My Little Girl. By the authors of 'Ready-Money Mortiboy' [i.e. Sir W. Besant and J. Rice.] Second edition

Chapter I. Mil

you see, was born for better things. His heart was open to all noble impulses, as his eye and his ear were at tuned to all harmonies of colour and sound. He had a quick appreciation — could take a broad view of vol.. II. I things. He knew his own powers ; for men no more really deceive themselves on the score of intellect than women on that of beauty. If a man has brains, he knows it. I reserve the rights of those that are not clever and know it, and pretend to be and are proud of their pre tensions. These are the men who go about the world with all the letters of the alphabet after their names, imposing more upon themselves than on the credulous public. There is yet another difference to be made. Some few men are proud of the evipyaa, and many men are proud of the cvya/nc. The pride of potentiality lingers long after the power of real work has altogether gone, long after the regret that tinges the first twenty years of an idle man's life.

You may see, at Oxford and Cambridge, old men who walk erect and proud, still flushed with the triumphs they achieved as boys, and proud still as men ; though their strength has been mea sured against no other competitors, and in no larger battle-field, and though the men they once defeated have long since conquered in far greater struggles, while they have grown rusty over the combination port. Philip was now at the age when regret is strongest. At no time do the possibilities of life appear so splendid as at twenty-five, or is the conscience quicker to reproach us for wasted opportunities. But, after all, what was he to do? Life is but a vague thing to a young subaltern of distinct ambitions, not clearly seeing what glorious path to take up. Often enough it be comes a merely ignoble thing, meaning billiards, betting, brandy and soda, et talia.

In Phil's case, the life he led was telling on his face — broadening his features, giving them a coarse ex pression. Our lives are stamped upon our faces. Does there not come a time in every good man's life when the hardest and unloveliest of faces softens into beauty by reason of the victory within ? Do not buy a "nose machine,'' unlovely reader. Have patience, and aim at the highest things ; and one day your face, too, shall be beautiful. As for Adonis, if he had lived the life of men about town, his face would have been coarse as theirs before the age of thirty. The coloured blood had something to do with it. It helped to make Philip at once sensitive, eager of distinction, and vain. But not every thing. Fain would I put it all down to colour. Mighty comforting thing as it is to us white men to reflect on our superiority, we must be careful about the theory.

We may be the aris tocracy of Nature. To be sure, the creature who walks about in the similitude of man, with the 1—2 leg in the middle of his foot ; whose calf is in front, and shin behind ; whose lips are thick ; whose hair is woolly; whose nose is flat; whose brain is small in front and big behind ; who has had every chance, and has clearly shown that he can do nothing so well as the white man — the full-blooded negro, I say, must be regarded as a distant cousin, a poor relation of humanity, and not a " brudder" at all. But as for the mulatto class, I don't know. Take a good quadroon mother, and a good white father, and I really cannot see why the resulting octoroon is a whit inferior to our noble selves- — the aristocrats by colour. But the influence of colour is always bad. It helped to make Philip inferior to himself.

Let it be remembered about our Phil, the back slider, that, till he was twelve years old and more, he had been accustomed to look on colour as the outward mark of a degraded race. It is all part of the same question. Take the heir of all the Talbots — I mean nothing personal to the heir of this distinguished house. Rear him in pride of birth, in contempt for lowborn people, in ideas of the responsibilities and dignities of rank — you will turn out a creature whom the whole world cannot match for pride, self-respect, self-reliance; and the virtues of courage, pluck, and endurance, which depend on these. But take the little Echo boy. Suppose he had been subjected from infancy to the same teaching and treatment, would there have been any difference? Mr. Maclntyre would have replied — " I vera much doot it."

"The future of a boy, sir," Venn said, one evening, " may be entirely prophesied from an observation of his early habits and prejudices. I have gathered, for instance, a few particulars from the boyhood of great men, which throw a wonderful light upon their after-career. When I tell you, for example, that Mr. John Stuart Mill, early in life, had to submit his nails to a disfiguring course of bitter almonds to cure him of biting them, you feel at once that you under stand the whole of the philosopher's works." "I do not, for one," said Jones. "I have also heard," he went on, "that Mr. Gladstone was birched more than once for cut ting Sunday chapel at Eton. Remark that the years pass over his head, and presently he dis establishes the Irish Church. And I believe it is a fact that Mr. Disraeli, as a boy, was wont to sit on a rail and suck sweets.

