 CHAPTER 42 MORE TROUBLES Come on and do your best to fright me with your sprites. You're powerful at it. You smell this business with a sense as cold as is a dead man's nose. A WINTER'S TALE When Mr. Arnold came home to dinner and heard of the accident, his first feeling, as is the case with weak men, was one of mingled annoyance and anger. He was the chief object of it, for had he not committed the ladies to his care, had the economy of his house being partially disarranged by it, had he not a good right to be angry. His second feeling was one of concern for his niece, which was greatly increased when he found that she was not in a state to see him. Still, nothing must interfere with the order of things, and when he went into the drawing room at the usual hour, he found Mr. Arnold standing there in tailcoat and white neck cloth, looking as if he had just arrived at a friend's house to make one of a stupid party. And the party which sat down to dinner was certainly dreary enough, consisting only besides the host himself of Mrs. Elton, Hugh, and Harry. Lady Emily had had exertion enough for the day, and had, besides, shared in the shock of euphorism as fortune. Mr. Arnold was considerably out of humor and ready to pounce upon any object of complaint. He would have attacked Hugh with a pompous speech on the subject of his carelessness, but he was rather afraid of his tutor now, so certainly willed the stronger get the upper hand in time. He did not even refer to the subject of the accident. Therefore although it filled the minds of all at table, it was scarcely more than alluded to. But having nothing at hand to find fault with, more suitable, he laid hold of the first wise remark volunteered by good Mrs. Elton, whereupon an amusing posthead Hugh immediately followed. For it could not be called a duel in as much as each antagonist kept skipping harmlessly about the other, exploding theological crackers, firmly believed by the discharger to be no less than bombshells. At length Mrs. Elton withdrew. By the way, Mr. Sutherland, said Mr. Arnold, have you succeeded in deciphering that curious inscription yet? I don't like the ring to remain long out of my own keeping. It is quite an heirloom, I assure you. Hugh was forced to confess that he had never thought of it again. Shall I fetch it at once, added he. Oh, no, replied Mr. Arnold. I should really like to understand the inscription. Tomorrow will do perfectly well. They went to the drawing room. Everything was wretched. However many ghosts might be in the house, it seemed to Hugh that there was no soul in it except in one room. The wind sighed fitfully and the rain fell in slow, soundless showers. Mr. Arnold felt the vacant oppression as well as Hugh. Mrs. Elton, having gone to Lady Emily's room, he proposed backgammon, and on that surpassing game the gentleman expended the best part of two dreary hours. When he reached his room he was too tired and spiritless for any intellectual effort, and instead of trying to decipher the ring went to bed and slept as if there were never a ghost or a woman in the universe. His first proceeding after breakfast next day was to get together his German books and his necks to take out the ring, which was to be subjected to their analytical influences. He went to his desk and opened the secret place. There he stood fixed. The ring was gone. His packet of papers was there, rather crumpled. The ring was nowhere. What had become of it? It was not long before a conclusion suggested itself. It flashed upon him all at once. The ghost has got it, he said half-aloud. It is shining now on her dead finger. It was, Lady Euphrasia. She was going for it then. It wasn't on her thumb when she went. She came back with it, shining through the dark, stepped over me perhaps as I lay on the floor in her way. He shivered like one in an ague fit. Then and again, with that frenzied mechanical motion which, like the eyes of a ghost, has no speculation in it, he searched the receptacle, although it freely confessed its emptiness to any asking eye. Then he stood gazing, and his heart seemed to stand still likewise. But a new thought stung him, turning him almost sick with the sense of loss. Suddenly and frantically, he dived his hand into the place yet again, useless as he knew the search to be. He took up his papers and scattered them loose. It was all unavailing. His father's ring was gone as well. He sank on a chair for a moment, but instantly recovering found himself, before he was quite aware of his own resolution, halfway downstairs on his way to Mr. Arnold's room. It was empty. He rang for his servant. Mr. Arnold had gone away on horseback and would not be home till dinnertime. Help from Mrs. Elton was hopeless. Help from Euphra he could not ask. He returned to his own room. There he found Harry waiting for him. His neglected pupil was now his only comforter. Such are the revanches of divine goodness. Harry, he said, I have been robbed. Robbed! cried Harry, starting up. Never mind Mr. Sutherland. My Papa's a justice of the peace. I'll catch the thief for you. But it's your Papa's ring that they've stolen. He lent it to me, and what if he should not believe me? Not believe you Mr. Sutherland, but he must believe you. I will tell him all about it, and he knows I never told him a lie in my life, but you don't know anything about it Harry, but you will tell me won't you? You could not help smiling with pleasure at the confidence his pupil placed in him. He had not much fear about being believed, but at the best it was an unpleasant occurrence. The loss of his own ring not only added to his vexation, but to his perplexity as well. What could she want with his ring? Could she have carried with her such a passion for jewels as to come from the grave to appropriate those of others as well as to reclaim her own? Was this her comfort in Hades, poor ghost? Would it be better to tell Mr. Arnold of the loss of both rings or should he mention the crystal only? He came to the conclusion that it would only exasperate him the more, and perhaps turn suspicion upon himself if he communicated the fact that he too was a loser, and to such an extent, for his ring was worth twenty of the other, and was certainly as sacred as Mr. Arnold's if not so ancient. He would bear it in silence. If the one could not be found, there could certainly be no hope of the other. As well as the clock Mr. Arnold returned. It did not prejudice him in favor of the reporter of bad tidings that he begged a word with him before dinner when that was on the point of being served. It was indeed exceedingly impolitic, but he would have felt like an impostor had he sat down to the table before making his confession. Mr. Arnold, I am sorry to say I have been robbed and in your house too. In my house of what, pray Mr. Sutherland? Mr. Arnold had taken the information as some weakmen take any kind of information, referring to themselves or their belongings, namely as an insult. He drew himself up and lowered portentously of your ring, Mr. Arnold, of my ring. And he looked at his ring finger as if he could not understand the import of Hugh's words. Of the ring you lent me to decipher, explained Hugh. Do you suppose I do not understand you, Mr. Sutherland? A ring which has been in the family for two hundred years at least, robbed of it, in my house. You must have been disgracefully careless, Mr. Sutherland. You have lost it. Mr. Arnold, said Hugh with dignity, I am above using such a subterfuge even if it were not certain to throw suspicion where it was undeserved. Mr. Arnold was a gentleman as far as his self-importance allowed. He did not apologize for what he had said, but he changed his manner at once. I am quite bewildered, Mr. Sutherland. It is a very annoying piece of news, for many reasons. I can show you where I laid it, in the safest corner in my room, I assure you. Of course, of course, it is enough you say so. We must not keep the dinner waiting now, but after dinner I shall have all the servants up and investigate the matter thoroughly. So, thought Hugh with himself, someone will be made a felon of because the cursed dead go stalking about this infernal house at midnight, gathering their own old bobbles. No, that will not do. I must at least tell Mr. Arnold what I know of the doings of the night. So Mr. Arnold must still wait for his dinner, or rather, which was really of more consequence in the eyes of Mr. Arnold, the dinner must be kept waiting for him. For order and custom were two of Mr. Arnold's divinities, and the economy of his whole nature was apt to be disturbed by any interruption of their laws, such as the postponement of dinner for ten minutes. He was walking towards the door and turned with some additional annoyance when Hugh addressed him again. One moment, Mr. Arnold, if you please. Mr. Arnold merely turned and waited. I fear I shall in some degree forfeit your good opinion by what I am about to say, but I must run the risk. Mr. Arnold still waited. There is more about the disappearance of the ring than I can understand, or I either, Mr. Sutherland. But I must tell you what happened to myself the night that I kept watch in Lady Euphratesia's room. You said you slept soundly. So I did, part of the time. Then you kept back part of the truth. I did. Was that worthy of you? I thought it best, I doubted myself. What has caused you to change your mind now? This event about the ring. What has that to do with it? How do you even know that it was taken on that night? I do not know, for till this morning I had not opened the place where it lay. I only suspect. I am a magistrate, Mr. Sutherland. I would rather not be prejudiced by suspicions. The person to whom my suspicions refer is beyond your jurisdiction, Mr. Arnold. I do not understand you. I will explain myself. Hugh gave Mr. Arnold a hurried yet circumstantial sketch of the apparition he believed he had seen. What am I to judge from all this, asked he coldly, almost contemptuously? I have told you the facts. Of course I must leave the conclusions to yourself, Mr. Arnold. But I confess, for my part, that any disbelief I had in apparitions is almost entirely removed since, since you dreamed you saw one. Since the disappearance of the ring, said Hugh, Ah, exclaimed Mr. Arnold with indignation. Can a ghost fetch and carry like a spaniel? Mr. Sutherland, I am ashamed to have such a reasoner for tutor to my son. Come to dinner and do not let me hear another word of this folly. I beg you will not mention it to anyone. I have been silent hitherto, Mr. Arnold, but circumstances such as the commitment of anyone on the charge of stealing the ring might compel me to mention the matter. It would be for the jury to determine whether it was relevant or not. It was evident that Mr. Arnold was more annoyed at the imputation against the nocturnal habits of his house than at the loss of the ring or even its possible theft by one of his servants. He looked at Hugh for a moment as if he would break into a furious rage. Then his look gradually changed into one of suspicion and, turning without another word, he led the way to the dining room followed by Hugh. To have a ghost held in his face in his fashion, one bread in his own house too, when he had positively declared his absolute contempt for every legend of the sort, was more than the man could bear. He sat down to dinner in gloomy silence, breaking it only as often as he was compelled to do the duties of a host, which he performed with the greater loftiness of ceremony than usual. There was no summoning of the servants after dinner, however. Hugh's warning had been effectual, nor was the subject once more alluded to in Hugh's hearing. No doubt Mr. Arnold felt that something ought to be done, but I presume he never could make up his mind what that something ought to be. Whether any reasons for not prosecuting the inquiry had occurred to him upon further reflection, I am unable to tell. One thing is certain that from this time he ceased to behave to Hugh with that growing cordiality which he had shown him for weeks past. It was no great loss to Hugh, but he felt it, and all the more because he could not help associating it with that look of suspicion, the remains of which were still discernible on Mr. Arnold's face. Although he could not determine the exact direction of Mr. Arnold's suspicions, he felt that they bore upon something associated with the Crystal Ring and the story of the Phantom Lady. Consequently, there was little more of comfort for him at Arnstead. Mr. Arnold, however, did not reveal his change of feelings so much by neglect as by ceremony, which, sooner than anything else, builds a wall of separation between those who meet every day. For the oftener they meet, the thicker and the faster are the bricks and mortars of cold politeness, evidently avoided insults and subjected manifestations of dislike laid together. Chapter 42. Chapter 43 of David Elginbrod. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit vibrivox.org. David Elginbrod by George McDonald. Chapter 43, A Bird's Eye View. O cocks are crowing a merry midnight, at what the wild fowls are boating day. Give me my faith and trust again, and let me fare me on my way. Say painfully she clam'd that way, she clam'd the way, up after him, hos'in nor shun'd upon her feet, she had not time to put them on. Scotch ballad, clerk's saunders. Very days passed. The reports of Euphra were as favorable as the nature of the injury had left room to expect. Still, they were but reports. Hugh could not see her, and the days passed early. He heard that the swelling was reduced, and that the ankle was found not to be dislocated, but that the bones were considerably injured, and that the final effect upon the use of the parts was doubtful. The pretty foot lay aching in Hugh's heart. When Harry went to bed, he used to walk out and loiter about the grounds, full of anxious fears and no less anxious hopes. If the night was at all obscure, he would pass, as often as he dared, under Euphra's window. For all he could have of her now was a few rays from the same light that lighted her chamber. Then he would steal away down the main avenue, and then swatch the same light, whose beams in that strange clay which the intellect will keep up in spite of, yet in association with, the heart, made a photomaterialist of him. For he would now no longer believe in the pulsations of an ethereal medium, but that the very material rays which enlightened Euphra's face, whether she waked or slapped, stole and filtered through the blind, and the gathered shadows, and entered in bodily essence into the mysterious convolutions of his reign where his soul and heart sought and found them. When a week had passed, she was so far recovered as to be able to see Mr. Arnold, from whom you heard in a somewhat reproachful tone that she was but the wreck of her former self. It was all that you could do to restrain the natural outbreak of his feelings. A fortnight passed and she saw Mrs. Elton and Lady Emily for a few moments. They would have left before, but had yielded to Mr. Arnold's entreaty and were stained till Euphra should be at least able to be carried from her room. One day when the visitors were out with Mr. Arnold, Jane brought a message to Hugh, requesting him to walk into Ms. Cameron's room, for she wanted to see him. Hugh felt his heart flutter as if doubting whether to stop at once or to dash through its confining bars. He rose and followed the maid. He stood over Euphra pale and speechless. She lay before him wasted and when, her eyes twice their former size, but with half their former light, her fingers long and transparent and her voice low and feeble. She had just raised herself with difficulty due to a sitting posture and the effort had left her more weary. Hugh, she said kindly. Dear Euphra, he answered, kissing the little hand beheld in his. She looked at him for a little while and the tears rose in her eyes. Hugh, I am a cripple for life. God forbid, Euphra, was all he could reply. She shook her head mournfully. Then a strange wild look came in her eyes and grew till it seemed from them to overflow and cover her whole face with a troubled expression, which increased to a look of dull agony. What is the matter, dear Euphra, said Hugh in alarm? Is your foot very painful? She made no answer. She was looking fixedly at his hand. Shall I call Jane? She shook her head. Can I do nothing for you? No, she answered almost angrily. Shall I go, Euphra? Yes, yes, go. He left the room instantly, but a sharp, though stifled cry of despair drew him back at a bound. Euphra had fainted. He rang the bell for Jane and lingered till he saw signs of returning consciousness. What could this mean? He was more perplexed with her than ever he had been. Kinding love, however, soon found a way of explaining it. A way, 20 ways, not one of them the way. Next day, Lady Emily brought him a message from Euphra, not to distress himself about her. It was not his fault. This message, the bear of it, understood to refer to the original accident as the sender of it intended she should. The receiver interpreted it of the occurrence of the day before as the sender likewise intended. It comforted him. It had become almost a habit with you to ascend the oak tree in the evening and sit alone, sometimes for hours in the nest he had built for Harry. One time he took a book with him, another he went without, and now and then Harry accompanied him. But I have already said that often after tea, when the house became oppressive to him from the longing to see Euphra, he would wander out alone when even in the shadows of the coming night he would sometimes climb the nest and there sit, hearing all that the leaves whispered about the sleeping birds without listening to a word of it or trying to interpret it by the kindred sounds of his own inner world and the tree talk that went on there in secret. So the divinity of that inner world had abandoned it for the present in pursuit of an earthly maiden. So its birds were silent and its trees trembled not. An aging moon was feeling her path somewhere through the heavens, but a thin veil of cloud was spread like a tent under the hailing dome where she walked. So that instead of a white moon, there was a great white cloud to enlighten the earth. A cloud soaked full of her pale rays. Hugh sat in the oak nest. He knew not how long he had been there. Light after light was extinguished in the house and still he sat there brooding, dreaming, in that state of mind in which to the good, good things come of themselves and to the evil, evil things. The nearness of the ghost walk did not trouble him for he was too much concerned about Euphra to fear ghost or demon. His mind heated them not and so was beyond their influence. But while he sat, he became aware of human voices. He looked out from his leafy screen and saw once more at the end of the ghost walk, a form clothed in white. But there were voices of two. He sent his soul into his ears to listen. A horrible, incredible, impossible idea forced itself upon him. That the tones were those of Euphra and Funkelstein. The one voice was weak and complaining. The other firm and strong. It must be some horrible ghost that imitates her, he said to himself, for he was nearly crazy at the very suggestion. He would see nearer if only to get rid of the frightful insinuation of the tempter. He descended the tree noiselessly. He lost sight of the figure as he did so. He drew near the place where he had seen it. But there was no sound of voices now to guide him. As he came within sight of the spot, he saw the white figure in the arms of another, a man. Her head was lying on his shoulder. A moment after, she was lifted in those arms and born towards the house, down the Ghosts Avenue. A burning agony to be satisfied of his doubt seized on him. He fled like a deer to the house by another path, tried in his suspicion the library window, found it open, and was at Euphra's door in a moment. Here he hesitated, she must be inside. How dare he knock or enter? She was there, she would be asleep. He would not wake her. There was no time to lose. He would risk anything to be rid of this horrible doubt. He gently opened the door. The night light was burning. He thought at first that Euphra was in bed. He felt like a thief, but he stole nearer. She was not there. She was not on the couch. She was not in the room. Jane was fast asleep in the dressing room. It was enough. He withdrew. He would watch at his door to see her return, for she must pass his door to reach her own. He waited a time that seemed ours, at length, horrible, far more horrible to him than the vision of the ghost. Euphra crept past him, appearing in the darkness to crawl along the wall against which she supported herself and scarcely suppressing her groans of pain. She reached her own room and entering closed the door. He was nearly mad. He rushed down the stair to the library and out into the wood. Why or whether he knew not? Suddenly, he received a blow on the head. It did not stun him, but he staggered under it. Had he run against the tree, no. There was the dim bulk of a man disappearing through the bowls. He darted after him. The man heard his footsteps, stopped, and waited in silence. As Hugh came up to him, he made a thrust at him with some weapon. He missed his aim. The weapon passed through his coat and under his arm. The next moment, Hugh had wrenched the sword stick from him, thrown it away, and grappled with funkelstein. But strong as Hugh was, the Bohemian was as strong, and the contest was doubtful. Strange as it may seem in the midst of it, while each held the other unable to move, the conviction flashed upon Hugh's mind that whoever might have taken Lady Euphra's ring, he was grappling with the thief of his father's. Give me my ring, gasped he. An implication of a sufficiently emphatic character was the only reply. The Bohemian got one hand loose, and Hugh heard a sound like the breaking of glass. Before he could gain any advantage, for his antagonist seemed for the moment to have concentrated all his force in the other hand. A wet hankerchief was held firmly to his face. His fierceness died away. He was lapped in the vapor of dreams, and his senses departed. End chapter 43. Chapter 44 of David Elgin Brod. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. David Elgin Brod by George McDonald. Chapter 44, Hugh's Awaking. But, ah, believe me, there is more than so that works such wonders in the minds of men. I that have often proved too well at know, and who so list the likes assays to can, shall find by trial and confess it then, that beauty is not as fond men misdeem, an outward shoe of things that only seem. But, ye fair dames, the world's dear ornaments, and lively images of heaven's light, let not your beams with such disparagements be dimmed, and your bright glory darkened quite. But mindful still of your first country's sight, do still preserve your first informed grace, whose shadow yet shines in your beauteous face. Spencer, him in honor of beauty. When you came to himself, he was lying in the first gray of the dawn amidst the dews and vapors of the morning woods. He rose and looked around him. The ghosts walk lay in long silence before him. Here and there a little bird moved and peeped. The glory of a new day was climbing up the eastern coast of heaven. It would be a day of late summer crowned with flame and throbbing with ripening life. But for him the spirit was gone out of the world, and it was not but a massive blind heartless forces. Possibly had he overheard the conversation, the motions only of which he had overseen the preceding night, he would, although equally perplexed, have thought more gently of Euphra. But in the mood into which, even then, he must have been thrown, his deeper feelings towards her could hardly have been different from what they were now. Although he had often felt that Euphra was not very good, not a suspicion had crossed his mind as to what he would have called the purity of her nature. Like many use, even of character inferior to his own, he had the loftiest notions of feminine grace, and unspottedness and thought and feeling, not to say action and aim. Now he found that he had loved a woman who would creep from her chamber at the cost of great suffering and almost at the risk of her life to meet in the night and the woods a man no better than an assassin, probably a thief. Had he been more versed in the ways of women or in the probabilities of things, he would have judged that the very extravagance of the action demanded a deeper explanation that what seemed to lie on the surface. Yet although he judged you for very hardly upon those grounds, would he have judged her differently had he actually known all? About this I'm left to conjecture alone. But the effect on you was different from what the ordinary reader of human nature might anticipate. Instead of being torn in pieces by storms of jealousy, all the summer gross of his love were chilled by an absolute frost of death. The kind of annihilation sank upon the image of Yufra. There had been no such Yufra. She had been but a creation of his own brain. It was not so much that he ceased to love as that the being beloved not died but ceased to exist. There were moments in which he seemed to love her still with a wild outcry of passion, but the frenzy soon vanished in the selfish feeling of his own loss. His love was not a high one, not such as thine, my