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a betting-book. Had openly acknowledged, in English society, that

  he didn't think the barking of a pack of hounds the finest music

  in the world. Could go to foreign parts, and see a mountain which

  nobody had ever got to the top of yet--and didn't instantly feel

  his honor as an Englishman involved in getting to the top of it

  himself. Such people may, and do, exist among the inferior races

  of the Continent. Let us thank Heaven, Sir, that England never

  has been, and never will be, the right place for them!

  Arrived at Nagle's Hotel, and finding nobody to inquire of in the

  hall, Julius applied to the young lady who sat behind the window

  of "the bar." The young lady was reading something so deeply

  interesting in the evening newspaper that she never even heard

  him. Julius went into the coffee-room.

  The waiter, in his corner, was absorbed over a second newspaper.

  Three gentlemen, at three different tables, were absorbed in a

  third, fourth, and fifth newspaper. They all alike went on with

  their reading without noticing the entrance of the stranger.

  Julius ventured on disturbing the waiter by asking for Mr.

  Geoffrey Delamayn. At the sound of that illustrious name the

  waiter looked up with a start. "Are you Mr. Delamayn's brother,

  Sir?"

  "Yes."

  The three gentlemen at the tables looked up with a start. The

  light of Geoffrey's celebrity fell, reflected, on Geoffrey's

  brother, and made a public character of him.

  "You'll find Mr. Geoffrey, Sir," said the waiter, in a flurried,

  excited manner, "at the Cock and Bottle, Putney."

  "I expected to find him here. I had an appointment with him at

  this hotel."

  The wait er opened his eyes on Julius with an expression of blank

  astonishment. "Haven't you heard the news, Sir?"

  "No!"

  "God bless my soul!" exclaimed the waiter--and offered the

  newspaper.

  "God bless my soul!" exclaimed the three gentlemen--and offered

  the three newspapers.

  "What is it?" asked Julius.

  "What is it?" repeated the waiter, in a hollow voice. "The most

  dreadful thing that's happened in my time. It's all up, Sir, with

  the great Foot-Race at Fulham. Tinkler has gone stale."

  The three gentlemen dropped solemnly back into their three

  chairs, and repeated the dreadful intelligence, in

  chorus--"Tinkler has gone stale."

  A man who stands face to face with a great national disaster, and

  who doesn't understand it, is a man who will do wisely to hold

  his tongue and enlighten his mind without asking other people to

  help him. Julius accepted the waiter's newspaper, and sat down to

  make (if possible) two discoveries: First, as to whether

  "Tinkler" did, or did not, mean a man. Second, as to what

  particular form of human affliction you implied when you

  described that man as "gone stale."

  There was no difficulty in finding the news. It was printed in

  the largest type, and was followed by a personal statement of the

  facts, taken one way--which was followed, in its turn, by another

  personal statement of the facts, taken in another way. More

  particulars, and further personal statements, were promised in

  later editions. The royal salute of British journalism thundered

  the announcement of Tinkler's staleness before a people prostrate

  on the national betting book.

  Divested of exaggeration, the facts were few enough and simple

  enough. A famous Athletic Association of the North had challenged

  a famous Athletic Association of the South. The usual "Sports"

  were to take place--such as running, jumping, "putting" the

  hammer, throwing cricket-balls, and the like--and the whole was

  to wind up with a Foot-Race of unexampled length and difficulty

  in the annals of human achievement between the two best men on

  either side. "Tinkler" was the best man on the side of the South.

  "Tinkler" was backed in innumerable betting-books to win. And

  Tinkler's lungs had suddenly given way under stress of training!

  A prospect of witnessing a prodigious achievement in foot-racing,

  and (more important still) a prospect of winning and losing large

  sums of money, was suddenly withdrawn from the eyes of the

  British people. The "South" could produce no second opponent

  worthy of the North out of its own associated resources.

