A Knave and a Fool ... Second edition

Chapter I

' In maiden meditation fancy free.' A glorious sunset in the month of roses. The earth is sweet with the odour of new-mown hay. A Sabbath stillness reigns, broken only by the soft murmur of the far-off waves, mingling with the drowsy hum of insect life — while, ever and anon, the blackbirds' wild sweet notes pierce the sleepy air, provoking a shrill discordant chorus, which dies away as suddenly as it commenced. Walrond Chace lies bathed in a crimson glory; the windows of the old manor house gleam out like flames of tawny light. Under the shady park trees the rabbits are timidly beginning to play, chasing each other in shy little runs, which will grow into bold fantastic gambols as the twilight deepens; and among A the tangled underwood the pheasants' golden plumage gleams here and there in momentary brightness. ' The maiden buried, not as one unknown, Not meanly, but with gorgeous obsequies.

And mass, and rolling music, like a queen. Bernice Ghauntly closes the book softly. There are tears in her eyes — tears that have fallen often on the tender pages of ' Elaine.' She would be ashamed of them were any one by to see, for Miss Ghauntly prides herself on being rather strong-minded, and entirely superior to the many weaknesses of her sex. In the little town where her whole short life has spent itself, she has acquired a character: many people, from the simple judgment of their small world, are talked into maintaining the character it gives them : Bernice's world says that she is proud and cold. Proud she may be, but I think the sequel to this story, if you have patience to read it, will completely free her from the charge of coldness. Strangers generally call Bernice cold-looking; the severity of her clear-cut features, the purity of her untinted skin, and the utter absence of coquetry in her neatly braided hair, may have had something to do with this; but any one looking at the large deep eyes, softened as they are now by sympathy, and latent slumbering passion, would cavil at the word cold as applied to our heroine.

There has been no one in the little town to rouse her; no mortal man has yet seemed a god to those brown eyes, that look on the world calmly from the crude wisdom of nineteen brief bright summers — summers that have brought her admiration in plenty, but never a lover. The young rustics have wor shipped from a respectful distance, awed by Bernice's reputed pride, and the halo her father's wealth throws round her; for Miss Ghauntly is an heiress, and the amount of her heritage a sum untold. Bernice is an only child, and Banker Ghauntly, as her father is called, often throws out vague hints of the fortune his daughter will one day be mistress of. He is said to be a close man, one who has spent little and hoarded much, so rumour runs riot over his possible million, and enshrines his heiress in a golden frame.

For many a long year the old bank has stood ' Ghauntly & Son,' a large dark building, striking awe into the juvenile portion of Walrond, who, associating its mysterious grandeur with heaps of glittering coin and Miss Ghauntly, have arrived at a chronic state of open-mouthed respect, whenever they see her. The little town, and the adjoining hamlet, is full of thrifty, hard-working folks, who, having toiled for money all their lives, and gotten it honestly, therefore slowly, worship the golden calf; Miss Ghauntly being priestess in ordinary to that captivating deity comes in for a good deal of homage. This, though it has not spoiled the girl, has helped to foster and strengthen her overweening pride, and to make her life more secluded than it might otherwise have been. Very self-contained and dreamy she has grown, drawing colour from the phantasy of her own imagination, and the glowing language of her. favourite authors—out wardly calm, dignified and gracious, but hiding a heart whose every pulse is passion, slumbering and unsullied.

The fading sun peeps through the shadowy arcades, peeps through amorously, kissing with coy warmth her lily face, and lingering among the raven plaits that coil so closely round the small shapely head. Her tall slim, young form moves gracefully, scarcely crushing the crisp strong weeds as she walks ; they are so bold, these weeds, all tangling the pathways like a tiny forest. Walrond Chace has been left to the pheasants and ground game for many a long year, and every green thing has gloried in those uneventful circles of time. Its late owner, a hoary old Sybarite, who had spent his life in gay capitals, and looked upon the country as the very essence of boredom, a penitential stool on which to conjugate the verb s'ennuyer, had allowed this fair solitude to run wild, and in result, the manor is now surrounded by a perfect wood, which, if not quite agreeing with the laws of health, is picturesque in the extreme.

