Chapter XXX: Man Proposes (1)

‘Harrogate is going, you know, to leave us so very soon,’ Lady Maud De Vere had said, in her kindly matter-of-fact way, in the course of conversation with Ethel Gray; and Ethel had turned away her face instinctively, lest the burning blush which rose there unbidden should betray her secret to her pupil’s sister and her own friend. Poor Ethel had communed with her heart in the still hours of more than one night since the evening that had witnessed her release from the Hunger Hole, and she could not but acknowledge to herself that she loved Lord Harrogate.

It was not a welcome conviction that forced itself gradually upon Ethel Gray. The attachment, hopeless as it perforce was, was a thing to be deplored, a misfortune; not a source of joy. Lord Harrogate could be nothing to her. He was almost as remote from her humble sphere of life as a Prince of the blood-royal would have been. There are girls who know, where their own personal vanity is at stake, no distinction of ranks, and would set their caps without compunction at an Emperor. Ethel was none of these. To fall in love, even with an object as hopelessly out of reach as one of the fixed stars would be, is a forlorn privilege which has been claimed in every age by very humble persons of either sex. But to Ethel’s proud, maidenly heart it was pain, not pleasure, to know that the future Earl, the future master of High Tor, had grown to be dearer to her than was well for her peace of mind. That she was in his eyes merely Miss Gray, his sister’s governess, was to her thinking a certainty. And she did not even wish that it were otherwise. Why should there be two persons unhappy, on such a subject, instead of one? It was much better as it was. She had begun to love him before, in that desolate cavern on the moor, he had appeared as the harbinger of safety. But she had not admitted to herself that this was so, until the whirl of strong feelings consequent on the danger and the deliverance had taught her to read her own heart, and to learn that his image was garnered in its innermost core. And now he was going away, going very soon. Well, it was better so. A young man such as he was could not always be expected to linger in a country-house. He was going, and she should see him no more. Doubtless it was for the best.

She was in the garden, and alone. A governess is seldom alone. But lessons were over for the day; and Lady Alice her pupil was up-stairs finishing a sketch, and Ethel had strayed out into what, from some household tradition of a foreign florist who had been invoked, when Anne was Queen, to shape and stock the flower-beds and to trim the luxuriant holly-hedge into Netherlandish neatness, was called the Dutch garden. A pleasant spot it was, with its wealth of fragrant old-fashioned roses and gorgeous display of variegated tulips, screened by the immemorial holly-hedge from the rude north-east wind.

Quite suddenly, as she reached the other end of the holly-hedge, Ethel looked up at the rustle of the crisp green leaves, against which some one or something had brushed in passing, and her eyes met those of Lord Harrogate. The latter lifted his hat, but did not immediately speak, while Ethel neither spoke nor stirred. When the thoughts have been busy in conjuring up the image of a particular person, and the original of the air-drawn portrait appears, a kind of dreamy appreciativeness, which is of all sensations the most unlike to surprise, is apt to result. It was so in this case; and for a few brief instants Ethel looked at Lord Harrogate as she would have looked at his picture on the wall.

‘I thought I might find you here,’ said Lord Harrogate, dissolving the spell by the sound of his voice. ‘I hoped I should,’ he added, in a lower and more meaning tone. Ethel murmured something, stooping as she did so to lift the drooping tendril of a standard rose-tree beaten down by the heavy rain of yesterday. ‘Can you guess at all, Miss Gray,’ continued the young man, with an evident effort to speak carelessly and confidently, ‘why I wanted to find you here—and alone?’

It was not quite a fair question. Ethel, in her simple honesty, not caring to enter on a course of that verbal fencing which comes so naturally to a woman whose heart has not yet learned to speak, made no reply. Her colour deepened, and she became very intent indeed upon the bruised trail of the rose-tree.

‘I am going away, as you know, and that very soon. My plans for the winter are quite undecided. I may not be back at High Tor for a good while,’ said the heir to that mansion.

Now there were to be certain autumn manœuvres in the open country near Aldershot Camp, in which that regiment of militia in which Lord Harrogate was a captain, and towards the perfection of whose drill and discipline he was thought to have contributed more than most militia officers find it convenient to do, had been selected to figure among the auxiliary forces on that occasion.

‘Some friends want me,’ explained Lord Harrogate, ‘when our amateur soldiering is over, to go with them on a yacht-cruise in the Mediterranean, and so on to Egypt, and perhaps farther. What I choose will very much depend on you, Miss Gray.’

‘On me!’ She could not avoid answering this time, and her tone was one of genuine surprise. ‘On me, Lord Harrogate!’

‘On you. I should like all my plans to have some reference to you—Ethel!’ said the young man, trying to get a full view of the beautiful blushing face that was half averted. ‘I say again, can you guess why?’

‘Do not ask me to guess,’ returned Ethel, with a trembling lip. She was very much frightened. She had not the least experience in that science of flirtation in which the modern young lady graduates so early. But she divined that words had been said which rendered it necessary that other words should be spoken, and with what result! Could it be that the end of the interview would be the dashing down of the half-idolised image that her fancy had set up as the emblem of pure chivalry?

‘Only because I love you—love you very dearly, Ethel!’ said the heir of High Tor; and as he spoke he took her unresisting hand in his and drew her towards him. For a moment Ethel was spellbound, her whole faculties absorbed in the one fact that he had told her that he loved her. Come what might, those words—those dear delicious words had sunk into her ear, and the memory of them must remain to the end of what would very likely be a lonely, loveless life; a treasure, her very own, of which none could rob her! But in the next minute Ethel drew her hand away from the hand that held it, and the crimson of indignant anger mounted to her cheek.

