GUILD COURT. A London Story. BY GEORGE MAC DONALD, Author of "David Elginbrod," "Alec Forbes," &c. CHAPTER XXXI.-A DREARY ONE. "COULDN'T you get a holiday on Saturday, Tom?" said Mr. Worboise. "I mean to have one, and I should like to take you with me." "I don't know, father," answered Tom, who did not regard the proposal as involving any great probability of enjoyment; "my holiday is coming so soon that I should not like to ask for it, especially as Mr. Stopper "What about Mr. Stopper? Not over friendly, ch? He is not a bad fellow, though, is Stopper. I'll ask for you, if you like that better." "I would much rather you wouldn't, father." "Pooh, pooh! nonsense, man! It's quite a different thing if I ask for it, you know." Thomas made no further objection, for he had nothing at hand upon which to ground a fresh one; nor, indeed, could he well have persisted in opposing what seemed a kind wish of his father. It was not, however, merely because they had little to talk about, and that Thomas always felt a considerable restraint in his father's presence-a feeling not very uncommon to young men-but he lived in constant dread of something coming to light about Lucy. He feared his father much more than he loved him; not that he had ever been hardly treated by him; not that he had ever even seen him in a passion, for Mr. Worboise had a very fair command of his temper: it was the hardness and inflexibility read upon his face from earliest childhood, that caused fear thus to overlay love. If a father finds that from any cause such is the case, he ought at once to change his system, and to require very little of any sort from his child till a new crop has begun to appear on the ill-farmed ground of that child's heart. Now the meaning of the holiday was this: Mr. Worboise had a city-client-a carpet-knight-by name Sir Jonathan Hubbard, a decent man, as the Scotch would say, jolly, companionable, with a husky laugh, and friendly unfinished countenance in which the colour was of more weight than the drawing -for, to quote Chaucer of the Franklin, "a better envined man," either in regard of body or cellar, was nowhere none:" upon Sir Jonathan's sociability Mr. Worboise had founded the scheme of the holiday. Not that he intended to risk any intrusion-Mr. Worboise was far too knowing a man for that. The fact was that he had appointed to wait upon his client at his house near Bickley on that day-at such an hour, however, as would afford cover to his pretence of having brought his son out with him for a holiday in the country. It was most probable that Sir Jonathan would invite them to stay to dinner, and so to spend their holiday with him. There was no Lady Hubbard alive, but there was a Miss Hubbard 16 VIUI-36 at the head of the house; and hence Mr. Worboise's strategy. Nor had he reckoned without his host, for if Sir Jonathan was anything he was hospitable: things fell out as the lawyer had forehoped, if not foreseen. Sir Jonathan was pleased with the young fellow, would not allow him to wait companionless in the drawingroom till business was over-sent, on the contrary, for his daughter, and insisted on the two staying to dinner. He was one of those eaters and drinkers who have the redeeming merit of enjoying good things a great deal more in good company. Sir Jonathan's best port would seem to him to have something the matter with it if he had no one to share it. If, however, it had come to the question of a halfbottle or no companion, I would not answer for Sir Jonathan.. But his cellar would stand a heavy siege. Thomas was seated in the drawing-room, which looked cold and rather cheerless; for no company was expected, and I presume Miss Hubbard did not care for colour, save as reflected from her guests, seeing she had all her furniture in pinafores. How little some rich people know how to inherit the earth! The good things of it they only uncover when they can make, not receive a show. My dear reader,-No, I will not take a liberty to which I have no right; for perhaps were he to see me he would not like me, and possibly were I to meet him I should not like him: I will rather say My Reader, without the impertinence or the pledge of an adjective-have a little patience while I paint Miss Hubbard just with the feather-end of my pen. I shall not be long about it. Thomas sat in the drawing-room, I say, feeling vacant, for he was only waiting, not expecting, when the door opened, and in came a fashionable girlrather tall, handsome, bright-eyed, well-dressed, and yet- What was it that Thomas did not like about her? Was it that she was dressed in the extreme of the fashion? I will not go on to say what the fashion was, for before I had finished writing it, it would have ceased to be the fashion; and I will not paint my picture knowingly with colours that must fade the moment they are laid on. To be sure she had ridden the fashion till it was only fit for the knacker's yard; but she soon made him forget that, for she was clever, pleasant, fast-which means affectedly unrefined, only her affectation did no violence to fact and altogether amusing. I believe what Thomas did not like about her at first was just all wherein she differed from Lucy. Yet he could not help being taken with her; and when his father and Sir Jonathan came into the room, the two were talking like a sewing-machine. "Laura, my dear," said the knight, "I have prc vailed on Mr. Worboise to spend the day with us. You have no engagement, I believe ?" 