Our Bonnie

Introduction

Oakburne, Herbert. "Our Bonnie." Utopia: A Mutual Improvement Magazine and Monthly Review 1.2-6 (1881): 29-31, 47-50, 62-66, 81-84, 96-102. Print.

Little is known of author Herbert Oakburne, who wrote “Our Bonnie” through serial publications in issues 2-6 of Utopia: A Mutual Improvement Magazine and Monthly Review. And although the editors explicitly state that they gear the content of this journal for young male readers, Oakburne begins “Our Bonnie” with a preface about how there is “sentiment and sentiment” in this “romance.” Not only does this seem uncharacteristic for a magazine directed to boys, but a simple glance through the other selections published in this monthly proves its uniqueness for this magazine.

However, at the conclusion of this story, Oakburne explains, for his young male readers, the purpose of such “sentiment.” He says he writes a romantic story to demonstrate the fallacy of entertaining flirtatious pursuits. “For if a fellow is to make headway in his profession, he must leave love-making until he is in a position to spare plenty of time for it.” Not only does Oakburne encourage seeking “honour and fame in some one profession” over “frivolous and thoughtless” romantic engagements, he relates finding love in his story to finding death.

Transcription

"Our Bonnie."

(See PDF Version, Chapters I-V)

(See PDF Version, Chapters VI-X)

OUR BONNIE.

A ROMANCE BY HERBERT OAKBURNE.

—————

CHAPTER I.

SIMPLY INTRODUCES THE READER.

WHERE will you find a work of fiction that has not some touch of sentiment in it? My story, dear reader, does not in the least differ from others in this respect; but, whilst I warn you of this fact, I would impress upon your mind that there is sentiment and sentiment, and that whether good or bad, it has a place in the history of human individuals, and must therefore bear recording in a sketch of life.

• * * * * * * * * *

It was a funny little letter and had faded with age. She was reading it to him as they sat in the boat, and he was resting the oars to listen. Now and then a playful smile passed across his brow as he caught the meaning of each sentence. My dear Ethel, --I send you a doll, with my love, and wish you a happy birthday. Mamma says I can come and help you nurse it tomorrow. I have got on trousers now, and shall be a man soon. When I am a man I will come and see you lots of times. It is very hot to-day, and we have got some kittens,--I mean our pussy has. She sends her love. Ask your papa to let you come and see them.

Your loving Bonnie.

P.S.—You ought to see my trousers.

“How very like me it must have been!” he says, as his companion ends, “Please allow me to look at the wonderful epistle.”

“Can I trust you?”

“Certainly, but you surely do not wish to keep it?”

How can she speak her mind, for, though he is altered since his childhood’s day, yet she feels that she can love none other. Blushing she gives it him to read, and watches with wonder the shadow of sorrow that seems to pass over his face as he hands back the cherished note.

Then in silence he pulls for a little cove, where there is a private pathway and gate, and they disembark.

• * * * * * * * * *

Ethel Berrington was the only daughter of a wealthy merchant, and had known our hero from infancy. Boniface Douglas had lost his parents when he was about fifteen years of age, and ever since that time had been under the care of an aunt, who, whilst she kept him well provided with the needful, petted him more than he liked; for Bonnie, as we all called him, grew ashamed and tired of his aged relative’s peculiar guardianship, and one day, in reply to one of her teasing interrogations, informed her that he would sooner work for his living than endure misery beneath her roof.

Startled at her nephew’s unusual reply, Mrs. Douglas retired to think the matter over, and strange to say—we never guessed the reason at the time, but now it is revealed, as the reader shall see ere our story ends—sent Bonnie word that he might go and leave her, as she could not put up with “boys” at her house.

Of course we comforted him as best we could, but he laughed the matter off, and said he meant to live by literature and nothing else. Many an article on sports and pastimes, travels and adventures, had “B.D.” taken credit for in the Rusleton Mercury, and many a guinea had gone into his pocket thereby; and so now he thought, if he could amuse a few country farmers’ sons and daughters with his productions, he would certainly astonish the world by his careful survey of things in general, and his notes on men and things in particular. And in order to do this he resolved to go to London. “Why,” said I, when he came running into my private office to break the news, “why throw up all your prospects of honour and wealth, to seek an adventurous life in a profession of which you have hardly any experience?” “I can’t help it,” he replied, “it’s simply ridiculous, my dear fellow. Old Berrington still wants me to marry his daughter, and I don’t care about telling him bluntly that I won’t; and out of friendship for the family I am obliged to visit them occasionally, when, as you know, they always manage to leave me alone with Ethel—only just now I have been invited to go up the river with them, and refused on the plea of not feeling well.”

“But I thought it was a settled thing about you and—“

“And Miss Berrington? Yes, it was my father’s wish, but, but—my dear boy, there are times when one can’t accede to one’s father’s wishes even.”

“Then you find yourself unable to please the old lady, your aunt?”

“Yes, I must confess, I have been a little hasty, but what ordinary mortal is there who will bear the amount of worry, not intentional, I admit, which I have borne.”

“Poor fellow!” I ejaculated sarcastically.

“Well, really, my dear sir, cannot you see it? Here am I wish a tolerable share of brains and common sense doing really nothing but hanging on an old relation, enduring her eccentricities, and spending her money. And then I have a timber merchant, through my late father, on the one hand, and a tallow factor, through my aunt, on the other, each seeking to obtain my person as a sacrifice to their daughters. Anyone would suppose me to be a very marriageable person, but you know the old adage about “Between two Stools?”

How I laughed at him to be sure, and advised him to stay, and make it up with his aunt; reminded him of the extensive fortune he would drop in for; bid him not forget our private club; and, finally, exhorted him, if he really left us, to take good care of himself.

And so Boniface Douglas was going to say farewell to Rusleton for a time; but he promised he would often write to me, as indeed he did; and when time knew him no more, I was enabled to gather together the facts I am about to relate, which formed the romance of his life.

• * * * * * * * * *

It was the morning of his departure. A glorious sun shone brightly in the morning sky, and caused our hero to tumble out of bed more quickly than usual. He could not have slept longer had he wished, for something seemed to urge him to go abroad and study the beauties of nature. Why should he wander in the meadows by the river side . . . . his heart felt sick and weary . . . . he almost wished he were not going . . . . what object had he here . . . . his eye brightens . . . . what does he see? . . . .A fair white-clad form meets him by the stile, and the touching manner in which both figures linger ere they say “adieu,” makes us feel that there is some sentiment at the bottom of his heart. It is only a lover’s parting. Let us smile and turn aside. Ah, youth! With your vain fickle dreams of love, has not one great soul warned you, who wrote:--

All your aim is woman to win,

This is the way that boys begin,

Wait till you come to forty year!