The analogies between these small circumstances and the afterlives of these men are subtle, perhaps; but, once pointed out, ought to be clear even to Jones." It was on another occasion that Venn showed how an apology might be made for a criminal on higher ground than that reached by the evi dence. He delivered his "Oratio pro Peccatore" one night in wig and gown. The following is a portion : — "Circumstances, my lud, have been against my unhappy client. Brought up under the con tempt, or fancied contempt, of society, he early manifested his superiority to the ordinary tram mels imposed on the thick-headed by becoming a prig. I do not mean assistant masters of Rugby or Marlborough, who are all prigs, but the common prig of the London streets. From a prig of Holborn, the transition was easy to being a prig on a larger scale and in a more extended sphere.

Step by step, my lud and gentlemen of the jury, you may trace everything back, not to the want of education, because my client was taught in a National School, and possesses even now a knowledge of the Kings of Israel ; but to the fact that, in the circles wherein he should have moved, his parentage was despised — his father, gentlemen of the jury, having been a barrister at law, and his mother at one time a lady of the ballet." And with this as a preface, he would go on to defend his client. You may leave out the preceding, if you like. But I would rather you read it. Meantime, it is the month of May — " Ce fut en tits doux tcnz dc Mai Oue di cuer gai, Vont cis oiscillon chantant,'' as the old French song has it. Laura has met Philip in all about six or seven times — always with another promise of secrecy.

She is to marry Philip. That is agreed upon between them. It will please Mr. Venn. Meantime, she is trying to understand her lover. He is kind to her ; but not with the tenderness of her guardian, to whom she compares him. lie is not gentle with her; but passionate, fitful, uncertain of temper — being, indeed, in constant conflict with himself. Then he was suspicious and jealous. Worse than all, he was always asking her if she loved him more, if she loved him at all, if she ever could love him. It wearied and teased her — this talk of love. "What did it mean?'' she asked herself over and over again, but could find no answer. "I don't know, Philip," she said. "What is the use of always asking?" You must know if you love me, Laura." How am I to know?" Do you love Mr. Venn?" "Oh, yes!" — her face lit up at once; "but I don't feel at all like that- — oh, not in the least bit.

If that is love, why, I suppose I do not love you." Philip ground his teeth. "Always Mr. Venn," he growled. "Tell me, Laura, do you like to be with me?" "Yes, it is pleasant — so long as you are in a good temper — to talk to you. I like you a great deal better than when I saw you first. I don't think you are such a good man as you ought to be, because I have heard you swear, which is vulgar." "You shall make me good, when we are married." "And when will that be?" she asked, suddenly. " Because, you see, I will not go on having secrets from Mr. Venn; and I must tell him soon." "Then you will give me up," said Philip, gloomily. "Very well," she returned, calmly; "that will be better than deceiving Mr. Venn. To be sure, I am only deceiving him with the idea of pleas ing him. Of course he will be pleased."

She sighed. " If only I felt quite sure! But he told me so distinctly that I was to marry a gentle man. Oh, he will be pleased. And I am sure he will like you." " Only wait a little longer, my dear." " No, Philip — I will not wait any longer. We must be married at once, or I will tell Mr. Venn all about it. I cannot bear to have secrets from him. I believe, after all, you are only laughing at me, because I am not a lady." The tears of vexation came into her eyes. Philip's face was very gloomy. It was in his moments of anger that the cloud fell upon his face which altered his expression, and changed him almost to a negro. It was then that his nostrils seemed to broaden, his lips to project, his cheeks to darken. "Tell him, then," he returned; 'and good bye." He turned on his heel — it was under the trees in Kensington Gardens.

She sat down and looked at him. There was no anger in her breast for the spretæ injuria formæ: none at the loss of a love, none at the destruction of an idol. For she had no love. Philip Durnford had never touched her heart. To please Mr. Venn — let us say it again and again — to please Mr. Venn, who wanted to see her married to a gentleman, and because she was wholly, utterly ignorant of the world and innocent of its ways, she listened to Philip's pleading, and almost offered herself to him in marriage. What did marriage mean? She knew nothing. How was she to know? She spoke to no one but Hartley Venn. She never read novels or love poetry. Her life was as secluded as that of any nun. Her lover was three or four yards off, when his expression changed as suddenly to his old one. He wavered, and half turned.

"Philip," cried Laura, "come here." He turned, and stood before her. "I think I have made a great mistake. Per haps Mr. Venn would not be pleased. Let us say good-bye, and go away from each other for ever. You will soon forget me; and before I listen to any one again, I will take Mr. Venn's advice." She spoke in a businesslike tone, as if the whole thing was a mere matter of expediency; and shook her head with an air of the most owl like wisdom, and looked more beautiful than ever. It was one of the characteristics of this young lady that she had as many different faces as there are thoughts in the brain, for she changed with each. I think her best was when she was playing in the evening — far away, in imagination, in some Paradise of her own — alone with Mr. Venn. Philip's blood leaped up in his veins.

