The Beautiful Wretch; The Pupil of Aurelius; and The Four Macnicols

On a certain golden afternoon in August, when the sea was as still and radiant as the vaulted blue overhead, and when the earth was lying so hushed and silent that you would have thought it was listening for the chirp of the small birds among the gorse, a young girl of about seventeen or so was walking over the downs that undulate, wave on wave, from Newhaven all along the coast to Brighton.

This young lady was tall for her age; slim of form; and she had a graceful carriage; her face was fair and markedly freckled; her nose was piquant rather than classical; her hair, which was of a ruddy gold hue, was rebellious, and strayed about her ears and neck in accidental wisps and rings: her grayish or gray-blue eyes were reserved and thoughtful rather than shrewd and observant. No, she was not beautiful; but she had a face that attracted interest; and though her look was timid and retiring, nevertheless her eyes could, on occasion, light up with a sudden humour that was inclined to be sarcastic. So busy, indeed, was she generally, on these solitary wanderings of hers, with her own thoughts and fancies, that sometimes she laughed to herself-a low, quiet little laugh that none but herself could hear.

This was Miss Anne Beresford, who was called by her sisters Nan. But it was an old friend of the family, and one of England's most famous sailors, who, at a very early period of her career, had bestowed on her the sobriquet of the Beautiful Wretch; and that partly because she was a pretty and winning child, and partly because she was in the habit of saying surprisingly irreverent things. Now, all children say irreverent things, simply because they read the highest mysteries by the light of their own small experiences; but Nan Beresford's guesses at the supernatural were more than usually audacious. When, for example, she arrived at the conclusion that fairies were never seen in the daytime for the reason that God had had them all 'fwied for his bweakfast,' it was clear that she was bringing a quite independent mind to bear on the phenomena of the universe around her. And then, of course, all sorts of sayings that she never uttered or thought of were attributed to her. Whenever a story was particularly wicked, it was sure to be put down to Nan Beresford. The old Admiral, who had at the outset given her that nickname, spent a great deal of time that might have been profitably employed otherwise in deliberately inventing impieties, each of which was bruited about in certain circles as 'Nan's last;' and if you happened to meet him anywhere between the United Service Club and Spring Gardens, completely self-absorbed, his face brimming over with laughter, you might be sure he was just putting on a finishing touch. Rather than abandon one of these self-invented stories of his, I think he would have parted with any half-dozen of his crosses and medals; but indeed this last would not have been difficult, for he had served in every part of the world where a ship would float, and honours and dignities had been showered upon him.

Naturally, there came a time when these stories had to cease; but Nan Beresford preserved her independent way of looking at things, and she was clearly the clever one of the family. Moreover, with all her retiring ways, she was always quite capable of holding her own. Her elder sisters were handsome, and a good many young gentlemen, amongst others, came about the house; some of whom, thinking to be facetious, would occasionally begin to tease Miss Nan, she being the youngest admitted to lunch or afternoon tea. But this shy, freckled young person, whose eyes could laugh up so quickly, had a nimbleness of wit and dexterity of fence that usually left her antagonist exceedingly sorry. One can imagine a gay young swallow darting about in the evening, having quite satisfied himself as to food, and thinking only in his frolicsome way of chevying and frightening the innocent insect tribe. But what if, by dire mischance, he should dart at something and find he had seized-a wasp! Some of the merry young gentlemen were glad to leave the Beautiful Wretch alone.

However, all these things must now be looked upon as bygones. Seventeen has come; its dignity and seriousness have followed upon the frolics of untutored youth; and the sweet charm of maidenhood has smoothed down such angularities as were formerly permissible. If Miss Anne Beresford shows her independence now, it is mostly in a sort of half-declared contempt of sentimentalities and flirtations-of which, to be sure, she sees a good deal around her. She likes to be alone; she reads much; she has ideas; she worships Mr. Huxley; and she needs no other company than her own when she goes off on long explorations of curving shore or inland vale. On this particular afternoon, for example, she was walking all the way to Brighton from Newhaven, having already walked to the latter place in the morning; and as her light and free step carried her over the close, warm, thyme-scented turf, she was smiling to herself-at some incident, no doubt, that her memory had recalled.

Well, at this moment some one addressed her.

'Young lady!'

She had been vaguely aware that a woman was sitting there, by the side of some furze bushes; but she had kept her eyes away, being a little afraid of tramps. On being challenged, however, she turned and looked, and then she saw that this was no ordinary tramp, but an itinerant musician well known along the south coast by the name of Singing Sal. She was a good-looking, trimly-dressed, strapping wench of five-and-twenty, with a sun-tanned face, brilliant white teeth when she laughed, and big brown eyes that were at once friendly and audacious in their scrutiny. She looked indeed more like a farmer's daughter dressed for market-day; but on one side of her, on the green-sward, lay a guitar; and on the other, a little leather wallet that she had unstrapped. Apparently she had been having a nap on this warm afternoon, for she was smoothing down her black hair.