falconer. Thine was love indeed, though its tale is too good to tell simply because it is too good to be believed. And we do men are wrong sometimes when we tell them more than they can receive. Thought, speculation, suggestion crowded upon each other till at length his mind sank passive and served only as the list in which the antagonist's thoughts fought a confused battle without herald or umpire. But it is amazing to think how soon he began to look back upon his former fascination with a kind of wandering unbelief. This bespoke the strength of Yu's ideal sense as well as the weakness of his actual love. He could hardly even recall the feelings with which on some well-remembered occasion he had regarded her and which then it had seemed impossible he should ever forget. Had he discovered the cloven foot of a demon under those trailing garments he could hardly have ceased to love her more suddenly or entirely. But there is an aching that is worse to bear than pain. I trust my readers will not judge very hardly of Yu because of the change which had thus suddenly passed upon his feelings. He felt now just as he had felt on waking in the morning and finding that he had been in love with the dream lady all the night. It had been very delightful and it was sad that it was all gone and could come back no more. But the wonder to me is not that some loves will not stand the test of absence but that their nature being what it is they should outlast one week of familiar intercourse. He mourned bitterly over the loss of those feelings for they had been precious to him. But could he help it? Indeed he could not. For his love had been fascination and the fascination having ceased and the love was gone. I believe some of my readers will not need this apology for you but will rather admire the facility with which he rose above a misplaced passion and dismissed its object. So do not ought. It came of his having never loved. Had he really loved Yu-Fra herself, her own self, the living woman who looked at him out of those eyes, out of that face, such pity would have blended with the love as would have made it greater and permitted no indignation to overwhelm it. As it was he was utterly passive and helpless in the matter. The fault lay in the original weakness that submitted to be so fascinated that gave into it, notwithstanding the vague expostulations of his better nature and the consciousness that he was neglecting his duty to Harry in order to please Yu-Fra and enjoy her society. Had he persisted in doing his duty it would at least have kept his mind more healthy, lessened the absorption of his passion and given him opportunities of reflection and moments of true perception as to what he was about. But now the spell was broken at once and the poor girl had lost the worshipper. The golden image with defeat of clay might arise in a profit stream but it could never abide in such lovers. Her glance was powerless now, a last for the withering of such a dream. Perhaps she deserved nothing else but our deserts when we get them are sad enough sometimes. All that day he walked is in a dream of loss. As for the person whom he had used to call Yu-Fra she was removed to a vast distance from him. An absolutely impassable gulf lay between them. She sent for him. He went to her filled with a sense of insensibility. She was much worse and suffering great pain. He saw at once that she knew that all was over between them and that he had seen her pass his door or had been in her room for he had left her door a little open and she had left it shut. One pathetic, most pitiful glance of deprecating entreaty she fixed upon him as after a few moments of speechless waiting he turned to leave the room which would have remained deathless in his heart but that he interpreted to me, don't tell. So he got rid of it at once by the grant of its supposed request. She made no effort to detain him. She turned her face away and heart-hearted. He heard her sob, not as if her heart would break, that is little, but like an immortal woman in immortal agony and he did not turn to comfort her. Perhaps it was better. How could he comfort her? Some kinds of comfort, the only kinds which poor mortals sometimes have to give are like the food on which the patient and the disease live together and some griefs are soon as got rid of by letting them burn out. All the fire engines in creation can only prolong the time and increase the sense of burning. There is but one cure, the fellow feeling of the human God which converts the agony itself into the creative fire of a higher life. As for Von Funkelstein, he comforted himself with the conviction that they were destined to meet again. The day went on as days will go, unstayed, unhastened by the human souls through which they glide silent and awful. After such lessons as he was able to get through with Harry, who, feeling that his tutor did not want him, left the room as soon as they were over, he threw himself on the couch and tried to think. But think he could not. Thoughts passed through him, but he did not think them. He was powerless in regard to them. They came and went of their own will. He could neither say come nor go. Tired at length of the couch, he got up and paced about the room for hours. When he came to himself a little, he found that the sun was nearly setting. Through the top of a beech tree, taller than the rest, it sent a golden light full of the floating shadows of leaves and branches upon the wall of his room. But there was no beauty for him in the going down of the sun, no glory in the golden light, no message from dreamland in the flitting and blending and parting and constantly dissolving, yet ever remaining play of the lovely and wonderful shadow leaves. The sun sank below the beech top and was hidden behind a cloud of green leaves, thick as the wood was deep. A gray light instead of a golden filled the room. The change had no interest for him. The pain of a lost passion tormented him. The aching that came of the falling together of the ethereal walls of his soul about the space where there had been and where there was no longer a world. A young bird flew against a window and fluttered its wings two or three times, vainly seeking to overcome the unseen obstacle which the glass presented to its flight. He started and shuddered. Then first he knew in the influence of the signs of the approaching darkness how much his nerves had suffered from the change that had passed. He took refuge with Harry. His pupil was now to be his consoler who in his turn would fare henceforth the better for the decay of Hugh's pleasures. The poor boy was filled with delight at having his big brother all to himself again and work harder than ever to make the best of his privileges. For Hugh it was wonderful how soon his peace of mind began to return after he gave himself to duty and how soon the clouds of disappointment descended below the far horizon leaving the air clear above and around. Painful thoughts about Euphra would still present themselves but instead of becoming more gentle and sorrowful as the days went on they grew more and more severe and unjust and angry. He even entertained doubts whether she did not know all about the theft of both rings for to her only had he discovered the secret place in the old desk. If she was capable of what he believed why should she not be capable of anything else? It seemed to him most simple and credible. An impure woman might just as well be a thief too. I'm only describing Hugh's feelings. But along with these feelings and thoughts of mingled good and bad came one feeling which he needed more than any. Repentance. Seated alone upon a fallen tree one day the face of poor Harry came back to him as he saw it first pouring over Paul Alexander in the library and full of the joy of life himself notwithstanding his past troubles strong as a sunrise and hopeful as a Prometheus the quivering perplexity that sickly little face smote him with a pang. What might I not have done for the boy? He too was in the hands of the enchantress and instead of freeing him I became her slave to enchant him further. Yet even in this he did Euphra injustice for he had come to the conclusion that she had later plans with the intention of keeping the boy adwarf by giving him only food for babes and not good food either withholding from him every stimulus to mental digestion and consequent hunger and that she had objects of her own in doing so one perhaps to keep herself necessary to the boy as she was to the father and so secure the future. But poor Euphra's own nature and true education had been sadly neglected. A fine knowledge of music and Italian and the development of a sensuous sympathy with nature could hardly be called education. It was not certainly such a development of her own nature as would enable her to sympathize with the necessities of a boy's nature. Perhaps the worst that could justly be said of her behavior to Harry was that with the strong inclination to despotism and some feeling of loneliness she had exercised the one upon him in order to alleviate the other in herself. Upon him therefore she expended a certain or rather an uncertain kind of affection which if it might have been more fittingly spent upon a lapdog and was worth but little might yet have become worth everything had she been moderately good. You did not see Euphra again for more than a fortnight. And chapter 44. Chapter 45 of David Elgin Broad. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. David Elgin Broad by George MacDonald. Chapter 45. Changes. Hey and the Rue grows Bonnie with time and the time it is withered and the Rue is in prime. Refrain of an old Scott song altered by Burns. He hath wronged me indeed he hath, at a word he hath, believe me, Robert Shallow Esquire saith he is wronged. Merry wives of Windsor. At length one evening entering the drawing room before dinner, you found Euphra there alone. He bowed with embarrassment and uttered some commonplace congratulation on her recovery. She answered him gently and coldly. Her whole era and appearance were signs of acute suffering. She did not make the slightest approach to their former familiarity, but she spoke without any embarrassment like one who had given herself up and was therefore indifferent. Hugh could not help feeling as if she knew every thought that was passing in his mind and having withdrawn herself from him was watching him with a cold ghostly interest. She took his arm to go into the dining room and actually leaned upon it as indeed she was compelled to do. Her uncle was delighted to see her once more. Mrs. Alton addressed her with kindness and Lady Emily was sweet cordiality. She herself seemed to care for nobody and nothing. As soon as dinner was over, she sent for her maid and withdrew to her own room. It was a great relief to Hugh to feel that he was no longer in danger of encountering her eyes. Gradually she recovered strength, though it was again some days before she appeared at the dinner table. The distance between Hugh and her seemed to increase instead of diminish. To that length he scarcely dared to offer her the smallest civility, lest she should despise him as a hypocrite. The further she removed herself from him, the more he felt inclined to respect her. By common consent they avoided as much as before any behavior that might attract attention, though the effort was of a very different nature now. It was wretched enough, no doubt, for both of them. The time drew near for Lady Emily's departure. What are your plans for the winter, Mrs. Alton, said Mr. Arnold one day? I intend spending the winter in London, she answered. Then you are not going with Lady Alton to Madeira? No, her father and one of her sisters are going with her. I have a great mind to spend the winter abroad myself, but the difficulty is what to do with Harry. Could you not leave him with Mr. Sutherland? No, I do not choose to do that. Then let him come to me. I still have all my little establishment up, and there will be plenty of room for Harry. A very kind offer, I may possibly avail myself of it. I fear we could hardly accommodate his tutor, though, but that will be very easily arranged. He could sleep out of the house, could he not? Give yourself no trouble about that. I wish Harry to have masters for the various branches he will study. It will teach him more of men in the world generally, and prevent his being too much influenced by one's style of thinking. But Mr. Sutherland is a very good tutor. Yes, very. To this there could be no reply but a question, and Mr. Arnold's manner not inviting one, the conversation was dropped. Euphra gradually resumed her duties in the house as far as great lameness would permit. She continued to show a quiet