  Surveying the athletic world in general, but one man existed who

  might possibly replace "Tinkler"--and it was doubtful, in the

  last degree, whether he would consent to come forward under the

  circumstances. The name of that man--Julius read it with

  horror--was Geoffrey Delamayn.

  Profound silence reigned in the coffee-room. Julius laid down the

  newspaper, and looked about him. The waiter was busy, in his

  corner, with a pencil and a betting-book. The three gentlemen

  were busy, at the three tables, with pencils and betting-books.

  "Try and persuade him!" said the waiter, piteously, as Delamayn's

  brother rose to leave the room.

  "Try and persuade him!" echoed the three gentlemen, as Delamayn's

  brother opened the door and went out.

  Julius called a cab. and told the driver (busy with a pencil and

  a betting-book) to go to the Cock and Bottle, Putney. The man

  brightened into a new being at the prospect. No need to hurry

  him; he drove, unasked, at the top of his horse's speed.

  As the cab drew near to its destination the signs of a great

  national excitement appeared, and multiplied. The lips of a

  people pronounced, with a grand unanimity, the name of "Tinkler."

  The heart of a people hung suspended (mostly in the public

  houses) on the chances for and against the possibility of

  replacing "Tinkler" by another man. The scene in front of the inn

  was impressive in the highest degree. Even the London blackguard

  stood awed and quiet in the presence of the national calamity.

  Even the irrepressible man with the apron, who always turns up to

  sell nuts and sweetmeats in a crowd, plied his trade in silence,

  and found few indeed (to the credit of the nation be it spoken)

  who had the heart to crack a nut at such a time as this. The

  police were on the spot, in large numbers, and in mute sympathy

  with the people, touching to see. Julius, on being stopped at the

  door, mentioned his name--and received an ovation. His brother!

  oh, heavens, his brother! The people closed round him, the people

  shook hands with him, the people invoked blessings on his head.

  Julius was half suffocated, when the police rescued him, and

  landed him safe in the privileged haven on the inner side of the

  public house door. A deafening tumult broke out, as he entered,

  from the regions above stairs. A distant voice screamed, "Mind

  yourselves!" A hatless shouting man tore down through the people

  congregated on the stairs. "Hooray! Hooray! He's promised to do

  it! He's entered for the race!" Hundreds on hundreds of voices

  took up the cry. A roar of cheering burst from the people

  outside. Reporters for the newspapers raced, in frantic

  procession, out of th
e inn, and rushed into cabs to put the news

  in print. The hand of the landlord, leading Julius carefully up

  stairs by the arm, trembled with excitement. "His brother,

  gentlemen! his brother!" At those magic words a lane was made

  through the throng. At those magic words the closed door of the

  council-chamber flew open; and Julius found himself among the

  Athletes of his native country, in full parliament assembled. Is

  any description of them needed? The description of Geoffrey

  applies to them all. The manhood and muscle of England resemble

  the wool and mutton of England, in this respect, that there is

  about as much variety in a flock of athletes as in a flock of

  sheep. Julius looked about him, and saw the same man in the same

  dress, with the same health, strength, tone, tastes, habits,

  conversation, and pursuits, repeated infinitely in every part of

  the room. The din was deafening; the enthusiasm (to an

  uninitiated stranger) something at once hideous and terrifying to

  behold. Geoffrey had been lifted bodily on to the table, in his

  chair, so as to be visible to the whole room. They sang round

  him, they danced round him, they cheered round him, they swore

  round him. He was hailed, in mandlin terms of endearment, by

  grateful giants with tears in their eyes. "Dear old man!"

  "Glorious, noble, splendid, beautiful fellow!" They hugged him.

