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Next day Alfred came to know his fate. He was received with ceremonious
courtesy. At first he was a good deal embarrassed, but this was no sooner
seen than it was relieved by Mrs. Dodd with tact and gentleness. When her
turn came, she said, "Your papa? Of course you have communicated this
step to him?"

Alfred looked a little confused, and said, "No: he left for London two
days ago, as it happens."

"That is unfortunate," said Mrs. Dodd. "Your best plan would be to write
to him at once. I need hardly tell you that we shall enter no family
without an invitation from its head."

Alfred replied that he was well aware of that, and that he knew his
father, and could answer for him. "No doubt," said Mrs. Dodd, "but, as a
matter of reasonable form, I prefer he should answer for himself." Alfred
would write by this post. "It is a mere form," said he, "for my father
has but one answer to his children, 'Please yourselves.' He sometimes
adds, 'and how much money shall you want?' These are his two formulae."

He then delivered a glowing eulogy on his father; and Mrs. Dodd, to whom
the boy's character was now a grave and anxious study, saw with no common
satisfaction his cheek flush and his eyes moisten as he dwelt on the
calm, sober, unvarying affection, and reasonable indulgence he and his
sister had met with all their lives from the best of parents. Returning
to the topic of topics, he proposed an engagement. "I have a ring in my
pocket," said this brisk wooer, looking down. But this Mrs. Dodd thought
premature and unnecessary. "You are nearly of age," said she, "and then
you will be able to marry, if you are in the same mind." But, upon being
warmly pressed, she half conceded even this. "Well," said she, "on
receiving your father's consent, you can _propose_ an engagement to
Julia, and she shall use her own judgment; but, until then, you will not
even mention such a thing to her. May I count on so much forbearance from
you, sir?"

"Dear Mrs. Dodd," said Alfred, "of course you may. I should indeed be
ungrateful if I could not wait a post for that. May I write to my father
here?" added he, naively.

Mrs. Dodd smiled, furnished him with writing materials, and left him,
with a polite excuse.

"ALBION VILLA, _September 29._

"MY DEAR FATHER,--You are too thorough a man of the world, and too well
versed in human nature, to be surprised at hearing that I, so long
invulnerable, have at last formed a devoted attachment to one whose
beauty, goodness, and accomplishments I will not now enlarge upon; they
are indescribable, and you will very soon see them and judge for
yourself. The attachment, though short in weeks and months, has been a
very long one in hopes, and fears, and devotion. I should have told you
of it before you left, but in truth I had no idea I was so near the goal
of all my earthly hopes; there were many difficulties: but these have
just cleared away almost miraculously, and nothing now is wanting to my
happiness but your consent. It would be affectation, or worse, in me to
doubt that you will grant it. But, in a matter so delicate, I venture to
ask you for something more: the mother of my ever and only beloved Julia
is a lady of high breeding and sentiments: she will not let her daughter
enter any family without a cordial invitation from its head. Indeed she
has just told me so. I ask, therefore, not your bare consent, of which I
am sure, since my happiness for life depends on it, but a consent so
gracefully worded--and who can do this better than you?--as to gratify
the just pride and sensibilities of the high-minded family about to
confide its brightest ornament to my care.

"My dear father, in the midst of felicity almost more than mortal, the
thought has come that this letter is my first step towards leaving the
paternal roof under which I have been so happy all my life, thanks to
you. I should indeed be unworthy of all your goodness if this thought
caused me no emotion.

"Yet I do but yield to Nature's universal law. And, should I be master of
my own destiny, I will not go far from you. I have been unjust to
Barkington: or rather I have echoed, without thought, Oxonian prejudices
and affectation. On mature reflection, I know no better residence for a
married man.

"Do you remember about a year ago you mentioned a Miss Lucy Fountain to
us as 'the most perfect gentlewoman you had ever met?' Well, strange to
say, it is that very lady's daughter; and I think when you see her you
will say the breed has anything but declined, in spite of Horace mind his
_'damnosa quid non.'_ Her brother is my dearest friend, and she is
Jenny's; so a more happy alliance for all parties was never projected.

