Who is the Heir? wrote lyrics which found their way to the angulus portarum of the Carhale Patriot. Poor Lucy could not make much of them, their rhythm was unusual, and the writer had caught Something of Shelley's subtlety; but they all meant fore; and where is the girl who cannot behold Eros through the thickest veil, verbal or otherwise! So Luy surreptitiously scissored these el armed songs, and kept them in a little volume, wherein also she wrote down what she called a diary. And I am afraid the initials G. occurred in the diary, as well as at the bottom of those versined puerilities which were offered to the Patriot's bucolic readers. Hence, once upon a time, there came an awful explosion. It was evening. Everybody was in bed save Mr. Ashton, who was smoking a pipe before he went upstairs. Lucy had forgotten her diary; and the little Volume, covered with black leather, filled with girlish folly and bad spelling and grammar, was close to her father's elbow. By ill-luck he noticed it. He was a suspicious, inquisitive man; a bully and a craven. read some of his daughter's lucubra He tions, and detected references to Guy Luttrel's savings and writings. Of course he was at once infuriated, and rushed up to his wife's room and to Lucy's in a state of tremendous excitement. It is not worth while to record all that he said and did, but he gave his household an uneasy night, and came down to breakfast next morning with the aspect of a thunderstorm. Guy, as I have observed, had to walk five miles to his work from his village lodgings. About half way he usually met the postman, and he had a good deal of correspondence, having begun to dabble in London literature. On the morning after Mr. Ashton's irate explosion, Guy received a 'etter of considerable importance. It informed him that his maternal uncie, the Hon. and Rv. Dudley Marchmont, had d ́ed suddenly, leaving him all his property. Guy knew that this was to come to him some day; but his uncle Dudley was only about forty, and the prospect had secmed remote. Now he was unexpectedly possessor of nearly twelve hundred a year. He delicious summer morning, and the ether was filled with the lark's wild music. Guy read his letter two or three times, then he sat on a stile and began to think. Now, he could carry out his ambition; could realize his youthful dreams. publish his poems, which were to be Now, he could more popular than Byron's. he could enter Parliament, and be a second Canning. Now, he could enNow, ter the patrician society, which was open to him by birth. could, if he liked, marry Lucy AshNow, he ton. knew quite enough of the world to He could; but would he? He thousand a year can have far more be aware that a bachelor with a social enjoyment than a married man with the like income. He also knew that Lucy, though a dear little thing, could never be presentable in the higher spheres of fashion. But Lucy's misty blue eyes haunted him; he felt that, though by nature unfashionable, she was loving, and simple, and true; what we call experience had not destroyed the poetry of his of the little girl at Barrack House, character, and he decided in favour And having decided, he started on his waik, rather disgusted to find that his soliloquy would make him full half an hour late. Punctuality was at that time one of his weak ing about his grounds like an angry Meanwhile, Mr. Ashton was passfirework. man to jump to the conclusion that He was just the sort of daughter. He ate his breakfast in a his tutor had been making love to his state of suiky silence. He read prayers ferociously. Then he went out to watch for Guy Luttrel's coming; and Guy Luttrel was half an hour Iste. What ejaculations of abuse did the angry Ashton heap upon Guy in that half hour. became visible. He had made, as At length the tutor's tall figure was his wont, a cut across a field in which a flock of Mr. Ashton's southdowns were ferding. Chief of this flock was a famous ram, against whom Guy had been often warned by the young Ashtons; an impetuous fellow, given to butting at people's legs. A ram of this sort is k It was a The bulls attack comes nearer tüe really more dangerous than a bull eye, and agile men have been known to dodge their taurine assailant, take him by a flank movement, and catch hold of his tail. It requires rather more than Lord De Guest's wind and speed, but is possible, notwithstanding. But a ram drives at you low down with tremendous impetus; and, unless you have a good thick stick, to run is your only chance. Guy swung along, knowing himself late, and with a pleasant resolution in his head, at about five miles an hour. To him, on the field-path, came Mr. Ashton, the veins of his forehead swelling with anger. He was a man of middle height, whom Guy could have easily extinguished. "So you've been making love to my daughter Lucy, you damned pauper!" he exclaimed. "WHAT!" cried Guy in amaze ment. Mr. Ashton's reply perished in oblivion; for before he could begin to articulate, the southdown