Chapter THE SIXTH (1)

It was about this time that a distant kinswoman of Deborah's died, leaving her a legacy of twenty guineas a year. It seemed a fortune to Mistress Fleming. With the twenty golden pieces in her hand, she sat revolving in her mind what she would buy with them, happy as the blue fly that buzzed about her sunny room, she who had so often looked on grim poverty face to face. Our heroine was full of joy. The bells of Enderby were ringing out their glad gay peals. The air was radiant with sunshine, and heavy with fragrance. Kingston Fleming was coming home, and coming to Enderby. The murmur of the bees about the ivy, the scent of clambering roses and honeysuckle, brought back the days of childhood. There, were the great boughs in the wych-elm where they swung; there, were the green woods where they played.

Deborah, with her arm leaning on the warm sill, was in a very dream of bliss, and then her wandering thoughts came back. Yes, half must be laid by in case of need, or as much as could possibly be spared; she would say half. Then there must be a new cap for Marjory, a book for Mistress Dinnage--a tale of love and romance; a hunting-knife for Jordan. And what for dear old Charlie? She must think that over. It was difficult to know what could be nice enough for one so fastidious and so dear. And what for herself? A new cap to match the lace she had; for she was no longer a hoyden with tangled locks, but 'Mistress Fleming.' She would ride into Granta the next day, and buy that little cap. Drawing the curtain which shut out the alcove, the maiden threw her money on the bed, and there too was laid a soft and sheeny dress, trimmed with costly cobweb lace, a dress of her grandmother's modernised artfully by herself and Mistress Dinnage. Deborah's heart beat and her colour rose. Girls are silly beings. She could think of and pine for nought but that coquettish cap which would jauntily set her love-locks.

While thus musing, the door opened abruptly, and in stalked a travel-stained figure, a tall figure, with wild dishevelled hair. It was Charlie Fleming, with the passions of his boyhood darkened and deepened, in the sombre beauty of the face that had grown stern and set. He was pale through his bronze; his long hair streamed back from his heated brow, and his whole air betokened a reckless fugitive spirit. Deborah had not seen him for weeks; she gave a cry of joy, and sprang into his arms. The roughness of the boy had passed from Charlie Fleming, but his rare demonstrations of affection were shewn to Deborah only. 'I am only here for half an hour, Deb. I must saddle horse afresh and off to Lincoln Castle. I am in rare trouble, Deb. Hush, child! I am come to thank ye for refusing Adam Sinclair. Better poverty, Deb, than that. Better starvation. I'd blow his brains out sooner than see you his wife. See that ye are never talked into this. I know your generous madness, child; let _no misery_ move ye to it.'

'Nay, Charlie; it never shall! But if you are so averse to him, do not go to Lincoln. I hate him. I distrust him more and more. You are pale and tired too, Charlie. Is it the _old_ trouble?' Deborah leaned forward, where she sat opposite him; the sweet confidante of father and brother was wont to forget all her own joys and sorrows in theirs.

Charlie raised his dark beautiful eyes to hers, then dropped them; the furtive glance was enough. Deborah thought of her gold, and her heart began to throb with tumultuous joy. 'Is it _much_, Charlie? More than--twenty guineas?'

Charlie laughed a bitter laugh. 'Don't ask me, child,' he said; 'you cannot help me, Deb. I am undone!'

'Not so undone but that I can help you a little,' whispered Deborah softly, and ran towards the bed. Then she drew Charlie's hands down from his moody face, and with her own all radiant, laid her treasure in his hands. 'See, Charlie! This is _mine_, my very own. I have never had such riches before. Just before you came in, dear boy, I was racking my brains as to what I could buy you with these guineas, and now I give them all to you in place of presents. Don't thank me; it is thanks enough to let me stand thy friend. For what need have _I_ for money? To me it would be worthless!'

'Who gave ye this, Deb?'

'A fairy--a true fairy, who knew your need.'

'Not May Warriston?'

'May Warriston? No! What ails you?'

'Deb, I cannot rob thee, dear. Thou needst a thousand little gewgaws such as women love. Say no more o' this;' and Charlie gave her back the gold.

But Deborah was on her knees, putting her soft face up to his. 'Charlie, it will break my heart if you disdain my poor gift. I tell you again, I have no need for money--only as a temptation for finery and trinkets which it would be sin for me to wear. Old Charlie, sweet old Charlie, I _will_ be mistress here!' And Deborah poured her gold into his pocket and closed it up. 'You will not go to Lincoln _now_?'

Charlie Fleming took her face between his hands; a melancholy smile fluttered about his lips; and she, so radiantly happy: '_Will_ you go?' she urged.

'Yes.'

'Oh, wilful, headstrong, obstinate! To this one time I give consent; but after this, you shall go no more to Lincoln, to be the companion of that bad old treacherous man. He would fain ruin us all; I know it!'

'Tush, tush! Deb. I know just how to take Adam Sinclair. And if he wrongs mine by word or deed, let him look to it!' And the young giant rose to his feet.

Deborah caught his arm. 'You are not going to _fight_ him?'

'Fight him? No; we are friends, bosom friends, like as thyself to Mistress Dinnage.'