'I beg your pardon, Miss,' she said, with very great respect, but with a sort of timidly friendly look in her eyes, 'but I have often seen you as you was walking along the downs; and many's the time I have wished to have a word with you, if there was nobody by. Yes, and many's the time I have thought about you.'

Nan Beresford hesitated for a second whether she should stay or not. But she knew this young woman very well by sight; and her appearance and manner were alike extremely prepossessing. Nan had heard her sing, but never speak; and she was surprised by the correct way in which she spoke; she had scarcely anything of the Sussex intonation.

'Yes,' said Singing Sal, looking up at the young lady, 'many's the time that I have thought I should like to tell you what I've been thinking about you, as I saw you go by. I've often been thinking that if one could only see into it, the mind of a young lady like you-brought up like you in the middle of nothing but kindness and goodness-why, it must be the most beautiful thing in the world. Just like that out there-clear and silver-like.'

She nodded in the direction of the sea-where the pale blue plain was touched here and there with silver and golden reflections. Nan was embarrassed; nevertheless she remained. There was something winning about the fresh-coloured, frank-eyed lass.

'And I think I have seen a little bit into your mind, Miss,' said she, with a smile. 'Would you look at this-if I may make so bold?'

There was a bit of red silk round her neck, and attached to it was a florin. She held up the perforated coin, and glanced at the face of the young girl. Nan Beresford blushed.

'You remember, Miss? That was the night as I was singing in front of the Old Ship, though what I did that for I don't know; I prefer my own friends and my own haunts. But do you know what I said to myself when I got to my lodgings that night? I said, "What was the young lady thinking of when she gave you that florin? It wasn't an accident; for she took it carefully out of her purse. And it wasn't because she thought you were starving; for you don't look like that. No, she gave it to you that you might think it enough for one night's earnings, and go away home, and not be stared at any longer by a crowd of men. That was what the young lady was thinking in her mind; and if ever you spend that two shillings, Sal, you'll be a mean wretch." And many's the time I thought I would like to speak to ye, Miss, if only as it might be to ask your name.'

This woman was frank even to boldness in her scrutiny, and her manner was rough and ready; but there was a touch of something fine about her-something true, downright, unmistakable-that somehow won people's confidence. Nan Beresford drew nearer to her, though she remained standing.

'Is there anything--?' said Nan; and then she stopped. She was about to ask if there was anything she could do for this new acquaintance; but she suddenly reflected that the young woman was smartly dressed and apparently well-to-do. Singing Sal quickly broke in on her embarrassment.

'Yes,' she said, smiling, 'you don't like my making a show of myself-singing for coppers in the street. But isn't there worse than that among the people you live among, Miss? Mind, I see life in the rough; I can't always choose my company; and I have to take things as they come; but when I hear of very fine young ladies-mind, not poor girls driven by starvation, or forced to support a sick mother, or kicked out of doors by a drunken father-and these fine ladies going and selling themselves for so many thousands a year and a swell carriage-well, it sounds queer, I think. But I'm sure, Miss,' she said, regarding the girl, 'you won't make a marriage for money. You don't look like that.'

Again Nan Beresford flushed hastily; and she said, with a touch of anger, 'I prefer not to speak of such things. I am tired of listening to women who can talk of nothing but sweethearts and marriage. Surely there are other matters of as much importance--'

But then it occurred to her that this was scarcely civil; so she turned to this pleasant-looking stranger and said, with a grave courtesy, 'I presume you are returning to Brighton?'

'Yes, I am.'

'To remain there?'

Sal laughed in her quiet way.

'Lord love you, my dear young lady, I never saw the town yet that could hold me for more than a couple o' nights. I live in the open. This is what I like best-open sea, open sky, open downs. I do believe my forefathers were either gipsies, or else they had had a good dose o' the treadmill; for I'm never content but when I'm on the trudge-wet weather or fine, all's the same to me; but foursquare walls I can't endure.'

'I am afraid you must lead a very solitary life,' said Nan, with sincere compassion.