  They patted him on the back. They wrung his hands. They prodded

  and punched his muscles. They embraced the noble legs that were

  going to run the unexampled race. At the opposite end of the

  room, where it was physically impossible to get near the hero,

  the enthusiasm vented itself in feats of strength and acts of

  destruction. Hercules I. cleared a space with his elbows, and

  laid down--and Hercules II. took him up in his teeth. Hercules

  III. seized the poker from the fireplace, and broke it on his

  arm. Hercules IV. followed with the tongs, and shattered them on

  his neck. The smashing of the furniture and the pulling down of

  the house seemed likely to succeed--when Geoffrey's eye lighted

  by accident on Julius, and Geoffrey's voice, calling fiercely for

  his brother, hushed the wild assembly into sudden attention, and

  turned the fiery enthusiasm into a new course. Hooray for his

  brother! One, two, three--and up with his brother on our

  shoulders! Four five, six--and on with his brother, over our

  heads, to the other end of the room! See, boys--see! the hero has

  got him by the collar! the hero has lifted him on the table! The

  hero heated red-hot with his own triumph, welcomes the poor

  little snob cheerfully, with a volley of oaths. "Thunder and

  lightning! Explosion and blood! What's up now, Julius? What's up

  now?"

  Julius recovered his breath, and arranged his coat. The quiet

  little man, who had just muscle enough to lift a dictionary from

  the shelf, and just training enough to play the fiddle, so far

  from being daunted by the rough reception accorded to him,

  appeared to feel no other sentiment in relation to it than a

  sentiment of unmitigated conte mpt.

  "You're not frightened, are you?" said Geoffrey. "Our fellows are

  a roughish lot, but they mean well."

  "I am not frightened," answered Julius. "I am only

  wondering--when the Schools and Universities of England turn out

  such a set of ruffians as these--how long the Schools and

  Universities of England will last."

  "Mind what you are about, Julius! They'll cart you out of window

  if they hear you."

  "They will only confirm my opinion of them, Geoffrey, if they

  do."

  Here the assembly, seeing but not hearing the colloquy between

  the two brothers, became uneasy on the subject of the coming

  race. A roar of voices summoned Geoffrey to announce it, if there

  was any thing wrong. Having pacified the meeting, Geoffrey turned

  again to his brother, and asked him, in no amiable mood, what the

  devil he wanted there?

  "I want to tell you something, before I go back to Scotland,"

  answered Julius. "My father is willing to give you a last chance.

  If you don't take it, _my_ doors are closed against you as well

  as _his._"

  Nothing is more remarkable, in its way, than the sound

  common-sense and admirable self-restraint exhibited by the youth

  of the present time when confronted by an emergency in which

  their own interests are concerned. Instead of resenting the tone

  which his brother had taken with him, Geoffrey instantly

  descended from the pedestal of glory on which he stood, and

  placed himself without a struggle in the hands which vicariously

  held his destiny--otherwise, the hands which vicariously held the

  purse. In five minutes more the meeting had been dismissed, with

  all needful assurances relating to Geoffrey's share in the coming

  Sports--and the two brothers were closeted together in one of the

  private rooms of the inn.

  "Out with it!" said Geoffrey. "And don't be long about it."

  "I won't be five minutes," replied Julius. "I go back to-night by

  the mail-train; and I have a great deal to do in the mean time.

  Here it is, in plain words: My father consents to see you again,

  if you choose to settle in life--with his approval. And my mother

  has discovered where you may find a wife. Birth, beauty, and

  money are all offered to you. Take them--and you recover your

  position as Lord Holchester's son. Refuse them--and you go to

  ruin your own way."

  Geoffrey's reception of the news from home was not of the most

  reassuring kind. Instead of answering he struck his fist

  furiously on the table, and cursed with all his heart some absent

  woman unnamed.

  "I have nothing to do with any degrading connection which you may

  have formed," Julius went on. "I have only to put the matter

  before you exactly as it stands, and to leave you to decide for

  yourself. The lady in question was formerly Miss Newenden--a

  descendant of one of the oldest families in England. She is now

  Mrs. Glenarm--the young widow (and the childless widow) of the

  great iron-master of that name. Birth and fortune--she unites

  both. Her income is a clear ten thousand a year. My father can

  and will, make it fifteen thousand, if you are lucky enough to

  persuade her to marry you. My mother answers for her personal

  qualities. And my wife has met her at our house in London. She is

  now, as I hear, staying with some friends in Scotland; and when I

  get back I will take care that an invitation is sent to her to

  pay her next visit at my house. It remains, of course, to be seen

  whether you are fortunate enough to produce a favorable

  impression on her. In the mean time you will be doing every thing

  that my father can ask of you, if you make the attempt."