'Well, be not rash and hot-headed. I know your fiery temper, and am ever in fear and trembling, with such a man as Master Sinclair too, that you should quarrel and hurt him sorely. Quarrel not about _me_, Charlie; he is always courteous to me.'

'I hope so. Good-bye, sweet Deb, good-bye.' The brother and sister kissed, and Charlie sped to the court-yard.

Old Jordan held Bayard for him, ready saddled. 'Thanks, good Jordan. Where is my father?'

'I ain't seen him these three days, Master Charlie. An' now thou'rt goin' away agen, these be dull days for Enderby an' Mistress Deborah.'

'Where's Mistress Dinnage?' asked Charlie, dropping his keen glance to the old man's face.

'In the manor here; she well-nigh lives with Mistress Deborah, an' well she may.'

'I never see her about.'

'She's there though, Master Charlie.'

'Good-bye, Jordan. Take care of them.' And Charlie Fleming, striking spurs to his horse, rode away; not so fast but that one pair of dark eyes, full of proud reluctant tears and lingering passion, looked from a window overhead, and watched him as he sped away.

'Poor little Deb!' muttered Charlie, as his good horse bore him far away. 'I will not forget thee, dear. Poor little maid! It has eased her heart. A drop, a drop in the ocean of my troubles, is Deb's gold to me. Poor child! Now, if you fail, Adam Sinclair, flight is my only chance.'

HOTEL HOSPITALS.

Some years ago, a Birmingham medical man--Mr West--in a very ably written contrast between English and French surgery, drew attention to a kind of hospital common abroad, and much appreciated there by the class for whose benefit these institutions are intended, but of which in Britain we have no examples, or at most one or two experimental wards on a very limited scale. These institutions are hospitals where patients of the middle class who can afford and are willing to pay a moderate sum, can be received when serious illness or accident unfortunately necessitates medical aid--'a special kind of hospital,' said Mr West, 'unknown in England, which I think of great utility, and of which there is, I believe, an urgent need, not only in London, but also in every large town throughout the provinces.'

Mr West's paper does not appear to have borne much fruit at the time; but recently the question has appeared again, and this time, so much has been done to give prominence to the movement, that a public meeting was held last June at the Mansion House, to discuss points in connection with this great subject. There cannot be two opinions as to the general advisability of establishing such hospitals in this country, and as was to be expected from the honourable desire of the medical faculty always to do what appears best for suffering humanity, we find that the scheme has the cordial approval of the presidents of the great medical bodies and the chief members of the profession in London, who agree that this is a much-needed institution.

Out of England, there are various examples of such hospitals, such as the State Hospital at Christiania, which is entirely supported by such paying patients; the famous Maison Municipale de Santé in Paris; and various institutions in Germany and the United States, where for a moderate fixed payment, men or women of limited means, or who have no home in a large city, can obtain adequate care and proper nursing in case of illness. The great French hospital, the Maison Municipale de Santé, is a model of what such an establishment should be. It is under the control of the municipal authorities, and has nearly six hundred beds ready for the treatment of sick and wounded persons of the class now alluded to, who, for a daily payment varying from four to twelve francs, can obtain medical and surgical advice--medicine, food, baths, and all else necessary for their proper alleviation or cure. There are two physicians and a surgeon on the staff of the hospital; but if the patients choose, they can call in consultation any of the Parisian hospital doctors, and the fees paid to them are the only extra expense that inmates are liable for. 'The hospital,' says Mr West, 'is clean, well-furnished, comfortable, and contains every variety of bath that the patients can possibly require.'

What a boon such an establishment would be, not only for the large numbers of clerks and assistants in our shops and warehouses, who live in lodgings, and are far from the tender hands of a loving nurse, but also for a class who are anxious to have the advantages of a well-managed hospital and its careful nursing, rather than subject near and dear ones at home to all the trouble and anxiety of nursing and watching, besides the great risk of infection. There is certainly a strong and no doubt very natural feeling against the idea of being away from home when sickness overtakes us; but in process of time this dislike must yield to the undoubted fact, that in a well-organised hospital, a case has, as a rule, a far better chance than elsewhere of being thoroughly attended to according to the directions of the physician. The loving hands that smooth the pillow under the uneasy head need not be absent here; but it must be remembered that it is not given to every mother or wife to be a good nurse. Nervousness and inexperience, over-anxiety from the very great interest in the issues of life and death for the loved one, are often causes of risk to the patient. Then, too, house accommodation may be limited: perfect isolation of the infected patient, especially in the 'flats' of such a town as Edinburgh, may be well-nigh impossible; while the disease may be, like small-pox, of a kind that drives all but the most self-sacrificing of friends away.

In one of the many letters written on this subject we get a pitiable instance of such a case as this: A young man, living with a lady and her daughters, became ill with small-pox. His mother was dead, his father in India. When it was clear what disease he had, every one left him but one servant. His doctor sent him to a small-pox hospital, but it was full; and he had to be brought back again, and put under the care of a nurse from an Institution; but at ten P.M. this Mrs Gamp was found to be quite drunk, and another had to be sent for. But how infinitely better would it have been if he could have been sent to a paying hospital. The present writer knew of a case some years ago that peculiarly illustrates the value of such institutions. A young married man of limited but not straitened means was seized with illness at home about a week before the 'flitting term,' at which time he was to remove his household goods to another town. The doctor pronounced it fever, and said that if he was to be removed at all, it must be immediately. It was absolutely necessary he should leave his house when his tenancy expired; and as they had no friends in town to whom to go, no course was open but to send the sick man to the public hospital; which was done. Here was a distinct perversion of the objects of such an institution; and though in this case some compensation was made in the form of a donation, yet here again, how much better for all parties if that hospital had had a wing, where he could have been taken in on the distinct footing of payment for its advantages.

