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Some
Prairie Schooner Book Prize in Poetry | E d ito r : Kwame Dawes

Always
Are
JIHYUN YUN

Hungry
University of Nebraska Press Lincoln
© 2020 by the Board of Regents of the
University of Nebraska

Acknowledgments for the use of copyrighted

material appear on pages 67–70, which
constitute an extension of the copyright page.

All rights reserved

Library of Congress
Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data
Names: Yun, Jihyun, author.
Title: Some are always hungry / Jihyun Yun.
Description: University of Nebraska Press, 2020.
Series: Prairie Schooner Book Prize in Poetry
Identifiers: lccn 2020004233
isbn 9781496222183 (paperback)
isbn 9781496223623 (epub)
isbn 9781496223630 (mobi)
isbn 9781496223647 (pdf )
Subjects: lcgft : Poetry.
Classification: lcc ps 3625.u 526 s 66 2020
ddc 811/.6—­dc23
lc record available at
[Link]

Set in Adobe Garamond by Laura Buis.

Designed by N. Putens.
For my mother & her mother & hers
Of wisdom, splendid columns of light
waking sweet foreheads,
I know nothing

but what I’ve glimpsed in my most hopeful of daydreams

of a world without end,
amen
—­Li-­Young Lee
 All Female 1

My Grandmother Thinks of Love

while Steeping Tea 3

Passage, 1951 4

Bone Soup, 1951 6

CONTENTS For Now, Nothing Burns 7

Diptych of Girl in 1953 9

Field Notes from My Grandparents 11

Immigration 14

Homonyms 16

I Revisit Myself in 1996 18

War Soup 20

The Daughter Transmorphic 22

Yellow Fever 24

Saga of the Nymph and the Woodcutter 25

Fish Head Soup 26

Recipe: 닭도리탕 27

Diptych of Animal and Womb 29

Aubade 30
 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
 "At the broker's, Miss, in Barbican. He has had it now six years.
It's in for a quarter its value, but that's all the better for me: I have
less to pay for keeping it, and I carries the ticket night and day in
my bosom. And do you know, my good friend, they thought they
had got it just now; they got a key that fitted that box of yours, that
you always locked so carefully, and they made sure that was it; ha,
ha, how I laughed at them when they opened it!"
"What! have they dared to open my mahogany box?" It was the
repository of my precious relics.
"To be sure they did, Miss, and they found such curious things
there! A lovely thing all set with jewels, they said, a baggonet fit for
the Duke of Wellington, and plaster shapes like a cobbler's last, and
coloured paper with queer letters on it, and a piece of long black
hair, and a plan with distances on it--Lor, Miss, what on earth is the
matter? Water! water! You're like death--Balaam! Balak!"
"Stop, Mrs. Shelfer"--I had fallen on the bed--"I would not for
ten thousand pounds have had that box exposed to those low
ruffians, ransacked, and even catalogued. If I can punish them I
will; and you too, you low, miserly, meddling, inquisitive old crone."
She cared for nothing--though afterwards she told me she never
saw such eyes in her life--until I luckily called her an "old crone." At
that, she fell back upon the towel-horse, and sobbed with both
hands over her eyes, as if her heart would break. I had pierced her
in the tenderest point--her age.
I did not feel sorry for her at all for at least two minutes, but let
her cry away. "Serves her right," I thought. Even if she could not
have stopped them from opening that box of mine, at any rate she
had no right to gossip about it, and enjoy it all, as she evidently had
done. Furthermore, I knew well that she had always been on the
tingle to learn the contents of that box, and many a time I had
baffled her. Now she had triumphed thoroughly, and I should not
have been female if I had calmly allowed it. But seeing her great
distress (through all of which she talked, with sobs for affirmations),
I began to think what a pity it was; then to wonder whether she
deserved it all; next, to believe that she had done no harm; lastly, to
feel that I had been a brute. Thereupon I rushed to coax and kiss
her, wiped away her tears with my own lawn handkerchief--the feel
of which consoled her, for the edge was lace--and begged her
pardon fifty times in a thousand foolish words. Finally she was quite
set up again by this:
"I tell you, my dear Patty, when I come to your age, when I am
five and thirty"--she was fifty-two at least--"I shall fully deserve to
be called an old woman for this; and much older I shall look, there is
no doubt, than you do."
"Right, my good friend, you are quite right there"--this
expression showed me that she herself was right.--"Why the young
man from the butcher's, he said to me this morning, and beautiful
black hair reminded me of yours, Miss, all stuck together with the fat
from off the kidneys--"
"Come, Mrs. Shelfer, let me see about my box."
"To be sure, to be sure, my dear Miss Vaughan; but what do
you think he said? 'Now, William John,' says I, 'a good steak mind, a
tender juicy steak, for the gentleman visitors here'--Balaam, Miss,
and Balak, if you please,--'does like good juicy meat.' 'Mrs. Shelfer,
ma'am,' he says, a bowing with his tray like that, 'you shall have a
steak, ma'am, as fresh and as juicy as yourself.' Now wasn't that
pretty, my good friend?"
"Beautiful, Mrs. Shelfer. But see about my box."
"Surely, surely, Miss Vaughan. But it was very pretty, like a
valentine, don't you think it was now?"
"Where is it?"
"Downstairs, Miss, in my little parlour."
"Then send it up at once, by one of the men."
Presently Balaam came up, looking askance at Judy, and with
the mahogany box under his right arm. He touched his dirty hat, for
Mrs. Shelfer had filled him by this time with the wonders of my
wealth, and then he looked doubtfully, and with sorrow, at his
burden.
"Put it here if you please," and I pointed to some chairs, "the
dog will not touch you while I am here. Now what is the amount of
this execution?"
"Debt fifteen pounds, Miss; expenses up to five o'clock, four
pound ten."
"Here is the money. Now give me a receipt."
"No, Miss! You don't mean to pay all!"
"Of course, I do."
"Then, Miss, I beg your pardon, but I can't allow you. I has a
duty to my employer, and I has a duty to the public too, not
forgetting Mrs. Shelfer, and Charley an old friend, and all so
handsome in the way of victuals. And I'm sure she wouldn't wish
you to be cheated, Miss. Pay ten pounds for the debt, Miss, and
that's a deal more than it cost them or they expects to get. 'Twixt
you and me, Miss, every stick of this here furniture is in a dozen bills
of sale already; and we comes here more for practice like, than for
anything else."
In short, I paid 10*l.* for the debt, and 4*l.* for the expenses:
whereupon Balaam looked at me with a most impressive and
confidential glance.
"Now, Miss, you won't think me rude; but you have come down
so handsome, I can tell you something as you may like to know. I've
seed the very moral of that sword of yours before."
"Are you certain? Pray where was it?" I trembled with
excitement.
"It was in a place in Somers-town, Miss; where I made a levy,
some eight year agone."
"What was the name of the people?"
"Dallyhorse, or Jellycorse, or something of the sort. Foreigners
they was, and they had only just come to this country. But I can tell
you the name more shipshape from the books. Ah, the very moral of
it; only there warn't no serpent."
"Do you know what has become of them?"
"No that I don't, and don't want to come across them again. A
mean set of mongrel parlywoos; I got starved amost. But I did hear
they was riding the high horse now, and something about court."
"Are you quite sure that the weapon was exactly like this? Look
at this again."
"Miss, I can take my oath it was the fellow pea, all but the little
snake, and he ain't a fixture, I don't believe. I would have sworn it
was the very same, only you tells me not. I noticed it most
particular; for I never see one like it, though I have had a sight of
foreign weapons in my hands ere now. And the gent had got it put
away so; we come across it only through a cat as happened to be
confined--"
"And what became of it? Did your employer have it?"
"Not he, Miss. When the gent found we had got it, he was put
out and no mistake; though he sham not. Away he goes and gets
the money somehow, and has us all away in no time."
"How many were there in the family?"
"Well, let me see. They was only living in lodgings, and had but
half the house. There was Dallyhorse himself, and a queer-looking
lady, and some children, I don't know how many children, for they
kept them out of the way; and a nice young woman as did the
cooking for them, and precious little it was."
"What was his profession? And who was his creditor?'
"I don't know. They called him an artist I think, but he look to
me more like a sailor. It was a boarding-house bill, as I was on him
for. Rum-tempered fellow. I thought he would have stuck me when I
got his sword thing. A tallish man he was, slight build, and active,
and such black eyes."
"Now, Balaam, if you can trace that man, and find out where he
is living now, I will give you two hundred pounds. Here's ten pounds
for you as an earnest."
Balaam was so amazed, that he almost looked straight at me.
"Please, Miss, may I tell Balak? I shan't be happy if I doesn't.
We always works together, and it wouldn't be on the square like."
"Was he with you then? And can he keep a secret?"
"Yes, Miss, he was with me, and I'd trust him with a gallows
secret. I can't do no good without him."
 "Then, certainly you may tell him; but not while in this house.
Here is my country address, that you may know who you act for.
Keep clear of the Police. Keep the whole matter to yourselves. In
two days, I leave London; if you discover nothing in that time, write
to me here, and I will take good care to have the letters forwarded.
Do nothing, but find out that one thing, and when I have verified it,
I will pay you the two hundred pounds."
"Would you mind, Miss, putting it on paper?"
"Yes: for many reasons, I will not write it down. But you are at
liberty to inquire who I am, and whether I am likely to disgrace my
word."
After taking his address, "Balaam Levison, Dove Court, Chancery
Lane," I allowed him to depart, and heard him pause on every stair,
to ponder this strange matter.
Presently Mr. Shelfer came home, and was delighted to see the
bailiffs; and the pleasure being mutual, and my cash burning to be
quenched, a most hilarious evening was the natural result. My health
was drunk, as I could hear too plainly, to unfathomable depths: and
comic songs from three loud organs, provided with patent nasal
stops, with even Patty's treble pipe audible in the chorus, broke from
time to time the tenour of my sad and lonely thoughts.
 CHAPTER IV.