  Geoffrey impatiently dismissed that part of the question from all

  consideration.

  "If she don't cotton to a man who's going to run in the Great

  Race at Fulham," he said, "there are plenty as good as she is who

  will! That's not the difficulty. Bo
ther _that!_"

  "I tell you again, I have nothing to do with your difficulties,"

  Julius resumed. "Take the rest of the day to consider what I have

  said to you. If you decide to accept the proposal, I shall expect

  you to prove you are in earnest by meeting me at the station

  to-night. We will travel back to Scotland together. You will

  complete your interrupted visit at Lady Lundie's (it is

  important, in my interests, that you should treat a person of her

  position in the county with all due respect); and my wife will

  make the necessary arrangements with Mrs. Glenarm, in

  anticipation of your return to our house. There is nothing more

  to be said, and no further necessity of my staying here. If you

  join me at the station to-night, your sister-in-law and I will do

  all we can to help you. If I travel back to Scotland alone, don't

  trouble yourself to follow--I have done with you." He shook hands

  with his brother, and went out.

  Left alone, Geoffrey lit his pipe and sent for the landlord.

  "Get me a boat. I shall scull myself up the river for an hour or

  two. And put in some towels. I may take a swim."

  The landlord received the order--with a caution addressed to his

  illustrious guest.

  "Don't show yourself in front of the house, Sir! If you let the

  people see you, they're in such a state of excitement, the police

  won't answer for keeping them in order."

  "All right. I'll go out by the back way."

  He took a turn up and down the room. What were the difficulties

  to be overcome before he could profit by the golden prospect

  which his brother had offered to him? The Sports? No! The

  committee had promised to defer the day, if he wished it--and a

  month's training, in his physical condition, would be amply

  enough for him. Had he any personal objection to trying his luck

  with Mrs. Glenarm? Not he! Any woman would do--provided his

  father was satisfied, and the money was all right. The obstacle

  which was really in his way was the obstacle of the woman whom he

  had ruined. Anne! The one insuperable difficulty was the

  difficulty of dealing with Anne.

  "We'll see how it looks," he said to himself, "after a pull up

  the river!"

  The landlord and the police inspector smugled him out by the back

  way unknown to the expectant populace in front The two men stood

  on the river-bank admiring him, as he pulled away from them, with

  his long, powerful, easy, beautiful stroke.

  "That's what I call the pride and flower of England!" said the

  inspector. "Has the betting on him begun?"

  "Six to four," said the landlord, "and no takers."

  Julius went early to the station that night. His mother was very

  anxious. "Don't let Geoffrey find an excuse in your example," she

  said, "if he is late."

  The first person whom Julius saw on getting out of the carriage

  was Geoffrey--with his ticket taken, and his portmanteau in

  charge of the guard.

  FOURTH SCENE.--WINDYGATES.

  CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH

  NEAR IT.

  THE Library at Windygates was the largest and the handsomest room

  in the house. The two grand divisions under which Literature is

  usually arranged in these days occupied the customary places in

  it. On the shelves which ran round the walls were the books which

  humanity in general respects--and does not read. On the tables

  distributed over the floor were the books which humanity in

  general reads--and does not respect. In the first class, the

  works of the wise ancients; and the Histories, Biographies, and

  Essays of writers of more modern times--otherwise the Solid

  Literature, which is universally respected, and occasionally

  read. In the second class, the Novels of our own day--otherwise

  the Light Literature, which is universally read, and occasionally

  respected. At Windygates, as elsewhere, we believed History to be

  high literature, because it assumed to be true to Authorities (of

  which we knew little)--and Fiction to be low literature, because

  it attempted to be true to Nature (of which we knew less). At