‘My lord,’ she said, in a voice that all her wish to speak and act calmly could not render quite steady, ‘you should not have done this. I could not have believed it of you. It is not generous. It is not like yourself.’

‘Why not?’ Lord Harrogate blundered out the words awkwardly enough; but Ethel misunderstood him.

‘Because,’ she said firmly, ‘my position beneath your mother’s roof, in its very lowliness, ought to have been my protection from insult, which’——

‘Insult!’ flashed out Lord Harrogate, reddening too, and breaking almost roughly in on the girl’s half-uttered speech. ‘Can you deem that I mean to insult you when I tell you of my love—that I speak insolently, Miss Gray, when I ask you to be my wife?’

Ethel quivered from head to foot as her half-incredulous ears drank in the words. ‘You meant—that is’—— she faltered out feebly.

‘I meant this,’ said Lord Harrogate earnestly. ‘Miss Gray—Ethel, darling, I have learned during the time that I have known you, to love you with a true and honest love. I am a clumsy wooer, I daresay, but surely you cannot have deemed that I had any other thought than that of asking you, for weal and woe, to share my fortunes?’

He tried to take her hand; but she eluded his grasp, and covering her face, sobbed aloud.

‘Come, Ethel, come, my love! Let it be mine to dry those tears!’ said the young man, passing his arm round her waist; but gently and firmly she released herself.

‘You have made me very happy and very miserable all at once, my lord,’ she said, turning round and facing him; ‘but believe me, there must be no more of this. I thank you from my heart for the very great compliment of your preference for a girl so humbly born, without fortune or kindred. But I am your sister’s governess; and it shall never be said that Ethel Gray brought disunion and sorrow upon the noble family that had received her with so kindly a welcome. I have my own ideas of right and wrong, Lord Harrogate, and I know that I should be mean and base, even in my own eyes, were I to avail myself of—your great goodness.’

He was taken by surprise. He had made up his mind, and reckoned the difficulties of the step which he proposed to take. That he would meet with some opposition on the part of his family, he was of course aware. It might take much time and much persuasion to bring his parents, and especially the Countess, to consent to a match so little calculated to advance his worldly prospects. But he was no shallow boy to cry for his toy, and then forget the bauble that had been withheld from him. His offer of marriage would no doubt render Ethel’s position at High Tor for a time untenable. He had thought the matter over. There were relatives of the De Veres who, without being partisans of the match, would willingly offer a temporary home to such a girl as Ethel Gray, while his mother and Lady Gladys were in process of being converted to see the matter as he saw it.

Ethel’s unlooked-for opposition disconcerted all these projects. She was very grateful, gentle, and almost submissive in her bearing; but she was as steadfast as adamant on the point that it behoved her to return a respectful refusal to Lord Harrogate’s proposals.

‘Do not tempt me,’ she said more than once; ‘do not urge me to forfeit my self-respect, or be false to those who have put trust in me. I am no fit match for the future master of High Tor, the future Earl of Wolverhampton. Would the kind Countess have received me here, would Lady Maud have given me her friendship, had they dreamed of this?’

She was very firm. She let him infer, if he chose, that he was not indifferent to her; but to none of his instances would she yield her steady conviction that duty forbade her to say ‘Yes’ to his entreaties. He became—small blame to him for being so—almost angry, and tried if reproach would succeed where prayer and argument had failed. In vain. His reproaches brought the tears to Ethel’s eyes, but she never faltered in her resolve.

If he pressed her unduly on this point, she said simply that she must go away. Let him forget her, or learn, as she hoped he would, to regard her as a friend, and then she need not leave High Tor. And then——

And then Lady Alice, Ethel’s pupil, made her appearance, and there was no more opportunity for private conversation; and two days later, Lord Harrogate started for Aldershot.

(_To be continued._)

STRANGE SEA ANIMALS.

By the term sea-squirts, the naturalist denominates some of the most remarkable animals which it is his province to study. In more polite phraseology the sea-squirts are termed ‘Ascidians,’ this appellation being derived from the Greek _askos_, meaning a wine-skin or Eastern leather-bottle, to which, in outward shape and form the sea-squirts bear a very close resemblance. And as a final designation, the animals under discussion may be known as ‘Tunicates,’ since their bodies are inclosed within a tough bag or ‘tunic,’ the chemical composition of which forms, as we shall presently shew, one of the notable points of their structure. The sea-squirts present themselves to the zoologist as a group of beings exhibiting many exceptions to the ordinary rules of animal organisation; and it may also be noted that they have attained a degree of scientific fame almost exceeding that which their most ardent admirers could have expected. The young sea-squirt has thus been credited in certain scientific speculations with presenting the naturalist and mankind at large with a _fac-simile_ of the early progenitor and far-back ancestor of the whole vertebrate group of animals, including man himself—in other words, it is maintained that the young sea-squirt, through some peculiar process of modification and elevation, has given origin to the highest group of living beings. With the promise before us of obtaining information regarding a most interesting group of animals, which are thus held by some _savants_ to possess relations of no ordinary kind to man himself, the reader will require little incentive to follow out the steps of a brief inquiry into their life-history and relations.