Well ! he is gone now, poor old man, dying game, shaking hands feebly to the last with his favourite vices ; a dainty entremet carried him off, and the doctors called it apoplexy. Report said that a penniless soldier of fortune had been enriched by his demise — a man not young ; one who had lived hard, and worked hard, and fought hard out in the far East. Report also said that he was .coming home to rest on his laurels, and the Walrondites caught the report, and hugged it, and had tea over it, and gossiped about it, until they were persuaded of a thousand mysterious facts concerning the time of his coming, and the variety it would im part to their flavourless life. And, somehow, as she walks, there comes to this maiden's mind vague thoughts of the man whose ground she treads. She pictures him — Marr'd, of more than twice her years, Seamed with an ancient sword-cut on the cheek, And bruised and bronzed.' ' Marr'd as he was, he seemed the goodliest man.' A strong, brave man, who has known sorrow maybe, who has sinned surely, for all things earthly err, but— ' Who is yet a living soul.' And she weaves a romance round him, in which a fair Elaine figures, loving not wisely, but too well. ' Had I been Elaine,' she says out loud to the shadowy old trees, her thoughts wandering away from the possible Colonel Walrond, to that hapless 'lily maid' — 'Had I been Elaine, that "one discourtesy that he used " would at least have prevented my following him.

The idea is very beautiful — in poetry; but from a practical everyday point of view, it seems to me disgrace without an object. Had she been alive, one more look on that " dark-splendid " face might well have been worth any sacrifice of pride and modesty ; but to send her poor, silent, senseless body to meet the gaze of a large court, to leave her name a byword for pity and perhaps contempt — ' Bernice pauses, with a soft red glow on her usually pale cheeks. She lives in the nineteenth century, this ' lily maid,' so perhaps it is well that she does not advocate the romance that spread like ' sweet sickness ' under the rule of the blameless king. The petty townsfolks, and honest yokels would certainly stare if Miss Ghauntly came sailing up the stream some fine morning — a marble carved by grim Death's cunning hands.

They would fail to appreciate such a quest, however ' dark-splendid ' its object might be. Bernice laughs out loud as this picture presents itself to her mobile mind, a laugh that startles the rabbits in its clear heart-whole music. Love seems such a far-off abstract thing to her this soft summer evening; a something too grand and glorious to be the common lot of God's creatures. Hodge in his cottage cannot know what love is, she thinks; to him, and such as him, the subtle depth of a great passion cannot speak ; like a ' Little helpless innocent bird That has but one plain passage of few notes.' It cannot soar to the richer music of the woodlark's cry; it has no power to reach the harmony of a great soul. Perhaps she is right ; the tender sympathy of affection has nothing to say to that rare and fatal dower — the power to love !

To love as Elaine loved ; a love that outraged, has no comfort, but turns all weary, worn and spent, gladly to rest in Thanatos's calm cold arms, chilled by his precious whisper — ' Sleep.'

Chapter II

There be none of beauty's daughters with a magic like thee, Like music on the waters is thy sweet voice to me.' The long French windows stand invitingly open, and the tender June roses peep in shyly. Up from the distant sea has come a tiny breeze, wooing the drowsy flowers like a bold lover, sucking in the incense of their sweet breath as they toss their heads in lazy coquetry. This ariel Don Giovanni plays round Bernice's smooth dark hair, and finding no little stray curl to flirt with, flutters the ribbons on her white muslin dress. Very fair and demure she looks, sitting at the end of the cosy dinner-table, peeping at her father now and then through the drooping passion-pale roses that cluster in the quaint old vase she has placed in the centre. It is one of her good times, this common place meal, because her father is at home, and the long lonely day holds no greater pleasure than the promise of an evening spent with him.

