THE UPPER BOHEMIA.

The name Bohemia is suggestive of unknown talent starving in garrets, of obdurate landladies, of bacchanalian nights, and shabby dress. Murger first invested the name with this flavor, and since his time the word has become polarized, and indicates nothing but struggling humanity and unappreciated genius. Yet your true Bohemian does not leave his country when he becomes rich and famous. It is true that he descends from the garret to the first floor; that he fares well and dresses decently; but he still dwells in Bohemia. The reckless air of the hovels permeates the palaces of this elastic kingdom of fancy.

Mrs. Durham was a Bohemian, and every Thursday received her confrÈres in the drawing room of a very elegant mansion in Chelsea. She had written a novel, "I Cling to Thee with Might and Main," and this having met with a moderate success, she posed as a celebrity, and set up her salon on the lines of Lady Blessington. Everyone who was anyone was received at her "At Homes," and by this process she gathered together a queer set of people. Some were clever, others were not; some were respectable, others decidedly disreputable; but one and all—to use an expression usually connected with crime—had done something. Novelists, essayists, painters, poets, and musicians were all to be found in her rooms, and a more motley collection could be seen nowhere else in London. Someone dubbed the Chelsea Mansions "The Zoo," and certainly animals of all kinds were to be found there, from monkeys to peacocks.

It was considered rather the thing to be invited to "The Zoo," so when brothers and sisters of the pen met one another there they usually said: "What! are you here?" as though the place were heaven, and the speaker justifiably surprised that anyone should be saved except himself or herself. Literary people love one another a degree less than Christians.

Hither came Tait and Claude in search of John Parver. That young man had made a great success with his novel, and was consequently much sought after by lion hunters. However, Tait had learned that he was to be present at Mrs. Durham's on this special evening, and hoped to engage him in conversation, so as to learn where he had obtained the materials for his story.

When they arrived the rooms were quite full, and Mrs. Durham received them very graciously. It was true that they were not famous, still as Tait was a society man, and Claude very handsome, the lady of the house good-humoredly pardoned all mental deficiencies. Tait knew her very well, having met her at several houses, but she addressed herself rather to Claude than to his friend, having a feminine appreciation of good looks.

"My rooms are always crowded," said she, with that colossal egotism which distinguished her utterances. "You know they call me the new George Eliot."

"No doubt you deserve the name," replied Claude, with mimic gravity.

"Oh, I suppose so," smirked the lady amiably. "You have read my novel, of course. It is now in its fourth edition, and has been refused by Smith and Mudie. I follow the French school of speaking my mind."

"And a very nasty mind it must be," thought Larcher, who had been informed about the book by Tait. He did not, however, give this thought utterance, but endeavored to generalize the conversation. "You have many celebrities here to-night, I presume?"

"My Dear Sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Durham, in capitals, "every individual in this company is famous! Yonder is Mr. Padsop, the great traveler, who wrote 'Mosques and Mosquitoes.' He is talking to Miss Pexworth, the writer of those scathing articles in The Penny Trumpet, entitled 'Man, the Brute.' She is a modern woman."

"Oh, indeed!" said Claude equably, and looked at this latest production of the nineteenth century, "she is rather masculine in appearance."

"It is her pride to be so, Mr. Larcher. She is more masculine than man. That is her brother, who designs ladies' dresses and decorates dinner tables."

"Ah! He isn't masculine. I suppose nature wanted to preserve the balance in the family. The law of compensation, eh?"

"Oh, you are severe. Tommy Pexworth is a dear little creature, and so fond of chiffons. He knows more about women's dress than his sister."

"So I should think," replied Claude dryly. He took an instant and violent dislike to Mr. Pexworth, who was one of those feminine little creatures, only distinguished from the other sex by wearing trousers. "A charming pair," he added, smiling. "I don't know which I admire the most. The sister who is such a thorough gentlemen, or the brother who is a perfect lady."

"You are satirical," smiled Mrs. Durham, enjoying this hit at her friends. "Now you must take me down to have some refreshment. Really, you must."

Thus inspired, Claude elbowed the hostess through the crush, and escorted her to a bare counter in the dining room, whereon were displayed thin bread and butter, very weak tea, and fossil buns. Mrs. Durham evidently knew her own refreshments too well to partake of them, for she had a mild brandy and soda, produced from its hiding place by a confidential waiter. She asked Claude to join her, but he refused on the plea that he never drank between meals.

"But you are not a brain-worker," said Mrs. Durham, hurriedly finishing her brandy and soda, lest her guests should see it and become discontented with the weak tea; "if I did not keep myself up I should die. Ah! Why, here is Mr. Hilliston."

"Hilliston!" said Claude, astonished at seeing his guardian in this house.

"Yes. Do you know him? A dear creature—so clever. He was my solicitor in a libel action against The Penny Trumpet, for saying that I was an ungrammatical scribbler. Just fancy! And they call me the new George Eliot. We lost our case, I'm sorry to say. Judges are such brutes! Miss Pexworth says they are, ever since she failed to get damages for her breach of promise case."

