throwing them down or falling over ably good-looking. It was in vain them all day. The kitchen-maid that he told himself that he cared couldn't be more awkward." "That is undeniable," said Miss de Laury calmly. "But it's your fault. The poor child is never awkward with me. I find her a very pleasant companion." "Why, she never opens her mouth!" 'Not to you! She is naturally afraid of you. She has plenty to say to me." The general shrugged his shoulders. "The proof of the pudding is in the eating, and I find it uncommonly heavy," he said. not a fig for a pale complexion and an intellectual expression; good features and a graceful figure cannot be gainsaid; Theodora was distinctly pretty, and the general, who was sore at the influence Dr. Brakespear had acquired over his son, was enraged when he reflected upon the still greater influence that Miss Brakespear was likely to exert in the future. "Remember, on no pretext whatever is Miss Brakespear to stay over the 31st," he said, as July drew to a close. "Poor dear Theodora," murmured "I should think she would be only Miss de Laury. "I wouldn't have be- too delighted to go," returned Miss de lieved, William, that even you would Laury. "The poor child must have have fostered such an animus against had quite enough of your glowering a good girl, merely because she is face." shy." "Good!" shouted the general. "I don't believe she's good. There's a selfish, calculating temper behind that white face, or my name's not William de Laury. She's just the sort to leave her comrade on the field-if she'd been a man. Those scientific beggars always do it. They may talk as much as they like about their love for humanity, but in an emergency it's their own skins they think of. Car je le dis et le répète, On n'est pas bon quand on est bête." The general could not dispossess himself of this idea. He hated science. He considered that doctors created diseases by talking about them, and trying to cure them; and he preferred that people should die like gentlemen, believing that God's will must be done; he was irate with the man who had spent his time in scientific speculations instead of laying up a provision for his daughter; finally, he thought that the Brakespears, both father and child, were fools, and in the general's category fools and knaves were pretty nearly synonymous terms. Theodora, whose little hands and feet were wont to do elephantine mischief, irritated him sorely, and she irritated him all the more because she was so undeni "But is she going ?" demanded the general, a good deal nettled, for he considered himself rather a lady-killer. "Of course — and most gladly.” "I don't know why she should be glad," grumbled the general. "Most penniless young women are thankful to be boarded and lodged for nothing." "Most young ladies, rich or poor, are accustomed to being treated with greater attention than you have shown to Theodora." "I have never been rude to a lady in my life," cried the general indignantly. Miss de Laury raised her shoulders slightly. "I consider that you have treated Theodora with the most chilling severity," she said. "Your formality, your unsympathetic demeanor, your imperious voice, are enough to make the child wish herself in her grave rather than in your presence." "She wants to ruin Arthur," muttered the general. "Your worldliness is only equalled by your lack of chivalry," pursued Miss de Laury. "Take care, William ! You may suffer great remorse on your death-bed when you remember how you have maligned this innocent creature." Now the general hated the subject of his death-bed. He was of opinion that | further hope of self esteem in this it was a topic of conversation almost world, or of salvation in the next. indelicate, and decidedly unnecessary, and he writhed when his sister spoke of it familiarly. The general did nothing by halves, and when he met Theodora at dinner, he spoke to her softly and endeavored "If I have nothing worse on my to draw her into ordinary conversation. conscience than my behavior to Miss But his efforts were unsuccessful. Brakespear, I shall do very well," he Theodora did not perceive his drift, said crossly. "Pray, Matilda, keep and was as nervous and monosyllabic your strictures to yourself! Miss as ever. Truth to tell, his affability Brakespear is a great annoyance to me, bewildered her, and she attributed it I admit; but I am not aware that I to caprice, and perhaps to the relief have treated her with any want of he experienced at her approaching courtesy, and I will not have my con- departure. So he strove to make the duct called in question. I am a truth-amende in vain. He who will not ful man, and I can't pretend to be when he may, when he will he shall attached to a person whom I cordially have nay. dislike, and you can't expect it. If Miss Brakespear doesn't like me, she can go. I haven't pressed her to stay," said the general, puffing out his cheeks and distending his nostrils. The next day was the annual village fête, when every one, high and low, repaired to the grounds of the Hall and made holiday. Of course the general and Miss de Laury always took part in the festivities, and all the servants went too, and the house was locked up. But this year there was Theodora to be thought of- Theodora who could not go in her deep mourning. At luncheon, the general inquired anxiously what was going to happen. "Theodora says she doesn't mind staying in the house alone,” replied Miss de Laury. "But I don't know that I can allow that," cried the general, bristling with "O please, please!" entreated Theodora, overturning her wine-glass in her trepidation. Nevertheless, he was ashamed of himself. He went off to smoke a solitary pipe, and reviewing his conduct in the light of his sister's words, he saw that he had been unkind to his young guest. She was timid, and he had not re-assured her; she was in grief, and he had not attempted to cheer her. Certainly she had dared to love his son, but though this was most presumptuous, it argued that she had good taste. The general had been calling himself a miserable sinner in church for fifty-gallantry. five years, and now he called himself a miserable sinner out of church. He was more