'Why, bless you, Miss, the world is full of things, said the other cheerfully; 'and as you tramp along there's always something turning up for you to look at. Oh, I've plenty of friends, too, for the matter of that. I bring a bit of news to the farms, and sometimes toys for the coastguardsmen's children-else the women would get jealous; and I have an eye for the mackerel-shoals, for the fishermen; and I know where the sailors are, if there's any sport going on. Yes, I have a good many friends, Miss. I can tell you it would be a bad business for any one who laid a finger on me, anywheres between Dover and Portsmouth; I think the word would be passed along pretty quick. Not that I can't take care o' myself,' added Sal with a modest smile. 'I'm not afraid to be out o' nights, when I know where my bed is; and sometimes I can do without that. Why, that is the best of all the tramps-a clear moonlight night along these downs; and you have the whole world to yourself; everything and everybody asleep, except maybe a watchdog up at one of the farms. And the ships out at sea-you can tell whether they're going up or down Channel by the red or the green light, and you think of the poor chap at the helm, and hope he'll get soon home to his wife and children. That is a real fine tramp, Miss; you want to sing almost, and yet it's too beautiful to be broken by a sound. And then there's a fortnight in the Spring when the birds come over-oh! that's wonderful. If you start about half-past two or a quarter to three, you get in amongst them; and the first thing you hear is the whistle, quick, and sharp, and yet far away, of the curlews. Then you begin to feel that they are passing overhead; you can't see anything; it is like a whisper filling all the air; the darkness is just full of wings-soft and soft; you're afraid to put up your hand in case you might hurt some poor creature at the end of its long voyage; and you listen and listen as you walk along, waiting for the gray daylight in the east, to show them where to pick up some food in the fields. Ah! Miss, if you only had the courage to rise as early as that--'

'Oh, I will-I will!' said Nan eagerly, quite forgetting what her mother might have to say about this strange acquaintance. 'But what has made you take to such a way of living? You are very well educated.'

'You are kind to say so, Miss,' remarked Singing Sal, who was evidently greatly pleased. 'But it's little education I ever got, except from two or three books I have made companions of, like. I kept my father's shop in Tunbridge until he married a second time; then it grew too hot for me, rather; and so I took to the road, and I've never regretted it. Human nature is what I like to look at; and if I may make so bold as to say it, I guess there's more human nature among the poor folk than among the rich. But I'll tell you about that some other time,' she added, returning to her ordinary free-and-easy manner. 'I see you want to go. You've looked at your watch twice.'

'But you're going to Brighton also?' said Nan, somewhat timidly.

'Not with you, Miss,' was the prompt reply. 'No, no. But perhaps, if it is not making too free, you will be so friendly as to tell me your name?'

'My name is Anne Beresford, and I live in Brunswick Terrace,' said Nan.

'Thank ye kindly, Miss,' said Singing Sal, regarding the young lady with great friendliness and respect. 'Maybe I shall see you some other day on the downs, for I think you are as fond of them as I am myself. Good-bye, Miss.'

She rose with some sense of natural courtesy. But she rather turned away, also; and she kept her hands behind her. So Nan bade her good-bye in return; and continued on her way along the lonely cliffs.

Some considerable time thereafter, when Nan Beresford was nearing Brighton, she turned and looked behind her; and she could make out, on the summit of one of the rounded undulations towards Rottingdean, the figure of a woman, whom she at once guessed to be Singing Sal. That solitary figure was impressive there-high up on the edge of the slope; the still, shining sea far below her; and all around her and illumining her, as it were, the reddening glow flooding over from the westering sun. Nan-perhaps moved by some subtle compunction, perhaps only in token of friendly remembrance-took out her handkerchief and waved it twice; but there was no response.

That same afternoon all Brighton was astir with curiosity because of a large vessel that had slowly come in from the west before an almost imperceptible breeze. She came unusually, and, as some thought, dangerously close in shore; and no doubt she looked even larger than she really was, for she had every stitch of canvas set, from her royals down to her lower studding sails, that stood out on each side like great bat's wings; while all this mass of sail was dark in shadow against the western glow.

As the spectators watched her, those among them who knew a little about nautical matters guessed that this must be a man-of-war from the rapidity with which she began to furl her sails-letting the golden light shine along between her spars; while they further concluded, from the fact that only a kedge was thrown out at her bows, that her stay in these shallow waters would be brief.

Now we must see how the advent of this stranger was regarded by the occupants of a certain drawing-room in Brunswick Terrace. These were five-a mother, son, and three daughters; and as they will all appear, more or less, in the following history, it may be as well to introduce them now and categorically to the reader.

First of all came Lady Beresford herself-an elderly, sallow-faced, weak-looking woman, the widow of a General Officer who had got his K.C.B.-ship for long service in India. She had a nervous system that she worshipped as a sort of fetish; and in turn the obliging divinity relieved her from many of the cares and troubles of this wearyful world. For how could she submit to any discomfort or privation (the family were not very well off for their station in life); or how could she receive objectionable visitors, or investigate cases of harrowing distress, or remonstrate with careless livery-stable keepers, or call to account extortionate milliners when this precious nervous system had to be considered? Lady Beresford turned away from these things and ordered round her bath-chair, and was taken out to the end of the Pier, that she might be soothed by the music and the sea air.

The eldest daughter in this drawing-room (the eldest daughter of the family was married and in India) had not much nervousness about her. She was a handsome, tall, blonde girl of the clear-cut English type, cold and even proud in manner, strict in the performance of all her duties, and not very charitable in her criticism of others. She had a good figure; she dressed well; clear health shone in her pale fair face and bright cold eyes. She was a daring horsewoman. Her brother called her 'Nails,' which was a final contraction for 'Old Hard-as-Nails.'