and dignified reserve towards Hugh. She made no attempts to fascinate him, and never avoided his look when it chance to meet hers. But although there was no reproach any more than fascination in her eyes, Hugh always felt before hers. She walked softly like Ahab as if, now that Hugh knew, she too was ever conscious. Her behavior to Mrs. Elton and Lady Emily was likewise improved, but apparently only from an increase of indifference. When the time came and they departed, she did not even appear to be much relieved. Once she asked Hugh to help her with the passage of Dante, but betrayed no memory of the past. His pleased haste to assist her showed that he at least, if fancy free, was not memory clear. She thanked him very gently and truly, took up her book like a schoolgirl and limped away. Hugh was smitten to the heart. If I could but do something for her, thought he, but there was nothing to be done. Although she had deserved it, somehow her behavior made him feel as if he had wronged her in ceasing to love her. One day in the end of September, Mr. Arnold and Hugh were alone after breakfast. Mr. Arnold spoke. Mr. Sutherland, I have altered my plans with regard to Harry. I wish him to spend the winter in London. Hugh listened and waited. Mr. Arnold went on after a slight pause. There I wish him to reap such advantages as are to be gained in the metropolis. He has improved wonderfully under your instruction and is now, I think, to be benefited principally by a variety of teachers. I therefore intend that he shall have masters for the different branches, which it is desirable he should study. Consequently, I shall be compelled to deny him your services, valuable as they have hitherto been. Very well, Mr. Arnold, said Mr. Sutherland with the indifference of one who feels himself ill-used. When shall I take my leave of him? Not before the middle of the next month at the earliest, but I will write you a check for your salary at once. So saying, Mr. Arnold left the room for a moment and returning, handed Hugh a check for a year's salary. Hugh glanced at it and, offering it again to Mr. Arnold, said, No, Mr. Arnold, I can claim scarcely more than half a year's salary. Mr. Sutherland, your engagement was at so much a year, and if I prevent you from fulfilling your part of it, I am bound to fulfill mine. Indeed, you might claim further provision. You are very kind, Mr. Arnold. Only just, rejoined Mr. Arnold with conscious dignity. I am under great obligation to you for the way in which you have devoted yourself to Harry. Hugh's conscience gave him a pang. Is anything more painful than undeserved praise? I have hardly done my duty by him, said he. I can only say that the boy is wonderfully altered for the better, and I thank you. I am obliged to you. Oblige me by putting the check in your pocket. Hugh persisted no longer in his refusal, and indeed it had been far more a feeling of pride than of justice that made him decline accepting it at first. Nor was there any generosity in Mr. Arnold's check. For Hugh, as he admitted, might have claimed board in lodging as well. But Mr. Arnold was one of the ordinarily honorable who, with perfect characters for uprightness, always contrived to err on the safe side of the purse and the doubtful side of a severely interpreted obligation. Such people, in so doing, not unfrequently secure for themselves, at the same time the reputation of generosity. Hugh could not doubt that his dismissal was somehow or other connected with the loss of the ring, but he would not stoop to inquire into the matter. He hoped that time would set all right and, in fact, felt considerable indifference to the opinion of Mr. Arnold, or of any one in the house, except Harry. The boy burst into tears when informed of his father's decision with regard to his winter studies, and could only be consoled by the hope which Hugh held out to him, certainly upon a very slight foundation that they might meet sometime in London. For the little time that remained, Hugh devoted himself unceasingly to his pupil, not merely studying with him, but walking, riding, reading stories, and going through all sorts of exercises for the strengthening of his person and constitution. The best results followed both for Harry and his tutor, and chapter 45, chapter 46 of David Elgin Broad. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. David Elgin Broad by George McDonald. Chapter 46. Explanations. I have done nothing good to win belief. My life has been so faithless. All the creatures made for heaven's honors have their ends in good ones. All but false women, when they die like tales, ill-told and unbelieved, they pass away. I will redeem one minute of my age, or, like another, Naiobi, I'll weep till I am water. Beaumont and Fletcher, The Maid's Tragedy. The days passed quickly by, and the last evening that Hugh was suspended are instead arrived. He wandered out alone. He had been with Harry all day, and now he wished for a few moments of solitude. It was a lovely autumn evening. He went into the woods behind the house. The leaves were still thick upon the trees, but most of them had changed to gold and brown and red, and the sweet faint odors of those that had fallen and lay thick underfoot ascended, like a voice from the grave saying, here dwelleth some sadness, but no despair. As he strolled about among them, the whole history of his past life arose before him. This often happens before any change in our history, and is sure as to take place at the approach of the greatest change of all, when we are about to pass into the unknown once we came. In this mood, it was natural that his sins should rise before him. They came as the shadows of his best pleasures. For now, in looking back, he could fix on no period of his history around which the Oral, which glorifies the sacred things of the past, had gathered in so golden a hue as around the memory of the Holy Cottage, the temple in which abode David and Janet and Margaret. All the story glided past as the necromanic will called up the sleeping dead in the mausoleum of the brain. And that solemn, kingly, gracious old man who had been to him a father, he had forgotten the homely tenderness which, from fear of its own force, concealed itself behind the humorous roughness of manner. He had, no, not despised, but forgotten too. And if the damn pearly loveliness of the trustful, grateful maiden had not been quite forgotten, yet she too had been neglected, had died, as it were, and been buried in the churchyard of the past, where the grass grows long over the graves and the moss soon begins to fill up the chiseled records. He was ungrateful. He dared not allow to himself that he was unloving, but he must confess himself ungrateful. Musing sorrowfully and self-approachfully, he came to the Ghosts Avenue. Up and down its aisle he walked, a fit place for remembering the past and the sins of the present. Yielding himself to what thoughts might arise, the strange sight he had seen here on the moonlit night of two silent, wandering figures, or could it be that they were one and the same suddenly changed in hue, returned upon him. This vision had been so speedily followed by the second and more alarming apparition of Lady Euphrasia that he had hardly had time to speculate on what the former could have been. He was meditating upon all these strange events and remarking to himself that, since his midnight encounter with Lady Euphrasia, the house had been as quiet as a churchyard at noon, when all suddenly he saw before him at some little distance a dark figure approaching him. His heart seemed to bound into his throat and choke him as he said to himself, it is the none again. But the next moment he saw that it was Euphra. I do not know which he would have preferred, not meeting alone and in the deepening twilight. Euphra too had become like a ghost to him. His first impulse was to turn aside into the wood, but she had seen him and was evidently going to address him. He therefore advanced to meet her. She spoke first, approaching him with painful steps. I have been looking for you, Mr. Sutherland. I wanted very much to have a little conversation with you before you go. Will you allow me? You felt like a culprit directly. Euphra's manner was quite collected in kind, yet through it all a consciousness showed itself that the relation which had once existed between them had passed away forever. In her voice there was something like the tone of wind blowing through a ruin. I shall be most happy, said he. She smiled sadly. A great change had passed upon her. I am going to be quite open with you, she said. I am perfectly aware, as well as you are, that the boyish fancy you had for me is gone. Do not be offended. You are manly enough, but your love for me was boyish. Most first loves our childish, quite irrespective of age. I do not blame you in the least. This seemed to you rather a strange style to assume if all was true, that his own eyes had reported. She went on. Nor must you think it has cost me much to lose it. You felt hurt at which no one who understands will be surprised. But I cannot afford to lose you, the only friend I have, she added. You turned towards her with a face full of manhood and truth. You shall not lose me, Euphra, if you will be honest to yourself and to me. Thank you. I can trust you. I will be honest. At that moment, without the revival of a trace of his former feelings, you felt nearer to her than he had ever felt before. Now there seemed to be truth between them, the only medium through which means can unite. I fear I have wronged you much, she went on. I do not mean some time ago, here she hesitated. I fear I am the cause of your leaving aren't stead. You, Euphra, no, you must be mistaken. I think not, but I am compelled to make an unwilling disclosure of a secret, a sad secret about myself. Do not hate me quite, I am a some nambulist. She hid her face in her hands as if the night which had now closed around them did not hide her enough. He did not reply. Absorbed in the interest which both herself and her confession aroused in him, he could only listen eagerly. She went on after a moment's pause. I did not think at first that I had taken the ring. I thought another had, but last night and not till then I discovered that I was the culprit. How? That requires explanation. I have no recollection of the events of the previous night when I have been walking in my sleep. Indeed, the other absence of a sense of dreaming always makes me suspect that I have been wandering. But sometimes I have a vivid dream which I know, though I can give no proof of it, to be a reproduction of some previous, some nambulist experience. Do not ask me to recall the horrors I dreamed last night. I am sure I took the ring. Then you dreamed what you did with it. Yes, I gave it to you. Here her voice sank and ceased. You would not urge her. Have you mentioned this to Mr. Arnold? No, I do not think it would do any good. But I will if you wish it, she added submissively. Not at all, just as you think best. I could not tell him everything. I cannot tell you everything. If I did, Mr. Arnold would turn me out of the house. I'm a very unhappy girl, Mr. Sutherland. From the tone of these words, you could not for a moment suppose that you've had any remaining design of fascination in them. Perhaps he might want to keep you, if I told him all, but I do not think after the way he has behaved to you that you could stay with him, for he would never apologize. It is very selfish of me, but indeed I have not the courage to confess to him. I assure you nothing could make me remain now, but what can I do for you? Only let me depend upon you in case I should need your help, or here you first stopped suddenly and caught hold of Hugh's left hand, which he had lifted to brush an insect from his face. Where is your ring, she said in a tone of suppressed anxiety. Gone, Euphra, my father's ring. It was lying beside Lady Euphrasia's. Euphra's face was again hidden in her hands. She sobbed and moaned like one in despair. When she grew a little calmer, she said, I am sure I did not take your ring, dear Hugh. I am not a thief. I had a kind of right to the other, and he said it ought to have been his. For his real name was Count Van Hawkar, the same name as Lady Euphrasia's before she was married. He took it, I am sure. It was he that knocked me down in the dark that night, then, Euphra. Did he? Oh, I shall have to tell you all. That wretches a terrible power over me. I loved him once, but I refused to take the ring from your desk because I knew it would get you into trouble. He threw me into some nambulix sleep and sent me for the ring, but I should have remembered if I had taken yours. Even in my sleep, I don't think