He is by no means an ideal old man : tall and gaunt, with a square, hard mouthed, shrewd face — a man whose god is money, and whose creed is gain; but, such as he is, his daughter loves him dearly. A miser by nature, he has never stinted her; she has a running account at the principal drapers, and, as for pocket-money, a little goes a long way in this primitive town : but any un necessary expense chafes the old man sorely, and he rules all the minor details of domestic economy with an iron hand. His shabby clothes are so familiar to the townfolks, that they would stare if they saw him newly clad ; and they say that every penny he parts with gives him a pang. Men, coming to borrow of Banker Ghauntly, have found him as grasping as Shylock claiming his bond to the letter. There is a story afloat, over which Walrond shakes its head, and whispers ominously that trite old saying anent ill-gotten gains.

About a mile from Walrond Chace stand the paper mills (still called the ' Ghauntly Mills,' though it is now many years since the banker sold them to their present owner). Will Haywell, one of those improvi dent geniuses, who seem fated to enrich others while they remain beggars themselves, fiist started the grand idea of building these mills ; the ground was his own, and admirably fitted for the purpose, but ready money was needed, and away went the young enthusiast like a fly into a web, straight to Banker Ghauntly's office. The old man made a most hard bargain. Haywell was too full of his scheme, too confident of success to grumble; indeed he would have signed away his soul at that moment for just such another heap of yellow coins, A man possessed with a building mania is seldom cautious.

Somehow or other the yellow coins slipped through his fingers, and the mills came to a standstill. Again he tried to borrow, but Ghauntly foreclosed the mortgage, — he had the law on his side, and his victim was powerless. Will Haywell was ruined, and the dark sequel to the story was a poor lifeless body floating calmly down the very stream that now turns those mills. It was a nine days' talk, but the usurer walked erect and unmolested; no real blame could be attached tb him; he had lent a man money at compound interest, and simply claimed that interest. The weak soul that had gone all heedless to its last account must bear the brunt of its own reck lessness. Bernice knows nothing of this. A tiny child at the time, if ever she heard poor Will Haywell alluded to, his memory had no significance for her.

The old man is her father, and, shrined in that holy name, she would believe nothing evil of him; and he, as far as his crabbed nature will allow, loves her, talks of her often to others, boasting of the wealth that he has gathered together for her. But between them there is little of the outward forms of affection; there is nothing gushing about Bernice Ghauntly — she gives him a calm, perfect obedience, and the tenderest, almost imperceptible care. All his ways and queer crotchets are studied; she mends his clothes, never seeing in the threadbare old things any proof of his miserly habits; just so much as he allows in the housekeeping she spends, and no more, wondering sometimes vaguely, why with their wealth such pinching is needed; but the economy has become habitual, and the wonder dies unanswered.

Their household consists of an old man and his wife, — a saving, careful couple who have toiled for them ever since Bernice can remember. I believe the race is almost extinct, but here and there one meets with some faithful specimen of the devoted retainer our ancestors had such a monopoly of. Oh ! shades of the past, housewives of the old school, what would you say to the modern serving maid ? A thing that apes its mistress to vulgarity, and rules the house like a very tyrant. What would you say to the torture rooms, yclept Agencies, where these damsels drive frantic such as need their grudging service — what would you say to the sharp answers, and the readily given notice — you who spun your own linen, and brewed your own malt, looking for gratitude from the slave you meted so little to, and drove so hardly ?

Well, every dog has his day, they say, argumentum ad ho mine m. There is a gentleman dining with the Ghauntlys to-night — a man who would be noticeable even in a crowd. He is short and very meagre-looking, with a slight elevation of one shoulder which gives a queer twist to the whole body ; his sharp, thin, narrow face is expressive of talent certainly, but talent that has degenerated into cunning, and in the eyes, which are very close together even for so narrow a face, there lurks a sidelong, doubting look. This is Stephen Borrodaile, in the quaint vernacular of the village generally called ' Lawyer Borrodaile,' an attorney of small practice, who derives his principal income from the stewardship of Walrond Chace; and it is said by the uncharitable that during his unquestioned years of service he has managed to make many perquisites and to save money.