'Fortunately, I have not, papa." "Well, I'll just give orders about dinner, and then I'll take our friends about the place. I want to show them my new stable. You had better come with us." Sir Jonathan always ordered the dinner himself. He thought no woman capable of that department of the household economy. Laura put on her hat beautiful with a whole king-fisher-and they went out into the grounds; from the grounds to the stable -trim as her drawing-room-where her favourite horse ate apples out of her pocket; from the stable to the hot-houses and kitchen-garden; then out at a back door into the lane-shadowy with trees-in which other colours than green were now very near carrying the vote of the leaves. Sweet scents of decay filled the air, waved about, swelling and sinking, on the flow of a west wind, gentle and soft, as if it had been fanned from the wings of spring when nearest to summer. Great white clouds in a brilliant sky tempered the heat of the sun. What with the pure air, the fine light, and the handsome girl by his side, Thomas was in a gayer mood than had been his for many a long day. Miss Hubbard talked plenteously-about balls and theatres and Mansionhouse dinners, about Rotten Row and St. James's; and although of all these Thomas knew very little, yet, being quick and sympathetic, he was able to satisfy the lady sufficiently to keep her going. He was fortunate enough besides to say one or two clever things with which she was pleased, and to make an excellent point once in a criticism upon a girl they both knew, which, slighting her, conveyed, by no very occult implication, a compliment to Miss Hubbard. By the time they had reached this stage of acquaintanceship, they had left stout Sir Jonathan and Mr. Worboise far behind; but Miss Hubbard was not in the least danger of being made uncomfortable by any squeamish notions of propriety; and, having nothing more amusing to do, and being out already, she proposed that they should go home by a rather longer road, which would lead them over a hill whence they would get a good view of the country. 66 Do you like living in the country, Miss Hub bard ?" it and thought that Laura Hubbard was more entertaining than sober Lucy Burton, he made up to Lucy for it in his own idea by asserting to himself that, after all, she was far handsomer than Miss Hubbard, handsome as she was. Yet I should never think of calling Lucy handsome. She was lovely-almost beautiful too. Handsome always indicates more or less vulgarity—no, I mean commonness—in my ears. And certainly, whatever she might be capable of, had she been blessed with poverty, Miss Hubbard was as common as she was handsome. Thomas was fool enough to revert to Byron to try his luck with that. She soon made him ashamed of showing any liking for such a silly thing as poetry. That piqued him as well, however. "You sing, I suppose ?" he said. "Oh yes, when I can't help it-after dinner sometimes." “Well, you sing poetry, don't you ?” "I don't know. One must have some words or other just to make her open her mouth. I never know what they're about. Why should I? Nobody ever pays the least attention to them-or to the music either, except it be somebody that wants to marry you." But why should I go further with the record of such talk? It is not interesting to me, and, therefore, can hardly be so to my reader. Even if I had the art to set it forth aright, I hope I should yet hold to my present belief, that nothing in which the art is uppermost is worth the art expended upon it. Thomas was a little shocked at her coolness, certainly; but at the same time that very coolness seemed a challenge. Before they had reached the house again, he was vexed to find he had made no impression upon Miss Hubbard. Farewell to such fencing. By the time he had heard her sing, and his father and he were on their way home again, I am glad to say that Thomas had had nearly enough of her. He thought her voice loud and harsh in speech, showy and distressing in song, and her whole being bravura. The contrasts in Lucy had come back upon him with a gush of memorial loveliness; for, as I have said, she still held the fortress of his heart, and held it for its lawful owner. Scarcely were they seated in the railway carriage, "Oh! dear no. London for me. I can't tell what of which they were the sole occupants, when the made papa come to this dull place." "The scenery is very lovely though." "People say so. I'm sure I don't know. Scenery wasn't taught where I went to school." "Were you taught horses there?" asked Thomas slyly. "No. That comes by nature. Do you know I won this bracelet in a handicap last Derby?" she said, showing a very fine arm as well as bracelet, though it was only the morning, so-called. Miss Hubbard had no design upon Thomas. How could she have? She knew nothing about him. She would have done the same with any gentleman she liked well enough to chatter to. And if Thomas felt elder Worboise threw a shot across the bows of the younger. "Well,' 'om, my boy," he said, rubbing his lawyer palms, "how do you like Miss Hubbard ?" "Oh, very well, father," answered Thomas, indifferently. "She's a very jolly sort of girl." "She's worth a hundred thousand," said his father, in a tone that would have been dry but for a touch of slight resentment at the indifference, possibly in the father's view irreverence, with which he spoke of her. "Girls ?" asked Thomas. "Pounds," answered his father, clenchingly. Tom was now convinced of his father's design in taking him out for a holiday. But even now he shrunk from confession. And how did he justify his sneaking now? By saying to himself, "Lucy can't have anything like that money; it won't do. I must wait a more fitting opportunity." But he thought he was very brave indeed, and actually seizing the bull of his father's will by the horns when he ventured to take his meaning for granted, and replied "Why, father, a fellow has no chance with a girl like that, except he could ride like Assheton Smith, and knew all the slang of the hunting field as well as the race-course." CHAPTER XXXII.