The fame of the sea-squirts is by no means of modern date. Aristotle gives us a succinct description of them in his _History of Animals_ under the designation ‘Tethea;’ and by the same name Pliny has made the sea-squirts of classic reputation, since we learn from this latter author that they were included as articles of importance in the pharmacopœia of the Romans. In their commonest phases, the sea-squirts appear as little leathery bags of clear aspect, through the somewhat transparent wall of which the internal organs can be discerned. The resemblance of the animals to the ancient wine-skin has already been remarked. The wine-skin, as every one knows, was made of the stomach of some animal, or of the skin so arranged as to present two orifices or necks. Thus when we look at a common sea-squirt we see a veritable little ‘leather-bottel,’ measuring from half an inch to an inch or more in length, attached by one extremity to the rock at low-water mark, or to the shell we have dredged, and bearing on its upper surface two prominent openings, each supported on a short neck. The origin of the common name of ‘sea-squirt’ is by no means hard to trace. The incautious observer who picks up a sea-squirt which has through unpropitious fate been cast up on the sea-beach after a storm, after a short survey of the sac-like body, may possibly be tempted to squeeze it as a preliminary to further investigation. On being thus irritated, the animal will most likely retaliate by forcibly ejecting jets of water from the two orifices of the ‘bottel;’ this procedure possibly resulting in the relinquishment of the sea-squirt as altogether an unlikely and unfavourable object for further study. But the observation of this unpolite habit on the part of the animal, will be found to assist our further comprehension of its physiology, and of the manner in which the functions of its life are carried on.

A highly curious item of sea-squirt history is furnished at the outset by the consideration of the rough bag or ‘test’ in which its organs are inclosed. When the chemist analyses this part of the animal, he finds it to be composed in greater part of a substance known as _cellulose_. It so happens that cellulose is a most important constituent of plants, being almost as common in vegetables as starch. Hence zoologists accounted it a strange and unwonted proceeding on the part of an animal, that it should manufacture in a seemingly natural manner a substance proper and peculiar to the plant-world. The multiplication of cases of like kind in animals has destroyed the novelty and unique nature of the sea-squirt’s case; but none the less curious must the fact be accounted, that the animal should mimic the plant in the mode and results of its life. When the tough outer sac is cut open, we come upon a much more delicate and softer structure, known as the _mantle_. This latter forms an inner lining to the test, and is the structure upon the presence of which the sea-squirt’s power of ejecting water depends. The mantle is a highly muscular layer, and lies next the organs and internal belongings of the animal.

The clearest mode of describing the structure of the sea-squirt is that of beginning with that neck of the bottle-shaped body on which the mouth opens. The mouth leads, curiously enough, not into a throat, but into a large chamber, named the breathing-sac. The walls of this chamber may be simply described as composed of a network of fine blood-vessels; the meshes of this network being provided with those delicate vibratile filaments, named cilia, the function of which is to keep up, by their movements, a constant circulation of the water admitted to the breathing-chamber. Just within the mouth-opening a few small tentacles or feelers exist, these organs serving to guard the entrance to the body. On the floor of the breathing-sac an opening may be perceived; this aperture leading into the throat, and being, therefore, by many naturalists termed the true mouth. And in the way of digestive apparatus, we find the sea-squirt to possess a stomach, intestine, and other organs.

It is highly interesting to note the manner in which the sea-squirt obtains its food. The nutritive wherewithal consists of sedimentary matters, such as minute animals and plants, these substances being drawn into the breathing-sac along with the currents of water which are continually being taken into the body. The nutritive sediment is collected together by certain folds of the lining membrane of the breathing-chamber, and is thus transferred to the mouth-opening below. The breathing-chambers of the sea-squirts, it may be noted in passing, frequently afford lodgment to tiny dwellers in the shape of little pea-crabs. The writer has noticed these little lodgers to issue forth at night from the mouth of the sea-squirts, when the latter have been kept in an aquarium, in order to pick up particles of food on the floor of their abode. The crabs retreated to their shelter on the slightest alarm; and this case of companionship presents one of those curious instances of animal association which at present we are wholly unable to explain.

The food being converted into blood in the digestive system, we may next inquire as to the means which the sea-squirt possesses for circulating the blood through the body. In higher animals, the heart and blood-vessels perform this important task; and in the sea-squirt we find these structures to be represented; the sea-squirt’s heart indeed, in respect of its peculiarity of action, being without a parallel in the whole animal world. The heart consists of a simple tube, from each end of which blood-vessels pass, some being distributed to the breathing-chamber, and others to the body generally. In the highest animals the heart has the double function of driving pure blood through the body, and of circulating impure blood through the breathing organs for purification. It is noteworthy to observe, that by a curious and, as already remarked, altogether unparalleled contrivance, Nature has succeeded in causing the simple tube-heart of the sea-squirt to perform the work done by the complex organ of higher animals. When we observe the movements of the sea-squirt’s heart, we may see it to propel the blood by its pulsations at first to the breathing-chamber for purification. Then a pause succeeds, and the heart is observed to pulsate in the reverse direction, and to drive the blood from the breathing-chamber through the body. Probably no better illustration of the manner in which, by a modification of function, Nature compensates for simplicity of structure, could be had, than that afforded by the sea-squirt’s heart.

