then WInny had to tell whence she
came, and what she had done, and was admo-
nished that the scribbling which she found so
easy now would grow hard as any other work
for a living by and by ; and that she would soon
have to choose between it and her teaching,
which she would give up. And the same said
another notable lady, of a younger generation,
whose literary productions Winny had a vast
admiration for. Winny was very sprightly in
her answers, and Mr Caleb was pleased to be
inquired of who was that charming bit of sun-
shine that he had brought to ]\Irs Gofton's
reception. Winny thought a great deal of this
evening's entertainment. She was quite right
to do so. It was a sample that had to serve
her a long while. She never went to
another. It w^as a feature of her experience
that her pleasant times never repeated them-

A private view of pictures at a noble house,
a visit to the play, to the opera (not ' Faust '
with Mario in it), a tea-drinking at the amiable


editor's, and a Sunday afternoon at a suburban
cottage where lived and wrote that notable lite-
rary lady who was Winny's admiration, brought
her week's stay with the Calebs to a conclu-
sion. It seemed a week as long as two, for the
constant succession of new faces and strange
things that she had seen in the course of it.

At her Uncle Hay land's, life was taken
much more quietly. Very little amusement
was possible there. Lucy, without any pro-
nounced ailment, had developed into a confirmed
invalid ; and Mr Hayland was in a similar
way, though he ate and slept well, and took
his walks as regularly as clock-work. Aunt
Agnes was genteel as ever; Herbert was
absent from home, and Ellen was a brisk, busy
bee in the household, everybody's patient,
affectionate little care-taker.

Winny had her first hours there with Lucy
alone. She was not sorry. Lucy was ever her
favourite cousin ; the one she was most unlike,
yet the most in sympathy with. Poor Lucy,
she went more and more softly — a fading figure,
a sweet voice, a heavenly countenance. The


Others had each some call of pious duty to
obey. ' Leave Cousin Winny with me — we will
entertain each other until you come back,' Lucy
said. * I will play you some of the music that
you used to love.' Winny acquiesced with a
sad, amused recollection of those Sunday
evenings long ago when Lucy's sweet, sacred
music exorcised her fractious humours.

It was about the middle of the afternoon,
and the muslin curtains were closed over the
windows to make a shade from the sultry
midsummer heat, but the incessant roll and
rumble of carriages filled the air with dusty
turmoil. Winny ceased speaking at intervals,
waiting for it to pass. Lucy smiled, and re-
minded her that she was in London.

* It is the height of the season, the noisiest
time of the year,' she said. ' Papa has con-
sented to go to the sea next month for my sake
— but I do not expect it will be of any use.
What an enviable little mortal yoic are, Cousin
Winny ! you breathe of the fresh country air —
you make me think of sweet-brier ! ' She took
Winny's face in her two hands, and kissed her,


French fashion, on both cheeks, as if she enjoyed
it. She was in an expansive mood — Winny
seemed no stranger, though it was years since
they had met. * Do you remember the big
pears in the doctor's garden at Avranches ?
I wish we were there this hot, thirsty after-
noon ! Those six months at Avranches were
the happiest months of my Hfe. I often think
of them, often ! '

Then she opened the piano, and played
between-whiles as they talked together. It
was just the same music as she played in the
old upstairs parlour on Castle Green — long-
drawn, melodious chords to set holy thoughts
to. Winny listened in a dream — once Lucy
looked round in her face, wondered what her
eyes meant, and played on silently until a low
sigh warned her that Winny was awake again,
and restored to the present. Probably Lucy's
life was, on the whole, duller than Winny's ;
she had suffered no disappointment, resisted no
temptation, been set to no toil that could be
talked of Her experience was bounded by
sensations of disease, never violently painful,


and by depression of spirits that never Increased
beyond the tedlousness of the day, or the power
of a little variety to lighten It. From her
point of view, the life of her Cousin WInny was
quite a business, a scene of changes, labours,

Lucy was justified In her private reflection
that WInny would not have cared to change
shoes with her. After a turn or two amongst
old reminiscences, they began to speak of
later, maturer days. Lucy was the chief in-

' Tell me how the world has used you,
Cousin WInny. I shall not tell again, but
I have a fancy to know. I always thought
you would turn out good and happy, though
you were a restive, unlucky little girl.'