The bailiff's discovery, and the pursuit commenced thereon,

appeared to me so important, that in reply to the message received
the next morning--that my uncle was much the same, and longing
for my return--I sent word that my journey was put off until the day
after the morrow. This allowed me one day more for tidings from my
new scouts, as to the success of their efforts. I was very sorry to
disappoint my poor sick uncle, but it seemed still worse to run away
all in the dark.
The next thing I did was to arrange with Mrs. Shelfer about the
money I had paid for her. It was not the money I cared for, but I had
other views. Although she was politely thankful, I perceived that she
thought it a very bad job indeed, and a most romantic transaction.
Thirty per cent. was the very largest dividend she had ever intended
to pay. But the plan which I proposed was so much for her benefit,
while it suited me, who otherwise must have lost the money, that it
almost recovered her from the shock of having paid a debt. The plan
was simply this, that she should reserve my rooms for me, airing
and cleaning them duly, and always keeping the bed in a fit state to
be slept on at an hour's notice. My previous rent had been twelve
shillings a week, the utmost I could afford out of my narrow income;
attendance, and linen, and other troubles being now dispensed with,
I thought it fair to allow her ten shillings off her debt to me, for
every week I should so retain the rooms. The 4*l.* for the expenses
of the execution I forgave her altogether; inasmuch as I had paid
without consulting her. Directly my payment should be exhausted, to
wit in twenty weeks, I would send her a further sum, if I still
required the rooms.
She was delighted with this arrangement, which in fact enabled
her to have her "sticks" all to herself, to pet them and talk to them
every day, and even to clean them, if such a freak of destruction
ever should enter her brain. She could use the sitting-room for her
own pleasure and pride, as much as ever she chose, so long as it
always was ready for me; and already visions were passing before
her mind's eye, of letting the parlour downstairs with the onion-room
for its dormitory. To me the arrangement was very convenient, as
affording a fixed and familiar resort in London, and a pivot of ready
communication. Nor was it a small consolation to feel that I still
retained a stronghold in the neighbourhood of dear friends.
All this being comfortably settled, Giudice and I went forth to
pay our visit in Lucas Street. The whole of that street we found so
utterly changed in appearance by a vigorous onset of painters,
grainers, and decorators, that it was not easy to know the house we
were in quest of. Even the numbers on the doors, which had been
illegible, or very nearly so, had now been re-arranged and painted
over again upon the fashionable and very sensible mode of marking
odd numerals on one side, and even ones on the other. Finding
myself in a difficulty, and the houses all alike as the central peas of a
pod, I trusted to Judy's delicate nose, and rang the bell of the door
at which he halted. Then he drew back, and trembled, and crouched
upon the pavement, to wait for my return. As I heard the tinkle, my
heart began to flutter: who could tell what new phase of my life
might begin with that little pull? After some delay, poor old Cora
came, looking as weird and woebegone as ever--fierce would have
been that look to any one but me. I knew that I held her by my
magic gordit, like the slave of the lamp. After imploring in some
mumbled words (which I interpreted only by knowledge of her
desire) gracious leave to kiss that potent charm, she led me into the
breakfast-parlour, where I found sweet Isola in a passionate flood of
tears.
At sight of me, her beautiful smile broke through them, and her
quick deep sobs spent themselves in kisses.
"Oh, I am so gug-gug-glad, my own dear Cla-Cla-Clara; and I
won't cuc-cuc-cry one bit more, the moment I can stop."
She put her arms around me, and her head upon my breast, as
if I had been, at the very least, her brother.
"My pretty dear, what is it all about?"
I had never seen her look so lovely as now, her violet eyes
brimming with liquid brightness, the velvet of her cheeks deepened
to rich carmine, and the only thing that sweet face ever wanted, the
expression of earnest feeling, now radiant through the whole.
"Why, dear, I ought not to tell you; but I must tell somebody, or
my heart will break."
Here she pressed her little hand on that pure unfissured casket,
where sorrow was as yet an undreamed-of robber.
"You know, dear, it's all about papa and my darling Conny. The
only trouble I ever have, but a very great one, big enough and too
big for two little folk of my size. Half an hour ago, I went in suddenly
to get a book upon the politico-economical science, the very one
papa is lecturing about so beautifully; and I did not even know that
Conny was in the house. There papa was, white as death with
passion; and Conrad with his eyes like coals of sparkling fire; and
what do you suppose my papa called his own son Conny?"
"Don't tell me, if it's anything bad. I can't bear it, Isola."
"Oh, I knew you were fond of him, and I am so glad!"
This she said in such an artless way--as if Conrad and I were
two dolls which she meant to put in one doll's house--that instead of
colouring, I actually laughed.
"Oh, but I must tell you, Clara: it's right for you to know; one of
the leading principles of political economy--"
"Don't talk to me of that stuff."
"Well, I won't; because I see that you don't understand it. But
he actually called him--and his voice came from a depth, like an
Artesian well--he called our darling Conny--"
"What?" And in my passion, I flung off her hand, and stood up.
"A low bastard, a renegade hound, a scandal to his country--and
then he even said Rimbecco."
She pronounced the last word almost with a scream, as an
insult beyond forgiveness. What it meant I did not ask, I had heard
enough already.
"I must leave this house. Where is your brother Conrad?"
"Gone, I believe, to inquire for you. Nothing but that composes
him. I wish he would never come here. And he was ordered not to.
But it is about some business. Oh, he never will come again." And
she began to cry at the thought of the very thing she had wished for.
"Neither will I come again. Where is your father now?"
"Up at his lumbering cabinet, where he always consoles himself,
whenever he is put out. But if you are going, dear child, do let me
come with you. I shall cry till I die here, all by myself: and Pappy
never cares about me, when he is in his black dudgeon."
In a few minutes we left the rude unpleasant house, and even
Judy seemed relieved to get away from the door. By the time we
reached Mrs. Shelfer's, Idols was in capital spirits again, and pressed
me for some account of the wonderful wealth, and the grand house
she had heard of. No doubt this rumour had found its way through
Ann Maples.
"And the great Lord--what's his name, dear Donna? I wouldn't
believe a word of it; though I'm sure you are a deal too good for all
the house of peers. But Conny did; and wasn't he in a way? But he
ought to be very glad you know--wish you every blessing, as they
say in the plays; and a peer is the very highest blessing to an