All the love and desire he had ever entertained for her seemed multiplied tenfold. He seized her hand and held it fast. "My Laura!" he cried, "my little bird, my pet! Do you think I will let you go? At least, not till I have had another chance. It is all finished — all the waiting and hoping. I am ready to marry you whenever you like You shall name your own day, and you shall tell Mr. Venn after we are married. Only keep the secret till then." "How long am I to wait?" asked the girl. "A week — ten days, not more. We must make our preparations. I must get you all sorts of things, darling. I love you too well to let you go in a sit of passion. If I have been ill tempered at times, it is because I am sometimes troubled with many things of which you know nothing. Make a little allowance for me.

You, at least, shall never be troubled, Laura, my pet. My happiness is in your hands. Give it back to me; and, in return, all my life shall be spent in trying to please you." "You frighten me," she said. "You arc. so passionate. Why do you hold my hand so hard? Look here, Philip— I will do this. To day is Wednesday. I will meet you and many you next Wednesday, if you like. If you do not marry me then, you shall not marry me at all. And now, good-bye till Wednesday morning." She tripped away, without her heart beating a single pulsation faster; while he was left trembling in ever}* limb. _ "Wednesday!" He began to reflect how people were married. " Wednesday. A week. And there is everything to be got ready." He went to the City, to his agent's, and drew five hundred pounds. " It is my duty, Mr. Durnford," said the agent, " to remind you that you have only a thousand pounds left.

Although it is invested at ten per cent., a hundred a year is not a large income." " You are quite right," said Philip. "It is not, indeed — too small to be considered, almost. But I must have the five hundred." He lodged it at Cox's; and then went to a milliner's shop and ordered a complete trousseau, to be ready packed in a few days. They wanted to try things on; but he picked out a young lady in the shop of about Laura's dimensions, and told them to try the things on her. After that, he began to investigate the great marriage question, being as yet little conversant with legal procedure of any kind. He knew that you might go to church, or that you might go to a registrar's office; so he found out the office of a registrar, and asked what he had to do. It appeared to be very simple. You must reside for a space of three weeks in a parish— that had already been done; but, which made it impossible, he must have the names posted up in the office for a fortnight.

And so he went and bought a special licence. He went home radiant with hope and happiness, and spent a quiet evening alone, com muning with the future. The next day he went to see how the trous seau was getting on, and bought a wedding ring. Then he ordered several new* suits of clothes to be made at once, and a large stock of linen, with an undefined feeling that married life meant everything new. That was Thursday's work. Then came Friday, and, with Friday, a visit from Mr. Maclntyre. " You will not spend many more evenings with me," said Phil; "so sit down and make yourself comfortable." "And wherefore not?" asked his tutor. " Because I'm going to be married next Wed nesday." " Gude guide us!" The good man turned quite pale. " Next Wednesday? Is all settled? It is Laura, of course — I mean Miss Colling wood."

" Of course it is Laura " And how are you to be married ? ' " By special licence." Mr. Maclntyre looked as if he would ask another question, but refrained; and presently went his way. On Tuesday evening, Mr. Maclntyre looked up quietly, and asked — " What church are you going to be married in?" Phil turned pale. "Idiot that I am! I never thought about the church at all."

Chapter II. Nder

ordinary circumstances, Lollie," said Venn, on Tuesday morning, when the child came round — " under ordinary circumstances, the middle-aged man awakes in the morning with the wean* feeling of a day's work before him." He always spoke as if he was oppressed with the duties of labour. " By some unlucky accident, I feel this morning as ii the innocent mirth of childhood was back again. I fear nothing. I hope everything. Two courses are therefore open to us." "What two courses?" asked the girl — always watchful of Venn's words, and never quite able to followthe conclusions to which they led him. " I ought, I suppose, to take advantage of this unusual flow of spirits, and write something with the real glow of joy upon it. My works are, perhaps, too uniformly meditative. I dare say you have remarked it."

"I think they are beautiful, all of them," replied the flatterer. " Ah, Lollie, I ought to be a happy man. I have an audience — limited at present, to be sure — which appreciates me. Mohammed had his Cadijah. But there is another course open to us. See the sun upon the leaves of the two trees in the court. Listen to the sparrows chirping with renewed vigour. They know that the hilarious worm will be tempted forth to enjoy the sun. The purring of the basking cat is almost audible if you open the window. The paper boy whistles across the square. The policemen move on with a lighter step. The postman bounds as he walks. The laundresses put off their shawls. Lollie, what do these things mean?" " They mean going into the country, do they not?" she replied, catching his meaning. " They do, child.

