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diff --git a/old/41876-8.txt b/old/41876-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 7288475..0000000 --- a/old/41876-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10181 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Yellow Book, edited by Henry Harland - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Yellow Book - An Illustrated Quarterly, Vol. 2, July 1894 - -Editor: Henry Harland - -Release Date: January 19, 2013 [EBook #41876] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YELLOW BOOK *** - - - - -Produced by Charlene Taylor, Carol Brown, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - - - - - - - THE YELLOW BOOK - - An Illustrated Quarterly - - Volume II July 1894 - - [Illustration: Magazine Cover] - - London: Elkin Mathews & John Lane - - Boston: Copeland & Day Price 5/- Net - - - - Contents - - Literature - - - I. The Gospel of Content By Frederick Greenwood _Page_ 11 - - II. Poor Cousin Louis Ella D'Arcy 34 - - III. The Composer of "Carmen" Charles Willeby 63 - - IV. Thirty Bob a Week John Davidson 99 - - V. A Responsibility Henry Harland 103 - - VI. A Song Dollie Radford 116 - - VII. Passed Charlotte M. Mew 121 - - VIII. Sat est Scripsisse Austin Dobson 142 - - IX. Three Stories V., O., C.S. 144 - - X. In a Gallery Katharine de Mattos 177 - - XI. The Yellow Book, } Philip Gilbert Hamerton, - criticised } LL.D. 179 - - XII. Dreams Ronald Campbell Macfie 195 - - XIII. Madame Réjane Dauphin Meunier 197 - - XIV. The Roman Road Kenneth Grahame 211 - - XV. Betrothed Norman Gale 227 - - XVI. Thy Heart's Desire Netta Syrett 228 - - XVII. Reticence in Literature Hubert Crackanthorpe 259 - - XVIII. My Study Alfred Hayes 275 - - XIX. A Letter to the Editor Max Beerbohm 281 - - XX. An Epigram William Watson 289 - - XXI. The Coxon Fund Henry James 290 - - - - - Art - - - I. The Renaissance of By Walter Crane _Page_ 7 - Venus - - II. The Lamplighter A. S. Hartrick 60 - - III. } The Comedy-Ballet } - IV. } of } - V. } Marionettes } - } - VI. Garçons de Café } Aubrey Beardsley 85 - } - VII. The Slippers of } - Cinderella } - } - VIII. Portrait of Madame } - Réjane } - - IX. A Landscape Alfred Thornton 117 - - X. Portrait of Himself } - } - XI. A Lady } P. Wilson Steer 171 - } - XII. A Gentleman } - - XIII. Portrait of Henry John S. Sargent, A.R.A. 191 - James - - XIV. A Girl Resting Sydney Adamson 207 - - XV. The Old Bedford Music } - Hall } - } - XVI. Portrait of Aubrey } Walter Sickert 220 - Beardsley } - } - XVII. Ada Lundberg } - - XVIII. An Idyll W. Brown Mac Dougal 256 - - XIX. The Old Man's Garden } - } E. J. Sullivan 270 - XX. The Quick and the Dead } - - XXI. A Reminiscence of Francis Forster 278 - "The Transgressor" - - XXII. A Study Bernhard Sickert 285 - - XXIII. For the Backs of Playing By Aymer Vallance 361 - Cards - - - - - The Yellow Book - - Volume II July, 1894 - - - - - The Editor of THE YELLOW BOOK can in no case hold himself - responsible for rejected manuscripts; when, however, they are - accompanied by stamped addressed envelopes, every effort will be - made to secure their prompt return. - - - - - The Yellow Book - - An Illustrated Quarterly - - Volume II July, 1894 - -[Illustration: sketch of a woman in a park] - - London: Elkin Mathews & John Lane - Boston: Copeland & Day - Agents for the Colonies: Robt. A. Thompson & Co. - - - - -The Renaissance of Venus - - By Walter Crane - -_By kind permission of G. F. Watts, Esq., R.A._ - -[Illustration: The Renaissance of Venus] - - - - -The Gospel of Content - - By Frederick Greenwood - - - I - -How it was that I, being so young a man and not a very tactful one, -was sent on such an errand is more than I should be able to explain. -But many years ago some one came to me with a request that I should go -that evening to a certain street at King's Cross, where would be found -a poor lady in great distress; that I should take a small sum of money -which was given to me for the purpose in a little packet which -disguised all appearance of coin, present it to her as a "parcel" -which I had been desired to deliver, and ask if there were any -particular service that could be done for her. For my own information -I was told that she was a beautiful Russian whose husband had barely -contrived to get her out of the country, with her child, before his -own arrest for some deep political offence of which she was more than -cognisant, and that now she was living in desperate ignorance of his -fate. Moreover, she was penniless and companionless, though not quite -without friends; for some there were who knew of her husband and had a -little help for her, though they were almost as poor as herself. But -none of these dare approach her, so fearful was she of the danger of -their doing so, either to themselves or her husband or her child, and -so ignorant of the perfect freedom that political exiles could count -upon in England. "Then," said I, "what expectation is there that she -will admit me, an absolute stranger to her, who may be employed by the -police for anything she knows to the contrary?" The answer was: "Of -course that has been thought of. But you have only to send up your -name, which, in the certainty that you would have no objection, has -been communicated to her already. Her own name, in England, is Madame -Vernet." - -It was a Saturday evening in November, the air thick with darkness and -a drizzling rain, the streets black and shining where lamplight fell -upon the mud on the paths and the pools in the roadway, when I found -my way to King's Cross on this small errand of kindness. King's Cross -is a most unlovely purlieu at its best, which must be in the first -dawn of a summer day, when the innocence of morning smiles along its -squalid streets, and the people of the place, who cannot be so -wretched as they look, are shut within their poor and furtive homes. -On a foul November night nothing can be more miserable, more -melancholy. One or two great thoroughfares were crowded with -foot-passengers who bustled here and there about their Saturday -marketings, under the light that flared from the shops and the stalls -that lined the roadway. Spreading on every hand from these -thoroughfares, with their noisy trafficking so dreadfully eager and -small, was a maze of streets built to be "respectable" but now run -down into the forlorn poverty which is all for concealment without any -rational hope of success. It was to one of these that I was -directed--a narrow silent little street of three-storey houses, with -two families at least in every one of them. - -Arrived at No. 17, I was admitted by a child after long delay, and by -her conducted to a room at the top of the house. No voice responded to -the knock at the room door, and none to the announcement of the -visitor's name; but before I entered I was aware of a sound which, -though it was only what may be heard in the grill-room of any -coffee-house at luncheon time, made me feel very guilty and ashamed. -For the last ten minutes I had been gradually sinking under the fear -of intrusion--of intrusion upon grief, and not less upon the wretched -little secrets of poverty which pride is so fain to conceal; and now -these splutterings of a frying-pan foundered me quite. What worse -intrusion could there be than to come prying in upon the cooking of -some poor little meal? - -Too much embarrassed to make the right apology (which, to be right, -would have been without any embarrassment at all) I entered the room, -in which everything could be seen in one straightforward glance: the -little square table in the centre, with its old green cover and the -squat lamp on it, the two chairs, the dingy half carpet, the bed -wherein a child lay asleep in a lovely flush of colour, and the pale -woman with a still face, and with the eyes that are said to resemble -agates, standing before the hearth. Under the dark cloud of her hair -she looked the very picture of Suffering--Suffering too proud to -complain and too tired to speak. Beautiful as the lines of her face -were, it was white as ashes and spoke their meaning; but nothing had -yet tamed the upspringing nobility of her tall, slight, and yet -imperious form. - -Receiving me with the very least appearance of curiosity or any other -kind of interest, but yet with something of proud constraint (which I -attributed too much, perhaps, to the untimely frying-pan), she waved -her hand toward the farther chair of the two, and asked to be excused -from giving me her attention for a moment. By that she evidently meant -that otherwise her supper would be spoiled. It is not everything that -can be left to cook unattended; and since this poor little supper was -a piece of fish scarce bigger than her hand, it was all the more -likely to spoil and the less could be spared in damage. So I quietly -took my seat in a position which more naturally commanded the view out -of window than of the cooking operations, and waited to be again -addressed. - -On the mantel-board a noisy little American clock ticked as if its -mission was to hurry time rather than to measure it, the frying-pan -fizzed and bubbled without any abatement of its usual habit or any -sense of compunction, now and then the child tossed upon the bed from -one pretty attitude to another; and that was all that could be heard, -for Madame Vernet's movements were as silent as the movements of a -shadow. In almost any part of that small room she could be seen -without direct looking; but at a moment when she seemed struck into a -yet deeper silence, and because of it, I ventured to turn upon her -more than half an eye. Standing rigidly still, she was staring at the -door in an intensity of listening that transfigured her. But the door -was closed, and I with the best of hearing directed to the same place -could detect no new sound: indeed, I dare swear that there was none. -It was merely accidental that just at this moment the child, with -another toss of the lovely black head, opened her eyes wide; but it -deepened the impressiveness of the scene when her mother, seeing the -little one awake, placed a finger on her own lips as she advanced -nearer to the door. The gesture was for silence, and it was obeyed as -if in understood fear. But still there was nothing to be heard -without, unless it were a push of soft drizzle against the -window-panes. And this Madame Vernet herself seemed to think when, -after a little while, she turned back to the fire--her eyes mere -agates again which had been all ablaze. - -Stooping to the fender, she had now got her fish into one warm plate, -and had covered it with another, and had placed it on the broad -old-fashioned hob of the grate to keep hot (as I surmised) while she -spoke with and got rid of me, when knocking was heard at the outer -door, a pair of hasty feet came bounding up the stair, careless of -noise, and in flashed a splendid radiant creature of a man in a thin -summer coat, and literally drenched to the skin. - -It was Monsieur Vernet, whose real name ended in "ieff." By daring -ingenuity, by a long chain of connivance yet more hazardous, by -courage, effrontery, and one or two miraculous strokes of good -fortune, he had escaped from the fortress to which he had been -conveyed in secret and without the least spark of hope that he would -ever be released. For many months no one but himself and his jailers -knew whether he was alive or dead: his friends inclined to think him -the one thing or the other according to the brightness or the -gloominess of the hour. Smuggled into Germany, and running thence into -Belgium, he had landed in England the night before; and walking the -whole distance to London, with an interval of four hours' sleep in a -cartshed, he contrived to bring home nearly all of the four shillings -with which he started. - -But these particulars, it will be understood, I did not learn till -afterwards. For that evening my visit was at an end from the moment -(the first of his appearance) when Vernet seized his wife in his arms -with a partial resemblance to murder. Unobserved, I placed my small -packet on the table behind the lamp, and then slipped out; but not -without a last view of that affecting "domestic interior," which -showed me those two people in a relaxed embrace while they made me a -courteous salute in response to another which was all awkwardness, -their little daughter standing up on the bed in her night-gown, -patiently yet eagerly waiting to be noticed by her father. In all -likelihood she had not to wait long. - -This was the beginning of my acquaintance with a man who had a greater -number of positive ideas than any one else that ever I have known, -with wonderful intrepidity and skill in expounding or defending them. -However fine the faculties of some other Russians whom I have -encountered, they seemed to move in a heavily obstructive atmosphere; -Vernet appeared to be oppressed by none. His resolutions were as -prompt as his thought; whatever resource he could command in any -difficulty, whether the least or the greatest, presented itself to his -mind instantly, with the occasion for it; and every movement of his -body had the same quickness and precision. His pride, his pride of -aristocracy, could tower to extraordinary heights; his sensibility to -personal slights and indignities was so trenchant that I have seen him -white and quivering with rage when he thought himself rudely jostled -by a fellow-passenger in a crowded street. And yet any comrade in -conspiracy was his familiar if he only brought daring enough into the -common business; and wife, child, fortune, the exchange of ease for -the most desperate misery, all were put at stake for the sake of the -People and at the call of their sorrows and oppressions. And of one -sort of pride he had no sense whatever--fine gentleman as he was, and -used from his birth to every refinement of service and luxury: no -degree of poverty, nor any blameless shift for relieving it, touched -him as humiliating. Privation, whether for others or himself, angered -him; the contrast between slothful wealth and toiling misery enraged -him; but he had no conception of want and its wretched little -expedients as mortifying. - -For example. It was in November, that dreary and inclement month, when -he began life anew in England with a capital of three shillings and -sevenpence. It was a bleak afternoon in December, sleet lightly -falling as the dusk came on and melting as it fell, when I found him -gathering into a little basket what looked in the half-darkness like -monstrous large snails. With as much indifference as if he were -offering me a new kind of cigarette, Vernet put one of these things -into my hand, and I saw that it was a beautifully-made miniature -sailor's hat. The strands of which it was built were just like twisted -brown straw to the eye, though they were of the smallness of -packthread; and a neat band of ribbon proportionately slender made all -complete. But what were they for? How were they made? The answer was -that the design was to sell them, and that they were made of the -cords--more artistically twisted and more neatly waxed than -usual--that shoemakers use in sewing. As for the bands, Madame Vernet -had amongst her treasures a cap which her little daughter had worn in -her babyhood; and this cap had close frills of lace, and the frills -were inter-studded with tiny loops of ribbon--a fashion of that time. -There were dozens of these tiny loops, and everyone of them made a -band for Vernet's little toy hats. Perhaps in tenderness for the -mother's feelings, he would not let her turn the ribbons to their new -use, but had applied them himself; and having spent the whole of a -foodless day in the manufacture of these little articles, he was now -about to go and sell them. He had selected his "pitch" in a flaring -bustling street a mile away; and he asked me ("I must lose no time," -he said) to accompany him in that direction. I did so, with a cold and -heavy stone in my breast which I am sure had no counterpart in his -own. As he marched on, in his light and firm soldierly way, he was -loud in praise of English liberty: at such a moment _that_ was his -theme. Arrived near his "pitch," he bade me good-night with no -abatement of the high and easy air that was natural to him; and though -I instantly turned back of course, I knew that at a few paces farther -the violently proud man moved off the pathway into the gutter, and -stood there till eleven o'clock; for not before then did he sell the -last of his little penny hats. Another man, equally proud, might have -done the same thing in Vernet's situation, but not with Vernet's -absolute indifference to everything but the coldness of the night and -the too-great stress of physical want. - -But this Russian revolutionist was far too capable and versatile a man -to lie long in low water. He had a genius for industrial chemistry -which soon got him employment and from the sufficiently comfortable -made him prosperous by rapid stages. But what of that? Before long -another wave of political disturbance rose in Europe; Russia, Italy, -France, 'twas all one to Vernet when his sympathies were roused; and -after one or two temporary disappearances he was again lost -altogether. There was no news of him for months; and then his wife, -who all this while had been sinking back into the pallid speechless -deadness of the King's Cross days, suddenly disappeared too. - - - II - -For more than thirty years--a period of enormous change in all that -men do or think--no word of Vernet came to my knowledge. But though -quite passed away he was never forgotten long, and it was with an -inrush of satisfaction that, a year or two ago, I received this letter -from him: - - "... I have been reading the ---- _Review_, and it determines - me to solicit a pleasure which I have been at full-cock to ask - for many times since I returned to England in 1887. Let us meet. - I have something to say to you. But let us not meet in this - horrifically large and noisy town. You know Richmond? You know - the Star and Garter Hotel there? Choose a day when you will go to - find me in that hotel. It shall be in a quiet room looking over - the trees and the river, and there we will dine and sit and talk - over our dear tobacco in a right place. - - "To say one word of the past, that you may know and then forget. - Marie is gone--gone twelve years since; and my daughter, gone. I - do not speak of them. And do not you expect to find in me any - more the Vernet of old days." - -Nor was he. The splendidly robust and soldierly figure of thirty-five -had changed into a thin, fine-featured old man, above all things -gentle, thoughtful, considerate. Except that there was no suggestion -of a second and an inner self in him, he might have been an -ecclesiastic; as it was, he looked rather as if he had been all his -life a recluse student of books and state affairs. - -It was a good little dinner in a bright room overlooking the garden; -and it was served so early that the declining sunshine of a June day -shone through our claret-glasses when coffee was brought in. Our first -talk was of matters of the least importance--our own changing fortunes -over a period of prodigious change for the whole world. From that -personal theme to the greater mutations that affect all mankind was a -quick transition; and we had not long been launched on this line of -talk before I found that in very truth nothing had changed more than -Vernet himself. It was the story of Ignatius Loyola over again, in -little and with a difference. - -"Yes," said he, my mind filling with unspoken wonder at this during a -brief pause in the conversation, "Yes, prison did me good. Not in the -rough way you think, perhaps, as of taking nonsense out of a man with -a stick, but as solitude. Strict Catholics go into retreat once a -year, and it does them good as Catholics: whether otherwise I do not -know, but it is possible. You have a wild philosopher whom I love; and -wild philosophers are much the best. In them there is more philosophic -sport, more surprise, more shock; and it is shock that crystallises. -They startle the breath into our own unborn thoughts--thoughts formed -in the mind, you know, but without any ninth month for them: they wait -for some outer voice to make them alive. Well, once upon a time I -heard this philosopher, your Mr. Ruskin, say that only the most noble, -most virtuous, most beautiful young men should be allowed to go to the -war; the others, never. And he maintained it--ah! in language from -some divine madhouse in heaven. But as to that, it is a great -objection that your army is already small. Yet of this I am nearly -sure; it is the wrong men who go to gaol. The rogues and thieves -should give place to honest men--honest _reflective_ men. Every -advantage of that conclusive solitude is lost on blackguard persons -and is mostly turned to harm. For them prescribe one, two, three -applications of your cat-o'-nine tails----" - -"There is knout like it!" said I, intending a severity of retort which -I hoped would not be quite lost in the pun. - -"----and then a piece of bread, a shilling, and dismissal to the most -devout repentance that brutish crime is ever acquainted with, -repentance in stripes. Imprisonment is wasted on persons of so -inferior character. Waste it not, and you will have accommodation for -wise men to learn the monk's lesson (did you ever think it _all_ -foolishness?) that a little imperious hardship, a time of seclusion -with only themselves to talk to themselves, is most improving. For -statesmen and reformers it should be an obligation." - -"And according to your experience what is the general course of the -improvement? In what direction does it run?" - -"At best? In sum total? You know me that I am no monk nor lover of -monks, but I say to you what the monk would say were he still a man -and intelligent. The chief good is rising above petty irritation, -petty contentiousness; it is patience with ills that _must_ last long; -it is choosing to build out the east wind instead of running at it -with a sword." - -"And, if I remember aright, you never had that sword out of your -hand." - -"From twenty years old to fifty, never out of my hand. But there were -excuses--no, but more than excuses; remember that that was another -time. Now how different it is, and what satisfaction to have lived to -see the change!" - -"And what is the change you are thinking of!" - -"One that I have read of--only he must not flatter himself that he -alone could find it out--in some Review articles of an old friend of -Vernet's whose portrait is before me now." And then, a little to my -distress, but more to my pleasure, he quoted from two or three -forgotten papers of mine on the later developments of social humanity, -the "evolution of goodness" in the relations of men to each other, the -new, great and rapid extension of brotherly kindness; observations and -theories which were welcomed as novel when they were afterwards taken -up and enlarged upon by Mr. Kidd in his book on "Social Evolution." - -"For an ancient conspirator and man of the barricades," continued -Vernet, by this time pacing the room in the dusk which he would not -allow to be disturbed, "for a blood-and-iron man who put all his hopes -of a better day for his poor devils of fellow-creatures on the -smashing of forms and institutions and the substitution of others, I -am rather a surprising convert, don't you think? But who could know in -those days what was going on in the common stock of mind by--what -shall we call it? Before your Darwin brought out his explaining word -'evolution' I should have said that the change came about by a sort of -mental chemistry; that it was due to a kind of chemical ferment in -the mind, unsuspected till it showed entirely new growths and -developments. And even now, you know, I am not quite comfortable with -'evolution' as the word for this sudden spiritual advance into what -you call common kindness and more learned persons call 'altruism.' It -does not satisfy me, 'evolution.'" - -"But you can say why it doesn't, perhaps." - -"Nothing, more, I suppose, than the familiar association of -'evolution' with slow degrees and gradual processes. Evolution seems -to speak the natural coming-out of certain developments from certain -organisms under certain conditions. The change comes, and you see it -coming; and you can look back and trace its advance. But here? The -human mind has been the same for ages; subject to the same teaching; -open to the same persuasions and dissuasions; as quick to see and as -keen to think as it is now; and all the while it has been staring on -the same cruel scenes of misery and privation: no, but very often -worse. And then, presto! there comes a sudden growth of fraternal -sentiment all over this field of the human mind; and such a growth -that if it goes on, if it goes on straight and well, it will transform -the whole world. Transform its economies?--it will change its very -aspect. Towns, streets, houses will show the difference; while as to -man himself, it will make him another being. For this is neither a -physical nor a mere intellectual advance. As for that, indeed, perhaps -the intellectual advance hasn't very much farther to go on its own -lines, which are independent of morality, or of goodness as I prefer -to say: the simple word! Well, do you care if evolution has pretty -nearly done with intellect? Would you mind if intellect never made a -greater shine? Will your heart break if it never ascends to a higher -plane than it has reached already?" - -"Not a bit; if, in time, nobody is without a good working share of -what intellect there is amongst us." - -"No, not a bit! Enough of intellect for the good and happiness of -mankind if we evolve no more of it. But this is another thing! This is -a _spiritual_ evolution, spiritual advance and development--a very -different thing! Mark you, too, that it is not shown in a few amongst -millions, but is common, general. And though, as you have said, it may -perish at its beginnings, trampled out by war, the terrible war to -come may absolutely confirm it. For my part, I don't despair of its -surviving and spreading even from the battle-field. It is your own -word that not only has the growth of common kindness been more urgent, -rapid and general this last hundred years than was ever witnessed -before in the whole long history of the world, but it has come out as -strongly in making war as in making peace. It is seen in extending to -foes a benevolence which not long ago would have been thought -ludicrous and even unnatural. Why, then, if that's so, the feeling may -be furthered and intensified by the very horrors of the next great -war, such horrors as there _must_ be; and--God knows! God knows!--but -from this beginning the spiritual nature of man may be destined to -rise as far above the rudimentary thing it is yet (I think of a -staggering blind puppy) as King Solomon's wits were above an -Eskimo's." - -"Still the same enthusiast," I said to myself, "though with so great a -difference." But what struck me most was the reverence with which he -said "God knows!" For the coolest Encyclopedist could not have denied -the existence of God with a more settled air than did "the Vernet of -old days." - -"And yet," so he went on, "were the human race to become all-righteous -in a fortnight, and to push out angels' wings from its shoulders, -every one! every one! all together on Christmas Day, it would still be -the Darwinian process. Yes, we must stick to it, that it is evolution, -I suppose, and I'm sure it contents me well enough. What matter for -the process! And yet do you know what I think?" - -Lights had now been brought in by the waiter--a waiter who really -could not understand why not. But we sat by the open window looking -out upon the deepening darkness of the garden, beyond which the river -shone as if by some pale effulgence of its own, or perhaps by a little -store of light saved up from the liberal sunshine of the day. - -"Do you know what I think?" said Vernet, with the look of a man who is -about to confess a weakness of which he is ashamed. "I sometimes think -that if I were of the orthodox I should draw an argument for -supernatural religion, against your strict materialists, from this -sudden change of heart in Christian countries. For that is what it is. -It is a change of heart; or, if you like to have it so, of spirit; and -the remarkable thing is that it is _nothing else_. Whether it lasts or -not, this awakening of brotherliness cannot be completely understood -unless that is understood. What else has changed, these hundred years? -There is no fresh discovery of human suffering, no new knowledge of -the desperate poverty and toil of so many of our fellow-creatures: nor -can we see better with our eyes, or understand better what we hear and -see. This that we are talking about is a heart-growth, which, as we -know, can make the lowliest peasant divine; not a mind-growth, which -can be splendid in the coldest and most devilish man. Well, then, were -I of the orthodox I should say this. When, after many generations, I -see a traceless movement of the spirit of man like the one we are -speaking of--a movement which, if it gains in strength and goes on to -its natural end, will transfigure human society and make it infinitely -more like heaven--I think the divine influence upon the development of -man as a spirit may be direct and continuous; or, it would be better -to say, not without repetition." - -Vernet had to be reminded that the intellectual development of man had -also shown itself in sudden starts and rushes toward perfection--now -in one land, now in another; and never with an appearance of gradual -progress, as might be expected from the nature of things. And -therefore nothing in the spiritual advance which is declared by the -sudden efflorescence of "altruism" dissociates it from the common -theory of evolution. This he was forced to admit. "I know," he -replied; "and as to intellectual development showing itself by starts -and rushes, it is very obvious." But though he made the admission, I -could see that he preferred belief in direct influence from above. And -this was Vernet!--a most unexpected example of that Return to Religion -which was not so manifest when we talked together as it is to-day. - -"You see, I am a soldier," he resumed, "and a soldier born and bred -does not know how to get on very long without feeling the presence of -a General, a Commander. That I find as I grow old; my youth would have -been ashamed to acknowledge the sentiment. And for its own sake, I -hope that Science is becoming an old gentleman too, and willing to see -its youthful confidence in the destruction of religious belief quite -upset. For upset it certainly will be, and very much by its own hands. -Most of the new professors were sure that the religious idea was to -perish at last in the light of scientific inquiry. None of them seemed -to suspect what I remember to have read in a fantastic magazine -article two or three years ago, that unbelief in the existence of a -providential God, the dissolution of that belief, would not retard but -probably draw on more quickly the greater and yet unfulfilled triumphs -of Christ on earth. Are you surprised at that? Certainly it is not the -general idea of what unbelief is capable of. 'And what,' says some one -in the story, 'what are those greater triumphs?' To which the answer -is: 'The extension of charity, the diffusion of brotherly love, greed -suppressed, luxury shameful, service and self-sacrifice a common -law'--something like what we see already between mother and child, it -was said. Now what do you think of that as a consequence of settled -unbelief? As for Belief, we must allow that _that_ has not done much -to bring on the greater triumphs of Christianity." - -"And how is Unbelief to do this mighty work?" said I. - -"You would like to know! Why, in a most natural way, and not at all -mysterious. But if you ask in how long a time----! Well, it is thus, -as I understand. What the destruction of religious faith might have -made of the world centuries ago we cannot tell; nothing much worse, -perhaps, than it was under Belief, for belief can exist with little -change of heart. But these are new times. Unbelief cannot annihilate -the common feeling of humanity. On the contrary, we see that it is -just when Science breaks religion down into agnosticism that a new day -of tenderness for suffering begins, and poverty looks for the first -time like a wrong. And why? To answer that question we should remember -what centuries of belief taught us as to the place of man on earth in -the plan of the Creator. This world, it was 'a scene of probation.' -The mystery of pain and suffering, the burdens of life apportioned so -unequally, the wicked prosperous, goodness wretched, innocent weakness -trodden down or used up in starving toil--all this was explained by -the scheme of probation. It was only for this life; and every hour of -it we were under the eyes of a heavenly Father who knows all and -weighs all; and there will be a future of redress that will leave no -misery unreckoned, no weakness unconsidered, no wrong uncompensated -that was patiently borne. Don't you remember? And how comfortable the -doctrine was! How entirely it soothed our uneasiness when, sitting in -warmth and plenty, we thought of the thousands of poor wretches -outside! And it was a comfort for the poor wretches too, who believed -most when they were most miserable or foully wronged that in His own -good time God would requite or would avenge. - -"Very well. But now, says my magazine sermoniser, suppose this idea of -a heavenly Father a mistake and probation a fairy tale; suppose that -there is no Divine scheme of redress beyond the grave: how do we -mortals stand to each other then? How do we stand to each other in a -world empty of all promise beyond it? What is to become of our -scene-of-probation complacency, we who are happy and fortunate in the -midst of so much wrong? And if we do not busy ourselves with a new -dispensation on their behalf, what hope or consolation is there for -the multitude of our fellow-creatures who are born to unmerited misery -in the only world there is for any of us? It is clear that if we must -give up the Divine scheme of redress as a dream, redress is an -obligation returned upon ourselves. All will not be well in another -world: all must be put right in this world or nowhere and never. -Dispossessed of God and a future life, mankind is reduced to the -condition of the wild creatures, each with a natural right to ravage -for its own good. If in such conditions there is a duty of forbearance -from ravaging, there is a duty of helpful surrender too; and unbelief -must teach both duties, unless it would import upon earth the hell it -denies. 'Unbelief is a call to bring in the justice, the compassion, -the oneness of brotherhood that can never make a heaven for us -elsewhere.' So the thing goes on; the end of the argument being that -in this way unbelief itself may turn to the service of Heaven and do -the work of the believer's God. More than that: in the doing of it the -spiritual nature of man must be exalted, step by step. That may be its -way of perfection. On that path it will rise higher and higher into -Divine illuminations which have touched it but very feebly as yet, -even after countless ages of existence. - -"Do you recognise these speculations?" said Vernet, after a silence. - -I recognised them well enough, without at all anticipating that so -much of them would presently re-appear in the formal theory of more -than one social philosopher. - -There was a piano in the little room we dined in. For a minute or two -Vernet, standing with his cigar between his lips, went lightly over -the keys. The movement, though extremely quick, was wonderfully soft, -so that he had not to raise his voice in saying: - -"I have an innocent little speculation of my own. How long will it be -before this spiritual perfectioning is pretty near accomplishment? Two -thousand years? One thousand years? Twenty generations at the least! -Ah, that is the despair of us poor wretches of to-day and to-morrow. -Well, when the time comes I fancy that an entirely new literature will -have a new language. There will certainly be a new literature if ever -spiritual progress equals intellectual progress. The dawning of -conceptions as yet undreamt of, enlightenments higher than any yet -attained to, may be looked for, I suppose, as in the natural order of -things; and even _without_ extraordinary revelations to the spirit, -the spiritual advance must have an enormous effect in disabusing, -informing and inspiring mental faculty such as we know it now. And -meanwhile? Meanwhile words are all that we speak with, and how weak -are words? Already there are heights and depths of feeling which they -are hardly more adequate to express than the dumbness of the dog can -express his love for his master. Yet there is a language that speaks -to the deeper thought and finer spirit in us as words do not--moving -them profoundly though they have no power of articulate response. They -heave and struggle to reply, till our breasts are actually conscious -of pain sometimes; but--no articulate answer. Do you recognise----?" - -I pointed to the piano with the finger of interrogation. - -"Yes," said Vernet, with a delicate sweep of the keyboard, "it is -this! It is music; music, which is felt to be the most subtle, most -appealing, most various of tongues even while we know that we are -never more than half awake to its pregnant meanings, and have not -learnt to think of it as becoming the last perfection of speech. But -that may be its appointed destiny. No, I don't think so only because -music itself is a thing of late, speedy and splendid development, -coming just before the later diffusion of spiritual growth. Yet there -is something in that, something which an evolutionist would think -apposite and to be expected. There is more, however, in what music -is--a voice always understood to have powerful innumerable meanings -appealing to we know not what in us, we hardly know how; and more, -again, in its being an exquisite voice which can make no use of -reason, nor reason of it; nor calculation, nor barter, nor anything -but emotion and thought. The language we are using now, we two, is -animal language by direct pedigree, which is worth observation don't -you think? And, for another thing, when it began it had very small -likelihood of ever developing into what it has become under the -constant addition of man's business in the world and the accretive -demands of reason and speculation. And the poets have made it very -beautiful no doubt; yes, and when it is most beautiful it is most -musical, please observe: most beautiful, and at the same time most -meaning. Well, then! A new nature, new needs. What do you think? What -do you say against music being wrought into another language for -mankind, as it nears the height of its spiritual growth?" - -"I say it is a pretty fancy, and quite within reasonable speculation." - -"But yet not of the profoundest consequence," added Vernet, coming -from the piano and resuming his seat by the window. "No; but what is -of consequence is the cruel tedium of these evolutionary processes. A -thousand years, and how much movement?" - -"Remember the sudden starts towards perfection, and that the farther -we advance the more we may be able to help." - -"Well, but that is the very thing I meant to say. Help is not only -desirable, it is imperatively called for. For an unfortunate offensive -movement rises against this better one, which will be checked, or -perhaps thrown back altogether, unless the stupid reformers who -confront the new spirit of kindness with the highwayman's demand are -brought to reason. What I most willingly yield to friend and brother I -do not choose to yield to an insulting thief; rather will I break his -head in the cause of divine Civility. Robbery is no way of -righteousness, and your gallant reformers who think it a fine heroic -means of bringing on a better time for humanity should be taught that -some devil has put the wrong plan into their heads. It is his way of -continuing under new conditions the old conflict of evil and good." - -"But taught! How should these so-earnest ones be taught?" - -"Ah, how! Then leave the reformers; and while they inculcate their -mistaken Gospel of Rancour, let every wise man preach the Gospel of -Content." - -"Content--with things as they are?" - -"Why, no, my friend; for that would be preaching content with -universal uncontent, which of course cannot last into a reign of -wisdom and peace. But if you ask me whether I mean content with a very -very little of this world's goods, or even contentment in poverty, I -say yes. There will be no better day till that gospel has found -general acceptance, and has been taken into the common habitudes of -life. The end may be distant enough; but it is your own opinion that -the time is already ripe for the preacher, and if he were no Peter the -Hermit but only another, another----" - -"Father Mathew, inspired with more saintly fervour----" - -"Who knows how far he might carry the divine light to which so many -hearts are awakening in secret? This first Christianity, it was but -'the false dawn.' Yes, we may think so." - -Here there was a pause for a few moments, and then I put in a word to -the effect that it would be difficult to commend a gospel of content -to Poverty. - -"But," said Vernet, "it will be addressed more to the rich and -well-to-do, as you call them, bidding them be content with enough. Not -forbidding them to strive for more than enough--that would never do. -The good of mankind demands that all its energies should be -maintained, but not that its energies should be meanly employed in -grubbing for the luxury that is no enjoyment but only a show, or that -palls as soon as it is once enjoyed, and then is no more felt as -luxury than the labourer's second pair of boots or the mechanic's -third shirt a week. For the men of thousands per annum the Gospel of -Content would be the wise, wise, wise old injunction to plain living -and high thinking, only with one addition both beautiful and wise: -kind thinking, and the high and the kind thinking made good in deed. -And it would work, this gospel; we may be sure of it already. For -luxury has became _common_; it is being found out. Where there was one -person at the beginning of the century who had daily experience of its -fatiguing disappointments, now there are fifty. Like everything else, -it loses distinction by coming abundantly into all sorts of hands; and -meanwhile other and nobler kinds of distinction have multiplied and -have gained acknowledgment. And from losing distinction--this you must -have observed--luxury is becoming vulgar; and I don't know why the -time should be so very far off when it will be accounted shameful. -Certain it is that year by year a greater number of minds, and such as -mostly determine the currents of social sentiment, think luxury _low_; -without going deeper than the mere look of it, perhaps. These are -hopeful signs. Here is good encouragement to stand out and preach a -gospel of content which would be an education in simplicity, dignity, -happiness, and yet more an education of heart and spirit. For nothing -that a man can do in this world works so powerfully for his own -spiritual good as the habit of sacrifice to kindness. It is so like a -miracle that it is, I am sure, the one way--the one way appointed by -the laws of our spiritual growth. - -"Yes, and what about preaching the gospel of content to Poverty? Well, -there we must be careful to discriminate--careful to disentangle -poverty from some other things which are the same thing in the common -idea. Say but this, that there must be no content with squalor, none -with any sort of uncleanness, and poverty takes its own separate place -and its own unsmirched aspect. An honourable poverty, clear of -squalor, any man should be able to endure with a tranquil mind. To -attain to that tranquillity is to attain to nobleness; and persistence -in it, though effort fail and desert go quite without reward, -ennobles. Contentment in poverty does not mean crouching to it or -under it. Contentment is not cowardice, but fortitude. There is no -truer assertion of manliness, and none with more grace and sweetness. -Before it can have an established place in the breast of any man, envy -must depart from it--envy, jealousy, greed, readiness to take -half-honest gains, a horde of small ignoble sentiments not only -disturbing but poisonous to the ground they grow in. Ah, believe me! -if a man had eloquence enough, fire enough, and that command of -sympathy that your Gordon seems to have had (not to speak of a man -like Mahomet or to touch on more sacred names), he might do wonders -for mankind in a single generation by preaching to rich and poor the -several doctrines of the Gospel of Content. A curse on the mean -strivings, stealings, and hoardings that survive from our animal -ancestry, and another curse (by your permission) on the gaudy vanities -that we have set up for objects in life since we became reasoning -creatures." - - * * * * * - -In effect, here the conversation ended. More was said, but nothing -worth recalling. Drifting back to less serious talk, we gossiped till -midnight, and then parted with the heartiest desire (I speak for -myself) of meeting soon again. But on our way back to town Vernet -recurred for a moment to the subject of his discourse, saying: - -"I don't make out exactly what you think now of the prospect we were -talking of." - -My answer pleased him. "I incline to think," said I, "what I have long -thought: that if there is any such future for us, and I believe there -is, we of the older European nations will be nowhere when it comes. In -existence--yes, perhaps; but gone down. You see we are becoming -greybeards already; while you in Russia are boys, with every mark of -boyhood on you. You, you are a new race--the only new race in the -world; and it is plain that you swarm with ideas of precisely the kind -that, when you come to maturity, may re-invigorate the world. But -first, who knows what deadly wars?" - -He pressed his hand upon my knee in a way that spoke a great deal. We -parted, and two months afterwards the Vernet whose real name ended in -"ieff" was "happed in lead." - - - - -Poor Cousin Louis - - By Ella D'Arcy - - -There stands in the Islands a house known as "Les Calais." It has -stood there already some three hundred years, and to judge from its -stout walls and weather-tight appearance, promises to stand some three -hundred more. Built of brown home-quarried stone, with solid stone -chimney-stacks and roof of red tiles, its door is set in the centre -beneath a semi-circular arch of dressed granite, on the keystone of -which is deeply cut the date of construction: - - J V N I - 1 6 0 3 - -Above the date straggle the letters, L G M M, initials of the -forgotten names of the builder of the house and of the woman he -married. In the summer weather of 1603 that inscription was cut, and -the man and woman doubtless read it with pride and pleasure as they -stood looking up at their