The breathing-chamber, as we have seen, receives fresh sea-water from the outside world, this water containing the vivifying oxygen required for the purification and renewal of the blood. Having given up its oxygen to the blood contained in the fine blood-vessels of the breathing-chamber, and its sediment to serve for food, the great bulk of water contained in the breathing-sac has now to be got rid of, to make room for a fresh supply. This process is effected in the most admirable manner through the currents created by the little filaments or cilia, which cause a constant flow of water to pass through the network walls of the breathing-chamber into a second sac or bag which lies parallel with it. This latter sac receives the name of the _atrium_, and communicates with the outer world by the second neck or orifice of the body. Hence the water which enters by the mouth-opening, after passing through the breathing-chamber, is ejected by the second aperture of the body, and affords the material wherewith the sea-squirt vents its indignation on prying humanity in the shape of the _jets d’eau_ which have procured for it its popular designation. The sea-squirt regarded in relation to its sedentary habits, would seem to require no great exercise of nervous powers. Accordingly we find its nervous system to be represented by a single mass of nervous matter, placed near the mouth, and from which nerves pass to the other parts of the body. The acts of a sea-squirt may thus be regarded as purely of the character we are accustomed to name ‘automatic.’ It is provided with instincts enabling it to carry on the acts of its life and to exhibit a certain degree of irritability, without at the same time knowing the ‘reason why’ of its own actions.

The sea-squirts present no exceptions to the universal rule of Harvey, _omne animal ex ovo_—this philosopher believing in the universal development of the animal-form from an ovum or egg. But unlike most higher animals, the young sea-squirt does not come from the egg in the likeness of the parent. It first appears as a tadpole-like body, this creature—the larva as it is named—being produced in some thirty hours after the development of the egg begins. The head of the tadpole is provided with pigment spots or rudimentary eyes, and with three little suckers, by means of which it ultimately attaches itself to fixed bodies, prior to assuming the form of the adult and perfect Ascidian. The tail of the tadpole-larva next becomes retracted within its body, and therein disappears, whilst after fixing itself, the well-known features of the sea-squirt become duly developed. A Russian zoologist has remarked that in the tail of the sea-squirt a long rod-like body is to be seen. Now in the lowest fishes, the spine exists in a similar and rod-like condition; and hence, by a certain school of naturalists, it is urged that the vertebrates may have originated in the past from some form resembling the sea-squirt larva, in whose tail we are therefore invited to behold the first stage of the vertebrate backbone or spine. It is noteworthy to observe, however, that the opinions of these naturalists are by no means accepted by the scientific world at large; and one eminent German observer declared that the rod-like body in the sea-squirt larva’s tail was not situated in the back, but in the opposite region of the body, and that therefore it could not be regarded as corresponding to the ‘back’-bone of higher animals.

Certain near relations of the sea-squirt become of exceeding interest from their departure from the more usual and staid type of Ascidian structure. Amongst these errant members of the sea-squirt tribe the most remarkable perhaps are the _Salpæ_—clear, gelatinous animals, met with swimming in long connected chains on the surface of the sea in tropical regions. The celebrated novelist Chamisso, author of the charming story, _Peter Schlemil or the Shadowless Man_, who to his literary tastes united a striking aptitude for natural history research, discovered that the young of these chain-salpæ invariably appears as a _single_ form; whilst each single salpa has the power of producing a connected chain. Thus the salpa sea-squirts exist in two distinct forms—chain-salpas and single salpas, and to use Chamisso’s own words: ‘A salpa mother is not like its daughter or its own mother, but resembles its grand-daughter and its grand-mother.’

Another curious group of the sea-squirts is that known by the name of the _Pyrosomæ_, a name literally meaning ‘fiery-bodies.’ These latter forms exist as connected masses of sea-squirts aggregated together, so as to form a hollow cylinder or tube, closed at one end; this animal-colony swimming on the surface of the sea, by the admission and forcible ejection of water from the interior of the tube. Such a means of locomotion reminds us of a veritable hydraulic engine, and is decidedly a useful modification of the common sea-squirt’s habit. The pyrosomas exhibit a strange phosphorescent light, seen also in such animals as the jelly-fishes. These luminous sea-squirts when seen in shoals, have well been described as ‘miniature pillars of fire, gleaming out of the dark sea, with an ever-waning, ever-brightening, soft, bluish light, as far as the eye could reach on every side.’ Side by side with this description from the pen of a distinguished naturalist, may be placed the poetic realisation of a similar scene by Sir Walter Scott, who in the _Lord of the Isles_ has happily noted the luminosity of the sea when,

Awaked before the rushing prow
The mimic fires of ocean glow,
Those lightnings of the wave;
Wild sparkles crest the broken tides,
And flashing round the vessel’s sides,
With elfish lustre lave;
While far behind, their livid light
To the dark billows of the night
A gloomy splendour gave.

THE POINT OF HONOUR.

A STORY OF THE PAST.

Shortly after Waterloo had been fought, one of our English regiments (which had taken a distinguished part in that great victory) stationed in a Mediterranean garrison, gained an unenviable notoriety there by a sudden mania for duelling that broke out amongst its officers, and which threatened to become so chronic in its character as seriously to interfere with the discipline of the corps. Quarrels were literally ‘made to order’ at mess-time for the most trifling affairs, and scarcely a day passed without a hostile meeting taking place, which the colonel—a weak-minded man—expressed himself powerless to prevent. Indeed he had already been sent to ‘Coventry’ by his subordinates, which, as our readers doubtless know, is a kind of social excommunication that, when acted upon in an English regiment, generally ends in the retirement from the corps of the individual on whom it falls. It was so in this instance, for the colonel saw that the vendetta-like conduct of his officers towards him was gradually divesting him of all authority in the eyes of his men; and as he had none but his social inferiors to whom he could turn for counsel and advice, he was compelled to relinquish his command and return to England. On arrival in this country he lost no time in proceeding to the Horse Guards, where he sought and gained an interview with the Duke of Wellington, to whom he gave a graphic account of the state of affairs which existed in the regiment he had just left.