If there is one thing in the way of luxury that Mr Ghauntly prides himself upon, it is his wine. Not that it costs him anything; for, when he inherited his father's wealth, he came into possession of such a cellar as few can boast. With his usual parsimony he has managed to make this cellar last for thirty years, often saying grimly that the last bottle may be drank by those who come to hear his will read. To night, in honour of his guest, some of the soft, mellow liquor gleams ruddily in the twilight, and the lawyer's eyes rest on it greedily. He is a great glutton this man, gobbling his food like an animal; talking hurriedly at intervals. He has this very afternoon returned from a few days' sojourn in that mighty London, of which Ber nice has heard so much, but never seen. The object of his going was a summons from Colonel Walrond, and, having seen the heir, he is garrulous anent him.

Banker Ghauntly listens eagerly, wondering whether there is any hope of some of the Colonel's newly acquired thousands finding their way to his strong box. 'Do you think he will bank here at all ? ' he asks. ' I don't know, my dear sir,' says the lawyer. He has a fawning manner that somehow always irritates Bernice. ' Should he ask my advice, you may be sure I shall not forget your interest.' Ghauntly turns his head impatiently. Had there been any hidden meaning in the words, one might have fancied that they stung him. ' What is Colonel Walrond like ? ' Bernice asks. She has not spoken before, and now the little man's eyes light up with sudden, fierce pleasure at being addressed by her — he is not in love with her in the common acceptance of the word, only piqued by her cold calm indifference, piqued sufficiently to hate her savagely at times, and to be most cringingly glad of any notice she may deign to bestow upon him.

I often think, when I see a man striving to win a woman who evidently dislikes him, that the spur of wounded self-esteem has more to do with his devotion than real love — in proof, such love generally dies with possession. ' I am not a good hand at portrait painting, Miss Bernice,' he says, showing all his white even teeth in a broad smile that is anything but pleasant, as it gives a most ghastly look to his pinched, pale face. ' Colonel Walrond must have been a fine man in his youth. Time, my dear young lady, destroys the handsomest face ' (he means that as a hint to her, for he thinks she is vain, this queenly Bernice), ' and he must be nearly fifty now. I should say that he suffers from his liver; few men can stand an Indian life. His daughter is very lovely — golden-haired, and fresh as a child.' Miss Ghauntly's romance dies ingloriously.

A pere defamille, fifty years of age, and with a suffering liver palpably written on his face ! A Lancelot may be marred, and bruised, and bronzed, and still claim girl hood's worship; but an Apollo, hot pursued, can shroud himself with safety under the respectable title of Benedict. The two men have much to talk of — Bernice knows this — subjects that are Greek to her, and have for their keynote that all-powerful word, — money; so she rises, and leaves them over their wine. Out in the quaint old garden, that is so calm and lovely in the soft pale gloaming, she wanders, and the mosses coil, dewy and web-like, round her feet, and the flowers half open their sleepy eyes to gaze up at her, this tall human flower that has no kindred with them, save in beauty; and the moon, paled by the sun-god's lingering glory, shines down from the grey sky like a white window the angels have not yet placed the night lamp in : far away the precious grain waves softly in the cool, quiet wind, and farther still the sea lies like a huge sheet of silver, hushed and waveless.

She stands with her hands clasped on the old wooden gate, framed in the shadow of the linden trees, the foliage flickering on her fair, noble face— a vision to soothe and calm an artist's brain, drunken with weird phantasy. Her eyes, lustrous as an Eastern passion flower, are full of dim glory, and vague ecstasy, yet withal so calm, so pure and unsullied. Just such a face, one could fancy, had Joan d'Arc, with the dreamy eyes, and the mobile mouth, so tender in its very firmness, vivid hued, and undulating. The motes dance round her in mad revel; born in a sunbeam, they glory in the warm, humid air. Some glad bird is filling the night with music ; a black cat, with eyes like jewels, is watching for it, wary, and still, and patient, that she may crush the song in its soft throat, as men crush genius in the fierceness of their greed.