fine new homestead. They believed it would -carry their names down to posterity when they themselves should be -gone; yet there stand the initials to-day, while the personalities -they represent are as lost to memory as are the builders' graves. - -At the moment when this little sketch opens, Les Calais had belonged -for three generations to the family of Renouf (pronounced Rennuf), and -it is with the closing days of Mr. Louis Renouf that it purposes to -deal. But first to complete the description of the house, which is -typical of the Islands: hundreds of such homesteads placed singly, or -in groups--then sharing in one common name--may be found there in a -day's walk, although it must be added that a day's walk almost -suffices to explore any one of the Islands from end to end. - -Les Calais shares its name with none. It stands alone, completely -hidden, save at one point only, by its ancient elms. On either side of -the doorway are two windows, each of twelve small panes, and there is -a row of five similar windows above. Around the back and sides of the -house cluster all sorts of outbuildings, necessary dependencies of a -time when men made their own cider and candles, baked their own bread, -cut and stacked their own wood, and dried the dung of their herds for -extra winter fuel. Beyond these lie its vegetable and fruit gardens, -which again are surrounded on every side by its many rich vergées of -pasture land. - -Would you find Les Calais, take the high road from Jacques-le-Port to -the village of St. Gilles, then keep to the left of the schools along -a narrow lane cut between high hedges. It is a cart track only, as the -deep sun-baked ruts testify, leading direct from St. Gilles to -Vauvert, and, likely enough, during the whole of that distance you -will not meet with a solitary person. You will see nothing but the -green running hedgerows on either hand, the blue-domed sky above, from -whence the lark, a black pin-point in the blue, flings down a gush of -song; while the thrush you have disturbed lunching off that succulent -snail, takes short ground flights before you, at every pause turning -back an ireful eye to judge how much farther you intend to pursue him. -He is happy if you branch off midway to the left down the lane leading -straight to Les Calais. - -A gable end of the house faces this lane, and its one window in the -days of Louis Renouf looked down upon a dilapidated farm- and -stable-yard, the gate of which, turned back upon its hinges, stood -wide open to the world. Within might be seen granaries empty of grain, -stables where no horses fed, a long cow-house crumbling into ruin, and -the broken stone sections of a cider trough dismantled more than half -a century back. Cushions of emerald moss studded the thatches, and -lilliputian forests of grass blades sprang thick between the cobble -stones. The place might have been mistaken for some deserted grange, -but for the contradiction conveyed in a bright pewter full-bellied -water-can standing near the well, in a pile of firewood, with chopper -still stuck in the topmost billet, and in a tatterdemalion troop of -barn-door fowl lagging meditatively across the yard. - -On a certain day, when summer warmth and unbroken silence brooded over -all, and the broad sunshine blent the yellows, reds, and greys of tile -and stone, the greens of grass and foliage, into one harmonious whole, -a visitor entered the open gate. This was a tall, large young woman, -with a fair, smooth, thirty-year-old face. Dressed in what was -obviously her Sunday best, although it was neither Sunday nor even -market-day, she wore a bonnet diademed with gas-green lilies of the -valley, a netted black mantilla, and a velvet-trimmed violet silk -gown, which she carefully lifted out of dust's way, thus displaying a -stiffly starched petticoat and kid spring-side boots. - -Such attire, unbeautiful in itself and incongruous with its -surroundings, jarred harshly with the picturesque note of the scene. -From being a subject to perpetuate on canvas, it shrunk, as it were, -to the background of a cheap photograph, or the stage adjuncts to the -heroine of a farce. The silence too was shattered as the new comer's -foot fell upon the stones. An unseen dog began to mouth a joyous -welcome, and the fowls, lifting their thin, apprehensive faces towards -her, flopped into a clumsy run as though their last hour were visible. - -The visitor meanwhile turned familiar steps to a door in the wall on -the left, and raising the latch, entered the flower garden of Les -Calais. This garden, lying to the south, consisted then, and perhaps -does still, of two square grass-plots with a broad gravel path running -round them and up to the centre of the house. - -In marked contrast with the neglect of the farmyard was this -exquisitely kept garden, brilliant and fragrant with flowers. From a -raised bed in the centre of each plot standard rose-trees shed out -gorgeous perfume from chalices of every shade of loveliness, and -thousands of white pinks justled shoulder to shoulder in narrow bands -cut within the borders of the grass. - -Busy over these, his back towards her, was an elderly man, braces -hanging, in coloured cotton shirt. "Good afternoon, Tourtel," cried -the lady, advancing. Thus addressed, he straightened himself slowly -and turned round. Leaning on his hoe, he shaded his eyes with his -hand. "Eh den! it's you, Missis Pedvinn," said he; "but we didn't -expec' you till to-morrow?" - -"No, it's true," said Mrs. Poidevin, "that I wrote I would come -Saturday, but Pedvinn expects some friends by the English boat, and -wants me to receive them. Yet as they may be staying the week, I did -not like to put poor Cousin Louis off so long without a visit, so -thought I had better come up to-day." - -Almost unconsciously, her phrases assumed apologetic form. She had an -uneasy feeling Tourtel's wife might resent her unexpected advent; -although why Mrs. Tourtel should object, or why she herself should -stand in any awe of the Tourtels, she could net have explained. -Tourtel was but gardener, the wife housekeeper and nurse, to her -cousin Louis Renouf, master of Les Calais. "I sha'n't inconvenience -Mrs. Tourtel, I hope? Of course I shouldn't think of staying tea if -she is busy; I'll just sit an hour with Cousin Louis, and catch the -six o'clock omnibus home from Vauvert." - -Tourtel stood looking at her with wooden countenance, in which two -small shifting eyes alone gave signs of life. "Eh, but you won't be no -inconvenience to de ole woman, ma'am," said he suddenly, in so loud a -voice that Mrs. Poidevin jumped; "only de apple-gôche, dat she was -gain' to bake agen your visit, won't be ready, dat's all." - -He turned, and stared up at the front of the house; Mrs. Poidevin, for -no reason at all, did so too. Door and windows were open wide. In the -upper storey, the white roller-blinds were let down against the sun, -and on the broad sills of the parlour windows were nosegays placed in -blue china jars. A white trellis-work criss-crossed over the façade, -for the support of climbing rose and purple clematis which hung out a -curtain of blossom almost concealing the masonry behind. The whole -place breathed of peace and beauty, and Louisa Poidevin was lapped -round with that pleasant sense of well-being which it was her chief -desire in life never to lose. Though poor Cousin Louis--feeble, -childish, solitary--was so much to be pitied, at least in his -comfortable home and his worthy Tourtels he found compensation. - -An instant after Tourtel had spoken, a woman passed across the wide -hall. She had on a blue linen skirt, white stockings, and shoes of -grey list. The strings of a large, bibbed, lilac apron drew the folds -of a flowered bed-jacket about her ample waist; and her thick -yellow-grey hair, worn without a cap, was arranged smoothly on either -side of a narrow head. She just glanced out, and Mrs. Poidevin was on -the point of calling to her, when Tourtel fell into a torrent of words -about his flowers. He had so much to say on the subject of -horticulture; was so anxious for her to examine the freesia bulbs -lying in the tool-house, just separated from the spring plants; he -denounced so fiercely the grinding policy of Brehault the middleman, -who purchased his garden stuff to resell it at Covent Garden--"my -good! on dem freesias I didn't make not two doubles a bunch!"--that -for a long quarter of an hour all memory of her cousin was driven from -Mrs. Poidevin's brain. Then a voice said at her elbow, "Mr. Rennuf is -quite ready to see you, ma'am," and there stood Tourtel's wife, with -pale composed face, square shoulders and hips, and feet that moved -noiselessly in her list slippers. - -"Ah, Mrs. Tourtel, how do you do?" said the visitor; a question which -in the Islands is no mere formula, but demands and obtains a detailed -answer, after which the questioner's own health is politely inquired -into. Not until this ceremony had been scrupulously accomplished, and -the two women were on their way to the house, did Mrs. Poidevin beg to -know how things were going with her "poor cousin." - -There lay something at variance between the ruthless, calculating -spirit which looked forth from the housekeeper's cold eye, and the -extreme suavity of her manner of speech. - -"Eh, my good! but much de same, ma'am, in his health, an' more fancies -dan ever in his head. First one ting an' den anudder, an' always -tinking dat everybody is robbin' him. You rem-ember de larse time you -was here, an' Mister Rennuf was abed? Well, den, after you was gone, -if he didn't deck-clare you had taken some of de fedders of his bed -away wid you. Yes, my good! he tought you had cut a hole in de tick, -as you sat dere beside him an' emptied de fedders away into your -pocket." - -Mrs. Poidevin was much interested. "Dear me, is it possible?... But -it's quite a mania with him. I remember now, on that very day he -complained to me Tourtel was wearing his shirts, and wanted me to go -in with him to Lepage's to order some new ones." - -"Eh! but what would Tourtel want wid fine white shirts like dem?" said -the wife placidly. "But Mr. Louis have such dozens an' dozens of 'em -dat dey gets hidden away in de presses, an' he tinks dem stolen." - -They reached the house. The interior is quite as characteristic of the -Islands as is the outside. Two steps take you down into the hall, -crossing the further end of which is the staircase with its balustrade -of carved black oak. Instead of the mean painted sticks, known -technically as "raisers," and connected together at the top by a -vulgar mahogany hand-rail--a fundamental article of faith with the -modern builder--these old Island balustrades are formed of wooden -panels, fretted out into scrolls, representing flower, or leaf, or -curious beaked and winged creatures, which go curving, creeping, and -ramping along in the direction of the stairs. In every house you will -find the detail different, while each resembles all as a whole. For in -the old days the workman, were he never so humble, recognised the -possession of an individual mind, as well as of two eyes and two -hands, and he translated fearlessly this individuality of his into his -work. Every house built in those days and existing down to these, is -not only a confession, in some sort, of the tastes, the habits, the -character, of the man who planned it, but preserves a record likewise -of every one of the subordinate minds employed in the various parts. - -Off the hall of Les Calais are two rooms on the left and one on the -right. The solidity of early seventeenth-century walls is shown in the -embrasure depth (measuring fully three feet) of windows and doors. Up -to fifty years ago all the windows had leaded casements, as had every -similar Island dwelling-house. To-day, to the artist's regret, you -will hardly find one. The showy taste of the Second Empire spread from -Paris even to these remote parts, and plate-glass, or at least oblong -panes, everywhere replaced the mediæval style. In 1854, Louis Renouf, -just three and thirty, was about to bring his bride, Miss Marie -Mauger, home to the old house. In her honour it was done up -throughout, and the diamonded casements were replaced by guillotine -windows, six panes to each sash. - -The best parlour then became a "drawing-room"; its raftered ceiling -was whitewashed, and its great centre-beam of oak infamously papered -to match the walls. The newly married couple were not in a position to -refurnish in approved Second Empire fashion. The gilt and marble, the -console tables and mirrors, the impossibly curved sofas and chairs, -were for the moment beyond them; the wife promised herself to acquire -these later on. But later on came a brood of sickly children (only one -of whom reached manhood); to the consequent expenses Les Calais owed -the preservation of its inlaid wardrobes, its four-post bedsteads with -slender fluted columns, and its Chippendale parlour chairs, the backs -of which simulate a delicious intricacy of twisted ribbons. As a -little girl, Louisa Poidevin had often amused herself studying these -convolutions, and seeking to puzzle out among the rippling ribbons -some beginning or some end; but as she grew up, even the simplest -problem lost interest for her, and the sight of the old Chippendale -chairs standing along the walls of the large parlour scarcely stirred -her bovine mind now to so much as reminiscence. - -It was the door of this large parlour that the housekeeper opened as -she announced, "Here is Mrs. Pedvinn come to see you, sir," and -followed the visitor in. - -Sitting in a capacious "berceuse," stuffed and chintz-covered, was the -shrunken figure of a more than seventy-year-old man. He was wrapped in -a worn grey dressing-gown, with a black velvet skull-cap, napless at -the seams, covering his spiritless hair, and he looked out upon his -narrow world from dim eyes set in cavernous orbits. In their -expression was something of the questioning timidity of a child, -contrasting curiously with the querulousness of old age, shown in the -thin sucked-in lips, now and again twitched by a movement in unison -with the twitching of the withered hands spread out upon his knees. - -The sunshine, slanting through the low windows, bathed hands and -knees, lean shanks and slippered feet, in mote-flecked streams of -gold. It bathed anew rafters and ceiling-beam, as it had done at the -same hour and season these last three hundred years; it played over -the worm-eaten furniture, and lent transitory colour to the faded -samplers on the walls, bringing into prominence one particular -sampler, which depicted in silks Adam and Eve seated beneath the fatal -tree, and recorded the fact that Marie Hochedé was seventeen in 1808 -and put her "trust in God"; and the same ray kissed the check of that -very Marie's son, who at the time her girlish fingers pricked the -canvas belonged to the enviable myriads of the unthought-of and the -unborn. - -"Why, how cold you are, Cousin Louis," said Mrs. Poidevin, taking his -passive hand between her two warm ones, and feeling a chill strike -from it through the violet kid gloves; "and in spite of all this -sunshine too!" - -"Ah, I'm not always in the sunshine," said the old man; "not always, -not always in the sunshine." She was not sure that he recognised her, -yet he kept hold of her hand and would not let it go. - -"No; you are not always in de sunshine, because de sunshine is not -always here," observed Mrs. Tourtel in a reasonable voice, and with a -side glance for the visitor. - -"And I am not always here either," he murmured, half to himself. He -took a firmer hold of his cousin's hand, and seemed to gain courage -from the comfortable touch, for his thin voice changed from complaint -to command. "You can go, Mrs. Tourtel," he said; "we don't require you -here. We want to talk. You can go and set the tea-things in the next -room. My cousin will stay and drink tea with me." - -"Why, my cert'nly! of course Mrs. Pedvinn will stay tea. P'r'aps you'd -like to put your bonnet off in the bedroom, first, ma'am?" - -"No, no," he interposed testily, "she can lay it off here. No need for -you to take her upstairs." - -Servant and master exchanged a mute look; for the moment his old eyes -were lighted up with the unforeseeing, unveiled triumph of a child; -then they fell before hers. She turned, leaving the room with -noiseless tread; although a large-built, ponderous woman, she walked -with the softness of a cat. - -"Sit down here close beside me," said Louis Renouf to his cousin, -"I've something to tell you, something very important to tell you." He -lowered his voice mysteriously, and glanced with apprehension at -window and door, squeezing tight her hand. "I'm being robbed, my dear, -robbed of everything I possess." - -Mrs. Poidevin, already prepared for such a statement, answered -complacently, "Oh, it must be your fancy, Cousin Louis. Mrs. Tourtel -takes too good care of you for that." - -"My dear," he whispered, "silver, linen, everything is going; even my -fine white shirts from the shelves of the wardrobe. Yet everything -belongs to poor John, who is in Australia, and who never writes to his -father now. His last letter is ten years old--ten years old, my dear, -and I don't need to read it over, for I know it by heart." - -Tears of weakness gathered in his eyes, and began to trickle over on -to his check. - -"Oh, Cousin John will write soon, I'm sure," said Mrs. Poidevin, with -easy optimism; "I shouldn't wonder if he has made a fortune, and is on -his way home to you at this moment." - -"Ah, he will never make a fortune, my dear, he was always too fond of -change. He had excellent capabilities, Louisa, but he was too fond of -change.... And yet I often sit and pretend to myself he has made -money, and is as proud to be with his poor old father as he used to be -when quite a little lad. I plan out all we should do, and all he would -say, and just how he would look ... but that's only my make-believe; -John will never make money, never. But I'd be glad if he would come -back to the old home, though it were without a penny. For if he don't -come soon, he'll find no home, and no welcome.... I raised all the -money I could when he went away, and now, as you know, my dear, the -house and land go to you and Pedvinn.... But I'd like my poor boy to -have the silver and linen, and his mother's furniture and needlework -to remember us by." - -"Yes, cousin, and he will have them some day, but not for a great -while yet, I hope." - -Louis Renouf shook his head, with the immovable obstinacy of the very -old or the very young. - -"Louisa, mark my words, he will get nothing, nothing. Everything is -going. They'll make away with the chairs and the tables next, with the -very bed I lie on." - -"Oh, Cousin Louis, you mustn't think such things," said Mrs. Poidevin -serenely; had not the poor old man accused her to the Tourtels of -filching his mattress feathers? - -"Ah, you don't believe me, my dear," said he, with a resignation which -was pathetic; "but you'll remember my words when I am gone. Six dozen -rat-tailed silver forks, with silver candlesticks, and tray, and -snuffers. Besides odd pieces, and piles and piles of linen. Your -cousin Marie was a notable housekeeper, and everything she bought was -of the very best. The large table-cloths were five guineas apiece, my -dear, British money--five guineas apiece." - -Louisa listened with perfect calmness and scant attention. -Circumstances too comfortable, and a too abundant diet, had gradually -undermined with her all perceptive and reflective powers. Though, of -course, had the household effects been coming to her as well as the -land, she would have felt more interest in them; but it is only human -nature to contemplate the possible losses of others with equanimity. - -"They must be handsome cloths, cousin," she said pleasantly; "I'm sure -Pedvinn would never allow me half so much for mine." - -At this moment there appeared, framed in the open window, the hideous -vision of an animated gargoyle, with elf-locks of flaming red, and an -intense malignancy of expression. With a finger dragging down the -under eyelid of either eye, so that the eyeball seemed to bulge -out--with a finger pulling back either corner of the wide mouth, so -that it seemed to touch the ear--this repulsive apparition leered at -the old man in blood-curdling fashion. Then catching sight of Mrs. -Poidevin, who sat dumfounded, and with her "heart in her mouth," as -she afterwards expressed it, the fingers dropped from the face, the -features sprang back into position, and the gargoyle resolved itself -into a buxom red-haired girl, who, bursting into a laugh, impudently -stuck her tongue out at them before skipping away. - -The old man had cowered down in his chair with his hands over his -eyes; now he looked up. "I thought it was the old Judy," he said, "the -old Judy she is always telling me about. But it's only Margot." - -"And who is Margot, cousin?" inquired Louisa, still shaken from the -surprise. - -"She helps in the kitchen. But I don't like her. She pulls faces at -me, and jumps out upon me from behind doors. And when the wind blows -and the windows rattle she tells me about the old Judy from Jethou, -who is sailing over the sea on a broomstick, to come and beat me to -death. Do you know, my dear," he said piteously, "you'll think I'm -very silly, but I'm afraid up here by myself all alone? Do not leave -me, Louisa; stay with me, or take me back to town with you. Pedvinn -would let me have a room in your house, I'm sure? And you wouldn't -find me much trouble, and of course I would bring my own bed linen, -you know." - -"You had best take your tea first, sir," said Mrs. Tourtel from -outside the window; she held scissors in her hand, and was busy -trimming the roses. She offered no excuse for eavesdropping. - -The meal was set out, Island fashion, with abundant cakes and sweets. -Louisa saw in the silver tea-set another proof, if need be, of her -cousin's unfounded suspicions. Mrs. Tourtel stood in the background, -waiting. Renouf desired her to pack his things; he was going into -town. "To be sure, sir," she said civilly, and remained where she -stood. He brought a clenched hand down upon the table, so that the -china rattled. "Are you master here, or am I?" he cried; "I am going -down to my cousin Pedvinn's. To-morrow I shall send my notary to put -seals on everything, and to take an inventory. For the future I shall -live in town." - -His senility had suddenly left him; he spoke with firmness; it was a -flash-up of almost extinct fires. Louisa was astounded. Mrs. Tourtel -looked at him steadily. Through the partition wall, Tourtel in the -kitchen heard the raised voice, and followed his curiosity into the -parlour. Margot followed him. Seen near, and with her features at -rest, she appeared a plump touzle-headed girl, in whose low forehead -and loose-lipped mouth, crassness, cruelty, and sensuality were -unmistakably expressed. Yet freckled cheek, rounded chin, and bare red -mottled arms, presented the beautiful curves of youth, and there was a -certain sort of attractiveness about her not to be gainsaid. - -"Since my servants refuse to pack what I require," said Renouf with -dignity, "I will do it myself. Come with me, Louisa." - -At a sign from the housekeeper, Tourtel and Margot made way. Mrs. -Poidevin would have followed her cousin, as the easiest thing to -do--although she was confused by the old man's outbreak, and incapable -of deciding what course she should take--when the deep vindictive -baying of the dog ushered a new personage upon the scene. - -This was an individual who made his appearance from the kitchen -regions--a tall thin man of about thirty years of age, with a pallid -skin, a dark eye and a heavy moustache. His shabby black coat and tie, -with the cords and gaiters that clothed his legs, suggested a -combination of sportsman and family practitioner. He wore a bowler -hat, and was pulling off tan driving gloves as he advanced. - -"Ah my good! Doctor Owen, but dat's you?" said Mrs. Tourtel. "But we -wants you here badly. Your patient is in one of his tantrums, and no -one can't do nuddin wid him. He says he shall go right away into town. -Wants to make up again wid Doctor Lelever for sure." - -The new comer and Mrs. Poidevin were examining each other with the -curiosity one feels on first meeting a person long known by reputation -or by sight. But now she turned to the housekeeper in surprise. - -"Has my cousin quarrelled with his old friend Doctor Lelever?" she -asked. "I've heard nothing of that." - -"Ah, dis long time. He tought Doctor Lelever made too little of his -megrims. He won't have nobody but Dr. Owen now. P'r'aps you know -Doctor Owen, ma'am? Mrs. Pedvinn, Doctor; de master's cousin, come up -to visit him." - -Renouf was heard moving about overhead; opening presses, dragging -boxes. - -Owen hung up his hat, putting his gloves inside it. He rubbed his lean -discoloured hands lightly together, as a fly cleans its forelegs. - -"Shall I just step up to him?" he said. "It may calm him, and distract -his thoughts." - -With soft nimbleness, in a moment he was upstairs. "So that's Doctor -Owen?" observed Mrs. Poidevin with interest. "A splendid-looking -gentleman! He must be very clever, I'm sure. Is he beginning to get a -good practice yet?" - -"Ah, bah, our people, as you know, ma'am, dey don't like no strangers, -specially no Englishmen. He was very glad when Mr. Renouf sent for -him.... 'Twas through Margot there. She got took bad one Saturday -coming back from market from de heat or de squidge" (crowd), "and -Doctor Owen he overtook her on the road in his gig, and druv her home. -Den de master, he must have a talk with him, and so de next time he -fancy hisself ill, he send for Doctor Owen, and since den he don't -care for Dr. Lelever no more at all." - -"I ought to be getting off," remarked Mrs. Poidevin, remembering the -hour at which the omnibus left Vauvert; "had I better go up and bid -cousin Louis good-bye?" - -Mrs. Tourtel thought Margot should go and ask the Doctor's opinion -first, but as Margot had already vanished, she went herself. - -There was a longish pause, during which Mrs. Poidevin looked uneasily -at Tourtel; he with restless furtive eyes at her. Then the housekeeper -reappeared, noiseless, cool, determined as ever. - -"Mr. Rennuf is quiet now," she said; "de Doctor have given him a -soothing draught, and will stay to see how it acts. He tinks you'd -better slip quietly away." - -On this, Louisa Poidevin left Les Calais; but in spite of her easy -superficiality, her unreasoning optimism, she took with her a sense of -oppression. Cousin Louis's appeal rang in her ears: "Do not leave me; -stay with me, or take me back with you. I am afraid up here, quite -alone." And after all, though his fears were but the folly of old age, -why, she asked herself, should he not come and stay with them in town -if he wished to do so? She resolved to talk it over with Pedvinn; she -thought she would arrange for him the little west room, being the -furthest from the nurseries; and in planning out such vastly important -trifles as to which easy-chair and which bedroom candlestick she would -devote to his use, she forgot the old man himself and recovered her -usual stolid jocundity. - -When Owen had entered the bedroom, he had found Renouf standing over -an open portmanteau, into which he was placing hurriedly whatever -caught his eye or took his fancy, from the surrounding tables. His -hand trembled from eagerness, his pale old face was flushed with -excitement and hope. Owen, going straight up to him, put his two hands -on his shoulders, and without uttering a word, gently forced him -backwards into a chair. Then he sat down in front of him, so close -that their knees touched, and fixing his strong eyes on Renouf's -wavering ones, and stroking with his finger-tips the muscles behind -the ears, he threw him immediately into an hypnotic trance. - -"You want to stay here, don't you?" said Owen emphatically. "I want to -stay here," repeated the old man through grey lips. His face was -become the colour of ashes, his hands were cold to the sight. "You -want your cousin to go away and not disturb you any more? -Answer--answer me." "I want my cousin to go away," Renouf murmured, -but in his staring, fading eye were traces of the struggle tearing him -within. - -Owen pressed down the eyelids, made another pass before the face, and -rose on his long legs with a sardonic grin. Margot, leaning across a -corner of the bed, had watched him with breathless interest. - -"I b'lieve you're de Evil One himself," she said admiringly. - -Owen pinched her smooth chin between his tobacco-stained thumb and -fingers. - -"Pooh! nothing but a trick I learned in Paris," said he; "it's very -convenient to be able to put a person to sleep now and again." - -"Could you put any one to sleep?" - -"Any one I wanted to." - -"Do it to me then," she begged him. - -"What use, my girl? Don't you do all I wish without?" - -She grimaced, and picked at the bed-quilt laughing, then rose and -stood in front of him, her round red arms clasped behind her head. But -he only glanced at her with professional interest. - -"You should get married, my dear, without delay. Pierre would be ready -enough, no doubt?"--"Bah! Pierre or annuder--if I brought a weddin' -portion. You don't tink to provide me wid one, I s'pose?"--"You know -that I can't. But why don't you get it from the Tourtels? You've -earned it before this, I dare swear." - -It was now that the housekeeper came up, and took down to Louisa -Poidevin the message given above. But first she was detained by Owen, -to assist him in getting his patient into bed. - -The old man woke up during the process, very peevish, very determined -to get to town. "Well, you can't go till to-morrow den," said Mrs. -Tourtel; "your cousin has gone home, an' now you've got to go to -sleep, so be quiet." She dropped all semblance of respect in her -tones. "Come, lie down!" she said sharply, "or I'll send Margot to -tickle your feet." He shivered and whimpered into silence beneath the -clothes. - -"Margot tells him 'bout witches, an ogres, an scrapels her fingures -'long de wall, till he tinks dere goin' to fly 'way wid him," she -explained to Owen in an aside. "Oh, I know Margot," he answered -laconically, and thought, "May I never lie helpless within reach of -such fingers as hers." - -He took a step and stumbled over a portmanteau lying open at his feet. -"Put your mischievous paws to some use," he told the girl, "and clear -these things away from the floor;" then remembering his rival Le -Lièvre; "if the old fool had really got away to town, it would have -been a nice day's work for us all," he added. - -Downstairs he joined the Tourtels in the kitchen, a room situated -behind the living-room on the left, with low green glass windows, -rafters and woodwork smoke-browned with the fires of a dozen -generations. In the wooden racks over by the chimney hung flitches of -home-cured bacon, and the kettle was suspended by three chains over -the centre of the wide hearth, where glowed and crackled an armful of -sticks. So dark was the room, in spite of the daylight outside, that -two candles were set in the centre of the table, enclosing in their -circles of yellow light the pale face and silver hair of the -housekeeper, and Tourtel's rugged head and weather-beaten countenance. - -He had glasses ready, and a bottle of the cheap brandy for which the -Island is famous. "You'll take a drop of something, eh, Doctor?" he -said as Owen seated himself on the joncière, a padded settle--green -baize covered, to replace the primitive rushes--fitted on one side of -the hearth. He stretched his long legs into the light, and for a -moment considered moodily the old gaiters and cobbled boots. "You've -seen to the horse?" he asked Tourtel. - -"My cert'nly; he's in de stable dis hour back, an' I've given him a -feed. I tought maybe you'd make a night of it?" - -"I may as well for all the work I have to do," said Owen with -sourness; "a damned little Island this for doctors. Nothing ever the -matter with anyone except the 'creeps,' and those who have it spend -their last penny in making it worse." - -"Dere's as much illness here as anywhere," said Tourtel, defending the -reputation of his native soil, "if once you gets among de right class, -among de people as has de time an' de money to make dereselves ill. -But if you go foolin' roun' wid de paysans, what can you expec'? We -workin' folks can't afford to lay up an' buy ourselves doctors' -stuff." - -"And how am I to get among the right class?" retorted Owen, sucking -the ends of his moustache into his mouth and chewing them savagely. "A -more confounded set of stuck-up, beggarly aristocrats I never met than -your people here." His discontented eye rested on Mrs. Tourtel. "That -Mrs. Pedvinn is the wife of Pedvinn the Jurat, I suppose?"--"Yes, de -Pedvinns of Rohais." "Good people," said Owen thoughtfully; "in with -the de Càterelles, and the Dadderney (d'Aldenois) set. Are there -children?"--"Tree." - -He took a drink of the spirit and water; his bad temper passed. Margot -came in from upstairs. - -"De marster sleeps as dough he'd never wake again," she announced, -flinging herself into the chair nearest Owen. - -"It's 'bout time he did," Tourtel growled. - -"I should have thought it more to your interest to keep him alive?" -Owen inquired. "A good place, surely?" - -"A good place if you like to call it so," the wife answered him; "but -what, if he go to town, as he say to-night? and what, if he send de -notary, to put de scellés here?--den he take up again wid Dr. Lelever, -dat's certain." And Tourtel added in his surly key, "Anyway, I've been -workin' here dese tirty years now, an' dat's 'bout enough." - -"In fact, when the orange is sucked, you throw away the peel? But are -you quite sure it is sucked dry?" - -"De house an' de lan' go to de Pedvinns, an' all de money die too, for -de little he had left when young John went 'crost de seas, he sunk in -a 'nuity. Dere's nuddin' but de lining, an' plate, an' such like, as -goes to de son." - -"And what he finds of that, I expect, will scarcely add to his -impedimenta?" said Owen grinning. He thought, "The old man is well -known in the island, the name of his medical attendant would get -mentioned in the papers at least; just as well Le Lièvre should not -have the advertisement." Besides, there were the Poidevins. - -"You might say a good word for me to Mrs. Pedvinn," he said aloud, "I -live nearer to Rohais than Lelever does, and with young children she -might be glad to have some one at hand." - -"You may be sure you won't never find me ungrateful, sir," answered -the housekeeper; and Owen, shading his eyes with his hand, sat -pondering over the use of this word "ungrateful," with its faint yet -perceptible emphasis. - -Margot, meanwhile, laid the supper; the remains of a rabbit-pie, a big -"pinclos" or spider crab, with thin, red knotted legs, spreading far -over the edges of the dish, the apple-gôche, hot from the oven, cider, -and the now half-empty bottle of brandy. The four sat down and fell -to. Margot was in boisterous spirits; everything she said or did was -meant to attract Owen's attention. Her cheeks flamed with excitement; -she wanted his eyes to be perpetually upon her. But Owen's interest in -her had long ceased. To-night, while eating heartily, he was absorbed -in his ruling passion: to get on in the world, to make money, to be -admitted into Island society. Behind the pallid, impenetrable mask, -which always enraged yet intimidated Margot, he plotted incessantly, -schemed, combined, weighed this and that, studied his prospects from -every point of view. - -Supper over, he lighted his meerschaum; Tourtel produced a short clay, -and the bottle was passed between them. The women left them together, -and for ten, twenty minutes, there was complete silence in the room. -Tourtel let his pipe go out, and rapped it down brusquely upon the -table. - -"It must come to an end," he said, with suppressed ferocity; "are we -eider to spen' de whole of our lives here, or else be turned off at de -eleventh hour after sufferin' all de heat an' burden of de day? Its -onreasonable. An' dere's de cottage at Cottu standin' empty, an' me -havin' to pay a man to look after de tomato houses, when I could get -fifty per cent. more by lookin' after dem myself.... An' what profit -is such a sickly, shiftless life as dat? My good! dere's not a man, -woman, or chile in de Islan's as will shed a tear when he goes, an' -dere's some, I tells you, as have suffered from his whimsies dese -tirty years, as will rejoice. Why, his wife was dead already when we -come here, an' his on'y son, a dirty, drunken, lazy vaurien too, has -never been near him for fifteen years, nor written neider. Dead most -likely, in foreign parts.... An' what's he want to stay for, -contraryin' an' thwartin' dem as have sweated an' laboured, an' now, -please de good God, wan's to sit 'neath de shadow of dere own fig-tree -for de short time dat remains to dem?... An' what do we get for -stayin'? Forty pound, Island money, between de two of us, an' de -little I makes from de flowers, an' poultry, an' such like. An' what -do we do for it? Bake, an' wash, an' clean, an' cook, an' keep de -garden in order, an' nuss him in all his tantrums.... If we was even -on his testament, I'd say nuddin. But everything goes to Pedvinns, an' -de son John, and de little bit of income dies wid him. I tell you 'tis -'bout time dis came to an end." - -Owen recognised that Destiny asked no sin more heinous from him than -silence, perhaps concealment; the chestnuts would reach him without -risk of burning his hand. "It's time," said he, "I thought of going -home. Get your lantern, and I'll help you with the trap. But first, -I'll just run up and have another look at Mr. Rennuf." - -For the last time the five personages of this obscure little tragedy -found themselves together in the bedroom, now lighted by a small lamp -which stood on the wash-hand-stand. Owen, who had to stoop to enter -the door, could have touched the low-pitched ceiling with his hand. -The bed, with its slender pillars, supporting a canopy of faded -damask, took up the greater part of the room. There was a fluted -headpiece of the damask, and long curtains of the same material, -looped up, on either side of the pillows. Sunken in these lay the head -of the old man, crowned with a cotton nightcap, the eyes closed, the -skin drawn tight over the skull, the outline of the attenuated form -indistinguishable beneath the clothes. The arms lay outside the -counterpane, straight down on either side; and the mechanical playing -movement of the fingers showed he was not asleep. Margot and Mrs. -Tourtel watched him from the bed's foot. Their gigantic shadows thrown -forward by the lamp, stretched up the opposite wall, and covered half -the ceiling. The old-fashioned mahogany furniture, with its fillets of -paler wood, drawn in ovals, upon the doors of the presses, their -centrepieces of fruit and flowers, shone out here and there with -reflected light; and the looking-glass, swung on corkscrew mahogany -pillars between the damask window curtains, gleamed lake-like amidst -the gloom. - -Owen and Tourtel joined the women at the bedfoot; though each was -absorbed entirely in his own egotisms, all were animated by the same -secret desire. Yet, to the feeling heart, there was something -unspeakably pleading in the sight of the old man lying there, in his -helplessness, in the very room, on the very bed, which had seen his -wedding-night fifty years before; where as a much-wished-for and -welcomed infant, he had opened his eyes to the light more than seventy -years since. He had been helpless then as now, but then the child had -been held to loving hearts, loving fingers had tended him, a young and -loving mother lay beside him, the circumference of all his tiny world, -as he was the core and centre of all of hers. And from being that -exquisite, well-beloved little child, he had passed thoughtlessly, -hopefully, despairfully, wearily, through all the stages of life, -until he had come to this--a poor, old, feeble, helpless, worn-out -man, lying there where he had been born, but with all those who had -loved him carried long ago to the grave: with the few who might have -protected him still, his son, his cousin, his old friend Le Lièvre, as -powerless to save him as the silent dead. - -Renouf opened his eyes, looked in turn at the four faces before him, -and read as much pity in them as in masks of stone. He turned himself -to the pillow again and to his miserable thoughts. - -Owen took out his watch, went round to count the pulse, and in the -hush the tick of the big silver timepiece could be heard. - -"There is extreme weakness," came his quiet verdict. - -"Sinking?" whispered Tourtel loudly. - -"No; care and constant nourishment are all that are required; strong -beef-tea, port wine jelly, cream beaten up with a little brandy at -short intervals, every hour say. And of course no excitement; nothing -to irritate, or alarm him" (Owen's eye met Margot's); "absolute quiet -and rest." He came back to the foot of the bed and spoke in a lower -tone. "It's just one of the usual cases of senile decay," said he, -"which I observe every one comes to here in the Islands (unless he has -previously killed himself by drink), the results of breeding in. But -Mr. Renouf may last months, years longer. In fact, if you follow out -my directions there is every probability that he will." - -Tourtel and his wife shifted their gaze from Owen to look into each -other's eyes; Margot's loose mouth lapsed into a smile. Owen felt cold -water running down his back. The atmosphere of the room seemed to -stifle him; reminiscences of his student days crowded on him: the -horror of an unperverted mind, at its first spectacle of cruelty, -again seized hold of him, as though no twelve callous years were -wedged in between. At all costs he must get out into the open air. - -He turned to go. Louis Renouf opened his eyes, followed the form -making its way to the door, and understood. "You won't leave me, -doctor? surely you won't leave me?" came the last words of piercing -entreaty. - -The man felt his nerve going all to pieces. - -"Come, come, my good sir, do you think I am going to stay here all -night?" he answered brutally.... Outside the door, Tourtel touched his -sleeve. "And suppose your directions are not carried out?" said he in -his thick whisper. - -Owen gave no spoken answer, but Tourtel was satisfied. "I'll come an' -put the horse in," he said, leading the way through the kitchen to the -stables. Owen drove off with a parting curse and cut with the whip -because the horse slipped upon the stones. A long ray of light from -Tourtel's lantern followed him down the lane. When he turned out on to -the high road to St. Gilles, he reined in a moment, to look back at -Les Calais. This is the one point from which a portion of the house is -visible, and he could see the lighted window of the old man's bedroom -plainly through the trees. - -What was happening there? he asked himself; and the Tourtel's cupidity -and callousness, Margot's coarse cruel tricks, rose before him with -appalling distinctness. Yet the price was in his hand, the first step -of the ladder gained; he saw himself to-morrow, perhaps in the -drawing-room of Rohais, paying the necessary visit of intimation and -condolence. He felt he had already won Mrs. Poidevin's favour. Among -women, always poor physiognomists, he knew he passed for a handsome -man; among the Islanders, the assurance of his address would pass for -good breeding; all he had lacked hitherto was the opportunity to -shine. This his acquaintance with Mrs. Poidevin would secure him. And -he had trampled on his conscience so often before, it had now little -elasticity left. Just an extra glass of brandy to-morrow, and to-day -would be as securely laid as those other episodes of his past. - -While he watched, some one shifted the lamp ... a woman's shadow was -thrown upon the white blind ... it wavered, grew monstrous, and -spread, until the whole window was shrouded in gloom.... Owen put the -horse into a gallop ... and from up at Les Calais, the long-drawn -melancholy howling of the dog filled with forebodings the silent -night. - - - - -The Lamplighter - - By A. S. Hartrick - -[Illustration: The Lamplighter] - - - - -The Composer of "Carmen" - - By Charles Willeby - - -What little has been written about poor Bizet is not the sort to -satisfy. The men who have told of him cannot have written with their -best pen. Even those who, one can see, have started well, albeit -impelled rather than inspired by a profound admiration for the artist -and the man, have fallen all too short of the mark, and ultimately -drifted into the dullest of all dull things--the compilation of mere -dates and doings. I know of no pamphlet devoted to him in this -country. He was much misunderstood in life; he has been, I think, as -much sinned against in death. The symbol of posthumous appreciation -which asserts itself to the visitor to Père Lachaise, is exponential -of compliment only when reckoned by avoirdupois. Neglected in life, -they have in death weighed him down with an edifice that would have -been obnoxious to every instinct in his sprightly soul--a memorial -befitting perhaps to such an one as Johannes Brahms, but repugnant as -a memento of the spirit that created "Carmen." It is an emblem of -French formalism in its most determined aspect. And in truth--as -Sainte-Beuve said of the Abbé Galiani--"they owed to him an -honourable, choice, and purely delicate burial; _urna brevis_, a -little urn which should not be larger than he." The previous -inappreciation of his genius has given place to posthumous laudation, -zealous indeed, but so indiscriminating as to be vulgar. Like many -another man, he had to take "a thrashing from life"; and although he -stood up to it unflinchingly, it was only in his death certificate -that he acquired passport to fame. - -Just eighteen years before it was that Bizet had written from Rome: -"We are indeed sad, for there come to us the tidings of the death of -Léon Benouville. Really, one works oneself half crazy to gain this -Prix de Rome; then comes the huge struggle for position; and after -all, perchance to end by dying at thirty-eight! Truly, the picture is -the reverse of encouraging." Here was his own destiny, _nu comme la -main_, save that the fates begrudged him even the thirty-eight years -of his brother artist--called him when he could not but - - "contrast - The petty done--the undone vast." - -But his early life was not unhappy. He had no pitiful struggle with -poverty in childhood, at all events. Some tell us he was -precocious--terribly so; but I had rather take my cue from his own -words, "Je ne me suis donné qu'à contre-coeur à la musique," than -dwell upon his precocity, real or fictional. It was only hereditarily -consistent that he should have a musical organisation. His father was -a teacher of music, not without repute; his mother was a sister of -François Delsarte, who, although unknown to Grove, has two columns and -more devoted to him by Fetis, by whom he