Englishwoman. But one thing I am quite resolved on: Judy belongs
to me now, don't you, lovely Judy?"
"No," said the judicious, "I belong to Clara."
"Though Conny pretends, since he was left at your place, that
he belongs to him. Now I will give him to you; and so will Conny too.
You can afford to keep him now, and I can't, he does eat such a lot;
and he does not care a pin for me, but he loves you with all his
heart."
"How do you know he does?" I was not attending much, but
thinking of some one else.
"Why, can't you see that he does, how he wags his tail every
time you even look at him? But I hope poor Conny is here. I should
think he would stop, when he finds darling Clara come back."
I had jumped to that hope long ago, before we even left Lucas
Street, and that had something to do with my walking so fast.
 No, he was not there, he had not been there to-day. It was my
turn now to cry; what might he not have done, after that fearful
insult, and from his own father too?
The tears, which I confided to no one except the wooden-
legged blackbird--for Giudice would have made such a fuss about
them--were still upon my cheeks, when I heard the well-known step-
-not half so elastic as usual. I fled into my bedroom, and pushed the
boxes about, to make a goodly noise, and to account for the colour
in my face. Then out I came at the side-door, and ran downstairs
perversely, though I knew that Conrad and Isola were in my sitting-
room.
But this first-rate manoeuvre only outwitted its author, for Isola
ran down after me, and sent me upstairs alone. All my little
nonsense vanished the moment I looked in Conrad's face. His
healthy brown complexion was faded to an opal white; beneath his
eyes such dark blue rims, that I thought he had spectacles on; and
on either cheek a round red spot was burning. So shocked I was,
that when he took my hand, I turned my face away and smothered
down a sob. I felt that I had no right to be so fresh and blooming.
Nor was it only in health that the contrast between us lay. I was
dressed with unusual care, having fidgeted all the morning, and with
my utmost taste. Poor Conrad was in his working clothes, full of
marble dust, tumbled, threadbare, and even in need of mending; his
hair swept anyhow, and his hands not over-lately washed. Yet, for all
that, he was as clearly a gentleman, as I was a lady.
Not so would he have been arrayed, I fancy, had he thought to
see neat Clara. And yet, who knows? "I trust that you will excuse
me," he began to say, "but such things have happened lately--you
will not account me rude--I had no sense at all of this great
pleasure."
"I fear you have not been very happy." I knew not what to say,
or how to keep my voice clear.
"Yes," he replied, "as happy as I deserve. It serves me aright for
esteeming so much of myself, before that I do anything. But I will
win my way"--and his own proud glance flashed out--"and we shall
see how many will scorn me then."
"No one in the world can scorn you," I said very softly, and my
voice thrilled through him.
"Ah, you are always kind and gentle:"--am I though, thought I--
"but I will no more fatigue you with my different lot in life. I am told
that some great nobleman has won you for his own. Perhaps you
will give me an order."
His throat was swelling with these bitter words, and he looked
at his dusty clothes. Somewhat rude I thought him, but I knew not
half his troubles.
"Whoever told you that, has made a great mistake. I am
engaged to no one. Your sister knows me better." And I turned away
to the window. For a minute he said nothing; but I could hear his
heart beat. Stedfastly I looked at the cheesemonger's shop. Oh for a
flower, or something on the balcony!
Presently he came round the corner of the sofa. Without being
rude, I could not help turning round.
His face was much, much, brighter, and his eyes more kind.
"Have I said any harm--I would not for the world--I knew not it
was harm."
 "No harm," I said, "to think so ill of me! To believe, for a single
moment, that because I am not so poor, I would go and forsake--at
least, I mean, forget--any one I cared for!"
"Can I ever hope, if I serve you all my life, that you will ever
care for me?"
"Don't you know I do?" And I burst into my violent flood.
When I came to myself, both his arms were round me, and I
was looking up at his poor sick face, my hair quite full of marble
chips, and he was telling me with glad tears in his eyes, which he
never took from mine, how he cared for nothing now, not for all the
world, not for glory or fur shame, so long as I only loved him.
"With all my heart and soul," I whispered, "him and no one else
whatever, whether in life or death."
All the folly we went through I am not going to repeat, though I
remember well every atom of it. Let the wise their wisdom keep, we
are babes and sucklings. Neither of us had ever loved before, or
ever meant to love again, except of course each other, and that
should be for ever.
"One thing I must tell you, my own sweet love, and yet I fear to
do it. But you are not like other girls. There is no one like you, nor
has there ever been. I think you will not scorn me for another's
fault."
"Of course I won't, my own pet Conny. What is this awful
thing?"
"I am an illegitimate son."
One moment I sprang from him; the next I despised myself. But
in spite of all my troubles, there still lurked in my heart the narrow
pride of birth. Down to the earth it fell beneath the foot of true love,
and I kissed away from his eyes the mingled reproach and sorrow,
assuring him that at least he should have a legitimate wife.
To make amends, I leaned upon him one moment, and put my
hand on his shoulder, and let him play awhile with the dark shower
of my hair.
"Darling Conny, you have told me yours, now you shall hear my
secret. Only promise me you will give tit for tat. You say you loved
me ever since you saw me first; then you must have loved your
Clara when you saved her life."
"What do you mean, my Clara? Those low ruffians in the Park
were not going to kill you."
"No, dearest; I don't mean that at all. But there's a kiss for that,
I have owed it you ever since. But what I mean no kisses can repay;
no, nor a life of love. You saved a life worth fifty of my own."
Some dark alarm was growing in his eyes, on which I gazed
with vague increasing terror.
"Why, dearest, it is nothing. Only your own Clara is not Clara
Valence; you must call her 'Clara Vaughan.'"
With actual violence he thrust me from his arms, and stood
staring at me, while I trembled from head to foot; his face was one
scarlet flame.
"And pray, Sir, what harm have I done? Am I to suppose that
you"--special emphasis meant for illegitimacy--"that you are
ashamed of my father and me?"
"Yes, I am. Accursed low licentious race! If you knew what you
have done, you would tear your heart out rather than give it to me."
"Thank you--I feel obliged--my heart indeed--to a bastard. Take
back your ring if you please; kindly restore me mine. May I trouble
you for room enough to go by?"
And I swept out of the room, and through the side-door into my
bed-room, where I crouched in a corner, with both hands on my
heart, and the whole world gone away. "Mad!" I heard him cry, "yes,
I must go mad at last!" Away he rushed from the house, and I fell
upon the bed, and lay in fits till midnight.

