expectant eye, and say, "Mr. Penmore, will
you have the kindness to watch the case for the
prisoner."

And then, his wretched day in court over,
there was hard, hard work to be done afterwards,
hard writing on law questions, hard newspaper
work on subjects of the day, and (perhaps
hardest of all to a fastidious man) the struggle
to be amusing, to produce what is called "light
literature," articles for magazines and periodicals,
demanding new choice of subjects, and new
ideas continually. Nor were his labours always
crowned with success even in these departments
of literature. Sometimes, when he had prepared
a newspaper article on a subject which he
thought a good one, he would be told that it
was just a day too late, or that it was not a
matter which the editor thought it safe to interfere
with. Or the magazine would send him
back his "light literature," with a bewildering
announcement that it was exceedingly good,
but "not suitable" for publication in that
periodical. All these are mishaps which most
literary men have to go through at first, but
they get through them when they are single
men, and such failures are not very destructive,
but in this present case every such misadventure
was a serious loss, and Penmore would
often find it very hard work to possess his soul
in patience when so severely tried.

As to getting any assistance from friends or
relatives, the thing was impossible. Governor
Penmore could do nothing for his son beyond
writing to his solicitor to introduce Gilbert as a
young barrister seeking employment; while as
to Gabrielle's relations, her mother had declined
all intercourse with her from the moment of her
contracting a marriage so entirely opposed to
her views, and her father was so afraid of his
wife that he could only send her a present now
and then, abstracted, as it were, from his own
income with the greatest difficulty, for Madame
kept a rigid eye on all her husband's pecuniary
doings, and required so much for her own
expenditure in dress and luxury, that it was with
the greatest difficulty that the poor governor
could manage to get hold of a few pounds at
rare intervals to send to his dear Gabrielle.
Gilbert, for his part, did not take much by that
introduction to the solicitor. Mr. Brickdale
was a cautious and entirely conventional old
gentleman, and Penmore's accent and queer
yellow complexion under the white barrister's
wig made him quail before the idea of putting a
case into his hands.

There was one good thing, however, got out
of this connexion. Mr. Brickdale was in a
position to give out a good deal of work in the
shape of law copying, and at this the two would
work when nothing else was to be done. I say
the "two" advisedly, for in due time, and after
much labour, Gabrielle attained to a considerable
proficiency in round-hand, and in due time
was able to relieve her husband of this sort of
drudgery at any rate.

In short, these young people were exposed to
privations and troubles of the most harassing
and miserable kind, and which their bringing
up and earlier habits had in no sort fitted them
to undergo. It was a terrible ordeal, and one
which it required great patience and courage to
pass through.

And all that day which succeeded the
conversation described at the beginning of this
chapter, Gabrielle pondered over these things,
and thought of her husband and his disappointments
and privations, and how these last might
at least be alleviated by accepting his cousin's
proposal, and so at last her mind was made up,
and she repeated to herself, "We have got our
happiness of being together, and we would not
exercise patience and wait, and so we must not
think it a great matter that we have some need
to be patient now, and bear together, instead of
bearing apart."

So when her husband came home, she told
him in the most wilful manner that the thing
was settled, and that he was to write off to his
cousin, and inform her that rooms would be
prepared for her reception, and that of the
servant who was to accompany her, and that
everything would be ready at the commencement of
the ensuing week.

CHAPTER III. AN ARRIVAL.

THE day appointed for the arrival of Miss
Carrington was not a pleasant one. It was a
stormy November day, windy, with gusts of
rain. Everything went wrong in the house
in Beaumont-street. The chimneys smoked, the
doors banged, a looking-glass was blown down
by the wind and smashed to pieces, and poor
little Mrs. Penmore's heart quailed at the omen
even more than at the loss. Then the servant,
the one servant, had a sulky fit, and refused to
be comforted. Moreover, she took to
disappearing.

It requires some experience of domestic
difficulties to enable any person to appreciate the
full horror of this proceeding. Something is
wanted below, and the maiden is despatched
promptly to get it. Instead of returning,
however, she remains below, and is not unearthed
without much calling and ringing. At last she
appears without the object in search of which
she was sent, and disappears again in search of
it. Then the area-bell rings, and a tradesman
holds the young woman spell-bound on the
kitchen-steps, where, of course, she cannot hear
a summons from the bedroom. At last––for
this is a windy day, let us remember––the door
bangs, our damsel is shut out, and her mistress,
having reached the stage of desperation,
descends to the kitchen to see what has become
of "Charlotte," and finds her tapping at the
window for admittance in a manner sufficiently
aggravating. Even now, however, she is not to
be considered as a secure property. She discovers
that it is the right day for needlework,
and when everything is in the wildest confusion
up-stairs, and she is wanted there every moment,
she is continually relapsing into calm stocking-mending,
or perhaps does a trifle in the way of
washing and ironing on her own account. Nor