Suddenly across the gaze of Percival St. John there flashed a face that woke him from his abstraction, as a light awakes the sleeper. It was as a recognition of something seen dimly before,—a truth coming out from a dream. It was not the mere beauty of that face (and beautiful it was) that arrested his eye and made his heart beat more quickly, it was rather that nameless and inexplicable sympathy which constitutes love at first sight,—a sort of impulse and instinct common to the dullest as the quickest, the hardest reason as the liveliest fancy. Plain Cobbett, seeing before the cottage-door, at her homeliest of house-work, the girl of whom he said, “That girl should be my wife,” and Dante, first thrilled by the vision of Beatrice,—are alike true types of a common experience. Whatever of love sinks the deepest is felt at first sight; it streams on us abrupt from the cloud, a lightning flash,—a destiny revealed to us face to face.

Now, there was nothing poetical in the place or the circumstance, still less in the companionship in which this fair creature startled the virgin heart of that careless boy; she was leaning on the arm of a stout, rosy-faced matron in a puce-coloured gown, who was flanked on the other side by a very small, very spare man, with a very wee face, the lower part of which was enveloped in an immense belcher. Besides these two incumbrances, the stout lady contrived to carry in her hands an umbrella, a basket, and a pair of pattens.

In the midst of the strange, unfamiliar emotion which his eye conveyed to his heart, Percival’s ear was displeasingly jarred by the loud, bluff, hearty voice of the girl’s female companion—

“Gracious me! if that is not John Ardworth. Who’d have thought it? Why, John,—I say, John!” and lifting her umbrella horizontally, she poked aside two city clerks in front of her, wheeled round the little man on her left, upon whom the clerks simultaneously bestowed the appellation of “feller,” and driving him, as being the sharpest and thinnest wedge at hand, through a dense knot of some half-a-dozen gapers, while, following his involuntary progress, she looked defiance on the malcontents, she succeeded in clearing her way to the spot where stood the young man she had discovered. The ambitious dreamer, for it was he, thus detected and disturbed, looked embarrassed for a moment as the stout lady, touching him with the umbrella, said,—

“Well, I declare if this is not too bad! You sent word that you should not be able to come out with us to see the ‘luminations, and here you are as large as life!”

“I did not think, at the moment you wrote to me, that-”

“Oh, stuff!” interrupted the stout woman, with a significant, good-humoured shake of her head; “I know what’s what. Tell the truth, and shame the gentleman who objects to showing his feet. You are a wild fellow, John Ardworth, you are! You like looking after the pretty faces, you do, you do—ha, ha, ha! very natural! So did you once,—did not you, Mr. Mivers, did not you, eh? Men must be men,—they always are men, and it’s my belief that men they always will be!”

With this sage conjecture into the future, the lady turned to Mr. Mivers, who, thus appealed to, extricated with some difficulty his chin from the folds of his belcher, and putting up his small face, said, in a small voice, “Yes, I was a wild fellow once; but you have tamed me, you have, Mrs. M.!”

And therewith the chin sank again into the belcher, and the small voice died into a small sigh.

The stout lady glanced benignly at her spouse, and then resuming her address, to which Ardworth listened with a half-frown and a half-smile, observed encouragingly,—

“Yes, there’s nothing like a lawful wife to break a man in, as you will find some day. Howsomever, your time’s not come for the altar, so suppose you give Helen your arm, and come with us.”

“Do,” said Helen, in a sweet, coaxing voice.

Ardworth bent down his rough, earnest face to Helen’s, and an evident pleasure relaxed its thoughtful lines. “I cannot resist you,” he began, and then he paused and frowned. “Pish!” he added, “I was talking folly; but what head would not you turn? Resist you I must, for I am on my way now to my drudgery. Ask me anything some years hence, when I have time to be happy, and then see if I am the bear you now call me.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Mivers, emphatically, “are you coming, or are you not? Don’t stand there shilly-shally.”

“Mrs. Mivers,” returned Ardworth, with a kind of sly humour, “I am sure you would be very angry with your husband’s excellent shopmen if that was the way they spoke to your customers. If some unhappy dropper-in,—some lady who came to buy a yard or so of Irish,—was suddenly dazzled, as I am, by a luxury wholly unforeseen and eagerly coveted,—a splendid lace veil, or a ravishing cashmere, or whatever else you ladies desiderate,—and while she was balancing between prudence and temptation, your foreman exclaimed: `Don’t stand shilly-shally’—come, I put it to you.”

