CHAPTER XII.

MR FORSTER AND MR EDGAR WADE ENTER THE LAND OF

DREAMS.

WHILE Mr Tom Forster, with his red bandana neatly wrapped about his head, was pursuing his profession in the land of dreams, Edgar Wade, carefully dressing himself, pulling on clean boots, washing his face, and arranging his hair, was preparing for a midnight visit. As he looked in the glass, the mirror reflected a handsome, very intellectual face, but with the traces of passion, hard work, and study by far too apparent on it. A good rough huckaback towel-the Turkish appliances not being yet introduced-produced a momentary irritation and colour; and the young lawyer seemed apparently satisfied with his scrutiny. Locking up Old Forster's cheque, he took out four fifty pound notes from another drawer, and looking for an instant into the sick room, prepared himself for his journey.

Madame Wade was still in the same unconscious state. The night-light in the fireplace-a tall tallow rushlight, in a tin cylinder pierced with many holes-threw its chequered shade on the floor of the room, lighting the ceiling with a dim unearthly light, and falling upon the nodding head of a French Sister of Charity, who was half asleep when the door opened, but whose hands fell mechanically to counting her beads when she was aware of the presence of another. Mrs Wade was of the old faith-that of her country-and the Sister of Charity, a strange sight in any English sick-room, gave a foreign tone to the apartment, which the white hangings of the bed, and the Parisian, heavy, but scanty furniture carried

out.

Edgar's lips moved mechanically, as he said

"Any change, Sister Agatha ?"

"No, monsieur." (This was said in a pure French accent.) "If the good God would permit, madame would be better in the morning."

Sister Agatha devoutly crossed herself at the holy name.

"Good night. At six o'clock, then, I will look in again. My poor mother!"

Edgar seemed to ring the words from his heart, they were spoken so slowly and so softly.

He was away in an instant. Softly down the stone stairs, softly past the closed door of the dreaming old man, softly to the bolted door which led into the stables belonging to the house. Once in these, to light a lamp, dipping a phosphorous match in a little bottle for the purpose, and to saddle a stout and shapely cob, which whinnied as he approached it, was to Edgar Wade-who was quite used to that sort of work, and whose only luxury, to all appearance at least, was this horse, and rare and far between gallops in the park-but the work of a few moments. Putting on the bridle deftly, pulling tight the girths, and arranging the stirrups so that they should not click and ring, Edgar led his horse out of the stable into the mews, shut the door softly, and was soon far away with a stretching gallop to St John's Wood.

St John's Wood and Park Village East, London, have still a rural and secluded look, as if built for innocent and Paradisaic inhabitants who knew nothing of the trouble of this world, and who preferred the sweet simplicity of a semi-rural and suburban life to the bustle and noisy security of the towns. The houses are detached-very much detached, indeed-each, for the most part, standing within its own grounds, which are about a quarter of an acre to half an acre in extent. A ground floor and a first floor are all that they boast; and a cozy little hall in close, too close, proximity with the kitchen, leads to a drawing-room with folding doors on one side, and a pretty little dining room on the other. Eccentric artists as the architects of these villages-happy villages-have been, they were not more eccentric than the owners who have baptized the houses. Whether they went through that solemn operation by throwing a paint brush at the pillars, and then dipping by hazard into the dictionary or "Court Guide" for names, is not known; but certain it is that Gloucester Lodges, Raby Villas, Sussex Houses, and Montmorency Places are to be there found. As Marvell says of King Charles I., when executed, "He nothing common did," so the builders gave no common

names to these pretty, secluded little villas, fit only for young brides in the very earliest and sweetest hours of the honeymoon. When baby makes his appearance, and the nurse and her companions march in-at which time wicked people always declare that the happiness of a married man marches out—then Raby Villa grows too small for its occupant. The humble Smith who inhabits it finds that he can hear too much and see too little of his wife; and he ends by taking a bigger house somewhat nearer town. Of late years, although the town has grown up to these rural retreats, and the noise of the morning omnibus is heard, as well as the shriek of the underground railway, where the blackbird whistled and the robin sang, these places have lost less of their rurality than any other part of London. The apple trees are grown somewhat older and bear less, the green is somewhat smokier, and the brides and babies have alike left the neighbourhoods for other habitations.