"Here comes Mr. Hilliston," said Larcher, rather tired of this long-tongued lady. "I know him very well, he is my guardian."

"How very delightful!" said Mrs. Durham, with the accent on the "very." "Oh, Mr. Hilliston," she continued, as the lawyer approached, "we were just talking about you!"

"I trust the absent were right for once," replied Hilliston, with an artificial smile and a swift glance at Claude. "I have just come to say good-by."

"Oh, not yet, surely not yet! Really!" babbled Mrs. Durham with shallow enthusiasm. Then finding Hilliston was resolved to go, and catching sight of a newly arrived celebrity, she hastened, after the amiable fashion of her kind, to speed the parting guest. "Well, if you must, you must. Good-by, good-by! Excuse me, I see Mr. Rawler, a delightful man—writes plays, you know. The new Shakspere; yes!" and thus talking she melted away with a babble of words, leaving Hilliston and his ward alone.

They were mutually surprised to see one another, Claude because he knew his guardian did not affect Bohemianism, and Hilliston because he thought that the young man had left town. The meeting was hardly a pleasant one, as Hilliston dreaded lest Mrs. Bezel should have said too much, and so prejudiced Claude against him.

"I understood from your refusal of my invitation that you had gone to Thorston with Tait," said he, after a pause.

"I am going to-morrow or the next day," replied Claude quickly, "but in any event I intended to call on you before I left town."

"Indeed!" said Hilliston nervously; "you have something to tell me?"

"Yes. I have seen Mrs. Bezel."

"Good. You have seen Mrs. Bezel."

"And I have made a discovery."

"Oh! Has the lady informed you who committed the crime?"

"No. But she told me her name."

"Margaret Bezel!" murmured Hilliston, wondering what was coming.

"Not Margaret Bezel, but Julia Larcher, my mother."

"She—she told you that?" gasped Hilliston, his self-control deserting him for the moment.

"Yes. I know why she feigned death; I know how you have protected her. You have been a kind friend to me, Mr. Hilliston, and to my mother. I am doubly in your debt."

Hilliston took the hand held out to him by Claude, and pressed it cordially. The speech relieved him from all apprehension. He now knew that Mrs. Bezel had kept their secret, and immediately took advantage of the restored confidence of Claude. His quick wit grasped the situation at once.

"My dear fellow," he said with much emotion, "I loved your poor father too much not to do what I could for his widow and son. I hope you do not blame me for suppressing the truth."

"No. I suppose you acted for the best. Still, I would rather you had informed me that my mother was still alive."

"To what end? It would only have made you miserable. I did not want to reveal anything; but your mother insisted that you should be made acquainted with the past, and so—I gave you the papers."

"I am glad you did so."

"And now, what do you intend to do?" asked Hilliston slowly. "You know as much as I do. Is there any clew to guide you in the discovery that your mother still lives?"

"No. She can tell me nothing. But I hope to find the clew here."

"Ah! You intend to speak with John Parver?"

"I do," said Claude, rather surprised at this penetration; "do you know him?"

"I exchanged a few words with him," replied Hilliston carelessly. "I only came here to-night at the request of Mrs. Durham, who is a client of mine. As I paid my respects to her, she was talking to John Parver, and he was introduced to me as the latest lion. So you still intend to pursue the matter?" added Hilliston, after a pause.

"Assuredly! If only to clear my mother, and restore her to the world."

"I am afraid it is too late, Claude. You know she is ill and cannot live long."

"Nevertheless, I wish her to take her own name again. She will not do so until the assassin of her husband—of my father—is discovered, so you see it is obligatory on me to find out the truth."

"I trust you may be successful," said Hilliston, sighing; "but my advice is still the same, and it would be best for you to let the matter rest. After five-and-twenty years you can discover nothing. I cannot help you; your mother cannot help you, so——"

"But John Parver may," interrupted Larcher sharply. "I will see how he learned the details of the case."

Before Hilliston could make further objection, Tait joined them, and not noticing the lawyer, hastily took Claude by the arm.

"I have been looking for you everywhere," said he. "Come and be introduced to Mr. Linton."

"Who is Mr. Linton?"

"John Parver. He writes under that name. Ah, Mr. Hilliston, I did not see you. How do you do, sir?"

"I am quite well, Mr. Tait, and am just taking my departure," replied Hilliston easily. "I see you are both set on finding out the truth. But you will learn nothing from John Parver."

"Why not, Mr. Hilliston?"

"Because he knows nothing. Good-night, Claude—good-night, Mr. Tait!"

When Hilliston disappeared Tait looked at Claude with a singular expression, and scratched his chin.

"You see," said he quietly, "Mr. Hilliston has been making inquiries on his own account."

"You are incurably suspicious," said Claude impatiently. "Hilliston is my friend."

"Yes. He was your father's friend also, I believe."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing! Nothing! Come and cross-examine Frank Linton, alias John Parver."

Clearly Tait was by no means so satisfied with Hilliston as Claude.