forget, but which, I think, formed part of two volumes of extracts from De Quincey.

I love my little sixpenny volume for one reason chiefly: I can lend it without fear, and lose it without a pang. Why, the beggarliest miser alive can't think much of fourpencehalfpenny. I have already dispensed a few copies of the 'OpiumEater,' price fourpence-halfpenny. As it lies at my elbow now I take no more care of it than one does of yesterday's morning paper. When I read it I double it back, to show to myself how little I care for the gross material of that book. Any one who comes in, who would, I think, appreciate the book, and who has not read it, is free to carry it off as a gift. But if I am free with the volume, I am very strict about the author. I do not even mention his name to any one who is not able and willing to become a worshipper.

With regard to this pet work of the great artist, I have many pleasant memories. I recall one glorious summer day when an old friend and I (we were then, alas, a dozen years younger than we are to-day) had toiled on and through the heather for hours, until we were halfbaked by the sun and famished with thirst; suddenly we came upon the topmost peak of all the hills, and saw, many miles away, the sea. As we stood, shading our eyes with our hands, my companion chanted out, 'Obliquely to the right lay the many-languaged town of Liverpool; obliquely to the left "the multitudinous sea."Whose is that?' I asked eagerly, notwithstanding my drought. What isn't Shakespeare's is De Quincey's.' 'Where did you find it? "In the "OpiumEater." I remember cursing my memory because I had forgotten that passage. When I got home I looked through the copy I then had, and could not find the pas

sage. I wrote my friend, saying I could not come upon his quotation. He wrote me, saying he now believed it did not occur in the body of the Confessions,' but in a note in some edition, he could not remember which.

There are only three marks of any kind in my copy of the 'Confessions,' one dealing with the semi-voluntary power children have over the coming and going of the phantoms painted on the darkness. This mark is very shaky, and, as I remember nothing about it, I think it must have been made by accident. The part marked is only introductory to an unmarked passage immediately following one which has always fascinated my imagination. It occurs in the 'Pains of Opium.' It runs :

'In the middle of 1817, I think it was, that this faculty became positively distressing to me. At night, when I lay awake in bed, vast processions passed along in mournful pomp, friezes of neverending stories, that to my feelings were as sad and solemn as if they were stories drawn from times before Edipus and Priam-before Tyre-before Memphis. And, at the same time, a corresponding change took place in my dreams : a theatre seemed suddenly opened, and lighted up within my brain, which presented nightly spectacles of more than earthly splendour.'

How often have I here put down the book, and, with fear and trembling, tried to get a peep at that awful theatre! But the first legitimate mark is opposite this appalling passage, surely one of the most awful in any literature:

'The waters now changed their character-from translucent lakes, shining like mirrors, they now became seas and oceans. And now came a tremendous change, which, unfolding itself slowly like a scroll, through many months,

promised an abiding torment; and, in fact, it never left me until the winding up of my case. Hitherto

the human face had mixed often in my dreams, but not despotically, not with any special power of tormenting. But, now, that which I call the tyranny of the human face began to unfold itself. Perhaps some part of my London life might be answerable for this. Be that as it may, now it was that upon the rocking waters of the ocean the human face began to appear; the sea appeared paved with innumerable faces, upturned to the heavens -faces imploring, wrathful, despairing, surged upwards by thousands, by myriads, by generations, by centuries

Upon closer looking, I see an attempt has been made to erase the mark opposite this passage, and I am driven to the conclusion there is only one 'stetted' note of admiration in the book. It is a whole page of the book. It begins on page 91 and ends on page 92. To show you how little I care for my copy of the Confessions' I shall cut it out. Even a lawyer would pay me more than fourpencehalfpenny for copying a page of the book:

'The dream commenced with a music which now I often heard in dreams—a music of preparation and awakening suspense; a music like the opening of the Coronation Anthem, and which, like that, gave the feeling of a vast march-of infinite cavalcades filing off-and the tread of innumerable armies. The morning was come of a mighty day -a day of crisis and of final hope for human nature, then suffering some mysterious eclipse, and labouring in some dread extremity. Somewhere, I knew not where somehow, I knew not how-by some beings, I knew not whom a battle, a strife, an agony, was conducting-was evolving like a great drama, or piece of music;