The hoofs of Edgar's horse soon ceased to ring on the granite road, and he trotted much more pleasantly over gravel and powdered flints for some quarter of an hour; when, up at the farthest end of a grove, that was then a grove, and trotting over a bridge of the very canal that at a distance ran by poor Madame Martin's deserted home, he stopped at a little house in its courtyard, and, opening the gate, led his horse in. The servant who took the horse and tethered him under an arbour, giving him some pieces of bread rather than corn, seemed to be quite familiar with the barrister.

"Your mistress is within ?" was Edgar's question, put almost dogmatically, as if no chance in the world could permit her to be out.

"Oh yes, sir-has returned from the opera about half an hour."

So saying, the door was gently opened, and Edgar Wade ushered into the drawing-room. When there, the soft light of some wax candles and a French lamp fell upon him, the soft strain of a melodious voice, the delicious perfume of flowers, and even of wines, and the whole aroma of that atmosphere which surrounds one whom we love-love deeply, and with all the intensity of a strong nature.

As he stood looking at the beautiful creature from whom the song came, Edgar Wade stretched out his arms, more like a Frenchman than an Englishman, and cried—

"O Natalie! O my heart's love! how I do love you!"

Upon which, Mdlle. Natalie, of the King's Theatre in the Haymarket, known as the Opera House, twirled round on her music stool, and said coolly

66

Est-ce-que vous avez fait tout le chemin à pied?"

"No! I rode-rode as fast as a good horse could carry me." "Then why were you not here before, sir? You must not run two hares at the time. Do you love some one else, like your other rich milords English?”

"Natalie," said Edgar, "you know I love you and you alone. Come with me, my bird, to a softer clime. to-morrow, Natalie, if you will accept me. say the word.”

I will marry you You have only to

"Which I do not say," replied Natalie, adjusting her loose Indian wrapper, and sinking down on a luxurious couch covered with a tiger skin. "Where is my maid? She shall comb my hair while you talk. She knows not the English."

With a subtle knowledge of the young man who bent before her without any return for his love; with one or two mechanical little moues which she made at him instead of giving him kisses -this young Delilah threw herself upon the couch in beautiful and artistic positions, now revealing the beauty of an arm, now of her neck or hair, in a way at once theatrical and provoking, but which made the honest English heart of Edgar Wade dilate and throb with love. Oh! if he could but have seen how cold the little heart in that fair form was, how the brain calculated every word the mouth uttered, and how the "glorious abandon of the French artiste," as the enthusiastic reporters of the opera said, were but motions of a puppet, mechanically taught and as mechanically remembered! Oh! if he could but have seen this, he would have hated himself for his love.

When the maid came in, and prepared-also in an artistic way, for she was used to such scenes-to smooth the glossy black tresses of her mistress, Edgar, with the same respect for the little lady that he would have shown to a duchess, drew a

chair near, and taking one little hand in his own, said softly

"And has my little bird grown tired of her nest?"

"England is very triste," said Mdlle. Natalie, with a sigh.

Indeed, she found it so, for Natalie Fifine had come from Paris, where she, by her united accomplishments, charmed that gay and volatile people. And she missed her little réunions of singers, dancers, actors, authors, and artistes, which she held on Sundays and high days and holidays, which were plentiful enough to people of her profession.

"We are indeed tristes," said Edgar. "We are a melancholy and sombre people. O Natalie, I would go anywhere with you, were I rich enough!"

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'English milords are always rich," said the operatic artiste, with a hungry look towards him, "but not always generous or gracious. Now, our countrymen know our value."

A little hypocrite! Here was a young fellow who had thrown his fortune at her feet, who had furnished the little nest which held her whom he loved, "regardless of expense," as the upholsterer in Wigmore Street, who had fitted it up under his directions, well said. Gilding and mirrors, soft carpets, easy couches and chairs filled the house, and if the space had been larger, would have swallowed up a fortune. All that Edgar had, he had lavished on his love. He might as well have thrown his money into the sea. Always exigeante and pretensieuse, Natalie Fifine had marched into the country of her natural enemies, the English, with the virtuous determination of accepting everything and giving nothing.

"Did you bring me that bracelet, monsieur, which I admired? I want something handsome for my new part. I have nothing to adorn me."

"Except your beauty, Natalie."

"You cold English! You do not understand beauty, nor art, nor anything. The director of your opera gives me but very small parts. I have a trouble to distinguish myself."

"Your grace, your voice, my Natalie, distinguish you anywhere, if you were in the greatest court in the world."

"I should very much like to be an English miladi-a coun