sorry, indeed, for his inhospitality to Theodora than for all the other sins of omission and commission in his life. He had broken all the commandments — in the spirit, if not in the letter - but none of these aberrations preyed upon him so much as the knowledge that he had distressed the gentle girl under his roof. As by a flash of lightning, the enormity of his behavior was revealed to him, and he saw plainly that he had been cruel to the forlorn orphan. He had been stiff when he should have been kindly; he had been ceremonious when he should have been tender. The poor general blamed himself with the utmost severity; he felt that he was degraded; there was no like." The general felt as if he had spilled the claret, and hastened to repair the damage. But Theodora was more upset than the glass. Her slender frame quivered, and she furtively wiped away a tear. The general was filled with compunction. "Never mind, never mind," he reiterated. But Theodora was too much agitated to perceive that his manner was altered, and she could eat no more. "Theodora will be all right,” said Miss de Laury. "I shall leave you the key-basket, my dear, and you can make yourself a cup of tea when you loudly. She lay in the shaded, lilyscented room, with the key-basket at her elbow, thinking a good deal of her dear father's death, and of the general's dislike of her, but a great deal more of Arthur and his letter. Perhaps she fell asleep. Who can determine the exact boundary between day-dreaming and the dreams of sleep? At all events it seemed to her that Arthur The general did not see Theodora | heard muffled footsteps on the ground, again, and he went off to the fête a or subdued whispers in the hall; she heart-broken man. On this afternoon did not start when the clock clicked he felt that a smile from that melan- convulsively; she felt no anxiety when choly girl would be worth more to him the dogs in the stable-yard barked than all the rubies of Burma. He was wretched because he had frightened her; he was miserable because she had misunderstood him. At last his troubled feelings became too much for him, and he resolved to slip away and lay his sorrow and his penitence at Theodora's feet. He was not a man to hesitate. No sooner had he made his decision than he put it into execution, and, stealing away like a schoolboy had come into the room, and now stood bent on some nefarious design, he looking at her. She opened her eyes posted to his own home as fast as his suddenly. At the foot of the sofa was feet would carry him. a man with a shock head and a bad countenance, clothed in ragged and dirty fustian, his hands red and soiled, his boots heavy and hobnailed. He was a stranger to her. Meanwhile, Theodora lay on the comfortable couch in Miss de Laury's pretty morning-room and lost herself in a reverie. She did not attempt to read, but she took Arthur's letter out of her pocket and held it in her hand, thinking about the writer with a great many heart-beats, and regretting that it was not convenient for Miss de Laury to keep her until after her nephew's arrival, and grieving bitterly that she had been unable to render herself acceptable to Arthur's father. "The general hates me," thought the poor girl," and I could never marry a man whose father did not receive me graciously." She was very sad. Still, it was a beautiful thought that Arthur loved her, and reading between the lines of Arthur's letter, she could not but believe that he loved her and at least she must be associated with him when he began to pursue her father's investigations, since many of Mr. Brakespear's papers could only be deciphered and explained by his daughter. Thus the hot summer afternoon wore tran quilly away. Theodora, who shook with terror when the general spoke to her or handed her a cup of tea, had no fear of being alone. She had lived in the village all her life, and knew every person in it, and she felt no nervous apprehensions as to her personal safety. She did not imagine that she was situated "Where is the key of the storeroom?" he muttered hoarsely. Now the store-room half-way up the stairs a good-sized chamber whose window was strongly barred, and where a quantity of valuable plate was kept, as well as the tea and sugar. Theodora had been inside it many times, and she knew that several hundred pounds worth of old family silver lay there the general's most precious possession. In an instant her hand was on the key-basket. The tramp made a step forward. "Drop that!" he growled. "Let's see! " Theodora withdrew her hand, and her visitor pounced upon the basket and poured its contents on the table. There were two or three bunches of small keys, but there was no key that looked as if it unlocked a room. The man looked up. Theodora had moved towards the window. "Where's that key?" demanded the ugly fellow, striding across the room. "Here!" cried Theodora, holding it up between her finger and thumb. Then, quick as thought, she sprang over the low window-sill, drew the window down behind her, and sped The 31st of July came, but there was no talk of Theodora leaving the general's house. Several of her ribs were broken, and she lay in bed up-stairs. "How is she?" asked the general for the thousandth time, when his sister came down to tea. away through the garden like light- | That was only a blind. It was the key ning. She had gained but a second. of the back door. The key of the Instantly the tramp threw up the sash store-room is in my pocket." and was after her. Patter, patter went Then she fainted again. her little feet along the gravel walks and through the shrubberies! Thud, thud went the ponderous tread of the rogue behind her! She was fleet, but he was much stronger. She began to pant, but he knew how to run, and he gained steadily on her. Once she looked behind, and saw him closing in upon her. Then she redoubled her exertions, but she was getting exhausted, and there was an agonizing stitch in her side. She was making for the pond. If she could but reach the pond she would be safe. She could swim, and she would plunge into it without fear; but it was known to be deep and the tramp would hesitate to follow. There she would be safe; for even if the tramp hovered on the