is described as an "artiste -un peu étrange, quoique d'un mérite incontestable, doué de facultés -très diverses et de toutes les qualités nécessaires à l'enseignement." -What there was of music in their son the parents sought to encourage -assiduously, and Bizet himself has shown us in his work, more clearly -than aught else could, that the true dramatic sense was innate in him. -And that he loved his literature too, was well proved by a glance at -the little _appartement_ in the Rue de Douai, which he continued to -occupy until well-nigh the end. - -In 1849--he was just over his tenth year--Delsarte took him to -Marmontel of the Conservatoire. "Without being in any sense of the -word a prodigy," says the old pianoforte master, "he played his Mozart -with an unusual amount of taste. From the moment I heard him I -recognised his individuality, and I made it my object to preserve it." -Then Zimmerman, with whom _l'enseignement_ was a disease, heard of him -and sought him for pupil. But Zimmerman seems to have tired of him as -he tired of so many and ended by passing him on to Gounod. From entry -to exit--an interval of eight years--Bizet's academic career was a -series of _premiers et deuxièmes prix_. They were to him but so many -stepping-stones to the coveted Grand Prix de Rome. He longed to secure -this--to fly the crowded town and seek the secluded shelter of the -Villa Medici. And in the end he had his way. In effect, he commenced -to live only after he had taken up his abode on the little Pincian -Hill. Even there life was a trifle close to him, and some time passed -before he really fixed his focus. - -In Italy, more than in any other part of the world, the life of the -present rests upon the strata of successive past lives. And although -Bizet was no student, carrying in his knapsack a superfluity of -culture, this place appealed to him from the moment that he came to -it, and the memory of it lingered long in after days. - -The villa itself was a revelation to him. The masterpiece of -Renaissance façade over which the artist would seem to have exhausted -a veritable mine of Greek and Roman bas-reliefs; the garden with its -lawns surrounded by hedges breast-high, trimmed to the evenness of a -stone-wall; the green alleys overshadowed by ilex trees; the marble -statues looking forlornly regretful at Time's defacing treatment; the -terrace with its oaks gnarled and twisted with age; the fountains; the -roses; the flower-beds; and in the distance, "over the dumb -Campagna-sea," the hills melting into light under the evening sky--all -these made an _intaglio_ upon him such as was not readily to be -effaced, and which he learned to love. Perhaps because, after all, -Italy is even more the land of beauty than of what is venerable in -art, he did not feel the want of what Mr. Symonds calls the -"mythopoeic sense." It is a land ever young, in spite of age. Its -monuments, assertive as they are, so blend with the landscape, are so -in harmony with the surroundings, that the yawning gulf of years that -would separate us from them is made to vanish, and they come to live -with us. - -And the place was teeming with tradition. From the time, 1540, when it -had been designed by Hannibal Lippi for Cardinal Ricci, passing thence -into the hands of Alexandro de' Medici, and later into those of Leo -XI., it had been the home of art; and then, on its acquisition by the -French Academy in 1804, it became the home of artists. Here had lived -and worked and dreamed David, Ingres, Delaroche, Vernet, Hérold, -Benoist, Halévy, Berlioz, Thomas, Gounod, and the minor host of them. -In truth the list awed Bizet not a little, and had he needed an -incentive here it was. For the rest, he was supremely content. As a -_pensionnaire_ of the Academy he had two hundred francs a month, and -he apportioned them in this wise: _Nourriture_, 75fr.; _vin_, 25fr.; -_retenue_, 25fr.; _location de piano_, 15fr.; _blanchissage_, 5fr.; -_bois_, _chandelles_, _timbre-poste_, _&c._, 10fr.; _gants_, 5fr.; -_perte sur le change de la monnaie,_ 5fr. Even then he wrote: "I have -more than thirty francs _pour faire le grand garçon_." In another -letter he says: "I seem to cling to Rome more than ever. The longer I -know it, the more I love it. Everything is so beautiful. Each -street--even the filthiest of them--has its own charm for me. And -perhaps what is most astonishing of all, is that those very things -which startled me most on my arrival, have now become a part of and -necessary to my very existence--the madonnas with their little lamps -at every corner; the linen hanging out to dry from the windows; the -very refuse of the streets; the beggars--all these things really -divert me, and I should cry out if so much as a dung-heap were -removed.... More too, every day, do I pity those imbeciles who have -not been more fully able to appreciate their good fortune in being -_pensionnaires_ of the Academy. But then one cannot help observing -that they are the very ones who have achieved nothing. Halévy, Thomas, -Gounod, Berlioz, Massé--they all loved and adored their Rome." - -Then on the last day of the same year: "I seem to incline more -definitely towards the theatre, for I feel a certain sense of drama, -which, if I possessed it, I knew not of till now. So I hope for the -best. But that is not all. Hitherto I have vacillated between Mozart -and Beethoven, between Rossini and Meyerbeer, and suddenly I know upon -what, upon whom to fix my faith. To me there are two distinct kinds of -genius: the inspirational and the purely rational, I mean the genius -of nature and the genius of erudition; and whilst I have an immense -admiration for the second, I cannot deny that the first has all my -sympathies. So, _mon cher_, I have the courage to prefer, and to say I -prefer, Raphael to Michael Angelo, Mozart to Beethoven, Rossini to -Meyerbeer, which is, I suppose, much the same as saying that if I had -heard Rubini I would have preferred him to Duprez. Do not think for a -moment that I place one above the other--that would be absurd. All I -maintain is that the matter is one of taste, and that the one -exercises upon my nature a stronger influence than does the other. -When I hear the 'Symphonie Héroïque,' or the fourth act of the -'Huguenots,' I am spell-bound, aghast as it were; I have not eyes, -ears, intelligence, enough even to admire. But when I see 'L'École -D'Athènes,' or 'La Vierge de Foligno,' when I hear 'Les Noces de -Figaro,' or the second act of 'Guillaume Tell,' I am completely happy; -I experience a sense of comfort, a complete satisfaction: in effect, I -forget everything." - -This, then, is what Rome did for Bizet; but, be it said, for Bizet -_très jeune encore_. For a time the result is patent in his work, but -afterwards there comes, although no revulsion, a distinct variation of -feeling, which has in it something of compromise. The genius innate in -him was inspirational before it was--if it ever was--erudite. Even in -his later days there was for him no cowering before his culture. In -1867 he wrote in the _Revue Nationale_--the only critique, by the way, -he ever wrote--under the pseudonym of Gaston de Betzi: "The artist has -no name, no nationality. He is inspired or he is not. He has genius or -he has not. If he has, we welcome him; if he has not, we can at most -respect him, if we do not pity and forget him." - -He was the same in all things: "I have no comrades," he said, "only -friends." And there is one sentence that he wrote from Rome that might -well be held up to the _gamins_ of the French Conservatoire. "Je ne -veux rien faire _de chic_; je veux avoir des _idées_ avant de -commencer un morceau." - -In August of his second year Bizet left Rome on a visit to Naples. He -carried a letter to Mercadente. On his return good news and bad -awaited him. Ernest Guiraud, his good friend and quondam -fellow-student in the class of Marmontel, has just been proclaimed -Prix de Rome. And this at the very moment Bizet was to leave the -Villa; for the Academy would have it that their musical -_pensionnaires_ should pass the third year in Germany. The prospect -was entirely repugnant to Bizet. So he went to work against it, -directing his energies in the first place against Schnetz, "the dear -old director" as they called him. Schnetz, owning to a soft spot for -his young _pensionnaire_, was overcome, and through him I fancy the -powers that were in Paris. However, Bizet was permitted to remain in -his beloved Rome. Delighted, he wrote off to Marmontel: "I am daily -expecting Guiraud, and words cannot express how glad I shall be to see -him. Would you believe it, it is two years since I have spoken with an -intelligent musician? My colleague Z---- bores me frightfully. He -speaks to me of Donizetti, of Fesca even, and I reply to him with -Mozart, Mendelssohn, and Gounod." - -This last year spent with Guiraud was perhaps the happiest of his -life. At the close of it the two set off together on a ramble through -the land, with fancy for their only guide. They had got so far as -Venice when news of his mother's dangerous illness called Bizet to her -side. He arrived in time to say farewell, and he never returned to -Italy. - -Of work done at the Villa, "Vasco de Gama" is the only tangible -sample; "but I have not wasted my time," he wrote, "I have read a good -many volumes of history, and ever so much more literature of all -kinds. I have travelled, I have learned something of the history of -art, and I really am a bit of a connoisseur in painting and sculpture. -All I want now, on my return, are _trois jolis actes_ for the Théâtre -Lyrique." - -And shortly we find him in full swing with "Les Pêcheurs des Perles." -It was produced on the 30th September of 1863, and had some eighteen -representations. "La Jolie Fille de Perth," which followed it four -years later, had, I think, twenty-one. In between these two works, we -are told, Bizet, in a fit of violent admiration for Verdi, strove to -emulate him in an opera entitled "Ivan le Terrible." It is said to -have been completed and handed to the management of the Théâtre -Lyrique. Then Bizet, recognising as suddenly that he had made a -mistake, withdrew the score and burned it. - -M. Charles Pigot, who is chiefly responsible for this story, goes on -to say that the libretto was the work of MM. Louis Gallet and Edouard -Blau. But in that he is not correct, for Gallet himself tells us that -he knew Bizet only ever so slightly at the time, and that neither to -him nor to Blau is due a single line of this "Ivan." - -Then there were "Griselidis," of which, in a letter dated February of -1871, Bizet speaks as _très avancée_; "Clarisse Harlowe"; and the -"Calendal" of M. Sardou, to each of which he referred in the same year -as _à peine commencée_. There was also an opera in one act written by -M. Carvalho, and actually put into rehearsal at the Opéra Comique. But -none of these saw the light, and I have little doubt they all met -their fate on a certain eventful day, shortly before he died, when -Bizet remorselessly destroyed a whole pile of manuscript. And in truth -these early works had little value of themselves. They were but so -many rungs of the ladder by which he climbed to the heights of -"Djamileh," of "L'Arlésienne," and of "Carmen." No musician ever took -longer to know himself than did Georges Bizet. His period of -hesitation, of vacillation, was unduly protracted. For why, it is hard -to tell; but one cannot help feeling that the terrible _lutte pour la -vie_ had a deal to do with it. Those early years in Paris were very -hard ones. "Believe me," he wrote from le Vésinet (always a favourite -spot with him), "believe me, it is exasperating to have one's work -interrupted for days to write _solos de piston_. But what would you? I -must live. I have just rushed off at a gallop half-a-dozen melodies -for Heugel. I trust you may like them. At least I have carefully -chosen the verses. ... My opera and my symphony are both of them _en -train_. But when, oh when, shall I finish them? Yet I do nothing but -work, and I come only once a week to Paris. Here I am well out of the -way of all _flaneurs_, _raseurs_, _diseurs de riens_, _du monde -enfin_, _hélas_." Then a few days later: "I am completely prostrate -with fatigue. I can do nothing. I have even been obliged to give up -orchestrating my symphony; and now I feel it will be too late for this -winter. I am going to lie down, for I have not slept for three nights, -and all seems so dark to me. To-morrow, too, I have _la musique gaie_ -to write." - -Just then time was pressing him hard. He was under contract to produce -"La Jolie Fille de Perth" by the end of the year, and he was already -well into October. It became a matter of fifteen and sixteen hours -work a day; for there were lessons to be given, proofs to be -corrected, piano transcriptions to be made, and the rest. And, truth -to tell, he was terribly lacking in method. He was choke-full of -ideas, he was indeed borne along by a very torrent of them; and if -only he could have stopped to collect himself it would have been well -for him. But no; before he realised it, "La Jolie Fille" was finished -and in rehearsal. Then for the time he was able to put enough distance -between himself and his work to value it. And it seems to have pleased -him. "The final rehearsal," he writes to Galabert (by this time his -confidant in most things), "has produced a great effect. The piece is -really highly interesting, the interpretation is excellent, and the -costumes are splendid. The scenery is new and the orchestra and the -artists are full of enthusiasm. But more than all this, _cher ami_, -the score of 'La Jolie Fille' is _une bonne chose_. The orchestra -lends to all a colour and relief for which, I confess, I never dared -to hope. I think I have arrived this time. Now, _il faut monter, -monter, monter, toujours_." - -Shortly after this he married Geneviève Halévy, the daughter of the -composer of "La Juive," and lived almost exclusively at le Vésinet. -There, at 8, Rue des Cultures, a rustic place enough, one might find -Georges Bizet, seated in his favourite corner of the lovely garden, -_en chapeau de canotier_, smoking his pipe and chatting to his -friends. It had been the home of Jacques Halévy, and Bizet had been -wont to do his courting there. Now the old man was no more, and in the -long summer days, the daughter and the son--for Halévy had been as a -father to Bizet--missed sorely the familiar figure hard at work with -rake or hoe at his beloved flower-beds. They were the passion of his -later days, and they well repaid his care. Even in the middle of a -lesson--and he taught up to well-nigh the last weeks of his -life--would he rush out to uproot a noxious weed that might chance to -catch his eye. "How well I remember my first day there," says Louis -Gallet. "The war was not long finished, and the traces of it were with -us yet. True, Paris had resumed her lovely girdle of green; but -beneath this verdure reflected in the tardy waters of the Seine, there -was enough still to tell the terrible tale of ruin. One could not go -to Pecq or le Vésinet without some difficulty. Bizet, to save me -trouble, had taken care to meet me at Rueil, whence we made for the -little place where he was staying for the summer. The day was lovely, -and 'Djamileh' made great strides as we talked and paced the pretty -garden walks. This habit of discussing while walking, what was -uppermost in his mind, was always, to me, a powerful characteristic of -Georges Bizet. I do not remember any important discussion between us -that did not take place during a stroll, or at all events whilst -walking, if only to and from his study. We talked long that -afternoon--of the influence of Wagner on the future of musical art, of -the reception in store for 'Djamileh,' both by the public and by the -Opéra Comique itself. This latter, indeed, was no light matter. The -Direction was then undertaken by two parties: that of Du Locle, -tending towards advancement in every form; that of De Leuven, clinging -with all the force of tradition to the past. - -"Then in the evening nothing would do but Bizet should see me well on -my way to Paris. The bridges were not yet restored. So we set off on -foot, in company with Madame Bizet, to find the ferry-boat. How -delicious was that walk by the little islets in the cool of the -twilight; along the towing-path so narrow and overrun with growth that -we were obliged to proceed in Indian file. And how merry we were, -until perchance we stumbled on the fragment of a shell lying hidden in -the grass, or came face to face with some majestic tree, still -smarting from its wounds, when there would rise before us in all its -vividness the terrible scene so recently enacted on that spot. Then we -talked of the war and all its sorrows; and we tried to descry there on -the right, in the shade of Mount Valerien, the spot where Henri -Regnault fell. - -"At length we found the ferry, and reached the other bank. There at -the end of the path we could see the lights of the station; so we -separated. And although I made many after visits, none remained so -firmly fixed in my memory, or left me so happy an impression as did -this, my first to Bizet's summer home." - -During the siege itself, he had been forced to remain in Paris. But it -was much against his will, and he seems to have chafed sorely at it. -Yet it is difficult to picture Bizet bellicose. "Dear friend," he -writes to Guiraud, who was stationed at some outpost, "the description -you give of the palace you are living in makes us all believe that -luck is with you. But every day we think of the cold, the damp, the -ice, the Prussians, and all the other horrors that surround you. As -for me, I continue to reproach myself with my inaction, for in truth -my conscience is anything but at rest; but you know well what keeps me -here. We really cannot be said to eat any longer. Suzanne has just -brought in some horse bones, which I believe are to form our meal. -Geneviève dreams nightly of chickens and lobsters." - -Not till the following year, during the days of the Commune, do we -find him at le Vésinet. Then he writes (also to Guiraud): "Here we are -without half our things, without our books, without anything in fact, -and absolutely there are no means of getting into Paris.... So, dear -friend, if you have any news, do, I pray you, let us have it. I read -the Versailles papers, but they tell their wretched readers (and -expect them to believe it) that France is 'très tranquille,' Paris -alone excepted (_sic_). The day before yesterday was anything but -tranquil. For twelve hours there was nothing but a continuous -cannonade.... But _we_ are safe enough, for although the Prussian -patrols continue to increase in number we are not inconvenienced by -them, and they will not, in all probability, occupy le Vésinet. But it -seems quite impossible to say how all this is going to end. I am -absolutely discouraged, and what is more, I fear, dear friend, there -is worse trouble ahead of us. I am off now to the village to look at a -piano; I must work and try to forget it all." - -He finished "Djamileh" at le Vésinet. It was produced at the Opéra -Comique in May of 1872. Gallet tells us that he did not write the book -specially for Bizet. Under the title of "Namouna," it had been given -by M. du Locle to Jules Duprato, a musician and a "prix de Rome." But -Duprato _paressait agréablement_, and never got much further with it -than the composition of a certain _air de danse_ to the verses -commencing: "Indolente, grave et lente," which are to be found also in -Bizet's score. Then there came a time when the Opéra Comique, truly -one of the most good-natured of institutions in its own peculiar way, -so far belied its reputation as to tire of this idling on the part of -M. Duprato. So the work passed on to Bizet. He suggested change of -title, and "Namouna" became "Djamileh." But it remained nevertheless -the poem of Musset. - - "Je vous dirais qu' Hassan racheta Namouna - - * * * * * - - Qu'on reconnut trop tard cette tête adorée - Et cette douce nuit qu'elle avait espérée - Que pour prix de ses maux le ciel la lui donna. - - Je vous dirais surtout qu' Hassan dans cette affaire - Sentit que tôt ou tard la femme avait son tour - Et que l'amour de soi ne vaut pas l'autre amour." - -There you have the whole story. It is but an _état d'âme_--a little -love scene, simple enough in a way, yet so delicate and so full of -colour. It was a matter of "atmosphere," not of structure, a -masterpiece of style rather than of situation; and from its first -rehearsal as an opera it was doomed. In truth, these rehearsals were -amusing. There was old Avocat--they used to call him Victor--the -typical _régisseur_ of tradition; a man who could tell of the -_premières_ of "Pré-aux-Clercs" and "La Dame Blanche," and, what is -more, expected to be asked to tell of them. From his corner in the -wings he listened to the music of this "Djamileh," his face expressive -of a pity far too keen for words. But it was a matter of minutes only -before his pity turned to rage, and eventually he stumped off to his -sanctum, banging his door behind him with a vehemence that augured -badly for poor Bizet. As for De Leuven, his co-director: had he not -written. "Postillon de Lonjumeau"? and was it not the most successful -work of Boiledieu's successor? The fact had altered his whole life. -Ever after, all he sought in opera was some similarity with Le -Postillon. And there was nothing of Adam in this music, still less -anything of De Leuven in the poem. That was sufficient for him. -"Allons," said he one day to Gallet, who arrived at rehearsal just as -Djamileh was about to sing her _lamento_: "allons, vous arrivez pour -le De Profundis." - -As for the public, they understood it not at all, this charming -miniature. "C'est indigne," cried one; "c'est odieux," from another; -"c'est très drôle," said a third. "Quelle cacophonie, quelle audace, -c'est se moquer du monde. Voilà, où mène le culte de Wagner à la -folie. Ni tonalité, ni mesure, ni rythme; ce n'est plus de la -musique," and the rest. The press itself was no better, no whit more -rational. Yet this "Djamileh" was rich in premonition of those very -qualities that go to make "Carmen" the immortal work it is. It so -glows with true Oriental colour, is so saturate with the true Eastern -spirit, as to make us wonder for the moment--as did Mr. Henry James -about Théophile Gautier--whether the natural attitude of the man was -not to recline in the perfumed dusk of a Turkish divan, puffing a -chibouque. Here the tints are stronger, mellower, and more carefully -laid on than in "Les Pêcheurs des Perles." There is, too, all the -_bizarrerie_, as well as all the sensuousness of the East. Yet there -is no obliteration of the human element for sake of the picturesque. -Wagnerism was the cry raised against it on all sides; yet, if it be -anything but Bizet, it is surely Schumann. It was, in effect, all too -good for the public--too fine for their vulgar gaze, their -indiscriminating comment. And Reyer, farseeing amongst his fellows, -spoke truth when he said in the _Débats_: "I feel sure that if M. -Bizet knows that his work has been appreciated by a small number of -musicians--being _cognoscenti_--he will be more proud of that fact -than he would be of a popular success. 'Djamileh,' whatever be its -fortunes, heralds a new epoch in the career of this young master." - -Then came "L'Arlésienne," as all the world knows, a dismal failure -enough. It was to Bizet a true labour of love. From the day that -Carvalho came to him proposing that he should add _des mélodrames_ to -this tale of fair Provence, to the day of its production some four -months later, he was absorbed in it. The score as it now stands -represents about half the music that he wrote. The prelude to the -third act of "Carmen," and the chorus, "Quant aux douaniers," both -belonged originally to "L'Arlésienne," The rest was blue pencilled at -rehearsal. And of all the care he lavished on it, perhaps the finest, -certainly the fondest, was given to his orchestra. Every instrument is -ministered to with loving care. Luckily for him, fortunately too for -us, he knew not then what sort of lot awaited this scrupulous score of -his. He knew he wrote for Carvalho--for the Vaudeville; but that was -all. And they gave him twenty-five musicians--a couple of flutes and -an oboe (this latter to do duty too for the cor-anglais); one -clarinet, a couple of bassoons, a saxophone, two horns, a kettle-drum, -seven violins, one solitary alto, five celli, two bass, and his choice -of one other. The poor fellow chose a piano; but they never saw the -irony of it. All credit to his little band, they did their best. But -the most that they could do was to cull the tunes from out his score. -The consolation that we have is, that, so far as the piece as a piece -is concerned, no orchestra in the world could have saved it. It was -doomed to failure for all sorts of reasons. Daudet himself goes very -near the mark when he says that "it was unreasonable to suppose that -in the middle of the boulevard, in that coquettish corner of the -Chaussée d'Antin, right in the pathway of the fashions, the whims of -the hour, the flashing and changing vortex of all Paris, people could -be interested in this drama of love taking place in the farmyard in -the plain of Camargue, full of the odour of well-plenished granaries -and lavender in flower. It was a splendid failure; clothed in the -prettiest music possible, with costumes of silk and velvet in the -centre of comic opera scenery." Then he goes on to tell us: "I came -away discouraged and sickened, the silly laughter with which the -emotional scenes were greeted still ringing in my ears; and without -attempting to defend myself in the papers, where on all sides the -attack was led against this play, wanting in surprises--this painting -in three acts of manners and events of which I alone could appreciate -the absolute fidelity. I resolved to write no more plays, and heaped -one upon the other all the hostile notices as a rampart around my -determination." - -At this time Bizet seems to have come a good deal into contact with -Jean Baptiste Faure. They met frequently at the Opéra. "You really -must do something more for Bizet," said the baritone to Louis Gallet. -"Put your heads together, you and Blau, and write something that shall -be _bien pour moi_." "Lorenzaccio," perhaps the strongest of De -Musset's dramatic efforts, first came up. But Faure was not at all in -touch with it. The rôle of Brutus--fawning Judas that he is--revolted -him. He had no fancy to distort as _menteur à triple étage_; so the -subject was put by. Then came Bizet one morning with an old issue of -_Le Journal pour tous_ in his pocket. "Here is the very thing for us: -'Le Jeunesse du Cid' of Guilhem de Castro; not, mark you, the Cid of -Corneille alone, but the inceptive Cid in all the glory of its -pristine colour--the Cid, Don Rodrigue de Bivar, in the words of -Sainte-Beuve 'the immortal flower of honour and of love.'" _The scène -du mendiant_ held Bizet completely. It was to him simple, touching, -and great. It showed Don Rodrigue in a new light. Those--and there -were many of them--who had already cast their choice upon this legend, -had recognised--but recognised merely--in their hero, the son prepared -to sacrifice his love for filial duty, and to yield his life for love. -But they had not seen in him the Christian, the true and godly soul, -the Good Samaritan that De Castro represents. The scene of Rodrigue -with the leper, disdained and done away with by Corneille, with which -De Castro too was so reproached, was full of attraction for Bizet. His -whole interest centred round it. He was impatient and hungered to get -at it; and "Carmen," on which he was already well at work, was even -laid aside the while. Faure, too, had expressed a sound approval and a -hearty interest, and this alone meant much. So Bizet once again was -full of hope. There follows a long and detailed correspondence on the -subject with Gallet, with which I have not space to deal; but it shows -up splendidly the extreme nicety of the musician's dramatic sense. - -In the summer of 1873 "Don Rodrigue" was really finished, and one -evening Bizet called his friends to come and listen. Around the piano -were Edouard Blau, Louis Gallet, and Jean Faure. Bizet had his score -before him--to common gaze a skeleton thing enough, for of -"accompaniment" there was but little. But to its creator it was well -alive, and he sang--in the poorest possible voice, it is true--the -whole thing through from beginning to end. Chorus, soprano, tenor, -bass, yea, even the choicer "bits" for orchestra--all came alike to -him; all were infused with life from the spirit that created them. It -was long past midnight when he ceased, and then they sat and talked -till dawn. All were enthusiastic, and in the opinion of Faure (given -three years later) this score was more than the equal of "Carmen." His -word is all we have for it, but it carries with it something of -conviction. He was no bad judge of a work. Anyway, no sooner had he -heard it than he set about securing its speedy production at the -Opéra. And he succeeded in so far that it was put down early on the -list. But Fate had yet to be reckoned with. She was not thus to be -baulked of her prey: she had dogged the footsteps of poor Bizet far -too zealously for that; and on the 28th October (less than a week -after he had put _finis_ to his work), she stepped in. On that day the -Opéra was burned down. - -As for the score, it was laid aside, and of its ultimate lot we are in -ignorance. Inquiry on the part of Gallet seems to have elicited -nothing more definite than a courteous letter from M. Ludovic Halévy, -to the effect that he was quite free to dispose of the book to another -composer. "It was George's favourite," wrote his brother-in-law, "and -he had great hopes for it; but it was not to be." - -Perhaps of all his powers Bizet's greatest was that of recuperation. -It would be wrong to say he did not know defeat; he knew it all too -well, but he never let it get the better of him. He was never without -his irons upon the fire, never without a project to fall back upon. -And perhaps it is not too much to say that he had no life outside his -art. This too may in truth be told of him: that in all the struggle -and the scramble, in all his fight with fortune, it was the sweeter -qualities of his nature that came uppermost. His strength of purpose -stood on a sound basis--a basis of confidence in, though not arrogance -of, his own power. Where he was most handicapped was in carrying on -his artistic progress _coram populo_. Had it been as gradual as most -men's--had it been but the acquiring of an ordinary experience--all -might have been well; he would probably have been accorded his niche -and would have occupied it. But he progressed by leaps and bounds, and -even then his ideal kept steadily miles ahead of his achievement. It -was for long a very will-o'-the-wisp for him. Now and again he caught -it, and it is at such moments that we have him at his best; but he can -be said only to have captured it completely--so far as we are in a -position to tell--in "L'Arlésienne" and certain parts of "Carmen." His -faculty of self-criticism was developed in such an extraordinary -degree as to baulk him. He loved this Don Rodrigue and thought it was -his masterwork, and that too at the time when "Carmen" must have been -well forward. We know then that the loss is not a small one. - -It had not been alone the fate of the Opéra House that had stood in -the way. That institution had in course taken up its quarters at the -Salle Ventadour, and once installed there had proceeded with the -_répertoire_. But Bizet's "Rodrigue," although well backed by Fauré, -was pushed aside for others. The three names that it bore were all too -impotent; and when a new work was announced, it was "L'Esclave" of -Membrée that was seen to grace the bills, and not "Don Rodrigue." - -Poor Bizet, disappointed and sore at heart, vanished to hide himself -once more by his beloved Seine. This time it was to Bougival he went. - -M. Massenet had recently produced his "Marie Madeleine" and, curiously -enough, it had been successful. This seems to have spurred Bizet on to -emulation. With his usual happy knack of hitting on a subject, he -wrote off to Gallet, requesting him to do a book with Geneviève de -Paris--the holy Geneviève of legendary lore--for heroine. And Gallet, -accommodating creature that he was, forthwith proceeded to construct -his tableaux. Together they went off to Lamoureux and read the -synopsis to him. He approved it heartily, and Bizet got to work. -"Carmen" was then finished and was undergoing the usual stage of -adjournment _sine die_. Three times it had been put into rehearsal, -only to be withdrawn for apparently no reason, and poor Bizet was -wearying of opera and its ways. This sacred work was relief to him. -But hardly had he settled down to it when up came "Carmen" once again, -this time in good earnest. He was forced to leave "Geneviève" and come -to Paris for rehearsals. It was much against his inclination that he -did so, for his health was failing fast. For long he had suffered from -an abscess which had made his life a burden to him. Nor had his -terrible industry been without its effect upon his physique. He did -not know it, but he had sacrificed to his work the very things he had -worked for. He felt exhausted, enfeebled, shattered. Probably the -excitement of rehearsing "Carmen" kept him up the while; but it had -its after-effect, and the strain proved all the more disastrous. A -profound melancholy, too, had come over him; and do what he would he -could not beat it off. A young singer (some aspirant for lyric fame) -came one day to sing to him. "Ich grölle nicht" and "Aus der Heimath" -were chosen. "Quel chef d'oeuvre," said he, "mais quelle désolation, -c'est à vous donner la nostalgie de la mort." Then he sat down to the -piano and played the "Marche Funèbre" of Chopin. That was the frame of -mind he was in. - -In his gayer moments he would often long for Italy. He had never -forgotten the happy days passed there with Guiraud. "I dreamed last -night" (he is writing to Guiraud) "that we were all at Naples, -installed in a most lovely villa, and living under a government purely -artistic. The Senate was made up by Beethoven, Michael Angelo, -Shakespeare, Giorgione, _e tutti quanti_. The National Guard was no -more. In place of it there was a huge orchestra of which Litolff was -the conductor. All suffrage was denied to idiots, humbugs, schemers, -and ignoramuses--that is to say, suffrage was cut down to the smallest -proportions imaginable. Geneviève was a little too amiable for Goethe, -but despite this trifling circumstance the awakening was terribly -bitter." - -"Carmen" was produced at last, on the 3rd of March in that year -(1875). The Habanera--of which, by the way, he wrote for Mme. -Galli-Marié no less than thirteen versions before he came across, in -an old book, the one we know--the prelude to the second act, the -toreador song, and the quintett were encored. The rest fell absolutely -flat. - -The blow was a terrific one to Bizet. He had dreamed of such a -different lot for "Carmen." Arm in arm with Guiraud he left the -theatre, and together they paced the streets of Paris until dawn. -Small wonder he felt bitter; and in vain the kindly Guiraud did his -best to comfort him. Had not "Don Juan," he argued, been accorded a -reception no whit better when it was produced in Vienna? and had not -poor Mozart said "I have written 'Don Juan' for myself and two of my -friends"? But he found no consolation in the fact. The press, too, cut -him to the quick. This "Carmen," said they, was immoral, _banale_; it -was all head and no heart; the composer had made up his mind to show -how learned he was, with the result that he was only dull and obscure. -Then again, the gipsy girl whose liaisons formed the subject of the -story was at best an odious creature; the actress's gestures were the -very incarnation of vice, there was something licentious even in the -tones of her voice; the composer evidently belonged to the school of -_civet sans lièvre_; there was no unity of style; it was not dramatic, -and could never live; in a word, there was no health in it. - -Even Du Locle--who of all men should have supported it--played him -false. A minister of the Government wrote personally to the director -for a box for his family. Du Locle replied with an invitation to the -rehearsal, adding that he had rather that the minister came himself -before he brought his daughters. - -Prostrate with it all, poor Bizet returned to Bougival. When forced to -give up "Geneviève," he had written to Gallet: "I shall give the whole -of May, June, and July to it." And now May was already come, and he -was in his bed. "Angine colossale," were the words he sent to Guiraud, -who was to have been with him the following Sunday. "Do not come as we -arranged; imagine, if you can, a double pedal, A flat, E flat, -straight through your head from left to right. This is how I am just -now." - -He never wrote more than a few pages of "Geneviève." He got worse and -worse. But even so, the end came all too suddenly, and on the night of -the 2nd of June he died--died as nearly as possible at the exact -moment when Galli-Marié at the Opéra Comique was singing her song of -fate in the card scene of the third act of his "Carmen." The -coincidence was true enough. That night it was with difficulty that -she sung her song. Her nervousness, from some cause or another, was so -great that it was with the utmost effort she pronounced the words: "La -carte impitoyable; répétera la mort; encore, toujours la mort." On -finishing the scene, she fainted at the wings. Next morning came the -news of Bizet's death. And some friends said--because it was not meet -for them to see the body--that the poor fellow had killed himself. -Small wonder if it were so! - - - - -Six Drawings - - By Aubrey Beardsley - - -I. II. III. The Comedy-Ballet of Marionnettes, - as performed by the troupe of the Théâtre-Impossible, - posed in three drawings - -IV. Garçons de Café - -V. The Slippers of Cinderella - - _For you must have all heard of the Princess Cinderella with her - slim feet and shining slippers. She was beloved by Prince ----, - who married her, but she died soon afterwards, poisoned - (according to Dr. Gerschovius) by her elder sister Arabella, with - powdered glass. It was ground I suspect from those very slippers - she danced in at the famous ball. For the slippers of Cinderella - have never been found since. They are not at Cluny._ - _HECTOR SANDUS_ - -VI. Portrait of Madame Réjane - - -[Illustration: First Comedy-Ballet] - -[Illustration: Second Comedy Ballet] - -[Illustration: Third Comedy Ballet] - -[Illustration: Garçons de Café] - -[Illustration: The Slippers of Cinderella] - -[Illustration: Portrait of Madame Réjane] - - - - -Thirty Bob a Week - - By John Davidson - - - I couldn't touch a stop and turn a screw, - And set the blooming world a-work for me, - Like such as cut their teeth--I hope, like you-- - On the handle of a skeleton gold key. - I cut mine on leek, which I eat it every week: - I'm a clerk at thirty bob, as you can see. - - But I don't allow it's luck and all a toss; - There's no such thing as being starred and crossed; - It's just the power of some to be a boss, - And the bally power of others to be bossed: - I face the music, sir; you bet I ain't a cur! - Strike me lucky if I don't believe I'm lost! - - For like a mole I journey in the dark, - A-travelling along the underground - From my Pillar'd Halls and broad suburban Park - To come the daily dull official round; - And home again at night with my pipe all alight - A-scheming how to count ten bob a pound. - - And it's often very cold and very wet; - And my missis stitches towels for a hunks; - And the Pillar'd Halls is half of it to let-- - Three rooms about the size of travelling trunks. - And we cough, the wife and I, to dislocate a sigh, - When the noisy little kids are in their bunks. - - But you'll never hear _her_ do a growl, or whine, - For she's made of flint and roses very odd; - And I've got to cut my meaning rather fine - Or I'd blubber, for _I'm_ made of greens and sod: - So p'rhaps we are in hell for all that I can tell, - And lost and damned and served up hot to God. - - I ain't blaspheming, Mr. Silvertongue; - I'm saying things a bit beyond your art: - Of all the rummy starts you ever sprung - Thirty bob a week's the rummiest start! - With your science and your books and your the'ries about spooks, - Did you ever hear of looking in your heart? - - I didn't mean your pocket, Mr.; no! - I mean that having children and a wife - With thirty bob on which to come and go - Isn't dancing to the tabor and the fife; - When it doesn't make you drink, by Heaven, it makes you think, - And notice curious items about life! - - I step into my heart and there I meet - A god-almighty devil singing small, - Who would like to shout and whistle in the street, - And squelch the passers flat against the wall; - If the whole world was a cake he had the power to take, - He would take it, ask for more, and eat it all. - - And I meet a sort of simpleton beside-- - The kind that life is always giving beans; - With thirty bob a week to keep a bride - He fell in love and married in his teens; - At thirty bob he stuck, but he knows it isn't luck; - He knows the seas are deeper than tureens. - - And the god-almighty devil and the fool - That meet me in the High Street on the strike, - When I walk about my heart a-gathering wool, - Are my good and evil angels if you like; - And both of them together in every kind of weather - Ride me like a double-seated "bike." - - That's rough a bit and needs its meaning curled; - But I have a high old hot un in my mind, - A most engrugious notion of the world - That leaves your lightning 'rithmetic behind: - I give it at a glance when I say "There ain't no chance, - Nor nothing of the lucky-lottery kind." - - And it's this way that I make it out to be: - No fathers, mothers, countries, climates--none!