ram, angry at the invasion of his territory, had taken him in the rear and thrown him on his back with startling suddenness. The animal just missed Guy also. Guy Luttrel looked round; the ram was returning to the charge. It was lucky that a tough ash sapling was the tutor's companion in his walks. When the fierce little quadruped charged him he sprang aside, and caught his assailant a tremendous blow on his forelegs. Both were broken, and he dropped as if shot. Mr. Ashton also had a fractured leg, and it by no means increased the amiability of his temper to find himself indebted to Luttrel for defence and assistance. There were few lessons that morning, it may be supposed. The master of the house was carried to bed; his eldest son rode off to Carlisle for a doctor; his wife and daughter had to attend to him. Guy benevolently took charge of the two younger boys, biding his time for an interview with Mrs. Ashton, in whose good sense he had some confidence. The interview arrived in time, and when Guy deliberately offered himself, nephew and possible heir of Sir Fownes Luttrel, Baronet, of Lissington, and absolute possessor of more than a thousand a year, as suitor for little Lucy's hand, the lady was delighted. And the marriage came off, and Guy took his pretty, simple, loving bride to Windermere, his favourite lake; and there, forgetting ambition, he spent the short sweet year in which Lucy was given to him. Unfathomable depths of simple love did Guy Luttrel find in that fond heart. Marvellous is the magnetism of love. As the sun gives colour to the passionatehearted rose-gives the artist's power to mere chemicals, iodine and bromine-so a man's love gives to a woman what without it she had never dreamt of. Lucy, whom everybody thought rather a silly girl, was transformed by Luttrel's love to a creature worthy of sonnets from Shakespeare or songs from Shelley. Here is a lyric which Guy sang to her as they floated on the queen of English meres betwixt Bowness Bay and Wray Castle: "Droop, droop, soft little eyelids! Under the fringe of those tremulous skylids Carol away with thy white little throat! "Dream, dream, heart of my own love! Sweet is the island we sail to alone, love— Sweet is a kiss from thy ruddy young mouth." Sweet is the wind from the odorous south Thus it would seem that Guy was really in love with his dull pupil. And verily he was. And sad, indeed, he was when the same hour brought him a daughter, and took from him his wife. Poor Lucy! she had one year of perfect happiness; and perhaps there are few, men or women, whose fate is so far fortunate. One year of perfect happiness! Why, old Jenkins, of Brompton-upon-Swale, who is said to have lived to be 169, might well have bartered a century and a half of his slow existence for such a year. Oh, those summer afternoons upon "Winding Winandermere, the river-lake," with Lucy's lustrous liquid eyes looking upon him as his oar lazily dipped in the lucid water! How many, many a time their memory returned to Guy Luttrel in the after years! But he shook off his grief. He Who is the Heir? entered the world, and was triumphant. He carried everything before him. Little could he see of the little garl, Lucy's legacy, who was so dear to his heart; and little did the men who saw him in Parliament and in society, dream that he was aught save a bachelor. But he took good care of [Feb. Lucy's baby, and left her in good hands; and peruaps the ingenious reader may already have guessed that she was none other than the Lily Grey who lived in charmed seclusion at Cedar Cottage, and whose beauty had surprised Hairy Mauleverer. CHAPTER XIV. **And so I won my Genevieve."—Coleridge. MR. DISPAELI remarks, in "Con- have done these things. Eut he retarini Fleming," that "general hap- membered the yearning look of inpiness cannot flourish but in socie- finite love in those sweet blue eyes of ties where it is the custom for all hers; and he knew that the teaching males to marry at eighteen." Mr. of the Orient set the angels of love Disraeli was twenty-six, unmarried, above the angels of knowledge. Then when he wrote his marvellous "psy- as to himself. His fiery youth was chological romance." I do not know over; he no longer cherished the ilwhether he has changed his opinion. lusion that love could satisfy his fullBut the male human creature of grown desires; he knew that he eighteen is, to my thinking, a most must have power and fame and luxury unmarriageable animal he is neither in order to constitute life; and now man nor boy; and to fit him with a he held it. bride of proper age you must select a such being the case, it would be a And he also knew that, child of fourteen or fifteen, "which misery for both parties if it were a is absurd," as old Euclid often ob- Lucy Ashton whom he married. He serves. When to marry is, indeed, a would obtain no sympathy in his question next in dificulty and im- pursuits; she would think herseif portance to whom to marry. This neglected, and would mope away her last