The Iron Duke listened attentively to the narration, and knitted his brow in anger as the colonel related the story of the duelling; and when the latter had finished speaking, he exclaimed in an unmistakably stern and uncompromising tone: ‘It is _your_ fault, sir! You should have brought some of the ringleaders to a court-martial, and cashiered them on the spot. You have sadly neglected your duty, and that is a thing which I never pardon.’

The colonel left the Horse Guards in a very crest-fallen state, and he was hardly surprised when he saw in the next _Gazette_ the announcement that ‘His Majesty had no further need of his services.’

In the meantime the Duke had obtained a special audience of the Prince Regent, to whom he explained the condition of affairs in connection with the regiment in question. The result of the interview was that Colonel A——, a well-known martinet, then on half-pay, was sent for, and the circumstances explained to him; the Prince offering him the command of the regiment on condition that he would undertake to cure the duelling propensities of its officers. Colonel A—— was delighted at the prospect of active service, and he willingly accepted the task assigned to him, it being understood that he was to be granted a royal indemnity for anything serious which might happen to anybody else in his endeavours to put a stop to the duelling. He was a man of high reputation, and had previously held other difficult commands, being known throughout the army as a good soldier but a stern disciplinarian.

Such was the old soldier’s feelings at the special honour conferred on him that on leaving St James’s Palace he actually forgot to return the salute of the sentinels posted at the gates, to the great astonishment of the latter, who knew his punctilious habits.

On his arrival at the garrison he lost no time in making himself acquainted with his brother-officers. He had already laid out his plan of action in his own mind, and was fully determined to allow nothing to swerve him a hair’s-breadth from the path of duty. At the mess-table he behaved with studied politeness and amiability of manner; and his subordinates indicated that they were greatly pleased with their new commander. He chatted pleasantly with all, from the senior major down to the youngest ensign, and when the cloth was removed, regaled them with the latest gossip and doings of London society. Before they separated for the night, however, he took the opportunity of informing them in a very quiet manner, that he had heard of the frequent duels which had lately taken place in the corps, and that it seemed a matter of regret to him that they could not manage to live in peace and amity. ‘However,’ he said, ‘if it be your wish, gentlemen, to fight out your quarrels in this way, I shall interpose no obstacle to your doing so. But this can only be by your pledging your word of honour _now_, to the effect that in future no duel shall take place without my permission having been first obtained. As I am your colonel, it is necessary that my authority should be acknowledged in all that relates to the honour of the regiment.’

The officers looked at each other and then at the colonel, and a somewhat embarrassing silence ensued; but it was broken by Colonel A——, who said: ‘Don’t be afraid that I shall refuse your request; on the contrary, I shall only be too pleased to grant my permission if, on examining the facts of the case, I find sufficient reason to think that the applicant’s _amour propre_ has been wounded, and that a hostile meeting is indispensable.’

At these reassuring words the young fire-eaters were satisfied, and at once gave the promise demanded; and Colonel A—— then retired to his chamber, where, overcome with the fatigue of a rough voyage, he soon found himself snugly ensconced in the arms of Morpheus.

On the following morning he was rather rudely awakened from a refreshing slumber by a loud rapping at his chamber-door; and on challenging his early visitors, he was informed that it was Captain Lord Vellum and Ensign Warbottle who wished to speak to him on a matter of the gravest importance.

‘You might have chosen a more convenient hour for your visit, gentlemen,’ said the colonel, who was naturally loath to rise from his bed at five o’clock on the first morning after his voyage.

‘It is an “affair of honour,” colonel,’ was the significant reply, ‘and cannot be delayed. We beg you will admit us instantly.’

The colonel rose and opened the door to the early comers. They were two handsome young men, who had on the previous evening already attracted Colonel A——’s attention by the extreme friendliness which they exhibited for each other. They respectfully saluted their commanding officer as they entered the room, and the latter broke an awkward silence by demanding of them the object of their visit.

Ensign Warbottle again raised his hand in salute as he replied: ‘We have come to ask your permission to fight, colonel.’

‘Indeed!’ exclaimed Colonel A——. ‘I thought you were great friends.’

‘Yes, colonel, we have been most intimate friends from our youth upward,’ said Lord Vellum, ‘and we respect each other very sincerely; but we have had a dispute, and our wounded honour must be satisfied.’

‘Then I presume that something very serious must have occurred, gentlemen, to make the only remedy for it a recourse to the pistol?’

‘It is indeed a very serious matter, colonel,’ replied Ensign Warbottle; ‘and it is this. After you had left the table last night, we chatted over what you told us about the doings in London lately; and in the enthusiasm of the moment, I remarked that I should like to be there, riding at the head of a troop of Life Guards, and escorting the Prince Regent, with my silver helmet glittering in the sun and my drawn sword in my hand. Whereupon Lord Vellum said with a sneer that I was a feather-bed soldier, and that a leathern helmet would be quite good enough for such as I. I took no notice of this remark; but I was annoyed and excited; and when he further asserted that the officers of the Life Guards wore brass helmets, human nature could stand it no longer, and I gave him the lie. He retaliated by striking me on the face; an insult, Colonel A——, which justifies me, I think, in demanding a hostile meeting.’ The last words were said in a manner which admitted of only one meaning, and the two young officers exchanged glances of mutual hatred and defiance.