CHAPTER V.

I believe that my heart would have burst, if they had not cut my
stays; and how I wished it had. When I came back to my unlucky
self, there was something shivery cold in the forehead wave of my
hair. Was it Conrad's finger? I put up my hand to dash it away, and
caught a fine fat leech. Dr. Franks was sitting by me, holding a basin
and a sponge.
"That's the last of them, my dear child. Don't disturb him. He is
doing his duty by you."
"His duty! Was it his duty to say such fearful things? To break
my heart with every word! Ashamed of me--ashamed of my darling
father! Low and licentious! What have I done? what have I done?
Oh, it I only knew what harm I have ever done!"
"No harm, my poor dear, no harm in the world; let me bathe
your pretty face. Come now, you shan't cry another drop. What is to
become of the beautiful eyes I was so proud of saving?"
"Oh, I wish you hadn't, how I wish you hadn't. Dr. Franks, I
have no father, and no mother, and no one in all the world to love
me, and I was just getting so nice and happy again, so proud of
myself, and so much prouder of him, and I began to think how glad
my own dear father would be; and, Dr. Franks, I did love him so,
with all my heart, perhaps it's not very large, but with every morsel
and atom of my heart--and now, now I must hate him as much as
ever I can. Oh let me go home, do let me go home, where my father
and mother are buried." And I rose in the bed to start, and the
candles glimmered in my eyes.
"Please to go out of the room, every one please to go; and don't
let Isola come. I can't bear the sight of her now. It won't take me
long to dress, and I don't want any luggage; and, Mrs. Shelfer,
please to go for a cab: and I shan't want the rooms any more, and it
does not matter a bit about any letters. I'll tell my father everything
when I see him, and then perhaps he'll tell me what harm it is I
have done. Why don't you go, when you see I want to get up?'
"Don't you see, my dear child, we are going? Only you must
take this glass of wine first, to prepare you for your long journey.
Will you take it now, while we fetch the cab?"
"Yes, anything, anything: I don't care what it is. Only let me get
ready."
And I drank, without even tasting it, a glass of some dark liquid,
which saved me from wandering further either in mind or body.
When I awoke, it was broad noon once more, and Dr. Franks
was sitting by me with one of my hands in his. "Magnificent
constitution," I thought I heard him mutter, "glorious constitution."
What good was it to me? At the foot of the bed, sat Isola crying
terribly. Slowly I remembered all my great disaster, but saw it only
through a dull gray veil. The power of the opiate was still upon my
brain. But a cold dead pain lay heavy on my heart, and always
seemed to want a heavy hand upon it. After he had given me a
reviving draught, Dr. Franks perceived that I wished to speak to
Isola, and accordingly withdrew.
Poor Isola came slowly and sat beside my pillow, doubting
whether she should dare to take my hand. Therefore I took hers,
drew her face towards me, and covered it with kisses. Isola had
done no harm to me whatever, and I felt it something to have even
her to love. She was overcome with affectionate surprise.
"Oh, Clara dearest, I am so very glad to find you love me still. I
feared that you would never care for me again. What is it all about,
dear, if you are well enough to tell me, what is all this dreadful
misery about?"
"That is the very thing I want to learn from you, dear. Surely
you must know better far than I do."
I would not even ask her what had become of Conrad.
"No, I don't dear. I don't know at all. All I know is there must
have been some dreadful quarrel between you and Conrad. I must
tell you, dear, I was so anxious about something you can guess, that
I stole up to the door soon after he came in; and you were so intent
upon the window, that you never even saw me put the door ajar;
and then I heard him tell you how very much he loved you, and I
was so glad. And then I thought it was not quite fair of me, and I
knew all I wanted, so I ran downstairs again. And the next thing I
heard was your bedroom door bang and then Conny dashed out the
house, and Judy came down to me looking very sorrowful. And I ran
up to you, and here I found you shrieking so, and rolling, and
clutching at the bedclothes, and I was so frightened I could not even
move. And then Judy came and made such a dreadful howling, and
Mrs. Shelfer ran straight off for the doctor, and I poured the water in
the decanter over you, and I can't tell any more."
"But surely, darling, you have been home since that?"
"Oh yes; when Dr. Franks came, and you were a little better, he
would make me go home, because he did not want two patients, he
said; and his eldest daughter, such a nice girl, came with me; and
my papa didn't even know that I had been out of the house. He was
still upstairs, brooding over his relics, and all the sixth form at the
College had to go to dinner without their lectures; but I do believe
the stupid girls were glad."
"And did you hear--no, it doesn't matter."
"No, I never heard what became of Conrad. No doubt he went
back to his favourite chip, chipping. He has got a splendid thing he is
full of now, and it prevents his sleeping; something or other very
horrible from Dante, and the leading figure is modelled after you. I
have seen the drawings, and he has got you exactly."
"How gratifying to be sure! I will ask you no more questions.
Pray let me know when I am for sale; though I should call it a work
of illegitimate art."
My eyes were on her face, but she showed no consciousness
whatever, which she must have done had she known the fact
referred to, for she was quick of perception, and open as the day. I
was angry with myself for the low and bootless sneer, which was
pretty certain to be conveyed to her brother.
"Now I will delay no longer. Let me speak to Dr. Franks. I shall
go this afternoon."
 Poor Isola turned pale; she had looked upon the occurrence as
only a lover's quarrel, sure to be set right in a day or two. She could
not harbour any great resentment long, and forgot that I could.
"Don't talk so, dear; and you so very weak! it would be sure to
kill you. And what will Conny think? You must not go, at any rate, till
you have been to see him."
"I go to him! I hope to see him never more until I charge him in
another world with this bitter wrong. No, no more if you please; I
will not hear his name again. How can he be your brother? Darling
Idols, I never shall forget you. Take this, my pet, and think of me
sometimes, for you will never see me more."
I gave her an emerald ring, set with lovely pearls, small types of
herself. It was not the one I had reclaimed from her brother, that
was a plain keeper.
"Oh Clara, Clara, don't say that, whatever you do, because I
know you will keep to it, you are so shamefully obstinate. And I
never loved any one in the world like you; no, not even Conny."
"And not even your father or mother?"
"No, not half so much. I like Pappy very well when he is good
and kind, but that is not very often now"--the poor little thing's eyes
filled again with tears,--"and as for my mother, I never even saw
her; she died when I was born."
"And I love you too, my sweet, best of all the world--now.
Nevertheless, we must part."
"And never see each other? I don't call that loving. Tell me why:
do tell me why. There seems some horrid mystery about every one I
love."
 And she was overcome with grief. She had not been, like me,
apprenticed young to trouble.
"Darling, I will write to you sometimes. You can come here for
the letters. I will have no secrets any more from you; but you must
never attempt to write to me--only send your name on a bit of paper
when my letters go."
"But why on earth mayn't I write to you, Clara dear?"
"I can't tell you why. Only I cannot bear it." The truth was I
could never have borne to read about her brother. So all that was
settled, and I said good-bye with plenty of bitter crying. As for
Balaam and Balak, from whom I expected tidings, and George
Cutting, whom I had thought it right to send for--I had not the heart
to attend to any of them. Dr. Franks had done his utmost to oppose
my sudden journey, but I told him truly that I should go mad if I
stopped there any longer. I could not bear the mere sight of the
room where I had been, in the height of delicious joy, so trampled
upon and outraged. My brain was burning, and my heart was aching
for the only spot on earth where true love could be found, the spot
where lay my father and my mother.
Seeing how the fever of the mind was kindling, the doctor, like a
good physician, knew that the best plan was to indulge, and so allay
it. Yet he begged me, if I had any regard for him, not to travel all
alone while in that dangerous state. With most unlooked-for and
unmerited kindness, he even sent his eldest daughter, at an hour's
notice, to see me home in safety.
The last farewell was said to Judy, whom I would not take away,
greatly as I loved him still; and he received most stringent orders
first to conduct dear Isola home, and then to go to his old quarters
at the livery stables. Apparently he acquiesced, though with wistful
glances; but at Paddington, as I was getting the tickets, to my
amazement in he rushed, upset a couple of porters, and demanded
his ticket too. Under the circumstances there was nothing for it,
except to let him go with us, or to lose the train. So his ticket was
taken, and he dashed into the dog-box with an enthusiasm which
earned him a hard knock on the head.