This is the first time we see the fair white form. I cannot promise you it is the last.

• * * * * * * * * *

That evening Bonnie was walking gloomily along Oxford Street knowing none in the big city who would help him to reach the summit of his desires, and hardly caring where he went.

Let us leave him for a while, as memorials of the past rise before us through all the dull years of toil and expectations. Bonnie we called our boy, is he not our Bonnie still? Times have changed, faces have altered, hearts have grown cold, and voices weakened; still he lives as it were in a picture, and shining out of the mist of bye-gone times is that peaceful face, gentle and true, as it had well nigh always been.

Oh, London, with your hundreds and thousands of busy anxious mortals! When shall the day dawn when your streets shall be even like unto the streets of a Fair New City wherein is nothing that worketh abomination or maketh a lie?

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CHAPTER II.

MRS. DOUGLAS’ DECISION.

LAWYER Wormage was a shrewd man. All Rustleton said so. And whatever Rustleton said was sure to be right. It was now three months since Bonnie’s departure and I had not heard a word of or from him. It seems, however, that Jonas Wormage, Esq. knew more than some other people. We are privileged to take a peep at a scene in Laurel Villa, the residence of Mrs. Douglas. Time, 11 a.m. Dramatis personæ: Mrs. Douglas, aunt of Boniface; J. Wormage, Esq., family solicitor. Wormage loquitur.

“Well, you know madam, as I said before, I should only advise you for the best. Mr. Douglas is young and foolish, he has not learned what life is yet, and ahem!—when he has been a little longer in exile—ahem! if I may so speak, madam, he will begin to wish the return, and you will again begin to find your—ahem!—Hospitality besieged.”

“Yes,” says the lady, “but don’t you think it would be well to give him the opportunity of returning at once? I myself now——”

“By no means, madam, it would be doing an injury to your own position as well as completely spoiling his nature. Let him have his fit out; let him learn to sigh for the comfort of a home—ahem!—like this. Besides, you forget, my dear madam, that he is adverse to all your kind arrangements for his future, and you cannot bring him back without encouraging his willfulness. Pardon me for speaking so plainly, but I feel, as the old—ahem!—friend and adviser of your noble—I think I may say noble—family, that in order to act my part—ahem!—honestly and thoroughly, I must keep you informed of all that goes on.”

“Certainly, Mr. Wormage, you do quite right, but I would like to know if you are absolutely certain about what you told me of Mr. Douglas’s position towards—towards that young girl you mentioned—who——” “Absolutely, madam, and I am a man of honour—ahem!—I assure you.”

“Who, I think you said, was in the habit of meeting him in a clandestine manner—a fair young woman—by-the-bye, who is she?”

I have good authority, madam. She is a teacher or governess in a school or something of the kind, but I’m sure that would make no difference to Mr. Boniface, who is honourable enough to court and marry—ahem!—a sweep’s daughter, even. I beg pardon, ma’am, but you were going to say something!”

“Merely that I am disgusted with my nephew’s carryings-on, and shall be pleased if you will call in at your early convenience to perform the little duty you advised. Will the day after to-morrow suit?”

“With pleasure my dear madam, or I should say, with regret, for Mr. Douglas is a well-meaning young fellow I’ve no doubt. May I ask if you have decided to transfer the property to your lady-friend, that—ahem!—I may get matters forward?”

“That is my decision.”

And here Mrs. Douglas leaned forward to touch the bell, and her visitor bowed himself out.

Still she sat thinking. The time came before her when Bonnie was entrusted by his father, her husband’s brother, to her care. Could she be said to love him less because she had banished him—for a time of course? It would do him good, prove rich experience; but what were those stories the lawyer had told her. Could it be that the only male representative of their family in England was about to bring disgrace upon the name? She shuddered, and drew her chair nearer the fire. Was this the end of the hopes and ambitions to adorn the name of Douglas? Had she not better follow the course she would have followed had she never had a nephew? Thus musing she fell asleep, and did not wake until a servant came to tell her luncheon was ready.

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CHAPTER III.

“QUIT YOU LIKE MEN, BE STRONG!”

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Fancy will go a long way with some people. They can imagine that to live in a wealthy city is tantamount to living in luxury and comfort. But facts differ from fancies, as Bonnie found out. Still he was not a fool. Born of a Scotch race he had within him something of that “canniness” and common-sense which, whilst enabling the possessors to discern between what is worth having and what is not, helps to make one more prudent than one would otherwise be.

And so he found himself humble lodgings in a little street which runs out of that thoroughfare of violin-shops—Wardour Street—a neighbourhood where the houses are poor and dirty, and the inhabitants have the appearance of miserable, broken-down wretches, where one’s sense of smell is constantly favoured with all the essence of Soho perfumes, and where filthy dogs, costermongers’ half-naked children, and barrel-organs predominate. Why should he being a gentleman, content himself with such an abode? It is not for me to say. But I would suggest that, tired and hungry as he was the night he arrived in London, and finding clean apartments—for they were decent—to let, and a kindly old dame in charge of them, he had given way to first inclinations and made himself at home in Church Street.

This morning he had received a letter from the only individual he had cared to correspond with since his arrival in the metropolis. If you could have glanced over her shoulder who penned it, have watched the sweet expression of her face as she rapidly darkened its pages with ink, have seen those bright grey eyes sparkle at every sentence, those ruddy lips moving in tender prettiness as she murmured each word she wrote, you would not have failed to recognise one whom you have only seen once as yet; a “fair white form.” We may as well benefit by a peep over his shoulder.

“MY OWN BOY,—I have felt ever so lonely since you left, and there has been no one to take me upon the river except Dido, and he can’t row. When are you going to send for me? I met your friend Miss B. last night; she looked very majestically upon me, at least so I thought—but then you know how sensitive I am—and passed on. If she only knew; but she doesn’t. Do you think she would remember that time when we nearly smashed (what a distinguished word for a young lady to use!) her father’s boat? Oh! Here is Dido putting his paws up and wanting me to go for a walk, and I can’t for I have to write to you, and then do ‘heaps’ of work. Do get on and come back soon. I look out for your letters every Tuesday. I do believe the postman is getting to know your writing, for he actually smiled last time, and said ‘Another for you, Miss!’ Mamma thinks I ought not to write so much, but then she doesn’t know the good cause I write for. I sometimes think it would be better if I told her right out. Oh dear! there goes that horrid bell, and I shall have to leave off writing to my darling for to-day, and go and ‘teach the young ideas how to shoot’ as you used to say. Good-bye till next time. Oh! I forgot, that dreadful man, Lawyer Wormage, called in the other night. Fancy! He pretended he wanted to know about one of the children’s parents, but I’m sure he was after something else. He stared so, and nearly frightened me.