‘It is indeed grave, gentlemen,’ sententiously remarked the colonel: ‘the helmets worn by the officers of His Majesty’s Life Guards are neither silver nor brass, but white metal lacquered with silver-gilt; but this information will not, I presume, alter the position of affairs. Do you still wish to fight the question out?’

‘Certainly, sir!’ exclaimed the two officers.

‘Very well,’ replied the colonel gravely, ‘far be it from me to interpose any obstacle to your meeting, gentlemen; but this duel must be a serious one, as befits so important a question as the Life Guards’ helmets, and not an affair resulting in a mere scratch, as I am given to understand is generally the case in these mess quarrels. Remember that you are British officers and not Spanish bravoes, and that the honour of a British officer can only be vindicated by the death of his opponent. Go, gentlemen, and fight your duel; and I will meet the survivor on his return.’

The two young men saluted the colonel and retired. A few minutes afterwards, they and their seconds were seen hurrying off to the place of meeting—a spot which is known in the garrison to this day as ‘Duel Avenue.’

* * * * *

Three hours later, Colonel A—— went down into the parade-ground to inspect the regiment, and he was surprised to see both Lord Vellum and Ensign Warbottle amongst the officers who approached him to give their morning salute. The latter had his arm in a sling; and to the stern inquiry of Colonel A—— as to whether the duel had yet taken place, he replied, with a forced smile lighting up his face: ‘Yes, colonel; his lordship has given me a nasty scratch in the arm.’

‘A scratch in the arm!’ exclaimed the colonel contemptuously. ‘And do you call _that_ fighting, gentlemen—do you call _that_ fighting? And for so important a question as the helmets of His Majesty’s Life Guards! Bah! it is nothing! This matter must be fought over again, under pain of instant dismissal from the service if my order be disobeyed!’

‘But’—— began Lord Vellum, attempting to express his satisfaction at the reparation his wounded honour had received.

‘But me no _buts_, gentlemen!’ exclaimed the colonel angrily. ‘I have the Prince’s instructions on this point, and it is for _you_ to vindicate your own honour in a proper manner, or retire disgraced from His Majesty’s service.’

This alternative was one not to be thought of; and it need scarcely be said that the young fire-eaters chose rather to fight again than be cashiered. The duel was fought again, and this time Lord Vellum was shot through the body—a wound which laid him on a sick-bed for two months.

During this long period many quarrels had taken place at the mess-table, some of which had been settled by the colonel acting as ‘arbitrator;’ and others stood over for his permission to fight—a permission which he refused to grant until the result of Lord Vellum’s illness should become known. In the meantime Colonel A—— had communicated with the Duke of Wellington, from whom he received explicit instructions to carry the matter out to the bitter end, as the only means of putting a stop to a matter which was fast becoming a world-wide scandal.

Lord Vellum was carefully attended to during his illness by his ‘friend and enemy’ Ensign Warbottle, to whose efforts he not only owed his life, but was enabled at the end of the two months to take a short walk every morning. His recovery then proceeded rapidly, and he soon became enabled to walk without any support whatever.

The two friends were walking together one morning, when they suddenly found themselves face to face with Colonel A——.

‘Ah, gentlemen, good-morning!’ exclaimed the latter. ‘I am delighted to see his lordship out again, especially as it will now enable you to finish your _affaire d’honneur_ in a more satisfactory manner.’

The young officers, scarcely believing their own ears, were for a time struck dumb with astonishment, and they gazed at each other and at the colonel with looks of bewilderment and despair.

‘You see, gentlemen,’ said the colonel gravely, ‘that this question of the Life Guards’ helmets is of such importance that I deemed it advisable, since his lordship’s illness, to write to the Duke of Wellington on the subject; and I have here His Grace’s orders that the duel should be renewed again and again until the life of one of the combatants has been forfeited.’ As he spoke, Colonel A—— drew from the breast-pocket of his coatee a large letter, bearing on its envelope the words ‘On His Majesty’s Service’ in large black letters, and in one corner the notice in red ink, ‘Very Urgent.’

‘But,’ said the young ensign, ‘his lordship has not recovered yet; besides’——

‘When one can walk,’ interrupted the colonel, ‘one can also fire off a pistol; and it is not conducive to the interests and dignity of the service that so important a question as the equipment of His Majesty’s body-guard should any longer be left undecided.’

The two young officers, who had cemented their friendship anew during the period of illness, here took each other’s hands and gazed long and silently into each other’s face. Colonel A—— turned away to hide his emotion; for being really possessed of a kindly disposition, he began to regret the stern and unbending part he had been called upon to perform. Brushing the signs of his weakness away from his eyes, he turned once more towards the young officers and said: ‘Gentlemen, I have orders from England to supersede you in the regiment to which we all have the honour to belong; and I am only to waive the execution of these orders on condition that the duel is renewed, as already stated. Your honour is absolutely in your own hands, and you must choose your own course. I leave you to decide, gentlemen, what that course shall be, and bid you for the present adieu.’ So saying, the colonel left the two friends to decide upon their own fate. They ultimately decided to consult with their brother-officers on the subject, and to be guided by the general opinion. This opinion turned out to be in favour of another fight; and they once more proceeded to the place of meeting, each mentally resolving not to injure the other, but each exchanging portraits and letters for their friends. The fatal weapons were discharged, and Ensign Warbottle fell to the earth with a shot buried in his heart.