Various proposals have been made as to the mode of instituting such hospitals. Sir Rutherford Alcock is in favour of a certain number of wards in good existing hospitals being set aside for the accommodation of paying patients at varying rates, to suit their varying means; others advocate the building of distinct wings or pavilions to existing hospitals; while many think that buildings separate in every way should be specially built. The advantages in favour of connection are that in these hospitals there is already an organised staff of physicians, surgeons, and nurses; and that while the extra expense of an expansion of this staff would be comparatively small, the payments from the new class of patients would largely help the funds of the hospital in its charitable purposes. It is probable, however, that a distinct institution--an 'Hotel Hospital' it is proposed to call it--will soon be set on foot, as a limited liability company is spoken of for the purpose.

The London _Figaro_ some time ago advocated the establishment of dispensaries where a man of the middle class could get for a small fee first-rate medical advice. In this material respect the workman is decidedly better off than the struggling member of the middle class, who, if he has to consult a leading physician, must pay fees beyond what he too often can afford, while to the poor man the highest medical advice in the kingdom is as free as the air he breathes. The _Figaro_ shews how this would be not only a great advantage to middle class people but to the medical profession, in which at present many young men have to be content with a local practice, because they have no opportunity for obtaining hospital practice, which is so necessary for qualification as a general physician.

DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND.

A GRANDFATHER'S STORY.

About sixty years ago I was in Paris for the first time in my life. Bonaparte still lingered at St Helena; and the adventurers, good, bad, and indifferent in character, who had served in his armies had not yet lost all hope of the return of their idol, and consequently had not yet thought it worth while to settle down into thorough peace and quietness.

Young Paul Ferrand, whom I frequently met at the café, and who had served as a captain at Waterloo, was sure that the Little Corporal would come back again soon. 'You have not yet beaten him,' he would tell me laughing. 'You sent him to Elba, but he returned; you have sent him to St Helena, and he will return again. We shall see.'

Ferrand was an exceedingly nice fellow; and although he professed to cherish an unquenchable hatred for England and everything English, he had, by some means or other, become attached to Alice Rae, a young English lady of my acquaintance, and who had been living with her mother since the conclusion of peace at Paris, not far from the abode of the ex-captain. And he was always very friendly with me too. He would, it is true, abuse my countrymen most unmercifully; but he was always particularly good-natured; and whenever he found himself saying a little too much, he would arrest himself and apologise so heartily, that I never could be angry with him. I was alone in the French capital, and had few friends there except Mrs Rae, her daughter Alice, and Paul; and so it happened that I passed a good deal of my time in the society of these three. The mother, a woman still in the prime of life, and the widow of a king's messenger, was a connection of mine by marriage, and that fact gave me a good excuse for offering my services as escort whenever she and her pretty daughter thought fit to go to the theatre or the opera. At such times Paul always had a seat in the stalls; and between the acts he would come up to my box, to the delight of Alice, who was in love with him, and to the no small satisfaction of Mrs Rae, who herself had quite a maternal affection for the young Frenchman, and did not in the least discourage his attentions to her daughter. If there were no formal engagement between the two, it was at least perfectly understood by all parties that as soon as Paul should get an appointment, for which at the time he was a candidate, he was to marry Alice; and I, though only a few years her senior, was to give her away.

One night the opera-house was crowded more than usual. A great singer was to appear, and a new work by a renowned composer was to be performed. But Paul Ferrand, sitting in the stalls, seemed scarcely to listen to the music or to notice the acting; and much more often were his eyes turned in the direction of my box than in that of the stage. Alice and her mother were with me; and as the curtain fell at the conclusion of the first act, Paul came up to us. He was in high spirits, for he had heard that the minister had decided to give him the coveted post, and he expected to hear in a few days that his appointment had been signed by the king. We congratulated him; and as he left us to return to his seat, I whispered to him: 'You'll be a happy man in a month or two now, Paul.' He smiled, and shut the door.

We watched him as he threaded his way to his place. It was in the centre of the second row from the orchestra, and he had left his opera-glasses on the chair, in order to preserve his right to it; but during his absence a tall, military-looking man had appropriated it, and had coolly put the glasses on one side. Paul approached the stranger with the utmost politeness, and I suppose, for naturally I could not hear, requested him to move. The interloper did not deign to answer, but sneeringly looked up at Ferrand, as though to ask him what he meant by his intrusion. Paul pointed to the opera-glasses; but the stranger neither replied nor moved, but continued to appear as though he did not hear. I saw that matters were assuming a dangerous complexion, for in the new-comer I recognised Victor Laroquière, an ex-Bonapartist officer like Paul, a notorious bully, and one of the most celebrated duellists in France. But what could I do? I could only sit still, much against my will, and witness the inevitable consequences. I thought Alice would faint when Laroquière in the calmest way rose before the crowded assemblage and struck Paul in the face with his glove; but she recovered herself, and like a statue watched her lover pick up his opera-glasses, bow to his insulter, and without a word, leave the building. There were some exclamations from the audience; but the duellist again rose, and with a theatrical air gazed round, mockingly imitated Paul's parting bow, and resumed his seat. This was too much for poor Alice. She could not remain any longer; she must go home; and so, with some difficulty, I got her and her mother to my carriage, told the coachman to drive them home, and myself walked quickly to Paul's lodgings.