• * * * * * * * * *

“Your loving NELLIE.”

Somehow the letter did not exactly please him. Hastily swallowing his breakfast he hurried along Oxford Street, through Holborn, and down Fetter Lane. Up a little Court was the publishing office of the Social Gazette. Here Bonnie came every morning to write letters for, and in other ways assist Henry Durant, the proprietor and editor. This was the position of the man that was to “live by literature”! Do not sneer at him; for work is honourable, and idleness a disgrace. Six weeks ago he came to the editor of the Social Gazette, asking to be taken on the literary staff. Mr. Durant looked at his cuttings of original articles, smiled and said that he feared the was little hope for him, but if he had any business capabilities there was a vacancy for an amanuensis; would he care to accept an offer of 25s. per week, there was not much to do. Another might have turned up his nose at this, but our Bonnie was a sensible lad, took a day to think over it, and accepted the post.

The next day being Sunday, in the afternoon our hero took it into his head to go to Westminster Abbey. He had often meant to pay a visit there, but had never been yet. As he strolled along the gravelled walk in St. James’s Park, watching the leaves as they drifted from the trees, his thoughts became more and more serious. Why should he feel so sad this afternoon? . . Cheer up, man, it is the day of rest.

It was a warm autumn day, and in the old Abbey the air was soft and cool. The sermon was a good one, but lengthy. The next was “Quit you like men, be strong!” which, after Bonnie heard, his interest awoke, and he listened with earnest attention. But soon the preacher’s voice grew monotonous and indistinct, and slumber seemed inevitable. He ceased, and the crowd arose. Bonnie sat on thinking. . . half asleep . . . pondering on the words he remembered. . . . Be strong! Suddenly it seemed that a soft strain of harmony arose; the voices of the choir blended in heavenly sweetness. . . . “God is a spirit.” . . . Bonnie sat up and listened, his whole soul filled with rapture. This was better than any opera or concert. Then swelled those notes in glorious fullness, and ascended, clasping the mighty pillars, and appearing to hover in the bright sunlight that streamed through the dusky windows far away near the roof. . . . . “God is a Spirit.” . . . The building was surely now being made Divine, and the highest Himself was present. Bonnie rose in wonder and gladness. As he did so he caught sight of a face near the entrance; a woman’s face, flushed with radiance and pleasure. He blue eyes turned on him, and then the cheeks whitened and the lips parted. Who was it? . . . . Borne out by the crowd he found himself standing on Westminster Bridge looking at the river and at the sun that was fast sinking into the west, one blaze of splendour. Why should he have felt gloomy? If he had a true purpose in life he must succeed. . . . . perseverando! . . why not write to the fellows at home . . . . and Nellie . . . he would always be faithful, and she—

A man tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, but you must come along with me.”

“You, why—what is it? Who are you?”

“I am a detective from Scotland Yard, you had better make no resistance.”

Here the stranger produced a pair of handcuffs. Bonnie stared in surprise and put his hands behind him. . . . Quit you like men, be strong. . . . “I don’t’ know what you want,” said he. Just then a carriage passed, a lady and gentleman in it. That face again!

(To be continued.)

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CHAPTER IV.

FATE AND FANCY.

WHEN Bonnie had overcome his surprise he turned to his companion and said quietly, “I will come with you—only—only put those things out of sight, and be good enough to inform me what I am arrested for.”

“For Burglary,” said the detective.

Bonnie laughed, “There must be some mistake,” he said.

As they passed along the embankment who should cross their path but an old friend and schoolfellow of our hero, who, seeing the pair and recognising Bonnie, exclaimed, “Why, Douglas, old man how are you? What! are you learning the detec’ business?”

“Frank Fairmount!” ejaculated the captive, I am glad to see you, the fact is——” Here he glanced at his captor and hesitated.

“This gentleman is under arrest on suspicion of being concerned in the Clapham burglary,” said the detective who recognised Fairmount as a young lawyer’s clerk with whom he had had previous dealings.

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Frank, “you’ve made a blunder, Mr. Smalls, I’m sure.”

“I think not, sir,” returned Smalls, “the lady from whom the burglar escaped, pointed him out to a constable who is his turn pointed him out to me. If the lady is mistaken, that is no fault of mine; I am merely doing my duty.”

“No doubt, my dear man, you are perfectly satisfied, but I am not.”

And linking his arm in Bonnie’s, the two walked on, while the official lagged behind and kept his eye on the accused one.

The burglary referred to was one of special interest. One night a week ago when Miss Sturge, younger daughter of John Sturge, Esq., of Padarn Lodge, Clapham, was retiring to rest she was amazed to find a man crouching behind the curtains in her dressing room. It was dark, the gas being turned low, and before she could summon courage to shriek or move, her arm was seized and a hand put over her mouth. She just caught sight of the man’s face and then felt him wrench away the diamond bracelet she wore on her right wrist. She saw him disappear through the window, and then called for help and fainted.

“Now,” said Frank, as the story was told, “how can a woman recognise a man in the dark, or at least in the dim light of a little flame of gas? pooh! It’s impossible.”

“I wish,” said Bonnie, “that I could see her and speak to her, it is very provoking that——.”

“Here, I say, Smalls!” shouted Frank, turning suddenly round, “take us to this Miss, Madam, or whatever her name is, it’s not fair to arrest my friend considering he isn’t capable of doing such a desperate deed; besides why didn’t he leave the country?”

After two minutes’ deliberation the detective agreed to accompany them to Clapham, and Frank forthwith called a cab to convey them in that direction.

Padarn Lodge had a charming situation in the Balham Road.

When the trio presented themselves in the hall and asked to see Miss Sturge they were politely informed that she was not at home, but Mr. Sturge, who received them requested Bonnie to call again the next day with Mr. Smalls, when the matter could be talked over.

“But is my friend to be considered a prisoner during that time,” put in Frank impulsively, “for if so I shall stay with him.”

“I’ve no doubt he will receive every attention,” replied the other.

And so after sundry protests and soft imprecations on the part of Frank, it was decided to defer seeing Miss Sturge until the morning.

It was about noon next day when they called, this time without Frank. After waiting a few minutes a rustle was heard and the door opened. Bonnie looked up and at once recognised the woman he had seen in the Abbey. It was the same face. She could not be more than seventeen, he thought. So young! She was dressed in simple black, with pointed lace and silver ornaments. Her hair, which was of a dusky golden hue, clustered round her head and forehead in careless beauty, her face, which was handsome and peaceful, let sweet expression to the becoming softness of her blue eyes. She stood before him and he felt awed at her presence. Instinctively he rose, and faltered out, “Pardon me, Madam, but I cannot help thinking that I am the victim of a mistake. I beg you to reverse your opinion.” She looked at him for a few seconds, and then sitting down motioned him to remain seated. “I felt sure,” she began, “that you were the man, but why, I don’t know.”