The grief of Lord Vellum knew no bounds, for he had been led to believe that the balls had been withdrawn from the pistols. He threw himself on the inanimate body of his friend, and could with great difficulty be removed therefrom. At length he was conducted to the house of a married officer; and from there he indited a letter to Colonel A——, tendering his resignation, and reproaching the latter with the death of his friend.

The same afternoon, Colonel A—— assembled the other officers, and addressing himself especially to those whose applications to fight were in suspension, declared himself ready to grant one more permission on the same conditions as the other, namely that ‘for honour’s sake’ the combatants should fight to the death. In the pause which ensued, one officer after another saluted the colonel respectfully, and then retired as silently as they came, leaving him alone in the mess-room and master of the situation.

It was a rude lesson which these officers had received, but it fully accomplished its purpose, and from that day to this duelling has been almost unknown in the British army.

‘SUPERS’ ON THE STAGE.

Supernumeraries on the stage, ordinarily called ‘supers,’ receive a small pay, but are not reckoned within the rôle of actors. They make up a crowd, when a crowd is wanted in the piece, and so on. Though viewed as a kind of nobodies, they cannot be done without, and managers need to take care not to give them offence.

These humble players have been aptly described as serfs of the stage, for whom there is no manumission. Let them work as hard as they will, play their parts as well as they may, their merits meet scant recognition either before or behind the curtain. For the wage of some threepence an hour, they have to submit to being bullied and badgered, and put to all manner of personal discomfort. Still, with a sense of inferiority, the super considers himself an actor. He treads but the lowest rung; but his foot _is_ on the theatrical ladder. The climbers above may superciliously ignore the connection; but he feels that he too is an actor, and sometimes asserts his fellowship; like the poverty-stricken fellow who publicly hailed David Garrick as his ‘dear colleague,’ on the score that it was his crowing that made the ghost of buried Denmark start like a guilty thing upon a fearful summons; and the less obtrusive super who, when told of Macready’s death, exclaimed: ‘Ah! another of us gone!’

It is recorded that a French super playing an assistant-footman in a popular _opéra-bouffe_ for the first time, fell down in a fit, brought on by the excitement consequent upon his having to ‘create the rôle.’ Too much zeal is always inconvenient. At a performance not very long since of _Richard III._, the armies contending at Bosworth were so carried away by professional ardour that the mimic fray came very near the real thing; and one gallant archer introduced himself to the manager’s notice with an arrow through his nose, so astonishing that gentleman that he salved the wound with half a sovereign. The next evening the casualties rose to such alarming proportions, that a like treatment would have well-nigh exhausted the treasury.

Such realistic combats would have delighted Forrest the American tragedian, famous for his ‘powerful’ acting. Rehearsing the part of a brave Roman warrior at the Albany Theatre, Forrest stormed at the representatives of the minions of a tyrant for not attacking him with sufficient spirit. At last the captain of the supers inquired if he wanted to make ‘a bully-fight of it,’ and received an affirmative answer. Evening came, and in due course the fighting scene was reached. Forrest ‘took the stage,’ and the half-dozen myrmidons advanced against him in skirmishing order. ‘Seize him!’ cried the tyrant. Striking a pugilistic attitude, the first minion hit out from the shoulder, and gave the Roman hero a fair ‘facer;’ the second minion following up with a well-judged kick from behind; while the others rushed in for a bout at close-quarters. The eyes of the astounded actor flashed fire; there was a short scrimmage of seven, and then one super went head first into the big drum and stopped there, four retired behind the scenes to have their wounds dressed, and the last of the valiant crew finding himself somehow up in the flies, rushed out upon the roof of the theatre bawling ‘Fire!’ with all the energy left him; while the breathless tragedian was bowing his acknowledgments of the enthusiastic plaudits of the excited audience.

Considering how often the super changes his nationality, one would expect him to be too thorough a cosmopolitan to cherish any insular or continental prejudices. They nevertheless have their sympathies and antipathies. ‘Shure, sir,’ said an Irishman who had for some nights died a glorious death fighting for Fatherland, ‘it’s mighty onpleasant to have to be a German; I’d rather play a Frenchman.’ He had to be contented by receiving the manager’s assurance that if he continued to work up his agony well, he might be permitted to change his uniform at the end of the month. Greater success awaited a stalwart navvy, who after crossing the Danube several times at Alexandra Park, declared he must ‘chuck it up’ if he could not be a Turk. His desire was granted; and the next afternoon he was pitching Russians into the water with a will.