He had arrived before me, and was already writing when I entered his room. 'Of course,' he said, as he saw me and came towards me with both hands outstretched, 'you, my dear friend, will assist me. It is impossible to do anything but fight. Even Alice could not make me alter my conviction upon that point, the insult was so public.'

'Suppose you leave the country?' I suggested.

'Then I should have to give up the appointment and Alice too. No, my dear fellow, I am a Frenchman, and I must fight; and you must arrange matters for me. If he shoots me, it cannot be helped; if I shoot him, I shall have shot the biggest scoundrel in Paris. I beg you to call upon Laroquière to-night. I have already discovered his address. Here it is.'

'But must you really fight? It is suicide to fight with a professional duellist.'

'Ah,' he said, shaking his head, 'I am afraid it is suicide; but I _must_ fight; so please don't try and persuade me that I need not. And I will fight, too, as soon as possible. You can arrange everything for to-morrow morning. I must have the matter over. In a day or two I might be a coward.'

By his looks he implored me to go to Laroquière; and constituted as French society was at that time, I had no other course open to me than to do as he wished.

'If Monsieur come from M. Paul Ferrand,' said a man-servant when I inquired whether I could see his master, 'M. Laroquière has sent to say that he has not yet left the opera. He has, however, sent this pencilled note, which I am to give to the gentleman who comes from M. Ferrand.'

I tore open the missive. It contained two cards, one bearing the name of the duellist, and the second that of M. Fernand Delaraie, Rue Vivienne 18. Certainly it was an off-hand way of acquainting me with the name and whereabouts of Laroquière's second; but as I wished to pick no quarrel, I walked on to the Rue Vivienne, and in a few minutes was ushered into the presence of M. Delaraie himself. This worthy was a young man, aged about three-and twenty, and dressed in the very extreme of fashion. His ruffles were immaculate, and most symmetrically arranged; his lace handkerchief was steeped in essences; his gloves, which lay on the table--for he had only just returned, at Laroquière's request, from the opera--were small and delicate; his fingers were covered with valuable rings; and the bunch of gold seals depending from his fob was unusually heavy and brilliant. He did not strike me as appearing particularly warlike; but nevertheless, after formally saluting me, he at once touched upon the object of my visit; and before I had been ten minutes in his company, had arranged to meet Ferrand and myself at a certain spot, dear to duellists of the time, at an early hour next morning, and to bring Laroquière with him.

'I don't think we shall need a surgeon,' he said to me quite affably at parting; 'but if you please, you can bring one. In his last affair my principal shot his man through the temples, and he died immediately. I sincerely hope, Monsieur, that your friend is as clever.'

'Confound the fellow!' I said to myself as I left the house and sought the residence of my own medical man. 'I am afraid poor Ferrand is not such a consummate murderer as Laroquière.'

After seeing the surgeon, to whom I briefly explained matters, I called upon Mrs Rae. She was doing her best to comfort her daughter, who was in the greatest possible distress. 'Are they going to fight?' she asked me.

'My dear Alice,' I said, 'they are. I have done my best to dissuade Paul; but he says, and I am obliged to agree, that he must fight. Let us hope for the best. He has a sure eye and a steady hand, and he has right on his side. The other man is a scoundrel. And you must remember that poor Paul is not an Englishman. If I were he, I would not fight; but as it is, the matter cannot be overlooked, and indeed everything is arranged.'

'You are to be with him?' said Mrs Rae, looking as white as a sheet.

'Yes; they are to meet to-morrow morning, and by breakfast-time Alice's suspense will be over. She must bear up.'

'You must prevent the duel,' sobbed the half-heart-broken girl. 'Cannot Paul let the insult pass? But no; it was so public.'

'You can only hope,' I said. 'I will see you in the morning; but now I must go back to him, and see that he gets some sleep.'

'Tell him,' cried Alice, 'that if he is killed I shall die. Come here directly it is over. Come, even if he falls: you must tell me about it. I must hear everything.' She buried her face in her hands; and I, escaping from the unhappy girl, hurried to Paul.

He was still writing, and his hair was in disorder, and his face pale when he turned towards me. 'I am no coward,' he said, 'but I am saying good-bye to her, for I shall die to-morrow.'

'My dear fellow,' I exclaimed, 'you will shoot Laroquière, and be married next month. You must finish your writing at once and go to bed. I will sleep here to-night, for I must see that you turn out in time to-morrow morning; so be as quick as possible.'

He wrote for another half-hour, addressed the document to Alice Rae, placed a lock of his hair within it, and after sealing it up, gave it to me.

'Give that to her,' he said, 'if Laroquière kills me outright--and I know he will. If it were not for Alice, I declare that I should be quite glad to meet him. Now for bed.'