“Stuff!” said Mrs. Mivers.

“Alas! unlike your imaginary customer (I hope so, at least, for the sake of your till), prudence gets the better of me; unless,” added Ardworth, irresolutely, and glancing at Helen,—“unless, indeed, you are not sufficiently protected, and—”

“Purtected!” exclaimed Mrs. Mivers, in an indignant tone of astonishment, and agitating the formidable umbrella; “as if I was not enough, with the help of this here domestic commodity, to purtect a dozen such. Purtected, indeed!”

“John is right, Mrs. M.,—business is business,” said Mr. Mivers. “Let us move on; we stop the way, and those idle lads are listening to us, and sniggering.”

“Sniggering!” exclaimed the gentle helpmate. “I should like to see those who presume for to snigger;” and as she spoke, she threw a look of defiance around her. Then, having thus satisfied her resentment, she prepared to obey, as no doubt she always did, her lord and master. Suddenly, with a practised movement, she wheeled round Mr. Mivers, and taking care to protrude before him the sharp point of the umbrella, cut her way through the crowd like the scythed car of the Ancient Britons, and was soon lost amidst the throng, although her way might be guessed by a slight ripple of peculiar agitation along the general stream, accompanied by a prolonged murmur of reproach or expostulation which gradually died in the distance.

Ardworth gazed after the fair form of Helen with a look of regret; and when it vanished, with a slight start and a suppressed sigh he turned away, and with the long, steady stride of a strong man, cleared his path through the Strand towards the printing-office of a journal on which he was responsibly engaged.

But Percival, who had caught much of the conversation that took place so near him,—Percival, happy child of idleness and whim,—had no motive of labour and occupation to stay the free impulse of his heart, and his heart drew him on, with magnetic attraction, in the track of the first being that had ever touched the sweet instincts of youth.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Mivers was destined to learn—though perhaps the lesson little availed her—that to get smoothly through this world it is necessary to be supple as well as strong; and though, up to a certain point, man or woman may force the way by poking umbrellas into people’s ribs and treading mercilessly upon people’s toes, yet the endurance of ribs and toes has its appointed limits.

Helen, half terrified, also half amused by her companion’s robust resolution of purpose, had in Mrs. Mivers’s general courage and success that confidence which the weak repose in the strong; and though whenever she turned her eyes from the illuminations, she besought Mrs. Mivers to be more gentle, yet, seeing that they had gone safely from St. Paul’s to St. James’s, she had no distinct apprehension of any practically ill results from the energies she was unable to mitigate. But now, having just gained the end of St. James’s Street, Mrs. Mivers at last found her match. The crowd here halted, thick and serried, to gaze in peace upon the brilliant vista which the shops and clubs of that street presented. Coaches and carriages had paused in their line, and immediately before Mrs. Mivers stood three very thin, small women, whose dress bespoke them to be of the humblest class.

“Make way, there; make way, my good women, make way!” cried Mrs. Mivers, equally disdainful of the size and the rank of the obstructing parties.

“Arrah, and what shall we make way for the like of you, you old busybody?” said one of the dames, turning round, and presenting a very formidable squint to the broad optics of Mrs. Mivers.

Without deigning a reply, Mrs. Mivers had recourse to her usual tactics. Umbrella and husband went right between two of the feminine obstructives; and to the inconceivable astonishment and horror of the assailant, husband and umbrella instantly vanished. The three small furies had pounced upon both. They were torn from their natural owner; they were hurried away; the stream behind, long fretted at the path so abruptly made amidst it, closed in, joyous, with a thousand waves. Mrs. Mivers and Helen were borne forward in one way, the umbrella and the husband in the other; in the distance a small voice was heard: “Don’t you! don’t! Be quiet! Mrs.—Mrs. M.! Oh, oh, Mrs. M.!” At that last repetition of the beloved and familiar initial, uttered in a tone of almost superhuman anguish, the conjugal heart of Mrs. Mivers was afflicted beyond control.

“Wait here a moment, my dear; I’ll just give it them, that’s all!” And in another moment Mrs. Mivers was heard bustling, scolding, till all trace of her whereabout was gone from the eyes of Helen. Thus left alone, in exceeding shame and dismay, the poor girl cast a glance around. The glance was caught by two young men, whose station, in these days when dress is an equivocal designator of rank, could not be guessed by their exterior. They might be dandies from the west,—they might be clerks from the east.