"Write to me by return, dear father, and believe me, ever your dutiful
and grateful son,

"ALFRED HARDlE."

As he concluded, Julia came in, and he insisted on her reading this
masterpiece. She hesitated. Then he told her with juvenile severity that
a good husband always shares his letters with his wife.

"His wife! Alfred!" and she coloured all over. "Don't call me _names,_"
said she, turning it off after her fashion. "I can't bear it: it makes me
tremble. With fury."

"This will never do, sweet one," said Alfred gravely. "You and I are to
have no separate existence now; you are to be I, and I am to be you.
Come!"

"No; you read me so much of it as is proper for me to hear. I shall not
like it so well from your lips: but never mind."

When he came to read it, he appreciated the delicacy that had tempered
her curiosity. He did not read it all to her, but nearly.

"It is a beautiful letter," said she; "a little pomposer than mamma and I
write. 'The paternal roof!' But all that becomes you; you are a scholar:
and, dear Alfred, if I should separate you from your papa, I will never
estrange you from him; oh, never, never. May I go for my work? For
methinks, O most erudite, the 'maternal dame,' on domestic cares intent,
hath confided to her offspring the recreation of your highness." The gay
creature dropt him a curtsey, and fled to tell Mrs. Dodd the substance of
"the sweet letter the dear high-flown Thing had written."

By then he had folded and addressed it, she returned and brought her
work: charity children's great cloaks: her mother had cut them, and in
the height of the fashion, to Jane Hardie's dismay; and Julia was
binding, hooding, etcetering them.

How demurely she bent her lovely head over her charitable work, while
Alfred poured his tale into her ears! How careful she was not to speak,
when there was a chance of his speaking! How often she said one thing so
as to express its opposite, a process for which she might have taken out
a patent! How she and Alfred compared heart-notes, and their feelings at
each stage of their passion! Their hearts put forth tendril after
tendril, and so curled, and clung, round each other.

In the afternoon of the second blissful day, Julia suddenly remembered
that this was dull for her mother. To have such a thought was to fly to
her; and she flew so swiftly that she caught Mrs. Dodd in tears, and
trying adroitly and vainly to hide them.

"What is the matter? I am a wretch. I have left you alone."

Do not think me so peevish, love! you have but surprised the natural
regrets of a mother at the loss of her child."

"Oh, mamma," said Julia, warmly, "and do you think all the marriage in
the world can ever divide you and me--can make me lukewarm to my own
sweet, darling, beautiful, blessed, angel mother? Look at me: I am as
much your Julia as ever; and shall be while I live. Your son is your son
till he gets him a wife: but your daughter's your daughter,
ALL--THE----DAYS--OF HER LIFE.

Divine power of native eloquence: with this trite distich you made
hexameters tame; it gushed from that great young heart with a sweet
infantine ardour, that even virtue can only pour when young, and youth
when virtuous; and, at the words I have emphasised by the poor device of
capitals, two lovely, supple arms flew wide out like a soaring
albatross's wings, and then went all round the sad mother, and gathered
every bit of her up to the generous young bosom.

"I know it, I know it!" cried Mrs. Dodd, kissing her; I shall never lose
my daughter while she breathes. But I am losing my child. You are turning
to a woman visibly: and you were such a happy child. Hence my misgivings,
and these weak tears, which you have dried with a word: see!" And she
contrived to smile. "And now go down, dearest: he may be impatient; men's
love is so fiery."

The next day Mrs. Dodd took Julia apart and asked her whether there was
an answer from Mr. Hardie. Julia replied, from Alfred, that Jane had
received a letter last night, and, to judge by the contents, Mr. Hardie
must have left London before Alfred's letter got there. "He is gone to
see poor Uncle Thomas."

