BELGRAVIA

FEBRUARY 1875

HOSTAGES TO FORTUNE

BY THE AUTHOR OF LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET,' ETC.

IN

CHAPTER IX.

'O, fair is Love's first hope to gentle mind!

As Eve's first star through fleecy cloudlet peeping;

And sweeter than the gentle south-west wind,

O'er willowy meads and shadow'd waters creeping,
And Ceres' golden fields.'

N the first flush of publication, before the Censor and the rest of the literary journals had issued the fiat of critical opinion, Herman had sent a copy of His Last Love to Squire Morcombe of Lochwithian, with a polite note, in which he modestly hinted that if the ladies of the household would deign to read his book, such condescension on their part would afford him infinite gratification.

The novel has been published a month, and the author has had the satisfaction of reading criticism pitched in every key, from the C sharp minor of reprobation to the gentle E flat major of mild approval, when among his letters one morning he finds a thick packet, with the Lochwithian postmark and the monogram R. M.

It is from Ruth; a long letter, praising his book as no one has praised it yet, with praise that comes from perfect understanding of the writer's intention, perfect sympathy with the writer's mind.

'We have shed many tears over your pages,' writes Miss Morcombe-and that little word we is very precious to Herman. We feel as if this book has made you indeed our friend. All that was harsh and cynical, all that had a false ring, in your former works— pray forgive me if I am too candid-is absent here. The heart of the writer throbs in every page, and it is a noble heart. The book is

full of life and truth and earnestness and faith in good things; and I have no power to judge of books or men if it is not ultimately the most popular of all your stories, and that to which you will owe enduring fame.'

THIRD SERIES, VOL. V. F.S. VOL. XXV.

FF

'Let the Censor go hang!' cries Herman, moved to enthusiasm by a woman's letter, written from a sick-room. One true woman's heart has been moved by my book-one pure mind has recognised its worth.'

He reads and re-reads the letter. It contains not a word about the Lochwithian Extension, not a hint of Editha's visit to London. The railway people may have changed their minds, may have deferred their petition indefinitely. He is sorely disappointed.

'Come what may, I shall go down to Llandrysak in July,' he thinks, and drink the waters and be made whole. Orpheus braved the burning blasts of Tartarus in quest of his love, and shall I shrink from imbibing a few pails of sulphur-water?'

And then-what then? It is not to be supposed that he, Herman Westray, a man of the world, a student of human nature, an anatomiser of other people's passions, a tranquil spectator of the great life drama—it is surely not to be supposed that he has fallen in love with a girl whom he has seen just four times, and whose education, principles, surroundings, are in every respect different from his own. No, Herman hardly believes himself in love with Editha Morcombe, but he is fain to confess that he is interested in heray, with something more than a mere artistic interest-that she is something more to him than a lay figure. He has thought of her, he has wondered about her not a little in the days and nights that have gone by since he last saw her, and has even speculated upon the possibility that they two may not be, after all, so utterly unsuited to each other as he had first believed, and so strenuously asserted to Dewrance.

He lives his life as of old-dines at his club and at other men's clubs, goes to theatres and parties, flirts occasionally with a graceful languor, says clever things, or is supposed to say them, begins another story, writes the first act of a comedy for Mrs. Brandreth, whose house he has avoided since that Sunday evening when she rashly lifted the curtain of the past, though he sees her occasionally behind the scenes at the Frivolity.

Although he does not forget Editha Morcombe, although she is often in his thoughts, her image is hardly a disturbing influence as yet. The shaft has not pierced deep enough for that. And thus time slips gently by till the first Monday in May, when Herman Westray goes to the Royal Academy to see the people and hear the public verdict on the pictures. These he has seen before—some on the easels of the painters, all at the private view.

Here, in the crowd and the heat and the Babel of voices-not loud, but multitudinous-he comes suddenly upon some one whom he feels curiously pleased to meet.

Mr. Dewrance stands opposite a landscape of Linnell's, expounding its beauties, in that loud distinct pulpit voice of his, to three

young women and a showily-bonneted matron, all evidently under his wing.

'Observe the hazy yellow atmosphere-positively steeped in light,' he exclaims.

'Rather like the neighbourhood of Llandrysak,' says Herman, laying his hand upon the Curate's shoulder.

