The Hand of Ethelberta

rne, a modern coast town and watering-place not many miles from the ancient Anglebury. He knocked at the door of a flat-faced brick house, and it was opened

e-page bearing the inscription, 'Metres by E.' The book was new, though it was cut, and it appeared to have been looked into. The young man, aft

lower in pocket, were applicable here. However, the aspect of the room, though homely, was cheerful, a somewhat contradictory group of furniture suggesting that the collection consisted of waifs and strays from a former home, the grimy faces of the old articles exercising a curious and subduing effect on the bright faces of the new. An oval mirror of rococo workmanship, and a heavy cabinet-piano with a cornice like that of an Egyptian temple, adjoin

ch greater intentness pervaded his face: he turned back again, and read anew the subject that had arrested his eyes. He was a man whose countenance varied with his mood, though it kept s

, and jumping up he opened the door and exclai

he room. She was small in figure, and bore less in the form of her features than in thei

d this first.' He laid his finger upon a p

e room for a moment as she did so, as if to ensure that no stranger saw her in the act of using them. Here a weakness was uncovered at once; it was a small, pretty

ight as mirrors and just as unsubstantial, yet forming a brilliant argument to justify the ways of girls to men. The pervading characteristic of the mass was the means of forcing into notice, by strangeness of contrast, the single mournful poem that the book contained. It was placed

uching,' she s

father was alive and we were at Solentsea that season, about a governess who came there with

I remember your knowing somethin

more interested in her than I ought to have done (this is necessary to the history), and we used to meet in

us to get away

last summer, I came to Anglebury, and stayed about the neighbourhood for a day or two to see what it was like, thinking we might settle there if this place failed us. The next evening I left, and walked across the heath to Flychett-that's a village about five miles further on-so as to be that distance on my way for next morning; and while I was crossing the heath there I met this very

ted, impulsive woman, to jud

mes very cold manners. I wonder if it is real

ndered her from thinking, and hid them under the timepiece till she should go on reading)-'of course poets have morals a

ding it. Perhaps she thinks that, since it

about the dying. And "all over" may not be

since father's death. I hardly think she would have cared to do it had she known that. (I am assuming that it is Ethelberta-Mrs. Petherwin-who sends it: of course I am not sure.) We must remember that whe

ady would send the book with that poem in it without at any rate a slight doubt as to its propriety: the second is in supposing that, had she wished to do it, she would have g

nothing, and turn

*

with thriving he starved. During this night he hummed airs in bed, thought he would do for the ballad of the fair poetess what other m

im to direct his steps to the bookseller's, and ask a question. He had foun

where he stood dusting stale volumes, as was his habit of a morning before customers came. 'I have never heard of it-probabl

by your shop?' said Chr

his hand on the lapel of Christopher's coat. 'Sir,' he said, 'country bookselling is a

starving man anythin

wever, wait a moment.' He looked into a list of new books, and added: 'The work you allude to was only p

possibly the very writer herself-the book being too new to be known-that he again passed through the blue shadow of the spire which stretched across the stre

at the moment of asking would be in his under-government manner, or in the manner with which mere nature had endowed him. In the latter case his reply would be all that could

, had refilled the globular trunk of the postmaster and neutralized some of the effects of officiality. The time was well chosen, but the inquiry threatened to prove fruitless: the postmaster had never, to his knowledge, see

her?' said

orning; I think she comes into the town from beyond the commo

oes she

cket with zigzag

on, as he returned homeward, Christopher loitered and looked around. At first he could see nobody; but when about a mile from the outskirts of the town he discerned a light spot ahead of him, which actually turned out to be the jacket

d girl, with eyes that would have made any jeweller in England think of his trade-one who evidently took her day in the daytime, frequently caught the early worm, and had little to do with yawns or candlelight. Sh

capacity of chosen and practised organs. Hence the beauties, concords, and eloquences of the female form were never without their effect upon Christopher, a born musician, artist, poet, seer, mouthpiece-whichever a translator of

ometimes impels a plump heart to rise up against a brain that overweights it was not to be resisted. He just lifted his hat, and put the only questi

braid that it had previously been twirling slowl

ender,

es

method of address to her level at once. 'Ah,' he said, 'such an atmosphere as the writer of "Metres by E." seems to breathe woul

lf immediately landed in a quandary. In saying to the country girl before him what would have suite

th a dudgeon that was very great for one whose whole stock of

as been guilty of a second act: the best of men may commit a first through accident or ignorance-may even be betrayed into it by over-zeal for experiment. Some such conclusion may or may not have been arrived at by the girl with the lady-apple cheeks; at any rate, after the lapse of another week a new spectacle presented itself; her redness deepened whenever Christopher passed

ldhood, wedding feasts and funerals, the landscape suffering greatly by these visions, until it became no more than the patterned wall-tints about the paintings in a gallery; something necessary to the tone, yet not regarded. Nothing but a special concentration of

of their first encounter. Latterly might have been once or twice heard, when he had moved out of earshot, a sound like a small gasping

the country-house where his lessons were given. He was taking them home to his sister Faith, who prized the lingering blossoms of the seeding season. Soon appeared as usual his fellow-t

t to her and said, 'Will you all

ly, and stood with the pose of a statue-rigid with uncertainty. But it was too late to refuse: Christopher had put the nosegay within her fingers. Whatever pleasant expression of thanks may have appeared in her eyes fell only on the bun

ly have been tempted to inquire more briskly about her, and who knows how such a pursuit might have ended? But hard externals rule volatile sentiment, and under these untoward influences the girl and the book and the truth about its au