He undressed; whilst I lay down on the sofa in the next room and lit a cigar, for I could not afford to sleep myself. Soon all was quiet, and I stole in to see Paul lying as quiet as a child with a smile on his face. Probably, nay assuredly, I passed a more uncomfortable night than he did. Only with the greatest possible difficulty could I keep awake; and the hours seemed to linger for ever. At last, however, daylight dawned, and I called Ferrand, who woke refreshed and in comparatively good spirits. After a hurried breakfast we muffled ourselves up; I placed a flask of brandy, some powder and bullets, and a brace of pistols in my pockets, and we sallied forth in the cold morning air. Scarcely any one was abroad, except a few sleepy watchmen, who seemed to make very shrewd guesses at the object of our expedition; and through the silent streets we went for a mile or so, until we reached the meeting-place.

Laroquière and Delaraie were there before us, and my friend the surgeon arrived immediately afterwards in his carriage, which waited near at hand. The pistols were produced and loaded. Laroquière chose one, and I gave the other to Paul; and then the two men took up positions at a distance of twenty paces from each other, and waited for Delaraie to give the signal to fire.

'Stay!' cried the bully, as his second stepped back; 'let the young hound listen to this. I am not trifling with him: I shall shoot him only where he wishes, for I am generous, parbleu!'

'If I do not kill you,' said Paul quietly, 'I prefer to die.'

'Then I shoot him through the heart,' coolly observed Laroquière. 'It will teach others not to challenge me.'

There was something to me unspeakably horrible in the way in which these last words were pronounced. I shuddered, and looked at Paul. He smiled at me, and at the same instant Delaraie gave the signal.

There was but one report, for Ferrand's pistol flashed in the pan. The poor fellow turned round towards me with fixed eye and pale face, and with the name of Alice on his lips, fell dead. Laroquière turned on his heel, and departed quickly in company with Delaraie, while I aided the surgeon in his brief examination of Paul's body. Surely enough, the bullet had passed through his heart. He must have died almost instantaneously, for he did not move after he fell, and the last smile with which he had looked at me was still upon his face. It was a melancholy business in every respect. I had to break the sad news to Alice and her mother; and the two ladies were so terribly overcome, that I feared the shock would have some permanent effect upon their health. For my part, I was obliged to hurry to England as soon as possible; and Laroquière, I heard, also got away, and remained out of France until the affair had blown over.

I kept up a correspondence with Mrs Rae, and was glad after a time to hear from her that Alice, though still terribly upset, had learned to look with a certain amount of philosophy upon her misfortune, and had to some extent recovered her usual health, if not her usual spirits. Meantime I settled down in London, and unable to forget my Parisian habits, usually dined at one of the then much frequented taverns in Fleet Street. The _Cheshire Cheese_, which was then in much the same state as it is now, was my favourite haunt; and there, as months passed by, I gradually picked up a few pleasant acquaintances, chief amongst whom was an extremely well-mannered young gentleman named Barton, a man of independent means, good family, and first-rate education.

One day, after he had been dining with me, the conversation turned upon continental manners and particularly upon duelling. As an illustration of my abhorrence of the system, I told my companion about poor Paul's death, a matter in which Barton appeared much interested. He asked me a good many questions about the parties concerned, and after expressing a remarkably strong opinion to the effect that Laroquière was a blackguard, bid me good-night. I went home to my rooms in the Temple; and next day, on visiting the _Cheshire Cheese_, found no Barton. He had left word with one of the waiters that urgent business had called him away, but that he hoped to see me on his return. Weeks passed, and then months, and still Barton did not come back; and I confess that I had begun to forget him altogether, when one evening he dropped into dinner as though he had not been absent for more than a day or two.

'Where have you been?' I asked, after I had heartily shaken hands with him.

'I have been to Paris,' he said. 'On arriving there I found out a little more than you told me about Laroquière, and when I had thoroughly convinced myself that he was the blackguard you painted him, I arranged for a series of lessons at a pistol-gallery. Every day for a month I went and shot for an hour or two, until I was so perfect as to be able to hit a small coin every time at a distance of twenty paces. After satisfying myself as to my proficiency, I took a box at the opera; it may have been the same box that you used to have. Laroquière was pointed out to me. He sat in the stalls, and between the acts he left his seat in order to speak to a lady in another part of the house. I descended as quickly as possible and took his place. He returned, and asked me in an overbearing tone to move. I refused. He persisted. I struck him. He sent me a challenge, and we met upon the same spot, curiously enough, where he had killed your friend Ferrand. Before the signal was given, I said: "M. Laroquière, listen to me. I am not here to trifle with you: but I am as generous as you were with Paul Ferrand. I will shoot you only where you wish." He turned deadly pale. "We will see," he said, "whether I shall not make you a second Ferrand!" "Then I will shoot you," I returned, "as you shot him--through the heart. It will teach other bullies not to challenge me." Whether he was so upset as to be incapable of aiming or not, I cannot say; but my dear fellow, I shot him as dead as a dog, right through the heart, and avenged your friend, at the same time ridding Paris of its biggest villain. It was a case of diamond cut diamond.'

'Well done, Barton!' I exclaimed.

