THE DEAR GIRL.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "BELLA DONNA," "NEVER
FORGOTTEN," &C.

CHAPTER XVIII. THE CONVALESCENT.

A WEEK or two after Mr. West had gone
over to England, it was a picture to see Mr.
Blacker and Mrs. Dalrymple discussing the
newest scandal.

"My dear ma'am," Mr. Blacker was saying,
holding up his usual glass of English wine to
the light, and his head bent close to hers,
"such a business! They're all talking of it.
That poor foolish thing, Mrs. Wilkinson! Her
doings are really past charity."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Dalrymple, "I was afraid
of that all along, Mr. Blacker—ever since that
very night of our little party."

"Can't tell you how grieved I am. Really,
Ernest Beaufort is as nice and gentlemanly a
fellow as you'd meet, and I am sorry to see him
going that way."

"Tell me about it, Mr. Blacker, do!"

"Why, you see, the man's in there morning,
noon, and night. Wilkinson, though the best
creature in the world, has no sense—no head."

Things were indeed beginning to be pretty
much as Blacker had described. Young Mrs.
Wilkinson had come from a country parish,
unsophisticated, with a rustic consciousness of
her own charms. The homage she received
here, at Dieppe, was even agreeable to her
husband, and was so new to them both, that it
dazzled them into a sense of having been quite
thrown away at home. Lucy had come to know
Mrs. Wilkinson intimately, and, with that
enthusiasm in friendship which belongs to young
girls, saw nothing but perfection in her. When
that well-meaning person, Mrs. Dalrymple, took
counsel with Mr. Blacker, she gave Lucy a little
warning on the matter, but was met by a vehement
defence and an agitated defiance. It was
ungenerous, unkind, she said, and it would not
have the least effect on her. It was indeed
only to be expected from the mean, miserable
creatures of the place, whose only occupation
was coining slanders. As papa said, this food
is the only thing that keeps them alive. Not a
little scared at this reception, the honest lady
went her way, and Lucy henceforward seemed
ostentatiously to challenge the looks and whispers
of the "canaille" who colonised the place,
by appearing a great deal on the Prado, and
seeing the packet come in—a spectacle she
detested—always beside the clergyman's wife,
and in company of that brilliant cavalier, Mr.
Ernest Beaufort, whom she disliked even more.
"Lulu, the dear girl," her father would say
fondly, "is always impulsive; her character is
developing every hour. But she's loyal to her
own cloth."

Meanwhile, other more personal matters were
engaging her attention. Since the great dramatic
scene of the wreck, a cloud of romance had
hung about. Days and hours went by in a
sort of delightful agitation. The brave
deliverer, Colonel Vivian, had been brought
home, as we have seen, insensible, dangerously
hurt, beaten almost out of life by the waves—
and for a short time it was doubtful whether he
could be brought through. It was Miss Lucy
herself who had flown to fetch the nearest
physician, Dr. White. Fortunately for himself,
he was at home, having his hair dressed by a
friseur of reputation, and who thus secured a
retainer for the most lucrative "job" of his
whole life. This was "poor Macan's old luck,"
who lived far off, in the cheap quarter. Lucy,
who knew his case, and privately
compassionated his struggles, the swarming children,
and the rest, would have infinitely preferred
to have brought him. But what could she do?
Time was precious, moments golden. But in a
place like this, the distribution of medical practice
became like a step of political promotion.
The question was asked and answered, "Who
was attending the colonel?" We should have
heard the exasperated answer of Dr. Macan
himself: "Yes, sir, it was all done, sir, and
arranged beforehand, and plotted between White
and that man, Dacres, and his daughter. What
would you say to one of your daughters
running wild through the town to fetch her
friend—without a bonnet, too, I'm told? And
all for one of these free military men, that have
hacked about from garrison to garrison! It's
disgraceful and scandalous, even in this
scandalous place. That fellow Jacks, his landlord,
tells me she sits up there half the day, and
some of the night too, smoothing his pillow,
and all that humbug. We know what that will
mean one of these fine mornings. It's
disgraceful and discreditable!"

"Ah, ah! poor Mac," says Captain Filby,