he could have made me do that. You may know I speak the truth when I am telling my own disgrace. He promised to set me free if I would get the ring, but he has not done it, and he will not. Sobs again interrupted her. I was afraid your ring was gone. I don't know why I thought so, except that you hadn't it on when you came to see me, or perhaps it was because I'm sometimes forced to think what that wretch is thinking. He made me go to him that night you saw me, Hugh, but I was so ill, I don't think I should have been able, but that I could not rest till I had asked about your ring. He said he knew nothing about it. I am sure he has it, said Hugh, and he related to you for the struggle he had with Funkelstein and its result. She shuddered, I have been a devil to you, Hugh. I have betrayed you to him. You will never see your ring again. Here, take mine, and it's not so good as yours, but for the sake of the old way you thought of me, take it. No, no, you're from, Mr. Arnold would miss it. Besides, you know it would not be my father's ring, and it was not for the value of the diamond I cared most about it. And I'm not sure that I shall not find it again. I'm going up to London where I shall fall in with him, I hope. But do take care of yourself. He has no conscience. God knows I have had little, but he has none. I know he has none, but a conscience is not a bad auxiliary, and there I shall have some advantage of him. But what could he want that ring of Lady Euphratesia is for? I don't know. He never told me. It was not worth much, next to nothing. I shall be sure to find that than my own, and I will find it if I can that Mr. Arnold may believe I was not to blame. Do, but be careful. Don't fear, I will be careful. She held out her hand as if to take leave of him, but withdrew it again with a sudden cry. What shall I do? I thought he had left me to myself till that night in the library. She held down her head in silence. Then she said slowly in a tone of agony, I am a slave, body and soul. Hugh, she added passionately and looking up in his face. Do you think there is a God? Her eyes glimmered with the faint reflex from gathered tears that silently overflowed. And now Hugh's own poverty struck him with grief and humiliation. Here was a soul seeking God, and he had no right to say that there was a God, for he knew nothing about him. He had been told so, but what could that far-off witness do for the need of a desolate heart? She had been told so a million of times. He could not say that he knew it. That was what she wanted and needed. He was honest and so replied. I do not know. I hope so. He felt that she was already beyond him, for she had begun to cry into the vague, seemingly heartless void and say, is there a God somewhere to hear me when I cry? And with all the teaching he had had, he had no word of comfort to give. Yes, he had. He had known David Elgin, Rod. Before he had shaped his thought, she said, I think if there were a God, he would help me, for I am nothing but a poor slave now. I have hardly a will of my own. The size she hewed told of a hopeless oppression. The best man and the wisest and the noblest I ever knew, said Hugh, believed in God with his whole heart and soul and strength and mind. In fact, he cared for nothing but God, or rather he cared for everything because it belonged to God. He was never afraid of anything, never vexed at anything, never troubled about anything. He was a good man. He was surprised that the light which broke upon the character of David, as he held it before his mind's eye in order to describe it to Euphra. He seemed never to have understood him before. Ah, I wish I knew him. I would go to that man and ask him to save me. Where does he live? Alas, I do not know whether he is alive or dead, the more to my shame. But he lives, if he lives, far away in the north of Scotland. She paused. No, I could not go there. I will write to him. Hugh could not discourage her, though he doubted whether a real communication could be established between them. I will write down his address for you when I go in, said he. But what can he save you from? From no God, she answered solemnly. If there is no God, then I am sure that there is a devil and that he has got me in his power. Hugh felt her shudder, for she was leaning on his arm. She was still so lame, she continued. Oh, if I had a God, he would write me, I know. Hugh could not reply, the pause followed. Goodbye, I feel pretty sure we shall meet again. My pre-sentiments are generally true, said Euphra at length. Hugh kissed her hand with far more real devotion than he had ever kissed it with before. She left him and hastened to the house with feeble speed. He was sorry she was gone. He walked up and down for some time, meditating on the strange girl and her strange words. Till hearing the dinner bell, he too must hasten in to dress. Euphra met him at the dinner table without any change of her late manner. Mr. Arnold wished him good night more kindly than usual. When he went up to his room, he found that Harry had already cried himself to sleep. End chapter 46. Chapter 47 of David Elgin Brod. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. David Elgin Brod. By George McDonald. Chapter 47. Departure. I fancy-deemed fit guide to lead my way, and as I deemed I did pursue her track. Whit lost his aim, and Will was fancy's prey. The rebel won, the ruler went to rack. But now, Sith fancy did with folly end. Whit, bought with loss. Will, taught by Whit, will mend. Southwell. David's Pecavi. After dinner, he wandered over the well-known places to bid them goodbye. Then he went up to his room, and with the vanity of a young author, took his poems out of the fatal old desk, wrote, Take them, please, such as they are. Let me be your friend. Enclose them with the writing and address them to Euphra. By the time he saw them again, they were so much waste paper in his eyes. But what were his plans for the future? First of all, he would go to London. There, he would do many things. He would try to find Funkelstein. He would write. He would make acquaintance with London life, for had he not plenty of money in his pocket, and who could live more thriftily than he? During his last session at Aberdeen, he had given some private lessons, and so contrived to eke out his small means. These were wretchedly paid for, namely, not quite at the rate of seven pens, half penny a lesson. But still, that was something where more could not be had. Now he would try to do the same in London, where he would be much better paid, or perhaps he might get a situation in a school for a short time, if he were driven to ultimate necessity. At all events, he would see London and look about him for a little while before he settled to anything definite. With this hopeful prospect before him, he next morning bade adieu to Arnstead. I will not describe the parting with poor Harry. The boy seemed ready to break his heart, and Hugh himself had enough adieu to refrain from tears. One of the grooms drove him to the railway in the dog cart. As they came near the station, Hugh gave him half a crown, and livened by the gift, the man began to talk. He's a wrong customer, that ear gentleman, from the foreign name. The color of his puss I couldn't swear to you now, never saw six pence of his in. My opinion is, master had better look after his spoons, and for misses, well, it's a pity. He's a runnum, as I say anyhow. The man here nodded several times, half compassionately, half importantly. Hugh did not choose to inquire what he meant. They reached the station, and in a few minutes he was shooting along towards London, that social vortex which draws everything towards its central tumult. But there is a central repose beyond the motions of the worlds, and through the turmoil of London, Hugh was journeying towards that wide stillness, that silence of the soul which is not desolate, but rich with unutterable harmonies. Chapter 47. And Book 2. Chapter 48 of David Elgin Broad. This is a Libravox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. David Elgin Broad by George McDonald. Book 3. London. Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers, o sweet content. Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed, o punishment. Thus thou laugh to see how fools are vexed, to add to golden numbers, golden numbers, o sweet content. Work a pace, a pace, a pace, a pace. Honest labor bears a lovely face. Probably Thomas Decker, comedy of patient Grisel. Chapter 48. Lodgings. Hi ho, sing hi ho, unto the green holly. Most friendship is feigning, most loving, mere folly. Then hi ho, the holly. This life is most jolly. Song in as you like it. Hugh felt rather dreary as through Bermondsy, he drew nigh to the London Bridge station. Fog and drizzle and smoke and stench composed the atmosphere. He got out in a drift of human atoms. Leaving his luggage at the office, he set out on foot to explore. In fact, to go and look for his future, which, even when he met it, he would not be able to recognize with any certainty. The first form in which he was interested, defined it embodied, was that of lodgings. But where even to look, he did not know. He had been in London for a few days in the spring on his way to Arnstead, so he was not utterly ignorant of the anatomy of the monster city. But his little knowledge could not be of much service to him now. And how different it was from the London of Spring, which had lingered in his memory and imagination. When transformed by the heavenly alchemy of the piercing sunbeams that slanted across the streets from chimney tops to opposite basements, the dust and smoke showed great inclined planes of light, up whose steep slopes won long decline to the fountain glory once they flowed. Now the streets from Garrett to Seller seemed like huge kennels of muddy, moist, filthy air, down through which settled the heavier particles of smoke and rain upon the miserable human beings who crawled below in the deposit, like shrimps in the tide or whitebait at the bottom of the muddy Thames. He had to wade through deep, thin mud, even on the pavements. Everybody looked depressed and hurried by with a cowed look as if conscious that rain and general misery were a plague drawn down on the city by his own individual crime. Nobody seems to care for anybody or anything. Good heavens, Dot Hew, what a place this must be for one without money. It looked like a chaos of human monads, and yet in reality the whole mass was so bound together, interwoven and matted by the crossing and intertwisting threads of interest, mutual help and relationship of every kind that Hew soon found how hard it was to get within the mass at all, so as to be in any degree partaker of the benefits it shared within itself. He did not wish to get lodgings in the outskirts, for he thought that would remove him from every center of action or employment. But he saw no lodgings anywhere. Growing tired and hungry, he went at length into an eating house, which he thought looked cheap and proceeded to dine upon a cinder, which had been a stake. He tried to delude himself into the idea that it was a stake still by withdrawing his attention from it and fixing it upon a newspaper two days old. Finding nothing of interest, he dallied with the advertisements. He soon came upon a column from which single gentlemen appeared to be in request as lodgers. Looking over these advertisements, which had more interest for him at the moment than all home and foreign news, battles and murders included, he drew a map from his pocket and began to try to find out some of the localities indicated. Most of them were in or towards the suburbs. At last he spied one in a certain square, which, after long-indulgence search and with the assistance of a girl who waited on him, he found on his map. It was in the neighborhood of Holborn and from the place it occupied in the map seemed central enough for his vague purposes. Above all, the terms were said to be moderate, but no description of the character of the lodgings was given, else he would not have ventured to look at them. What he wanted was something of the same sort as he had had in Aberdeen, a single room or a room and bedroom for which he should have to pay only a few shillings a week. Refreshed by his dinner, wretched as it was, he set out again. To his great joy, the rain was over and an afternoon sun was trying with some slight measure of success to pierce the clouds of the London atmosphere. It had already succeeded with the clouds of the terrine. He soon found his way into Holborn and thence into the square in question. It looked to him very attractive, for it was quietness itself and had no thoroughfare except across one of its corners. True, it was invaded by the