"Why do you call him 'poor?'"

"Oh, he is not very clever; has not much mind, Alfred says; indeed,
hardly any."

"You alarm me, Julia!" cried Mrs. Dodd. "What? madness in the family you
propose to marry into?"

"Oh no, mamma," said Julia, in a great hurry; "no madness; only a little
imbecility."

Mrs. Dodd's lip curved at this Julian answer; but just then her mind was
more drawn to another topic. A serious doubt passed through her, whether,
if Mr. Hardie did not write soon, she ought not to limit his son's
attendance on her daughter. "He follows her about like a little dog,"
said she half fretfully.

Next day, by previous invitation, Dr. Sampson made Albion Villa his
head-quarters. Darting in from London, he found Alfred sitting very close
to Julia over a book.

"Lordsake!" cried he, "here's 'my puppy,' and 'm' enthusiast,' cheek by
chowl." Julia turned scarlet, and Alfred ejaculated so loudly, that
Sampson inquired "what on airth was the matter now?"

"Oh, nothing; only here have I been jealous of my own shadow, and
pestering her who 'your puppy' was: and she never would tell me. All I
could get from her," added he, turning suddenly from gratitude to
revenge, "was that he was no greater a puppy than yourself, doctor."

"Oh, Alfred, no; I only said no vainer," cried Julia in dismay.

"Well, it is true," said Sampson contentedly, and proceeded to dissect
himself just as he would a stranger. "I am a vain man; a remarkably vain
man. But then I'm a man of great mirit."

"All vain people are that," suggested Alfred dryly.

"Who should know better than you, young Oxford? Y' have got a hidache."

"No, indeed."

"Don't tell lies now. Ye can't deceive me; man, I've an eye like a hawk.
And what's that ye're studying with her? Ovid, for a pound."

"No; medicine; a treatise on your favourite organ, the brain, by one Dr.
Whately."

"He is chaffing you, doctor," said Edward; "it is logic. He is coaching
her; and then she will coach me."

"Then I forbid the chaff-cutting, young Pidant. Logic is an ill plaster
to a sore head."

"Oh, 'the labour we delight in, physics pain.'"

"Jinnyus, Jinnyus;
Take care o' your carkuss,"

retorted the master of doggrel. "And that is a profounder remark than you
seem to think, by your grinning, all of ye."

Julia settled the question by putting away the book. And she murmured to
Alfred, "I wish I could steal your poor dear headaches: you might give me
half of them at least; you would, too, if you really loved me."

This sound remonstrance escaped criticism by being nearly inaudible, and
by Mrs. Dodd entering at the same moment.

After the first greeting, Sampson asked her with merry arrogance, how his
prescription had worked? "Is her sleep broken still, ma'am? Are her
spirits up and down? Shall we have to go back t' old Short and his black
draught? How's her mookis membrin? And her biliary ducks? an'-- she's off
like a flash."

"And no wonder," said Mrs. Dodd reproachfully.

Thus splashed Sampson among the ducks: one of them did not show her face
again till dinner.

Jane Hardie accompanied her brother by invitation. The general amity was
diversified and the mirth nowise lessened by constant passages of arms
between Messrs. Sampson and Alfred Hardie.

After tea came the first _contretemps._ Sampson liked a game of cards: he
could play, yet talk chronothermalism, as the fair can knit babies' shoes
and imbibe the poetasters of the day.

Mrs. Dodd had asked Edward to bring a fresh pack. He was seen by his
guardian angel to take them out of his pocket and undo them; presently
Sampson, in his rapid way, clutched hold of them; and found a slip of
paper curled round the ace of spades, with this written very clear in
pencil,

"REMEMBER THY CREATOR IN THE DAYS OF THY YOUTH!"