He leaned forward curiously as she stated her doubt.

“You see,” she continued, quite confidently, “it was rather dark at the time—I suppose you know about it?” . . . . Why didn’t she say at once if she believed him to be guilty? . . . . . .

“I have heard the facts of the case,” he replied, “but of course I have no personal recollection, because I am not guilty of the act you have caused me to be arrested for; in proof of which I can refer you to several persons who saw me elsewhere when the burglary was committed; but you are assured that I am not like the man you saw?”

“There is the difficulty,” she still continued, “I don’t think you are, and yet I fancied so in the Abbey. Perhaps, Mr. Smalls,” turning to the detective, “I had better release this gentleman?”

“Certainly, Miss, if you are sure he is not the man.”

“Ye-es, well of course he cannot be.”

“He will not like to remain under suspicion,” put in Bonnie.

She looked at him rather scornfully, and then softening her tone said, “I am sorry to have inconvenienced you, sir; I am evidently mistaken and must apologize.” She turned her eyes away, for he was gazing most earnestly at her . . . . How was it? Had Fate intended them to meet so? . . . . Looking strangely pale he rose and offered her his card, and also a paper on which he had written the addresses of some of his Rusleton friends. These she gracefully accepted and then bid her visitors good morning.

“Well,” said her father when he returned from the city. She knew what the ‘Well’ meant and replied, “He is nothing like the man; I can’t think how it happened that I should fancy it, and what do you think, papa? his name is Douglas, and he has friends in Rusleton where Emilie’s friend , Mrs. Douglas, lives, you know.”

John Sturge merely gave a grunt from behind his newspaper and said, “Better send him an invitation to dinner next week, if he’s good enough.”

Such was the story of Bonnie’s arrest for burglary. Miss Sturge applied to me as one of the referees, and I received the plain unvarnished tale as I have told it you, from Frank Fairmount himself who shortly afterwards came to Rusleton to occupy the position of head clerk to Jonas Wormage, an appointment he had long expected. And so commenced my means of communication with my hero, and so I am able to lead the reader through a labyrinth of circumstances which whilst they serve to interest the curious, add point by point to the romance already foreshadowed in the life of Boniface Douglas.

—————

CHAPTER V.

IN WHICH WE PAUSE AND SURVEY THE SCENE.

Acquaintance may grow into friendship, friendship may ripen into love, and love produce indifference, hate, lifelong friendship, or the lifelong period termed matrimony. The reader has seen our hero and some of his friends. Doubtless the sight has not failed to produce a feeling of interest in, as well as perhaps a slight aversion to, his proceedings. In his character may be discerned wavering of purpose and unformed desire. Youth, like wine and whisky, requires keeping. The physician of experience and long practice is always esteemed wiser than the medical student. Do not then murmur at, or misjudge the minor mind which looks to beauty and the present age for satisfaction and expression of feeling, and only in a few serious moments glances at what is solid and future. Experientia docet! Every ocean ripple helps to swell the mighty tide.

I must ask my reader to follow me over another period of several months, during which time young Douglas had acquired considerable experience in the great city of London. He had also become familiar with a certain family residing near Clapham, a fact which even his silence did not keep from me. With Frank Fairmount, now a resident at Rusleton, I had many a conversation respecting my old friend. Ah, Frank, little did you think when you let fall your notions concerning his ideas of life that you added link by link to this romance. Frank was impulsive by nature, and now and then he would drop a word or two which when connected with others similar, proved of great weight and importance to my ready understanding. When you, Frank, spoke of Miss Nellie Lorrimer being a “sweet little damsel,” why did you not add that you were desperately in love with her? And when you made an appointment with me, why did you not keep it instead of strolling along in the moonlight with a young lady? Sad, indeed, are the ways of some persons when those they profess to love are absent. Had I had an inkling of the matter as it stood then, I could have taken steps to prevent further flirtations. No wonder that Bonnie—poor lad!—did not receive so many letters as formerly! No wonder that, in reply to Frank’s epistles wherein he occasionally inserted a paragraph in praise of “the prettiest girl he’d ever known,” Bonnie should caution him as to what he did, and then forget to write back. And all that I ever heard from him himself during this interval were accounts of the movements of city life, the progress of business or study, the dinings-out and evening visits. Unsuspicious I! Wrapped up in my local vocation, what wonder that I should neglect to understand what was afar off, and only consider what reached me at hand! And Nellie! I never saw her but once up to this time, and that was one bright moonlight night just by the stile, in the road that led to my home. Frank was helping her over, but he did not see me as I hurried by. And the people of Rusleton talked as people do talk, but I held my peace and thought the more.

I often looked over to the Berrington’s pew as they sat in church, and caught a glimpse of Miss Ethel with her pale face and noble bearing, and wondered what there was in her that Bonnie did not like. Possibly, however, thought I, there is some superior attraction elsewhere. And then the thought dawned upon me could it be Miss Helen Lorrimer . . . . No . . . . but Frank . . . . And then I guessed why the two seldom wrote to each other, and silently and carefully I worked out the wonderful problem, but said nothing. Thank heaven, said I to myself, as I poured out my cup of tea, thank heaven that I was meant for a bachelor! Dear, dear, how is it young people will fall in love with each other?

I also wondered if Mrs. Douglas repented yet of her stroke of policy, but, up to now, had no cognizance of the doings of Mr. Wormage. She, poor lady, was very ill just at this time, and naturally I felt anxious for my friend, her nephew. It was in the early summer—several months, as I said, having elapsed since the events recorded in my last chapter—I was sitting at my window enjoying a quiet pipe, when the servant entered and handed me a telegram. It was from Bonnie. “Am just off with a yachting party round the coast. Contrive to meet me on Friday or Saturday. Will wire you whereabouts.” Humph! Yachting party! No one I know, I suppose. Why does he want to see me? Some little freak I expect. Rusleton was within three hours distance from the Welch Coast, and I immediately commenced speculating where the meeting was to take place. This was Monday. There were, therefore, three clear days, so I should be able to arrange matters. . . . . On the Friday afternoon a telegram arrived. “Shall land at B—— to-night and stay over Sunday at C—— Hotel.”

. . . . I reached B——by 10 o’clock next day, and Bonnie met me at the station. “We shall have lunch with the Sturges,” he said, “the people, you know, who wrote to you once. The yacht belongs to Mr. Sturge’s nephew, and there are only five of us in the party.” “Miss Sturge, of course,” I queried. “Yes, and her cousins, You will like young Sturge. A regular fish. By the way, do you hear anything of the Sturges at Rusleton. Lil—Miss Sturge has a sister who knows the place, there’s some mystery about it, I can’t get it out of them, but fancy they know something of me.” I stared in surprise. “In what way do you mean?” said I. He coloured up. “Oh! nothing, you did not tell them anything, did you, beyond what was necessary?” “My dear fellow, of course not, what did I know? What a man you are for mysteries!”