“By Jove,” exclaimed one, “that’s a sweet pretty girl!” and, by a sudden movement of the crowd, they both found themselves close to Helen.

“Are you alone, my dear?” said a voice rudely familiar. Helen made no reply; the tone of the voice frightened her. A gap in the mob showed the space towards Cleveland Row, which, leading to no illuminations, was vacant and solitary. She instantly made towards this spot; the two men followed her, the bolder and elder one occasionally trying to catch hold of her arm. At last, as she passed the last house to the left, a house then owned by one who, at once far-sighted and impetuous, affable and haughty, characterized alike by solid virtues and brilliant faults, would, but for hollow friends, have triumphed over countless foes, and enjoyed at last that brief day of stormy power for which statesmen resign the health of manhood and the hope of age,—as she passed that memorable mansion, she suddenly perceived that the space before her had no thoroughfare; and, while she paused in dismay, her pursuers blockaded her escape.

One of them now fairly seized her hand. “Nay, pretty one, why so cruel? But one kiss,—only one!” He endeavoured to pass his arm round her waist while he spoke. Helen eluded him, and darted forward, to find her way stopped by her persecutor’s companion, when, to her astonishment, a third person gently pushed aside the form that impeded her path, approached, and looking mute defiance at the unchivalric molesters, offered her his arm. Helen gave but one timid, hurrying glance to her unexpected protector; something in his face, his air, his youth, appealed at once to her confidence. Mechanically, and scarce knowing what she did, she laid her trembling hand on the arm held out to her.

The two Lotharios looked foolish. One pulled up his shirt-collar, and the other turned, with a forced laugh, on his heel. Boy as Percival seemed, and little more than boy as he was, there was a dangerous fire in his eye, and an expression of spirit and ready courage in his whole countenance, which, if it did not awe his tall rivals, made them at least unwilling to have a scene and provoke the interference of a policeman; one of whom was now seen walking slowly up to the spot. They therefore preserved a discomfited silence; and Percival St. John, with his heart going ten knots a beat, sailed triumphantly off with his prize.

Scarcely knowing whither he went, certainly forgetful of Mr. Mivers, in his anxiety to escape at least from the crowd, Percival walked on till he found himself with his fair charge under the trees of St. James’s Park.

Then Helen, recovering herself, paused, and said, alarmed: “But this is not my way; I must go back to the street!”

“How foolish I am! That is true,” said Percival, looking confused. “I—I felt so happy to be with you, feel your hand on my arm, and think that we were all by ourselves, that—that—-But you have dropped your flowers!”

And as a bouquet Helen wore, dislodged somehow or other, fell to the ground, both stooped to pick it up, and their hands met. At that touch, Percival felt a strange tremble, which perhaps communicated itself (for such things are contagious) to his fair companion. Percival had got the nosegay, and seemed willing to detain it; for he bent his face lingeringly over the flowers. At length he turned his bright, ingenuous eyes to Helen, and singling one rose from the rest, said beseechingly: “May I keep this? See, it is not so fresh as the others.”

“I am sure, sir,” said Helen, colouring, and looking down, “I owe you so much that I should be glad if a poor flower could repay it.”

“A poor flower! You don’t know what a prize this is to me!” Percival placed the rose reverently in his bosom, and the two moved back slowly, as if reluctant both, through the old palace-court into the street.

“Is that lady related to you?” asked Percival, looking another way, and dreading the reply,—“not your mother, surely!”

“Oh, no! I have no mother!”

“Forgive me!” said Percival; for the tone of Helen’s voice told him that he had touched the spring of a household sorrow. “And,” he added, with a jealousy that he could scarcely restrain from making itself evident in his accent, “that gentleman who spoke to you under the Colonnade,—I have seen him before, but where I cannot remember. In fact, you have put everything but yourself out of my head. Is he related to you?”

“He is my cousin.”

“Cousin!” repeated Percival, pouting a little; and again there was silence.

“I don’t know how it is,” said Percival at last, and very gravely, as if much perplexed by some abstruse thought, “but I feel as if I had known you all my life. I never felt this for any one before.”

There was something so irresistibly innocent in the boy’s serious, wondering tone as he said these words that a smile, in spite of herself, broke out amongst the thousand dimples round Helen’s charming lips. Perhaps the little witch felt a touch of coquetry for the first time.