-AN EXPLOSION. THE whole ground under Thomas's feet was honeycombed and filled with combustible matter. A spark dropped from any, even a loving hand, might send everything in the air. It needed not an enemy to do it. Lucy Burton had been enjoying a delightful season of repose by the sea-side. She had just enough to do with and for the two children to gain healthy distraction to her thinking. But her thinking as well as her bodily condition grew healthier every day that she breathed the sea air. She saw more and more clearly than ever that things must not go on "A few children will cure her of that," said his between her and Thomas as they were now going on. father. "What I say is," persisted Thomas, "that she would never look at a clerk.” "If I thought you had any chance, I would buy you a commission in the Blues." It wants blue blood for that," said Thomas, whose heart notwithstanding danced in his bosom at the sound of commission. Then, afraid lest he should lose the least feather of such a chance, he added hastily, "But any regiment would do.” "I dare say," returned his father, at right angles. "When you have made a little progress it will be time enough. She knows nothing about what you Her father asked me, and I said I had not made up my mind yet what to do with you." are now. But, as I said before," resumed Thomas, fighting somewhat feebly, "I haven't a chance with her. She likes better to talk about horses than anything else, and I never had my leg across a horse's back life-as you know, father," he added in a tone of reproach. in my "You mean, Tom, that I have neglected your education. Well, it shall be so no longer. You shall go to the riding-school on Monday night. It won't be open to-morrow, I suppose." I hope my reader is not so tired of this chapter as I am. It is bad enough to have to read such uninteresting things--but to have to write them! The history that is undertaken must be written, however, whether the writer weary sometimes of his task, or the interest of his labour carry him lightly through to the close. Thomas, wretched creature, dallied with his father's proposal. He did not intend accepting it, but the very idea of marrying a rich, fashionable girl like that, with a knight for a father, flattered him. Still more was he excited at the notion, the very possibility of wearing a uniform. And what might he not do with so much money? Then, when the thought of Lucy came, he soothed his conscience by saying to Limself, "See how much I must love her when I am giving up all this for her sake!" Still his thoughts hovered about what he said he was giving up. He went to bed on Sunday night, after a very pathetic sermon from Mr. Simon, with one resolution, and one only-namely, to go to the riding-school in Finsbury on Monday night. But something very different was waiting him. The very scent of the sea that came in at her bedroom window when first she opened it in the morning, protested against it; the wind said it was no longer endurable; and the clear, blue autumn sky said it was a shame for his sake, if not for her own. She must not do evil that good might come; she must not allow Thomas to go on thus for the sake even of keeping a hold of him for his good. She would give him one chance more, and if he did not accept it, she would not see him again, let come of it what would. In better mood still, she would say, "Let God take care of that for him and me." She had not written to him since she came : that was one thing she could avoid. Now she resolved that she would write to him just before her return, and tell him that the first thing she would say to him when she saw him would be—had he told his father? and upon his answer depended their future. But then the question arose, what address she was to put upon the letter; for she was not willing to write either to his home or to the counting-house, for evident reasons. Nor had she come to any conclusion, and had indeed resolved to encounter him once more without having written, when from something rather incoherently expressed in her grandmother's last letter, which indeed referred to an expected absence of Mr. Stopper, who was now the old lady's main support, she concluded, hastily, I allow, that Mr. Worboise was from home, and that she might without danger direct a letter to Highbury. Through some official at the Court of Probate, I fancy that Mr. Worboise had heard of a caveat having been entered with reference to the will of Mr. Richard Boxall, deceased. I do not know that this was the case, but I think something must have occurred to irritate him against those whom he, with the law on