with which my sympathy was the more insupportable from my confusion as to its place, its cause, its nature, and its possible issue. I, as is usual in dreams (where, of necessity, we make ourselves central to every movement), had the power, and yet had not the power, to decide it. I had the power, if I could raise myself, to will it; and yet again had not the power, for the weight of twenty Atlantics was upon me, or the oppression of inexpiable guilt. Deeper than ever plummet sounded," I lay inactive. Then, like a chorus, the passion deepened. Some greater interest was at stake; some mightier cause than ever yet the sword had pleaded, or trumpet had proclaimed. Then came sudden alarms: hurryings to and fro: trepidations of innumerable fugitives, I knew not whether from the good cause or the bad: darkness and lights: tempest and human faces; and at last, with the sense that all was lost, female forms, and the features that were all the world to me, and but a moment allowed-and clasped hands, and heart-breaking partings, and then-everlasting farewells ! and with a sigh, such as the caves of hell sighed when the incestuous mother uttered the abhorred name of death, the sound was reverberated-everlasting farewells! and again, and yet again reverberated everlasting farewells! And I awoke in struggles, and cried aloud -"I will sleep no more!"'

But for a feeling of courtesy to the reader, I should not dare to write after a hundredth reading of this passage just as I had fixed it to this sheet. Instead of my writing any more, let you and me, reader, go over that passage once again. You and I must not hope ever to take leave of one another to such broad musical phrases, such an imperial theme.

I have read over again, and italicised a few lines. Good-night.

CHAPTER IV.

RECONCILIATION.

"This noble passion,

Child of integrity, hath from my soul Wiped the black scruples, reconciled my thoughts

To thy good truth and honour.' 'SUSIE, Susie, do not run away, child; do you not know me? I must speak with you a moment.' A detaining hand is gently laid upon Susie's arm, and she stops short. She is as suddenly reassured as she was previously frightened.

It is past eleven o'clock at night; she has just left the Kaleidoscope, and is speeding along the dark crowded street, into which three theatres have sent forth their noisy audiences. Susie has had to walk home alone for so many nights now, that she has even ceased to expect the dear familiar voice, whose strangely-hurried tones fall upon her surprised ear.

'My dear lord!' she exclaims, breathless with something more than the exertion of her quick walk.

'My darling, my own, own little girl he whispers, drawing both her hands closely into his arm. 'I did you a grievous wrong, Susie,' he continues; 'I was a fool; but if you knew how very, very unhappy I have been ever since, you would think me sufficiently punished. And you tell me, what have you thought, how have you felt about it all?'

VOL. XXVII.

'I thought you had broken my heart,' she says, with a simple pathos, which moves him more than any vehement protestations would do. 'Gran was so frightened about me too; for my poor mother died of consumption, and—' (she adds the next words after a moment's solemn pause, and in an awe-struck whisper) 'and-of a broken heart.'

'My poor, poor little girl,' says Lord Kempton, with such tenderness in his tone as few would have deemed him capable of expressing.

Susie responds to his sympathy by the gentle pressure of the fingers that rest on his arm. 'I could neither eat nor sleep,' she says, 'and I got so thin.' They are near a lamp. He stops and turns her sharply to the light.

The rounded baby-face has certainly lost its dimples and its healthy freshness. As far as his egotistical nature allows, he does. care for this child, who has placed her entire faith and all her hopes of happiness in him. It gratifies his vanity to ascertain how keenly she has suffered through his inexplicable neglect.

'And what did Madame Delaine do about the little sufferer ?' he asks.

'She sent me to her doctor, Monsieur Bertin, a kind old Frenchman. He is clever too; for he told me it was my soul, and not my body, that was sick. He was quite right, you see: I feel as bright and well as ever now, and

L

when next I go to see him he will pronounce me cured. Perhaps he will think it is his medicine has made the change; but you and I know different, don't we? He thought to frighten me into telling him why I was fretting, and he said if I had such a trouble that I could not or would not try to conquer it, I should die-perhaps. I was not a bit sorry, nor even frightened. Indeed I felt thankful. I thought I should like best to die, since you had gone out of my life and were lost to me.'

She asks no questions, she is content without excuse or explanation from him, since his dear presence assures her that her sorrow and her trials are at an end, and that her lover has returned and loves her still.

'You sweet brave child!' he says, taking her small hands closely into his strong fingers. To suffer so much, and yet to go on smiling and dancing with the best of them, and to be so silent-so proud! I could not have believed you capable of so hardening your heart against me. Never to send me a word or a sign, Susie !'

'How could I, my dear lord? Had you not expressly forbidden my writing to you at any time, or under any circumstances?'