The next sister, Edith, that same graceless youth was in the habit of calling 'The Sentimental.' She was the darkest of the family, and the most beautiful also, where every one was more or less good-looking. She had soft brown hair, dark blue-gray eyes of the tenderest expression, and a beseeching innocent look. She was fond of music; played and sang very fairly herself; but she was most admirable as a listener. In a room filled with half-murmuring people, she alone remained mute and devoted; her chair drawn close to the piano; her form motionless. It is true her brother boldly attributed Edith's strict observance of this attitude to the fact that she knew she had a striking profile, and that in no other way could she be so well seen by the room. But then there are some people who will say anything.

In point of family order Nan Beresford came next; but, as we have seen, she was at this moment away out on the downs, marching briskly, and much pleased with herself and the world generally.

'The Baby' was the youngest of the sisters-a pretty child of fifteen; a trifle spoiled and bad-tempered, otherwise characterless enough. So now we may pass on to the personage who considered himself of chief consequence in the house-Mr. Thomas Beresford, the only son, who now stood at the window, thrumming on the panes, to the infinite annoyance of his mother. He was an exceedingly handsome boy of about eighteen, slightly built, tall, and dressed with an elaborate precision. The lad was clever enough, and good-natured enough, but he had been spoiled all his life long-first by his sisters, and then by the men who wanted to marry his sisters. He harried and worried the whole household indiscriminately, but he was especially hard upon Nan. He said Nan had a character that he wished to form. Girls wanted roughing. There was far too much flimsiness and fashionability about their social circle. In time he trusted to be able to make something out of Nan.

Well, he was thrumming contemplatively on the window-panes, watching this big dark ship come along from the west.

'Thomas, I wish you would cease that distressing noise,' said his mother, with a plaintive sigh.

He ceased his thrumming and took to whistling.

'Tom,' said the musical sister, 'I do wish you wouldn't try to pick up new airs. You can't do it. Why don't you keep to "Home, Sweet Home," or "In a Cottage near a Wood"--'

But, to give effect to this remonstrance, she had turned in her chair in which she was reading, and, in so doing, came in sight of the window, and the sea, and the new arrival there.

'Oh!' she exclaimed, 'what a beautiful large yacht!'

The youth at the window shrugged his shoulders.

'Well, you are a fool,' he said politely.

'Thank you,' she replied.

'I'll tell you what-it's a man-o'-war brig,' continued he, with an air of importance. 'And what's more, I hope the fellow knows where he's coming to. I don't see them taking any soundings; and the notion of bringing a man-o'-war in here--'

He went and got an opera-glass, and returned to the window. He would make observations; perhaps, if need were, he might put off in a small boat and offer to assist in the navigation of the ship.

'Young women,' he exclaimed, suddenly, 'a light strikes me. That's the Fly-by-night.'

'You pretend you can make out the ship's name at that distance,' said the eldest sister, with the slightest of smiles.

'Not with the glass, but by the intuition of genius,' he retorted, coolly. 'What's more, I can tell you the name of her commanding officer, Miss Nails. Which his initials are Francis Holford King.'

'King!' said his mother with but little interest. 'Oh yes; I remember.'

'And he's coming to pay you a visit; that's what's the matter,' continued the youth, still with the glass raised. 'Nails, you'd better hide that novel, and pretend you've been sewing. Beauty [this was an alternative name for the second sister], are you at the proper angle? Baby, smooth out your pinafore.'

'Thomas, I insist on your treating your sisters with more respect!' his mother said, angrily.

'Well, I should almost like to be that fellow,' continued Thomas, with perfect good-humour. 'Fancy: at five-and-twenty, commanding a ten-gun brig! He has brains, that chap; not like the others that come fooling around here. Why, old Stratherne told me all about him. They made him a Lieutenant when he was just of age.'

'With your abilities, Tom,' said his eldest sister, 'I suppose you'll be commanding one of her Majesty's ships, too, when you're five-and-twenty.'

He was not at all crushed by the sarcasm.

'My abilities,' he said, still looking through the glass, 'are, I know, remarkable; but I think, on the whole, a rich widow will be more in my line of country.'

By this time all the girls had come to the window to watch the busy scene without-the small sailing-boats and rowing-boats passing and repassing under the bows and stern of the brig, their occupants staring at the guns in the open ports or listening to the fiddling on the forecastle, where the men were dancing. But the interest of the Beresfords was concentrated rather on the gig that waited below, at the foot of the accommodation-ladder, with five blue-jackets in her. They saw an officer descend and step into the stern of the gig; then she was shoved off, and simultaneously the oars struck the water. In a very few minutes the bow of the boat was run up on the beach, the gangboard put out, and then the officer stepped ashore.