universal roar for what place in London is not, but it contributed little or nothing of its own manufacture to the general production of sound in the metropolis. The center was occupied by grass and trees and closed within an iron railing. All the leaves were withered and many had dropped already on the pavement below. In the middle stood the statue of a queen of days gone by. The tide of fashion had rolled away far to the west and yielded a free passage to the inroads of commerce and of the general struggle for ignoble existence upon this once-favored island in its fluctuating waters. Old windows flushed with the external walls when its had glanced, fair eyes to which fashion was even dearer than beauty, now displayed lodgings to let between knitted curtains from which all idea of drapery had been expelled by severe starching. Amongst these he soon found the house he sought and shrunk from its important size and bright equipment, but summoning courage thought it better to ring the bell. A withered old lady in just the same stage of decay as the square and adorned after the same fashion as the house came to the door, cast a doubtful look at Hugh and, when he had stated his object, asked him in a hard, keen, unmodulated voice to walk in. He followed her and found himself in a dining room, which to him, judging by his purse and not by what he had been used to of late, seemed sumptuous. He said at once, "'It is needless for me to trouble you further. "'I see your rooms will not suit me.'" The old lady looked annoyed. "'Will you see the drawing room apartments, then?' she said crustily. "'No, thank you. "'It would be giving you quite unnecessary trouble.' "'My apartments have always given satisfaction, "'I assure you, sir. "'Indeed, I have no reason to doubt it. "'I wish I could afford to take them,' said Hugh, "'thinking it better to be open "'than to hurt her feelings. "'I am sure I should be very comfortable, "'but a poor... "'He did not know what to call himself.' "'Oh,' said the landlady. "'Then after a pause, "'well, interrogatively. "'Well, I was a tutor last, "'but I don't know what I may be next.' She kept looking at him. "'Once or twice she looked at him from head to foot. "'You are respectable.' "'I hope so,' said Hugh, laughing. "'Well, this time not interrogatively. "'How many rooms would you like? "'The fewer the better, half a one, "'if there were nobody in the other half. "'Well, and you wouldn't give much trouble, I daresay. "'Only for colds and water to wash and drink. "'And you wouldn't dine at home. "'No, nor anywhere else,' said Hugh, "'but the second in larger claws was Soto Voce. "'And you wouldn't smoke indoors. "'No. "'And you would wipe your boots clean "'before you went upstairs.' "'Yes, certainly.' "'Hugh was beginning to be exceedingly abused, "'but he kept his gravity wonderfully. "'Have you any money?' "'Yes, plenty for the meantime. "'But when I shall get more, I don't know, you see. "'Well, I have a room at the top of the house, "'which I'll make comfortable for you, "'and you may stay as long as you like to behave yourself. "'But what is the rent? "'Four shillings a week to you. "'Would you like to see it?' "'Yes, if you please.' "'She conducted him up to the third floor "'and showed him a good-sized room, rather bare but clean. "'This will do delightfully,' said Hugh. "'I will make it a little more comfortable for you, you know. "'Thank you very much. "'Shall I pay a month in advance?' "'No, no,' she answered with a grim smile. "'I might want to get rid of you, you know. "'It must be a week's warning, no more.' "'Very well, I have no objection. "'I will go and fetch my luggage. "'I suppose I may come in at once.' "'The sooner the better, young man, in a place like London, "'the sooner you come home, "'the better pleased I shall be there now.' "'So sane, she walked solemnly downstairs before him "'and let him out. "'Hugh hurried away to fetch his luggage, "'delighted that he had so soon succeeded "'in finding just what he wanted. "'As he went, he speculated on the nature of his landlady, "'trying to account for her odd, rough manner "'and the real kindness of her rude words. "'He came to the conclusion "'that she was naturally kind to profusion "'and that this kindness had, "'sometime or other, perhaps repeatedly, "'been taken shameful advantage of, "'that at last she had come to the resolution "'to defend herself by means of a general misanthropy "'and suppose that she had succeeded "'when she had got no further than to have so often "'imitated the tone of her own behavior "'when at its crosses as to have made it habitual "'by repetition. "'In all probability, some unknown sympathy "'had drawn her to Hugh. "'She might have had a son about his age "'who had run away 30 years ago. "'Or rather, for she seemed an old maid, "'she had been jilted sometime by youth "'about the same size as Hugh, "'and therefore she loved him the moment she saw him. "'Or, in short, a thousand things. "'Certainly seldom had lodgings been let so oddly "'or so cheaply, but some impulse or other "'of the whims-clawed human heart, "'which will have its way, was satisfied therein. "'When he returned in a couple of hours "'with his boxes on the top of a cab, "'the door was opened before he knocked "'by a tidy maid who, "'without being the least like her mistress "'yet resembled her excessively. "'She helped him to carry his boxes upstairs, "'and when he reached his room, "'he found a fire burning cheerly, "'a muffin down before it, "'a tea kettle singing on the hob, "'and the tea tray set upon a nice white cloth "'on the table right in front of the fire "'with an old-fashioned high-backed easy chair "'by its side, the very chair to go to sleep in "'over a novel. "'The old lady soon made her appearance "'with the teapot in one hand "'and a plate of butter in the other. "'Oh, thank you,' said Hugh. "'This is comfortable.' "'She answered only by compressing her lips, "'till her mouth vanished altogether, "'and nodding her head as much as to say, "'I know it is, I intended it should be. "'She then poured water into the teapot, "'set it down by the fire, and vanished. "'She sat down in the easy chair "'and resolved to be comfortable, "'at least till he had had his tea, "'after which he would think what he was to do next. "'A knock at the door and his landlady entered, "'laid a penny newspaper on the table, and went away. "'This was just what he wanted to complete his comfort. "'He took it up and read "'while he consumed his bread and butter. "'When he had had enough of tea and newspaper, "'he said to himself, "'Now, what am I to do next?' "'It is a happy thing for us "'that this is really all we have to concern ourselves "'about, what to do next. "'No man can do the second thing. "'He can do the first. "'If he omits it, the wheels of the social juggernaut "'roll over him and leave him more or less crushed behind. "'If he does it, he keeps in front "'and finds room to do the next again. "'And so he is sure to arrive at something, "'for the onward march will carry him with it. "'There is no saying to what perfection of success "'a man may come who begins with what he can do "'and uses the means at his hand. "'He makes a vortex of action, however slight, "'towards which all the means instantly begin to gravitate. "'Let a man but lay hold of something, anything, "'and he is in the high road to success, "'though it may be very long "'before he can walk comfortably in it. "'It is true the success may be measured out "'according to a standard very different from his. "'But in Hugh's case, the difficulty was to grasp anything "'to make a beginning anywhere. "'He knew nobody, and the globe of society seemed "'like a mass of adamant, "'on which he could not gain the slightest hold "'or make the slightest impression. "'Who would introduce him to pupils? "'Nobody. "'He had the testimonials of his professors, "'but who would ask to see them? "'His eye fell on the paper, he would advertise. "'And,' Chapter 48, "'After 49 of David Elginprod, "'This is a LibriVox recording. "'All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. "'For more information or to volunteer, "'please visit LibriVox.org.' "'David Elginprod by George MacDonald, "'Chapter 49, "'Letters for the Post. "'Nothing but drought and dearth, but bush and break, "'which waysoever I look I see. "'Some may dream merrily, but when they wake, "'they dress themselves and come to the... "'George Herbert, home.' "'He got his writing materials and wrote to the effect "'that a graduate of a Scotch University "'was prepared to give private lessons "'in the classics and mathematics, "'or even in any of the inferior branches of education, "'etc., etc. "'This he would take to the times next day. "'As soon as he had done this, "'duty lifted up her head and called him. "'He obeyed and wrote to his mother. "'Duty called again, and he wrote, "'with much trepidation and humiliation, "'to David Elginprod. "'It was a good beginning. "'He had commenced his London life "'in doing what he knew he ought to do. "'His trepidation in writing to David arose in part, "'it must be confessed, "'from the strange result of one of the experiments "'at Arnstead. "'This was his letter, "'but he sat and meditated a long time before he began it. "'My dear friend, if I did not think you would forgive me, "'I should feel, now that I have once allowed my mind "'to rest upon my conduct to you, "'as if I could never hold up my head again. "'After much occupation of thought and feeling "'with other things, "'a season of silence has come "'and my sins look me in the face. "'First of them all is my neglect of you, "'to whom I owe more than to any man else, "'except perhaps my father. "'Forgive me for forgiveness's sake. "'You know it takes a long time for a child "'to know its mother. "'It takes everything as a matter of course, "'till suddenly one day it lifts up its eyes "'and knows that a face is looking at it. "'I have been like the child towards you, "'but I am beginning to feel what you have been to me. "'I want to be good. "'I am very lonely now in great noisy London. "'Write to me if you please and comfort me. "'I wish I were as good as you. "'Then everything would go right with me. "'Do not suppose that I am in great trouble of any kind, "'as yet I am very comfortable "'as far as external circumstances go. "'But I have a kind of aching inside me. "'Something is not right and I want your help. "'You will know what I mean. "'What am I to do? "'Please to remember me in the kindest, "'most grateful manner to Mrs. Elginbrod and Margaret. "'It is more than I deserve, "'but I hope they have not forgotten me, "'as I have seemed to forget them. "'I am, my dear Mr. Elginbrod, your old friend, Hugh Sutherland. "'I may as well insert here another letter, "'which arrived at Turry Puffett, "'likewise addressed to David, "'some six weeks after the foregoing. "'They were both taken to Janet, of course. "'Sir, I have heard from one who knows you "'that you believe, really believe in God. "'That is why I write to you. "'It may seem very strange in me to do so, "'but how can I help it? "'I am a very unhappy woman, "'for I am in the power of a bad man. "'I cannot explain it all to you, "'and I will not attempt it. "'For sometimes I almost think I am out of my mind, "'and that it is all a delusion. "'But alas, delusion or not, "'it is a dreadful reality to me in all its consequences. "'It is of such a nature that no one can help me, "'but God, if there be a God. "'And if you can make me believe that there is a God, "'I shall not need to be persuaded that he will help me, "'for I will beseech him with my prayers night and day "'to set me free. "'And even if I am out of my mind, "'who can help me but him? "'Ah, is it not when we are driven to despair "'when there is no more help anywhere "'that we look around for some power of good "'that can put right all that is wrong? "'Tell me, dear sir, what to do? "'Tell me that there certainly is a God, "'or else I shall die raving. "'He said you knew about him better than anybody else. "'I am honored, sir, your obedient servant, "'Eufrasia Cameron, Arnstead Surrey, et cetera, et cetera. "'David's answer to this letter "'would have been something worth having, "'but I think it would have been all summed up "'in one word, try and see, call, and listen. "'But what could Janet do with such letters? "'She did the only thing she could. "'She sent them to Margaret. "'He found it no great hardship to go to bed "'in the same room in which he sat. "'The bed looked peculiarly inviting. "'For strange to tell, it was actually hung "'with the same pattern of old-fashioned chintz "'as the bed which had been his "'from his earliest recollection. "'Tilly left his father's house. "'How