Through the open window the men's voices come to her, mingling harshly with all the tender elfin music that fills the earth at eventide. So out of place seems that eager, guttural argument, that travels in a circle round and round the one word — gain. And she wonders with dreamy sadness why such a curse as gold was needed to blight this gracious colour-dowered world. It is fair, she thinks, lying in the white heart of the lily ; closed in by the dewy lips of the Dijon roses, or belting a purple butterfly's glittering wings ; but the vengeful gods froze it into hard metal, and buried it in the bowels of earth's darkness, that men might toil and travail in endless labour ; staining their hands with blood that was murder ; blackening their heart with a coward's treachery ; cringing, creeping, lying hoarding, that they may heap it up higher than their own souls — worthless treasure, that they must leave behind — while the soul goes all naked and helpless — whither ?

Bernice is half a Bohemian at heart ; she would like to lead some sunny, nomadic life glorified by love and freedom, finding a meal wherever ripe fruit grew, or silver water played in the shadow. Out of her loneliness, and the dim poetry that lies unrecognised in her heart, has grown all this phantasy that glorifies every tender thing in nature with a mystical, nameless beauty. Down the shaded road comes a solitary horseman. As he draws near and sees Bernice, he flings himself to the ground, somewhat heavily, and comes towards her. A god, in his golden Norse beauty — a man, in the common-place words with which he greets her. ' Why don't you go over and cheer the old lady up a bit ? ' he says, and Bernice thinks how ' all the per fection of an Apollo Belvedere would die were it endowed with nineteenth century youth, and nine teenth century slang.' ' Is Lady Grace better ? ' she asks, more from politeness than interest; for Lady Grace is a sad old hypochondriac, never running the risk of losing sympathy by a relapse into health.

Lord Elmsden shakes his mighty limbs in a jolly, careless laugh — a laugh that dances in his blue eyes, and gives them all a child's shadowless mirth. ' Poor aunt ! She gave me such a list of ailments — one of them would carry me off in a week. I advised her to take a run up to town — that mildewed old Abbey is enough to make anyone fanciful and nervous.' Looking down into those sweet, solemn eyes, he suddenly changes his tone, — ' You looked like a picture as I came up — a sort of " He cometh not, she said," affair, you know — in a white dress, and under a tree ! ' 'You are very romantic,' Bernice said, with quiet humour. 'Well, perhaps I am,' he assents. A KNAVE AND A FOOL 17 He is by no means a sensitive man, satire or ridicule must be very pointed to pierce the dense armour of good nature fate has cased him in; though, like many kind, lazy souls, he can be doggedly determined when thoroughly roused.

He throws one arm caressingly round his horse's neck, so resting himself, looking down on her with eyes that shine softly in the twilight. ' Well, perhaps I am — a man gets so now and then in the witching hour, etc' He longs to say something poetical, but fails for want of an inspiration. He can talk by the hour about his stables and his kennel, and most girls coquet back his flatteries, but with Bernice he always feels at a disadvantage. ' Come in, child, and give us some music,' Banker Ghauntly's voice rings out deep and sonorous through the still night air. ' Good-bye,' she says, laying her tiny hand in Hugh Elmsden's; he holds it for one brief moment, soft and fluttering like the downy pressure of an imprisoned bird. She might ask him in, he thinks, but with a careless nod she turns and runs lightly up the garden path, disappearing like a white vision under the shadow of the old horse-chestnut tree.

Chapter III

' She doeth little kindnesses which most leave undone or despise.' A man has escaped from one of the prison ships across the marshes. All Walrond is in a state of excitement. Folks stealthily peep under their beds every night before retiring. Girls go out in little groups for pro tection, as though the convict were a species of ghoul, who, meeting one alone, would certainly gobble her up in lieu of any more legitimate food. Bernice does not share the general panic, but then, as every one says, she is rather a strong-minded young person, and has been heard to hope that he, meaning the dreadful convict, may escape. ' The prunes and prism ' young ladies of Walrond are very much shocked at such a heathen wish, and relieve their feelings by calling Aliss Ghauntly 'singular,' with an emphasis that stamps the adjective as one they would not have tacked to their names for worlds, and indeed there is no fear.