Percival, who was looking sidelong into her face, saw the smile, and said, drawing up his head, and shaking back his jetty curls: “I dare say you are laughing at me as a mere boy; but I am older than I look. I am sure I am much older than you are. Let me see, you are seventeen, I suppose?”

Helen, getting more and more at her ease, nodded playful assent.

“And I am not far from twenty-one. Ah, you may well look surprised, but so it is. An hour ago I felt a mere boy; now I shall never feel a boy again!”

Once more there was a long pause, and before it was broken, they had gained the very spot in which Helen had lost her friend.

“Why, bless us and save us!” exclaimed a voice “loud as a trumpet,” but not “with a silver sound,” “there you are, after all;” and Mrs. Mivers (husband and umbrella both regained) planted herself full before them.

“Oh, a pretty fright I have been in! And now to see you coming along as cool as if nothing had happened; as if the humbrella had not lost its hivory ‘andle,—it’s quite purvoking. Dear, dear, what we have gone through! And who is this young gentleman, pray?”

Helen whispered some hesitating explanation, which Mrs. Mivers did not seem to receive as graciously as Percival, poor fellow, had a right to expect. She stared him full in the face, and shook her head suspiciously when she saw him a little confused by the survey. Then, tucking Helen tightly under her arm, she walked back towards the Haymarket, merely saying to Percival,—

“Much obligated, and good-night. I have a long journey to take to set down this here young lady; and the best thing we can all do is to get home as fast as we can, and have a refreshing cup of tea—that’s my mind, sir. Excuse me!”

Thus abruptly dismissed, poor Percival gazed wistfully on his Helen as she was borne along, and was somewhat comforted at seeing her look back with (as he thought) a touch of regret in her parting smile. Then suddenly it flashed across him how sadly he had wasted his time. Novice that he was, he had not even learned the name and address of his new acquaintance. At that thought he hurried on through the crowd, but only reached the object of his pursuit just in time to see her placed in a coach, and to catch a full view of the luxuriant proportions of Mrs. Mivers as she followed her into the vehicle.

As the lumbering conveyance (the only coach on the stand) heaved itself into motion, Percival’s eye fell on the sweeper, who was still leaning on his broom, and who, in grateful recognition of the unwonted generosity that had repaid his service, touched his ragged hat, and smiled drowsily on his young customer. Love sharpens the wit and animates the timid; a thought worthy of the most experienced inspired Percival St. John; he hurried to the sweeper, laid his hand on his patchwork coat, and said breathlessly,—

“You see that coach turning into the square? Follow it,—find out where it sets down. There’s a sovereign for you; another if you succeed. Call and tell me your success. Number —— Curzon Street! Off, like a shot!”

The sweeper nodded and grinned; it was possibly not his first commission of a similar kind. He darted down the street; and Percival, following him with equal speed, had the satisfaction to see him, as the coach traversed St. James’s Square, comfortably seated on the footboard.

Beck, dull clod, knew nothing, cared nothing, felt nothing as to the motives or purpose of his employer. Honest love or selfish vice, it was the same to him. He saw only the one sovereign which, with astounded eyes, he still gazed at on his palm, and the vision of the sovereign that was yet to come.

“Scandit aeratas vitiosa naves Cura; nee turmas equitum relinquit.”

It was the Selfishness of London, calm and stolid, whether on the track of innocence or at the command of guile.

At half-past ten o’clock Percival St. John was seated in his room, and the sweeper stood at the threshold. Wealth and penury seemed brought into visible contact in the persons of the visitor and the host. The dwelling is held by some to give an index to the character of the owner; if so, Percival’s apartments differed much from those generally favoured by young men of rank and fortune. On the one hand, it had none of that affectation of superior taste evinced in marqueterie and gilding, or the more picturesque discomfort of high-backed chairs and mediaeval curiosities which prevails in the daintier abodes of fastidious bachelors; nor, on the other hand, had it the sporting character which individualizes the ruder juveniles qui gaudent equis, betrayed by engravings of racers and celebrated fox-hunts, relieved, perhaps, if the Nimrod condescend to a cross of the Lovelace, with portraits of figurantes, and ideals of French sentiment entitled, “Le Soir,” or “La Reveillee,” “L’Espoir,” or “L’Abandon.” But the rooms had a physiognomy of their own, from their exquisite neatness and cheerful simplicity. The chintz draperies were lively with gay flowers; books filled up the niches; here and there were small pictures, chiefly sea-pieces,—well chosen, well placed.

