Christie Johnstone. Charles Reade Reade

      She was a connection of Lord Ipsden's, but they had not met for two years, when they encountered each other in Paris just before the commencement of this “Dramatic Story,” “Novel” by courtesy.

      The month he spent in Paris, near her, was a bright month to Lord Ipsden. A bystander would not have gathered, from his manner, that he was warmly in love with this lady; but, for all that, his lordship was gradually uncoiling himself, and gracefully, quietly basking in the rays of Barbara Sinclair.

      He was also just beginning to take an interest in subjects of the day—ministries, flat paintings, controversial novels, Cromwell's spotless integrity, etc.—why not? They interested her.

      Suddenly the lady and her family returned to England. Lord Ipsden, who was going to Rome, came to England instead.

      She had not been five days in London, before she made her preparations to spend six months in Perthshire.

      This brought matters to a climax.

      Lord Ipsden proposed in form.

      Lady Barbara was surprised; she had not viewed his graceful attentions in that light at all. However, she answered by letter his proposal which had been made by letter.

      After a few of those courteous words a lady always bestows on a gentleman who has offered her the highest compliment any man has it in his power to offer any woman, she came to the point in the following characteristic manner:

      “The man I marry must have two things, virtues and vices—you have neither. You do nothing, and never will do anything but sketch and hum tunes, and dance and dangle. Forget this folly the day after to-morrow, my dear Ipsden, and, if I may ask a favor of one to whom I refuse that which would not be a kindness, be still good friends with her who will always be

      “Your affectionate Cousin,

      “BARBARA SINCLAIR.”

      Soon after this effusion she vanished into Perthshire, leaving her cousin stunned by a blow which she thought would be only a scratch to one of his character.

      Lord Ipsden relapsed into greater listlessness than before he had cherished these crushed hopes. The world now became really dark and blank to him. He was too languid to go anywhere or do anything; a republican might have compared the settled expression of his handsome, hopeless face with that of most day-laborers of the same age, and moderated his envy of the rich and titled.

      At last he became so pale as well as languid that Mr. Saunders interfered.

      Saunders was a model valet and factotum; who had been with his master ever since he left Eton, and had made himself necessary to him in their journeys.

      The said Saunders was really an invaluable servant, and, with a world of obsequiousness, contrived to have his own way on most occasions. He had, I believe, only one great weakness, that of imagining a beau-ideal of aristocracy and then outdoing it in the person of John Saunders.

      Now this Saunders was human, and could not be eight years with this young gentleman and not take some little interest in him. He was flunky, and took a great interest in him, as stepping-stone to his own greatness. So when he saw him turning pale and thin, and reading one letter fifty times, he speculated and inquired what was the matter. He brought the intellect of Mr. Saunders to bear on the question at the following angle:

      “Now, if I was a young lord with 20,000 pounds a year, and all the world at my feet, what would make me in this way? Why, the liver! Nothing else.

      “And that is what is wrong with him, you may depend.”

      This conclusion arrived at, Mr. Saunders coolly wrote his convictions to Dr. Aberford, and desired that gentleman's immediate attention to the case. An hour or two later, he glided into his lord's room, not without some secret trepidation, no trace of which appeared on his face. He pulled a long histrionic countenance. “My lord,” said he, in soft, melancholy tones, “your lordship's melancholy state of health gives me great anxiety; and, with many apologies to your lordship, the doctor is sent for, my lord.”

      “Why, Saunders, you are mad; there is nothing the matter with me.”

      “I beg your lordship's pardon, your lordship is very ill, and Dr. Aberford sent for.”

      “You may go, Saunders.”

      “Yes, my lord. I couldn't help it; I've outstepped my duty, my lord, but I could not stand quiet and see your lordship dying by inches.” Here Mr. S. put a cambric handkerchief artistically to his eyes, and glided out, having disarmed censure.

      Lord Ipsden fell into a reverie.

      “Is my mind or my body disordered? Dr. Aberford!—absurd!—Saunders is getting too pragmatical. The doctor shall prescribe for him instead of me; by Jove, that would serve him right.” And my lord faintly chuckled. “No! this is what I am ill of”—and he read the fatal note again. “I do nothing!—cruel, unjust,” sighed he. “I could have done, would have done, anything to please her. Do nothing! nobody does anything now—things don't come in your way to be done as they used centuries ago, or we should do them just the same; it is their fault, not ours,” argued his lordship, somewhat confusedly; then, leaning his brow upon the sofa, he wished to die. For, at that dark moment life seemed to this fortunate man an aching void; a weary, stale, flat, unprofitable tale; a faded flower; a ball-room after daylight has crept in, and music, motion and beauty are fled away.

      “Dr. Aberford, my lord.”

      This announcement, made by Mr. Saunders, checked his lordship's reverie.

      “Insults everybody, does he not, Saunders?”

      “Yes, my lord,” said Saunders, monotonously.

      “Perhaps he will me; that might amuse me,” said the other.

      A moment later the doctor bowled into the apartment, tugging at his gloves, as he ran.

      The contrast between him and our poor rich friend is almost beyond human language.

      Here lay on a sofa Ipsden, one of the most distinguished young gentlemen in Europe; a creature incapable, by nature, of a rugged tone or a coarse gesture; a being without the slightest apparent pretension, but refined beyond the wildest dream of dandies. To him, enter Aberford, perspiring and shouting. He was one of those globules of human quicksilver one sees now and then for two seconds; they are, in fact, two globules; their head is one, invariably bald, round, and glittering; the body is another in activity and shape, totus teres atque rotundus; and in fifty years they live five centuries. Horum Rex Aberford—of these our doctor was the chief. He had hardly torn off one glove, and rolled as far as the third flower from the door on his lordship's carpet, before he shouted:

      “This is my patient, lolloping in pursuit of health. Your hand,” added he. For he was at the sofa long before his lordship could glide off it.

      “Tongue. Pulse is good. Breathe in my face.”

      “Breathe in your face, sir! how can I do that?” (with an air of mild doubt.)

      “By first inhaling, and then exhaling in the direction required, or how can I make acquaintance with your bowels?”

      “My bowels?”

      “The abdomen, and the greater and lesser intestines. Well, never mind, I can get at them another way; give your heart a slap, so. That's your liver. And that's your diaphragm.”

      His lordship having found the required spot (some people that I know could not) and slapped it, the Aberford made a circular spring and listened eagerly at his shoulder-blade; the result of this scientific pantomime seemed to be satisfactory, for he exclaimed, not to say bawled:

      “Halo! here is a viscount as sound as a roach! Now, young gentleman,” added he, “your organs are superb, yet you are really out of sorts; it follows you have the maladies of idle minds, love, perhaps, among the rest; you blush, a diagnostic of that disorder; make your mind easy, cutaneous disorders,