'Oh, my! ain't we resplendent?' remarked the brother of the girls, apparently to himself. 'But it will be mortally awkward, young sir, if your ship should get aground, with the tide ebbing. Lawks-a-mussy! a court-martial. Even your first-class certificates, and Sir George Stratherne, and all the Lords put together, couldn't get you out of that. And, then, the ignominy of it! Question: What on earth made you take the Fly-by-Night in to Brighton? Answer: Please, sir-ax yer pardon, sir!-I only wanted to spoon one o' them doosid pretty Beresford girls.'

'Thomas, leave the room!' said his mother, in a violent rage.

Thomas could not help it; he had to go. But he said as he passed by her,

'Take care, mother; you are involving yourself in something serious. Her Majesty's brig Fly-by-Night will be aground in about two twinkles!'

A few minutes later Lady Beresford was handed a card, inscribed 'Lieutenant Francis Holford King, R.N.;' and shortly thereafter the owner of the card presented himself in the drawing-room. Now, there can be no doubt that her Majesty's uniform, especially when women-folk are the spectators, lends a certain dignity to the human figure; but, even in ordinary dress, this new-comer would have seemed to most a manly-looking, well-built young fellow, who had some decision in his face, and a very straightforward way of looking at people. He was of middle height, slight and square-shouldered; his forehead square; his hair black, likewise the short moustache twisted at the ends; while his eyes were of that singularly dark and luminous blue that one never sees, oddly enough, except in the eyes of sailors. However, there was nothing of the robustious, shiver-my-timbers, conventional sailor about him; his manner was somewhat reserved; he had a touch of gravity beyond his years; perhaps he had acquired it through being put at an early age in command of so many men; but it never forsook him-not even in the ward-room, among his brother officers.

He seemed shy, also. When he had shaken hands with Lady Beresford and her daughters, and sat down, there was a distinct flush on the sun-brown face, and he proceeded to say, hastily,

'I-I heard you had come down here at the end of the season, Lady Beresford-Admiral Stratherne told me-and I had a telegram to send off; so I thought I might take the chance of finding you not gone abroad yet.'

'I am not going abroad this year,' Lady Beresford said, wearily. 'Really my nerves cannot stand the perpetual fatigue and worry of the railway stations and hotels. But the girls are going-by themselves. It is becoming quite common now. They don't want even to have a maid with them; and really I am ashamed of the attention I require--'

'Nan is going with us too,' said Miss Beresford, staring into the fireplace, where there was no fire.

'Oh! indeed,' said the grave young lieutenant.

'She has never been abroad before. Won't her eyes grow big! She has a great capacity for wonder and admiration; she will do all our reverence for us at the proper shrines.'

'You have seen Sir George recently, then?' said Lady Beresford.

'At Portsmouth last week. They were all down from the Admiralty.'

'What a dear old gentleman he is!' she said.

'He is the finest sailor and the best-hearted gentleman in her Majesty's service-and that's not saying a small thing,' was the answer, prompt and straight.

'You are a great pet of his,' said Miss Beresford, 'are you not?'

'He has been a very good friend to me. But you needn't imagine it is because of that I respect him-that I more than respect him-I love him.'

There was a touch of earnestness in his voice and in the simplicity of the phrase, that made Miss Beresford regard him for a second with almost wondering eyes. She had never seen, for her part, anything about Sir George Stratherne to be enthusiastic about.

However, she had to continue the conversation unaided, for her mother was too languid. Beauty had got into an effective position, and was content to be silent, while the Baby was useless. So she said with a smile,

'I hope Sir George won't have to find fault with you for bringing your ship into these shallow waters. Tom-my brother Tom, you know-is very anxious about it. I think he would like to give you his advice.'

'I should be glad to have it,' said Lieutenant King, with befitting gravity, 'but I do not think we are in any great danger. And how is your brother?'

'Oh, very well; I mean very ill. Worse than ever. I wish you could take him with you for a cruise or two.'

'As they used to take a cask of raw Madeira,' said he, laughing heartily, 'to fine down? Well, you're right about one thing; there's some good stuff in the lad. He might fine down to something good. But he is not in proper guidance.'

'He is in no guidance at all,' sighed his mother.

'Is he going abroad with you?'

'Not he,' said Miss Beresford. 'He wouldn't be bothered with us girls. He will see us as far as Newhaven, perhaps, and make brutal jokes all the way about the Channel.'

'You are going soon, then?' said he. Somehow there was a kind of constraint about this young lieutenant's manner. He seemed to be thinking of something or some one else. His remarks and questions were of the most conventional sort.

'On the 1st of September I think we shall be ready to start.'

'And are you going far?' he said, in the same preoccupied way.

'To Lucerne, first, I imagine; and then over the Splügen, when it is cool enough to go into Italy.'

'Oh, indeed!' said he. And then he added, after a pause, 'Oh, indeed!'