-- - Not Adam was responsible for me; - Nor society, nor systems, nary one! - A little sleeping seed, I woke--I did indeed-- - A million years before the blooming sun. - - I woke because I thought the time had come; - Beyond my will there was no other cause: - And everywhere I found myself at home - Because I chose to be the thing I was; - And in whatever shape, of mollusc, or of ape, - I always went according to the laws. - - _I_ was the love that chose my mother out; - _I_ joined two lives and from the union burst; - My weakness and my strength without a doubt - Are mine alone for ever from the first. - It's just the very same with a difference in the name - As "Thy will be done." You say it if you durst! - - They say it daily up and down the land - As easy as you take a drink, it's true; - But the difficultest go to understand, - And the difficultest job a man can do, - Is to come it brave and meek with thirty bob a week, - And feel that that's the proper thing for you. - - It's a naked child against a hungry wolf; - It's playing bowls upon a splitting wreck; - It's walking on a string across a gulf - With millstones fore-and-aft about your neck: - But the thing is daily done by many and many a one.... - And we fall, face forward, fighting, on the deck. - - - - -A Responsibility - - By Henry Harland - - -It has been an episode like a German sentence, with its predicate at -the end. Trifling incidents occurred at haphazard, as it seemed, and I -never guessed they were by way of making sense. Then, this morning, -somewhat of the suddenest, came the verb and the full stop. - -Yesterday I should have said there was nothing to tell; to-day there -is too much. The announcement of his death has caused me to review our -relations, with the result of discovering my own part to have been -that of an accessory before the fact. I did not kill him (though, even -there, I'm not sure I didn't lend a hand), but I might have saved his -life. It is certain that he made me signals of distress--faint, shy, -tentative, but unmistakable--and that I pretended not to understand: -just barely dipped my colours, and kept my course. Oh, if I had -dreamed that his distress was extreme--that he was on the point of -foundering and going down! However, that doesn't exonerate me: I ought -to have turned aside to find out. It was a case of criminal -negligence. That he, poor man, probably never blamed me, only adds to -the burden on my conscience. He had got past blaming people, I dare -say, and doubtless merely lumped me with the rest--with the sum-total -of things that made life unsupportable. Yet, for a moment, when we -first met, his face showed a distinct glimmering of hope; so perhaps -there was a distinct disappointment. He must have had so many -disappointments, before it came to--what it came to; but it wouldn't -have come to that if he had got hardened to them. Possibly they had -lost their outlines, and merged into one dull general disappointment -that was too hard to bear. I wonder whether the Priest and the Levite -were smitten with remorse after they had passed on. Unfortunately, in -this instance, no Good Samaritan followed. - -The bottom of our long _table d'hôte_ was held by a Frenchman, a -Normand, a giant, but a pallid and rather flabby giant, whose name, if -he had another than Monsieur, I never heard. He professed to be a -painter, used to sketch birds and profiles on the back of his -menu-card between the courses, wore shamelessly the multi-coloured -rosette of a foreign order in his buttonhole, and talked with a good -deal of physiognomy. I had the corner seat at his right, and was -flanked in turn by Miss Etta J. Hicks, a bouncing young person from -Chicago, beyond whom, like rabbits in a company of foxes, cowered Mr. -and Mrs. Jordan P. Hicks, two broken-spirited American parents. At -Monsieur's left, and facing me, sat Colonel Escott, very red and -cheerful; then a young man who called the Colonel Cornel, and came -from Dublin, proclaiming himself a barr'ster, and giving his name as -Flarty, though on his card it was written Flaherty; and then Sir -Richard Maistre. After him, a diminishing perspective of busy -diners--for purposes of conversation, so far as we were concerned, -inhabitants of the Fourth Dimension. - -Of our immediate constellation Sir Richard Maistre was the only member -on whom the eye was tempted to linger. The others were obvious--simple -equations, soluble "in the head." But he called for slate and pencil, -offered materials for doubt and speculation, though it would not have -been easy to tell wherein they lay. What displayed itself to a cursory -inspection was quite unremarkable: simply a decent-looking young -Englishman, of medium stature, with square-cut plain features, -reddish-brown hair, grey eyes, and clothes and manners of the usual -pattern. Yet, showing through this ordinary surface, there was -something cryptic. For me, at any rate, it required a constant effort -not to stare at him. I felt it from the beginning, and I felt it till -the end: a teasing curiosity, a sort of magnetism that drew my eyes in -his direction. I was always on my guard to resist it, and that was -really the inception of my neglect of him. From I don't know what -stupid motive of pride, I was anxious that he shouldn't discern the -interest he had excited in me; so I paid less ostensible attention to -him than to the others, who excited none at all. I tried to appear -unconscious of him as a detached personality, to treat him as merely a -part of the group as a whole. Then I improved such occasions as -presented themselves to steal glances at him, to study him _à la -dérobée_--groping after the quality, whatever it was, that made him a -puzzle--seeking to formulate, to classify him. - -Already, at the end of my first dinner, he had singled himself out and -left an impression. I went into the smoking-room, and began to wonder, -over a cup of coffee and a cigarette, who he was. I had not heard his -voice; he hadn't talked much, and his few observations had been -murmured into the ears of his next neighbours. All the same, he had -left an impression, and I found myself wondering who he was, the young -man with the square-cut features and the reddish-brown hair. I have -said that his features were square-cut and plain, but they were small -and carefully finished, and as far as possible from being common. And -his grey eyes, though not conspicuous for size or beauty, had a -character, an expression. They _said_ something, something I couldn't -perfectly translate, something shrewd, humorous, even perhaps a little -caustic, and yet sad; not violently, not rebelliously sad (I should -never have dreamed that it was a sadness which would drive him to -desperate remedies), but rather resignedly, submissively sad, as if he -had made up his mind to put the best face on a sorry business. This -was carried out by a certain abruptness, a slight lack of suavity, in -his movements, in his manner of turning his head, of using his hands. -It hinted a degree of determination which, in the circumstances, -seemed superfluous. He had unfolded his napkin and attacked his dinner -with an air of resolution, like a man with a task before him, who -mutters, "Well, it's got to be done, and I'll do it." At a hazard, he -was two- or three-and-thirty, but below his neck he looked older. He -was dressed like everybody, but his costume had, somehow, an effect of -soberness beyond his years. It was decidedly not smart, and smartness -was the dominant note at the Hôtel d'Angleterre. - -I was still more or less vaguely ruminating him, in a corner of the -smoking-room, on that first evening, when I became aware that he was -standing near me. As I looked up, our eyes met, and for the fraction -of a second fixed each other. It was barely the fraction of a second, -but it was time enough for the transmission of a message. I knew as -certainly as if he had said so that he wanted to speak, to break the -ice, to scrape an acquaintance; I knew that he had approached me and -was loitering in my neighbourhood for that specific purpose. I _don't_ -know, I have studied the psychology of the moment in vain to -understand, why I felt a perverse impulse to put him off. I was -interested in him, I was curious about him; and there he stood, -testifying that the interest was reciprocal, ready to make the -advances, only waiting for a glance or a motion of encouragement; and -I deliberately secluded myself behind my coffee-cup and my cigarette -smoke. I suppose it was the working of some obscure mannish vanity--of -what in a woman would have defined itself as coyness and coquetry. If -he wanted to speak--well, let him speak; I wouldn't help him. I could -realise the processes of _his_ mind even more clearly than those of my -own--his desire, his hesitancy. He was too timid to leap the barriers; -I must open a gate for him. He hovered near me for a minute longer, -and then drifted away. I felt his disappointment, his spiritual shrug -of the shoulders; and I perceived rather suddenly that I was -disappointed myself. I must have been hoping all along that he would -speak _quand même_, and now I was moved to run after him, to call him -back. That, however, would imply a consciousness of guilt, an -admission that my attitude had been intentional; so I kept my seat, -making a mental rendezvous with him for the morrow. - -Between my Irish _vis-à-vis_ Flaherty and myself there existed no such -strain. He presently sauntered up to me, and dropped into conversation -as easily as if we had been old friends. - -"Well, and are you here for your health or your entertainment?" he -began. "But I don't need to ask that of a man who's drinking black -coffee and smoking tobacco at this hour of the night. I'm the only -invalid at our end of the table, and I'm no better than an amateur -meself. It's a barrister's throat I have--I caught it waiting for -briefs in me chambers at Doblin." - -We chatted together for a half-hour or so, and before we parted he had -given me a good deal of general information--about the town, the -natives, the visitors, the sands, the golf-links, the hunting, and, -with the rest, about our neighbours at table. - -"Did ye notice the pink-faced bald little man at me right? That's -Cornel Escott, C.B., retired. He takes a sea-bath every morning, to -live up to the letters; and faith, it's an act of heroism, no less, in -weather the like of this. Three weeks have I been here, and but wan -day of sunshine, and the mercury never above fifty. The other fellow, -him at me left, is what you'd be slow to suspect by the look of him, -I'll go bail; and that's a bar'net, Sir Richard Maistre, with a place -in Hampshire, and ten thousand a year if he's a penny. The young lady -beside yourself rejoices in the euphonious name of Hicks, and trains -her Popper and Mommer behind her like slaves in a Roman triumph. -They're Americans, if you must have the truth, though I oughtn't to -tell it on them, for I'm an Irishman myself, and its not for the pot -to be bearing tales of the kettle. However, their tongues bewray them; -so I've violated no confidence." - -The knowledge that my young man was a baronet with a place in -Hampshire somewhat disenchanted me. A baronet with a place in -Hampshire left too little to the imagination. The description seemed -to curtail his potentialities, to prescribe his orbit, to connote -turnip-fields, house-parties, and a whole system of British -commonplace. Yet, when, the next day at luncheon, I again had him -before me in the flesh, my interest revived. Its lapse had been due to -an association of ideas which I now recognised as unscientific. A -baronet with twenty places in Hampshire would remain at the end of -them all a human being; and no human being could be finished off in a -formula of half a dozen words. Sir Richard Maistre, anyhow, couldn't -be. He was enigmatic, and his effect upon me was enigmatic too. Why -did I feel that tantalising inclination to stare at him, coupled with -that reluctance frankly to engage in talk with him? Why did he attack -his luncheon with that appearance of grim resolution? For a minute, -after he had taken his seat, he eyed his knife, fork, and napkin, as a -labourer might a load that he had to lift, measuring the difficulties -he must cope with; then he gave his head a resolute nod, and set to -work. To-day, as yesterday, he said very little, murmured an -occasional remark into the ear of Flaherty, accompanying it usually -with a sudden short smile: but he listened to everything, and did so -with apparent appreciation. - -Our proceedings were opened by Miss Hicks, who asked Colonel Escott, -"Well, Colonel, have you had your bath this morning?" - -The Colonel chuckled, and answered, "Oh, yes--yes, yes--couldn't -forego my bath, you know--couldn't possibly forego my bath." - -"And what was the temperature of the water?" she continued. - -"Fifty-two--fifty-two--three degrees warmer than the air--three -degrees," responded the Colonel, still chuckling, as if the whole -affair had been extremely funny. - -"And you, Mr. Flaherty, I suppose you've been to Bayonne?" - -"No, I've broken me habit, and not left the hotel." - -Subsequent experience taught me that these were conventional modes by -which the conversation was launched every day, like the preliminary -moves in chess. We had another ritual for dinner: Miss Hicks then -inquired if the Colonel had taken his ride, and Flaherty played his -game of golf. The next inevitable step was common to both meals. -Colonel Escott would pour himself a glass of the _vin ordinaire_, a -jug of which was set by every plate, and holding it up to the light, -exclaim with simulated gusto, "Ah! Fine old wine! Remarkably full rich -flavour!" At this pleasantry we would all gently laugh; and the word -was free. - -Sir Richard, as I have said, appeared to be an attentive and -appreciative listener, not above smiling at our mildest sallies; but -watching him out of the corner of an eye, I noticed that my own -observations seemed to strike him with peculiar force--which led me to -talk _at_ him. Why not to him, with him? The interest was reciprocal; -he would have liked a dialogue; he would have welcomed a chance to -commence one; and I could at any instant have given him such a chance. -I talked _at_ him, it is true; but I talked _with_ Flaherty or Miss -Hicks, or _to_ the company at large. Of his separate identity he had -no reason to believe me conscious. From a mixture of motives, in which -I'm not sure that a certain heathenish enjoyment of his embarrassment -didn't count for something, I was determined that if he wanted to know -me he must come the whole distance; I wouldn't meet him halfway. Of -course I had no idea that it could be a matter of the faintest real -importance to the man. I judged _his_ feelings by my own; and though I -was interested in him, I shall have conveyed an altogether exaggerated -notion of my interest if you fancy it kept me awake at night. How was -I to guess that his case was more serious--that he was not simply -desirous of a little amusing talk, but starving, starving for a little -human sympathy, a little brotherly love and comradeship?--that he was -in an abnormally sensitive condition of mind, where mere negative -unresponsiveness could hurt him like a slight or a rebuff? - -In the course of the week I ran over to Pau, to pass a day with the -Winchfields, who had a villa there. When I came back I brought with me -all that they (who knew everybody) could tell about Sir Richard -Maistre. He was intelligent and amiable, but the shyest of shy men. He -avoided general society, frightened away perhaps by the British Mamma, -and spent a good part of each year abroad, wandering rather listlessly -from town to town. Though young and rich, he was neither fast nor -ambitious: the Members' entrance to the House of Commons, the -stage-doors of the music halls, were equally without glamour for him; -and if he was a Justice of the Peace and a Deputy Lieutenant, he had -become so through the tacit operation of his stake in the country. He -had chambers in St. James's Street, was a member of the Travellers -Club, and played the violin--for an amateur rather well. His brother, -Mortimer Maistre, was in diplomacy--at Rio Janeiro or somewhere. His -sister had married an Australian, and lived in Melbourne. - -At the Hôtel d'Angleterre I found his shyness was mistaken for -indifference. He was civil to everybody, but intimate with none. He -attached himself to no party, paired off with no individuals. He -sought nobody. On the other hand, the persons who went out of their -way to seek him, came back, as they felt, repulsed. He had been polite -but languid. These, however, were not the sort of persons he would be -likely to care for. There prevailed a general conception of him as -cold, unsociable. He certainly walked about a good deal alone--you met -him on the sands, on the cliffs, in the stiff little streets, rambling -aimlessly, seldom with a companion. But to me it was patent that he -played the solitary from necessity, not from choice--from the -necessity of his temperament. A companion was precisely that which -above all things his heart coveted; only he didn't know how to set -about annexing one. If he sought nobody, it was because he didn't know -how. This was a part of what his eyes said; they bespoke his desire, -his perplexity, his lack of nerve. Of the people who put themselves -out to seek him, there was Miss Hicks; there were a family from Leeds, -named Bunn, a father, mother, son, and two redoubtable daughters, who -drank champagne with every meal, dressed in the height of fashion, -said their say at the tops of their voices, and were understood to be -auctioneers; a family from Bayswater named Krausskopf. I was among -those whom he had marked as men he would like to fraternise with. As -often as our paths crossed, his eyes told me that he longed to stop -and speak, and continue the promenade abreast. I was under the control -of a demon of mischief; I took a malicious pleasure in eluding and -baffling him--in passing on with a nod. It had become a kind of game; -I was curious to see whether he would ever develop sufficient -hardihood to take the bull by the horns. After all, from a -conventional point of view, my conduct was quite justifiable. I always -meant to do better by him next time, and then I always deferred it to -the next. But from a conventional point of view my conduct was quite -unassailable. I said this to myself when I had momentary qualms of -conscience. Now, rather late in the day, it strikes me that the -conventional point of view should have been re-adjusted to the special -case. I should have allowed for his personal equation. - -My cousin Wilford came to Biarritz about this time, stopping for a -week, on his way home from a tour in Spain. I couldn't find a room for -him at the Hôtel d'Angleterre, so he put up at a rival hostelry over -the way; but he dined with me on the evening of his arrival, a place -being made for him between mine and Monsieur's. He hadn't been at the -table five minutes before the rumour went abroad who he was--somebody -had recognised him. Then those who were within reach of his voice -listened with all their ears--Colonel Escott, Flaherty, Maistre, and -Miss Hicks, of course, who even called him by name: "Oh, Mr. Wilford." -"Now, Mr. Wilford," &c. After dinner, in the smoking-room, a cluster -of people hung round us; men with whom I had no acquaintance came -merrily up and asked to be introduced. Colonel Escott and Flaherty -joined us. At the outskirts of the group I beheld Sir Richard Maistre. -His eyes (without his realising it perhaps) begged me to invite him, -to present him, and I affected not to understand! This is one of the -little things I find hardest to forgive myself. My whole behaviour -towards the young man is now a subject of self-reproach: if it had -been different, who knows that the tragedy of yesterday would ever -have happened? If I had answered his timid overtures, walked with him, -talked with him, cultivated his friendship, given him mine, -established a kindly human relation with him, I can't help feeling -that he might not have got to such a desperate pass, that I might have -cheered him, helped him, saved him. I feel it especially when I think -of Wilford. His eyes attested so much; he would have enjoyed meeting -him so keenly. No doubt he was already fond of the man, had loved him -through his books, like so many others. If I had introduced him? If we -had taken him with us the next morning, on our excursion to Cambo? -Included him occasionally in our smokes and parleys? - -Wilford left for England without dining again at the Hôtel -d'Angleterre. We were busy "doing" the country, and never chanced to -be at Biarritz at the dinner-hour. During that week I scarcely saw Sir -Richard Maistre. - -Another little circumstance that rankles especially now would have -been ridiculous, except for the way things have ended. It isn't easy -to tell--it was so petty, and I am so ashamed. Colonel Escott had been -abusing London, describing it as the least beautiful of the capitals -of Europe, comparing it unfavourably to Paris, Vienna, and St. -Petersburg. I took up the cudgels in its defence, mentioned its -atmosphere, its tone; Paris, Vienna, St. Petersburg were lyric, London -was epic; and so forth and so forth. Then, shifting from the æsthetic -to the utilitarian, I argued that of all great towns it was the -healthiest, its death-rate was lowest. Sir Richard Maistre had -followed my dissertation attentively, and with a countenance that -signified approval; and when, with my reference to the death-rate, I -paused, he suddenly burned his ships. He looked me full in the eye, -and said, "Thirty-seven, I believe?" His heightened colour, a nervous -movement of the lip, betrayed the effort it had cost him; but at last -he had _done_ it--screwed his courage to the sticking-place, and -spoken. And I--I can never forget it--I grow hot when I think of -it--but I was possessed by a devil. His eyes hung on my face, awaiting -my response, pleading for a cue. "Go on," they urged. "I have taken -the first, the difficult step--make the next smoother for me." And -I--I answered lackadaisically, with just a casual glance at him, "I -don't know the figures," and absorbed myself in my viands. - -Two or three days later his place was filled by a stranger, and -Flaherty told me that he had left for the Riviera. - -All this happened last March at Biarritz. I never saw him again till -three weeks ago. It was one of those frightfully hot afternoons in -July; I had come out of my club, and was walking up St. James's -Street, towards Piccadilly; he was moving in an opposite sense; and -thus we approached each other. He didn't see me, however, till we had -drawn rather near to a conjunction: then he gave a little start of -recognition, his eyes brightened, his pace slackened, his right hand -prepared to advance itself--and I bowed slightly, and pursued my way! -Don't ask why I did it. It is enough to confess it, without having to -explain it. I glanced backwards, by and by, over my shoulder. He was -standing where I had met him, half turned round, and looking after me. -But when he saw that I was observing him, he hastily shifted about, -and continued his descent of the street. - -That was only three weeks ago. Only three weeks ago I still had it in -my power to act. I am sure--I don't know why I am sure, but I _am_ -sure--that I could have deterred him. For all that one can gather from -the brief note he left behind, it seems he had no special, definite -motive; he had met with no losses, got into no scrape; he was simply -tired and sick of life and of himself. "I have no friends," he wrote. -"Nobody will care. People don't like me; people avoid me. I have -wondered why; I have tried to watch myself, and discover; I have tried -to be decent. I suppose it must be that I emit a repellent fluid; I -suppose I am a 'bad sort.'" He had a morbid notion that people didn't -like him, that people avoided him! Oh, to be sure, there were the -Bunns and the Krausskopfs and their ilk, plentiful enough: but he -understood what it was that attracted _them_. Other people, the people -_he_ could have liked, kept their distance--were civil, indeed, but -reserved. He wanted bread, and they gave him a stone. It never struck -him, I suppose, that they attributed the reserve to him. But I--I knew -that his reserve was only an effect of his shyness; I knew that he -wanted bread: and that knowledge constituted my moral responsibility. -I didn't know that his need was extreme; but I have tried in vain to -absolve myself with the reflection. I ought to have made inquiries. -When I think of that afternoon in St. James's Street--only three weeks -ago--I feel like an assassin. The vision of him, as he stopped and -looked after me--I can't banish it. Why didn't some good spirit move -me to turn back and overtake him? - -It is so hard for the mind to reconcile itself to the irretrievable. I -can't shake off a sense that there is something to be done. I can't -realise that it is too late. - - - - -Song - - By Dollie Radford - - - I could not through the burning day - In hope prevail, - Beside my task I could not stay - If love should fail. - - Nor underneath the evening sky, - When labours cease, - Fold both my tired hands and lie - At last in peace. - - Ah! what to me in death or life - Could then avail? - I dare not ask for rest or strife - If love should fail. - - - - -A Landscape - - By Alfred Thornton - -[Illustration: A Landscape] - - - - -Passed - - By Charlotte M. Mew - - - "Like souls that meeting pass, - And passing never meet again." - -Let those who have missed a romantic view of London in its poorest -quarters--and there will romance be found--wait for a sunset in early -winter. They may turn North or South, towards Islington or -Westminster, and encounter some fine pictures and more than one aspect -of unique beauty. This hour of pink twilight has its monopoly of -effects. Some of them may never be reached again. - -On such an evening in mid-December, I put down my sewing and left tame -glories of fire-light (discoverers of false charm) to welcome, as -youth may, the contrast of keen air outdoors to the glow within. - -My aim was the perfection of a latent appetite, for I had no mind to -content myself with an apology for hunger, consequent on a warmly -passive afternoon. - -The splendid cold of fierce frost set my spirit dancing. The road rung -hard underfoot, and through the lonely squares woke sharp echoes from -behind. This stinging air assailed my cheeks with vigorous severity. -It stirred my blood grandly, and brought thought back to me from the -warm embers just forsaken, with an immeasurable sense of gain. - -But after the first delirium of enchanting motion, destination became -a question. The dim trees behind the dingy enclosures were beginning -to be succeeded by rows of flaring gas jets, displaying shops of new -aspect and evil smell. Then the heavy walls of a partially demolished -prison reared themselves darkly against the pale sky. - -By this landmark I recalled--alas that it should be possible--a church -in the district, newly built by an infallible architect, which I had -been directed to seek at leisure. I did so now. A row of cramped -houses, with the unpardonable bow window, projecting squalor into -prominence, came into view. Robbing these even of light, the -portentous walls stood a silent curse before them. I think they were -blasting the hopes of the sad dwellers beneath them--if hope they -had--to despair. Through spattered panes faces of diseased and dirty -children leered into the street. One room, as I passed, seemed full of -them. The window was open; their wails and maddening requirements sent -out the mother's cry. It was thrown back to her, mingled with her -children's screams, from the pitiless prison walls. - -These shelters struck my thought as travesties--perhaps they were -not--of the grand place called home. - -Leaving them I sought the essential of which they were bereft. What -withheld from them, as poverty and sin could not, a title to the -sacred name? - -An answer came, but interpretation was delayed. Theirs was not the -desolation of something lost, but of something that had never been. I -thrust off speculation gladly here, and fronted Nature free. - -Suddenly I emerged from the intolerable shadow of the brickwork, -breathing easily once more. Before me lay a roomy space, nearly -square, bounded by three-storey dwellings, and transformed, as if by -quick mechanism, with colours of sunset. Red and golden spots wavered -in the panes of the low scattered houses round the bewildering -expanse. Overhead a faint crimson sky was hung with violet clouds, -obscured by the smoke and nearing dusk. - -In the centre, but towards the left, stood an old stone pump, and some -few feet above it irregular lamps looked down. They were planted on a -square of paving railed in by broken iron fences, whose paint, now -discoloured, had once been white. Narrow streets cut in five -directions from the open roadway. Their lines of light sank dimly into -distance, mocking the stars' entrance into the fading sky. Everything -was transfigured in the illuminated twilight. As I stood, the dying -sun caught the rough edges of a girl's uncovered hair, and hung a -faint nimbus round her poor desecrated face. The soft circle, as she -glanced toward me, lent it the semblance of one of those mystically -pictured faces of some mediæval saint. - -A stillness stole on, and about the square dim figures hurried along, -leaving me stationary in existence (I was thinking fancifully), when -my mediæval saint demanded "who I was a-shoving of?" and dismissed me, -not unkindly, on my way. Hawkers in a neighbouring alley were calling, -and the monotonous ting-ting of the muffin-bell made an audible -background to the picture. I left it, and then the glamour was already -passing. In a little while darkness possessing it, the place would -reassume its aspect of sordid gloom. - -There is a street not far from there, bearing a name that quickens -life within one, by the vision it summons of a most peaceful country, -where the broad roads are but pathways through green meadows, and your -footstep keeps the time to a gentle music of pure streams. There the -scent of roses, and the first pushing buds of spring, mark the -seasons, and the birds call out faithfully the time and manner of the -day. Here Easter is heralded by the advent in some squalid mart of -air-balls on Good Friday; early summer and late may be known by -observation of that unromantic yet authentic calendar in which -alley-tors, tip-cat, whip- and peg-tops, hoops and suckers, in their -courses mark the flight of time. - -Perhaps attracted by the incongruity, I took this way. In such a -thoroughfare it is remarkable that satisfied as are its public with -transient substitutes for literature, they require permanent types -(the term is so far misused it may hardly be further outraged) of Art. -Pictures, so-called, are the sole departure from necessity and popular -finery which the prominent wares display. The window exhibiting these -aspirations was scarcely more inviting than the fishmonger's next -door, but less odoriferous, and I stopped to see what the -ill-reflecting lights would show. There was a typical selection. -Prominently, a large chromo of a girl at prayer. Her eyes turned -upwards, presumably to heaven, left the gazer in no state to dwell on -the elaborately bared breasts below. These might rival, does wax-work -attempt such beauties, any similar attraction of Marylebone's -extensive show. This personification of pseudo-purity was sensually -diverting, and consequently marketable. - -My mind seized the ideal of such a picture, and turned from this -prostitution of it sickly away. Hurriedly I proceeded, and did not -stop again until I had passed the low gateway of the place I sought. - -Its forbidding exterior was hidden in the deep twilight and invited no -consideration. I entered and swung back the inner door. It was papered -with memorial cards, recommending to mercy the unprotesting spirits -of the dead. My prayers were requested for the "repose of the soul -of the Architect of that church, who passed away in the True -Faith--December,--1887." Accepting the assertion, I counted him beyond -them, and mentally entrusted mine to the priest for those who were -still groping for it in the gloom. - -Within the building, darkness again forbade examination. A few lamps -hanging before the altar struggled with obscurity. - -I tried to identify some ugly details with the great man's complacent -eccentricity, and failing, turned toward the street again. Nearly an -hour's walk lay between me and my home. This fact and the atmosphere -of stuffy sanctity about the place, set me longing for space again, -and woke a fine scorn for aught but air and sky. My appetite, too, was -now an hour ahead of opportunity. I sent back a final glance into the -darkness as my hand prepared to strike the door. There was no motion -at the moment, and it was silent; but the magnetism of human presence -reached me where I stood. I hesitated, and in a few moments found what -sought me on a chair in the far corner, flung face downwards across -the seat. The attitude arrested me. I went forward. The lines of the -figure spoke unquestionable despair. - -Does speech convey intensity of anguish? Its supreme expression is in -form. Here was human agony set forth in meagre lines, voiceless, but -articulate to the soul. At first the forcible portrayal of it assailed -me with the importunate strength of beauty. Then the Thing stretched -there in the obdurate darkness grew personal and banished delight. -Neither sympathy nor its vulgar substitute, curiosity, induced my -action as I drew near. I was eager indeed to be gone. I wanted to -ignore the almost indistinguishable being. My will cried: Forsake -it!--but I found myself powerless to obey. Perhaps it would have -conquered had not the girl swiftly raised herself in quest of me. I -stood still. Her eyes met mine. A wildly tossed spirit looked from -those ill-lighted windows, beckoning me on. Mine pressed towards it, -but whether my limbs actually moved I do not know, for the imperious -summons robbed me of any consciousness save that of necessity to -comply. - -Did she reach me, or was our advance mutual? It cannot be told. I -suppose we neither know. But we met, and her hand, grasping mine, -imperatively dragged me into the cold and noisy street. - -We went rapidly in and out of the flaring booths, hustling little -staggering children in our unpitying speed, I listening dreamily to -the concert of hoarse yells and haggling whines which struck against -the silence of our flight. On and on she took me, breathless and -without explanation. We said nothing. I had no care or impulse to ask -our goal. The fierce pressure of my hand was not relaxed a breathing -space; it would have borne me against resistance could I have offered -any, but I was capable of none. The streets seemed to rush past us, -peopled with despair. - -Weirdly lighted faces sent blank negations to a spirit of question -which finally began to stir in me. Here, I thought once vaguely, was -the everlasting No! - -We must have journeyed thus for more than half an hour and walked far. -I did not detect it. In the eternity of supreme moments time is not. -Thought, too, fears to be obtrusive and stands aside. - -We gained a door at last, down some blind alley out of the deafening -thoroughfare. She threw herself against it and pulled me up the -unlighted stairs. They shook now and then with the violence of our -ascent; with my free hand I tried to help myself up by the broad and -greasy balustrade. There was little sound in the house. A light shone -under the first door we passed, but all was quietness within. - -At the very top, from the dense blackness of the passage, my guide -thrust me suddenly into a dazzling room. My eyes rejected its array of -brilliant light. On a small chest of drawers three candles were -guttering, two more stood flaring in the high window ledge, and a lamp -upon a table by the bed rendered these minor illuminations unnecessary -by its diffusive glare. There were even some small Christmas candles -dropping coloured grease down the wooden mantel-piece, and I noticed a -fire had been made, built entirely of wood. There were bits of an -inlaid workbox or desk, and a chair-rung, lying half burnt in the -grate. Some peremptory demand for light had been, these signs denoted, -unscrupulously met. A woman lay upon the bed, half clothed, asleep. As -the door slammed behind me the flames wavered and my companion -released my hand. She stood beside me, shuddering violently, but -without utterance. - -I looked around. Everywhere proofs of recent energy were visible. The -bright panes reflecting back the low burnt candles, the wretched but -shining furniture, and some odd bits of painted china, set before the -spluttering lights upon the drawers, bore witness to a provincial -intolerance of grime. The boards were bare, and marks of extreme -poverty distinguished the whole room. The destitution of her -surroundings accorded ill with the girl's spotless person and -well-tended hands, which were hanging tremulously down. - -Subsequently I realised that these deserted beings must have first -fronted the world from a sumptuous stage. The details in proof of it I -need not cite. It must have been so. - -My previous apathy gave place to an exaggerated observation. Even some -pieces of a torn letter, dropped off the quilt, I noticed, were of -fine texture, and inscribed by a man's hand. One fragment bore an -elaborate device in colours. It may have been a club crest or -coat-of-arms. I was trying to decide which, when the girl at length -gave a cry of exhaustion or relief, at the same time falling into a -similar attitude to that she had taken in the dim church. Her entire -frame became shaken with tearless agony or terror. It was sickening to -watch. She began partly to call or moan, begging me, since I was -beside her, wildly, and then with heart-breaking weariness, "to stop, -to stay." She half rose and claimed me with distracted grace. All her -movements were noticeably fine. - -I pass no judgment on her features; suffering for the time assumed -them, and they made no insistence of individual claim. - -I tried to raise her, and kneeling, pulled her reluctantly towards me. -The proximity was distasteful. An alien presence has ever repelled me. -I should have pitied the girl keenly perhaps a few more feet away. She -clung to me with ebbing force. Her heart throbbed painfully close to -mine, and when I meet now in the dark streets others who have been -robbed, as she has been, of their great possession, I have to remember -that. - -The magnetism of our meeting was already passing; and, reason -asserting itself, I reviewed the incident dispassionately, as she lay -like a broken piece of mechanism in my arms. Her dark hair had come -unfastened and fell about my shoulder. A faint white streak of it -stole through the brown. A gleam of moonlight strays thus through a -dusky room. I remember noticing, as it was swept with her involuntary -motions across my face, a faint fragrance which kept recurring like a -subtle and seductive sprite, hiding itself with fairy cunning in the -tangled maze. - -The poor girl's mind was clearly travelling a devious way. Broken and -incoherent exclamations told of a recently wrung promise, made to -whom, or of what nature, it was not my business to conjecture or -inquire. - -I record the passage of a few minutes. At the first opportunity I -sought the slumberer on the bed. She slept well: hers was a long rest; -there might be no awakening from it, for she was dead. Schooled in one -short hour to all surprises, the knowledge made me simply richer by a -fact. Nothing about the sternly set face invited horror. It had been, -and was yet, a strong and, if beauty be not confined to youth and -colour, a beautiful face. - -Perhaps this quiet sharer of the convulsively broken silence was -thirty years old. Death had set a firmness about the finely controlled -features that might have shown her younger. The actual years are of -little matter; existence, as we reckon time, must have lasted long. It -was not death, but life that had planted the look of disillusion -there. And romance being over, all good-byes to youth are said. By the -bedside, on a roughly constructed table, was a dearly bought bunch of -violets. They were set in a blue bordered tea-cup, and hung over in -wistful challenge of their own diviner hue. They were foreign, and -their scent probably unnatural, but it stole very sweetly round the -room. A book lay face downwards beside them--alas for parochial -energies, not of a religious type--and the torn fragments of the -destroyed letter had fallen on the black binding. - -A passionate movement of the girl's breast against mine directed my -glance elsewhere. She was shivering, and her arms about my neck were -stiffly cold. The possibility that she was starving missed my mind. It -would have found my heart. I wondered if she slept, and dared not -stir, though I was by this time cramped and chilled. The vehemence of -her agitation ended, she breathed gently, and slipped finally to the -floor. - -I began to face the need of action and recalled the chances of the -night. When and how I might get home was a necessary question, and I -listened vainly for a friendly step outside. None since we left it had -climbed the last flight of stairs. I could hear a momentary vibration -of men's voices in the room below. Was it possible to leave these -suddenly discovered children of peace and tumult? Was it possible to -stay? - -This was Saturday, and two days later I was bound for Scotland; a -practical recollection of empty trunks was not lost in my survey of -the situation. Then how, if I decided not to forsake the poor child, -now certainly sleeping in my arms, were my anxious friends to learn my -whereabouts, and understand the eccentricity of the scheme? -Indisputably, I determined, something must be done for the -half-frantic wanderer who was pressing a tiring weight against me. And -there should be some kind hand to cover the cold limbs and close the -wide eyes of the breathless sleeper, waiting a comrade's sanction to -fitting rest. - -Conclusion was hastening to impatient thought, when my eyes let fall a -fatal glance upon the dead girl's face. I do not think it had changed -its first aspect of dignified repose, and yet now it woke in me a -sensation of cold dread. The dark eyes unwillingly open reached mine -in an insistent stare. One hand lying out upon the coverlid, I could -never again mistake for that of temporarily suspended life. My watch -ticked loudly, but I dared not examine it, nor could I wrench my sight -from the figure on the bed. For the first time the empty shell of -being assailed my senses. I watched feverishly, knowing well the -madness of the action, for a hint of breathing, almost stopping my -own. - -To-day, as memory summons it, I cannot dwell without reluctance on -this hour of my realisation of the thing called Death. - -A hundred fancies, clothed in mad intolerable terrors, possessed me, -and had not my lips refused it outlet, I should have set free a cry, -as the spent child beside me had doubtless longed to do, and failed, -ere, desperate, she fled. - -My gaze was chained; it could not get free. As the shapes of monsters -of ever varying and increasing dreadfulness flit through one's dreams, -the images of those I loved crept round me, with stark yet well-known -features, their limbs borrowing death's rigid outline, as they mocked -my recognition of them with soundless semblances of mirth. They began -to wind their arms about me in fierce embraces of burning and -supernatural life. Gradually the contact froze. They bound me in an -icy prison. Their hold relaxed. These creatures of my heart were -restless. The horribly familiar company began to dance at intervals in -and out a ring of white gigantic bedsteads, set on end like -tombstones, each of which framed a huge and fearful travesty of the -sad set face that was all the while seeking vainly a pitiless -stranger's care. They vanished. My heart went home. The dear place was -desolate. No echo of its many voices on the threshold or stair. My -footsteps made no sound as I went rapidly up to a well-known room. -Here I besought the mirror for the reassurance of my own reflection. -It denied me human portraiture and threw back cold glare. As I opened -mechanically a treasured book, I noticed the leaves were blank, not -even blurred by spot or line; and then I shivered--it was deadly cold. -The fire that but an hour or two ago it seemed I had forsaken for the -winter twilight, glowed with slow derision at my efforts to rekindle -heat. My hands plunged savagely into its red embers, but I drew them -out quickly, unscathed and clean. The things by which I had touched -life were nothing. Here, as I called the dearest names, their echoes -came back again with the sound of an unlearned language. I did not -recognise, and yet I framed them. What was had never been! - -My spirit summoned the being who claimed mine. He came, stretching out -arms of deathless welcome. As he reached me my heart took flight. I -called aloud to it, but my cries were lost in awful laughter that -broke to my bewildered fancy from the hideously familiar shapes which -had returned and now encircled the grand form of him I loved. But I -had never known him. I beat my breast to wake there the wonted pain of -tingling joy. I called past experience with unavailing importunity to -bear witness the man was wildly dear to me. He was not. He left me -with bent head a stranger, whom I would not if I could recall. - -For one brief second, reason found me. I struggled to shake off the -phantoms of despair. I tried to grasp while it yet lingered the -teaching of this never-to-be-forgotten front of death. The homeless -house with its indefensible bow window stood out from beneath the -prison walls again. What had this to do with it? I questioned. And the -answer it had evoked replied, "Not the desolation of something lost, -but of something that had never been." - -The half-clad girl of the wretched picture-shop came into view with -waxen hands and senseless symbolism. I had grown calmer, but her -doll-like lips hissed out the same half-meaningless but pregnant -words. Then the nights of a short life when I could pray, years back -in magical childhood, sought me. They found me past them--without the -power. - -Truly the body had been for me the manifestation of the thing called -soul. Here was my embodiment bereft. My face was stiff with drying -tears. Sickly I longed to beg of an unknown God a miracle. Would He -but touch the passive body and breathe into it the breath even of -transitory life. - -I craved but a fleeting proof of its ever possible existence. For to -me it was not, would never be, and had never been. - -The partially relinquished horror was renewing dominance. Speech of -any incoherence or futility would have brought mental power of -resistance. My mind was fast losing landmarks amid the continued quiet -of the living and the awful stillness of the dead. There was no sound, -even of savage guidance, I should not then have welcomed with glad -response. - -"The realm of Silence," says one of the world's great teachers, "is -large enough beyond the grave." - -I seemed to have passed life's portal, and my soul's small strength -was beating back the noiseless gate. In my extremity, I cried, "O God! -for man's most bloody warshout, or Thy whisper!" It was useless. Not -one dweller in the crowded tenements broke his slumber or relaxed his -labour in answer to the involuntary prayer. - -And may the 'Day of Account of Words' take note of this! Then, says -the old fable, shall the soul of the departed be weighed against an -image of Truth. I tried to construct in imagination the form of the -dumb deity who should bear down the balances for me. Soundlessness was -turning fear to madness. I could neither quit nor longer bear company -the grim Presence in that room. But the supreme moment was very near. - -Long since, the four low candles had burned out, and now the lamp was -struggling fitfully to keep alight. The flame could last but a few -moments. I saw it, and did not face the possibility of darkness. The -sleeping girl, I concluded rapidly, had used all available weapons of -defiant light. - -As yet, since my entrance, I had hardly stirred, steadily supporting -the burden on my breast. Now, without remembrance of it, I started up -to escape. The violent suddenness of the action woke my companion. She -staggered blindly to her feet and confronted me as I gained the door. - -Scarcely able to stand, and dashing the dimness from her eyes, she -clutched a corner of the drawers behind her for support. Her head -thrown back, and her dark hair hanging round it, crowned a grandly -tragic form. This was no poor pleader, and I was unarmed for fight. -She seized my throbbing arm and cried in a whisper, low and hoarse, -but strongly audible: - -"For God's sake, stay here with me." - -My lips moved vainly. I shook my head. - -"For God in heaven's sake"--she repeated, swaying, and turning her -burning, reddened eyes on mine--"don't leave me now." - -I stood irresolute, half stunned. Stepping back, she stooped and began -piecing together the dismembered letter on the bed. A mute protest -arrested her from a cold sister's face. She swept the action from her, -crying, "No!" and bending forward suddenly, gripped me with fierce -force. - -"Here! Here!" she prayed, dragging me passionately back into the room. - -The piteous need and wild entreaty--no, the vision of dire -anguish--was breaking my purpose of flight. A fragrance that was to -haunt me stole between us. The poor little violets put in their plea. -I moved to stay. Then a smile--the splendour of it may never be -reached again--touched her pale lips and broke through them, -transforming, with divine radiance, her young and blurred and -never-to-be-forgotten face. It wavered, or was it the last uncertain -flicker of the lamp that made me fancy it? The exquisite moment was -barely over when darkness came. Then light indeed forsook me. Almost -ignorant of my own intention, I resisted the now trembling figure, -indistinguishable in the gloom, but it still clung. I thrust it off me -with unnatural vigour. - -She fell heavily to the ground. Without a pause of thought I stumbled -down the horrible unlighted stairs. A few steps before I reached the -bottom my foot struck a splint off the thin edge of one of the rotten -treads. I slipped, and heard a door above open and then shut. No other -sound. At length I was at the door. It was ajar. I opened it and -looked out. Since I passed through it first the place had become quite -deserted. The inhabitants were, I suppose, all occupied elsewhere at -such an hour on their holiday night. The lamps, if there were any, had -not been lit. The outlook was dense blackness. Here too the hideous -dark pursued me and silence held its sway. Even the children were -screaming in more enticing haunts of gaudy squalor. Some, whose good -angels perhaps had not forgotten them, had put themselves to sleep. -Not many hours ago their shrieks were deafening. Were these too in -conspiracy against me? I remembered vaguely hustling some of them with -unmeant harshness in my hurried progress from the Church. Dumb the -whole place seemed; and it was, but for the dim stars aloft, quite -dark. I dared not venture across the threshold, bound by pitiable -cowardice to the spot. Alas for the unconscious girl upstairs. A -murmur from within the house might have sent me back to her. Certainly -it would have sent me, rather than forth into the empty street. The -faintest indication of humanity had recalled me. I waited the summons -of a sound. It came. - -But from the deserted, yet not so shamefully deserted, street. A man -staggering home by aid of friendly railings, set up a drunken song. At -the first note I rushed towards him, pushing past him in wild -departure, and on till I reached the noisome and flaring thoroughfare, -a haven where