And then he turned the subject off and remarked that B—— was a nice sort of place to stay at, and he was in no hurry to get back. And I guessed his reason when I entered their private sitting room and stood face to face with Lilian Sturge.

NOTE: “Our Bonnie” will be concluded in the October number.

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CHAPTER VI.

PERSONAL EXPERIENCES AND SUSPICIONS.

MR. STURGE, I found, had been called to town unexpectedly that morning, so I did not see him. Mrs. Sturge, I was told, was an invalid, and had to be left at home in charge of her elder daughter. Jack Sturge was a jolly fellow, standing six feet high, and wearing a bit of a beard. He would be about twenty-five years of age. As soon as we had grown a bit friendly he asked me to have a pipe with him, as no one else would.

“Don’t, Mr. Oakburne,” put in Miss Lilian, “it’s only poets and madmen that smoke those horrid things.”

But Jack meant to get me over to his side, so I yielded and we remained together philosophizing on the merits of the weed, whilst the others chatted away by the window.

When strolling on the beach I managed to get with Bonnie and talk over matters a bit. “Now,” said I in a fatherly-brotherly sort of a way, “what are you thinking of doing as regards future prospects; have you paved the way for something in case you lose your fortune?”

“My dear old boy,” he replied, “I’ve almost given over thinking about it. I haven’t heard a word from my aunt since I left Rusleton, and from what Fairmount has told me, I have reason to believe that I am disinherited.”

“Nonsense,” said I, “the lady wouldn’t be so hard as that, about such a trivial matter too! Has Frank been divulging “shop” secrets then.”

“No, not exactly, but he says that a relative of mine has let some “jolly girl” in for a heap of cash, and he wishes he could get an introduction.”

“Have you any idea who it is?”

“No, but I should think it is a young lady my aunt formed the acquaintance of when she was lying ill at Hastings last year. I never saw her, but Mrs. D. continually spoke of her as ‘that dear angel,’ and was always suggesting that she should come and visit us and that I should keep my eye on her, etcetera. And when I demurred, —What! marry anybody! she came down on me, said she’d a right to suggest and besides the ‘dear angel’ had plenty of money, was a rich tallow factor’s daughter, or something of the sort; bah! Luckily I left before I met her.”

“Still how do you know but what you might have been smitten——.”

“Exactly. I saw her miniature in my aunt’s best Sunday brooch and was not smitten. What d’ye think of that, sir.”

“Humph!” Pause.

“What’s old Sturge,” said I.

“Dunno. I don’t ask inquisitive questions.”

“But in common sense——.”

“Well, he’s something or other of a merchant, has an office in the city, does a little on the Stock Exchange, is always talking about Russian affairs, so I suppose he has some investment——.”

“Russia!”

“Eh! what's the matter?”

I stopped short, and he turned and looked at me. Putting my arm in his, I said quietly, “Young man, now don’t be alarmed, but did you ever learn Geography when you went to Rusleton Grammar School?”

“Why, what in the name of fortune do you mean?”

“Simply this, did you ever learn in what part of the world the Russian empire lay, what was her population, what were her chief cities, what he rivers and mountains, and lastly but not least, what her products and exports?”

“Hang it, I don’t see your drift.”

“I wish to know a few of the exports.”

“Oh! well, wheat, flax and leather. Will that do?”

I laughed. “An excellent memory. Go on.”

“Ahem! Potash. Tallow——.”

“Stop! Have you heard that word before?”

“Tallow, mysterious man, what do you mean?”

“I mean that Mr. Sturge talks about Russian affairs because he is interested in them, because he deals largely in the exports, and because——.”

“I see! because he is the tallow-factor forsooth! But why should your perceptive faculties light upon Mr. Sturge, pray?”

“Simply because I recollected when you said something this morning about the Sturges knowing of you in Rustleton, that Miss S. when she wrote to me in re the burglary business hinted some acquaintance on the part of one of their family with Mrs. D.”

“Phew! then do you think that Lil——.”

“No, she has a sister.”

“Yes, one I’ve not seen, and supposing she is like—like—.”

“Like Lilian you would say. And if so you would fall in love with her instead. I thought you were not charmed with the miniature!”

He stared full at me, and then changed colour.

“What do you know.” He said.

“That you are at present in love with Lilian Sturge, but now that you know your money is likely to go to her sister, you would prefer to make love to her instead.”

“Never,” he cried.

“But the thought struck you,” said I. “Come!”

“Perhaps, but never again. I love now, but——.”

“But what?”

“A great deal, but what am I to do?”

“Do? Common Sense should tell you that when a man falls in love with a woman he knows it is either a light or a serious feeling. If the former, he thinks little about it; if the latter—well, he generally goes further.”

“Splendid reasoning, my Plato! but suppose a man is in love with a girl?” I eyed him slowly from head to heel. “Call yourself a man?” said I, smilingly.

“Well, hang it, what did you call yourself when you were twenty-one?”

“A youth, sir! Man is experienced, has seen the world, can battle with life; a youth is vaguely struggling upward, has much before him, and is still green and fickle.”

“Do you presume—.”

I presume nothing, you are head over heels, shall I say, in love with Miss Lilian. Good. She is four or five years younger than you, and consequently has four or five years less experience. You have possibly been in love before.” He winced and stuck his hands in his pockets.

“One generally knows one’s own mind when one is of age,” he said.

“Good again, grant that you do. She has the sentimental period of life before her and may probably find someone she will love better. Besides you have no proof that you have not a rival. There are plenty of these about, I’ve no doubt. London life means society.”

He stated and then smiled sorrowfully.

“I may have rivals in due time, but she is too young yet; there is the difficulty, she does not see things as I do, and if I commenced to talk sentiment, she would laugh at me. She has not learnt to love as I love.” He spoke passionately.

“I believe you,” returned I, “and if you would have her love you, you must teach her. A woman who is to be won must first be wooed. And there are many ways of wooing.” Just then we saw the other three advancing towards us. “Please give me my mackintosh, Mr. Douglas,” said Lilian, “a shower’s coming.” And then we hurried in.