' The world has used me fairly, so far. I
am restive still — that Is, I am not compliant
against my will. As for luck — I don't know
whether I have much luck to boast of — it is
my disposition to be easily satisfied ; and I
am sure it is foolish to cry for the moon.'

* That is something achieved ! All my life I


have been weakly crying for the moon, and
so has mamma.'

' Vote, Cousin Lucy ! while I believed the
song of your heart to be one of constant resig-
nation ! '

' It was a painful, enforced resignation until
lately. They used to tell me I had talents
and powers, but my health did not permit me
to cultivate them. If I tried — and I did try —
then I suffered, then I was sullen and resentful.
But that is over now. Perhaps health and
powers too will be made perfect in heaven. I
feel a flood of music in my heart, my throat
aches, my eyes fill with tears to sing, and I
am voiceless. Madame Bouvier calls me her
dumb angel, and says, maybe, mortal tongues
are loosed in Paradise.'

Winny, in her plenitude of life, was pro-
foundly touched. Nothing she anticipated,
nothinor she desired less for herself than
translation to Paradise ! She had been struck
by no such sorrow as makes death desirable,
or even realisable.

Lucy went on in her minor key : 'It has


come to this with me now, that I do not set
my will against God's will. I am not fretted
or afraid any longer — I am willing to be taken,
and my mind is very quiet and peaceful — so
peaceful that I sometimes think the time must
be near.' She played softly on. Winny was
silent from idle words of hope, where hope
there was none, and of comfort where the best
was in possession. Lucy was silent too, and
understood her compassion better than if she
had spoken. She herself changed the subject,
and wished to hear of Winny's literary success.
Winny bade her not talk of success — that was
the name for ripe fruit, not for early leaves and
buds such as hers were yet ; she did not know
that she should ever attain to success — give
her, at least, ten years for that.

* But are you not delighted when people
praise you ? ' Lucy inquired. ' Papa treasures
the scraps of poetry that I write — he would be
pleased to have them printed.'

Winny laughed with rather more indifference
than she felt. ' Nobody that I care for praises
me. Dick tells me that he would not write at



all unless he could write better, and my mother 3
prejudice is as active as ever. If I do succeed
it will be in spite of discouragement. Strangers
occasionally show me a little courtesy, tempered
with curiosity. And the critics are civil.'

Lucy smiled : ' I should be unbearable if I
had written a book, and the critics were civil
to me ! Papa and mamma would be filled with
pride and vanity. Herbert would not dare to
quiz, if he had the inclination. They would
bind me in morocco and gold ! '

* I could enjoy your foolish, genial domestic
atmosphere, but providence decrees that I
must stand out in the cold. I don't expect to
be bought, much less bound — there are always
the libraries. Just before I came to London
I went to the bank with my mother to pay in
a cheque. The old manager ventured to make
her a compliment on her daughter, and what
do you think was her reply — in her very
chilliest voice : *' I am told she has written a
pretty novel — I do not profess to be a judge of
novels. It was my desire that she should be a
good governess ? " '


Lucy laughed In her gentle, kindly manner :
* Your mother never did indulge tender foibles,
Winny ; the last time poor Dick was here, he
complained of that/

' I don't complain of it. I have a perfect
reliance on my mother. She is not gushing,
but she is to be trusted. As for Dick, I have
seen him.' To have seen Dick rendered
explanation unnecessary. Lucy drew a long
breath, as if even to think of him was a weari-
ness. He had tired them all out in Welbeck
Street with his whims, his idleness, and his
constant lack of pence.