CHAPTER VI.

Annie Franks was exactly as Isola had described her, "such a nice
girl." Kind-hearted like her father, truthful, ladylike, and sensitive;
retiring too, and humble-minded, with a well of mute romance in the
shadow of her heart, a wave of which she would not for the world
display. The only vent she ever allowed this most expansive element
was novel-reading, or a little quiet hero-worship. Her greatest
happiness was to sit upon a lonely bank, and read a slashing curtel-
axe and gramercy romance, with lots of high-born ladies in it, and
lots of moonlight love. If history got hard thumps among them, and
chronology, like an unwound clock, was right but twice in twenty-
four, simple Annie smiled no less, so long as the summer sun flashed
duly on pennon, helm, and gonfalon, and she could see bright
cavalcades winding through the greenwood shade. In "coat and
waistcoat" novels her soul took no delight. Not a shilling would she
squeeze from her little beaded purse for all the quicksilver of
Dickens, or the frosted gold[#] of Thackeray. Yet she was not by any
means what fast young ladies call a "spooney;" she had plenty of
common sense upon the things of daily life, plenty of general
information, and no lack of gentle self-respect.

[#] "Ice-tempered steel" I had written. But alas, the great author is dead, and
they say that his kind heart was grieved by nothing so much as the charge of
Cynicism. If he were a Cynic, would that we all were dogs!--"[Greek: Kynòs
ómmat' echôn, kradíen d' eláphoio.]"--C.V. 1864.