is a problem which every man long hours of loneliness; but the must solve for himself; which, if prospect was different with Vivian. wrongly solved, will ruin him for This gallant, high spirited creature life; and which almost all men solve would give noting for a husband wrongly. But the former may admit who sat down quietly, leaving the of approximations. Here is our friend, world in ignorance of his existence. Guy Luttrel, who has had his first She would delight to see Guy's name love, and a happy marriage year, at in the papers ; to hear of his speeches the age of one or two and twenty. in drawing rooms; to know that he Now he thinks of a second experi- was a power in Fugland. Ay, and ment, at the end of his eighth lus- she could help him well, with her trum. Well, at the first, he chose a weekly receptions, her charm of very loving creature, who, however, manner, her literary wit, her high would have been utterly unfit to enter the great word in his comconnex.ons, She could conquer sopany, and whose intellectual growth tion sprang forward to the pleasant ciety for him. His swift imaginacould by no possibility have kept breakfast tale at which Vivian and pace with his at the very humblest he should to each other their prodistance. And now, in wooing Lady_jects for the day, to the more pleaVivian Ashleigh, he acknowledged sant tote à let suppers, at win h they that she, though my about half his should ex Lange political for social age, was his equal or rather, com- information plement in qualities moral and mental. Vivian will understand me, he thought; will give me energy when I am bored by the mighty erassitude of the world; will be my true and puissant ally in the saloons of London. Poor Lucy coard never "When the long hours of the puble are And we meet, with champague and a would be wise for him to many Vivian, if she and the Earl could agree that he was not too old. Hugh Mauleverer the elder, amid the Apennine cyclamen, little guessed what mischief was thwarting his favourite scheme. According to the science of probability, a man's expectation of life is roughly calculable by subtracting his age from eighty, and taking twothirds of the result. Thus a man of twenty-nine may expect to live thirtyfour years; a man of thirty-eight, twenty-eight. Now, I think the best marrying age for a man may be established on mathematical considerations as that at which his expectation of life exactly equals the time he has lived. Then, if all goes well, he will have been half his life a bachelor, and the other half a married man. He will have entered on a career, made (let us hope) some money, gained some experience before his marriage. Now at thirty-two a man has probably thirty-two years to live; this, therefore, is the mystic age at which to invoke Hymen. A question which may perplex people who trouble their heads with such subjects is this: what sort of a wife best suits the neoteric literary man-the "intellectual Brahmin," as the Spectator delights to call him Somebody once said that the wife of such a man ought to be as much like his mother as possible. But how delightful to have a wife like Edith to Coningsby a wife such as Vivian will make if she marries Guy! Only in these cases, observe, the husband is a man of action, of political occupation. And the cases in which modern authors find it difficult to get on with their wives lead us to conclude that generally the "intellectual Brahmin" is an effete, effeminate animal, who should not marry at all. A glorious sunset was burning itself to death in the west, throwing out the dark forms of the deer trooping to be fed across the frosted snow. Several of the skating party were in the audience-chamber, lingering for a brief chat before the dinner-bell rang. Guy wanted to see the Earl, as we know, but his lordship had been called to his sanctum to read some despatches brought by a mounted messenger; so he among others was lounging and looking at the purple occident, where the halls of Hyperion were thrown open to receive his foamflecked steeds. Wynyard Powys was there; he had just published a tragedy, and he was now lecturing whoever would listen on the dramatic faculty. "If I had to write an essay on the dramatic faculty," said Hugh Mauleverer, "I would begin thus:-There is no dramatic faculty." "Like a sermon of Sterne's, or Punch's advice to people about to marry," said Harry. " "But," retorted Wynyard Powys, you cannot be serious, surely. The highest poetry is dramatic; and the poet's noblest gift is the faculty of creating character." "Mauleverer's quite right?" said Guy Luttrel. "Take Shakespeare. I suppose if there is a dramatic faculty, he had it in perfection. Well, Hamlet is Shakespeare, and Mercutio is Shakespeare, and Jack Falstaff is Shakespeare, and Portia is Shakespeare in petticoats, and Rosalind is a feminine Shakespeare in doublet and hose. You'll see the matter most clearly in minor characters, where there can be no mistake. Take Launce, or Speed, or Armado, or