Then he rose.

'I see my man has got back,' he said. 'I am sorry, Lady Beresford, I cannot ask you to bring your daughters to look over the ship; we must be off directly. Some other time, perhaps. It would give me very great pleasure, indeed. I hope, Miss Beresford, you will have a pleasant journey. I have been thinking of going abroad myself this autumn if I can get sufficient leave. Will you remember me to your brother Tom?'

He bade them good-bye, and left. They were silent until they saw him cross over the King's Road. Then the business of criticism began.

'He doesn't talk like a sailor at all,' said the Baby, with a pout.

'He talks just like anybody.'

'At all events he is very good-looking,' said Beauty, warmly. 'He has the loveliest eyes I ever saw in a man. And his hands-did you notice his gloves?'

'A sailor shouldn't wear gloves,' said the Baby, who had not seen Lieutenant King before, but had heard of him, and was disappointed that he did not correspond to the nautical heroes she had read of.

'I think gold lace is far better on blue than on scarlet,' said Beauty.

'I think blue and gold looks better than anything in a ball-room.'

'He didn't tell us a single wonderful story,' said the disappointed

Baby.

But Mary Beresford's comment was more odd still. She glanced at her mother, and laughed. 'Mother, he didn't even once mention Nan's name.'

Nevertheless, Lieutenant King was quite as well acquainted with Nan Beresford as he was with the other members of the family-and this was how he came to know her. The Beresfords had for many years been the intimate friends of the Strathernes; and though they saw less of each other since Lady Beresford, on becoming a widow, had gone to live permanently in Brighton, still the London season brought them in a measure together again.

Lady Beresford took rooms in Bruton Street during the fashionable months of the year for herself and her grown-up daughters; and from time to time, and as a great treat, Nan was allowed to come up for a few days from Brighton. On these rare occasions, if Sir George heard of the Beautiful Wretch being in town, nothing would do but that she should come with her mother and sisters to lunch in Spring Gardens-he being at this time Senior Naval Lord. And Nan was rejoiced. She was not at all a foolish young virgin; she was well aware of the affection the old Admiral had for her; and while she heartily reciprocated it, she knew that his special patronage of her gave her a sort of distinction among her sisters.

Well, one of these opportunities arrived, and Nan, not a little elated, but outwardly very demure, drove away with her mother and sisters, in a hired brougham, to New Street. In due course they arrived at their destination, and they had just got inside the door when, as chance would have it, Sir George himself came from the dining-room into the hall. He was a wiry-looking, handsome, elderly man, with grizzled hair, a firm face, and the kindliest of gray eyes; while on this occasion he was very gorgeously attired, for he had already dressed for a Levee, and, moreover, it was a Collar Day. It was extraordinary to see how naturally Nan went up to him, taking it for granted he would scarcely have a word for anybody else. And he hadn't. Of course he shook hands with Lady Beresford and Mary and Edith, and welcomed them in a kind of way; but it was Nan that he seized with both hands; and it was Nan that he himself escorted upstairs to the drawing-room; and it was Nan that he presented to Lady Stratherne, just as if there was nobody else in the world. Lady Stratherne, though she was also a miracle of kindness, knew her duties better, and busied herself with the others, leaving those two to themselves.

'Well, now,' said the old sailor, briskly, 'what is our first dance to be?'

'I beg your pardon, Sir George?' she said.

'Why, don't you know, girl, that you're coming to the ball?'

'What ball, Sir George?' said she, quite innocently.

What ball, indeed! And she had heard her sisters speak of nothing else for a fortnight.

'Why, my ball; our ball, everybody's ball! Why, don't you know that the world is going to stand still on Thursday night-in amazement. And if you didn't know, now you know; and that's the ball you're coming to, as sure as my name is Jack Horner-now, now, I've set my mind on it--'

Nan was no longer a hypocrite. Her heart began to beat rapidly-not with joy, but with fright.

'Oh, Sir George, I-I never was at a ball-I-I never go out-mamma would never dream--'

He turned and sung across the room-

'Mother!'

The lady who was addressed in this homely fashion was herself far from homely: she was a distinguished-looking woman, with pale, refined features, and a singularly intelligent and sweet expression.

'Mother, this girl is coming to the ball on Thursday, whether she likes it or not. I want a partner; I insist on having a partner. Get a card and invite her-a card all to herself-her name in capital letters-the honour of the company of the BEAUTIFUL WRETCH: will that do?'

Lady Stratherne said nothing at all, but regarded the other mother with a sort of puzzled smile.

'Oh, Sir George!' Lady Beresford protested, 'it is impossible. Thank you very much-but it is impossible--'

'Impossible!' he cried. 'We don't know what that is at the Admiralty. The men who write in the newspapers expect us to be able to do everything at a moment's notice; and of course they're right; and so of course we can do it. And so can you; the end of the argument being that Nan is coming to our ball on Thursday night, as I'm a living Dutchman.'