The shower proved to be a thunderstorm, and so we sat round the window and watched the lightning playing with the waves. As twilight closed in, the storm ceased, and then Jack, opening the casement to admit the evening breeze, politely requested his cousin to favour us with something on the piano. Unlike those apparently utterly nervous and scrupulous maidens, who are not in “good form,” or “have a cold,” or would “rather be excused,” Lilian rose at once and seated herself at the instrument. “What shall I play,” said she. No one replied for a moment, then Jack broke silence. “The audience is content to leave the arrangement of a programme to the principal performer.” She had buried her head in her hands as if thinking. Suddenly her fingers touched the keys and sounded a prolonged chord. Again another. And then as if they were a mighty flood of ocean waves rolling and tossing upon the sand, the notes followed one another in a weird and grand strain of harmony. Higher and higher, reaching to the stars, grasping at things unearthly and unseen, then lower and lower. touching the heart, sinking in sadness into the soul. I noticed our hero rise and lean over the piano to listen, at the same time looking with delight at Lilian. Softly, in perfect time and sweetness, the performer ended her task.

“Oh! what a glorious thing,” exclaimed Jack’s sister, who had hitherto remained very silent.

“What was it Lil?” cried Jack.

“Guess.”

“Impossible.”

“Well, I don’t know myself.”

“Ahem! coming out as a composer, eh! Shall I name it for you?” cried Jack.

“Not at all,” she answered, “it was an old piece of German music I bought at a bookstall.”

“Sounds like Chopin, don’t you think, Mr. Oakburne; or what do you say, Douglas, you ought to know?”

I admitted my inferior judgement, and Bonnie smiled.

“Don’t you see, Mr. Oakburne,” cried Lilian, “Jack’s only making fun, I don’t believe he knows a note of music?”

“Excuse me, young lady,” said that person, “a poet is allowed to be, and always is, of a melodious turn of mind; now I wouldn’t mind proving that.”

“Do Jack, there’s a good boy;” and turning over the music she produced a song, “here’s one of your sort!” The “one of his sort” turned out to be “Tom Bowling.” So Jack, poet and philosopher, was obliged to become à la Sims Reeves, Jack the tenor. “I really cannot sing,” said Jack meekly.

“You must now,” said his sister, and so we had him at our mercy. I can’t say much for Mr. Jack’s voice, but his expression was all that could be desired, and the beautiful ballad proved as effective and touching in his rendering, as though we had been listening to a St. James’s Hall “Star.”

“I am very fond of that song,” said Bonnie, as Jack sat down, “it is one of the finest ever written.”

“A great deal of one’s liking depends on the circumstances under which one first hears the song,” said J.

It was midnight when we broke up the party and went to bed.

To be continued.

—————

CHAPTER VII.

REVELATIONS.

EARLY next morning, as I walked on the Hotel Terrace, I met Miss Lilian. Taking my hand, she said hurriedly, “May I have a few minutes private conversation with you, Mr. Oakburne?” “Certainly,” I replied. “It is nothing very particular, only I’d rather ask you the question. You know Mr. Douglas well, do you not?” continued my fair questioner. “Yes,” said I.

“Do you know if he expected an aunt to leave him a legacy?”

“I think he did,” I replied puzzled.

“My reason for asking will be evident when you have read this, that is, if I may trouble you to do so.”

She handed me a letter with a part turned down and marked. It was written in a lady’s small hand. “With pleasure,” I replied, “If I can be of any service to you to do so.”

“Such a curious coincidence! I received a long letter from Mrs. Douglas, of Rustleton, this morning, the old lady, you remember, that I met last year. She says she feels she is failing in health, and wishes me to know she is going to leave me a handsome fortune in return for my attention to her. This is strange, considering I have done nothing to deserve such a reward. But the strangest part to come is that she appears to have very cruelly treated a nephew who lives in London, and who, to my thinking, in none other than the Mr. Douglas who you talked about, that visited you so often. If he be the nephew, the legacy that she leaves me really belongs to him. As I do not like the idea of having money that is the lawful property of someone else, —altho’ the old lady has a perfect right to do what she likes with it— will you try to find out if this Mr. Douglas is the same as I fancy him to be. You told me he came from the neighbourhood of Rustleton, and was very reticent on points relating to his family, &c., or I should not be so suspicious. Had I seen him for myself I should be better able to judge.” I folded up the letter and returned it. My interrogator must have read confirmation of the news in my face, for she exclaimed in her girlish way, “Poor fellow, and to think of his slaving away in London. But why was it? She does not say.”

Of a sudden our natures had grown sympathetic, and we each felt for our friend. “It was owing to my friend’s resistance to some matrimonial plans concocted by his aunt,” I replied, “I know of nothing else.”

She was silent and then thanking me hastened indoors. At that moment Bonnie came up with a paper in his hand. I could see that he was agitated about something.

“It’s all over, old man,” he cried nervously. “Look at this.” It was a telegram stating that Mrs. Douglas was dead, and telling him to return at once. “And I was just about to write and explain to her about—about —Lilian’s sister—you know—”

“It cannot be helped now,” I said, “but if you want your inheritance back there is an opportunity, I believe.”

“I don’t care for a farthing, so long as I get what I want more.”

And that was Lilian Sturge.

• * * * * * * * * *

They were standing together alone at the farthest point of the beach under the rocks, Bonnie and Lilian.

“I am going to Rustleton to-morrow,” said he, “by the first train.”

She started. “Why run away so soon?”

“I am obliged. My aunt is dead.”

She looked up quickly. “Indeed! I—I—” She hesitated, and looked at him confused.

“I never told you I had an aunt, do you mind?”

“Oh, no, I—.” Again she hesitated.

“Lilian, before I go there is one thing I want to say—to you—. Do you remember—that day in the abbey—I looked at you—.”

“Oh, yes,” do you bear me any malice?” She smiled, and looking up caught his earnest gaze, then blushed.

“You don’t know why I ask you, why I remember—Lilian! —”

He caught her hand and she laughed softly—“Mr. Douglas, how well you act! supposing a big wave were to come up and drench us, shouldn’t we run, and wouldn’t it damp some of that theatrical sentiment?” She was chattering away merrily and half sarcastically.

He stammered, “Lilian, you mistake me, I am in earnest, —I mean that I love you, have loved you ever since that day, but—”

She turned pale and stepped back from him. He paused.

“You doubt me, you think I do not mean it—you do not care for me?”

She held out her hand and he took it wildly.

“I am sorry for this,” said she, “almost—I thought you were joking—I did not know you loved me like that—for—for—I cannot—do not know what I can do—I am afraid I could not love you as you would like.”

The wild girl had all at once become the gentle, sympathetic woman.

“But you can love me a little, can try to—you will be my friend?” He still held her hand, and waited her reply.

“Always if you wish, but I cannot promise more. I am only a girl,” she murmured.

He clasped her to him in a moment of weakness, and instinctively their eyes and then their lips met. But one kiss, a pledge of friendship. It was the first and last.

The same evening, news reached the Sturges that Mrs. And Miss Emilie Sturge had met with a serious accident whilst driving out in the park.