Now she was wending through an upland meet for gray-clad reverie,
where she might dream for days and days, and none but silly deer
intrude. As we passed along in the gloaming of the May, through
bosomed lawn and bosky dell, with lilac plumes for cavaliers, and
hawthorn sweeps for ladies' trains, the soft gray eyes of Annie
ceased at last to watch me, and her thoughts were in costume of
Chevy Chase or Crecy.
By reason of the message sent the day before, no one in the
house expected me; so we stole in quietly, lest my uncle should be
alarmed, and I requested Gregory, tipsy Bob's successor, to bring
Jane to meet us, in my own little room. Annie being installed there,
to her great delight, and allowed free boot of "Marry, Sir knight,"
and "Now by my halidame," I went to see my poor dear uncle, who
by this time was prepared for my visit. Very weak he seemed, and
nervous, and more rejoiced at my return than even I had expected.
To me also it was warm comfort in my cold pride-ailment to be with
one of my own kin, whom none could well disparage. There was a
dignity about him, an air of lofty birth, which my own darling father
had been too genial to support. Soon I perceived from my uncle's
manner, that something had happened since my departure to add to
his uneasiness. But he offered no explanation and I did not like to
ask him. He in turn perceived the heavy dark despondency, which, in
spite of all my efforts, would at times betray itself. Pride and
indignation supported me, when I began to think, but then I could
not always think, whereas I could always feel. Moreover, pride and
indignation are, in almost every case, props that carry barbs. In a
word, though I would scorn the love-lorn maiden's part, it was sad
for me to know that I could never love again.
With a father's tenderness, he feebly drew my head to his
trembling breast, and asked me in a tearful whisper what had
happened to me. But I was too proud to tell him. Oh that I had not
been! What misery might have been spared to many. But all the time
my head lay there, I was on fire with shame and agony, thinking of
the breast on which my hair had last been shed.
"Now, good nurse Clara," he said at last with a poor attempt at
playfulness, "I shall have no more confidence in your professional
skill, unless you wheel me forth to-morrow with a cheerful face. You
are tired to-night, my love, and so should I have been, if you had
not come home. To-morrow you shall tell me why you came so
suddenly and saved me a day of longing. And to-morrow, if I am
strong enough, I will tell you a little history, which may be lost, like
many a great one, unless it is quickly told. Stop--one cup of tea,
dear, and how proud I am to pour it out for you--and then I will not
keep you from a livelier friend. To-morrow, you must introduce me. I
still like pretty girls, and you should have brought that lovely Isola
with you. I can't think why you didn't. She would have been most
welcome."
 "Come, uncle, I shall be jealous. The young lady I have brought
is quite pretty enough for you."
He sighed at some remembrance, and then asked abruptly,
"Do you mean to sleep, my darling, in the little room to-night?"
His voice shook so, while he asked this question, that I was quite
certain something had alarmed him. The little room was the one I
had occupied between the main corridor and his present bedroom. It
was meant for an ante-room, not a sleeping chamber; but I had
brought my little iron bedstead thither.
"To be sure I do, dear uncle; do you suppose, because I have
been off duty, that I mean to be cashiered? Only one thing I must
tell you; I have brought home with me one of the very best friends I
ever had. You have heard me talk of Giudice. I cannot bear the
thought of parting with him to-night, he will cry so dreadfully in the
strange stables; and in London he always slept on the mat outside
my door. May I have him in the lobby, uncle, you will never hear him
move, and he never snores except just after dinner?"
"To be sure, my pet; I would not part you for the world. God
bless you, my own child, and keep your true heart lighter."
If I had been really his own child, he could not have been more
loving to me, than he had now become.
After giving Annie Franks her tea, which she was far too deep in
tournament to drink, I paid a visit to Mrs. Fletcher's room, and
learned from her that nothing, so far as she knew, had happened to
disturb my uncle: Mrs. Daldy had not been near the house, and
there was a rumour afloat that she had been called to take part in a
revival meeting near Swansea. So after introducing Judy, who was a
dreadful dog for jam, and having him admired almost as much as he
ought to be, I returned to Annie, and found her in high delight with
everything and everybody, and most of all with her tapestry-writer.
Leaving her at last under Tilly's care, Judy and I were making off for
our sleeping quarters, when truant Matilda followed me down the
passage hastily.
"Oh, Miss, please, Miss, I want to tell you something, and I did
not like to name it before that nice young lady, because I am sure
she is timid like."
Matilda looked not timid like, but terrified exceedingly, as she
stared on every side with her candle guttering.
"Hold your candle up, Matilda; and tell me what it is."
By this time we were in the main passage, "corridor" they called
it, and could see all down it by the faint light of some oil-lamps, to
the oriel window at the farther end, whereon the moon (now nearly
full again) was shining.
"Why, Miss, the ghost was walking last night, and the night
before."
"Nonsense, Matilda. Don't be so absurd."
"It's true, Miss. True as you stand there. Pale gray it is this time,
and so tall, and the face as white as ashes." And a shiver ran
through Tilly, at her own description--"You know, Miss, it's the time
of year, and she always walks three nights together, from the big
east window to this end and back again. So please to lock your door,
Miss, and bolt it too inside."
"Well done, Tilly! Does any one intend to wait up for the ghost?
What time does it come?"
"One o'clock, Miss, as punctual as a time-piece. But could you
suppose, Miss, any one would dare to wait up and see it?"
 "Then how have they seen it, in the name of folly?"