sweet safety smiled. Here I breathed joy, and sped away -without memory of the two lifeless beings lying alone in that shrouded -chamber of desolation, and with no instinct to return. - -My sole impulse was flight; and the way, unmarked in the earlier -evening, was unknown. It took me some minutes to find a cab; but the -incongruous vehicle, rudely dispersing the haggling traders in the -roadway, came at last, and carried me from the distorted crowd of -faces and the claims of pity to peace. - -I lay back shivering, and the wind crept through the rattling glass in -front of me. I did not note the incalculable turnings that took me -home. - -My account of the night's adventure was abridged and unsensational. I -was pressed neither for detail nor comment, but accorded a somewhat -humorous welcome which bade me say farewell to dying horror, and even -let me mount boldly to the once death-haunted room. - -Upon its threshold I stood and looked in, half believing possible the -greeting pictured there under the dead girl's influence, and I could -not enter. Again I fled, this time to kindly light, and heard my -brothers laughing noisily with a friend in the bright hall. - -A waltz struck up in the room above as I reached them. I joined the -impromptu dance, and whirled the remainder of that evening gladly -away. - -Physically wearied, I slept. My slumber had no break in it. I woke -only to the exquisite joys of morning, and lay watching the early -shadows creep into the room. Presently the sun rose. His first smile -greeted me from the glass before my bed. I sprang up disdainful of -that majestic reflection, and flung the window wide to meet him face -to face. His splendour fell too on one who had trusted me, but I -forgot it. Not many days later the same sunlight that turned my life -to laughter shone on the saddest scene of mortal ending, and, for one -I had forsaken, lit the ways of death. I never dreamed it might. For -the next morning the tragedy of the past night was a distant one, no -longer intolerable. - -At twelve o'clock, conscience suggested a search. I acquiesced, but -did not move. At half-past, it insisted on one, and I obeyed. I set -forth with a determination of success and no clue to promise it. At -four o'clock, I admitted the task hopeless and abandoned it. Duty -could ask no more of me, I decided, not wholly dissatisfied that -failure forbade more difficult demands. As I passed it on my way home, -some dramatic instinct impelled me to re-enter the unsightly church. - -I must almost have expected to see the same prostrate figure, for my -eyes instantly sought the corner it had occupied. The winter twilight -showed it empty. A service was about to begin. One little lad in -violet skirt and goffered linen was struggling to light the -benediction tapers, and a troop of school children pushed past me as I -stood facing the altar and blocking their way. A grey-clad sister of -mercy was arresting each tiny figure, bidding it pause beside me, and -with two firm hands on either shoulder, compelling a ludicrous -curtsey, and at the same time whispering the injunction to each -hurried little personage,-- "always make a reverence to the altar." -"Ada, come back!" and behold another unwilling bob! Perhaps the good -woman saw her Master's face behind the tinsel trappings and flaring -lights. But she forgot His words. The saying to these little ones that -has rung through centuries commanded liberty and not allegiance. I -stood aside till they had shuffled into seats, and finally kneeling -stayed till the brief spectacle of the afternoon was over. - -Towards its close I looked away from the mumbling priest, whose -attention, divided between inconvenient millinery and the holiest -mysteries, was distracting mine. - -Two girls holding each other's hands came in and stood in deep shadow -behind the farthest rows of high-backed chairs by the door. The -younger rolled her head from side to side; her shifting eyes and -ceaseless imbecile grimaces chilled my blood. The other, who stood -praying, turned suddenly (the place but for the flaring altar lights -was dark) and kissed the dreadful creature by her side. I shuddered, -and yet her face wore no look of loathing nor of pity. The expression -was a divine one of habitual love. - -She wiped the idiot's lips and stroked the shaking hand in hers, to -quiet the sad hysterical caresses she would not check. It was a page -of gospel which the old man with his back to it might never read. A -sublime and ghastly scene. - -Up in the little gallery the grey-habited nuns were singing a long -Latin hymn of many verses, with the refrain "Oh! Sacred Heart!" I -buried my face till the last vibrating chord of the accompaniment was -struck. The organist ventured a plagal cadence. It evoked no "amen." I -whispered one, and an accidentally touched note shrieked disapproval. -I repeated it. Then I spit upon the bloodless cheek of duty, and -renewed my quest. This time it was for the satisfaction of my own -tingling soul. - -I retook my unknown way. The streets were almost empty and thinly -strewn with snow. It was still falling. I shrank from marring the -spotless page that seemed outspread to challenge and exhibit the -defiling print of man. The quiet of the muffled streets soothed me. -The neighbourhood seemed lulled into unwonted rest. - -Black little figures lurched out of the white alleys in twos and -threes. But their childish utterances sounded less shrill than usual, -and sooner died away. - -Now in desperate earnest I spared neither myself nor the incredulous -and dishevelled people whose aid I sought. - -Fate deals honestly with all. She will not compromise though she may -delay. Hunger and weariness at length sent me home, with an assortment -of embellished negatives ringing in my failing ears. - - * * * * * - -I had almost forgotten my strange experience, when, some months -afterwards, in late spring, the wraith of that winter meeting appeared -to me. It was past six o'clock, and I had reached, ignorant of the -ill-chosen hour, a notorious thoroughfare in the western part of this -glorious and guilty city. The place presented to my unfamiliar eyes a -remarkable sight. Brilliantly lit windows, exhibiting dazzling wares, -threw into prominence the human mart. - -This was thronged. I pressed into the crowd. Its steady and opposite -progress neither repelled nor sanctioned my admittance. However, I had -determined on a purchase, and was not to be baulked by the unforeseen. -I made it, and stood for a moment at the shop-door preparing to break -again through the rapidly thickening throng. - -Up and down, decked in frigid allurement, paced the insatiate -daughters of an everlasting king. What fair messengers, with streaming -eyes and impotently craving arms, did they send afar off ere they thus -"increased their perfumes and debased themselves even unto hell"? This -was my question. I asked not who forsook them, speaking in farewell -the "hideous English of their fate." - -I watched coldly, yet not inapprehensive or a certain grandeur in the -scene. It was Virtue's very splendid Dance of Death. - -A sickening confusion of odours assailed my senses; each essence a -vile enticement, outraging Nature by a perversion of her own pure -spell. - -A timidly protesting fragrance stole strangely by. I started at its -approach. It summoned a stinging memory. I stepped forward to escape -it, but stopped, confronted by the being who had shared, by the -flickering lamplight and in the presence of that silent witness, the -poor little violet's prayer. - -The man beside her was decorated with a bunch of sister flowers to -those which had taken part against him, months ago, in vain. He could -have borne no better badge of victory. He was looking at some -extravagant trifle in the window next the entry I had just crossed. -They spoke, comparing it with a silver case he turned over in his -hand. In the centre I noticed a tiny enamelled shield. The detail -seemed familiar, but beyond identity. They entered the shop. I stood -motionless, challenging memory, till it produced from some dim corner -of my brain a hoarded "No." - -The device now headed a poor strip of paper on a dead girl's bed. I -saw a figure set by death, facing starvation, and with ruin in torn -fragments in her hand. But what place in the scene had I? A brief -discussion next me made swift answer. - -They were once more beside me. The man was speaking: his companion -raised her face; I recognised its outline,--its true aspect I shall -not know. Four months since it wore the mask of sorrow; it was now but -one of the pages of man's immortal book. I was conscious of the -matchless motions which in the dim church had first attracted me. - -She was clothed, save for a large scarf of vehemently brilliant -crimson, entirely in dull vermilion. The two shades might serve as -symbols of divine and earthly passion. Yet does one ask the martyr's -colour, you name it 'Red' (and briefly thus her garment): no -distinctive hue. The murderer and the prelate too may wear such robes -of office. Both are empowered to bless and ban. - -My mood was reckless. I held my hands out, craving mercy. It was my -bitter lot to beg. My warring nature became unanimously suppliant, -heedless of the debt this soul might owe me--of the throes to which I -left it, and of the discreditable marks of mine it bore. Failure to -exact regard I did not entertain. I waited, with exhaustless -fortitude, the response to my appeal. Whence it came I know not. The -man and woman met my gaze with a void incorporate stare. The two faces -were merged into one avenging visage--so it seemed. I was excited. As -they turned towards the carriage waiting them, I heard a laugh, -mounting to a cry. It rang me to an outraged Temple. Sabbath bells -peal sweeter calls, as once this might have done. - -I knew my part then in the despoiled body, with its soul's tapers long -blown out. - -Wheels hastened to assail that sound, but it clanged all. Did it -proceed from some defeated angel? or the woman's mouth? or mine? God -knows! - - - - -Sat est scripsisse - - By Austin Dobson - - To E. G., with a Volume of Essays - - - - When you and I have wandered beyond the reach of call, - And all our works immortal are scattered on the Stall, - It may be some new Reader, in that remoter age, - Will find this present volume, and listless turn the page. - - For him I write these Verses. And "Sir" (I say to him), - "This little Book you see here--this masterpiece of Whim, - Of Wisdom, Learning, Fancy (if you will, please, attend), - Was written by its Author, who gave it to his Friend. - - "For they had worked together, been Comrades at the Pen; - They had their points at issue, they differed now and then; - But both loved Song and Letters, and each had close at heart - The dreams, the aspirations, the 'dear delays' of Art. - - "And much they talk'd of Metre, and more they talked of Style, - Of Form and 'lucid Order,' of labour of the File; - And he who wrote the writing, as sheet by sheet was penned, - (This all was long ago, Sir!) would read it to his Friend. - - "They knew not, nor cared greatly, if they were spark or star, - They knew to move is somewhat, although the goal be far; - And larger light or lesser, this thing at least is clear,-- - They served the Muses truly, their service was sincere. - - "This tattered page you see, Sir, is all that now remains - (Yes, fourpence is the lowest!) of all those pleasant pains; - And as for him that read it, and as for him that wrote,-- - No Golden Book enrolls them among its 'Names of Note.' - - "And yet they had their office. Though they to-day are passed, - They marched in that procession where is no first or last; - Though cold is now their hoping, though they no more aspire, - They, too, had once their ardour:--they handed on the fire." - - - - -Three Stories - -By V., O., C.S. - - - - - I--Honi soit qui mal y pense - - By C. S. - - -"But I'm not very tall, am I?" said the little book-keeper, coming -close to the counter so as to prevent me from seeing that she was -standing on tiptoe. - -"A _p'tite_ woman," said I, "goes straight to my heart." - -The book-keeper blushed and looked down, and began fingering a bunch -of keys with one hand. - -"How is the cold?" I asked. "You don't seem to cough so much to-day." - -"It always gets bad again at night," she answered, still looking down -and playing with her keys. - -I reached over to them, and she moved her hand quickly away and -clasped it tightly with the other. - -I picked up the keys:--"Store-room, Cellar, Commercial Room, Office," -said I, reading off the names on the labels--"why, you seem to keep -not only the books, but everything else as well." - -She turned away to measure out some whisky at the other window, and -then came back and held out her hand for the keys. - -"What a pretty ring," I said; "I wonder I haven't noticed it before. -You can't have had it on lately." - -She looked at me fearfully and again covered her hand. - -"Please give me my keys." - -"Yes, if I may look at the ring." - -The little book-keeper turned away, and slipping quietly on to her -chair, burst into tears. - -I pushed open the door of the office and walked in. - -"What is it?" I whispered, bending over her and gently smoothing her -hair. - -"I--I hate him!" she sobbed. - -"Him?--Him?" - -"Yes,--the--the ring man." - -I felt for the little hand among the folds of the inky table-cloth, -and stooped and kissed her forehead. "Forgive me, dearest----" - -"Go away," she sobbed, "go away. I wish I had never seen you. It was -all my fault: I left off wearing the ring on purpose, but he's coming -here to-day----and--and we are so many at home--and have so little -money----" - -And as I went upstairs to pack I could see the little brown head bent -low over the inky table-cloth. - - - - -II--A Purple Patch - - By O. - - - I - -It was nearly half-past four. Janet was sitting in the drawing-room -reading a novel and waiting for tea. She was in one of those pleasing -moods when the ordinary happy circumstances of life do not pass -unnoticed as inevitable. She was pleased to be living at home with her -father and sister, pleased that her father was a flourishing doctor, -and that she could sit idle in the drawing-room, pleased at the pretty -furniture, at the flowers which she had bought in the morning. - -She seldom felt so. Generally these things did not enter her head as a -joy in themselves; and this mood never came upon her when, according -to elderly advice, it would have been useful. In no trouble, great or -small, could she gain comfort from remembering that she lived -comfortably; but sometimes without any reason, as now, she felt glad -at her position. - -When the parlour-maid came in and brought the lamp, Janet watched her -movements pleasurably. She noticed all the ways of a maid in an -orderly house: how she placed the lighted lamp on the table at her -side, then went to the windows and let down the blinds and drew the -curtains, then pulled a small table forward, spread a blue-edged cloth -on it, and walked out quietly, pushing her cuffs up a little. - -She was pleased too with her novel, Miss Braddon's _Asphodel_. For -some time she had enjoyed reading superior books. She knew that -_Asphodel_ was bad, and saw its inferiority to the books which she had -lately read; but that did not prevent her pleasure at being back with -Miss Braddon. - -The maid came in and set the glass-tray on the table which she had -just covered, took a box of matches from her apron pocket, lit the -wick of the silver spirit-stove and left the room. Janet watched the -whole proceeding with pleasure, sitting still in the arm-chair. Three -soft raps on the gong and Gertrude appeared. She made the tea, and -they talked. When they had finished, Gertrude sat at her desk and -began to write a letter, and still talking, Janet gradually let -herself into her novel once more. There was plenty of the story left, -she would read right on till dinner. - -They had finished talking for some minutes when they heard a ring. - -"Oh, Gerty, suppose this is a visitor!" Janet said, looking up from -her book. - -Gertrude listened. Janet prayed all the time that it might not be a -visitor, and she gave a low groan as she heard heavy steps upon the -stairs. Gertrude's desk was just opposite the door, and directly the -maid opened it she saw that the visitor was an awkward young man who -never had anything to say. She exchanged a glance with Janet, then -Janet saw the maid who announced, "Mr. Huddleston." - -And then she saw Mr. Huddleston. She laid her book down open on the -table behind her, and rose to shake hands with him. - -Janet had one conversation with Mr. Huddleston--music: they were very -slightly acquainted, and they never got beyond that subject. She -smiled at the inevitableness of her question as she asked: - -"Were you at the Saturday Afternoon Concert?" - -When they had talked for ten minutes with some difficulty, Gertrude, -who had finished her letter, left the room: she was engaged to be -married, and was therefore free to do anything she liked. After a -visit of half an hour Huddleston went. - -Janet rang the bell, and felt a little guilty as she took up the open -book directly her visitor had gone. She did not know quite why, but -she was dissatisfied. However, in a moment or two she was deep in the -excitement of _Asphodel_. - -She read on for a couple of hours, and then she heard the carriage -drive up to the door. She heard her father come into the house and go -to his consulting-room, then walk upstairs to his bedroom, and she -knew that in a few minutes he would be down in the drawing-room to -talk for a quarter of an hour before dinner. When she heard him on the -landing, she put away her book; Gertrude met him just at the door; -they both came in together, and then they all three chatted. But -instead of feeling in a contented mood, because she had read -comfortably, as she had intended all the afternoon, Janet was -dissatisfied, as if the afternoon had slipped by without being -enjoyed, wasted over the exciting novel. - -And towards the end of dinner her thoughts fell back on an old trouble -which had been dully threatening her. Gertrude was her father's -favourite; gay and pretty, she had never been difficult. Janet was -more silent, could not amuse her father and make him laugh, and he was -not fond of her. She would find still more difficulty when Gertrude -was married, and she was left alone with him. His health was failing, -and he was growing very cantankerous. She dreaded the prospect, and -already the doctor was moaning to Gerty about her leaving, and she was -making him laugh for the last time over the very cause of his -dejection. Not that he would have retarded her marriage by a day; he -was extremely proud of her engagement to the son of the great Lady -Beamish. - -That thought had been an undercurrent of trouble ever since Gertrude's -engagement, and she wondered how she could have forgotten it for a -whole afternoon. Now she was as fully miserable as she had been -content four hours before, and her trouble at the moment mingled with -her unsatisfactory recollection of the afternoon, her annoyance at Mr. -Huddleston's interruption, and the novel which she had taken up -directly he had left the room. - - - II - -A year after Gertrude's marriage Dr. Worgan gave up his work and -decided at last to carry out a cherished plan. One of his oldest -friends was going to Algiers with his wife and daughter. The doctor -was a great favourite with them; he decided to sell his house in -London, and join the party in their travels. The project had been -discussed for a long time, and Janet foresaw an opportunity of going -her own way. She was sure that her father did not want her. She had -hinted at her wish to stay in England and work for herself; but she -did not insist or trouble her father, and as he did not oppose her she -imagined that the affair was understood. When the time for his -departure drew close, Janet said something about her arrangements -which raised a long discussion. Dr. Worgan expressed great -astonishment at her resolution, and declared that she had not been -open with him. Janet could not understand his sudden opposition; -perhaps she had not been explicit enough; but surely they both knew -what they were about, and it was obviously better that they should -part. - -They were in the drawing-room. Dr. Worgan felt aggrieved that the -affair should be taken so completely out of his hands; he had been -reproaching her, and arguing for some time. Janet's tone vexed him. -She was calm, disinclined to argue, behaving as if the arrangement -were quite decided: he would have been better pleased if she had cried -or lost her temper. - -"It's very easy to say that; but, after all, you're not independent. -You say you want to get work as a governess; but that's only an excuse -for not going away with me." - -"You never let me do anything for you." - -"I don't ask you to. I never demand anything of you. I'm not a tyrant; -but that's no reason why you should want to desert me; you're the last -person I have." - -Janet hated arguments and talk about affairs which were obviously -settled. They had talked for almost an hour, they could neither of -them gain anything from the conversation, and yet her father seemed to -delight in prolonging it. She did not wish to defend her course. She -would willingly have allowed her father to put her in the wrong, if -only he had left her alone to do what both of them wanted. - -"You want to pose as a kind of martyr, I suppose. Your father hasn't -treated you well, he only loved your sister; you've a grievance -against him." - -"No, indeed; you know it's not so." - -The impossibility of answering such charges, all the unnecessary -fatigue, had brought her very near crying: she felt the lump in her -throat, the aching in her breast. Be a governess? Why, she would -willingly be a factory girl, working her life out for a few shillings -a week, if only she could be left alone to be straightforward. The -picture of the girls with shawl and basket leaving the factory came -before her eyes. She really envied them, and pictured herself walking -home to her lonely garret, forgotten and in peace. - -"But that's how our relations and friends will look upon your -conduct." - -"Oh no," she answered, trying to smile and say something amusing after -the manner of Gertrude; "they will only shake their heads at their -daughters and say, 'There goes another rebel who isn't content to be -beautiful, innocent, and protected.'" - -But Janet's attempts to be amusing were not successful with her -father. - -"They won't at all. They'll say, 'At any rate her father is well off -enough to give her enough to live upon, and not make her work as a -governess.'" - -"_We_ know that's got nothing to do with it. If I were dependent, I -should feel I'd less right to choose----" - -"But you're mistaken; that's not honesty, but egoism, on your part." - -Janet had nothing to answer; there was a pause, as if her father -wished her to argue the point. She thought, perhaps, she had better -say something, else she would show too plainly that she saw he was in -the wrong; but she said nothing, and he went on: "And what will people -say at the idea of your being a governess? Practically a servant in a -stranger's house, with a pretence of equality, but less pay than a -good cook. What will all our friends say?" - -Janet did not wish to say to herself in so many words that her father -was a snob. If he had left her alone, she would have been satisfied -with the unacknowledged feeling that he attached importance to certain -things. - -"Surely people of understanding know there's no harm in being a -governess, and I'm quite willing to be ignored by anyone who can't see -that." - -These were the first words she spoke with any warmth. - -"Selfishness again. It's not only your concern: what will your sister -think and feel about it?" - -"Gerty is sensible enough to think as I do; besides, she is very -happy, and so has no right to dictate to other people about their -affairs; indeed, she won't trouble about it--why should she? I'm not -part of her." - -"You're unjust to Gertrude: your sister is too sweet and modest to -wish to dictate to any one." - -"Exactly." Janet could not help saying this one word, and yet she knew -that it would irritate her father still more. - -"And who would take you as a governess? You don't find it easy to live -even with your own people, and I don't know what you can teach. -Perhaps you will reproach me as Laura did her mother, and say it was -my fault you didn't go to Girton?" - -"Oh, I think I can manage. My music is not much, I know; but I think -it's good enough to be useful." - -"Are you going to say that I was wrong in not encouraging you to train -for a professional musician?" - -"I hadn't the faintest notion of reproaching you for anything: it was -only modesty." - -She knew that having passed the period when she might have cried, she -was being fatigued into the flippant stage, and her father hated that -above everything. - -"Now you're beginning to sneer in your superior way," Dr. Worgan said, -walking up the room, "talking to me as if I were an idiot----" - -He was interrupted by the maid who came in to ask Janet whether she -could put out the light in the hall. Janet looked questioningly at her -father, who had faced round when he heard the door open, and he said -yes. - -"And, Callant," Janet cried after her, and then went on in a lower -tone as she reappeared, "we shall want breakfast at eight to-morrow; -Dr. Worgan is going out early." - -The door was shut once more. Her father seemed vexed at the -interruption so welcome to her. - -"Well, I never could persuade you in anything; but I resent the way in -which you look on my advice as if it were selfish--I'm only anxious -for your own welfare." - - * * * * * - -In bed Janet lay awake thinking over the conversation. She had an -instinctive dislike to judging any one, especially her father. Why -couldn't people who understood each other remain satisfied with their -tacit understanding, and each go his own way without pretence? She was -sure her father did not really want her, he was only opposing her -desertion to justify himself in his own eyes, trying to persuade -himself that he did love her. If he had just let things take their -natural course and made no objections against his better judgment, she -would not have criticised him; she had never felt aggrieved at his -preference for Gertrude: it so happened that she was not sympathetic -to him, and they both knew it. Over and over again as she lay in bed, -she argued out all these points with herself. If he had said, "You're -a good girl, you're doing the right thing; I admire you, though we're -not sympathetic," his humanity would have given her deep pleasure, and -they might have felt more loving towards each other than ever before. -Perhaps that was too much to expect; but at any rate he might have -left her alone. Anything rather than all this pretence, which forced -her to criticise him and defend herself. - -But perhaps she had not given him a chance? She knew that every -movement and look of hers irritated him: if only she could have not -been herself, he might have been generous. But then, as if to make up -for this thought, she said aloud to herself: - -"Generosity, logic, and an objection to unnecessary talking are manly -qualities." And then she repented for becoming bitter. - -"But why must all the hateful things in life be defined and printed on -one's mind in so many words? I could face difficulties quite well -without being forced to set all the unpleasantnesses in life clearly -out. And this makes me bitter." - -She was terribly afraid of becoming bitter. Bitterness was for the -failures, and why should she own to being a failure; surely she was -not aiming very high? She was oppressed by the horrible fear of -becoming old-maidish and narrow. Perhaps she would change gradually -without being able to prevent, without even noticing the change. Every -now and then she spoke her thoughts aloud. - -"I can't have taking ways: some people think I'm superior and -crushing, father says I'm selfish;" and yet she could not think of any -great pleasures which she had longed for and claimed. Gerty had never -hidden her wishes or sacrificed anything to others, and she always got -everything she fancied; yet she was not selfish. - -Then the old utter dejection came over her as she thought of her life; -if no one should love her, and she should grow old and fixed in -desolation? This was no sorrow at an unfortunate circumstance, but a -dejection so far-reaching that its existence seemed to her more real -than her own; it must have existed in the world before she was born, -it must have been since the beginning. The smaller clouds which had -darkened her day were forced aside, and the whole heaven was black -with this great hopelessness. If any sorrow had struck her, death, -disgrace, crime, that would have been a laughing matter compared with -this. - -Perhaps life would be better when she was a governess; she would be -doing something, moulding her own life, ill-treated with actual wrongs -perhaps. In the darkness of her heaven there came a little patch of -blue sky, the hopefulness which was always there behind the cloud, and -she fell asleep, dreamily looking forward to a struggle, to real life -with possibilities--dim pictures. - - - III - -A month afterwards, on a bitterly cold February day, Janet was -wandering miserably about the house. She was to start in a few days -for Bristol, where she had got a place as governess to two little -girls, the daughters of a widower, a house-master at the school. Her -father had left the day before. Janet could not help crying as she sat -desolately in her cold bedroom trying to concern herself with packing -and the arrangements for her journey. She was to dine that evening -with Lady Beamish, to meet Gerty and her husband and say good-bye. She -did not want to go a bit, she would rather have stayed at home and -been miserable by herself. She had, as usual, asked nothing of any of -her friends; she felt extraordinarily alone, and she grew terrified -when she asked herself what connected her with the world at all, how -was she going to live and why? What hold had she on life? She might go -on as a governess all her life and who would care? What reason had she -to suppose that anything would justify her living? From afar the -struggle had looked attractive, there was something fine and strong in -it; that would be life indeed when she would have to depend entirely -upon herself and work her way; but now that the time was close at -hand, the struggle only looked very bitter and prosaic. In her -imagination beforehand she had always looked on at herself admiringly -as governess and been strengthened by the picture. Now she was acting -to no gallery. Whatever strength and virtue there was in her dealing -met no one's approval; and all she had before her in the immediate -future was a horrible sense of loneliness, a dreaded visit, two more -days to be occupied with details of packing, a cab to the station, the -dull east wind, the journey, the leave-taking all the more exquisitely -painful because she felt that no one cared. The sense of being -neglected gave her physical pain all over her body until her -finger-tips ached. How is it possible, she thought, that a human being -in the world for only a few years can be so hopeless and alone? - -In the cab on her way to Lady Beamish she began to think at once of -the evening before her. She tried to comfort herself with the idea of -seeing Gerty, sweet Gerty, who charmed every one, and what close -friends they had been! But the thought of Lady Beamish disturbed and -frightened her. Lady Beamish was a very handsome woman of sixty, with -gorgeous black hair showing no thread of white. She had been a great -beauty, and a beauty about whom no one could tell any stories; she had -married a very brilliant and successful man, and seconded him most -ably during his lifetime. Those who disliked her declared she was -fickle, and set too much value on her social position. Janet had -always fancied that she objected from the beginning to her second -son's engagement to Gertrude; but there was no understanding her, and -if Janet had been asked to point to some one who was radically -unsimple, she would at once have thought of Lady Beamish. She had been -told of many charming things which she had done, and she had heard her -say the sweetest things; but then suddenly she was stiff and -unforgiving. There was no doubt about her cleverness and insight; many -of her actions showed complete disregard of convention, and yet, -whenever Janet had seen her, she had always been lifted up on a safe -height by her own high birth, her dead husband's distinctions, her -imposing appearance, and hedged round by all the social duties which -she performed so well. Janet saw that Lady Beamish's invitation was -kind; but she was the last person with whom she would have chosen to -spend that evening. But here she was at the door, there was no escape. - -Lady Beamish was alone in the drawing-room. "I'm very sorry, I'm -afraid I've brought you here on false pretences. I've just had a -telegram from Gertrude to say that Charlie has a cold. I suppose she's -afraid it may be influenza, and so she's staying at home to look after -him. And Harry has gone to the play, so we shall be quite alone." -Janet's heart sank. Gerty had been the one consoling circumstance -about that evening; besides, Lady Beamish would never have asked her -if Gerty had not been coming. How would she manage with Lady Beamish -all alone? She made up her mind to go as soon after dinner as she -could. - -They talked about Gertrude; that was a good subject for Janet, and she -clung to it; she was delighted to hear Lady Beamish praise her warmly. - -As they sat down to dinner Lady Beamish said: - -"You're not looking well, Janet?" - -"I'm rather tired," she answered lightly; "I've been troubled lately, -the weight of the world----but I'm quite well." - -Lady Beamish made no answer. Janet could not tell why she had felt an -impulse to speak the truth, perhaps just because she was afraid of -her, and gave up the task of feeling easy as hopeless. They talked of -Gertrude again. Dinner was quickly finished. Instead of going back -into the drawing-room, Lady Beamish took her upstairs into her own -room. - -"I'm sorry you have troubles which are making you thin and pale. At -your age life ought to be bright and full of romance: you ought to -have no troubles at all. I heard that you weren't going to travel with -your father, but begin work on your own account: it seems to me you're -quite right, and I admire your courage." - -Janet was surprised that Lady Beamish should show so much interest. - -"My courage somehow doesn't make me feel cheerful," Janet answered, -laughing, "and I can't see anything hopeful in the future to look -forward to----" "Why am I saying all this to her?" she wondered. - -"No? And the consciousness of doing right as an upholding power--that -is generally a fallacy. I think you are certainly right there." - -Janet looked at Lady Beamish, astonished and comforted to hear these -words from the lips of an old experienced woman. - -"I _am_ grateful to you for saying that!" - -"It must be a hard wrench to begin a new kind of life." - -"It's not the work or even the change which I mind; if only there were -some assurance in life, something certain and hopeful: I feel so -miserably alone, acting on my own responsibility in the only way -possible, and yet for no reason----" - -"My poor girl----" and she stretched out her arms. Janet rose from her -chair and took both her hands and sat down on the footstool at her -feet. She looked up at her handsome face; it seemed divine to her -lighted by that smile, and the wrinkles infinitely touching and -beautiful. There was an intimate air about the room. - -"You've decided to go away to Bristol?" - -"I thought I'd be thorough: I might stay in London and get work; a -friend of mine is editor of a lady's paper, and I suppose she could -give me something to do; and there are other things I could do; but -that doesn't seem to me thorough enough----" - -The superiority of the older experienced women made the girl feel -weak. She would have a joy in confessing herself. - -"I suppose it was chiefly Gerty's marriage which set me thinking I'd -better change. Until then I'd lived contentedly enough. I'm easily -occupied, and I felt no necessity to work. But when I was left alone -with father, I began gradually to feel as if I couldn't go on living -so, as if I hadn't the right; nothing I ever did pleased him. And then -I wondered what I was waiting for----" - -She looked up at Lady Beamish and saw her fine features set -attentively to her story; she could tell everything to such a -face--all these things of which she had never spoken to anyone. She -looked away again. - -"Was I waiting to get married? That idea tortured me. Why should ideas -come and trouble us when they're untrue and bear no likeness to our -character?" - -She turned her head once more to glance at the face above her. - -"I looked into myself. Was it true of me that my only outlook in life -was a man, that _that_ was the only aim of my life? It wasn't -necessary to answer the question, for it flashed into my mind with -bitter truth that if I'd been playing that game, I'd been singularly -unsuccessful, so I needn't trouble about the question----" - -Astonished at herself, she moved her hand up, and Lady Beamish -stretched out hers, and held the girl's hand upon her lap. Then, half -ashamed of her frankness, she went on quickly and in a more ordinary -tone: - -"Oh, that and everything else--I was afraid of growing bitter, When my -father threw up his work and decided to go to Algiers with his old -friends, that seemed a good opportunity; I would do something for -myself, you're justified if you work. It seemed hopeful then; but now -the prospect is as hopeless and desolate as before." - -Janet saw the tears collecting in Lady Beamish's eyes, and her -underlip beginning to quiver. Lady Beamish dared not kiss the girl for -fear of breaking into tears: she stood up and went towards the fire, -and trying to conquer her tears said: "Seeing you in trouble makes all -my old wounds break out afresh." - -Janet gazed in wonder at her, feeling greatly comforted. Lady Beamish -put her hand on the girl's head as she sat before her and said -smiling: "It's strange how one sorrow brings up another, and if you -cry you can't tell for what exactly you're crying. As I hear you talk -of loneliness, I'm reminded of my own loneliness, so different from -yours. As long as my own great friend was living, there was no -possibility of loneliness; I was proud, I could have faced the whole -world. But since he died, every year has made me feel the want of a -sister or brother, some one of my own generation. I don't suppose you -can understand what I mean. You say: 'You have sons, and many friends -who love and respect you'; that's true, and, indeed, without my sons I -should not live; but they've all got past me, even Harry, the -youngest. I can do nothing more for them, and as years go by I grow -less able to do anything for anybody; my energy leaves me, and I sit -still and see the world in front of me, see men and women whom I -admire, whose conduct I commend inwardly, but that is all. My heart -aches sometimes for a companion of my own age who would sit still with -me, who understands my ideas, who has no new object in view, who has -done life and has been left behind too----" - -"Extremes meet," she broke off. "I wish to comfort you, who are -looking hopelessly forward, and all I can do is to show you an old -woman's sorrow." - -"But wait," she went on, sitting down, "let us be practical; you -needn't go back to-night, I'll tell some one to fetch your things. And -will you let me try and help you? I don't know whether I can; but may -I try? Won't you stay a bit here with me? You would then have time to -think over your plans; it would do no harm, at any rate. Or, if you -would prefer living alone, would you let me help you? Sometimes it's -easier to be indebted to strangers. Don't answer now, you know my -offer is sincere, coming at this time; you can think it over." - -She left her place and met the servant at the door, to give her the -order for the fetching of Janet's things. She came back and stood with -her hands behind her, facing Janet, who looked up to her from her -stool, adoring her as if she were a goddess. - -"There's only one thing to do in life, to try and help those whom we -can help; but it's very difficult to help you young people," she said, -drying her eyes; "you generally want something we cannot give you." - -"You comforted me more than I can say. I never dreamed of the -possibility of such comfort as you're giving me." - -Still standing facing Janet, she suddenly began: "I knew a girl a long -time ago; she was the most exquisite creature I've ever seen. She was -lovely as only a Jewess can be lovely: by her side English beauties -looked ridiculous, as if their features had been thrown together by -mistake a few days ago; this girl's beauty was eternal, I don't know -how else to describe her superiority. There was a harmony about her -figure--not as we have pretty figures--but every movement seemed to be -the expression of a magnificent nature. She had that strange look in -her face which some Jews have, a something half humorous half pitiful -about the eyebrows; it was so remarkable in a young girl, as if an -endless experience of the world had been born in her--not that she was -tired or _blasé_; she wasn't at all one of those young people who have -seen the vanity of everything, she was full of enthusiasm, -fascinatingly fresh; she was so capable and sensitive that nothing -could be foreign or incomprehensible to her. I never saw anyone so -unerring; I would have wagered the world that she could never be wrong -in feeling. I never saw her misunderstand any one, except on purpose." - -Janet was rapt in attention, loving to hear this beauty's praises in -the mouth of Lady Beamish. She kept her gaze fixed on the face, which -now was turned towards her, now towards the fire. - -"At the time I remember some man was writing in the paper about the -inferiority of women, and as a proof he said quite truly that there -were no women artists except actresses. He happened to mention one or -two well-known living artists whom I knew personally; they weren't to -be compared with this girl, and they would have been the first to say -so themselves. She had no need to write her novels and symphonies; she -lived them. One would have said a person most wonderfully fitted for -life. Oh, I could go on praising her for ever; except once, I never -fell so completely in love as I did with her. To see her dance and -romp--I hadn't realised before how a great nature can show itself in -everything a person does. It is a joy to think of her. - -"One day she came to me, it was twenty years ago, I was a little over -forty, she was just nineteen. She had fallen in love with a boy of her -own age, and was in terrible difficulties with herself. I suppose it -would have been more fitting if I'd given her advice; but I was so -full of pity at the sight of this exquisite nature in torments that I -could only try and comfort her and tell her above all things she -mustn't be oppressed by any sense of her own wickedness; we all had -difficulties of the same kind, and we couldn't expect to do more than -just get along somehow as well as we could. I was angry with Fate that -such a harmonious being had been made to jar with so heavy a strain. -She had been free, and now she was to be confounded and brought to -doubt. I don't think I can express it in words; but I feel as if I -really understood why she killed herself a few days later. She had -come among us, a wonder, ignoring the littlenesses of life, or else -making them worthy by the spirit in which she treated them, and the -first strain of this dragging ordinary affliction bewildered her. -Whether a little more experience would have saved her, or whether it -was a superior flash of insight which prompted her to end her life--at -any rate it wasn't merely unreturned love which oppressed her." - -"And what was the man like?" - -"He was quite a boy, and never knew she was in love with him; in fact -I can't tell how far she did love him. The older I grow the more -certain I feel that this actual love wasn't deep; but it was the -sudden revelation of a whole mystery, a new set of difficulties, which -confounded an understanding so far-reaching and superior. I remember -her room distinctly; she was unlike most women in this respect, she -had no desire to furnish her own room and be surrounded by pretty -things of her own choice. She left the room just as it was when the -family took the furnished house, with its very common ugly furniture, -vile pictures on the walls, and things under glasses. She carried so -much beauty with her, she didn't think her room worth troubling about. -I always imagine that her room has never been entered or changed since -her death: nothing stirs there, except in the summer a band of small -flies dance their mazy quadrille at the centre of the ceiling. I -remember how she used to lie on the sofa and wonder at them with her -half-laughing, half-pathetic eyes." - -"And what did her people think!" - -"Her family adored her: they were nice people, very ordinary----" - -There was a knock at the door and Henry appeared, red-checked and -smelling of the cold street. Janet rose from her stool to shake hands -with him: his entrance was an unpleasant interruption; she thought -that his mother too must feel something of the sort, although he was -the one thing in the world she loved most. - -"How was your play, Harry?" - -"Oh, simply wonderful." - -"Was the house pretty full?" - -"Not very, though people were fairly enthusiastic; but there was a -fool of a girl sitting in front of us, I could have kicked her, she -would go all laughing." - -"Perhaps she thought you were foolish for not laughing!" - -"But such a sloppy-looking person had no right to laugh." - -"Opinions differ about personal appearance." - -"Well, at any rate she had a dirty dress on; the swan's-down round her -cloak was perfectly black." - -"Ah, now your attack becomes more telling!" - -Lady Beamish had not changed her position. When Henry left, Janet -feared she might want to stop their confidential talk; but she showed -no signs of wishing to go to bed. - -"I wish boys would remain boys, and not grow older; they never grow -into such nice men, they don't fulfil their promise." - -She sat down once more, and went on to tell Janet another story, a -love story. When Janet, happy as she had not been for months, kissed -her and said good-night, she told her how glad she was that no one -else had been with her that evening. - -Janet went to bed, feeling that the world was possible once more. Her -mind was relieved of a great weight, she was wonderfully -light-hearted, now that she rested weakly upon another's generosity, -and was released from her egotistical hopelessness. She