But the matter was not so easily settled. There was a fierce fight. It was ridiculous that a school-girl, who ought to be walking two and two along the Marine Parade, should go to one of the big balls of the London season. How could a ball-dress be got ready by Thursday night? And so forth: and so forth. Sir George paid no attention to all this firing of cotton pellets. She was coming to the ball on Thursday night, he maintained with a dogged obstinacy worthy of Nelson. And the end of it was that before they went down to lunch it had been finally agreed that Nan was to come to this ball; her mother remarking to Lady Stratherne, with a sigh of resignation-

'I can't imagine what Sir George sees in that gawky child.'

Now, we have it on the best authority-or what ought to be the best authority-that is to say, we have it from a multitude of lady-writers, that the prospect of going to a first ball is one of the great joys of a young girl's life. The present writer, at all events, is not bold enough to impeach such an array of witnesses, and will only state the simple fact that in the case of Nan Beresford this prospect filled her mind with nothing but terror and dismay. It was in all sincerity that she had besought Sir George to let her off; though she might as well have gone down on her knees to the Monument. He could not understand why a young girl of seventeen should be really reluctant to go to a dance-and a very pretty dance, too, for the rooms were to be decorated with flags. And when Nan told her mother and sisters that she would far rather not go to the ball, her mother fancied she was afraid that her dress, being hurriedly made, would not compare well with her sisters' long studied costumes, while the sisters simply said to each other, 'Oh, she knows she can't dance.'

There was some little truth in this last remark. Although she lived in a well-frequented house, where there were plenty of people coming and going, Nan had grown up very much apart. She had her own ways and occupations, which were mostly solitary. And dancing had never been a favourite amusement of hers. Of course, in the evening, when some young people were present, there was frequently a carpet-dance improvised; and then sometimes Nan was dragged in to make up a set at some square dance. She got through it mechanically; but it afforded her no special pleasure; and as for round dances, she said they made her giddy, and so she got excused. Giddy she said; and yet she could walk, without the slightest sensation in the brain, along the extreme verge of those high chalk-cliffs, to watch the jackdaws, and hawks, and gulls at nest-building time, and she could swing for an hour in a trapeze, so long as the seat was comfortable and you gave her a book to read.

Not that she at all played the part of Cinderella in the house. Her mother was exceedingly fond of her-partly, perhaps, because Nan alone took the trouble to humour all her mysterious nerve-miseries; while her sisters tolerated her, though they thought her unsocial. Even this dress, when it did appear-and a thousand times Nan had inwardly prayed that it might not be ready in time-was quite as pretty as theirs. It was very pretty indeed; but somehow, Nan, as she regarded herself in the big mirror, convinced herself that there was not enough of her to carry off a ball-dress. Her sisters had a certain 'presence' that a grand costume became. She thought she was too thin-that she looked more like a school-girl than ever; and she wished that she were not freckled. When, at last, she was in the carriage with the others-Mr. Thomas had gone in a hansom rather than ride with the coachman-she said, cunningly,

'Mamma, dear, I am sure you will be excited with speaking to so many old friends; and you know your nerves cannot stand it. Let me sit by you, and take as much of the talk as I can. I really don't care to dance. I would rather not dance. I would far rather sit by you, mamma. And I am sure it is not necessary for us to stay long; it will do you such a deal of harm.'

Lady Beresford sighed.

'When one has grown-up daughters--,' she said almost to herself.

'Mamma, dear,' said Nan, eagerly, 'would you rather stay at home?

Wouldn't you rather stay at home? and I will keep you company--'

'Don't be silly, child,' said her eldest sister. 'Do you think your dress cost nothing?'

The worst time of all was the waiting in Spring Gardens, where there was a block of carriages. It was all darkness, and expectation, and the hopeless sense that, being imprisoned in this slowly moving line, there was no escape. But when they were once at the entrance, and when Nan got a glimpse at the hall, her courage revived wonderfully. There was such a crowd of people-coming, going, waiting, looking for friends, and arranging dresses-that she felt that she could slip into this self-interested throng, and be lost from observation altogether. She began to be forgetful of herself. When they were going up the stairs she heard names after names announced that she was quite familiar with-either through the newspapers or through the conversation at luncheon-tables; and she was almost anxious to get quickly up to have a glimpse at these celebrated people. When she got to the landing, she did not see Lady Stratherne at all; for her eyes were filled with wonder at the blaze of light and colour beyond-the draperies of flags, and masses of chandeliers-and she said, under her breath, 'Oh, mamma, isn't it beautiful!' The next thing she heard was 'Nan, dear, how well you are looking! What beautiful forget-me-nots!' and in a startled way she found that she was shaking hands with Lady Stratherne, whose kind eyes were regarding her with a momentary approval. Instinctively, however, she knew from the way that her hostess's eyes had turned to the next comers-there were far too many loiterers about this landing, and Lady Stratherne had enough to do to prevent a dead block on the stairs-that she need not stay to speak; so she followed her mother and sisters into the large, brilliantly-lit room. Oh, how glad she was that it was crammed with this dense busily-occupied crowd! She felt quite safe; she felt happy; she was pleased that those few forget-me-nots looked nice. And there was no dancing at all. 'Oh, mamma, tell me who all the people are,' she said. She began to consider herself quite at home in the middle of such a crowd of strangers; she had only to be delighted with the blaze of colour, the brilliant costumes, the scent of flowers, the wonders of diamonds.