"What is this?" cried Sampson, and read it out aloud. Jane Hardie
coloured, and so betrayed herself. Her "word in season" had strayed. It
was the young and comely Edward she wished to save from the diabolical
literature, the painted perdition, and not the uninteresting old sinner
Sampson, who proceeded to justify her preference by remarking that
"Remember not to trump your partner's best card, ladies," would be more
to the point.

Everybody, except this hardened personage, was thoroughly uncomfortable.
As for Alfred, his face betrayed a degree of youthful mortification
little short of agony. Mrs. Dodd was profoundly disgusted, but
fortunately for the Hardies, caught sight of his burning cheeks and
compressed lips. "Dr. Sampson," said she, with cold dignity, "you will, I
am sure, oblige me by making no more comments; sincerity is not always
discreet; but it is always respectable: it is one of your own titles to
esteem. I dare say," added she with great sweetness, "our resources are
not so narrow that we need shock anybody's prejudices, and, as it
happens, I was just going to ask Julia to sing: open the piano, love, and
try if you can persuade Miss Hardie to join you in a duet."

At this, Jane and Julia had an earnest conversation at the piano, and
their words, uttered in a low voice, were covered by a contemporaneous
discussion between Sampson and Mrs. Dodd.

_Jane._ No, you must not ask me: I have forsworn these vanities. I have
not opened my piano this two years.

_Julia._ Oh, what a pity; music is so beautiful; and surely we can choose
our songs, as easily as our words; ah, how much more easily.

_Jane._ Oh, I don't go so far as to call music wicked: but music in
society is _such_ a snare. At least I found it so; my playing was highly
praised, and that stirred up vanity: and so did my singing, with which I
had even more reason to be satisfied. Snares! snares!

_Julia._ Goodness me! I don't find them so. Now you mention it, gentlemen
do praise one; but, dear me, they praise every lady, even when we have
been singing every other note out of tune. The little unmeaning
compliments of society, can they catch anything so great as a soul?

_Jane._ I pray daily not to be led into temptation, and shall I go into
it of my own accord?

_Julia._ Not if you find it a temptation. At that rate I ought to
decline.

_Jane._ That doesn't follow. My conscience is not a law to yours.
Besides, your mamma said "sing:" and a parent is not to be disobeyed upon
a doubt. If papa were to insist on my going to a ball even, or reading a
novel, I think I should obey; and lay the whole case before Him.

_Mrs. Dodd_ (from a distance). Come, my dears, Dr. Sampson is getting
_so_ impatient for your song.

_Sampson._ Hum! for all that, young ladies' singing is a poor substitute
for cards, and even for conversation.

_Mrs. Dodd._ That depends upon the singer, I presume.

_Sampson._ Mai-- dear--madam, they all sing alike; just as they all write
alike. I can hardly tell one fashionable tune from another; and nobody
can tell one word from another, when they cut out all the consonants. N'
listen me. This is what I heard sung by a lady last night.

Eu un Da' ei u aa an oo.
By oo eeeeyee aa
Vaullee, Vaullee, Vaullee, Vaullee,
Vaullee om is igh eeaa
An ellin in is ud.

_Mrs. Dodd._ That sounds like gibberish.

_Sampson._ It is gibberish, but it's Drydenish in articulating mouths. It
is--

He sung Darius great and good,
By too severe a fate
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
Fallen from his high estate,
And wiltering in his blood.

_Mrs. Dodd._ I think you exaggerate. I will answer for Julia that she
shall speak as distinctly to music as you do in conversation.

_Sampson_ (all unconscious of the tap). Time will show, madam. At prisent
they seem to be in no hurry to spatter us with their word-jelly. Does
some spark of pity linger in their marble bos'ms? or do they prefer
inaud'ble chit-chat t' inarticulate mewing?

Julia, thus pressed, sang one of those songs that come and go every
season. She spoke the words clearly, and with such variety and
intelligence, that Sampson recanted, and broke in upon the--" very pretty
"--"how sweet"--and "who is it by?" of the others, by shouting, "Very
weak trash very cleanly sung. Now give us something worth the wear and
tear of your orgins. Immortal vairse widded t' immortal sounds; that is
what I understand b' a song."

