on, ashamed of his real name, ashamed of having concealed it, ashamed of being afraid that it would be discovered,—­in a triple complication of shame, which made him gradually, as it makes every man, moody, suspicious, apt to take offence where none is meant.  Besides they were very poor.  He, though neither extravagant nor profligate, was, like most literary men who are accustomed to live from hand to mouth, careless, self-indulgent, unmethodical.  She knew as much of housekeeping as the Queen of Oude does; and her charming little dreams of shopping for herself were rudely enough broken, ere the first week was out, by the horrified looks of Clara, when she returned from her first morning’s marketing for the weekly consumption, with nothing but a woodcock, some truffles, and a bunch of celery.  Then the landlady of the lodgings robbed her, even under the nose of the faithful Clara, who knew as little about housekeeping as her mistress; and Clara, faithful as she was, repaid herself by grumbling and taking liberties for being degraded from the luxurious post of lady’s maid to that of servant of all work, with a landlady, and “marchioness” to wrestle with all day long.  Then, what with imprudence and anxiety, Lucia of course lost her first child:  and after that came months of illness, during which Elsley tended her, it must be said for him, as lovingly as a mother; and perhaps they were both really happier during that time of sorrow than they had been in all the delirious bliss of the honeymoon.

Valencia meanwhile defied old Lady Knockdown (whose horror and wrath knew no bounds), and walked off one morning with her maid to see her prodigal sister; a visit which not only brought comfort to the weary heart, but important practical benefits.  For going home, she seized upon Scoutbush, and so moved his heart with pathetic pictures of Lucia’s unheard-of penury and misery, that his heart was softened; and though he absolutely refused to call on Vavasour, he made him an offer, through Lucia, of Penalva Court for the time being; and thither they went—­perhaps the best thing they could have done.

There, of course, they were somewhat more comfortable.  A very cheap country, a comfortable house rent free, and a lovely neighbourhood, were a pleasant change after dear London lodgings:  but it is a question whether the change made Elsley a better man.

In the first place, he became a more idle man.  The rich enervating climate began to tell upon his mind, as it did upon Lucia’s health.  He missed that perpetual spur of nervous excitement, change of society, influx of ever-fresh objects, which makes London, after all, the best place in the world for hard working; and which makes even a walk along the streets an intellectual tonic.  In the soft and luxurious West Country Nature invited him to look at her, and dream; and dream he did, more and more, day by day.  He was tired, too—­as who would not be?—­of the drudgery of writing for his daily bread; and relieved from the importunities of publishers and printers’-devils, he sent up fewer and fewer contributions to the magazines.  He would keep his energies for a great work; poetry was, after all, his forte:  he would not fritter himself away on prose and periodicals, but would win for himself, etc. etc.  If he made a mistake, it was at least a pardonable one.