"Why, Miss, I'll tell you. One of the carriage-horses got an
inflammation in his eyes, and the farrier give orders to have it
sponged never more than three hours between, and so William
Edwards, the head-groom if you please, Miss"--Tilly curtseyed here,
because this was her legitimate sweetheart--"he stops up till one
o'clock to see to it, and then Job Leyson goes instead. So William
come in, Miss, on Monday night, to go to bed, please, Miss, and he
took the short cut, not that he were allowed, Miss, or would think of
taking a liberty on no account whatever, but he were that sleepy he
didn't know the way to bed, so he went across the corridor for the
short cut from the kitchen gallery to the servants' passage; and
there he saw--he hadn't any light, Miss, and the lamps all out--
Goodness me! Whatever was that? Did you hear it, Miss?"
"Yes, and see it, Tilly; it's a daddy in your candle. Go on, Tilly,
will you. Am I to stop here all night and get as bad as you are?"
"There William Edwards, a man who never swears or drinks,
there he saw all in the dark, coming so stately down the corridor, as
if it hadn't room enough, with one arm up like this, a tall pale
melancholy ghost, and he knew it was the lady who was wronged
and killed, when the great wars was, Miss, two hundred year
agone."
"Well, Tilly, and did he speak to it?"
"He was that frightened, Miss, he could not move or speak; but
he fell again the wall in the side-passage, with his eyes coming out
of his head, and his hair up like my wicker-broom. And then she
vanished away, and he got to bed, and did perspire so, they was
forced to wring the blankets."
 "Capital, Tilly! And who saw her the next night?"
"Why that nincompoop Job Leyson, Miss. Our William was a
deal too wise to go that way any more, but he tell Job Leyson, and
he a foolish empty fellow, perhaps you know, Miss. 'Ho,' says Job, 'I
often hear tell of her, to-night I'll have a peep.' So last night when
William went to bed on the servants' side, down comes Job and
takes the front way, pretty impudent of him I think. And, Miss, I
don't know what he see, I never says much to him; but there they
found him in the saddle-room, at five o'clock this morning, with his
heels up on a rack, and his head down in the bucket, and never a bit
of sponge had come near the poor mare's eye."
"Oh, thank you, Tilly. Perhaps you had better snuff your candle.
No ghost will have much chance that comes near my Judy." And with
that I went to bed, tired of such nonsense.
An hour of deep sleep from pure weariness both of mind and
body, and I awoke with every fibre full of nervous life. The moon
was high in the south-east, and three narrow stripes of lozenged
light fell upon the old oak floor. Although my uncle had left the gable
where the windows faced the setting sun, he still kept to the
western wing. The house, which was built in the reign of Henry the
Eighth, covered the site and in some parts embodied the relics of a
much more ancient structure. The plan was very simple, at least as
regarded the upstair rooms. From east to west ran one long corridor,
crossed at right angles, in the centre and near the ends, by three
gable passages. Although there were so many servants, not half the
rooms were occupied: all the best bedrooms had been empty many
a year. No festivities had filled them since my father's days. Gloom
and terror still hung over the eastern part, where he had been so
foully murdered. In most of the downstair windows along the front
of the house, the rickety lattice of diamond panes had been replaced
by clear plate-glass, but the old hall, and the corridor, and some of
the gable windows still retained their gorgeous tints and heraldry.
As the shadows of the mullions stole upon my counterpane,
there began to creep across my mind uneasy inklings of the ghost. A
less imaginative man than William Edwards, I who had often enjoyed
his escort, knew well there could not be. As for Job Leyson I could
not tell with what creative powers his mind might be endowed; but--
to judge from physiognomy--a light ring snaffle would hold them.
Thinking, with less and less complacence, of this apparition
story, and the red legend which lay beneath it, for the spectral lady
was believed to be a certain Beatrice Vaughan, daughter of the
Cavalier who perceived the moss-light, and heiress of the house 200
years ago--thinking of this, I say, with more and more of flutter, I sat
up in the bed and listened. My uncle's thick irregular breathing, the
play of an ivy-leaf on the mullion, the half-hour struck by the turret-
clock, were all the sounds I heard; except that my heart, so listless
and desponding, was re-asserting some right to throb for its own
safety. With my hand upon it, I listened for another minute,
resolving if I heard nothing more to make a great nest in the pillows-
-I always want three at least--and shut both ears to destiny. But
there came, before the minute passed, a low, long, hollow sound, an
echo of trembling expectation. In a moment I leaped from the bed;
though I had never heard it before, I knew it could only be the
bloodhound's cautious warning.
I flung a long cloak round me, gathered close my hair, hurried
velvet slippers on, locked my uncle in, and quietly opened the outer
door. There stood Giudice in the moonlight, with his head towards
the far east window, his ears laid back, his crest erect, and in his
throat a gurgling sound, a growl suppressed by wonder. He never
turned to look at me, nor even wagged his tail, but watched and
waited grimly. I laid my hand upon him, and then glided down the
corridor, avoiding the moonlight patches. Giudice followed, like my
shadow, never a foot behind me, his tread as stealthy as a cat's.
Before I reached the oriel window where the broad light fell,
something told me to draw aside and watch. I withdrew, and Giudice
with me, into the dark entrance to my father's room. Here we would
see what came. Scarcely had I been there ten throbs of the heart,
when between me and the central light, where the moonbeams fell
askance, rose a tall gray figure. I am not quite a coward, for a
woman at least, but every drop of blood within me at that sight
stood still. Even Giudice trembled, and his growl was hushed, and