Too much corn for Radnorshire-How d'ye do, Westray? Thought I knew the voice. What do you think of the pictures this year? Rather below par, eh? They paint too much, these fellows.'

Rubens painted too much; so would any man if he could get a thousand for every square yard of canvas he could cover. I think the pictures are pretty much as usual: manipulation in most cases good; subjects in many cases weak; ideas repetitive of last year, the year before that, and backwards to the days of Somerset House.'

'Let me introduce you to my friends. Mr. Westray-Mrs. Peacock Smith, Miss Peacock Smith, Miss Cordelia, Miss Beatrice Smith.'

The three young ladies survey Herman with wondering enthusiasm, pleased to discover that his clothes and boots are like those of other people, and that he bends himself to the usages of society so far as to have his hair cut.

'I wish he'd say something satirical,' whispers the fair Cordelia to her elder sister.

'Where are you and what are you doing, Dewrance?' asks Herman. 'I heard you were somewhere in the south of France.'

Only came back in April; wintered in the shelter of the Pyrenees. Plenty of nice people-found myself quite absurdly popular. I am first curate at a new church in Bayswater, St. Januarius. Perhaps you know it-a very beautiful specimen of the flamboyant style, and fashionably attended. The church is filled daily at our matin service, and our collections are the largest in the parish. When will you come and dine with me? I have rooms in Bolivia-gardens, near the church.'

'I'll tell you that when you dine with me. You ought to have come to see me directly you established yourself in London.'

'I have been intending to come, but my duties are so absorbing.' 'Naturally, with a fashionable congregation. Those duties include a good deal of dining out, to say nothing of kettledrums or friendly luncheons. As if I didn't know you, Dewrance.'

The Curate grins. The Peacock Smiths gaze at Herman with eyes enlarged by wonder, surprised that any one should venture to address their pastor in so mundane a tone.

'Come and breakfast with me to-morrow,' says Herman by and by, after having performed a little small-talk with the Miss Smiths, who exclaim, 'How lovely!' 'How sweet!' at every second canvas they see, and are deeply interested in the five different Ophelias

which, more or less drowning, grace the walls of the Academy and impart a sense of damp and depression to the exhibition.

'After matins ?' inquires Dewrance.

'Of course-say ten o'clock; and we can talk of our friends in Wales. By the way, have you heard from the Lochwithian people lately?'

I dined with them the day before yesterday.'

'In London ?'

'Yes.

They have taken apartments in Lima-crescent, near me or rather, I should say, I took the rooms for them, the Squire having intrusted me with the selection.'

look.

Have they been in town long?' asks Herman, with a mortified

'Not more than a week, I think. Mr. Morcombe was talking of calling on you.'

'He is very good,' says Herman, who rance should have been preferred to him. natural, Dewrance being the older friend.

finds it bitter that DewYet the preference is but

Mr. Morcombe leaves his card at Mr. Westray's chambers three days later, having most likely received a reminder from the Curate, Herman thinks, with a twinge of vexation. The young man is out when the Squire calls; but he presents himself at Lima-crescent next day, and is fortunate enough to find Editha at home.

She has come to town under the wing of a middle-aged cousin, a clergyman's widow, and altogether a prosperous comfortable personage, with a large appetite for small pleasures-a lady who has been buried alive in a remote Welsh parish during the brightest years of womanhood, and who is glad to make the most of her decline. Not a wrinkle has Time written on Mrs. Evan Williams's placid brow, nor has that avenger thinned her brown hair. Middle age has come upon her gently, with increase of bulk and a subsidiary chin or two. She carries about her, as it were, an atmosphere of the country, wears her watch conspicuously displayed below her waistband, and a handsome silk gown, which is new as to material, but ten years old as to cut.

Editha's bright look is full of welcome, Herman thinks, as she turns from the ferncase in the window and comes forward to receive him.

I thought you would come to see us,' she says; and then introduces him to my cousin, Mrs. Williams,' whom she addresses presently as Juliana; whereat the fair Juliana becomes immediately upon intimate terms with Mr. Westray, and goes into raptures about his books.

Editha has them all; and when I stay at the Priory I get her to lend them to me. I have sat up ever so late, night after night, reading them; and now to think of seeing the writer! It does