his side, was so sorely tempted to wrong. I know that the very contemplation of wrong is sufficient to irritate, and that very grievously, against one thus contemplated; but Lucy would have been a very good match, though not equal to Miss Hubbard, even in Mr. Worboise's eyes. On the other hand, however, if he could but make up, not his mind, but his conscience, to take Boxall's money, he would be so much the more likely to secure Miss Hubbard's; which, together with what he could leave him, would make a fortune over two hundred thousand-sufficient to make his son somebody. If Thomas had only spoken in time, that is, while his father's conscience still spoke, and before he had cast eyes of ambition towards Sir Jonathan's banker's! All that was wanted on the devil's side now was some personal quarrel with the rightful heirs. And if Mr. Worboise did not secure that by means of Mr. Sargent's caveat, he must have got it from what happened on the Monday morning. Before Thomas came down to breakfast, the postman had delivered a letter addressed to him, with the Hastings post-mark upon it. When Thomas entered, and had taken his seat, on the heels of the usual cool Good morning, his father tossed the letter to him across the table, saying, more carelessly than he felt, "One of your fellow-clerks?" asked his father, with a dry significance that indicated the possible neighbourhood of annoyance, or worse. "I thought the writing of doubtful gender." For Lucy's writing was not in the style of a field of corn in a hurricane: it had a few mistakable curves about it, though to the experienced eye it was nothing the less feminine that it did not affect feminity. "No," faltered Tom, "he's not a clerk; he's awell, he's a-teacher of music." "Hm!" remarked Mr. Worboise. "How did you come to make his acquaintance, Tom?" And he looked at his son with awful eyes, lighted from behind with growing suspicion. Tom felt his jaws growing paralysed. His mouth was as dry as his hand, and it seemed as if his tongue would rattle in it like the clapper of a cracked bell if he tried to speak. But he had nothing to say. A strange tremor went through him from top to toe, making him conscious of every inch of his body at the very moment when his embarrassment might have been expected to make him forget it altogether. His father kept his eyes fixed on him, and Tom's perturbation increased every moment. "I think, Tom, the best way out of your evident confusion will be to hand me over that letter," said his father, in a cool, determined tone, at the same time holding out his hand to receive it. Tom had strength to obey only because he had not strength to resist. But he rose from his seat, and would have left the room. "Sit down, sir," said Mr. Worboise, in a voice that revealed growing anger, though he could not yet have turned over the leaf to see the signature. In fact, he was more annoyed at his son's pusillanimity than at his attempted deception. "You make a soldier!" he added, in a tone of contempt that stung Tom-not to the heart, but to the back-bone. When he had turned the leaf and saw the signa ture, he rose slowly from his chair and walked to the window, folding the letter as he went. After communing with the garden for awhile, he turned again to the table and sat down. It was not Mr. Worboise's way to go into a passion when he had anything like reasonable warning that his temper was in danger. "Tom, you have been behaving like a fool. Thank heaven, it's not too late! How could you be such a fool? Believe me, it's not a safe amusement to go trifling with girls this way." With a great effort, a little encouraged by the quietness of his father's manner, Tom managed to say, "I wasn't trifling." "Do you mean to tell me," said his father, with more sternness than Tom had ever known him assume" do you mean to tell me," he repeated, "that you have come under any obligation to this girl?" Tom smiled unbelievingly, or tried to smile; for now his tremor, under the influence of his wholesome anger, had abated, and his breath began to come and go more naturally. A little more, and he would feel himself a hero, stoutly defending his lady-love, fearless of consequences to himself. But he said nothing more just yet. "You know better than I do, you think, you puppy! I tell you she's not worth a pennyno, nor her old witch of a grandmother either. A pretty mess you've made of it! You just sit down and tell the poor girl-it's really too bad of you, Tom! that you're sorry you've been such a confounded fool, but there's no help for it.” "Why should I say that ?" "Because it's true.-By all that's sacred!" said Mr. Worboise, with solemn fierceness, "you give up that girl, or you give up me. Not that your father is anything to you; but I swear, if you carry on with that girl, you shall not cross my door as long as you do; and not a penny you shall have out of my pocket. You'll have to live on your salary, my fine fellow, and perhaps that'll bring down your proud stomach a bit. By Jove! You may starve for me.-Come, my boy," he added with sudden gentleness, "don't be a fool." Whether Mr. Worboise meant all he said, I cannot tell, but at least he meant Thomas to believe that he did. And Thomas did believe it. All the terrible contrast between a miserable clerkship, with lodging as well as food to be provided, and a commission in the army with unlimited pocket-money, and |