every hair upon him bristled as he crouched into my cloak. Slowly
the form was rising, like a corpse raised from a coffin by the loose
end of the winding-sheet. I could not speak, I could not move, much
less could I think. With a silent stately walk, or glide--for no feet
could I see--the figure came towards the embrasure where we
lurked. Ashy white the face was, large the eyes and hollow, all the
hair fell down the back, the form was tall and graceful, one arm was
lifted as in appeal, to heaven, and the shroud drooped from it, the
other lay across the breast. The colour of the shroud was gray, pale,
unearthly gray. For one moment as it passed, I kept my teeth from
chattering. Giudice crawled one step before me, with his mind made
up for death. Back the blood leaped to my heart, as the apparition
glided slowly down the corridor without sigh or footfall.
 What to do I knew not; my feet were now unrooted from the
ground. Should I fly into my father's death-room? No; I was afraid.
To stay where I was seemed best, but how could I see it come back,
as I knew it would? Another such suspension of my life, and all, I
felt, would be over.
Suddenly, while still the figure was receding in the distance, I
saw a great change in the bloodhound. He strode into the corridor,
and began to follow. At the same time, the deep gurgle in his throat
revived. In a moment, it flashed through me that he had smelt the
ghost to be a thing of flesh and blood. It might be my father's
murderer. At any rate it had entered as he must have done. Close
behind the dog I stole after the spectral figure. The supernatural
horror fled; all my life was in my veins. What became of me I cared
not, I who was so wretched. Almost to the end, that gliding form
preceded us, then turned down a flight of steps leading to the
basement. Triple resolution gushed through me at this; this was the
spot where the ghost was known to turn, and glide back through the
corridor. When it had descended about half-way down the staircase,
where the steps were on the turn and narrow, standing at the head I
distinctly heard a flop, as of a slipper-heel dropping from the foot,
and then caught up again. What ghost was likely to want slippers?
And what mortal presence need I fear, with Judy at my side?
Keeping him behind me by a gentle touch, I hurried down the stairs.
Luckily, I stopped before I turned the corner, for a gleam came up
the passage; the ghost had struck a lucifer.
It was a dark and narrow passage, proof to any moon-light, and
the spectre lost no time in lighting a small lamp, to find the study
door; I mean my uncle's private study, where he kept his papers.
The lamp was of peculiar shape, very small, and fitted with three
reflectors, to throw the light in converging planes.
Still remaining in deep shadow, I saw the person--ghost no
longer--produce a key, open the study door and enter. Then an
attempt was made to lock the door from the inside, but--as I knew
by the sound--the false key would not work that way, and the door
was only closed. Whispering into Judy's ear, that if he dared to
move--for his honest wrath at these burglarious doings could
scarcely be controlled--I would make a ghost of him next day, I left
him in the passage, and softly followed the intruder. First I looked
through the key-hole; the room was very dark and full of heavy
furniture; I could see nothing; but must risk the chance. So I slipped
in noiselessly and closed the door behind me. With the ghostly
apparel thrown aside, and a mask laid on an ebony desk, stood
intently occupied at the large bureau, which I had once so longed to
search, my arch-enemy, Mrs. Daldy. I was not at all surprised,
having felt long since that it could be no other. Sitting upon a stiff-
backed velvet chair, in the shadow of an oaken bookcase--crouch I
would not for her--I waited to see what she would do. Already the
folding-doors of the large bureau were open; their creaking had
drowned the noise of my entry. Before her was exposed a multitude
of drawers. All the visible doors she had probably explored on the
previous nights, as well as the other repositories of various kinds
which the room contained. Her search was narrowed now to one
particular part of this bureau.
The folding-doors were very large, and richly inlaid with
arabesques and scroll-work of satin-wood and ebony: all the inside
was fitted and adorned with ivory pillars, small alcoves containing
baby mirrors, flights of chequered steps, and other quaint devices,
besides the more business-like and useful sliding trays. With the
lamp-light flashing on it, it looked like a palace for the Queen of
Dolls--a place for puppet ceremony and pleasure. Every drawer was
faced with marquetrie, every little door had panels of shagreen. In
short, the whole thing would have been the pride of any shop in
Wardour Street, when that street was itself. Having never seen it
open till now, I was quite astonished, though I don't know how often
my father had promised to show it to me on my very next birthday,
if I were good. Probably I was never good enough.
Without any hesitation, Mrs. Daldy pressed a fan, or slide, of
cedar-wood, in the right corner of the cabinet; the slide sunk into a
groove, and disclosed two deep, but narrow drawers; these she
pulled out from their boxes, and laid aside; they were full of papers,
which she no doubt had already examined. Then she placed the
diminutive lamp on one of the doll steps, and produced from her
pocket three or four little tools. Before commencing with these, she
probed and pressed the partition between the sockets of those two
drawers, in every imaginable way--a last attempt to find the
countersign of some private nook, which had defied her the night
before.
At length, with a low cry of impatience, she seized a small, thin
chisel, and a bottle of clear liquid: with the one she softened the
buhl veneer upon the partition's face, and with the other she
removed it. Then, after a little unscrewing, she carefully prized away
the stop of cedar-wood, while I admired her workman-like
proceedings (so far as they were visible to me), and the graceful
action of the arms she was so proud of. Her shoulder came rather in
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