could he make the trees growing with tufts "'to the ground, or the great birds "'which he used to think were crows "'notwithstanding their red and yellow plumage? "'It was all over red, brown and yellow. "'He could remember and reconstruct "'the very faces distorted and awful, "'which in the delirium of childish sickness "'he used to discover in the foliage "'and stems of the trees. "'It made the whole place seem to him homely and kind. "'When he got tired, he knelt by his bedside, "'which he had not done for a long time, "'and then went to bed. "'Hardship? No. "'It was very pleasant to see the dying fire "'in his books about and his papers, "'and to dream half asleep and half awake "'that the house-ferries were stealing out to gamble "'for a little in the fire-lighted silence "'of the room as he slept, "'and to vanish as the embers turned black. "'He had not been so happy for a long time as now. "'The writing of that letter had removed a load "'from his heart. "'True, we can never be at peace "'till we have performed the highest duty of all, "'till we have arisen and gone to our father. "'But the performance of smaller duties, yes, "'even of the smallest, "'will do more to give us temporary repose, "'will act more as healthful anodynes "'than the greatest joys that can come to us "'from any other quarter. "'He soon fell asleep and dreamed "'that he was a little child, lost in a snowstorm, "'and that, just as the snow had reached above his head "'and he was beginning to be smothered, "'a great hand caught hold of him by the arm "'and lifted him out, "'and lo, the storm had ceased, "'and the stars were sparkling overhead like diamonds "'that had been drinking the light of the sun all day. "'And he saw that it was David, as strong as ever, "'who had rescued him, the little child, "'and was leading him home to Janet. "'But he got sleepy and faint upon the way, "'which was long and cold, "'and then David lifted him up "'and carried him in his bosom, and he fell asleep. "'When he woke and opening his eyes "'looked up to him who bore him, "'it was David no longer. "'The face was that which was marred more than any man's, "'because the soul within had loved more. "'It was the face of the Son of Man, "'and he was carrying him like a lamb in his bosom. "'He gazed more and more as they traveled "'through the cold night, "'and the joy of lying in the embrace of that man "'grew and grew, "'till it became too strong for the bonds of sleep, "'and he awoke in the fog of a London morning.'" Chapter 49 Chapter 50 of David Elginbrod by George MacDonald. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. David Elginbrod by George MacDonald. Chapter 50, Endeavors. And even should misfortunes come, I hear what's it have met with some, and thankful for them yet. They give the wit of age to youth. They let us count our cell. They make us see the naked truth, the real good and ill. The losses and crosses be lessons right severe. There's wit there, you'll get there. You'll find no other where. Burns. He took his advertisement to the time's office and paid what seemed to him an awful amount for its insertion. Then he wandered about London until the middle of the day when he went into a baker's shop and bought two penny loaves, which he put in his pocket. Having found his way to the British Museum, he devoured them at his leisure as he walked through the Grecian and Roman saloons. What is the use of good health, he said to himself, if a man cannot live upon bread? Porridge and oatmeal cakes would have pleased him as well, but that food for horses is not so easily procured in London and costs more than the other. The cousin of his had lived in Edinburgh for six months upon 18 pence a week in that way and had slept a greater part of the time upon the floor, training himself for the hardship of a soldier's life. And he could not forget the college youth whom his comrades had considered mean till they learned that out of his poor bursary of 14 pounds a session and what he could make besides by private teaching at the rate previously mentioned or even less, he helped his parents to educate a younger brother and in order to do so, lived himself upon oatmeal and potatoes. But they did not find this out till after he was dead, poor fellow. He could not stand it. I ought at the same time to mention that he rarely made use of a crossing on a muddy day without finding a half-penny somewhere about him for the sweeper. He would rather walk through oceans of mud than cross at the natural place where he had no coppers, especially if he had patent leather boots on. After he had eaten his bread, he went home to get some water. Then, as he had nothing else to do, he sat down in his room and began to manufacture a story, thinking it just possible it might be accepted by one or other of the pseudo-literary publications with which London is inundated in hebdoma dull floods. He found spinning almost as easy as if he had been a spider. For he had already invention and a natural gift of speech, so that in a few days he had finished a story quite as good as most of those that appear in the better sort of weekly publications. This, in his modesty, he sent to one of the inferior sort and heard nothing more of it than if he had flung it into the sea. Possibly he flew too low. He tried again but with no better success. His ambition grew with his disappointments or perhaps rather with the exercise of his faculties. Before many days had passed, he made up his mind to try a novel. For three months he worked at this six hours a day regularly. When material failed him from the exhaustion consequent upon uninterrupted production, he would recreate himself by lying fallow for an hour or two or walking out in a mood for merely passive observation. But this anticipates. His advertisement did not produce a single inquiry and he shrunk from spending more money in such an apparently unprofitable appliance. Day after day went by and no voice reached him from the unknown world of labor. He went at last to several stationers' shops in the neighborhood, bought some necessary articles and took these opportunities of asking if they knew of anyone in want of such assistance as he could give. But unpleasant as he felt it to make such inquiries, he soon found that to most people it was equally unpleasant to reply to them. There seemed to be something disreputable in having to answer such questions to judge from the constrained, indifferent and sometimes, though not often, surly answers which he received. Can it be, thought Hugh, as disgraceful to ask for work as to ask for bread? If he had had a thousand a year and had wanted a situation of another thousand, it would have been quite commendable. But to try to elude cold and hunger by inquiring after Paltry's shillings words of hard labor was despicable. So he placed the more hope upon his novel and worked at that diligently. But he did not find it quite as easy as he had at first expected. No one finds anything either so easy or so difficult as in opposite moods. He had expected to find it. Everything is possible, but without labor and failure, nothing is achievable. The labor, however, comes naturally and experience grows without agonizing transitions, while the failure generally points in its detected cause to the way of future success. He worked on. He did not, however, forget the ring. Frequent were his meditations in the pauses of his story and when walking in the streets as to the best means of recovering it. I should rather say any means than best, for it was not yet a question of choice and degrees. The count could not but have known that the ring was of no money value. Therefore, it was not likely that he had stolen it in order to part with it again. Consequently, it would be of no use to advertise it or to search for it in the pawnbrokers or secondhand jeweler shops. To find the crystal, it was clear as itself that he must first find the count. But how? He could think of no plan. Any alarm would place the count on the defensive and the jewel at once beyond reach. Besides, he wished to keep the whole matter quiet and gain his object without his or any other name coming before the public. Therefore, he would not venture to apply to the police, though doubtless they would be able to discover the man if he were anywhere in London. He surmised that in all probability, they knew him already. But he could not come to any conclusion as to the object he must have had in view in securing such a trifle. Hugh had all but forgotten the count's check for a hundred guineas, for in the first place, he had never intended presenting it, the repugnance which some minds feel to using money which they have neither received by gift nor acquired by honest earning, being at least equal to the pleasure other minds feel in gaining it without the expense of either labor or obligation. And in the second place, since he knew more about the drawer, he had felt sure that it would be of no use to present it. To make this latter conviction a certainty, he did present it and found that there were no effects. Chapter 51 of David Elginbrod. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. David Elginbrod by George MacDonald. Chapter 51. A letter from the post. Hippolito. Is your wife then departed? Orlando. She's an old dweller in those high countries, yet not from me. Here, she's here. A good couple are seldom parted. Decker. What wonderful things letters are. In trembling in hope, the fingers unclasp and the folded sheet drops into, no, not the post office letter box, but into space. I have read a story somewhere of a poor child that dropped a letter into the post office addressed to Jesus Christ in heaven, and it reached him and the child had her answer. For was it not Christ present in the good man or woman? I forget the particulars of the story who set the child the help she needed. There was no necessity for him to answer in person, as in the case of Abgaris, King of Edessa. Out of space from somewhere comes the answer. Such letters are those given in a previous chapter. Are each a spirit Christ sent out like a Noah's dove into the abyss? And the spirit turns its ear where its mouth had been turned before and leans listening for the spirit echo, the echo with a soul in it. The answering voice which out of the abyss will enter by the gate, now turned to receive it. Whose will be the voice? What will be the sense? What chords on the harp of life have been struck a far off by the arrow words of the letter? What tones will they send back to the longing, hungering ear? The mouth hath spoken that the fainting ear may be filled by the return of its words through the alembic of another soul. One cause of great uneasiness to Hugh was that, for some time after a reply might have been expected, he received no answer from David Elginbrod. At length, however, a letter arrived upon the handwriting of what he speculated in vain, perplexed with the resemblance in it to some writing that he knew, and when he opened it, he found the following answer to his own. Dear Mr. Sutherland, your letter to my father has been sent to me by my mother for what you will feel to be the sad reason that he is no more in this world. But I cannot say it is so very sad to me to think that he has gone home where my mother and I will soon join him. True love can wait well, nor indeed, dear Mr. Sutherland, must you be too much trouble that your letter never reached him. My father was like God in this, that he always forgave anything the moment there was anything to forgive. For when else could there be such a good time? Although, of course, the person forgiven could not know it till he asked for forgiveness. But, dear Mr. Sutherland, if you could see me smiling as I write, and could yet see how earnest my heart is in writing it, I would venture to say that in virtue of my knowing my father as I do, for I am sure I know his very soul as near as human love could know it. I forgive you in his name for anything and everything with which you reproach yourself in regard to him. Ah, how much I owe you, and how much he used to say he owed you. We so thank you one day when we all meet. I am, dear Mr. Sutherland, your grateful scholar, Margaret Elginbrod. He burst into tears on reading this letter with no overpowering sense of his own sin, for he felt that he was forgiven, but with a sudden insight into the beauty and grandeur of a man whom he had neglected, and the wondrous loveliness which he had transmitted from the feminine part of his nature to the holy feminine, and therefore delicately powerful nature of Margaret. The vision he had beheld in the library at Arnstead, about which, as well as about many other things, that had happened to him there, he could form no theory