He came that evening to tea, and ever}^body
was pleasant except his Uncle Hayland. Mr
Hayland found it needful to keep Dick at a
distance. The young man paid him none the
greater respect for that. Dick bore himself
with the air of an injured person towards his
uncle. He left early, having appointed Winny
to come to his lodgings the next day at a
certain hour, to be taken to see some of the
lions of London. Winny went punctually,
escorted by her Aunt Agnes, and was admitted


— but Dick's room was empty. The woman of
the house told her that Mr Hesketh had gone
out at noon, saying, that he should be back pre-
sently, and if his sister came in his absence, she
was to wait.

Winny waited — first in hope, then in patience.
She seated herself to look out of the window,
but it was a quiet street, and there was nothing
to see except the sun burning on the upper
stories of the opposite houses, and a stall of
vegetables, fruit, and flowers, presided over by
an umbrageous, black-bonnetted woman, who
knitted on a blue yarn stocking in intervals of
business. The hours were tediously lengthened.
The billiard-table was covered over now, and
the cues in the rack. The chess-board was also
out of sight. There were books about, of religi-
ous controversy chiefly, Dick having a turn for
that — perhaps as a makeweight for his defec-
tive religious practice ; and there was a folio of
French social caricatures, puzzling to Winny in
their dull monotony of vice. She shut that up
soon, and reverted to the window. The sun
had passed from the houses opposite, and the


shades of evening were drawing on. As there
was yet no sign of Dick, Winny began to think
of finding her way back to her uncle's house.
It was not far from nine o'clock when her uncle,
seated in his accustomed corner by the furthest
window in company with his big Bible, espied
her coming up the street alone — no, not alone ;
for trotting alongside her, agreeably convers-
ing, was a small, barefooted Arab of the pave-
ment, carrying embraced in his two arms a fine
white-flowering geranium. Winny, in the
emergency of not knowing her w^ay, had hired
him for a guide, and had found him amusing.

Mr Hay land was highly displeased with
Dick's behaviour. Aunt Agnes excused it as
his thoughtlessness. ' His selfishness — call it
by its right name,' said her husband, correcting
her. ' Dick fell in with something or somebody
more engrossing, and he did not choose to put
himself out for the mere duty of keeping his
appointment with his sister.'

' I daresay he forgot all about his ap-
pointment,' said Winny, also anxious for a


' I have found that Dick has a very fine
memory on his own account/ rejoined her uncle
drily. * He forgets only what it would be a
little trouble for him to remember.'

The next morning's post brought Winny a
note of apology from her brother, fully assured
of pardon for his failure of yesterday, and
asking her to give him another chance to-day.
Winny, however, declined to risk it, and wrote
back that he must come for her. He did come
— about two hours later than he was expected.
Indeed, it was already towards evening. He
had not decided where to take her to, but when
they had walked some distance, a play-bill
announcing the last night of a famous actress in
a favourite part suggested the theatre. The
stall tickets were seven shillings each, at which
Dick whistled, but Winny said she would pay
for both. Then her bonnet was an impedi-
ment ; her dress of black silk and mantle of
lace might pass, but by no means her bonnet.
She took it off, and authority good-naturedly
consented to her admission into the hindermost
row of seats. She might have enjoyed the


play if Dick, who had seen it twice, had not
relieved his tedium by talking and laughing at
her ear until he got them both stared and
frowned at for the disturbance they were to
their neighbours. Dick thought she had
become a very precise, punctilious body, and
she decided in her private mind that he was
not a desirable escort to places of public