They mean Epping Forest. We will take the train to Loughton and walk to Epping. They mean a little dinner at the Cock, and a pint of Moselle. They mean stroll ing through the wood to Theydon Bois, and coming home in the evening with roses in our cheeks." Another time, Lollie would have jumped for joy. Now she only looked up and smiled. "What is the matter, my little girl?" asked Hartley, taking her face in his hands. " For a fortnight past you have not been in your usual spirits. To-day you are pale and worn. Are you ill, Lollie ?" " No," she cried, bursting into tears, " I am not ill ; only — only — you are so good to me." His own eyes filled as he stooped and kissed her forehead. " You are nervous this morning, little one — you must go to Epping, that is clear." It is not only that : it is something else.' What else, Lollie ?

You can tell me" It is my secret, Mr. Venn." "Well, then, Lollie, if that is all, I can wait for this precious secret. So be happy again." " It is a secret that concerns you. I think it will make you happier — you said once that it would. Oh, I wish I might tell you — I wish you would let me." "Little Impatience! And what sort of a secret would that be which I know already? Do you remember the man who whispered his to the winds ? Never tell a secret, child ; be cause the birds of the air may carry it about." "I have been so unhappy about it," the girl VOL. II. 2 went on, through her tears. "I can't sleep for thinking of it. Oh, you will be pleased — I know you will. But I wish I could tell you. I will — I don't care who is offended. Mr. Venn, I am going •" "Stop, Lollie," he replied, putting his finger to her lips — "don't tell me.

See, I give you per fect control over your secret till to-morrow. I refuse to listen — I am deaf. If you try to tell me I shall begin to sing, and then the nearest cows will fall ill, and the calves will lie down and expire." She sighed, and was silent. Alas! if only she had spoken. Fate was against her. They went to Loughton, and took that walk through the forest which only the East-end Cockneys love. In the long glades which stretch right and left the hawthorn was in full blossom; the tender green of the new leaves, freshly coloured, and all of different hues, the soft breath of the young summer, the silence and repose, fell on the girl's spirit and soothed her. For the moment she forgot the secret, and almost felt happy. And yet it lay at her heart. Her life — she knew so much — was going to be changed; how much she could not tell.

The life of two would be, she thought, a life of three. It was what Mr. Venn had wished for her; and yet — and yet — there was. the shade of a dan ger upon her, a foreboding of calamity, which she tried in vain to throw off. Venn poured out his treasures of fancy — those half thought-out ideas and. half-seen analogies which filled his brain, and evaded him when he tried to put them on paper. But they fell, for once, on unfruitful ground. She caught some of them, or only half caught them; and then talk grew languid. "My spirits of this morning seem to have failed me," he cried, impatiently — ' Net seldom, clad in radiant hue, Deceitfully goes forth the morn.' A spiritual shower has fallen, and we have no umbrella. What is it, child?" he asked, impa tiently. "Why are we so silent and sad to-day?

Let us be happy. Are we drenched with the shower?" Lollie half laughed, and the)- walked on. Presently they came upon a woman, toiling along with a baby in her arms, and two children toddling after them. As they came up to her. the woman turned and struck one of them sharply, for lagging. " Don't do that, my good creature," said Venn. " Perhaps the little one is tired." " He's tired and hungry too, sir," she replied; -. " but I've got to get him to Epping, for all that, and walk he must." " Poor little man !" said Venn. " Say, are you very tired ?" The child was evidently* worn out. " We arc going the same way," he said. " I will carry him for you." "You, sir? — and a gentleman and all !" " Why not ? Come, my boy." He lifted the little one in his arms. "Lollie, I am not going to let you carry the other.

He is big enough to walk. "Ah, yes, miss — dont 'ee now," said - the woman. "He's strong enough — aint you, Jackey?" Then they all walked away together — Venn talking to the woman, and she telling her little story ; how her husband had got work at Epping, and she was walking all the way from town with her babies. " I had a comfortable place, sir," she said, "six years ago; and little I thought then of the hardships I should have to undergo. God knows we've been half starving sometimes." "And are you sorry you married?" asked Lollie " Nay, miss, a woman is never sorry she married," replied the poor wife. " My man is a real good sort, unless now and then when it's the drink tempts him. And then I've the children, you sec. Ah! well, sir — God gives us the good and the bad together. But never you think, miss, that a woman is sorry she married."