'True.' Every word she utters increases his respect, and therefore his love, for her. She little knows, Foor simple child, that it is her enforced attitude of passive resignation which has brought him to her side again more tender and demonstrative than he had ever shown himself before. 'I have watched you every day and every evening,' he says presently. I went to Dean-street, and discovered that all you had told me was true that wonderful story about Madame la Marquise, and also the mystery about the girl who does fine needlework, and seems to be

in hiding. It was that eccentric fellow-lodger of yours who was the real cause of our quarrel. I shall have to solve the enigma of her solitary existence, if only to avenge myself for the trouble she caused you and me, Susie.'

He speaks in jest; but Susie is alarmed on her friend's account, and yet too much afraid of her lover to utter a word in protest. What will poor Maud say to these threatened investigations? That is the thought preoccupying her at this moment.

'You were honest and truthful throughout, my poor little innocent,' continues Lord Kempton. He lays the more stress on her excellent qualities, since she appears entirely to ignore them. And I fear I have been harsh and cruel to you.'

6

He does not realise how very cruel he really has been; nor does the bitter injustice of conduct, which to her has appeared incomprehensible, present itself to him in its harshest colours.

From the first hour of their acquaintance she has chosen to regard him as a hero, and for a long time past she has always treated him as such, and he has accepted her gentle and absolute submission willingly. He, who had always repelled rather than invited confidence from others, was inclined to hold aloof from this winsome child also, and it may be that the natural shyness which gave him the appearance of cold pride caused her to trust him in the first instance. She certainly found Lord Kempton, with his formally reticent speech and ceremonious manners, very different from the noisy swaggering youths with whom her profession occasionally brought her into contact, and she was as much attracted by him as she was repelled by those others. His grave deportment and serious methodical

speech impressed her, and lent undue importance to every word he uttered. And when he solemnly informed her of his love for her, and his intention to make her his wife some day, she felt as thoroughly convinced of his good faith as though a priest had stood beside them in the street and heard the pledging of those vows.

Lord Kempton's experience of women was of the vaguest and most limited description. He dreaded and abhorred what his people called 'society,' and avoided it on all occasions. Maurice Steele had been in the constant habit of accompanying his friend and pupil on his walks abroad,' both in London and subsequently in the leading continental towns. The travellers had met women of all kinds, of course. They had been introduced to ladies in palaces, and to grisettes at casinos or café-chantants. There had been passing compliments and laughing conversations with the grandes dames as with the filles du peuple; but there had never been anything like the intimacy of friendship with either; so Lord Kempton may fairly be said to have known very little of 'the sex' when first he followed his cousin behind the scenes at the

Kaleidoscope. And yet he approached Susie as though experienced in the art of conquest; for he chose the only rôle calculated to impress her favourably. His reserve gave her confidence, his reticence provoked her childlike loquacity, his deference placed her completely at her ease, and at once subdued the sense of distrust which the fulsome compliments of other men could not fail to alarm.

Once Lord Kempton had openly declared his love to the simple confiding little girl, she tendered him absolute homage for the prodigious condescension he had

135

shown in thus favouring her. The constant teaching of the unattainable supremacy of all that was noble and aristocratic, with which Madame la Marquise de Laigne had imbued Susie's receptive mind from her infancy, had its share in the humble reverence with which she regarded her dear lord' now. Neither persuasion nor command from him could induce her to call him by his name alone. To have said 'Kempton,' without a prefix, would have appeared audacious, and even rude, to this modest maiden; hence a compromise was effected, and he became her 'dear lord.'

Indeed he was her lord in every sense; she yielded him absolute obedience, and such impersonal veneration as is characteristic of an admiring child rather than of a girl, whose profession has given her independence, and taught her that pretty women can command homage if they but choose to accept it.

Susie had always feared Lord Kempton as much as she loved him, and when he chose to vent his unmerited displeasure upon her, she bowed her pretty head in meek acquiescence. Her heart might break; but to submit was her duty. He her dear lord, the noble ruler of her destiniesthought he had cause for anger. He was mistaken; but it was not 'her place' to interfere. He had strictly forbidden her ever to write to him on any pretext whatever, so any direct appeal was out of the question, of course. It had occurred to her, when her trouble seemed greater than she could bear, to employ kind serious-looking Mr. Steele as mediator; but then 'Maud,' of whom little Susie also stood in considerable awe, had forbidden any such attempt.

Just as meekly as poor Susie had accepted the sad fact of her