There might, indeed, have been something almost effeminate in a certain inexpressible purity of taste, and a cleanliness of detail that seemed actually brilliant, had not the folding-doors allowed a glimpse of a plainer apartment, with fencing-foils and boxing-gloves ranged on the wall, and a cricket-bat resting carelessly in the corner. These gave a redeeming air of manliness to the rooms; but it was the manliness of a boy,—half-girl, if you please, in the purity of thought that pervaded one room, all boy in the playful pursuits that were made manifest in the other. Simple, however, as this abode really was, poor Beck had never been admitted to the sight of anything half so fine. He stood at the door for a moment, and stared about him, bewildered and dazzled. But his natural torpor to things that concerned him not soon brought to him the same stoicism that philosophy gives the strong; and after the first surprise, his eye quietly settled on his employer. St. John rose eagerly from the sofa, on which he had been contemplating the starlit treetops of Chesterfield Gardens,—

“Well, well?” said Percival.

“Hold Brompton,” said Beck, with a brevity of word and clearness of perception worthy a Spartan.

“Old Brompton?” repeated Percival, thinking the reply the most natural in the world.

“In a big ‘ous by hisself,” continued Beck, “with a ‘igh vall in front.”

“You would know it again?”

“In course; he’s so wery peculiar.”

“He,—who?”

“Vy, the ‘ous. The young lady got out, and the hold folks driv back. I did not go arter them!” and Beck looked sly.

“So! I must find out the name.”

“I axed at the public,” said Beck, proud of his diplomacy. “They keeps a sarvant vot takes half a pint at her meals. The young lady’s mabe a foriner.”

“A foreigner! Then she lives there with her mother?”

“So they s’pose at the public.”

“And the name?”

Beck shook his head. “‘T is a French ‘un, your honour; but the sarvant’s is Martha.”

“You must meet me at Brompton, near the turnpike, tomorrow, and show me the house.”

“Vy, I’s in bizness all day, please your honour.”

“In business?”’

“I’s the place of the crossing,” said Beck, with much dignity; “but arter eight I goes vere I likes.”

“To-morrow evening, then, at half-past eight, by the turnpike.”

Beck pulled his forelock assentingly.

“There’s the sovereign I promised you, my poor fellow; much good may it do you. Perhaps you have some father or mother whose heart it will glad.”

“I never had no such thing,” replied Beck, turning the coin in his hand.

“Well, don’t spend it in drink.”

“I never drinks nothing but svipes.”

“Then,” said Percival, laughingly, “what, my good friend, will you ever do with your money?”

Beck put his finger to his nose, sunk his voice into a whisper, and replied solemnly: “I ‘as a mattris.”

“A mistress,” said Percival. “Oh, a sweetheart. Well, but if she’s a good girl, and loves you, she’ll not let you spend your money on her.”

“I haint such a ninny as that,” said Beck, with majestic contempt. “I ‘spises the flat that is done brown by the blowens. I ‘as a mattris.”

“A mattress! a mattress! Well, what has that to do with the money?”

“Vy, I lines it.”

Percival looked puzzled. “Oh,” said he, after a thoughtful pause, and in a tone of considerable compassion, “I understand: you sew your money in your mattress. My poor, poor lad, you can do better than that! There are the savings banks.”

Beck looked frightened. “I ‘opes your honour von’t tell no vun. I ‘opes no vun von’t go for to put my tin vere I shall know nothing vatsomever about it. Now, I knows vere it is, and I lays on it.”

“Do you sleep more soundly when you lie on your treasure?”

“No. It’s hodd,” said Beck, musingly, “but the more I lines it, the vorse I sleeps.”

Percival laughed, but there was melancholy in his laughter; something in the forlorn, benighted, fatherless, squalid miser went to the core of his open, generous heart.

“Do you ever read your Bible,” said he, after a pause, “or even the newspaper?”

“I does not read nothing; cos vy? I haint been made a scholard, like swell Tim, as was lagged for a forgery.”

“You go to church on a Sunday?”

“Yes; I ‘as a weekly hingagement at the New Road.”

“What do you mean?”

“To see arter the gig of a gemman vot comes from ‘Igate.”

Percival lifted his brilliant eyes, and they were moistened with a heavenly dew, on the dull face of his fellow-creature. Beck made a scrape, looked round, shambled back to the door, and ran home, through the lamp-lit streets of the great mart of the Christian universe, to sew the gold in his mattress.