Bernice has seen the hulks, and her ready sympathy is roused for any poor creature who has been doomed to so cruel an imprisonment. To the utmost of her power she would aid this man in eluding the arms of justice; she carries her little purse always in her pocket now; with the intention of presenting it to him, should he chance to cross her path — as for fearing him, that never enters her mind. If a tiger had escaped from the menagerie she might shut her self carefully up out of harm's way, but a man, a poor, starving, hunted fellow-creature — somehow she has perfect faith in her little purse, should she chance to do battle with this awful monster. Crime is no realistic word to Bernice, her tender womanly heart is full of dim pity for all who have sinned. They have been driven to wrong-doing she always says.

Sin from choice is an impossibility to her mind, and, paradox that it sounds, there is sense in the argument. She makes a pleasant picture standing before the looking-glass, putting the finishing touches to the white tulle bow that nestles under her soft round chin, a faint smile of approbation brightening the haughty young face like a sunbeam. The truest thanks are thorough enjoyment of all good gifts. Then why should vanity be a crime ? Surely the artistic appreciation of beauty, as personally reflected in the looking glass, or in the human mirrors around us, cannot be unpleasing to a Master who dowered the commonest hedge flower with inimitable tender loveliness. They last but a few short hours, those little mysteries of scent and colour, yet each tiny span of existence is so complete as to make vanity a hymn of praise to the loving hand of creation.

But, in truth, vanity would be a hard name for Bernice's careless love of her own beauty. This girl who worships beauty, who is half a poet by nature, and wholly an artist, would still be astonished if you told her how perfect her own face is : that she feels pleasure at the sight of it is true, just such innocent, uncalculating pleasure a child might feel ; there is no idea of rivalry or superiority in her mind. A calm quiet life away from the world, drinking in its lessons of purity and strength from such precious, harmless pages as Tennyson's ' Idyls of the King, making nature its study, and from very loneliness educating itself in thought, could hardly understand the meanness of jealousy, as we worldlings reason the word. At the door Miss Ghauntly's shaggy little pony is standing patiently between the shafts of a tiny basket carriage.

Banker Ghauntly looks upon the shabby turn-out as a most unnecessary piece of extravagance, but he has never openly murmured ; if he did, I believe she would give it up at once, and patiently walk the four-mile journey she is going to-day, for she has boundless confidence in her miserly old father. If Bernice, standing before the looking-glass, was a pleasant sight, Bernice driving her knowing little pony through the shady lanes is another. Hodge, who meets her in various forms, from vacant youth to slouching manhood, pulls his hair respectfully, and I fancy some gleam of brightness enters even his dull brain, and forms a vague tableau of beauty. ' I wonder from what source these people derive their ideas of respect ? ' Bernice says to herself, with a little laugh. ' That man had a cap on, and yet he preferred pulling his hair.' It is not that the spectacle of rustic homage tugging a lock, in lieu of the hat our smart city toiler raises so politely, is new to her, but that it strikes her suddenly as an interesting item for the curious in aboriginal habits. ' There is so much in the world to think about,' as she once said, naively; 'old subjects become new in novelty^ quite unconscious that she had found the key note to much so-called novelty.

Through the town trots this knowing little pony, with his load of fresh fair beauty, past the gay shops, past the respectable old Bank frowning darkly on the Music Hall, past all the strange jumble of architecture that forms its suburbs, under the dignified name of mansions; out again into the quiet country where the patient cattle browse ankle deep in the tall cool grass, and the river gleams like a shining prism-coloured ribbon in and out the corn-fields. There is a barge being slowly towed up the river, dirty, clumsy, and ill-favoured, yet not altogether un picturesque, from the lean horse, bestrided by a yellow headed urchin, to the brown-faced girl seated in the stern. Bernice, in sketching the scene, would certainly not have omitted the barge; and a few touches of brown ochre and cobalt might have vaguely outlined the wearily graceful girl figure, against a back-ground of drooping willows, throwing long, cool shadows on the sun-kissed water.