'Wait,' he said, 'and let me finish the drama. We managed to keep the matter very quiet; and before leaving France, I was able to call on Mrs Rae, who is now at Boulogne, for I had a letter of introduction to her from a Parisian acquaintance. When I saw her first, she knew nothing of the affair, but at last I broke the intelligence to her and to her daughter. I found Alice to be a pretty girl, somewhat spoilt by her long mourning, and not very much inclined to listen to me; but my dear fellow, after three weeks of hard persuasion she gave in, and now she and her mother are coming over next week. I believe you were to give Alice away. When she arrives, you shall have a capital opportunity.'

'And,' I added, shaking my friend's hand warmly, 'I shall be delighted to do so.'

MODERN SUPERSTITIONS.

Most people accept it as a fact that superstition went out with the advent of steam, the telegraph, and the penny-post. A little honest observation, however, will assure us that there still exist a number of pitiable though petty superstitions. Among certain classes there are lucky and unlucky days in their calendar. They will not attempt an important task on Friday. The horseshoe still hangs behind or over the door in the Highlands, and in some places much less removed from the centres of civilisation. East-coast fishermen will yet occasionally burn or otherwise destroy a boat from which the lives of any of the crew have been lost, no matter how seaworthy or valuable the boat may be. A hare crossing the path of one of these hardy sons of the sea will cause him to forego an intended journey or voyage. To rustic and fisherman alike a concourse of magpies is an evil omen. As for dreams, the belief that they are the forecasts of events is perhaps the strongest of all the forms of their superstition. We might multiply examples, but have said enough to suggest that the follies of their great-grandfathers have still no slight fascination for the ignorant, in spite of the strides which intelligence has made.

But have superstitious beliefs quite left the more intelligent ranks of society? On the very subject of dreams itself is there not a sneaking credulity which goes far to prove the contrary? True, any one of us is quite able to account in a natural way for the character of his or her dreams. Nevertheless, the lady who chides her children for repeating the interpretation which the housemaid has put upon their sleeping vagaries, and sagely instructs them on the subject of imperfect digestion and its effects upon the brain during sleep, is not ashamed to impart to her husband any morning the particulars of her own shocking dreams, or to piously express the hope that something untoward is not about to happen. Her better-half pooh-poohs the matter doubtless, as becomes his superior dignity, but is visited none the less with a vague sense of uneasiness when he remembers that he himself had a vision of losing a tooth or seeing a house on fire. Having courageously quizzed his wife at the breakfast-table on the folly of _her_ augury, and bade her and the children good-bye for the day, he inwardly deplores the unlucky omen of having to turn back for his forgotten umbrella or pocket-book!

How many curious but innocent little customs too are still current, and with the sanction of the wisest. An old slipper is still cast after a bride: it is considered necessary to christen a new ship with a bottle of wine: a fine day is still royal weather; and so on. These and many others most of us would indeed be sorry to see extinct. They are not only harmless, but in their very departure from strait-laced common-sense, give an agreeable and perhaps even healthful relief to the prosiness of ordinary life. To sacrifice them to the strict letter of reason, would be to sacrifice much of the sentiment of life, to banish imagery from poetry, to take the perfume from the rose, to guide into a Dutch canal the current of human affections, which left free will gush and eddy, prattle and murmur by rock and meadow, carrying music and health throughout its living course.

Would that modern superstitions never took less innocent shapes! Having discarded the ghostology of olden times, many people, and among these some men and women of considerable culture, have set up for themselves a novel system of intercourse with the unknown world. Brownies and fairies, with all the fine romance that surrounds the history of their doings among human folks, are dismissed with contempt. Spiritualism has swept all these ethereal puppets off the boards of ordinary life. To substitute what? We might at least look for an improved exhibition and more interesting 'characters;' but the truth is that nothing could be less satisfactory than the modern attempt at demon-craft. There is something so clumsy and inartistic in the whole get-up of the 'spiritual' drama, that it is less surprising to find it very generally scouted than to see it obtain even a partial notoriety.

Ignorance is the parent of superstition, without a doubt; and the one never exists apart from the other. There is, however, a second wise saw that tells a great deal of the truth about the origin of that world-old bugbear of the human mind, namely, 'The wish is father to the thought.' What we strongly desire to be, we are next door to believing to be. The appetite of man's vanity is unappeasable, and in catering for it his fancy plays tricks with his reason. He longs for intercommunion with the unknown, and indulges the wish by creating fictitious agents for that purpose. Tokens, signs, omens, and auguries are also outgrowths of the various forms of desire and vanity. We believe we shall have luck if we turn the money in our pocket when looking at new moon. Men have _waited_ in all ages for the appearance of some favourable sign before beginning any enterprise of importance. If the sun shines on our wedding-day, how auspicious! Palpably in each case because we desire these things to be! But having set up omens with such an object, we, in the cleft-stick of our own superstition, are bound to believe their absence or converse, the foreshadowers of evil.