Alfred whispered, "No, no, dearest; sing something suitable to you and
me."

"Out of the question. Then go farther away, dear; I shall have more
courage."

He obeyed, and she turned over two or three music-books, and finally sung
from memory. She cultivated musical memory, having observed the contempt
with which men of sense visit the sorry pretenders to music, who are
tuneless and songless among the nightingales, and anywhere else away from
their books. How will they manage to sing in heaven? Answer me that.

The song Julia Dodd sang on this happy occasion, to meet the humble but
heterogeneous views of Messrs. Sampson and Hardie, was a simple eloquent
Irish song called Aileen Aroon. Whose history, by-the-bye, was a curious
one. Early in this century it occurred to somebody to hymn a son of
George the Third for his double merit in having been born, and going to a
ball. People who thus apply the fine arts in modern days are seldom
artists; accordingly, this parasite could not invent a melody; so he
coolly stole Aileen Aroon, soiled it by inserting sordid and incongruous
jerks into the refrain, and called the stolen and adulterated article
Robin Adair. An artisan of the same kidney was soon found to write words
down to the degraded ditty: and, so strong is Flunkeyism, and so weak is
Criticism, in these islands, that the polluted tune actually superseded
the clean melody; and this sort of thing--

Who was in uniform at the ball?
Silly Billy,

smothered the immortal lines.

But Mrs. Dodd's severe taste in music rejected those ignoble jerks, and
her enthusiastic daughter having the option to hymn immortal Constancy or
mortal Fat, decided thus:--

When like the early rose,
Aileen aroon,
Beauty in childhood glows,
Aileen aroon,

When like a diadem,
Buds blush around the stem,
Which is the fairest gem?
Aileen aroon.

Is it the laughing eye?
Aileen aroon.
Is it the timid sigh?
Aileen aroon.

Is it the tender tone?
Soft as the string'd harp's mean?
No; it is Truth alone,
Aileen aroon.

I know a valley fair,
Aileen aroon.
I know a cottage there,
Aileen aroon.

Far in that valley's shade,
I know a gentle maid,
Flower of the hazel glade,
Aileen aroon.

Who in the song so sweet?
Aileen aroon,
Who in the dance so fleet?
Aileen aroon.

Dear are her charms to me,
Dearer her laughter free,
Dearest her constancy.
Aileen aroon.

Youth must with time decay,
Aileen aroon,
Beauty must fade away,
Aileen aroon.

Castles are sacked in war,
Chieftains are scattered far,
Truth is a fixed star,
Aileen areon.

The way the earnest singer sang these lines is beyond the conception of
ordinary singers, public or private. Here one of nature's orators spoke
poetry to music with an eloquence as fervid and delicate as ever rung in
the Forum. She gave each verse with the same just variety as if she had
been reciting, and, when she came to the last, where the thought rises
abruptly, and is truly noble, she sang it with the sudden pathos, the
weight, and the swelling majesty, of a truthful soul hymning truth with
all its powers.

All the hearers, even Sampson, were thrilled, astonished, spell-bound: so
can one wave of immortal music and immortal verse (alas! how seldom they
meet!) heave the inner man when genius interprets. Judge, then, what it
was to Alfred, to whom, with these great words and thrilling tones of her
rich, swelling, ringing voice, the darling of his own heart vowed
constancy, while her inspired face beamed on him like an angel's.

Even Mrs. Dodd, though acquainted with the song, and with her daughter's
rare powers, gazed at her now with some surprise, as well as admiration,
and kept a note Sarah had brought her, open, but unread, in her hand,
unable to take her eyes from the inspired songstress. However, just
before the song ended, she did just glance down, and saw it was signed
Richard Hardie. On this her eye devoured it; and in one moment she saw
that the writer declined, politely but peremptorily, the proposed
alliance between his son and her daughter.