capable of embracing all the facts. This vision returned to his mind's eye, and he felt that the glorified face he had beheld must surely have been Margaret's, whether he had seen it in the body or out of the body. Such a face alone seemed to him worthy of the writer of this letter. Purposely or not, there was no address given in it, and to his surprise, when he examined the envelope with the utmost care, he could discover no postmark but the London one. The date stamp likewise showed that it must have been posted in London. So, he said to himself, in my quest of a devil, I may cross the track of an angel. Who knows? But how can she be here? To this, of course, he had no answer at hand. And Chapter 51, Chapter 52 of David Elginbrod. This is a LibraVox recording. All LibraVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibraVox.org. David Elginbrod by George McDonald. Chapter 52, Beginnings. Since a man is bound no farther to himself than to do wisely, chance is only to trouble them that stand upon chance. Sir Philip Sidney, the Arcadia. Meantime, a feeble star but sparkling some rays of comfort began to shine upon Hugh's wintry prospects. This star arose in a grocer's shop. For one day his landlady, whose grim attentions had been increasing rather than diminishing, addressed him suddenly as she was removing his breakfast apparatus. This was a very extraordinary event for she seldom addressed him at all and replied when he addressed her, only in the briefest manner possible. Have you got any pupils yet, Mr. Sutherland? No, I am sorry to say. But how did you come to know I wanted any Miss Talbot? You shouldn't have secrets at home, Mr. Sutherland. I like to know what concerns my own family and I generally find out. You saw my advertisement, perhaps. To this suggestion, Miss Talbot made no other answer than the usual compression of her lips. You wouldn't be above teaching a tradesman's son to begin with. Certainly not. I should be very happy. Do you know of such a pupil? Well, I can't say I do know or I don't know, but I happen to mention to my grocer around the corner that you wanted pupils. Don't suppose, Mr. Sutherland, that I'm in the way of talking about any young man of mine, but not for a moment to interrupt it to you and Miss Talbot resumed evidently gratified. Well, if you wouldn't mind stepping around the corner, I shouldn't wonder if you might make an arrangement with Mr. Appleditch. He said you might call upon him if you liked. He jumped up and got his hat at once, received the few necessary directions from Miss Talbot, and soon found the shop. There were a good many poor people in it, buying sugar and soap, and one lady apparently giving a large order. A young man came to Hugh and bent over the counter in a recipient position, like a live point of interrogation. Hugh answered, Mr. Appleditch. Mr. Appleditch will be disengaged in a few minutes. Will you take a seat? The grocer was occupied with the lady in her order, but as soon as she departed, he approached you behind the rampart and stood towards him in the usual retail attitude. My name is Sutherland. Sutherland, said Mr. Appleditch. I think I've heard that name somewheres, but I don't know the face. Miss Talbot mentioned me to you. I understand, Mr. Appleditch. Oh, ah, I remember. I beg your pardon. Will you step this way, Mr. Sutherland? Hugh followed him through a sort of drawbridge, which he lifted in the counter into a little appendix at the back of the shop. Mr. Appleditch was a meek-looking man with large eyes, plump pasty cheeks, and a thin little person. How'd he do, Mr. Sutherland? Said he, holding out his hand, as soon as they had reached this retreat. Thank you, quite well, answered Sutherland, shaking hands with him as well as he could. The contact not being altogether pleasant. So, you want pupils, do you, sir? Yes. Oh, well, you see, sir, pupils are scarce at this season. They ain't to be bought in every shop, ha ha. The laugh was very mild. But I think Mrs. Appleditch could find you one if you could agree with her about the charge, you know, and all that. How old is he? A boy, I suppose. Well, you're right, sir. It is a boy, not very old, though. My Samuel is just 10, but a wonderful forward boy for his years, bless him. And what would you wish him to learn? Oh, Latin and Greek and all that. We intend bringing him up for the ministry. I hope your opinions are decided, sir. On some points they are, but I do not know to what you refer exactly. I mean theological opinions, sir. But I shall not have to teach your little boy theology. Certainly not, sir. That department belongs to his mother and I. Unworthy vessels, sir. Mere earthen vessels, but filled with the grace of God, I hope, sir. Groser parted his hands, which he had been rubbing together during this conversation, and lifted them upwards from the wrist. Like the fins of a seal, then dropping them fell to rubbing them again. I hope so. Well, you know the best way will be for me. Not knowing your opinions, to avoid everything of a religious kind. Ah, but it should be line upon line, you know. Here a little and there a little, sir. As the bow is bent, you know. The hoop is made, you know, sir. Your Mr. Appeldit stepped to the door suddenly and peeped out as if he feared he was wanted, but presently returning he continued. But time suppresses gifts, sir, and we must not waste it. So if you'll do us the honor, sir, to dine with us next Lord's Day, we may call it a work of necessity, you know. You will see the little Samuel and Mrs. Appelditch. I shall be very happy. What is your address, Mr. Appelditch? You had better come to Salem Chapel, Dervish Town, and we can go home together. Service commences at 11. Mrs. Appelditch will be glad to see you. Ask for Mr. Appelditch's pew. Good morning, sir. He took his leave, half-inclined to send an excuse before the day arrived and declined the connection. But his principle was to take whatever offered and thus make way for the next thing. Besides, he thus avoided the responsibility of choice from which he always shrunk. He returned to his novel, but alas, the inventive faculty point blank refused to work under the weight of such a Sunday in prospect. He wandered out quite dispirited, but before long to take his revenge upon circumstances resolved at least to have a dinner out of them. So he went to a chop house, had a chop and a glass of ale, and was astonished to find how much he enjoyed them. In fact, abstinence gave his very plain dinner more than all the charms of a feast, a fact of which Hugh has not been the only discoverer. He studied punch all the time he ate and rose with his spirits perfectly restored. Now I am in for it, said he. I will be extravagant for once. So, he went and bought a cigar, which he spun out into three miles of smoke as he wandered through shore ditch and hounds ditch and petticoat lane, gazing at the faces of his brothers and sisters, which faces having been so many years wrapped in a fog, both moral and physical, now looked out of it as if they were only the condemned nuclei of the same fog and filth. As he was returning through Whitechapel, he passed a man on the pavement whose appearance was so remarkable that he could not help looking back after him. When he reflected about it, he thought that it must have been a certain indescribable resemblance to David Elginbrod that had so attracted him. The man was very tall. Six foot Hugh felt dwarfed beside him, for he had to look right up as he passed to see his face. He was dressed in loose, shabby black. He had high and otherwise very marked features and a dark complexion. The general carelessness of demeanor was strangely combined with an expression of reposeful strength and quiet concentration of will. At how much of this conclusion Hugh arrived after knowing more of him, I cannot tell. But such was the description he gave of him as he saw him first, and it was thoroughly correct. His countenance always seemed to me, for I know him well, to represent a nature ever bent in one direction but never in haste because never in doubt. To carry his extravagance and dissipation still further, Hugh now but took himself to the pit of the Olympic theater, and no one could have laughed more heartily or cried more helplessly that night than he, for he gave himself wholly up to the influences of the ruler of the hour, the admirable Robson. But what was his surprise when standing up at the close of the first act and looking around and above him, he saw unmistakably the same remarkable countenance looking down upon him from the front row of the gallery. He continued his circuit of observation, trying to discover the face of Funkelstein in the boxes or circles, but involuntarily he turned his gaze back to the strange countenance which still seemed to vent towards his. The curtain rose and during the second act he forgot all about everything else. At its close he glanced up to the gallery again, and there was the face still and still looking at him. At the close of the third act he did vanish and he saw nothing more of it that evening. When the after-piece was over, before he sat it out, he walked quietly home, much refreshed. He had needed some relaxation after many days of close and continuous labor. But awfully solemn was the face of good Miss Talbot as she opened the door for him at midnight. He took his special pains with his boots at the doormat, but it was of no use. The austerity of her countenance would not relax in the least. So he took his candle and walked upstairs to his room, saying only as he went, being unable to think of anything else. Good night, Miss Talbot. But no response proceeded from the offended divinity of the place. He went to bed somewhat distressed at the behavior of Miss Talbot, for he had a weakness for being on good terms with everybody, but he resolved to have it out with her next morning, and so fell asleep and dreamed of the strange man who had watched him at the theater. He rose next morning at the usual time, but his breakfast was delayed half an hour and when it came, the maid awaited upon him and not her mistress, as usual. When he had finished and she returned to take away the ruins, he asked her to say to her mistress that he wanted to speak to her. She brought back a message which she delivered with some difficulty and evidently under compulsion that if Mr. Sutherland wanted to speak to her, he would find her in the back parlor. He went down instantly and found Miss Talbot in a doubly frozen condition. Her face absolutely blue with physical and mental cold combined. She waited for him to speak. He began, Miss Talbot, it seems something is wrong between you and me. Yes, Mr. Sutherland. Is it because I was rather late last night? Rather late, Mr. Sutherland. Miss Talbot showed no excitement with her that thermometer in place of rising under the influence of irritation steadily sank. I cannot make myself a prisoner on parole, you know, Miss Talbot. You must leave me my liberty. Oh, yes, Mr. Sutherland. Take your liberty. You'll go the way of all the rest. It's no use trying to save any of you. But I'm not aware that I am in any particular want of saving, Miss Talbot. There it is. Well, till a sinner is called and awakened, of course it's no use. So I'll just do the best I can for you. Who can tell when the spirit may be poured from on high? But it's very sad to me, Mr. Sutherland, to see an amiable young man like you going the way of transgressors, which is hard. I am sorry for you, Mr. Sutherland. Though the ice was not gone yet, it had begun to melt under the influences of Hugh's good temper, Miss Talbot's sympathy with his threatening fate. Conscience, too, had something to do with the chains. For much as one of her temperament must have disliked making such a confession, she ended by adding after a pause. And very sorry, Mr. Sutherland, that I showed you any bad temper last night. Poor Miss Talbot. You saw that she was genuinely troubled about him and resolved to offend but seldom while he was under her roof. Perhaps when you know me longer, you will find I am steadier than you think. Well, it may be, but steadiness won't make a Christian of you. It may make a tolerable lodger of me, though, answered Hugh. And you wouldn't turn me into the street because I am steady and nothing more, would you? I said I was sorry, Mr. Sutherland. Do you wish me to say more? Bless your kind heart, said Hugh. I was only joking. He held out his hand to Miss Talbot and her eyes glistened as she took it. She pressed it kindly and abandoned it instantly. So, always right between them once more. Who knows, murmured Miss Talbot, but the Lord may save him. He's surely not far from the kingdom of heaven. I'll do all I can to make him comfortable.