————

CHAPTER VIII.

THE BRACELET.

THE telegram that brought the news of the accident to Mrs. And Miss Sturge (Lilian’s sister) proved to be of more importance than was at first supposed. The facts were these. Returning from a drive in an open carriage, the ladies had been thrown out under the feet of the horses of a passing vehicle, owing to the coachman’s careless driving round the corner of the road. Mrs. Sturge, fortunately, was more frightened than hurt, but Miss Sturge, being severely injured, was carried home insensible, and the next day died. The yachting party was thus suddenly broken up, and Lilian was only just in time to see her sister for the last time. It was a sad thing for the family, and a strange event in the eyes of Bonnie and I, who regarded it as a stroke of Providence. The mournful news did not reach us until Bonnie, as executor for Mrs. Douglas, applied to Miss Sturge, a legatee, to whom Mrs. D., in a codicil, had bequeathed a large portion of her fortune. As there was no provision (curiously enough) made in case of Miss Sturge’s decease, the fortune would have reverted to our hero, but that an uncle from Scotland sent in a claim for his share of it. Frank told us that Mr. Wormage had written and advised his uncle because he had a prejudice against Bonnie. He (Mr.W.) had no need to have done so, for he was well provided for by the late Mrs. Douglas. However, now the case was being settled in Chancery, and Bonnie had gone to London about it. We had seen nothing of the Sturges since that eventful morning at B——. Mrs. Sturge and Lilian had gone to the south of France, whence, Bonnie said, she was going with her cousin into Germany, to study music.

• * * * * * * * * *

London in December. A cold, misty night. Bonnie was wandering aimlessly up the Whitechapel Road, merely indulging in his old passion for studying life in its variety of forms. The neighbourhood was bright with the glare of naptha lamps that flickered and hissed over “Cheap Jacks’” stalls. Crowds of people swarmed round dirty barrows, which were laden with mouldy book of the “’ighest class of litricher,” and groaned under piles of crockery of all sorts and descriptions. The whole street was in an uproar. Labouring men, and dirty women, lounging good-for-nothings and busy marketers, hustled and jostled one another on the pavements, whistling and chattering, swearing and arguing, all helping to make the scene one of lively interest.

As he passed by a narrow court a short greasy-looking man laid his hand on his arm, “Ho, Mr. De Turney, yer don’t know me, I s’pose.”

Bonnie started, amazed.

“He! he! wot a good ‘un yer was not for to come back, but yer don’t come over me yer don’t.”

“I think, my man,” said Bonnie, turning to go, “you have made a mistake.”

“He! he! yer don’t ‘my man’ me, yer don’t; come I say ‘ave it square, wot’s yer a-going to giv’ us for that ‘ere,—yer know?”

“I tell you I don’t know what you are talking about,” cried Bonnie.

The man had seized his arm.

“And if you don’t let go I will give you into custody.”

“He! he! wot me? Wot your friend Bill as ‘elped you to do the job. And where’d you be, eh? Wy, I should say to the peeler, I should, ‘This ‘ere’s the man wot stole that young ‘ooman’s bracelet at Clapham, I should.”

Bonnie started again, and a thought seemed to strike him.

“Ha! that settles yer, don’t it?” exclaimed the greasy party.

Laughing and assuming a kind of swaggering air, our hero returned, “Indeed! and what about it?”

“Oh! you don’t know, do yer; you never promised for to tip me, you never! oh, no! and then hooked it to Paris and giv’ it to the Injun for fifty quid, oh no! I never heerd, did I? and now if you don’t make it square I’m a-going in for the reward; look ‘ere, see this paper?”

It was a bill offering £60 reward to the finder of the bracelet or the discoverer of the thief. Bonnie clutched it eagerly.

“And did I tell you whom I was going to sell it to?” said he carefully and in an assumed voice.

“You sed as you was goin’ to giv’ it to the Injun in Rudem-suthing street, I can’t say them forrin words myself, but I knows the ‘ouse, an’ I know as you sold ‘im it, fur Phil Blockeys was over larst week and he—and he—why—it aint him by—.” The man had turned and fled with an oath. Bonnie cried “stop him, he’s a thief,” and tore along vainly searching for the incautious law-breaker.

A crowd of low persons had gathered round and some were following and laughing at his excitement. And then a policeman appeared on the scene, to whom he described the man and bade him secure him as an accomplice in the Clapham burglary. Thus it will be seen. this matter had not yet been sifted and settled.

It was only because he had drawn near to a gas lamp and allowed the light to fall on his face accidentally, that the man had discovered his error.

Why was this likeness? Why had fate stamped a resemblance on his face to a felon, a common burglar? Ah! Why had he come to London at all? he said to me when he narrated this experience.

And the greasy little man had not yet been captured.

————

CHAPTER IX.

“ADIEU! ADIEU!”

IT is night in Paris. Rue d’ E—— is not one of the cleanest and brightest of streets at the best of times, and to-night it is, if anything, dirtier and darker than it has been for some time. I cannot say why. Perhaps Heaven is frowning upon the wicked inhabitants, displeased with their deceit and violence. Very few persons frequent the Rue d’ E——, it is known as a bad neighbourhood. But to-night a stranger carefully wends his way along its pavement, excitedly looking at every shop he passes, and occasionally glancing at a slip of paper he carries in his left hand. “No,” he mutters, “it cannot be far from here. Engime is the name, known, so the officer said, as “the Injun.” If I had only caught the greasy one, I might have found my fellow likeness . . . n’importe . . . I will do the deed myself. . . . Lilian shall know . . . Hallo! Here’s the identical.” He stops before a low doorway. “Numero quatorze, yes this is it; now, is that officer behind?” He looks back and catches sight of a black cloak pacing up and downat the top of the street. All is quiet. No one is about. (Ah! if he could only see across the road, where a figure crouches beneath a window!) People are gone to bed, but a light burns over the door of No. 40. Bonnie, for it is he, rings softly.

“Que voulez-vous?” cries a voice from within, after a moment or two.

“Be quick!” cries Bonnie; “I have something for you.” The door opens slightly, and a crooked little man peeps out.

“Ha! you Englees, vat you vant? You vill be always for getting me to trouble.”

“You will not get into trouble; I only want your help.”

“Ha! you Englees, you are always for vanting help. I haf no monish, you make une grande faute.”

Bonnie holds up a finger and puts his foot inside the doorway. He is admitted.

“See this,” he whispers, holding out the paper; “you can is you help me, get a reward of 1,000 francs, and I will give you another thousand if you will——”

“Vill vhat? I haf noting to help you.”

“Hush! listen! don't you remember a man—an Englishman like me, look! —coming to sell you a bracelet?”

“Ha! vat you say, un bracelet?”