bank, over the hill, above the pond, the general and Miss de Laury would presently come, returning from the Hall. But would her strength hold out? Her feet seemed to be tied together; her breath came in labored gasps; the pain in her side amounted to anguish. Tramp, tramp, came her pursuer! He was at her heels; she felt his hot breath upon her neck; she felt his rough grasp upon her arm. With one mighty effort, and uttering a piercing cry, she threw the key from her as far as she could. Splash! water. "She is going on very well," replied Miss de Laury. "But it will be some time before she quite recovers from the shock." "She is a noble girl she is a fine creature!" cried the general enthusiastically. "I hope she has everything she wants, Matilda. I wish no expense spared." "None shall be spared. I am anx ious to get Theodora well, so that she may go." "Go!" exclaimed the general. "Yes. You said you should turn her out if she stayed after the 31st." "I turn her out!" cried the general distractedly. "I turn out that gallant little thing! Matilda, have you taken leave of your senses? Don't you see that circumstances have altered the case? I won't hear of Miss Brakespear leaving my house. And, Matilda," he added, "if Arthur and she are really in love with each other, I will make things easy for It had fallen into the them." "Much better not," rejoined Miss Then Theodora fell to the ground, de Laury, her eyes twinkling. and lost consciousness. Ar thur had much better turn his thoughts "I'll pay you out for this!" cried to Jessie Thurton." the baffled man. And he kicked the girl's prostrate form once, twice with his terrible boots. But not again! The general had seen it all from the brow of the hill, and now with the roar as of many lions - he descended. When Theodora came to herself, the general was bending over her with a face whose expression she could not mistake. She smiled faintly. "I've saved the plate," she murmured. "And the key isn't lost. "Jessie Thurton!" ejaculated the general. "Why, she says herself she would have surrendered the key at once!" "But she is so pretty, William !” "Not nearly as pretty as Miss Brakespear." "And she chaffs you!" "Theodora," said the general softly, "smiled at me like an angel.” "But she is dreadfully gauche," continued Miss de Laury. "She is spilling things, or throwing them down, or Car je le dis et le répète, On n'est pas bon quand on est bête." "But she wasn't bête," said the general impressively. "She had the key in her pocket all the time." falling over them all day. The kitchen- | little "style" as the marginal notes. maid couldn't be more awkward. Be- But, for the same reason, they have, in ware, William! Those scientific people a very high degree, the interest of disare never good. In an emergency | playing character. We see the man's it's their own skins they always think mind at work; catch his thoughts as .of. they rise, before they have had time to incarnate themselves in the most appropriate words, but also before they have been rubbed down into commonplace. Literary form is a very good thing in its way; but a man shows himself more characteristically in his undress than when he has arrayed himself in the proper court costume. The curious freshness of many of Coleridge's scattered remarks is no doubt due in part to our admission to those initial stages of his mental operations, of which all signs are removed by more finished workmanship. From The National Review. BY LESLIE STEPHEN. COLERIDGE's letters, says his grandson, in the interesting collection just published, "lack style." He was fas- Mr. Ernest Coleridge's collection, tidious in correcting his poetry; but containing many previously unpubhis letters were poured out carelessly lished letters, and bringing together at the impulse of the moment. This, others previously dispersed in a variety indeed, is not more true of the letters of books, shows very strikingly this than of Coleridge's prose writings in peculiar charm. An interest in Colegeneral. A large proportion of his col- ridge, to quote his grandson (again, lected works are made up of margin-"survives and must alway survive." alia of thoughts scrawled upon his So long, at least, as men take any inbooks at the instant that they crossed terest in English literature, there must his mental field of vision. He does always be an interest in a man whose not wait to let his ideas clarify; and poetry has so unique and magical a takes no trouble to comb out his lan- charm, and whose philosophy, whatguage into the clearest logical order. ever else may be said of it, was the His sentences, as he remarks himself, leaven which set up a fermentation in are like the Surinam toad-bearing a an uncongenial atmosphere of thought. whole progeny upon its back. Thoughts There is something to be learnt of Colebeget thoughts as he writes, and their ridge's philosophical and poetical prinintrusion into the world is marked by ciples from these pages; significant parentheses and complicated involu- indications of the way in which he was tions forced upon him in the attempt to affected by German speculations in one hook them on to the original grammat- department, and by Bowles (the "bard ical construction. He extemporizes of my idolatry") and Wordsworth in strange neologisms by random snatches the other. This may give a passing at a passing thought. "Coadunation, hint to the student of Coleridge's concorporated, multeity, inturbidate, works. But the revelation of character chronochorhistorical, exauctoration, il- is the point upon which I desire to laqueate, heautophany, artefacts," oc- dwell for a little; for it is in this direccur in a few pages of the "Literary tion, I think, that the letters have a Remains." He has not troubled him- remarkable interest. The book should self to hunt for the English word. In be used in conjunction with Mr. Dykes this sense, the letters have generally as Campbell's recent "narrative," which will sufficiently explain the bearing of any allusions, and the two together will give an impression not often surpassed 1 Letters of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Edited by Ernest Hartley Coleridge. London, 1895. Two vols. W. Heinemann. |