no longer had -a great trouble which engrossed her thoughts, her mind was free to -travel over the comforting circumstances of that evening: the intimate -room, Lady Beamish's face with the tears gathering in her eyes, the -confession she had made of her own loneliness, her offer of help which -had made the world human again, her story and Henry's interruption, -and the funny little argument between the mother and the son whom she -adored; and after that, Lady Beamish had still stayed talking, and had -dropped into telling of love as willingly as any school-girl, only -everything came with such sweet force from the woman with all that -experience of life. Every point in the evening with Lady Beamish had -gone to give her a deep-felt happiness; hopes sprang up in her mind, -and she soon fell asleep filled with wonder and pity, thinking of the -lovely Jewess whom Lady Beamish had known and admired so long ago, -when Janet herself was only five or six years old. - -The older woman lay awake many hours thinking over her own life, and -the sorrows of this poor girl. - - * * * * * - -Janet did not take Lady Beamish's offer, but went to Bristol, upheld -by the idea that her friend respected her all the more for keeping to -her plans. The first night at Bristol, in the room which was to be -hers, she took out the old letter of invitation for that evening, and -before she went to bed she kissed the signature "Clara Beamish"--the -christian name seemed to bring them close together. - -When she had overcome the strangeness of her surroundings, life was -once more what it had always been; there was no particular struggle, -no particular hopefulness. She was cheerful for no reason on Monday, -less cheerful for no reason on Wednesday. The correspondence with Lady -Beamish, which she had hoped would keep up their friendship, dropped -almost immediately; the two letters she received from her were stiff, -far off. Janet heard of her now and then, generally as performing some -social duty. They met too a few times, but almost as strangers. - -But Janet always remembered that she had gained the commendation of -the wonderful woman, and that she approved of her; and she never -forgot that evening, and the picture of Clara Beamish, exquisitely -sympathetic, adorable. It stood out as a bright spot in life, nothing -could change its value and reality. - - - - -III--Sancta Maria - - By V. - - -The fire had grown black and smoky, and the room felt cold. It was -about four o'clock on a dark day in November. Black snow-fraught -clouds had covered the sky since the dawn. They seemed to be saving up -their wrath for the storm to come. A woman sat close to the fire with -a child in her arms. From time to time she shuddered involuntarily. It -was miserably cold. In the corner of the room a man lay huddled up in -a confusion of rags and covers. He moaned from time to time. Suddenly -the fire leaped into a yellow flame, which lit up the room and -revealed all its nakedness and filth. The floor was bare, and there -were lumps of mud here and there on the boards, left by the tramp of -heavy boots. There was a strip of paper that had come unfastened from -the wall, and hung over in a large curve. It was black and foul, but -here and there could be seen faintly a pattern of pink roses twined in -and out of a trellis. There was no furniture in the room but the chair -on which the woman sat. By the sick man's side was a white earthenware -bowl, full of a mixture that gave out a strong pungent smell which -pervaded the room. On the floor by the fireside was a black straw hat -with a green feather and a rubbed velvet bow in it. The woman's face -was white, and the small eyes were full of an intense despair. As the -flame shot up feebly and flickered about she looked for something to -keep alive the little bit of coal. She glanced at the heap in the -corner which had become quiet, then, turning round, caught sight of -the hat on the floor. She looked at it steadily for a minute between -the flickers of the flame, then stooped down and picked it up. -Carefully detaching the trimming from the hat, she laid it on the -chair. Then she tore the bits of straw and lay them across each other -over the little piece of coal. The fire blazed brightly for a few -minutes after the straw had caught. It covered the room with a fierce -light and the woman looked afraid that the sick man might be -disturbed. But he was quiet as before. Almost mechanically she pulled -a little piece of the burning straw from the fire and, shading it with -her hand, stole softly to the other end of the room after depositing -the child on the chair. - -She looked for some minutes at the figure stretched before her. He lay -with his face to the wall. He was a long thin man, and it seemed to -her as she looked that his length was almost abnormal. Holding the -light that was fast burning to the end away from her, she stooped down -and laid her finger lightly on his forehead. The surface of his skin -was cold as ice. She knew that he was dead. But she did not cry out. -The eyes were filled with a look of bitter disappointment, and she -dropped the bit of burning straw, and then, moving suddenly from her -stooping posture, crushed out the little smouldering heap with her -heel. She looked about the room for something; then repeating a prayer -to herself hurriedly, hastened to the child who had woke up and was -crying and kicking the bars of the wooden chair. There was something -in the contrast between the stillness of the figure in the corner and -the noise made by the child that made the woman shiver. She took up -the child in her arms, comforted him, and sat down before the fire. -She was thinking deeply. So poor! Scarcely enough to keep herself and -the child till the end of the week, and then the figure in the corner! -For some time she puzzled and puzzled. The burning straw had settled -into a little glowing heap. She rose and went to a little box on the -mantel-piece, and, opening it, counted the few coins in it. Then she -seemed to reckon for a few moments, and a look of determination came -into her face. She put the child down again and went to the other end -of the room. She stood a moment over the prostrate figure, and then -stooped down and took off an old rag of a shawl and a little child's -coat which lay over the dead man's feet. She paused a moment. Again -she stooped down and stripped the figure of all its coverings, until -nothing was left but the dull white nightshirt that the man wore. She -put the bundle which she had collected in a little heap on the other -side of the room. Then she came back, and with an almost superhuman -effort reared the figure into an upright position against the wall. -She looked round for a moment, gathered up the little bundle, and -stole softly from the room. A few hours later she came back. There was -a gas lamp outside the window, and by the light of it she saw the -child sitting at the feet of the figure, staring up at it stupidly. - - * * * * * - -Four days passed by, and still the figure stood against the wall. The -woman had grown very white and haggard. She had only bought food -enough for the child, and had scarce touched a morsel herself. It was -Saturday. She was expecting a few pence for some matches which she had -sold during the week. She was not allowed to take her money -immediately, but had to hand it over to the owner of the matches, who -had told her that if she had sold a certain quantity by the end of the -week she should be paid a small percentage. - -So she went out on this Saturday and managed to get rid of the -requisite number, and carrying the money as usual to the owner, -received a few pence commission. There was an eager look in her pale -face as she hurried home and hastened to the box on the mantel-shelf. -She emptied its contents into her hand, quickly counted up the total -of her fortune, and then crept out again. - -It was snowing heavily, but she did not mind. The soft flakes fell on -her weary face, and she liked their warm touch. She hurried along -until she came to a tiny grocer's shop. The red spot on her checks -deepened as she asked the shopkeeper for twelve candles--"Tall ones, -please," she said in a whisper. She pushed the money on to the counter -and ran away home with her parcel. Then she went up to the figure -against the wall, and gently placed it on the ground, away from the -wall. She opened the parcel and carefully stood up the twelve candles -in a little avenue, six each side of the dead man. With a feverous -excitement in her eyes she pulled a match from her pocket and lit -them. They burned steadily and brightly, casting a yellow light over -the cold naked room, and over the blackened face of the dead man. The -child that was rolling on the floor at the other end of the room -uttered a coo of joy at the bright lights, and stretched out his tiny -hands towards them. And the face of the mother was filled with a -divine pleasure. - -The articles of her faith had been fulfilled. - - - - -Three Pictures - - By P. Wilson Steer - - - - I. Portrait of Himself - - II. A Lady - - III. A Gentleman - -[Illustration: Portrait of Himself] - -[Illustrations: A Lady, and A Gentleman] - - - - -In a Gallery - -Portrait of a Lady (Unknown) - - By Katharine de Mattos - - - - Veiled eyes, yet quick to meet one glance - Not his, not yours, but _mine_, - Lips that are fain to stir and breathe - Dead joys (not love nor wine): - 'Tis not in _you_ the secret lurks - That makes men pause and pass! - - Did unseen magic flow from you - Long since to madden hearts, - And those who loathed remain to pray - And work their dolorous parts-- - To seek your riddle, dread or sweet, - And find it in the grave? - - Till some one painted you one day, - Perchance to ease his soul, - And set you here to weave your spells - While time and silence roll; - And you were hungry for the hour - When one should understand? - - Your jewelled fingers writhe and gleam - From out your sombre vest; - Am I the first of those who gaze, - Who may their meaning guess, - Yet dare not whisper lest the words - Pale even painted cheeks? - - - - -The Yellow Book - -A Criticism of Volume I - - By Philip Gilbert Hamerton, LL.D. - - - I--The Literature - -The Editor and Publishers of THE YELLOW BOOK, who seem to know the -value of originality in all things, have conceived the entirely novel -idea of publishing in the current number of their quarterly, a review -in two parts of the number immediately preceding it, one part to deal -with the literature, and another to criticise the illustrations. - -I notice that on the cover of THE YELLOW BOOK the literary -contributions are described simply as "Letterpress." This seems rather -unfortunate, because "letterpress" is usually understood to mean an -inferior kind of writing, which is merely an accompaniment to -something else, such as engravings, or even maps. Now, in THE YELLOW -BOOK the principle seems to be that one kind of contribution should -_not_ be made subordinate to another; the drawings and the writings -are, in fact, independent. Certainly the writings are composed without -the slightest pre-occupation concerning the work of the graphic -artists, and the draughtsmen do not illustrate the inventions of the -scribes. This independence of the two arts is favourable to excellence -in both, besides making the business of the Editor much easier, and -giving him more liberty of choice. - -The literary contributions include poetry, fiction, short dramatic -scenes, and one or two essays. The Editor evidently attaches much -greater importance to creative than to critical literature, in which -he is unquestionably right, provided only that the work which claims -to be creative is inspired by a true genius for invention. The -admission of poetry in more than usual quantity does not surprise us, -when we reflect that THE YELLOW BOOK is issued by a publishing house -which has done more than any other for the encouragement of modern -verse. It is the custom to profess contempt for minor poets, and all -versifiers of our time except Tennyson and Swinburne are classed as -minor poets by critics who shrink from the effort of reading metrical -compositions. The truth is that poetry and painting are much more -nearly on a level in this respect than people are willing to admit. -Many a painter and many a poet has delicate perceptions and a -cultivated taste without the gigantic creative force that is necessary -to greatness in his art. - -Mr. Le Gallienne's "Tree-Worship" is full of the sylvan sense, the -delight in that forest life which we can scarcely help believing to be -conscious. It contains some perfect stanzas and some magnificent -verses. As a stanza nothing can be more perfect than the fourth on -page 58, and the fourth on the preceding page begins with a rarely -powerful line. The only weak points in the poem are a few places in -which even poetic truth has not been perfectly observed. For example, -in the first line on page 58, the heart of the tree is spoken of as -being remarkable for its softness, a new and unexpected characteristic -in heart of oak. On the following page the tree is described as a -green and welcome "coast" to the sea of air. No single tree has extent -enough to be a coast of the air-ocean; at most it is but a tiny green -islet therein. In the last stanza but one Mr. Le Gallienne speaks of -"the roar of sap." This conveys the idea of a noisy torrent, whereas -the marvel of sap is that it is steadily forced upwards through a mass -of wood by a quietly powerful pressure. I dislike the fallacious -theology of the last stanza as being neither scientific nor poetical. -Mr. Benson's little poem, [Greek: Daimonizomenos], is lightly and -cleverly versified, and tells the story of a change of temper, almost -of nature, in very few words. The note of Mr. Watson's two sonnets is -profoundly serious, even solemn, and the workmanship firm and strong; -the reader may observe, in the second sonnet, the careful preparation -for the last line and the force with which it strikes upon the ear. -Surely there is nothing frivolous or fugitive in such poetry as this! -I regret the publication of "Stella Maris" by Mr. Arthur Symons; the -choice of the title is in itself offensive. It is taken from one of -the most beautiful hymns to the Holy Virgin (Ave, maris stella!), and -applied to a London street-walker, as a star in the dark sea of urban -life. We know that the younger poets make art independent of morals, -and certainly the two have no necessary connection; but why should -poetic art be employed to celebrate common fornication? Rossetti's -"Jenny" set the example, diffusely enough. - -The two poems by Mr. Edmund Gosse, "Alere Flammam" and "A Dream of -November," have each the great quality of perfect unity. The first is -simpler and less fanciful than the second. Both in thought and -execution it reminds me strongly of Matthew Arnold. Whether there has -been any conscious imitation or not, "Alere Flammam" is pervaded by -what is best in the classical spirit. Mr. John Davidson's two songs -are sketches in town and country, impressionist sketches well done in -a laconic and suggestive fashion. Mr. Davidson has a good right to -maledict "Elkin Mathews & John Lane" for having revived the detestable -old custom of printing catchwords at the lower corner of the page. The -reader has just received the full impression of the London scene, when -he is disturbed by the isolated word Foxes, which destroys the -impression and puzzles him. London streets are not, surely, very -favourable to foxes! He then turns the page and finds that the word is -the first in the rural poem which follows. How Tennyson would have -growled if the printer had put the name of some intrusive beast at the -foot of one of his poems! Even in prose the custom is still -intolerable; it makes one read the word twice over as thus (pp. 159, -60), "Why doesn't the wretched publisher publisher bring it out!" - -We find some further poetry in Mr. Richard Garnett's translations from -Luigi Tansillo. Not having access just now to the original Italian, I -cannot answer for their fidelity, but they are worth reading, even in -English, and soundly versified. - -It is high time to speak of the prose. The essays are "A Defence of -Cosmetics," by Mr. Max Beerbohm, and "Reticence in Literature," by Mr. -Arthur Waugh. I notice that a critic in the New York _Nation_ says -that the Whistlerian affectations of Mr. Beerbohm are particularly -intolerable. I understood his essay to be merely a _jeu d'esprit_, and -found that it amused me, though the tastes and opinions ingeniously -expressed in it are precisely the opposite of my own. Mr. Beerbohm is -(or pretends to be) entirely on the side of artifice against nature. -The difficulty is to determine what _is_ nature. The easiest and most -"natural" manners of a perfect English lady are the result of art, and -of a more advanced art than that indicated by more ceremonious -manners. Mr. Beerbohm says that women in the time of Dickens appear to -have been utterly natural in their conduct, "flighty, gushing, -blushing, fainting, giggling, and shaking their curls." Much of that -conduct may have been as artificial as the curls themselves, and -assumed only to attract attention. Ladies used to faint on the -slightest pretext, not because it was natural but because it was the -fashion; when it ceased to be the fashion they abandoned the practice. -Mr. Waugh's essay on "Reticence in Literature" is written more -seriously, and is not intended to amuse. He defends the principle of -reticence, but the only sanction that he finds for it is a temporary -authority imposed by the changing taste of the age. We are -consequently never sure of any permanent law that will enforce any -reticence whatever. A good proof of the extreme laxity of the present -taste is that Mr. Waugh himself has been able to print at length three -of the most grossly sensual stanzas in Mr. Swinburne's "Dolores." -Reticence, however, is not concerned only with sexual matters. There -is, for instance, a flagrant want of reticence in the lower political -press of France and America, and the same violent kind of writing, -often going as far beyond truth as beyond decency, is beginning to be -imitated in England. One rule holds good universally; all high art is -reticent, _e.g._, in Dante's admirable way of telling the story of -Francesca through her own lips. - -Mr. Henry James, in "The Death of the Lion," shows his usual elegance -of style, and a kind of humour which, though light enough on the -surface, has its profound pathos. It is absolutely essential, in a -short story, to be able to characterise people and things in a very -few words. Mr. James has this talent, as for example in his -description of the ducal seat at Bigwood: "very grand and frigid, all -marble and precedence." We know Bigwood, after that, as if we had been -there and have no desire to go. So of the Princess: "She has been told -everything in the world and has never perceived anything, and the -_echoes of her education_," etc., p. 42. The moral of the story is the -vanity and shallowness of the world's professed admiration for men of -letters, and the evil, to them, or going out of their way to suck the -sugar-plums of praise. The next story, "Irremediable," shows the -consequences of marrying a vulgar and ignorant girl in the hope of -improving her, the difficulty being that she declines to be improved. -The situation is powerfully described, especially the last scene in -the repulsive, disorderly little home. The most effective touch -reveals Willoughby's constant vexation because his vulgar wife "never -did any one mortal thing efficiently or well," just the opposite of -the constant pleasure that clever active women give us by their neat -and rapid skill. "The Dedication," by Mr. Fred Simpson, is a dramatic -representation of the conflict between ambition and love--not that the -love on the man's side is very earnest, or the conflict in his mind -very painful, as ambition wins the day only too easily when Lucy is -thrown over. "The Fool's Hour," by Mr. Hobbes and Mr. George Moore, is -a slight little drama founded on the idea that youth must amuse itself -in its own way, and cannot be always tied to its mamma's -apron-strings. It is rather French than English in the assumption that -youth must of necessity resort to theatres and actresses. Of the two -sketches by Mr. Harland, that on white mice is clever as a supposed -reminiscence of early boyhood, but rather long for its subject, the -other, "A Broken Looking-Glass," is a powerful little picture of the -dismal end of an old bachelor who confesses to himself that his life -has been a failure, equally on the sides of ambition and enjoyment. -One of my friends tells me that it is impossible for a bachelor to be -happy, yet he may invest money in the Funds! In Mr. Crackanthorpe's -"Modern Melodrama," he describes for us the first sensations of a girl -when she sees death in the near future. It is pathetic, tragical, -life-like in language, with the defects of character and style that -belong to a close representation of nature. "A Lost Masterpiece," by -George Egerton, is not so interesting as the author's "Keynotes," -though it shows the same qualities of style. The subject is too -unfruitful, merely a literary disappointment, because a bright idea -has been chased away. "A Sentimental Cellar," by Mr. George -Saintsbury, written in imitation of the essayists of the eighteenth -century, associates the wines in a cellar with the loves and -friendships of their owner. To others the vinous treasures would be -"good wine and nothing more"; to their present owner they are "a -casket of magic liquors," a museum in which he lives over again "the -vanished life of the past." The true French bookless _bourgeois_ often -calls his cellar his _bibliothèque_, meaning that he values its lore -as preferable to that of scholarship; but Mr. Saintsbury's Falernianus -associates his wines with sentiment rather than with knowledge. - -On the whole, the literature in the first number of THE YELLOW BOOK is -adequately representative of the modern English literary mind, both in -the observation of reality and in style. It is, as I say, really -literature and not letterpress. I rather regret, for my own part, the -general brevity of the pieces which restricts them to the limits of -the sketch, especially as the stories cannot be continued after the -too long interval of three months. As to this, the publishers know -their own business best, and are probably aware that the attention of -the general public, though easily attracted, is even more easily -fatigued. - - - II--The Illustrations - -On being asked to undertake the second part of this critical article, -I accepted because one has so rarely an opportunity of saying anything -about works of art to which the reader can quite easily refer. To -review an exhibition of pictures in London or Paris is satisfactory -only when the writer imagines himself to be addressing readers who -have visited it, and are likely to visit it again. When an -illustration appears in one of the art periodicals, it may be -accompanied by a note that adds something to its interest, but no one -expects such a note to be really critical. In the present instance, on -the contrary, we are asked to say what we think, without reserve, and -as we have had nothing to do with the choice of the contributors, and -have not any interest in the sale of the periodical, there is no -reason why we should not. - -To begin with the cover. The publishers decided not to have any -ornament beyond the decorative element in the figure design which is -to be changed for every new number. What is permanent in the design -remains, therefore, of an extreme simplicity and does not attract -attention. The yellow colour adopted is glaring, and from the æsthetic -point of view not so good as a quiet mixed tint might have been; -however, it gives a title to the publication and associates itself so -perfectly with the title that it has a sufficient _raison d'être_, -whilst it contrasts most effectively with black. Though white is -lighter than any yellow, it has not the same active and stimulating -quality. The drawing of the masquers is merely one of Mr. Aubrey -Beardsley's fancies and has no particular signification. We see a -plump and merry lady laughing boisterously whilst she seems to be -followed by a man who gazes intently upon the beauties of her -shoulder. It is not to be classed amongst the finest of Mr. -Beardsley's designs, but it shows some of his qualities, especially -his extreme economy of means. So does the smaller drawing on the back -or the volume, which is a fair example of his ready and various -invention. See how the candle-flame is blown a little to one side, how -the candle gutters on that side, and how the smoke is affected by the -gust of air. Observe, too, the contrasts between the faces, not that -they are attractive faces. There seems to be a peculiar tendency in -Mr. Beardsley's mind to the representation of types without intellect -and without morals. Some of the most dreadful faces in all art are to -be found in the illustrations (full of exquisite ornamental invention) -to Mr. Oscar Wilde's "Salome." We have two unpleasant ones here in -"l'Éducation Sentimentale." There is distinctly a sort of corruption -in Mr. Beardsley's art so far as its human element is concerned, but -not at all in its artistic qualities, which show the perfection of -discipline, of self-control, and of thoughtful deliberation at the -very moment of invention. Certainly he is a man of genius, and -perhaps, as he is still very young, we may hope that when he has -expressed his present mood completely, he may turn his thoughts into -another channel and see a better side of human life. There is, of -course, nothing to be said against the lady who is touching the piano -on the title-page of THE YELLOW BOOK, nor against the portrait of Mrs. -Patrick Campbell opposite page 126, except that she reminds one of a -giraffe. It is curious how the idea of extraordinary height is -conveyed in this drawing without a single object for comparison. I -notice in Mr. Beardsley's work a persistent tendency to elongation; -for instance, in the keys of the piano on the title-page which in -their perspective look fifteen inches long. He has a habit, too, of -making faces small and head-dresses enormous. The rarity of beauty in -his faces seems in contradiction with his exquisite sense of beauty in -curving lines, and the singular grace as well as rich invention of his -ornaments. He can, however, refuse himself the pleasure of such -invention when he wants to produce a discouraging effect upon the -mind. See, for instance, the oppressive plainness of the architecture -in the background to the dismal "Night Piece." - -It is well known that the President of the Royal Academy, unlike most -English painters, is in the habit of making studies. In his case these -studies are uniformly in black and white chalk on brown paper. Two of -them are reproduced in THE YELLOW BOOK, one being for drapery, and the -other for the nude form moving in a joyous dance with a light -indication of drapery that conceals nothing. The latter is a rapid -sketch of an intention and is full of life both in attitude and -execution, the other is still and statuesque. Sir Frederic is a model -to all artists in one very rare virtue, that of submitting himself -patiently, in his age, to the same discipline which strengthened him -in youth. - -I find a curious and remarkable drawing by Mr. Pennell of that -strangely romantic place Le Puy en Velay, whose rocks are crowned with -towers or colossal statues, whilst houses cluster at their feet. The -subject is dealt with rather in the spirit of Dürer, but with a more -supple and more modern kind of skill. It is topography, though -probably with considerable artistic liberty. I notice one of Dürer's -licences in tonic relations. The sky, though the sun is setting (or -rising) is made darker than the hills against it, and darker even than -the two remoter masses of rock which come between us and the distance. -The trees, too, are shaded capriciously, some poplars in the middle -distance being quite dark whilst nearer trees are left without shade -or local colour. In a word, the tonality is simply arbitrary, and in -this kind of drawing it matters very little. Mr. Pennell has given us -a delightful bit of artistic topography showing the strange beauty of -a place that he always loves and remembers. - -Mr. Sickert contributed two drawings. "The Old Oxford Music Hall" has -some very good qualities, especially the most important quality of -all, that of making us feel as if we were there. The singer on the -stage (whose attitude has been very closely observed) is strongly -lighted by convergent rays. According to my recollection the rays -themselves are much more visible in reality than they are here, but it -is possible that the artist may have intentionally subdued their -brightness in order to enhance that of the figure itself. The -musicians and others are good, except that they are too small, if the -singing girl (considering her distance) is to be taken as the standard -of comparison. The pen-sketch of "A Lady Reading" is not so -satisfactory. I know, of course, that it is offered only as a very -slight and rapid sketch, and that it is impossible, even for a -Rembrandt, to draw accurately in a hurry, but there is a formlessness -in some important parts of this sketch (the hands, for instance) which -makes it almost without interest for me. It is essentially painter's -pen work, and does not show any special mastery of pen and ink. - -The very definite pen-drawing by Mr. Housman called "The Reflected -Faun" is open to the objection that the reflections in the water are -drawn with the same hardness as the birds and faun in the air. The -plain truth is that the style adopted, which in its own way is as -legitimate as any other, does not permit the artist to represent the -natural appearance of water. This kind of pen-drawing is founded on -early wood-engraving which filled the whole space with decorative -work, even to the four corners. - -Mr. Rothenstein is a modern of the moderns. His two slight -portrait-sketches are natural and easy, and there is much life in the -"Portrait of a Gentleman." The "Portrait of a Lady," by Mr. Furse, is -of a much higher order. It has a noble gravity, and it shows a -severity of taste not common in the portraiture of our time; it is -essentially a distinguished work. Mr. Nettleship gives us an ideal -portrait of Minos, not in his earthly life, as king of Crete, but in -his infernal capacity as supreme judge of the dead. The face is -certainly awful enough and implacable: - - Stavvi Minòs orribilmente, e ringhia: - Esamina le colpe nell'entrata; - Giudica e manda, secondo ch'avvinghia. - -The book-plate designed by Mr. Beardsley for Dr. Propert has the usual -qualities of the inventor. It seems to tell a tale of hopeless love. -The other book-plate, by Mr. Anning Bell, is remarkable for its pretty -and ingenious employment of heraldry which so easily becomes -mechanical when the draughtsman is not an artist. - -On the whole, these illustrations decidedly pre-suppose real artistic -culture in the public. They do not condescend in any way to what might -be guessed at as the popular taste. I notice that the Editor and -Publishers have a tendency to look to young men of ability for -assistance in their enterprise, though they accept the criticism of -those who now belong to a preceding generation. - - - - -Portrait of Henry James - - By John S. Sargent, A.R.A. - -[Illustration: Portrait of Henry James] - - - - -Dreams - - By Ronald Campbell Macfie - - "In the first dream that comes with the first sleep - I run, I run, I am gathered to thy heart" - - - Unworthy! yea, - So high thou art above me - I hardly dare to love thee, - But kneel and lay - All homage and all worship at thy feet, - O lady sweet! - - Yet dreams are strong: - Their wordless wish suffices - To win them Paradises - Of sun and song. - Delight our waking life can never know - The dreams bestow. - - And in a dream, - Dupe of its bold beguiling, - I watch thy blue eyes smiling; - I see them gleam - With love the waking moments have forbidden, - And veiled and hidden. - - O brave deceit! - In dreams thy glad eyes glisten, - In dreams I lie and listen - Thy bosom beat, - Hiving hot lips among thy temple-hair, - O lady fair! - - And tho' I live, - Dreaming in such fair fashion, - I think, in thy compassion, - Thou wilt forgive, - Since I but _dream_, and since my heart will ache - When I awake. - - - - -Madame Réjane - - By Dauphin Meunier - - -A fabulous being, in an everyday human form; a face, not beautiful, -scarcely even pretty, which looks upon the world with an air at once -ironical and sympathetic; a brow that grows broader or narrower -according to the capricious invasions of her aureole of hair; an odd -little nose, perked heavenward; two roguish eyes, now blue, now black; -the rude accents of a street-girl, suddenly changing to the well-bred -murmuring of a great lady; abrupt, abundant gestures, eloquently -finishing half-spoken sentences; a supple neck--a slender, opulent -figure--a dainty foot, that scarcely touches the earth and yet can fly -amazingly near the ceiling; lips, nervous, sensuous, trembling, -curling; a frock, simple or sumptuous, bought at a bargain or created -by a Court-dressmaker, which expresses, moulds, completes, and -sometimes almost unveils the marvellous creature it envelops; a gay, a -grave demeanour; grace, wit, sweetness, tartness; frivolity and -earnestness, tenderness and indifference; beauty without beauty, -immorality without evil: a nothing capable of everything: such is -Woman at Paris: such is the Parisienne: and Madame Réjane is the -Parisienne, is all Parisiennes, incarnated. - -What though our Parisienne be the daughter of a hall-porter, what -though she be a maid-servant, a courtesan, or an arch-duchess, she -goes everywhere, she is the equal of every one, she knows or divines -everything. No need for her to learn good manners, nor bad ones: she's -born with both. According to the time or place, she will talk to you -of politics, of art, of literature--of dress, trade, cookery--of -finance, of socialism, of luxury, of starvation--with the patness, the -sure touch, the absolute sincerity, of one who has seen all, -experienced all, understood all. She's as sentimental as a song, wily -as a diplomate, gay as folly, or serious as a novel by Zola. What has -she read? Where was she educated? Who cares? Her book of life is -Paris; she knows her Paris by heart; and whoso knows Paris can -dispense with further knowledge. She adores originality and novelty, -but she can herself transmute the commonplace into the original, the -old into the new. Whatever she touches forthwith reflects her own -animation, her mobility, her elusive charm. Flowers have no loveliness -until she has grouped them; colours are colourless unless they suit -her complexion. Delicately fingering this or that silken fabric, she -decrees which shall remain in the darkness of the shops, which shall -become the fashion of the hour. She crowns the poet, sits to the -painter, inspires the sculptor, lends her voice to the musician; and -not one of these artists can pretend to talent, if it be her whim to -deny it him. She awards fame and wealth, success and failure, -according to her pleasure. - -Madame Réjane--the Parisienne: they are interchangeable terms. -Whatever rôle she plays absorbs the attention of all Paris. Hearken, -then, good French Provincials, who would learn the language of the -Boulevards in a single lesson; hearken, also, ye children of other -lands who are eager for our pleasures, and curious about our tastes -and manners; hearken all people, men and women, who care, for once in -a way, to behold what of all Parisian things is most essentially -Parisian:--Go and see Réjane. Don't go to the Opéra, where the music -is German; nor to the Opéra-Comique, where it is Italian; nor yet to -the Comédie-Française, where the sublime is made ridiculous, and the -heroes and heroines of Racine take on the attitudes of bull-fighters -and cigarette-makers; nor to the Odéon, nor to the Palais-Royal, nor -here, nor there, nor elsewhere: go and see Réjane. Be she at London, -Chicago, Brussels, St. Petersburg--Réjane is Paris. She carries the -soul of Paris with her, wheresoever she listeth. - -A Parisienne, she was born in Paris; an actress, she is the daughter -of an actor, and the niece of Madame Aptal-Arnault, sometime -_pensionnaire_ of the Comédie-Française. Is it a sufficient pedigree? -Her very name is suggestive; it seems to share in the odd turn of her -wit, the sauciness of her face, the tang of her voice; for Réjane's -real name is Réju. Doesn't it sound like a nick-name, especially -invented for this child of the greenroom? "Réjane" calls up to us the -fanciful actress--fanciful, but studious, conscientious, impassioned -for her art; "Madame Réjane" has rather a grand air; but Réju makes -such a funny face at her. - -I picture to myself the little Réju, scarcely out of her cradle, but -already cunningly mischievous, fired with an immense curiosity about -the world behind the scenes, and dreaming of herself as leading lady. -She hears of nothing, she talks of nothing, but the Theatre. And -presently her inevitable calling, her manifest destiny, takes its -first step towards realisation. She is admitted into the class of -Regnier, the famous _sociétaire_ of the Théâtre-Français. Thenceforth -the pupil makes steady progress. In 1873, at the age of fifteen, she -obtains an honourable mention for comedy at the Conservatoire; the -following year she divides a second prize with Mademoiselle Samary. -But what am I saying? Only a second prize? Let us see. - -To-day, as then, though twenty years have passed, there is no -possibility of success, no chance of getting an engagement, for a -pupil on leaving the Conservatoire, unless a certain all-powerful -critic, supreme judge, arbiter beyond appeal, sees fit to pronounce a -decision confirming the verdict of the Examining Jury. This -extraordinary man holds the future of each candidate in the palm of -his fat and heavy hand. Fame and fortune are contained in his -inkstand, and determined by his articles. He is both Pope and King. -The Jury proposes, he disposes. The Jury reigns, he governs. He smiles -or frowns, the Jury bows its head. The pupils tremble before their -Masters; the Masters tremble before this monstrous Fetich,--for the -Public thinks with him and by him, and sees only through his -spectacles; and no star can shine till his short sight has discovered -it. - -This puissant astronomer is Monsieur Francisque Sarcey. - -Against his opinion the newspapers can raise no voice, for he alone -edits them all. He writes thirty articles a day, each of which is -thirty times reprinted, thrice thirty times quoted from. He is, as it -were, the Press in person. And presently the momentous hour arrived -when the delicate and sprightly pupil of Regnier was to appear before -this enormous and somnolent mass, and to thrill it with pleasure. For -Monsieur Sarcey smiled upon and applauded Réjane's début at the -Conservatoire. He consecrated to her as many as fifty lines of -intelligent criticism; and I pray Heaven they may be remembered to his -credit on the Day of Judgment. Here they are, in that twopenny-halfpenny -style of his, so dear to the readers of _Le Temps_. - - "I own that, for my part, I should have willingly awarded to the - latter (Mademoiselle Réjane) a first prize. It seems to me that - she deserved it. But the Jury is frequently influenced by - extrinsic and private motives, into which it is not permitted to - pry. A first prize carries with it the right of entrance into the - Comédie Française; and the Jury did not think Mademoiselle - Réjane, with her little wide-awake face, suited to the vast frame - of the House of Molière. That is well enough; but the second - prize, which it awarded her, authorises the Director of the Odéon - to receive her into his Company; and that perspective alone ought - to have sufficed to dissuade the Jury from the course it took.... - Every one knows that at present the Odéon is, for a beginner, a - most indifferent school.... Instead of shoving its promising - pupils into it by the shoulders, the Conservatoire should forbid - them to approach it, lest they should be lost there. What will - Mademoiselle Réjane do at the Odéon? Show her legs in _La - Jeunesse de Louis XIV._, which is to be revived at the opening of - the season! A pretty state of things. She must either go to the - Vaudeville or to the Gymnase. It is there that she will form - herself; it is there that she will learn her trade, show what she - is capable of, and prepare herself for the Comédie Française, if - she is ever to enter it.... She recited a fragment from _Les - Trois Sultanes_.... I was delighted by her choice. The _Trois - Sultanes_ is so little known nowadays.... What wit there is in - her look, her smile! With her small eyes, shrewd and piercing, - with her little face thrust forward, she has so knowing an air, - one is inclined to smile at the mere sight of her. Does she - perhaps show a little too much assurance? What of it? 'Tis the - result of excessive timidity. But she laughs with such good - grace, she has so fresh and true a voice, she articulates so - clearly, she seems so happy to be alive and to have talent, that - involuntarily one thinks of Chénier's line: - - _Sa bienvenue au jour lui rit dans tous les yeux._ - - ... I shall be surprised if she does not make her way." - -Praised be Sarcey! That was better than a second prize for Réjane. The -Oracle gave her the first, without dividing it. She got an immediate -engagement; and in March, 1875, appeared on that stage where to-day -she reigns supreme, the Vaudeville, to which she brought back the -vaudeville that was no longer played there. She began by alienating -the heart of Alphonse Daudet, who, while recognising her clever -delivery, found fault with her unemotional gaiety; but, in -compensation, another authoritative critic, Auguste Vitu, wrote, after -the performance of _Pierre_: "Mademoiselle Réjane showed herself full -of grace and feeling. She rendered Gabrielle's despair with a -naturalness, a brilliancy, a spontaneity, which won a most striking -success." - -Shall I follow her through each of her creations, from her début in -_La Revue des Deux-Mondes_, up to her supreme triumph in _Madame -Sans-Gêne_? Shall I show her as the sly soubrette in _Fanny Lear_? as -the woman in love, "whose ignorance divines all things," in _Madame -Lili_? as the comical Marquise de Menu-Castel in _Le Verglas_? Shall I -tell of her first crowning success, when she played Gabrielle in -_Pierre_? Shall I recall her stormy interpretation of Madame de -Librac, in _Le Club_? and her dramatic conception of the part of -Ida?