“Yes, some months ago, tell me, have you got it now?”

“Now. . . Haf I got it now? . . . You are alone?”

Bonnie steps to the door. “No, but if you will tell me truthfully, I will promise you nothing shall happen to you.”

The old man beckons with his finger. “Come into ma chambre, m’sieur; Ha! the door is still open!” He turns to shut the door, and before doing so peers out into the street. Doing so he is seized violently and thrown into the passage, a man springs in, and before the Jew can call out or Bonnie can speak, a pistol is fired, and the intruder is gone. The black cloak is on the spot in a moment, bending over the prostrate form of Boniface Douglas. Another officer appears to the call of a shrill whistle, and in ten minutes the whole neighbourhood is roused. The same night the assassin, who proves to be the accomplice in the Clapham burglary, is arrested by the Parisian police, to whom also Joel Engime delivers up the lost bracelet.

In a well-furnished apartment at the Hotel ——, Bonnie lay undergoing surgical treatment. The surgeons doubted whether the bullet could be abstracted, and the case was considered hopeless.

Ethel sat by the bedside nursing him. I had brought her with me, for when she heard the news from me she seemed as if she would rather die than be left behind. The patient was still very weak from loss of blood, and now and again delirious. It was the second day after the attempted assassination. He was raving and calling for Lilian, repeatedly declaring that he was only shewing her that he could love, and then crying that she did not care for him; she was making fun of him; why did she go and leave him, &c. And all the time Ethel was sitting, calm and pale, wondering and fearing, holding his hand in hears and trying to sooth him.

In one of his conscious hours he asked to speak to me alone. “Herbert,” he murmured, “we are old . . . old friends . . . aren’t we?” I assented. “And you know . . . know my secrets.” He smiled faintly. “You know too . . . perhaps I shall . . . I shall die . . . I don’t mind . . . it may be best . . . but tell . . . Lilian . . . tell her . . . why . . . how . . . oh! this pain . . . if I had not . . . gone to London . . . I should never . . . seen her . . . but now . . . I love her . . . always would . . . if I lived . . . Ethel is good . . . isn’t she . . . but . . . isn’t Lilian coming?” Then he sank down exhausted, and commencing to wander in his mind, now called for help, and now declared he had found the bracelet and would not be suspected again. All this was very painful and could not last long, we knew. Mr. Sturge had been sent for, and he agreed with me that it would be unwise to send for Lilian, or to inform her of the news at present. Had we done so then there would have been no time for her to come. The next evening Bonnie sank into a quiet sleep. About midnight he turned round and opened his eyes, “I think I will get up,” he said, quite naturally, and tried to rise. Ethel laid her hand on his shoulder and begged him to lie still. Then she called the physician, who called me. . . He looked at us as if puzzled. “She is not here . . . why doesn’t she come . . . I can hear her playing . . . hark! . . . what music is it? . . . I wish I could sing.” I took his hand and knelt down by his side. Ethel bent over him and placed her soft hand on his forehead. “Yes, you have always . . . always been kind . . . to me . . . Ethel . . . and we shall meet again . . . Oh! what’s that! . . . Mo——.”

• * * * * * * * * *

Darken the rooms and the windows. Close the Chancery suit. Write in the register that a human creature has departed this life. Mourn the deeds of murderers and evil-doers; tell the tale in the newspaper; sigh over it in secret, and then forget all about it.

Lilian Sturge had read in a French paper of the assassination and come post-haste to Paris. Too late! “Why did you not send for me?” she cried, through her tears. And bending with Ethel over the lifeless form of Our Bonnie, the two sobbing women learnt the truth that both had loved, both had lost, and both had been loved.

————

CHAPTER X.

CONCLUSION.

Romance is pleasing or pathetic. Why should my hero die? Because it was not in the extraordinary course of events for him to live. Had he remained at home, stuck to a quiet country life, and not flirted with Miss Nellie Lorrimer, the virtuous ire of Jonas Wormage would not have been roused, Mrs. Douglas would not have changed her tactics, and Bonnie would not have gone to London as he did. Had he not thus gone, he would probably not have been arrested on suspicion, have formed the acquaintance of Lillian Sturge, and fallen in love with her.

Had he not loved her very dearly, he would not have set out on the mad adventure which resulted so fatally. And, above all, had he set his mind on some one object in life, and striven with all his power to achieve honour and fame in some one profession, he would not have found time to throw away on what was not helping to form him into a sensible member of society. You may say he was frivolous and thoughtless, and had no life purpose. But if you do so, you must condemn yourselves. You must remember he was young, and depended on a fortune that someone had made for him to live on, and recollecting this, you can only sigh and remark what many a one has done before you, “Such is life!” and “Such is the way of the world!”

And what of our other characters? Ethel Berrington still lives with her father. She is known to all Rusleton for her kindness of heart and generosity, and it is rumored that a young curate from Scotland is very attentive to her. Ah! these Scotch! Frank Fairmount is in London, and expects soon to be called to the bar. He seems to have quite forgotten Nellie Lorrimer, for as he told me the other day he didn’t trouble his head about girls, he got on much better without them. And I couldn’t help thinking he was right, for if a fellow is to make headway in his profession, he must leave love-making until he is in a position to spare plenty of time for it. Nellie has removed with her mother to a neighbouring town, and I expect has by this time banished all recollection of Bonnie from her mind. If what I hear is true, she is as big a coquette as ever. So shall she go the way of all flirts!

John Sturge, senior, declared that the finding of the bracelet was an unlucky omen, for shortly afterwards he failed in his business speculations for a considerable sum. But he was never of a despairing disposition, and is rapidly regaining his position. And what shall I tell of her who is assisting him! Lilian! What memories are associated with that name? Last winter I attended a concert in St. James’ Hall. Among the artistes was Miss Lilian Sturge, who played a pianoforte solo. And well did she deserve the loud applause of the crowded audience. I saw her afterwards and shook her hand. “You have chosen your career,” I said. She smiled, “Music is Divine,” Mr. Oakburne, “and therefore everlasting; I think we are agreed on that point . . . . I live for music, because I love it.”

————

I fancy my reader is inclined to say “Pooh! it's only a moral tale!” Be it so! but I deliver no stated moral. If I must speak, let me tell you that if ever you are touched by love’s arrows, the brooding over the fact will not hasten your success or gild your hopes. Live well while you can, for doing one’s duty amounts to more than merely obeying one’s impulse. Some people are too sentimental; it is not wrong to be so, let us strike a happy medium, for feelings that are honourable and right, when allied to noble purposes will be sure to win us success.

————

Notes

Edited by: Staker, Anna: section 1, Winter 2010

From: Volume 1, Issues 2-6 (Utopia: A Mutual Improvement Magazine and Monthly Review)