The mother looked up from this paper at that living radiance and
incarnate melody in a sort of stupor: it seemed hardly possible to her
that a provincial banker could refuse an alliance with a creature so
peerless as that. But so it was; and despite her habitual
self-government, Mrs. Dodd's white hand clenched the note till her nails
dented it; and she reddened to the brow with anger and mortification.

Julia, whom she had trained never to monopolise attention in society, now
left the piano in spite of remonstrance, and soon noticed her mother's
face; for from red it had become paler than usual. "Are you unwell,
dear?" said she _sotto voce._

"No, love."

"Is there anything the matter, then?"

"Hush! We have guests: our first duty is to them." With this Mrs. Dodd
rose, and, endeavouring not to look at her daughter at all, went round
and drew each of her guests out in turn. It was the very heroism of
courtesy; for their presence was torture to her. At last, to her infinite
relief, they went, and she was left alone with her children. She sent the
servants to bed, saying she would undress Miss Dodd, and accompanied her
to her room. There the first thing she did was to lock the door; and the
next was to turn round and look at her full.

"I always thought you the most lovable child I ever saw; but I never
admired you as I have to-night, my noble, my beautiful daughter, who
would grace the highest family in England." With this Mrs. Dodd began to
choke, and kissed Julia eagerly with the tears in her eyes, and drew her
with tender, eloquent defiance to her bosom.

"My own mamma," said Julia softly, "what has happened?"

"My darling, said Mrs. Dodd, trembling a little, "have you pride? have
you spirit?"

"I think I have."

"I hope so: for you will need them both. Read that!"

And she held out Mr. Hardie's letter, but turned her own head away, not
to see her girl's face under the insult.

CHAPTER VII

JULIA took Mr. Hardie's note and read it:--

"MADAM,--I have received a very juvenile letter from my son, by which I
learn he has formed a sudden attachment to your daughter. He tells me,
however, at the same time, that you await my concurrence before giving
your consent. I appreciate your delicacy; and it is with considerable
regret I now write to inform you this match is out of the question. I
have thought it due to you to communicate this to yourself and without
delay, and feel sure that you will, under the circumstances,
discountenance my son's further visits at your house--I am, Madam, with
sincere respect, your faithful servant,

"RICHARD HARDIE."

Julia read this letter, and re-read it in silence. It was an anxious
moment to the mother.

"Shall our pride be less than this _parvenu's?_" she faltered. "Tell me
yourself, what ought we to do?"

"What we ought to do is, never to let the name of Hardie be mentioned
again in this house."

This reply was very comforting to Mrs. Dodd.

"Shall I write to him, or do you feel strong enough?"

"I feel that, if I do, I may affront him. He had no right to pretend that
his father would consent. You write, and then we shall not lose our
dignity though we are insulted."

"I feel so weary, mamma. Life seems ended.

"I could have loved him well. And now show me how to tear him out of my
heart; or what will become of me?"

While Mrs. Dodd wrote to Alfred Hardie, Julia sank down and laid her head
on her mother's knees. The note was shown her; she approved it languidly.
A long and sad conversation followed; and, after kissing her mother and
clinging to her, she went to bed chilly and listless, but did not shed a
single tear. Her young heart was benumbed by the unexpected blow.

Next morning early, Alfred Hardie started gaily to spend the day at
Albion Villa. Not a hundred yards from the gate he met Sarah, with Mrs.
Dodd's letter, enclosing a copy of his father's to her. Mrs. Dodd here
reminded him that his visits had been encouraged only upon a
misapprehension of his father's sentiments; for which misapprehension he
was in some degree to blame: not that she meant to reproach him on that
score, especially at this unhappy moment: no, she rather blamed herself
for listening to the sanguine voice of youth; but the error must now be
repaired. She and Julia would always wish him well, and esteem him,
provided he made no further attempt to compromise a young lady who could
not be his wife. The note concluded thus--