" Truly," said Venn, " marriage is a continual sacrament." " Are you married yourself, sir ?" "I am not," he replied, gravely. "So far I am only half a man; and now I shall never marry, I fear." Lollie looked up in his face, over which lay that light cloud of melancholy which alternated in Venn with the sweet smile of his mobile lips. She walked on, pondering. " No woman ever sorry for being married." There was comfort! " You are happy when you are with your husband?" she asked, presently. The woman turned sharply upon her. " Of course, I am happy with my Ben," she said. " Happiness with us is not made of the same sort of stuff as with you rich folks." " I am not a rich folk," said the girl, smiling. " Well, well — never mind my sharpness, miss. You're one ofthe kind folks, and that's all I care about."

She trudged on, talking to herself, as such women do, between her lips. Venn was behind them now, talking to the boy in his arms ; and so they reached Epping. At the outskirts of the long town, where the cottages begin, the woman insisted on the boy being put down, and began to thank them. Venn gave her a little present of a few shillings, and left her trudging along with the children. " There goes our Moselle, Lollie," he said with a sigh. " Always some fresh disappointment. I had set my heart on that Moselle for you." "Oh, Mr. Venn! As if I should be so selfish." "All the same," he grumbled. "It was a stroke of my usual bad luck, meeting that woman." The bottle of Moselle made its appearance in spite of her ; but even the sparkle of the wine failed to raise Lollie's spirits to their usual level.

The girl was profoundly dejected. Venn tried the wildest talk, told her the wildest stories; but in vain. It grew close to the hour of the last train — the Great Eastern, with its usual libe rality, having fixed the last train at eight, so as to prevent everybody from enjoying the even ing in the Forest. They walked together to the station — silent, dejected, and unhappy. " I wish — oh, I wish to-morrow was over!" the girl sighed, when they were alone in the rail way carriage. " Does that secret worry you, Lollie? Is that the wretched cause of your depression? Forget it — put it out of your mind." " Let me tell it you." " Nonsense, child," he laughed; "as if I wanted to know. Think of Midas, as I told you this morning. You shall not tell me now." " Tell me once more," she said, " what you would like me most of all to do."

He hesitated. Had he followed the prompt ings of his own heart, he would have said — "To marry me, Lollie; to go away with me from London; to live together, never to get tired, in some country place — the world for getting, by the world forgot." If he had but said so! — for it was not yet too late, and the girl was yearning to tell him all. "I think, child," he said, slowly, after a pause, "there is but one thing I really want you to do. I should like, before all else., to see you married happily. Sukey settled that for us, you know. I haven't seen Sukey now for two months. Let us go there to-morrow." "Not to-morrow," said Lollie. "Do you really mean — really and truly mean what you say? You would like to see me married?" Heavens, how blind the man is! lie does not sec that the girl's whole heart is his; (hat after all those years her nature is responsive to his own; that she has but one thought, one affection, one passion — though she knows it not — the love of Hartley Venn.

".Mean it?" he says, with his tender smile. "Of course I mean it. Recollect what the woman said to-day. You have seen how love may survive poverty, hunger, misery; and rise triumphant over all. Think what love may be when there is no misery to beat it down." "Love — yes, love. They are always talking about love I mean marriage." "They go together, Lollie." "Does — " she checked the name that rose to her lips — "do people, when they talk of marriage, always mean love." "They are supposed to do so, Lollie. On the other hand, when they talk of love, they do not always — Ah, here is Fenchurch-street." No more was said that night. The girl went up to his room and made him tea; and at half past nine she put on her hat. "To-morrow, Mr. Venn — ah! to-morrow — I shall tell you my secret." "Sleep soundly, little bird, and forget your secret.

What time am I to know it?" "I don't quite know. I should think, in the afternoon." "Very well, then; I shall stay in from one till four, and if you do not come then I shall sup pose the secret is not ready. Will that do? Good night, Lollie dear." He stooped to kiss her forehead; but she took his face in her hands, and kissed his lips almost passionately. "Always believe," she said, "even if you are not pleased, that I love you, and am so grateful to you that nothing can tell it. Always believe 1 love you, and hoped to please you." And so slipped away, and was gone. Did Hartley have no suspicion? None — none — none. He was not, you see, a man "about town." He did not think or suspect evil. Least (jf all could he suspect evil in the case of his little girl. And that she should take his words so literally as to marry a man in order to please him would have struck him as beyond all belief. And yet it was exactly what she was going to do.