In the old days of the Paris Cirque, a rule is said to have obtained, compelling supers who had incurred the management’s displeasure to go on as ‘the enemy,’ destined to succumb to native valour, by which means the difficulty of getting men to appear as the foes of France was obviated. When the _Battle of Waterloo_ was first produced on the English stage, in one of the battle-scenes the French troops drove a British division across the mimic field. This was done for a few nights. One morning, after rehearsal, the leader of the supernumerary red-coat corps, gathering his followers around him, said: ‘Boys, we mustn’t retreat before the Johnny Crapauds again, to be goosed by the pit. It’s all very well at rehearsal, but when it comes to real acting it won’t do. Let us turn upon the yelling demons and pitch them into the pit!’ And they did it too, astonishing the ‘Frenchmen,’ to say nothing of the audience; as greatly as Mr George Jones was once astonished by certain theatrical pirates. He, as an American sailor, had to rescue a fair captive from the clutches of the aforesaid ruffians. Unfortunately he had contrived to mortally offend the four supers concerned; and when he rushed to the lady’s aid with: ‘Come on, ye villains! One Yankee tar is more than a match for four lubberly sharks!’ instead of leading off in a broadsword fight, the pirate captain shouted: ‘I guess not!’ and seizing Jones by the legs and arms, the pirates carried him off the stage, deposited him in the property closet, and then returning, bore off the damsel to their rocky retreat; leaving the curtain to come down before a very much puzzled audience, to whom no explanation was vouchsafed.

Somebody—we think Mr Dutton Cook—tells a good story of an _accessoire_ once attached to the Porte St-Martin Theatre. M. Fombonne had won managerial praise for the adroitness with which he handed letters or coffee-cups upon a salver and his excellent manner of announcing the names of stage-guests and visitors. Naturally enough, he thought his services might be more liberally rewarded, and made his thought known.

‘Monsieur Fombonne,’ said the manager, ‘I acknowledge the justice of your application. I admire and esteem you. You are one of the most useful members of my company. I well know your worth; no one better.’

Glowing with pleasure at this recognition of his merits, M. Fombonne, with one of his best bows, said: ‘I may venture then to hope’——

‘By all means, Monsieur Fombonne,’ interrupted the manager. ‘Hope sustains us under all our afflictions. Always hope. For my part, hope is the only thing left me. Business is wretched. The treasury is empty. I cannot possibly raise your salary. But you are an artist, and therefore above pecuniary considerations. I do not, I cannot offer you money; but I can gratify a laudable ambition. Hitherto you have ranked only as an _accessoire_; from this time you are an actor. I give you the right of entering the _grand foyer_. You are permitted to call Monsieur Lemaitre _mon camarade_; to _tutoyer_ Mademoiselle Theodorine. I am sure, Monsieur Fombonne, that you will thoroughly appreciate the distinction I have conferred upon you.’ The manager read his man rightly; the promoted _accessoire_ was more than satisfied.

Not so well pleased was the English super who asked for a rise, pleading that he had been playing his part with the utmost care and zeal for a hundred consecutive nights. The manager inquired what part he played.

‘Why, sir,’ said he, ‘I am in the fourth act; I have to stake twenty pounds in the gambling scene.’

‘Very well,’ quoth the manager; ‘from to-night you shall double the stakes.’

Was it the same manager, we wonder, to whom Mr Sala’s small super came crying for a redress of his grievance? He had been cast to play ‘double-four’ in a pantomimic game of animated dominoes; but the dresser had allotted ‘double-four’ to his brother Jim, and insisted upon his being contented with donning the tabard of ‘four and a blank.’ He had protested, he had howled, he had punched Jim’s head, without effect.

‘What am I to do?’ the little pantomimist cried. ‘I’d sooner give up the profession, than be took down so many pegs without never ’avin done nuffin.’

‘Never mind, my boy,’ replied the amused stage-manager; ‘you shall play double-four; and if you behave yourself properly till Boxing Night you shall play double-six.’

That little fellow would never have made such a mess of his ‘business’ as did a street urchin who made his first appearance on any stage under the auspices of Mr J. C. Williamson, when the latter was playing _Struck Oil_ in a country town. Led on by the ear by Lizzie Stofel, and asked: ‘What for you call me Dutchy?’ the debutant blurted out: ‘Cause you told me to!’—to the immense delight of the house. As soon as the act was over, he was told he might go in front; and before any one could stop him, he pulled back the curtain, climbed over the footlights into the orchestra, and coolly left the theatre.

At a performance of _Norma_ at the Cork Theatre, in which Cruvelli played the heroine, the little daughters of the carpenter were pressed into service to represent the children of the priestess. As the curtain drew up on the second act they were seen lying on Norma’s couch quiet enough, for they were frightened nearly to death by the glare of light, the noise in front, and their unaccustomed surroundings. Their fright increased as Norma vented her jealous rage in recitative; and when, dagger in hand, she rushed towards them, they gave a shriek, tumbled off their couch, and ran off the stage as fast as their legs would take them, while the theatre rang with laughter, and Norma herself was fain to sit down until she had recovered from the effect of the unexpected episode.

Boleno the clown never evoked heartier merriment than that caused by his first appearance in public as one of the ‘principal waves’ in the nautical piece _Paul Jones_. It was at Sadler’s Wells Theatre, soon after the ‘real water,’ for which that house was long famous, had given place to the conventional canvas sea with its wave-rolling boys underneath. The last scene represented the ocean, bearing on its expanse of waters two ships preparing for action. The waves rolled as the boys bobbed up and down, and all would have gone well, had not Master Harry discovered a small hole in the canvas above him. Into this hole he put two fingers, intending to take a peep at the front of the house. The rotten stuff gave way; the waters of the Atlantic divided, and disclosed a small head besmeared with blue paint—the result of friction against the painted cloth. Catching sight of this, young Joe Grimaldi, who was the captain in command of one of the vessels, called out: ‘Man overboard!’ while the stage-carpenter shook his fist at the appalled offender, causing that luckless young rascal to disappear from view, and bob with such vigour at a remote distance, that a sudden storm seemed to have broken over the ocean far away.