In many ways modern credulity frees itself from such mechanical trammels as those we have mentioned, to take a form and complexion from the age, losing meanwhile not one jot of its vigour. To dream three times of a hidden treasure and set about, Whang-the-Miller-like, to lay bare the foundations of one's house, is an exploit not to be thought of by the veriest wiseacre of our day; but the desire to obtain wealth easily and rapidly being, if anything, more active and rampant, the belief in some magical means for attaining it is the most natural thing in the world. An Eldorado is required, and lo! an Eldorado is implicitly thought to exist. The projectors of a bogus company for 'utilising the clippings of old moons' or 'extracting starch from granite chips' are the good fairies whom by propitiating with a portion of our substance we hope to enlist in our behalf, and obtain a thousand-fold return. Where such a superstition exists, and it is broadcast, any scheme however absurd, any swindle no matter how transparent, will serve for a bait to catch the unwary and over-eager fish. Nothing is so purblind as undue acquisitiveness. The ancient Highlander with his keen eye to the main chance and happy facility for 'attaching' whatever came in his way, found a beautiful horse in rich trappings, browsing ownerless in his path, and following the instinct of his desire rather than the prudence which tradition should have taught him, rashly mounted. In an instant he was borne aloft, then plunged for ever beneath the dark waters of a tarn on the back of the wily and terrible water-kelpie. We too have our illusory steeds in this so vaunted age, and neither the teachings of history nor the bitterest experience seems able to prevent the speculator from vaulting into the saddle, and forthwith launching into perdition.

Charms are things of the past, or believed in merely by the vulgar; that is to say, those pretty and fanciful conceits which led our ancestors to attach a healing or sanitary virtue to certain objects and ceremonies are now almost extinct. A spray from the rowan-tree is no longer a safeguard against an epidemic, nor the hand of majesty a cure for scrofula. Ladies do not now believe that the presence of a piece of cold iron on their couch, '_while uneasy in their circumstances_,' will secure a happy consummation; nor is a child's caul in much request in these days as a protection against fire and drowning. True, we have got over these beliefs pretty thoroughly. But is the desire for infallible remedies and potent protectives done away with also? Not in the least; and though science is doing its best to provide honest substitutes in a natural measure, the public is not satisfied with its efforts. Quacks are the modern magicians, and quack medicines the charms of latter days. Those who are bald, for instance, will not accept their fate while a single well-puffed elixir with a Greek name remains untried. There is something saddening if not sickening in the evident success which attends the pretences to cure chronic and irremediable diseases, to effect miracles in short with the most trumpery of means and execrably silly devices. Our forefathers were imposed upon no doubt, but there was method in their madness. The 'simples' with which spae-wives and charlatans professed to cure ailments were in many cases effective and now recognised drugs, and were at the worst perfectly harmless; while the rites with which they were administered, if quite apart from the purpose, yet appealed gracefully to the imagination. Nowadays, however, the 'simples' are the patients and not the medicines! The old story. Child-like, the age cries for something that it cannot get, rejecting the good that is within reach.

In a recent number of this _Journal_ we had occasion to refer to the amazing credulity of Americans on the subject of professional 'mediums.' The worst of it is that the extent to which this has been laid bare is insignificant compared with that which really remains unexposed. The desire to work with supernatural tools in effecting the paltriest and meanest of human ends would seem to have divided a people of accredited shrewdness into the two classes of rogues and dupes. But as we have seen, we too have been singed at the same fire. There are, moreover, other, if minor superstitions in our midst that suggest the propriety of beginning the task of reformation at home. An occasional glance, for instance, at the stock advertisements of leading journals will convince any one how widespread is the infatuation that believes in spurious offers of advantageous employment. Some of these have, under our own observation, been repeated with little variation for more than twenty years; and we have no doubt that the wily advertisers are able to calculate to a fraction the number and gullibility of their dupes. We have from time to time drawn attention to swindles of this class, as well as to those tempting offers of 'Money to Lend,' which appear with equal regularity in newspaper columns. We are afraid, however, that friendly warning and experience are alike unavailing to stem the mischief. The spread of education itself would appear unable to outstrip the spread of imposture or the eager credulity that supports it; for superstition merely shifts its ground from time to time, without losing appreciably its original dominion over the human mind.

ODD MISTAKES AND MISCONCEPTIONS.

At the last Christmas race-meeting at Ellerslie, New Zealand, just as the course was being cleared for the event of the day, uproarious sounds of merriment arose behind the saddling paddock, and a number of sailors belonging to Her Majesty's ship _Sapphire_ were seen scurrying along, a stalwart blue-jacket in their midst bearing in his brawny arms the form of a woman. No screams resounded above the din created by the abductors; but nothing doubting that the capture was an unwilling one, a gallant newspaper editor and a detective, eager to aid beauty in distress, started in hot pursuit, and after a smart chase across country, overtook the miscreants. To the officer's stern demand for the instant release of their fair prisoner, the tars replied by dropping their prize, whereupon the brave rescuers, rushing forward, tenderly raised the prostrate figure. Judge, however, of their feelings of mortification upon being told by the sailors that having at the interesting game of Aunt Sally, fairly demolished the old lady's pipe, and the accustomed sixpence for the adroit achievement not being forthcoming, they had carried off the old lady in reprisal!