Momentarily her great good fortune increased. Friends of Lady Beresford began to come round her; and they made a sort of circle, as it were; and Nan found she could keep herself just a little bit outside of it, seeing everything, herself unseen. Her cup of happiness was full. She had passed the ordeal unscathed. Why, it was nothing! All the people were engaged with themselves; there was not a sound of music; nothing but a hum of talking, and always that bewildering glow of light and colour, and here and there a figure and face suddenly revealing to her somebody she recognised from photographs and portraits in the illustrated papers. She was becoming quite lost to herself. She could have stood there for ever. She was not thinking of Nan Beresford at all when--

When suddenly there was a long low growl from a violoncello. Her heart sank.

Almost at the same moment she saw another little group-of elderly men, mostly-open out at one corner of the room near her; and the next thing she knew was that Sir George's keen eyes had caught sight of her. He was by her side in a second.

'What,' said he, 'standing all alone? Why, where's Charley? What's Charley about? Lady Beresford, how are you? Ah, Mary? Edith, you are lovelier every day. But where is that rascal Charley? I must find a partner for my sweet-heart--'

'Oh, please, Sir George,' said Nan, with her heart beating fast.

But by this time there was a noise of preparatory music, and in the middle of the crowd there was something visible like the formation of a double line. At the same instant young Charley Stratherne came hurriedly along, with an eagle eye for possible partners. Him his father instantly seized.

'Where's Frank King? Go and get Frank King. I want Frank King.'

And behold, Frank King was at his elbow!

'Sir George--?'

'Oh, that's you, Frank King. Ask this young lady if she will dance with you--'

'Come on, Frank,' said the youthful M.C., in his hurried bewilderment of duty. 'You'll just do. Let me introduce you to Miss Anne Beresford. Lieutenant King. They want a couple at the other end.'

So he disappeared in the crowd; and Nan found herself in the possession of this young naval officer, who seemed to take matters very coolly, considering that they were wanted right at the top of the spacious assembly-room. Happily, she heard from the music that it was the Lancers that was about to begin; so she was not entirely dismayed.

'I suppose we shall get through somehow,' said he, surveying the close mass of people with the eye of a strategist. The clearing of the space in the middle had naturally made the surrounding crowd denser.

'I think it will be difficult,' said she, timidly.

'Well, we can try this end,' said he, about to lead her in that direction.

'Oh!' she said, very earnestly, 'I am sure we shall only embarrass them if we have another set at this end. And-and-I am not anxious to dance the Lancers. I would as soon not,' she said.

Then for the first time it seemed that he turned towards her; and as she happened to be looking up at him to impress on him that she would as soon not dance, she instantaneously lowered her eyes and sought refuge in the little scented programme.

'Perhaps,' said he, after the fifteenth part of a second, 'perhaps you would give me a dance that you like better.'

Her innocent answer was to hand him her programme, upon which there was as yet not a scrap of writing. So, when that matter was arranged, he said to her,

'Would you like to see this dance, then? It's very pretty, when you are at a little distance. And I know how to get to that recess there; it's raised a few inches, you know; and I think you could see.'

'Oh! I should like that!' she said. How grateful she was to him!

They made their way to this side recess, which had been built out, temporarily, from the drawing-room, for the sake of additional space. It was decorated with trailing-plants, trained on trellis-work; and two or three circles of red candles, amid so much green foliage, had a pretty effect. There were a few people standing about and looking on at the dancing, or talking; it was possible to talk, for here the music was softened.

Nan's companion led her to a raised bench, from which she could see very well; but even as she sat down, and while she was so glad to have been relieved from dancing out there amid all those people, she was touched by some strange misgivings. It was her duty to have danced. She had been presented with a partner; and if only she had not shown herself reluctant, she knew very well he could have found places for them. Were not officers always fond of dancing? And then it suddenly occurred to her that she ought to try to make him some amends. She ought to entertain him with brilliant conversation, as it were. Meanwhile, what was he doing? Not thinking of her-except as a booby, a child who could not talk. No doubt he was looking out at all those beautiful women there, and wishing he was not imprisoned in this corner.

Nan timidly raised her eyes, and instantly dropped them again. He had been for the moment looking at the forget-me-nots in her hair.