Launcelot Gobbo: these are not natural characters-they are merely Mr. William Shakespeare acting the part of a clown or a magnifico." "Treason!" said Powys. "Not a bit of it," remarked Hugh. "I am glad you agree with me, Luttrel. My theory is that no human being can depict any other human being except himself. Having a versatile imagination, he may put himself into innumerable different characters, but it is himself still. Shakespeare was the world's supreme dramatist; but all his creations are Shakesperian, not human. In poets of lower power we more readily perceive this -recognising Milton in his own Satan, and Byron in his Giaour and Corsair." "I don't follow you," said Wynyard Powys. "Of course not," replied Luttrel; how should you? You poets are lost in the blaze of your own genius." "That's a fine saying of Matthew Arnold's," said Harry Mauleverer 'We mortal millions live alone.'" "Fine, because true," pursued Guy. "Each one of us is a mystery self--much more to any other the responsibility of a dramatic faculty. There is but one drama-life; but one dramatist the Creator of the world." Then why do we read poetry and novels asked Powys. "For excellent reasons," observed Hugh Mauleverer. "Insoluble problems are always interesting. People will never tire of searching for the quadrature of the circle, perpetual motion, the philosopher's stone. And in poem and romance the writer tries to reveal himself, and the reader tries to understand him; and though neither the one nor the other is possible, there is extreme interest about the attempt." "X. has resigned. The Queen has sent for Y. Z. is to be Chancellor of the Exchequer. They want me at the Foreign Office." "Shows their sense. You're the only man in England fit for it.” "Don't flatter, my good fellow. I'm too savage to enjoy it." "I don't flatter, Riverdale," said Guy, very seriously; "and you know it. You're aware of my theories about political matters. I think the Foreign Secretary, in the present state of affairs, holds a far more important position than any other member of the Cabinet. I think you the only man fit to be Foreign Secretary, for you are master of that diplomatie science whose elements are too much for most men. And so, I repeat, they show their wisdom in niaking you." "But, my dear Guy, it is such a bore. "A sealed letter always excites curiosity," said Guy, "even though there can't possibly be anything interesting in it. We are placed in a world of inexhaustible resources, and are there- I am used to lotos-eating. I am fore endowed with an inexhaustible translating Aristophanes. I like to inquisitiveness. Your wife, when she enjoy a lazy life with Vivian. Why asas you who a certain suspicious- the deuce should I sacrifice myself for looking letter was from, is acting on the republie ?” the same principle which set Sir Isane Newton questioning the skies, and Sir Humphrey Davy the elements." "We're all bachelors," lau_hed Powys "Ay," cried Harry. "Let the galled jade wince, our withers are unstrung." "As yet," said Luttrel. At this moment a servant came up to Luttrel, and told him that Lord Riverdale wished to speak to him. Whereupon our friend Guy ascended to the Holy of Holies. On the starcase he met Lady Vivian, who was pered - "Lord X. has resigned. I haven't said a word to papa. So Guy went in to the octagonal room, where he found the Eari leaning back in his easy-chair, with a frown on his brow, and a heap of papers on the table at his right hand. The old peer looked perpered and disgusted. He evidently did not like the news that had reached him. "Guy,' he said, “I am devilish glad you are here. I want your advice, and I don't want you to advise me against my own opinion. I am internally bothered. ' "Wea, sad Gay, "I'm realy, Nuisances generally vanish when you look at them. What's the mat ter I' "Well, now, look here," said Luttrel. "Lotos is nice, but monotonous. You can't translate Aristophanes half as well as Frere. You are very jolly with Vivian; but what will you do when she marries! Then you'll have to serve the republic for want of better occupation." The friends of the man of Uz came out in exactly your fashion," said Lord Riverdale. "I don't think Vivian is in a at hurry about being married." "Well," said Luttrel, "we need not complicate politics with erotics. What do you mean to do " "I don't see how to refuse. I wish I did. They'll want you to be something or other, of cour-e.” "Ill be your Under Secretary, if you think the place will not be too much for me. Twill give me infinite pleasure, upon honour, to detend your policy in the Commons. You see, I happen to be aware that you understand foreign politics; so I shall be able to fight for you with a clear con science. And it is a charming game to pw, for there are not twenty men in the House who have the least notion of the matter. They want free trade, easy taxes, and so on; but of maintaining the fame and might of Eo, and among nations they have no idea. They rem td the of à fchow |