For a dressed-up doll to be taken for a lady seems as improbable as that a lawyer should be taken for a thief, but even that has happened--so liable are men to be led away by appearances. Daniel Webster travelling by the night-stage from Baltimore to Washington with no companion save the driver, contemplated that worthy's forbidding features with a very uneasy mind. He had nearly reasoned his suspicious fear away, when they came to the dark woods between Bladensburg and Washington, and Webster felt his courage oozing out of his finger-ends as he thought what a fitting place it was for murder. Suddenly the driver turned towards him and gruffly demanded his name. It was given. Then he wanted to know where he was going.

'To Washington; I am a senator,' said Daniel, expecting his worst thoughts were near realisation.

The driver grasped him by the hand, saying: 'How glad I am, mister, to hear that. I've been properly scared for the last hour; for when I looked at you, I felt sure you were a highwayman.'

Upon another occasion a young gentleman accosted a stately looking personage at a Washington wedding reception with: 'Good-evening; I'm delighted to see you; we have not met since we parted in Mexico.'

Ignoring the outstretched hand, the gentleman addressed said: 'I fear you have the advantage of me.'

'Why, is it possible you don't recollect me?' exclaimed the mortified young fellow. 'Certainly I was much younger when I was in Mexico with my father.'

'To tell the truth,' said the other, 'my remembrances of ever being in Mexico are very indistinct.'

'Are you not Sir Edward Thornton?' inquired the puzzled one, beginning to suspect there was a mistake somewhere; a suspicion becoming a certainty when the reply came: 'By no means; I am Judge Poland, of Vermont.'

A few nights after this rebuff, the youth happened to be at another party, and seeing the judge there, made up to him, and after a word or two about the weather, observed: 'That was an awkward blunder of mine the other evening, to take you for old Thornton!'

'And whom do you take me for now, may I ask?' was the reply.

'Why,' said he, feeling rather bewildered by the other's manner, 'you told me you were Judge Poland, of Vermont.'

'On the contrary, sir, my name is Thornton,' was the annihilating response.

The victim to this case of awkward duality was not so much to be pitied as his fellow-countryman Slimmer, who fared worse from a similar mistake that was none of his making. Slimmer, a modest young bachelor, peeping into the ladies' waiting-room at a railway station, found a pair of plump arms round his neck, a lady's head resting lovingly on his manly bosom, and half-a-dozen youngsters of nicely graduated sizes clasping his legs, tugging at his coat-tails, and crying 'Papa!' at the top of their voices. While the half-strangled victim was struggling to disentangle himself from his affectionate surroundings, a gentleman rushed into the waiting-room, took the situation in at a glance, floored the innocent Slimmer with his carpet-bag, and then sat upon him. When he came to himself he was in bed in the infirmary, a bruised and battered bachelor; and all he got for his pains was a grumbling apology from his assailant for the unfortunate mistake his wife had made. The common lot of sufferers from the mistakes of such over-hasty folk.

Jealous-minded people are particularly prone to misconceptions involving serious results. The captain of a schooner trading between San Francisco and Mexico left his wife in a tenement house in San Francisco. He had been away some twelve months, when one night as his wife was nursing the baby _of a neighbour_, the door of her room opened and she saw her husband standing looking at her. She rose to greet him; but repulsing her with an oath, he turned on his heel and was gone, leaving her to cry herself to sleep. A knock at the door awoke her. Before she could reach it, her husband was in the room, his hand at her throat. Dragging her shrieking to the window, he would have thrown her from it; but her cries had drawn a crowd in front of the house, and the unhappy woman managed to extricate herself from his strong grasp, only to feel a knife enter her flesh, and to fall senseless to the ground. The infuriated seaman made for the stairway, where he was met by a crowd of men. Threatening to shoot the first who came near him, he smashed in a door of a room, jumped through a window, and although pursued, reached the Chinese quarter, and was lost in its labyrinths. The occupant of the room through which he had dashed so unceremoniously, hearing the commotion without comprehending it, sprang out of bed and fired a shot; upon which somebody outside in the hall fired another. 'Lynch him!' was the cry; and in a very short time the guiltless occupant of the room was under a lamp-post, and would have been dangling from it but for the intervention of the people about, who assured the excited mob that the actual assailant of the woman was already beyond reach. The woman was not killed; but whether her hasty mate discovered his mistake and atoned for it, is not recorded.

Not so tragical in consequence was another instance of jumping to conclusions. A blushing damsel of forty summers or so entered the town-clerk's office at Wheeling, West Virginia, and asked for a license. The clerk took down her name and address and asked for that of 'the other party.' 'Faithful; he lives with me,' said the applicant. The clerk eyed her curiously, but keeping his thoughts to himself, filled up the paper and handed it over. The lady glanced at it, shrieked out 'Monster!' and swept out of the office, leaving the offender dumfounded at the explosion; till it flashed upon his mind that possibly a dog license, not a marriage license, was what the spinster wanted.

Equally unhappy in interpreting a lady's meaning was a timid young man of Titusville. Calling upon a pretty girl one evening, she said: 'I want to propose to you'----

'You are very kind,' gasped the alarmed visitor; 'but I am not worthy of such happiness; in fact none of our family are marrying people--besides, my income is limited, and I have to meet a friend, and I'm afraid I'll be late.' He was making his exit without waiting to put on his overcoat, through the door of a cupboard.

'Why,' said the young woman, 'I wanted to propose to you to accompany me as far as Main Street; that was all.'