It was an unfortunate evening altogether.
On the way home, Dick told his sister a
moving tale of his disadvantages for want of
ready money, and twenty pounds (an inoppor-
tune accession of fairy-money from the amiable
editor in the morning) found their way from
Winny's pocket to his. He left her at ]\Ir
Hayland's door without going In. When
Winny narrated where they had been, her
uncle was gravely displeased. No one from
his house, with his consent, ever entered a
theatre. Poor Winny had to hear a lecture
against those gates of perdition. And when
she let her Aunt Agnes know of her benevo-
lence to Dick, and that was communicated to


her uncle, he was more annoyed than by her
other escapade. Dick's meanness did not
astonish Mr Hay land (lazy, poor men are
bound to be mean), but he expected more com-
mon sense from WInny, and he told her that
she had better give him her money to keep
while she stayed in London. Dick had
pleaded the want of cash to pay arrears of rent.
His uncle stated his belief that WInny's twenty
pounds would be dissipated at the bllllard-
table ; for that was the sphere where Dick's
real energies were expended. Perhaps WInny
was provoked with herself Her aunt assured
her It was useless, and worse than useless, to
try to help Dick with loans or gifts of money ;
some day, perhaps, he might turn over a fresh
leaf of his own accord, for he had a streak of
quite uncommon caution In his character ; but,
for the present, he had given himself to a life
of desultory work and steady amusement, and
Winny might easily succeed In Impoverish-
ing herself without conferring on him one Iota
of permanent benefit.

These were hard words, and brought a flush


of shame to Winny's face. She considered
meanness and trickery about money the lowest
of vices. She endeavoured to extenuate Dick's
acts by the severity of his difficulties and temp-
tations, but Aunt Agnes perceived the danger
of this, and would not allow her to remain under
any misconception.

* Dick has no gratitude,' said she. ' His uncle
has been very good to him, and he has made
him anything but a good return. I was fond
of Dick's liveliness at first, but he turns sour
and morose when he is thwarted of his pleasures
and denied the means of indulofence. He has
a prudence that is selfish, and a lavishness that
is selfish too. Dick might correct his faults if
he could be prevailed on to take to task-work ;
but to enjoy his liberty he refuses to accept a
situation, and proposes to do some business
on commission. It must be very little business
that he has to do ; for he Is always needy, and
if he feels that he has you to sponge upon, that
will not mend him — you will not find him
modest in the use of his advantage. We have
had experience of Dick, and you must, you


really must, show him a stiff upper lip ; he will
be angry, and quarrel with you, perhaps, but
never mind that. Your uncle is very vexed,
and calls it cruel to rob you of your earnings.
Your mother has grand notions of making
women bread-winners — it is much if every one
of them does not become answerable for some
good-for-nothing man who will live in idleness
on the fruits of her labour.'

Winny found nothing to reply to all this, nor
did she get anything more satisfactory from
Dick in the next interview they had. His
business was not capable of being made clear
to her comprehension, but she ascertained that
it was non-productive. Just as they were about
parting, it occurred to Winny to ask him a
question. ' How much have you left of my
money, Dick ? ' With an audacity of impu-
dence that was quite unparallelled either in her
experience or her reading, Dick thrust his hand
into his pocket, and displayed upon his open
palm two copper coins. * Then it is true, and
you do gamble, Dick ? I hope, at any rate, you


paid your lodgings ? ' said she with cool acquies-
cence in accomplished facts.

Dick laughed confusedly, and admonished
her in the language of Scripture, saying : * When
thou givest a gift, give not uncomfortable words
therewith ! '

' I did not give you that money, Dick ; I
only lent it to you, and I expect you to pay it
back,' she rejoined, administering the correc-
tion as firmly as her Uncle Hayland could
have done himself, and in a voice just like her
mother's when she was displeased.

Dick was sobered. ' You shall have it, Winny,*
said he. ' All in good time.' And Winny did
not spoil the effect by weak relenting.

Mr Hayland was a man of his word. In
the course of the week he redeemed a promise
given when Winny was in London before, to
take her to Windsor and Hampton Court.
Both excursions were perfect successes. And
another long day she spent with him at Kew
Gardens. The good old man's lot had all his


life been cast in the town, but he loved the
country far better. He had the strongest

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