--which quite reversed the previous judgments of her critics, -wringing praise from her enemy Daudet, and censure from her faithful -admirer Vitu. The natural order of things, however, was re-established -by her performance of _Les Tapageurs_; again Daudet found her cold and -lacking in tenderness; and Vitu again applauded. - -Her successes at the Vaudeville extend from 1875 to 1882; and towards -the end of that period, Réjane, always rising higher in her art, -created Anita in _L'Auréole_ and the Baronne d'Oria in _Odette_. Next, -forgetting her own traditions, she appeared at the Théâtre des -Panoramas, and at the Ambigu, where she gave a splendid interpretation -of Madame Cézambre in Richepin's _La Giu_; and at Les Variétés as -Adrienne in _Ma Camarade_. Now fickle, now constant to her first love, -she alternated between the Variétés and the Vaudeville; took an -engagement at the Odéon; assisted at the birth and death of the -Grand-Théâtre; and just lately the Vaudeville has won her back once -more. - -Amidst these perambulations, Réjane played the diva in _Clara Soleil_. -The following year she had to take two different parts in the same -play, those of Gabrielle and Clicquette in _Les Demoiselles Clochart_. -Gabrielle is a cold and positive character; Clicquette a gay and -mischievous one. Réjane kept them perfectly distinct, and without the -smallest apparent effort. In 1887, she telephoned in _Allô-Allô_, and -represented so clearly, by means of clever mimicry, the absurd answers -of the apparatus, that from the gallery to the stalls the theatre was -one roar of laughter and applause; I fancy the salvoes and broadsides -must still sometimes echo in her delicate ears. - -Réjane's part in _M. de Morat_ should not be forgotten; nor above all, -the inimitable perfection of her play in _Décoré_ (1888). Sarcey's -exultation knew no bounds when, in 1890, she again appeared in this -rôle. Time, that had metamorphosed the lissom critic of 1875 into a -round and inert mass of solid flesh, cruel Father Time, gave back to -Sarcey, for this occasion only, a flash of youthful fire, which -stirred his wits to warmth and animation. He shouted out hardly -articulate praise; he literally rolled in his stall with pleasure; his -bald head blushed like an aurora borealis. "Look at her!" he cried, -"see her malicious smiles, her feline graces, listen to her reserved -and biting diction; she is the very essence of the Parisienne! What an -ovation she received! How they applauded her! and how she played!" -From M. Sarcey the laugh spreads; it thaws the scepticism of M. Jules -Lemaître, engulfs the timidity of the public, becomes unanimous and -universal, and is no longer to be silenced. - -In 1888, M. Edmond de Goncourt entrusted Réjane with the part of -_Germinie Lacerteux_. On the first night, a furious battle against the -author was waged in the house. Réjane secured the victory _sans peur -et sans reproches_. - -Everything in her inspires the certitude of success; her voice aims at -the heart, her gestures knock at it. Réjane confides all to the hazard -of the dice; her sudden attacks are of the most dare-devil nature; and -no matter how risky, how dangerous, how extravagant the jump, she -never loses her footing; her play is always correct, her handling -sure, her coolness imperturbable. It was impossible to watch her -precipitate herself down the staircase in _La Glu_ without a tremble. -And fifteen years before Yvette Guilbert, it was Réjane who first had -the audacity to sing with a voice that was no voice, making wit and -gesture more than cover the deficiency. In _Ma Cousine_, Réjane -introduced on the boards of Les Variétés a bit of dancing such as one -sees at the Elysée-Montmartre; she seized on and imitated the -grotesque effrontery of Mademoiselle Grille-d'Egout, and her little -arched foot flying upwards, brushed a kiss upon the forehead of her -model; for Réjane the "grand écart" may be fatal, perhaps, but it is -neither difficult nor terrifying. - -Once more delighting us with _Marquise_ in 1889; playing with such -child-like grace the Candidate in _Brevet Supérieur_ in 1891; -immediately afterwards she took a part in _Amoureuse_ at the Odéon. -The subject is equivocal, the dialogue smutty. Réjane extenuated -nothing; on the contrary, accentuated things, and yet knew always how -to win her pardon. - -Now, it so happened that in 1882, after having personified the -Moulin-Rouge in _Les Variétés de Paris_, Réjane was married on the -stage, in _La Nuit de Noces de P. L. M._, to P. L. Moriseau. On the -anniversary day, ten years later, her marriage took place in good -earnest, before a real M. le Maire, and according to all legal -formalities, with M. Porel, a sometime actor, an ex-director of the -Odéon, then director of the Grand-Théâtre, and co-director to-day of -the Vaudeville.... But to return to her art. - -Just as the first dressmakers of Paris measure Réjane's fine figure -for the costumes of her various rôles, so the best writers of the -French Academy now make plays to her measure. They take the size of -her temperament, the height of her talent, the breadth of her play; -they consider her taste, they flatter her mood; they clothe her with -the richest draperies she can covet. Their imagination, their fancy, -their cleverness, are all put at her service. The leaders in this -industry have hitherto been Messrs. Meilhac and Halévy, but now M. -Victorien Sardou is ruining them. _Madame Sans-Gêne_ is certainly, of -all the rôles Réjane has played, that best suited to bring out her -manifold resources. It is not merely that Réjane plays the -washerwoman, become a great lady, without blemish or omission; she is -Madame Sans-Gêne herself, with no overloading, nothing forced, nothing -caricatured. It is portraiture; history. - -Many a time has Réjane appeared in cap, cotton frock, and white apron; -many a time in robes of state, glittering with diamonds; she has worn -the buskin or the sock, demeaned herself like a gutter heroine, or -dropped the stately curtsey of the high-born lady. But never, except -in Madame Sans-Gêne, has she been able to bring all her rôles into one -focus, exhibit her whole wardrobe, and yet remain one and the same -person, compress into one evening the whole of her life. - -The seekers after strange novelties, the fanatics for the mists of the -far north, the vague, the irresolute, the restless, will not easily -forget the Ibsenish mask worn by Réjane in Nora of _The Doll's House_; -although most of us, loving Réjane for herself, probably prefer to -this vacillating creation, the firm drawing, the clear design, the -strong, yet supple lines of Madame Sans-Gêne. - -Why has Réjane no engagement at the Comédie-Française? Whom does one -go to applaud on this stage, called the first in France, and from -which Réjane, Sarah Bernhardt, and Coquelin the elder, all are absent? -I will explain the matter in two words. - -The house of Molière, for many years now, has belonged to Molière no -more. Were Molière to come to life again, neither he nor Réjane would -go to eat their hearts out, with inaction and dulness, beneath the -wings of M. Jules Claretie--although he is, of course, a very -estimable gentleman. Were Réjane unmarried, Molière to-day would enter -into partnership with her, because she is in herself the entire -Comédie-Française. I have already said she is married to M. Porel, -director of the Vaudeville, where she reigns as Queen. I am quite -unable to see any reason why she should soon desert such a fortunate -conjugal domicile. - -Notwithstanding the dryness and the rapidity of this enumeration of -Réjane's rôles, I hope to have given some general idea of the -marvellous diversity and flexibility of her dramatic spirit and -temperament; it seems to me that the most searching criticism of her -various creations, would not greatly enhance the accuracy of the -picture. This is why I make no attempt to describe her in some three -or four parts of an entirely different character. Besides, I should -have to draw on hearsay; and I desire to trust only to my own eyes, my -own heart. Needless to say, I have not had the good luck to see Madame -Réjane in each of her characterisations since her first appearance. -Her youthful air has never changed; but I have only had the -opportunity of admiring it during the last few years. I confidently -maintain, however, that she could not have been more charming in 1875 -than she is to-day, with the devil in her body, heaven in her eyes. - - - - -A Girl Resting - - By Sydney Adamson - -[Illustration: A Girl Resting] - - - - -The Roman Road - - By Kenneth Grahame - - -All the roads of our neighbourhood were cheerful and friendly, having -each of them pleasant qualities of its own; but this one seemed -different from the others in its masterful suggestion of a serious -purpose, speeding you along with a strange uplifting of the heart. The -others tempted chiefly with their treasures of hedge and ditch; the -rapt surprise of the first lords-and-ladies, the rustle of a -field-mouse, splash of a frog; while cool noses of brother-beasts were -pushed at you through gate or gap. A loiterer you had need to be, did -you choose one of them; so many were the tiny hands thrust out to -detain you, from this side and that. But this other was of a sterner -sort, and even in its shedding off of bank and hedgerow as it marched -straight and full for the open downs, it seemed to declare its -contempt for adventitious trappings to catch the shallow-pated. When -the sense of injustice or disappointment was heavy on me, and things -were very black within, as on this particular day, the road of -character was my choice for that solitary ramble when I turned my back -for an afternoon on a world that had unaccountably declared itself -against me. - -"The Knight's Road" we children had named it, from a sort of feeling -that, if from any quarter at all, it would be down this track we might -some day see Lancelot and his peers come pacing on their great -war-horses; supposing that any of the stout band still survived, in -nooks and unexplored places. Grown-up people sometimes spoke of it as -the "Pilgrim's Way"; but I didn't know much about pilgrims--except -Walter in the Horselburg story. Him I sometimes saw, breaking with -haggard eyes out of yonder copse, and calling to the pilgrims as they -hurried along on their desperate march to the Holy City, where peace -and pardon were awaiting them. "All roads lead to Rome," I had once -heard somebody say; and I had taken the remark very seriously, of -course, and puzzled over it many days. There must have been some -mistake, I concluded at last; but of one road at least I intuitively -felt it to be true. And my belief was clinched by something that fell -from Miss Smedley during a history-lesson, about a strange road that -ran right down the middle of England till it reached the coast, and -then began again in France, just opposite, and so on undeviating, -through city and vineyard, right from the misty Highlands to the -Eternal City. Uncorroborated, any statement of Miss Smedley's usually -fell on incredulous ears; but here, with the road itself in evidence, -she seemed, once in a way, to have strayed into truth. - -Rome! It was fascinating to think that it lay at the other end of this -white ribbon that rolled itself off from my feet over the distant -downs. I was not quite so uninstructed as to imagine I could reach it -that afternoon; but some day, I thought, if things went on being as -unpleasant as they were now--some day, when Aunt Eliza had gone on a -visit--we would see. - -I tried to imagine what it would be like when I got there. The -Coliseum I knew, of course, from a woodcut in the history-book: so to -begin with I plumped that down in the middle. The rest had to be -patched up from the little grey market-town where twice a year we went -to have our hair cut; hence, in the result, Vespasian's amphitheatre -was approached by muddy little streets, wherein the Red Lion and the -Blue Boar, with Somebody's Entire along their front, and "Commercial -Room" on their windows; the doctor's house, of substantial red-brick; -and the façade of the new Wesleyan chapel, which we thought very fine, -were the chief architectural ornaments: while the Roman populace -pottered about in smocks and corduroys, twisting the tails of Roman -calves and inviting each other to beer in musical Wessex. From Rome I -drifted on to other cities, dimly heard of--Damascus, Brighton, (Aunt -Eliza's ideal), Athens, and Glasgow, whose glories the gardener sang; -but there was a certain sameness in my conception of all of them: that -Wesleyan chapel would keep cropping up everywhere. It was easier to go -a-building among those dream-cities where no limitations were imposed, -and one was sole architect, with a free hand. Down a delectable street -of cloud-built palaces I was mentally pacing, when I happened upon the -Artist. - -He was seated at work by the roadside, at a point whence the cool -large spaces of the downs, juniper-studded, swept grandly westwards. -His attributes proclaimed him of the artist tribe: besides, he wore -knickerbockers like myself. I knew I was not to bother him with -questions, nor look over his shoulder and breathe in his ear--they -didn't like it, this _genus irritabile_; but there was nothing about -staring in my code of instructions, the point having somehow been -overlooked: so, squatting down on the grass, I devoted myself to a -passionate absorbing of every detail. At the end of five minutes there -was not a button on him that I could not have passed an examination -in; and the wearer himself of that home-spun suit was probably less -familiar with its pattern and texture than I was. Once he looked up, -nodded, half held out his tobacco pouch, mechanically as it were, -then, returning it to his pocket, resumed his work, and I my mental -photography. - -After another five minutes or so had passed he remarked, without -looking my way: "Fine afternoon we're having: going far to-day?" - -"No, I'm not going any farther than this," I replied: "I _was_ -thinking of going on to Rome: but I've put it off." - -"Pleasant place, Rome," he murmured: "you'll like it." It was some -minutes later that he added: "But I wouldn't go just now, if I were -you: too jolly hot." - -"_You_ haven't been to Rome, have you?" I inquired. - -"Rather," he replied briefly: "I live there." - -This was too much, and my jaw dropped as I struggled to grasp the fact -that I was sitting there talking to a fellow who lived in Rome. Speech -was out of the question: besides I had other things to do. Ten solid -minutes had I already spent in an examination of him as a mere -stranger and artist; and now the whole thing had to be done over -again, from the changed point of view. So I began afresh, at the crown -of his soft hat, and worked down to his solid British shoes, this time -investing everything with the new Roman halo; and at last I managed to -get out: "But you don't really live there, do you?" never doubting the -fact, but wanting to hear it repeated. - -"Well," he said, good-naturedly overlooking the slight rudeness of my -query, "I live there as much as I live anywhere. About half the year -sometimes. I've got a sort of a shanty there. You must come and see it -some day." - -"But do you live anywhere else as well?" I went on, feeling the -forbidden tide of questions surging up within me. - -"O yes, all over the place," was his vague reply. "And I've got a -diggings somewhere off Piccadilly." - -"Where's that?" I inquired. - -"Where's what?" said he. "Oh, Piccadilly! It's in London." - -"Have you a large garden?" I asked; "and how many pigs have you got?" - -"I've no garden at all," he replied sadly, "and they don't allow me to -keep pigs, though I'd like to, awfully. It's very hard." - -"But what do you do all day, then," I cried, "and where do you go and -play, without any garden, or pigs, or things?" - -"When I want to play," he said gravely, "I have to go and play in the -street; but it's poor fun, I grant you. There's a goat, though, not -far off, and sometimes I talk to him when I'm feeling lonely; but he's -very proud." - -"Goats _are_ proud," I admitted. "There's one lives near here, and if -you say anything to him at all, he hits you in the wind with his head. -You know what it feels like when a fellow hits you in the wind?" - -"I do, well," he replied, in a tone of proper melancholy, and painted -on. - -"And have you been to any other places," I began again presently, -"besides Rome and Piccy-what's-his-name?" - -"Heaps," he said. "I'm a sort of Ulysses--seen men and cities, you -know. In fact, about the only place I never got to was the Fortunate -Island." - -I began to like this man. He answered your questions briefly and to -the point, and never tried to be funny. I felt I could be confidential -with him. - -"Wouldn't you like," I inquired, "to find a city without any people in -it at all?" - -He looked puzzled. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand," said he. - -"I mean," I went on eagerly, "a city where you walk in at the gates, -and the shops are all full of beautiful things, and the houses -furnished as grand as can be, and there isn't anybody there whatever! -And you go into the shops, and take anything you want--chocolates and -magic-lanterns and injirubber balls--and there's nothing to pay; and -you choose your own house and live there and do just as you like, and -never go to bed unless you want to!" - -The artist laid down his brush. "That _would_ be a nice city," he -said. "Better than Rome. You can't do that sort of thing in Rome--or -in Piccadilly either. But I fear it's one of the places I've never -been to." - -"And you'd ask your friends," I went on, warming to my subject; "only -those whoyou really like, of course; and they'd each have a house to -themselves--there'd be lots of houses, and no relations at all, unless -they promised they'd be pleasant, and if they weren't they'd have to -go." - -"So you wouldn't have any relations?" said the artist. "Well, perhaps -you're right. We have tastes in common, I see." - -"I'd have Harold," I said reflectively, "and Charlotte. They'd like it -awfully. The others are getting too old. Oh! and Martha--I'd have -Martha to cook and wash up and do things. You'd like Martha. She's -ever so much nicer than Aunt Eliza. She's my idea of a real lady." - -"Then I'm sure I should like her," he replied heartily, "and when I -come to--what do you call this city of yours? Nephelo--something, did -you say!" - -"I--I don't know," I replied timidly. "I'm afraid it hasn't got a -name--yet." - -The artist gazed out over the downs. "'The poet says dear city of -Cecrops;'" he said softly to himself, "'and wilt not thou say, dear -city of Zeus?' That's from Marcus Aurelius," he went on, turning again -to his work. "You don't know him, I suppose; you will some day." - -"Who's he?" I inquired. - -"Oh, just another fellow who lived in Rome," he replied, dabbing away. - -"O dear!" I cried, disconsolately. "What a lot of people seem to live -at Rome, and I've never even been there! But I think I'd like _my_ -city best." - -"And so would I," he replied with unction. "But Marcus Aurelius -wouldn't, you know." - -"Then we won't invite him," I said: "will we?" - -"_I_ won't if you won't," said he. And that point being settled, we -were silent for a while. - -"Do you know," he said presently, "I've met one or two fellows from -time to time, who have been to a city like yours--perhaps it was the -same one. They won't talk much about it--only broken hints, now and -then; but they've been there sure enough. They don't seem to care -about anything in particular--and everything's the same to them, rough -or smooth; and sooner or later they slip off and disappear; and you -never see them again. Gone back, I suppose." - -"Of course," said I. "Don't see what they ever came away for; _I_ -wouldn't. To be told you've broken things when you haven't, and -stopped having tea with the servants in the kitchen, and not allowed -to have a dog to sleep with you. But _I've_ known people, too, who've -gone there." - -The artist stared, but without incivility. - -"Well, there's Lancelot," I went on. "The book says he died, but it -never seemed to read right, somehow. He just went away, like Arthur. -And Crusoe, when he got tired of wearing clothes and being -respectable. And all the nice men in the stories who don't marry the -Princess, 'cos only one man ever gets married in a book, you know. -They'll be there!" - -"And the men who fail," he said, "who try like the rest, and toil, and -eat their hearts out, and somehow miss--or break down or get bowled -over in the mêlée--and get no Princess, nor even a second-class -kingdom--some of them'll be there, I hope?" - -"Yes, if you like," I replied, not quite understanding him; "if -they're friends of yours, we'll ask 'em, of course." - -"What a time we shall have!" said the artist reflectively; "and how -shocked old Marcus Aurelius will be!" - -The shadows had lengthened uncannily, a tide of golden haze began to -flood the grey-green surface of the downs, and the artist put his -traps together, preparatory to a move. I felt very low: we would have -to part, it seemed, just as we were getting on so well together. Then -he stood up, and he was very straight and tall, and the sunset was in -his hair and beard as he stood there, high over me. He took my hand -like an equal. "I've enjoyed our conversation very much," he said. -"That was an interesting subject you started, and we haven't half -exhausted it. We shall meet again, I hope?" - -"Of course we shall," I replied, surprised that there should be any -doubt about it. - -"In Rome perhaps?" said he. - -"Yes, in Rome," I answered; "or Piccy-the-other-place, or somewhere." - -"Or else," said he, "in that other city--when we've found the way -there. And I'll look out for you, and you'll sing out as soon as you -see me. And we'll go down the street arm-in-arm, and into all the -shops, and then I'll choose my house, and you'll choose your house, -and we'll live there like princes and good fellows." - -"Oh, but you'll stay in my house, won't you?" I cried; "I wouldn't ask -everybody; but I'll ask _you_." - -He affected to consider a moment; then "Right!" he said: "I believe -you mean it, and I _will_ come and stay with you. I won't go to -anybody else, if they ask me ever so much. And I'll stay quite a long -time, too, and I won't be any trouble." - -Upon this compact we parted, and I went down-heartedly from the man -who understood me, back to the house where I never could do anything -right. How was it that everything seemed natural and sensible to him, -which these uncles, vicars, and other grown-up men took for the merest -tomfoolery? Well, he would explain this, and many another thing, when -we met again. The Knight's Road! How it always brought consolation! -Was he possibly one of those vanished knights I had been looking for -so long? Perhaps he would be in armour next time--why not? He would -look well in armour, I thought. And I would take care to get there -first, and see the sunlight flash and play on his helmet and shield, -as he rode up the High Street of the Golden City. - -Meantime, there only remained the finding it,--an easy matter. - - - - -Three Pictures - - By Walter Sickert - - - I. The Old Bedford Music Hall - II. Portrait of Aubrey Beardsley - III. Ada Lundberg - -[Illustration: The Old Bedford Music Hall] - -[Illustration: Portrait of Aubrey Beardsley] - -[Illustration: Ada Lundberg] - - - - -Betrothed - - By Norman Gale - - - She is mine in the day, - She is mine in the dusk; - She is virgin as dawn, - And as fragrant as musk. - - And the wood on the hill - Is the home where we meet-- - O, the coming of eve, - It is marvellous sweet! - - To my satisfied heart - She has flown like a dove; - All her kisses are taught - By the wisdom of love. - - And whatever my grief - There is healing, and rest, - On the pear-blossom slope - Of her beautiful breast. - - - - -Thy Heart's Desire - - By Netta Syrett - - - I - -The tents were pitched in a little plain surrounded by hills. Right -and left there were stretches of tender vivid green where the young -corn was springing; further still, on either hand, the plain was -yellow with mustard-flower; but in the immediate foreground it was -bare and stony. A few thorny bushes pushed their straggling way -through the dry soil, ineffectively as far as the grace of the -landscape was concerned, for they merely served to emphasise the -barren aridness of the land that stretched before the tents, sloping -gradually to the distant hills. - -The hills were uninteresting enough in themselves; they had no -grandeur of outline, no picturesqueness even, though at morning and -evening the sun, like a great magician, clothed them with beauty at a -touch. - -They had begun to change, to soften, to blush rose-red in the evening -light, when a woman came to the entrance of the largest of the tents -and looked towards them. She leant against the support on one side of -the canvas flap, and putting back her head, rested that too against -it, while her eyes wandered over the plain and over the distant hills. - -She was bareheaded, for the covering of the tent projected a few feet -to form an awning overhead. The gentle breeze which had risen with -sundown, stirred the soft brown tendrils of hair on her temples, and -fluttered her pink cotton gown a little. She stood very still, with -her arms hanging and her hands clasped loosely in front of her. There -was about her whole attitude an air of studied quiet which in some -vague fashion the slight clasp of her hands accentuated. Her face, -with its tightly, almost rigidly closed lips, would have been quite in -keeping with the impression of conscious calm which her entire -presence suggested, had it not been that when she raised her eyes a -strange contradiction to this idea was afforded. They were large grey -eyes, unusually bright and rather startling in effect, for they seemed -the only live thing about her. Gleaming from her still set face, there -was something almost alarming in their brilliancy. They softened with -a sudden glow of pleasure as they rested on the translucent green of -the wheat fields under the broad generous sunlight, and then wandered -to where the pure vivid yellow of the mustard-flower spread in waves -to the base of the hills, now mystically veiled in radiance. She stood -motionless watching their melting elusive changes from palpitating -rose to the transparent purple of amethyst. The stillness of evening -was broken by the monotonous, not unmusical creaking of a Persian -wheel at some little distance to the left of the tent. The well stood -in a little grove of trees: between their branches she could see, when -she turned her head, the coloured _saris_ of the village women, where -they stood in groups chattering as they drew the water, and the little -naked brown babies that toddled beside them or sprawled on the hard -ground beneath the trees. From the village of flat-roofed mud-houses -under the low hill at the back of the tents, other women were crossing -the plain towards the well, their terra-cotta water-jars poised easily -on their heads, casting long shadows on the sun-baked ground as they -came. - -Presently, in the distance, from the direction of the sunlit hills -opposite, a little group of men came into sight. Far off, the -mustard-coloured jackets and the red turbans of the orderlies made -vivid splashes of colour on the dull plain. As they came nearer, the -guns slung across their shoulders, the cases of mathematical -instruments, the hammers and other heavy baggage they carried for the -Sahib, became visible. A little in front, at walking pace, rode the -Sahib himself, making notes as he came in a book he held before him. -The girl at the tent-entrance watched the advance of the little -company indifferently, it seemed; except for a slight tightening of -the muscles about her mouth, her face remained unchanged. While he was -still some little distance away, the man with the note-book raised his -head and smiled awkwardly as he saw her standing there. Awkwardness, -perhaps, best describes the whole man. He was badly put together, -loose-jointed, ungainly. The fact that he was tall profited him -nothing, for it merely emphasised the extreme ungracefulness of his -figure. His long pale face was made paler by a shock of coarse, -tow-coloured hair; his eyes even looked colourless, though they were -certainly the least uninteresting feature of his face, for they were -not devoid of expression. He had a way of slouching when he moved that -singularly intensified the general uncouthness of his appearance. "Are -you very tired?" asked his wife gently when he had dismounted close to -the tent. The question would have been an unnecessary one had it been -put to her instead of to her husband, for her voice had that peculiar -flat toneless sound for which extreme weariness is answerable. - -"Well, no, my dear, not very," he replied, drawling out the words with -an exasperating air of delivering a final verdict, after deep -reflection on the subject. - -The girl glanced once more at the fading colours on the hills. "Come -in and rest," she said, moving aside a little to let him pass. - -She stood lingering a moment after he had entered the tent, as though -unwilling to leave the outer air; and before she turned to follow him -she drew a deep breath, and her hand went for one swift second to her -throat as though she felt stifled. - - * * * * * - -Later on that evening she sat in her tent sewing by the light of the -lamp that stood on her little table. - -Opposite to her, her husband stretched his ungainly length in a -deck-chair, and turned over a pile of official notes. Every now and -then her eyes wandered from the gay silks of the table-cover she was -embroidering to the canvas walls which bounded the narrow space into -which their few household goods were crowded. Outside there was a deep -hush. The silence of the vast empty plain seemed to work its way -slowly, steadily in, towards the little patch of light set in its -midst. The girl felt it in every nerve; it was as though some -soft-footed, noiseless, shapeless creature, whose presence she only -dimly divined, was approaching nearer--_nearer_. The heavy outer -stillness was in some way made more terrifying by the rustle of the -papers her husband was reading, by the creaking of his chair as he -moved, and by the little fidgeting grunts and half exclamations which -from time to time broke from him. His wife's hand shook at every -unintelligible mutter from him, and the slight habitual contraction -between her eyes deepened. - -All at once she threw her work down on to the table. "For Heaven's -sake----_please_, John, _talk_!" she cried. Her eyes, for the moment's -space in which they met the startled ones of her husband, had a wild -hunted look, but it was gone almost before his slow brain had time to -note that it had been there--and was vaguely disturbing. She laughed a -little, unsteadily. - -"Did I startle you? I'm sorry. I----" she laughed again. "I believe -I'm a little nervous. When one is all day alone----" She paused -without finishing the sentence. The man's face changed suddenly. A -wave of tenderness swept over it, and at the same time an expression -of half-incredulous delight shone in his pale eyes. - -"Poor little girl, are you really lonely?" he said. Even the real -feeling in his tone failed to rob his voice of its peculiarly -irritating grating quality. He rose awkwardly and moved to his wife's -side. - -Involuntarily she shrank a little, and the hand which he had stretched -out to touch her hair sank to his side. She recovered herself -immediately and turned her face up to his, though she did not raise -her eyes; but he did not kiss her. Instead, he stood in an embarrassed -fashion a moment by her side, and then went back to his seat. - -There was silence again for some time. The man lay back in his chair, -gazing at his big clumsy shoes, as though he hoped for some -inspiration from that quarter, while his wife worked with nervous -haste. - -"Don't let me keep you from reading, John," she said, and her voice -had regained its usual gentle tone. - -"No, my dear; I'm just thinking of something to say to you, but I -don't seem----" - -She smiled a little. In spite of herself, her lip curled faintly. -"Don't worry about it--it was stupid of me to expect it. I mean----" -she added hastily, immediately repenting the sarcasm. She glanced -furtively at him, but his face was quite unmoved. Evidently he had not -noticed it, and she smiled faintly again. - -"Oh, Kathie, I knew there was _something_ I'd forgotten to tell you, -my dear; there's a man coming down here. I don't know whether----" - -She looked up sharply. "A man coming _here_? What for?" she -interrupted breathlessly. - -"Sent to help me about this oil-boring business, my dear." - -He had lighted his pipe, and was smoking placidly, taking long whiffs -between his words. - -"Well?" impatiently questioned his wife, fixing her bright eyes on his -face. - -"Well--that's all, my dear." - -She checked an exclamation. "But don't you know anything about -him--his name? where he comes from? what he is like?" She was leaning -forward against the table, her needle with a long end of yellow silk -drawn halfway through her work, held in her upraised hand, her whole -attitude one of quivering excitement and expectancy. - -The man took his pipe from his mouth deliberately, with a look of slow -wonder. - -"Why Kathie, you seem quite anxious. I didn't know you'd be so -interested, my dear. Well,"--another long pull at his pipe--"his -name's Brook--_Brookfield_, I think." He paused again. "This pipe -don't draw well a bit; there's something wrong with it, I shouldn't -wonder," he added, taking it out and examining the bowl as though -struck with the brilliance of the idea. - -The woman opposite put down her work and clenched her hands under the -table. - -"Go on, John," she said presently in a tense vibrating voice--"his -name is Brookfield. Well, where does he come from?" - -"Straight from home, my dear, I believe." He fumbled in his pocket, -and after some time extricated a pencil with which he began to poke -the tobacco in the bowl in an ineffectual aimless fashion, becoming -completely engrossed in the occupation apparently. There was another -long pause. The woman went on working, or feigning to work, for her -hands were trembling a good deal. - -After some moments she raised her head again. "John, will you mind -attending to me one moment, and answering these questions as quickly -as you can?" The emphasis on the last word was so faint as to be -almost as imperceptible as the touch of exasperated contempt which she -could not absolutely banish from her tone. - -Her husband, looking up, met her clear bright gaze and reddened like a -schoolboy. - -"Whereabouts '_from home_' does he come?" she asked in a studiedly -gentle fashion. - -"Well, from London, I think," he replied, almost briskly for him, -though he stammered and tripped over the words. "He's a University -chap; I used to hear he was clever--I don't know about that, I'm sure; -he used to chaff me, I remember, but----" - -"Chaff _you_? You have met him then?" - -"Yes, my dear"--he was fast relapsing into his slow drawl again--"that -is, I went to school with him, but it's a long time ago. -Brookfield--yes, that must be his name." - -She waited a moment, then "When is he coming?" she inquired abruptly. - -"Let me see--to-day's----" - -"_Monday_," the word came swiftly between her set teeth. - -"Ah, yes,--Monday--well," reflectively, "_next_ Monday, my dear." - -Mrs. Drayton rose, and began to pace softly the narrow passage between -the table and the tent-wall, her hands clasped loosely behind her. - -"How long have you known this?" she said, stopping abruptly. "Oh, -John, you _needn't_ consider; it's quite a simple question. To-day? -Yesterday?" - -Her foot moved restlessly on the ground as she waited. - -"I think it was the day before yesterday," he replied. - -"Then why in Heaven's name didn't you tell me before?" she broke out -fiercely. - -"My dear, it slipped my memory. If I'd thought you would be -interested----" - -"Interested?" She laughed shortly. "It _is_ rather interesting to hear -that after six months of this"--she made a quick comprehensive gesture -with her hand--"one will have some one to speak to--some one. It is -the hand of Providence; it comes just in time to save me from----" She -checked herself abruptly. - -He sat staring up at her stupidly, without a word. - -"It's all right, John," she said, with a quick change of tone, -gathering up her work quietly as she spoke. "I'm not mad--yet. -You--you must get used to these little outbreaks," she added after a -moment, smiling faintly, "and to do me justice, I don't _often_ -trouble you with them, do I? I'm just a little tired, or it's the heat -or--something. No--don't touch me," she cried, shrinking back, for he -had risen slowly and was coming towards her. - -She had lost command over her voice, and the shrill note of horror in -it was unmistakable. The man heard it, and shrank in his turn. - -"I'm so sorry, John," she murmured, raising her great bright eyes to -his face. They had not lost their goaded expression, though they were -full of tears. "I'm awfully sorry, but I'm just nervous and stupid, -and I can't bear _any one_ to touch me when I'm nervous." - - - II - -"Here's Broomhurst, my dear! I made a mistake in his name after all, I -find. I told you _Brookfield_, I believe, didn't I? Well, it isn't -Brookfield, he says; it's Broomhurst." - -Mrs. Drayton had walked some little distance across the plain to meet -and welcome the expected guest. She stood quietly waiting while her -husband stammered over his incoherent sentences, and then put out her -hand. - -"We are very glad to see you," she said with a quick glance at the -newcomer's face as she spoke. - -As they walked together towards the tent, after the first greetings, -she felt his keen eyes upon her before he turned to her husband. - -"I'm afraid Mrs. Drayton finds the climate trying?" he asked. "Perhaps -she ought not to have come so far in this heat?" - -"Kathie is often pale. You _do_ look white to-day, my dear," he -observed, turning anxiously towards his wife. - -"Do I?" she replied. The unsteadiness of her tone was hardly -appreciable, but it was not lost on Broomhurst's quick ears. "Oh, I -don't think so. I _feel_ very well." - -"I'll come and see if they've fixed you up all right," said Drayton, -following his companion towards the new tent that had been pitched at -some little distance from the large one. - -"We shall see you at dinner then?" Mrs. Drayton observed in reply to -Broomhurst's smile as they parted. - -She entered the tent slowly, and moving up to the table, already laid -for dinner, began to rearrange the things upon it in a purposeless -mechanical fashion. - -After a moment she sank down upon a seat opposite the open entrance, -and put her hand to her head. - -"What is the matter with me?" she thought wearily. "All the week I've -been looking forward to seeing this man--_any_ man, _any one_ to take -off the edge of this." She shuddered. Even in thought she hesitated to -analyse the feeling that possessed her. "Well, he's here, and I think -I feel _worse_." Her eyes travelled towards the hills she had been -used to watch at this hour, and rested on them with a vague unseeing -gaze. - -"Tired, Kathie? A penny for your thoughts, my dear," said her husband, -coming in presently to find her still sitting there. - -"I'm thinking what a curious world this is, and what an ironical vein -of humour the gods who look after it must possess," she replied with a -mirthless laugh, rising as she spoke. - -John looked puzzled. - -"Funny my having known Broomhurst before, you mean?" he said -doubtfully. - - * * * * * - -"I was fishing down at Lynmouth this time last year," Broomhurst said -at dinner. "You know Lynmouth, Mrs. Drayton? Do you never imagine you -hear the gurgling of the stream? I am tantalised already by the sound -of it rushing through the beautiful green gloom of those -woods--_aren't_ they lovely? And _I_ haven't been in this burnt-up -spot as many hours as you've had months of it." - -She smiled a little. - -"You must learn to possess your soul in patience," she said, and -glanced inconsequently from Broomhurst to her husband, and then -dropped her eyes and was silent a moment. - -John was obviously, and a little audibly, enjoying his dinner. He sat -with his chair pushed close to the table, and his elbows awkwardly -raised, swallowing his soup in gulps. He grasped his spoon tightly in -his bony hand so that its swollen joints stood out larger and uglier -than ever, his wife thought. - -Her eyes wandered to Broomhurst's hands. They were well shaped, and -though not small, there was a look of refinement about them; he had a -way of touching things delicately, a little lingeringly, she noticed. -There was an air of distinction about his clear-cut, clean-shaven -face, possibly intensified by contrast with Drayton's blurred -features; and it was, perhaps, also by contrast with the grey cuffs -that showed beneath John's ill-cut drab suit that the linen Broomhurst -wore seemed to her particularly spotless. - -Broomhurst's thoughts, for his part, were a good deal occupied with -his hostess. - -She was pretty, he thought, or perhaps it was that, with the wide dry -lonely plain as a setting, her fragile delicacy of appearance was -invested with a certain flower-like charm. - -"The silence here seems rather strange, rather appalling at first, -when one is fresh from a town," he pursued, after a moment's pause, -"but I suppose you're used to it; eh, Drayton? How do _you_ find life -here, Mrs. Drayton?" he asked a little curiously, turning to her as he -spoke. - -She hesitated a second. "Oh, much the same as I should find it -anywhere else, I expect," she replied; "after all, one carries the -possibilities of a happy life about with one--don't you think so? The -Garden of Eden wouldn't necessarily make my life any happier, or less -happy, than a howling wilderness like this. It depends on oneself -entirely." - -"Given the right Adam and Eve, the desert blossoms like the rose, in -fact," Broomhurst answered lightly, with a smiling glance inclusive of -husband and wife; "you two don't feel as though you'd been driven out -of Paradise evidently." - -Drayton raised his eyes from his plate with a smile of total -incomprehension. - -"Great Heavens! What an Adam to select!" thought Broomhurst -involuntarily, as Mrs. Drayton rose rather suddenly from the table. - -"I'll come and help with that packing-case," John said, rising, in his -turn, lumberingly from his place; "then we can have a smoke--eh? -Kathie don't mind, if we sit near the entrance." - -The two men went out together, Broomhurst holding the lantern, for the -moon had not yet risen. Mrs. Drayton followed them to the doorway, -and, pushing the looped-up hanging further aside, stepped out into the -cool darkness. - -Her heart was beating quickly, and there was a great lump in her -throat that frightened her as though she were choking. - -"And I am his _wife_--I _belong_ to him!" she cried, almost aloud. - -She pressed both her hands tightly against her breast, and set her -teeth, fighting to keep down the rising flood that threatened to sweep -away her composure. "Oh, what a fool I am! What an hysterical fool of -a woman I am!" she whispered below her breath. She began to walk -slowly up and down outside the tent, in the space illumined by the -lamplight, as though striving to make her outwardly quiet movements -react upon the inward tumult. In a little while she had conquered; she -quietly entered the tent, drew a low chair to the entrance, and took -up a book, just as footsteps became audible. A moment afterwards -Broomhurst emerged from the darkness into the circle of light outside, -and Mrs. Drayton raised her eyes from the pages she was turning to -greet him with a smile. - -"Are your things all right?" - -"Oh yes, more or less, thank you. I was a little concerned about a -case of books, but it isn't much damaged fortunately. Perhaps I've -some you would care to look at?" - -"The books will be a godsend," she returned with a sudden brightening -of the eyes; "I was getting _desperate_--for books." - -"What are you reading now?" he asked, glancing at the volume that lay -in her lap. - -"It's a Browning. I carry it about a good deal. I think I like to have -it with me, but I don't seem to read it much." - -"Are you waiting for a suitable optimistic moment?" Broomhurst -inquired smiling. - -"Yes, now you mention it, I think that must be why I am waiting," she -replied slowly. - -"And it doesn't come--even in the Garden of Eden? Surely the serpent, -pessimism, hasn't been insolent enough to draw you into conversation -with him?" he said lightly. - -"There has been no one to converse with at all--when John is away, I -mean. I think I should have liked a little chat with the serpent -immensely by way of a change," she replied in the same tone. - -"Ah, yes," Broomhurst said with sudden seriousness, "it must be -unbearably dull for you alone here, with Drayton away all day." - -Mrs. Drayton's hand shook a little as she fluttered a page of her open -book. - -"I should think it quite natural you would be irritated beyond -endurance to hear that all's right with the world, for instance, when -you were sighing for the long day to pass," he continued. - -"I don't mind the day so much--it's the evenings." She abruptly -checked the swift words and flushed painfully. "I mean--I've grown -stupidly nervous, I think--even when John is here. Oh, you have no -idea of the awful _silence_ of this place at night," she added, rising -hurriedly from her low seat, and moving closer to the doorway. "It is -so close, isn't it?" she said, almost apologetically. There was -silence for quite a minute. - -Broomhurst's quick eyes noted the silent momentary clenching of the -hands that hung at her side as she stood leaning against the support -at the entrance. - -"But how stupid of me to give you such a bad impression of the -camp--the first evening, too," Mrs. Drayton exclaimed presently, and -her companion mentally commended the admirable composure of her voice. - -"Probably you will never notice that it is lonely at all," she -continued, "John likes it here. He is immensely interested in his -work, you know. I hope _you_ are too. If you are interested it is all -quite right. I think the climate tries me a little. I never used to be -stupid--and nervous. Ah, here's John; he's been round to the -kitchen-tent, I suppose." - -"Been looking after that fellow cleanin' my gun, my dear," John -explained, shambling towards the deck-chair. - -Later, Broomhurst stood at his own tent-door. He looked up at the -star-sown sky, and the heavy silence seemed to press upon him like an -actual, physical burden. - -He took his cigar from between his lips presently and looked at the -glowing end reflectively before throwing it away. - -"Considering that she has been alone with him here for six months, she -has herself very well in hand--_very_ well in hand," he repeated. - - - III - -It was Sunday morning. John Drayton sat just inside the tent, -presumably enjoying his pipe before the heat of the day. His eyes -furtively followed his wife as she moved about near him, sometimes -passing close to his chair in search of something she had mislaid. -There was colour in her cheeks; her eyes, though preoccupied, were -bright; there was a lightness and buoyancy in her step which she set -to a little dancing air she was humming under her breath. - -After a moment or two the song ceased, she began to move slowly, -sedately; and as if chilled by a raw breath of air, the light faded -from her eyes, which she presently turned towards her husband. - -"Why do you look at me?" she asked suddenly. - -"I don't know, my dear," he began, slowly and laboriously as was his -wont. "I was thinkin' how nice you looked--jest now--much better you -know--but somehow"--he was taking long whiffs at his pipe, as usual, -between each word, while she stood patiently waiting for him to -finish--"somehow, you alter so, my dear--you're quite pale again all -of a minute." - -She stood listening to him, noticing against her will the more than -suspicion of cockney accent and the thick drawl with which the words -were uttered. - -His eyes sought her face piteously. She noticed that too, and stood -before him torn by conflicting emotions, pity and disgust struggling -in a hand-to-hand fight within her. - -"Mr. Broomhurst and I are going down by the well to sit; it's cooler -there. Won't you come?" she said at last gently. - -He did not reply for a moment, then he turned his head aside sharply -for him. - -"No, my dear, thank you; I'm comfortable enough here," he returned -huskily. - -She stood over him, hesitating a second, then moved abruptly to the -table, from which she took a book. - -He had risen from his seat by the time she turned to go out, and he -intercepted her timorously. - -"Kathie, give me a kiss before you go," he whispered hoarsely. "I--I -don't often bother you." - -She drew her breath in deeply as he put his arms clumsily about her, -but she stood still, and he kissed her on the forehead, and touched -the little wavy curls that strayed across it gently with his big -trembling fingers. - -When he released her she moved at once impetuously to the open -doorway. On the threshold she hesitated, paused a moment irresolutely, -and then turned back. - -"Shall I----Does your pipe want filling, John?" she asked softly. - -"No, thank you, my dear." - -"Would you like me to stay, read to you, or anything?" - -He looked up at her wistfully. "N-no, thank you, I'm not much of a -reader, you know, my dear--somehow." - -She hated herself for knowing that there would be a "my dear," -probably a "somehow" in his reply, and despised herself for the sense -of irritated impatience she felt by anticipation, even before the -words were uttered. - -There was a moment's hesitating silence, broken by the sound of quick -firm footsteps without. Broomhurst paused at the entrance, and looked -into the tent. - -"Aren't you coming, Drayton?" he asked, looking first at Drayton's -wife and then swiftly putting in his name with a scarcely perceptible -pause. "Too lazy? But you, Mrs. Drayton?" - -"Yes, I'm coming," she said. - -They left the tent together, and walked some few steps in silence. - -Broomhurst shot a quick glance at his companion's face. - -"Anything wrong?" he asked presently. - -Though the words were ordinary enough, the voice in which they were -spoken was in some subtle fashion a different voice from that in which -he had talked to her nearly two months ago, though it would have -required a keen sense of nice shades in sound to have detected the -change. - -Mrs. Drayton's sense of niceties in sound was particularly keen, but -she answered quietly, "Nothing, thank you." - -They did not speak again till the trees round the stone-well were -reached. - -Broomhurst arranged their seats comfortably beside it. - -"Are we going to read or talk?" he asked, looking up at her from his -lower place. - -"Well, we generally talk most when we arrange to read, so shall we -agree to talk to-day for a change, by way of getting some reading -done?" she rejoined, smiling. "_You_ begin." - -Broomhurst seemed in no hurry to avail himself of the permission, he -was apparently engrossed in watching the flecks of sunshine on Mrs. -Drayton's white dress. The whirring of insects, and the creaking of a -Persian wheel somewhere in the neighbourhood, filtered through the hot -silence. - -Mrs. Drayton laughed after a few minutes; there was a touch of -embarrassment in the sound. - -"The new plan doesn't answer. Suppose you read as usual, and let me -interrupt, also as usual, after the first two lines." - -He opened the book obediently, but turned the pages at random. - -She watched him for a moment, and then bent a little forward towards -him. - -"It is my turn now," she said suddenly. "Is anything wrong?" - -He raised his head, and their eyes met. There was a pause. "I will be -more honest than you," he returned. "Yes, there is." - -"What?" - -"I've had orders to move on." - -She drew back, and her lips whitened, though she kept them steady. - -"When do you go?" - -"On Wednesday." - -There was silence again; the man still kept his eyes on her face. - -The whirring of the insects and the creaking of the wheel had suddenly -grown so strangely loud and insistent, that it was in a half-dazed -fashion she at length heard her name--"_Kathleen_!" - -"Kathleen!" he whispered again hoarsely. - -She looked him full in the face, and once more their eyes met in a -long grave gaze. - -The man's face flushed, and he half rose from his seat with an -impetuous movement, but Kathleen stopped him with a glance. - -"Will you go and fetch my work? I left it in the tent," she said, -speaking very clearly and distinctly; "and then will you go on -reading? I will find the place while you are gone." - -She took the book from his hand, and he rose and stood before her. - -There was a mute appeal in his silence, and she raised her head -slowly. - -Her face was white to the lips, but she looked at him unflinchingly; -and without a word he turned and left her. - - - IV - -Mrs. Drayton was resting in the tent on Tuesday afternoon. With the -help of cushions and some low chairs she had improvised a couch, on -which she lay quietly with her eyes closed. There was a tenseness, -however, in her attitude which indicated that sleep was far from her. - -Her features seemed to have sharpened during the last few days, and -there were hollows in her cheeks. She had been very still for a long -time, but all at once with a sudden movement she turned her head and -buried her face in the cushions with a groan. Slipping from her place -she fell on her knees beside the couch, and put both hands before her -mouth to force back the cry that she felt struggling to her lips. - -For some moments the wild effort she was making for outward calm, -which even when she was alone was her first instinct, strained every -nerve and blotted out sight and hearing, and it was not till the sound -was very near that she was conscious of the ring of horse's hoofs on -the plain. - -She raised her head sharply with a thrill of fear, still kneeling, and -listened. - -There was no mistake. The horseman was riding in hot haste, for the -thud of the hoofs followed one another swiftly. - -As Mrs. Drayton listened her white face grew whiter, and she began to -tremble. Putting out shaking hands, she raised herself by the arms of -the folding-chair and stood upright. - -Nearer and nearer came the thunder of the approaching sound, mingled -with startled exclamations and the noise of trampling feet from the -direction of the kitchen tent. - -Slowly, mechanically almost, she dragged herself to the entrance, and -stood clinging to the canvas there. By the time she had reached it, -Broomhurst had flung himself from the saddle, and had thrown the reins -to one of the men. - -Mrs. Drayton stared at him with wide bright eyes as he hastened -towards her. - -"I thought you--you are not----" she began, and then her teeth began -to chatter. "I am so cold!" she said, in a little weak voice. - -Broomhurst took her hand, and led her over the threshold back into the -tent. - -"Don't be so frightened," he implored; "I came to tell you first. I -thought it wouldn't frighten you so much as----Your--Drayton is--very -ill. They are bringing him. I----" - -He paused. She gazed at him a moment with parted lips, then she broke -into a horrible discordant laugh, and stood clinging to the back of a -chair. - -Broomhurst started back. - -"Do you understand what I mean?" he whispered. "Kathleen, for God's -sake--_don't_--he is _dead_." - -He looked over his shoulder as he spoke, her shrill laughter ringing -in his ears. The white glare and dazzle of the plain stretched before -him, framed by the entrance to the tent; far off, against the horizon, -there were moving black specks, which he knew to be the returning -servants with their still burden. - -They were bringing John Drayton home. - - - V - -One afternoon, some months later, Broomhurst climbed the steep lane -leading to the cliffs of a little English village by the sea. He had -already been to the inn, and had been shown by the proprietress the -house where Mrs. Drayton lodged. - -"The lady was out, but the gentleman would likely find her if he went -to the cliffs--down by the bay, or thereabouts," her landlady -explained, and, obeying her directions, Broomhurst presently emerged -from the shady woodland path on to the hillside overhanging the sea. - -He glanced eagerly round him, and then with a sudden quickening of the -heart, walked on over the springy heather to where she sat. She turned -when the rustling his footsteps made through the bracken was near -enough to arrest her attention, and looked up at him as he came. Then -she rose slowly and stood waiting for him. He came up to her without a -word and seized both her hands, devouring her face with his eyes. -Something he saw there repelled him. Slowly he let her hands fall, -still looking at her silently. "You are not glad to see me, and I have -counted the hours," he said at last in a dull toneless voice. - -Her lips quivered. "Don't be angry with me--I can't help it--I'm not -glad or sorry for anything now," she answered, and her voice matched -his for greyness. - -They sat down together on a long flat stone half embedded in a wiry -clump of whortleberries. Behind them the lonely hillsides rose, -brilliant with yellow bracken and the purple of heather. Before them -stretched the wide sea. It was a soft grey day. Streaks of pale -sunlight trembled at moments far out on the water. The tide was rising -in the little bay above which they sat, and Broomhurst watched the -lazy foam-edged waves slipping over the uncovered rocks towards the -shore, then sliding back as though for very weariness they despaired -of reaching it. The muffled pulsing sound of the sea filled the -silence. Broomhurst thought suddenly of hot Eastern sunshine, of the -whirr of insect wings on the still air, and the creaking of a wheel in -the distance. He turned and looked at his companion. - -"I have come thousands of miles to see you," he said; "aren't you -going to speak to me now I am here?" - -"Why did you come? I told you not to come," she answered, falteringly. -"I----" she paused. - -"And I replied that I should follow you--if you remember," he -answered, still quietly. "I came because I would not listen to what -you said then, at that awful time. You didn't know _yourself_ what you -said. No wonder! I have given you some months, and now I have come." - -There was silence between them. Broomhurst saw that she was crying; -her tears fell fast on to her hands, that were clasped in her lap. Her -face, he noticed, was thin and drawn. - -Very gently he put his arm round her shoulder and drew her nearer to -him. She made no resistance--it seemed that she did not notice the -movement; and his arm dropped at his side. - -"You asked me why I had come? You think it possible that three months -can change one, very thoroughly, then?" he said in a cold voice. - -"I not only think it possible, I have proved it," she replied wearily. - -He turned round and faced her. - -"You _did_ love me, Kathleen!" he asserted; "you never said so in -words, but I know it," he added fiercely. - -"Yes, I did." - -"And----You mean that you don't now?" - -Her voice was very tired. "Yes--I can't help it," she answered, "it -has gone--utterly." - -The grey sea slowly lapped the rocks. Overhead the sharp scream of a -gull cut through the stillness. It was broken again, a moment -afterwards, by a short hard laugh from the man. - -"Don't!" she whispered, and laid a hand swiftly on his arm. "Do you -think it isn't worse for me? I wish to God I _did_ love you," she -cried passionately. "Perhaps it would make me forget that to all -intents and purposes I am a murderess." - -Broomhurst met her wide despairing eyes with an amazement which -yielded to sudden pitying comprehension. - -"So that is it, my darling? You are worrying about _that_? You who -were as loyal, as----" - -She stopped him with a frantic gesture. - -"Don't! _don't_!" she wailed. "If you only knew; let me try to tell -you--will you?" she urged pitifully. "It may be better if I tell -someone--if I don't keep it all to myself, and think, and _think_." - -She clasped her hands tight, with the old gesture he remembered when -she was struggling for self-control, and waited a moment. - -Presently she began to speak in a low hurried tone: "It began before -you came. I know now what the feeling was that I was afraid to -acknowledge to myself. I used to try and smother it, I used to repeat -things to myself all day--poems, stupid rhymes--_anything_ to keep my -thoughts quite underneath--but I--_hated_ John before you came! We had -been married nearly a year then. I never loved him. Of course you are -going to say: 'Why did you marry him?'" She looked drearily over the -placid sea. "Why _did_ I marry him? I don't know; for the reason that -hundreds of ignorant inexperienced girls marry, I suppose. My home -wasn't a happy one. I was miserable, and oh,--_restless_. I wonder if -men know what it feels like to be restless? Sometimes I think they -can't even guess. John wanted me very badly--nobody wanted me at home -particularly. There didn't seem to be any point in my life. Do you -understand?... Of course being alone with him in that little camp in -that silent plain"--she shuddered--"made things worse. My nerves went -all to pieces. Everything he said--his voice--his accent--his -walk--the way he ate--irritated me so that I longed to rush out -sometimes and shriek--and go _mad_. Does it sound ridiculous to you to -be driven mad by such trifles? I only know I used to get up from the -table sometimes and walk up and down outside, with both hands over my -mouth to keep myself quiet. And all the time I _hated_ myself--how I -hated myself! I never had a word from him that wasn't gentle and -tender. I believe he loved the ground I walked on. Oh, it is _awful_ -to be loved like that, when you----" She drew in her breath with a -sob. "I--I--it made me sick for him to come near me--to touch me." She -stopped a moment. - -Broomhurst gently laid his hand on her quivering one. "Poor little -girl!" he murmured. - -"Then _you_ came," she said, "and before long I had another feeling to -fight against. At first I thought it couldn't be true that I loved -you--it would die down. I think I was _frightened_ at the feeling; I -didn't know it hurt so to love anyone." - -Broomhurst stirred a little. "Go on," he said tersely. - -"But it didn't die," she continued in a trembling whisper, "and the -other _awful_ feeling grew stronger and stronger--hatred; no, that is -not the word--_loathing_ for--for--John. I fought against it. Yes," -she cried feverishly, clasping and unclasping her hands, "Heaven knows -I fought it with all my strength, and reasoned with myself, and--oh, I -did _everything_, but----" Her quick-falling tears made speech -difficult. - -"Kathleen!" Broomhurst urged desperately, "you couldn't help it, you -poor child. You say yourself you struggled against your feelings--you -were always gentle. Perhaps he didn't know." - -"But he did--he _did_," she wailed, "it is just that. I hurt him a -hundred times a day; he never said so, but I knew it; and yet I -_couldn't_ be kind to him--except in words--and he understood. And -after you came it was worse in one way, for he knew. I _felt_ he knew -that I loved you. His eyes used to follow me like a dog's, and I was -stabbed with remorse, and I tried to be good to him, but I couldn't." - -"But--he didn't suspect--he trusted you," began Broomhurst. "He had -every reason. No woman was ever so loyal, so----" - -"Hush," she almost screamed. "Loyal! it was the least I could do--to -stop you, I mean--when you----After all, I knew it without your -telling me. I had deliberately married him without loving him. It was -my own fault. I felt it. Even if I couldn't prevent his knowing that I -hated him, I could prevent _that_. It was my punishment. I deserved it -for _daring_ to marry without love. But I didn't spare John one pang, -after all," she added bitterly. "He knew what I felt towards him--I -don't think he cared about anything else. You say I mustn't reproach -myself? When I went back to the tent that morning--when you--when I -stopped you from saying you loved me, he was sitting at the table with -his head buried in his hands; he was crying--bitterly: I saw him--it -is terrible to see a man cry--and I stole away gently, but he saw me. -I was torn to pieces, but I _couldn't_ go to him. I knew he would kiss -me, and I shuddered to think of it. It seemed more than ever not to be -borne that he should do that--when I knew _you_ loved me." - -"Kathleen," cried her lover again, "don't dwell on it all so -terribly----don't----" - -"How can I forget?" she answered despairingly, "and then"--she lowered -her voice--"oh, I can't tell you--all the time, at the back of my mind -somewhere, there was a burning wish that he might _die_. I used to lie -awake at night, and do what I would to stifle it, that thought used to -_scorch_ me, I wished it so intensely. Do you believe that by willing -one can bring such things to pass?" she asked, looking at Broomhurst -with feverishly bright eyes. "No?--well, I don't know--I tried to -smother it. I _really_ tried, but it was there, whatever other -thoughts I heaped on the top. Then, when I heard the horse galloping -across the plain that morning, I had a sick fear that it was you. I -knew something had happened, and my first thought when I saw you alive -and well, and knew that it was _John_, was, _that it was too good to -be true_. I believe I laughed like a maniac, didn't I?... Not to -blame? Why, if it hadn't been for me he wouldn't have died. The men -say they saw him sitting with his head uncovered in the burning sun, -his face buried in his hands--just as I had seen him the day before. -He didn't trouble to be careful--he was too wretched." - -She paused, and Broomhurst rose and began to pace the little hillside -path at the edge of which they were seated. - -Presently he came back to her. - -"Kathleen, let me take care of you," he implored, stooping towards -her. "We have only ourselves to consider in this matter. Will you come -to me at once?" - -She shook her head sadly. - -Broomhurst set his teeth, and the lines round his mouth deepened. He -threw himself down beside her on the heather. - -"Dear," he urged still gently, though his voice showed he was -controlling himself with an effort. "You are morbid about this. You -have been alone too much--you are ill. Let me take care of you: I -_can_, Kathleen--and I love you. Nothing but morbid fancy makes you -imagine you are in any way responsible for--Drayton's death. You can't -bring him back to life, and----" - -"No," she sighed drearily, "and if I could, nothing would be altered. -Though I am mad with self-reproach, I feel _that_--it was all so -inevitable. If he were alive and well before me this instant my -feeling towards him wouldn't have changed. If he spoke to me, he would -say 'My dear'--and I should _loathe_ him. Oh, I know! It is _that_ -that makes it so awful." - -"But if you acknowledge it," Broomhurst struck in eagerly, "will you -wreck both of our lives for the sake of vain regrets? Kathleen, you -never will." - -He waited breathlessly for her answer. - -"I won't wreck both our lives by marrying again without love on my -side," she replied firmly. - -"I will take the risk," he said. "You _have_ loved me--you will love -me again. You are crushed and dazed now with brooding over this--this -trouble, but----" - -"But I will not allow you to take the risk," Kathleen answered. "What -sort of woman should I be to be willing again to live with a man I -don't love? I have come to know that there are things one owes to -_oneself_. Self-respect is one of them. I don't know how it has come -to be so, but all my old feeling for you has _gone_. It is as though -it had burnt itself out. I will not offer grey ashes to any man." - -Broomhurst looking up at her pale, set face, knew that her words were -final, and turned his own aside with a groan. - -"Ah!" cried Kathleen with a little break in her voice, "_don't._ Go -away and be happy and strong, and all that I loved in you. I am so -sorry--so sorry to hurt you. I----" her voice faltered miserably. -"I--I only bring trouble to people." - -There was a long pause. - -"Did you never think that there is a terrible vein of irony running -through the ordering of this world?" she said presently. "It is a -mistake to think our prayers are not answered--they are. In due time -we get our heart's desire--when we have ceased to care for it." - -"I haven't yet got mine," Broomhurst answered doggedly, "and I shall -never cease to care for it." - -She smiled a little with infinite sadness. - -"Listen, Kathleen," he said. They had both risen and he stood before -her, looking down at her. "I will go now, but in a year's time I shall -come back. I will not give you up. You shall love me yet." - -"Perhaps--I don't think so," she answered wearily. - -Broomhurst looked at her trembling lips a moment in silence, then he -stooped and kissed both her hands instead. - -"I will wait till you tell me you love me," he said. - -She stood watching him out of sight. He did not look back, and she -turned with swimming eyes to the grey sea and the transient gleams of -sunlight that swept like tender smiles across its face. - - - - -An Idyll - - By W. Brown MacDougal - -[Illustration: An Idyll] - - - - -Reticence in Literature - -Some Roundabout Remarks - - By Hubert Crackanthorpe - - -During the past fifty years, as everyone knows, the art of fiction has -been expanding in a manner exceedingly remarkable, till it has grown -to be the predominant branch of imaginative literature. But the other -day we were assured that poetry only thrives in limited and exquisite -editions; that the drama, here in England at least, has practically -ceased to be literature at all. Each epoch instinctively chooses that -literary vehicle which is best adapted for the expression of its -particular temper: just as the drama flourished in the robust age of -Shakespeare and Ben Jonson; just as that outburst of lyrical poetry, -at the beginning of the century in France, coincided with a period of -extreme emotional exaltation; so the novel, facile and flexible in its -conventions, with its endless opportunities for accurate delineation -of reality, becomes supreme in a time of democracy and of science--to -note but these two salient characteristics. - -And, if we pursue this light of thought, we find that, on all sides, -the novel is being approached in one especial spirit, that it would -seem to be striving, for the moment at any rate, to perfect itself -within certain definite limitations. To employ a hackneyed, and often -quite unintelligent, catchword--the novel is becoming realistic. - -Throughout the history of literature, the jealous worship of -beauty--which we term idealism--and the jealous worship of -truth--which we term realism--have alternately prevailed. Indeed, it -is within the compass of these alternations that lies the whole -fundamental diversity of literary temper. - -Still, the classification is a clumsy one, for no hard and fast line -can be drawn between the one spirit and the other. The so-called -idealist must take as his point of departure the facts of Nature; the -so-called realist must be sensitive to some one or other of the forms -of beauty, if each would achieve the fineness of great art. And the -pendulum of production is continually swinging, from degenerate -idealism to degenerate realism, from effete vapidity to slavish -sordidity. - -Either term, then, can only be employed in a purely limited and -relative sense. Completely idealistic art--art that has no point of -contact with the facts of the universe, as we know them--is, of -course, an impossible absurdity; similarly, a complete reproduction of -Nature by means of words is an absurd impossibility. Neither -emphasization nor abstraction can be dispensed with: the one, -eliminating the details of no import; the other, exaggerating those -which the artist has selected. And, even were such a thing possible, -it would not be Art. The invention of a highly perfected system of -coloured photography, for instance, or a skilful recording by means of -the phonograph of scenes in real life, would not subtract one whit -from the value of the painter's or the playwright's interpretation. -Art is not invested with the futile function of perpetually striving -after imitation or reproduction of Nature; she endeavours to produce, -through the adaptation of a restricted number of natural facts, an -harmonious and satisfactory whole. Indeed, in this very process of -adaptation and blending together, lies the main and greater task of -the artist. And the novel, the short story, even the impression of a -mere incident, convey each of them, the imprint of the temper in which -their creator has achieved this process of adaptation and blending -together of his material. They are inevitably stamped with the -hall-mark of his personality. A work of art can never be more than a -corner of Nature, seen through the temperament of a single man. Thus, -all literature is, must be, essentially subjective; for style is but -the power of individual expression. The disparity which separates -literature from the reporter's transcript is ineradicable. There is a -quality of ultimate suggestiveness to be achieved; for the business of -art is, not to explain or to describe, but to suggest. That attitude -of objectivity, or of impersonality towards his subject, consciously -or unconsciously, assumed by the artist, and which nowadays provokes -so considerable an admiration, can be attained only in a limited -degree. Every piece of imaginative work must be a kind of -autobiography of its creator--significant, if not of the actual facts -of his existence, at least of the inner working of his soul. We are -each of us conscious, not of the whole world, but of our own world; -not of naked reality, but of that aspect of reality which our peculiar -temperament enables us to appropriate. Thus, every narrative of an -external circumstance is never anything else than the transcript of -the impression produced upon ourselves by that circumstance, and, -invariably, a degree of individual interpretation is insinuated into -every picture, real or imaginary, however objective it may be. So -then, the disparity between the so-called idealist and the so-called -realist is a matter, not of æsthetic philosophy, but of individual -temperament. Each is at work, according to the especial bent of his -genius, within precisely the same limits. Realism, as a creed, is as -ridiculous as any other literary creed. - -Now, it would have been exceedingly curious if this recent -specialisation of the art of fiction, this passion for draining from -the life, as it were, born, in due season, of the general spirit of -the latter half of the nineteenth century, had not provoked a -considerable amount of opposition--opposition of just that kind which -every new evolution in art inevitably encounters. Between the vanguard -and the main body there is perpetual friction. - -But time flits quickly in this hurried age of ours, and the opposition -to the renascence of fiction as a conscientious interpretation of life -is not what it was; its opponents are not the men they were. It is not -so long since a publisher was sent to prison for issuing English -translations of celebrated specimens of French realism; yet, only the -other day, we vied with each other in doing honour to the chief -figure-head of that tendency across the Channel, and there was heard -but the belated protest of a few worthy individuals, inadequately -equipped with the jaunty courage of ignorance, or the insufferable -confidence of second-hand knowledge. - -And during the past year things have been moving very rapidly. The -position of the literary artist towards Nature, his great inspirer, -has become more definite, more secure. A sound, organised opinion of -men of letters is being acquired; and in the little bouts with the -_bourgeois_--if I may be pardoned the use of that wearisome word--no -one has to fight single-handed. Heroism is at a discount; Mrs. Grundy -is becoming mythological; a crowd of unsuspected supporters collect -from all sides, and the deadly conflict of which we had been warned -becomes but an interesting skirmish. Books are published, stories are -printed, in old-established reviews, which would never have been -tolerated a few years ago. On all sides, deference to the tendency of -the time is spreading. The truth must be admitted: the roar of -unthinking prejudice is dying away. - -All this is exceedingly comforting: and yet, perhaps, it is not a -matter for absolute congratulation. For, if the enemy are not dying as -gamely as we had expected, if they are, as I am afraid, losing heart, -and in danger of sinking into a condition of passive indifference, it -should be to us a matter of not inconsiderable apprehension. If this -new evolution in the art of fiction--this general return of the -literary artist towards Nature, on the brink of which we are to-day -hesitating--is to achieve any definite, ultimate fineness of -expression, it will benefit enormously by the continued presence of a -healthy, vigorous, if not wholly intelligent, body of opponents. -Directly or indirectly, they will knock a lot of nonsense out of us, -will these opponents;--why should we be ashamed to admit it? They will -enable us to find our level, they will spur us on to bring out the -best--and only the best--that is within us. - -Take, for instance, the gentleman who objects to realistic fiction on -moral grounds. If he does not stand the most conspicuous to-day, at -least he was pre-eminent the day before yesterday. He is a hard case, -and it is on his especial behalf that I would appeal. For he has been -dislodged from the hill top, he has become a target for all manner of -unkind chaff, from the ribald youth of Fleet Street and Chelsea. He -has been labelled a Philistine: he has been twitted with his -middle-age; he has been reported to have compromised himself with that -indecent old person, Mrs. Grundy. It is confidently asserted that he -comes from Putney, or from Sheffield, and that, when he is not busy -abolishing the art of English literature, he is employed in -safeguarding the interests of the grocery or tallow-chandler's trade. -Strange and cruel tales of him have been printed in the monthly -reviews; how, but for him, certain well-known popular writers would -have written masterpieces; how, like the ogre in the fairy tale, he -consumes every morning at breakfast a hundred pot-boiled young -geniuses. For the most part they have been excellently well told, -these tales of this moral ogre of ours; but why start to shatter -brutally their dainty charm by a soulless process of investigation? -No, let us be shamed rather into a more charitable spirit, into making -generous amends, into rehabilitating the greatness of our moral ogre. - -He is the backbone of our nation; the guardian of our mediocrity; the -very foil of our intelligence. Once, you fancied that you could argue -with him, that you could dispute his dictum. Ah! how we cherished that -day-dream of our extreme youth. But it was not to be. He is still -immense; for he is unassailable; he is flawless, for he is complete -within himself; his lucidity is yet unimpaired; his impartiality is -yet supreme. Who amongst us could judge with a like impartiality the -productions of Scandinavia and Charpentier, Walt Whitman, and the -Independent Theatre? Let us remember that he has never professed to -understand Art, and the deep debt of gratitude that every artist in -the land should consequently owe to him; let us remember that he is -above us, for he belongs to the great middle classes; let us remember -that he commands votes, that he is candidate for the County Council; -let us remember that he is delightful, because he is intelligible. - -Yes, he is intelligible; and of how many of us can that be said? His -is no complex programme, no subtly exacting demand. A plain moral -lesson is all that he asks, and his voice is as of one crying in the -ever fertile wilderness of Smith and of Mudie. - -And he is right, after all--if he only knew it. The business of art is -to create for us fine interests, to make of our human nature a more -complete thing: and thus, all great art is moral in the wider and the -truer sense of the word. It is precisely on this point of the meaning -of the word "moral" that we and our ogre part company. To him, -morality is concerned only with the established relations between the -sexes and with fair dealing between man and man: to him the subtle, -indirect morality of Art is incomprehensible. - -Theoretically, Art is non-moral. She is not interested in any ethical -code of any age or any nation, except in so far as the breach or -observance of that code may furnish her with material on which to -work. But, unfortunately, in this complex world of ours, we cannot -satisfactorily pursue one interest--no, not even the interest of Art, -at the expense of all others--let us look that fact in the face, -doggedly, whatever pangs it may cost us--pleading magnanimously for -the survival of our moral ogre, for there will be danger to our cause -when his voice is no more heard. - -If imitation be the sincerest form of flattery, then our moral ogre -must indeed have experienced a proud moment, when a follower came to -him from the camp of the lovers of Art, and the artistic objector to -realistic fiction started on his timid career. I use the word timid in -no disparaging sense, but because our artistic objector, had he -ventured a little farther from the vicinity of the coat-tails of his -powerful protector, might have secured a more adequate recognition of -his performances. For he is by no means devoid of adroitness. He can -patter to us glibly of the "gospel of ugliness"; of the "cheerlessness -of modern literature"; he can even juggle with that honourable -property-piece, the maxim of Art for Art's sake. But there have been -moments when even this feat has proved ineffective, and some one has -started scoffing at his pretended "delight in pure rhythm or music of -the phrase," and flippantly assured him that he is talking nonsense, -and that style is a mere matter of psychological suggestion. You fancy -our performer nonplussed, or at least boldly bracing himself to brazen -the matter out. No, he passes dexterously to his curtain effect--a -fervid denunciation of express trains, evening newspapers, Parisian -novels, or the first number of THE YELLOW BOOK. Verily, he is a -versatile person. - -Sometimes, to listen to him you would imagine that pessimism and -regular meals were incompatible; that the world is only ameliorated by -those whom it completely satisfies, that good predominates over evil, -that the problem of our destiny had been solved long ago. You begin to -doubt whether any good thing can come out of this miserable, -inadequate age of ours, unless it be a doctored survival of the -vocabulary of a past century. The language of the coster and cadger -resound in our midst, and, though Velasquez tried to paint like -Whistler, Rudyard Kipling cannot write like Pope. And a weird word has -been invented to explain the whole business. Decadence, decadence: you -are all decadent nowadays. Ibsen, Degas, and the New English Art Club; -Zola, Oscar Wilde, and the Second Mrs. Tanqueray. Mr. Richard Le -Gallienne is hoist with his own petard; even the British playwright -has not escaped the taint. Ah, what a hideous spectacle. All whirling -along towards one common end. And the elegant voice of the artistic -objector floating behind: "_Après vous le déluge_." A wholesale -abusing of the tendencies of the age has ever proved, for the superior -mind, an inexhaustible source of relief. Few things breed such inward -comfort as the contemplation of one's own pessimism--few things -produce such discomfort as the remembrance of our neighbour's -optimism. - -And yet, pessimists though we may be dubbed, some of us, on this point -at least, how can we compete with the hopelessness enjoyed by our -artistic objector, when the spectacle of his despondency makes us -insufferably replete with hope and confidence, so that while he is -loftily bewailing or prettily denouncing the completeness of our -degradation, we continue to delight in the evil of our ways? Oh, if we -could only be sure that he would persevere in reprimanding this -persistent study of the pitiable aspects of life, how our hearts would -go out towards him? For the man who said that joy is essentially, -regrettably inartistic, admitted in the same breath that misery lends -itself to artistic treatment twice as easily as joy, and resumed the -whole question in a single phrase. Let our artistic objector but weary -the world sufficiently with his despair concerning the permanence of -the cheerlessness of modern realism, and some day a man will arise who -will give us a study of human happiness, as fine, as vital as anything -we owe to Guy de Maupassant or to Ibsen. That man will have -accomplished the infinitely difficult, and in admiration and in awe -shall we bow down our heads before him. - -In one radical respect the art of fiction is not in the same position -as the other arts. They--music, poetry, painting, sculpture, and the -drama--possess a magnificent fabric of accumulated tradition. The -great traditions of the art of fiction have yet to be made. Ours is a -young art, struggling desperately to reach expression, with no great -past to guide it. Thus, it should be a matter for wonder, not that we -stumble into certain pitfalls, but that we do not fall headlong into a -hundred more. - -But, if we have no great past, we have the present and the future--the -one abundant in facilities, the other abundant in possibilities. Young -men of to-day have enormous chances: we are working under exceedingly -favourable conditions. Possibly we stand on the threshold of a very -great period. I know, of course, that the literary artist is -shamefully ill-paid, and that the man who merely caters for the public -taste, amasses a rapid and respectable fortune. But how is it that -such an arrangement seems other than entirely equitable? The essential -conditions of the two cases are entirely distinct. The one man is free -to give untrammelled expression to his own soul, free to fan to the -full the flame that burns in his heart: the other is a seller of -wares, a unit in national commerce. To the one is allotted liberty and -a living wage; to the other, captivity and a consolation in Consols. -Let us whine, then, no more concerning the prejudice and the -persecution of the Philistine, when even that misanthrope, Mr. Robert -Buchanan, admits that there is no power in England to prevent a man -writing exactly as he pleases. Before long the battle for literary -freedom will be won. A new public has been created--appreciative, -eager and determined; a public which, as Mr. Gosse puts it, in one of -those admirable essays of his, "has eaten of the apple of knowledge, -and will not be satisfied with mere marionnettes. Whatever comes -next," Mr. Gosse continues, "we cannot return, in serious novels, to -the inanities and impossibilities of the old well-made plot, to the -children changed at nurse, to the madonna-heroine and the god-like -hero, to the impossible virtues and melodramatic vices. In future, -even those who sneer at realism and misrepresent it most wilfully, -will be obliged to put their productions more in accordance with -veritable experience. There will still be novel-writers who address -the gallery, and who will keep up the gaudy old convention, and the -clumsy _Family Herald_ evolution, but they will no longer be -distinguished men of genius. They will no longer sign themselves -George Sand or Charles Dickens." - -Fiction has taken her place amongst the arts. The theory that writing -resembles the blacking of boots, the more boots you black, the better -you do it, is busy evaporating. The excessive admiration for the mere -idea of a book or a story is dwindling; so is the comparative -indifference to slovenly treatment. True is it that the society lady, -dazzled by the brilliancy of her own conversation, and the -serious-minded spinster, bitten by some sociological theory, still -decide in the old jaunty spirit, that fiction is the obvious medium -through which to astonish or improve the world. Let us beware of the -despotism of the intelligent amateur, and cease our toying with that -quaint and winsome bogey of ours, the British Philistine, whilst the -intelligent amateur, the deadliest of Art's enemies, is creeping up in -our midst. - -For the familiarity of the man in the street with the material -employed by the artist in fiction, will ever militate against the -acquisition of a sound, fine, and genuine standard of workmanship. -Unlike the musician, the painter, the sculptor, the architect, the -artist in fiction enjoys no monopoly in his medium. The word and the -phrase are, of necessity, the common property of everybody; the -ordinary use of them demands no special training. Hence the popular -mind, while willingly acknowledging that there are technical -difficulties to be surmounted in the creation of the sonata, the -landscape, the statue, the building, in the case of the short story, -or of the longer novel, declines to believe even in their existence, -persuaded that in order to produce good fiction, an ingenious idea, or -"plot," as it is termed, is the one thing needed. The rest is a mere -matter of handwriting. - -The truth is, and, despite Mr. Waugh, we are near recognition of it, -that nowadays there is but scanty merit in the mere selection of any -particular subject, however ingenious or daring it may appear at first -sight; that a man is not an artist, simply because he writes about -heredity or the _demi-monde_, that to call a spade a spade requires no -extraordinary literary gift, and that the essential is contained in -the frank, fearless acceptance by every man of his entire artistic -temperament, with its qualities and its flaws. - - - - -Two Drawings - - By E. J. Sullivan - - - - I. The Old Man's Garden - - II. The Quick and the Dead - -[Illustration: The Old Man's Garden] - -[Illustration: The Quick and the Dead] - - - - -My Study - - By Alfred Hayes - - - Let others strive for wealth or praise - Who care to win; - I count myself full blest, if He, - Who made my study fair to see, - Grant me but length of quiet days - To muse therein. - - Its walls, with peach and cherry clad, - From yonder wold - Unbosomed, seem as if thereon - September sunbeams ever shone; - They make the air look warm and glad - When winds are cold. - - Around its door a clematis - Her arms doth tie; - Through leafy lattices I view - Its endless corridors of blue - Curtained with clouds; its ceiling is - The marbled sky. - - A verdant carpet smoothly laid - Doth oft invite - My silent steps; thereon the sun - With silver thread of dew hath spun - Devices rare--the warp of shade, - The weft of light. - - Here dwell my chosen books, whose leaves - With healing breath - The ache of discontent assuage, - And speak from each illumined page - The patience that my soul reprieves - From inward death; - - Some perish with a season's wind, - And some endure; - One robes itself in snow, and one - In raiment of the rising sun - Bordered with gold; in all I find - God's signature. - - As on my grassy couch I lie, - From hedge and tree - Musicians pipe; or if the heat - Subdue the birds, one crooneth sweet - Whose labour is a lullaby-- - The slumbrous bee. - - The sun my work doth overlook - With searching light; - The serious moon, the flickering star, - My midnight lamp and candle are; - A soul unhardened is the book - Wherein I write. - - There labouring, my heart is eased - Of every care; - Yet often wonderstruck I stand, - With earnest gaze but idle hand, - Abashed--for God Himself is pleased - To labour there. - - Ashamed my faultful task to spell, - I watch how grows - The Master's perfect colour-scheme - Of sunset, or His simpler dream - Of moonlight, or that miracle - We name a rose. - - Dear Earth, one thought alone doth grieve-- - The tender dread - Of parting from thee; as a child, - Who painted while his father smiled, - Then watched him paint, is loth to leave - And go to bed. - - - - -A Reminiscence of - -"The Transgressor" - - By Francis Forster - -[Illustration: A Reminiscence of The Transgressor] - - - - -A Letter to the Editor - - From Max Beerbohm - - -Dear Sir,--When The Yellow Book appeared I was in Oxford. So literary -a little town is Oxford that its undergraduates see a newspaper nearly -as seldom as the Venetians see a horse, and until yesterday, when -coming to London, I found in the album of a friend certain newspaper -cuttings, I had not known how great was the wrath of the pressmen. - -What in the whole volume seems to have provoked the most ungovernable -fury is, I am sorry to say, an essay about Cosmetics that I myself -wrote. Of this it was impossible for anyone to speak calmly. The mob -lost its head, and, so far as anyone in literature can be lynched, I -was. In speaking of me, one paper dropped the usual prefix of "Mr." as -though I were a well-known criminal, and referred to me shortly as -"Beerbohm"; a second allowed me the "Mr." but urged that "a short Act -of Parliament should be passed to make this kind of thing illegal"; a -third suggested, rather tamely, that I should read one of Mr. William -Watson's sonnets. More than one comic paper had a very serious poem -about me, and a known adherent to the humour which, forest-like, is -called new, declared my essay to be "the rankest and most nauseous -thing in all literature." It was a bomb thrown by a cowardly decadent, -another outrage by one of that desperate and dangerous band of madmen -who must be mercilessly stamped out by a comity of editors. May I, -Sir, in justice to myself and to you, who were gravely censured for -harbouring me, step forward, and assure the affrighted mob that it is -the victim of a hoax? May I also assure it that I had no notion that -it would be taken in? Indeed, it seems incredible to me that any one -on the face of the earth could fail to see that my essay, so grotesque -in subject, in opinion so flippant, in style so wildly affected, was -meant for a burlesque upon the "precious" school of writers. If I had -only signed myself D. Cadent or Parrar Docks, or appended a note to -say that the MS. had been picked up not a hundred miles from Tite -Street, all the pressmen would have said that I had given them a very -delicate bit of satire. But I did not. And _hinc_, as they themselves -love to say, _illæ lacrimæ_. - -After all, I think it is a sound rule that a writer should not kick -his critics. I simply wish to make them a friendly philosophical -suggestion. It seems to be thought that criticism holds in the -artistic world much the same place as, in the moral world, is held by -punishment--"the vengeance taken by the majority upon such as exceed -the limits of conduct imposed by that majority." As in the case of -punishment, then, we must consider the effect produced by criticism -upon its object, how far is it reformatory? Personally, I cannot -conceive how any artist can be hurt by remarks dropped from a garret -into a gutter. Yet it is incontestable that many an illustrious artist -has so been hurt. And these very remarks, so far from making him -change or temper his method, have rather made that method intenser, -have driven him to retire further within his own soul, by showing him -how little he may hope for from the world but insult and ingratitude. - -In fact, the police-constable mode of criticism is a failure. True -that, here and there, much beautiful work of the kind has been done. -In the old, old Quarterlies is many a slashing review, that, however -absurd it be as criticism, we can hardly wish unwritten. In the -_National Observer_, before its reformation, were countless fine -examples of the cavilling method. The paper was rowdy, venomous and -insincere. There was libel in every line of it. It roared with the -lambs and bleated with the lions. It was a disgrace to journalism and -a glory to literature. I think of it often with tears and desiderium. -But the men who wrote these things stand upon a very different plane -to the men employed as critics by the press of Great Britain. These -must be judged, not by their workmanship, which is naught, but by the -spirit that animates them and the consequence of their efforts. If -only they could learn that it is for the critic to seek after beauty -and to try to interpret it to others, if only they would give over -their eternal fault-finding and not presume to interfere with the -artist at his work, then with an equally small amount of ability our -pressmen might do nearly as much good as they have hitherto done harm. -Why should they regard writers with such enmity? The average pressman, -reviewing a book of stories or of poems by an unknown writer, seems -not to think "where are the beauties of this work that I may praise -them, and by my praise quicken the sense of beauty in others?" He -steadily applies himself to the ignoble task of plucking out and -gloating over its defects. It is a pity that critics should show so -little sympathy with writers, and curious when we consider that most -of them tried to be writers themselves, once. Every new school that -has come into the world, every new writer who has brought with him a -new mode, they have rudely persecuted. The dulness of Ibsen, the -obscurity of Meredith, the horrors of Zola--all these are household -words. It is not until the pack has yelled itself hoarse that the -level voice of justice is heard in praise. To pretend that no -generation is capable of gauging the greatness of its own artists is -the merest bauble-tit. Were it not for the accursed abuse of their -function by the great body of critics, no poet need "live uncrown'd, -apart." Many and irreparable are the wrongs that our critics have -done. At length let them repent with ashes upon their heads. Where -they see not beauty, let them be silent, reverently feeling that it -may yet be there, and train their dull senses in quest of it. - -Now is a good time for such penance. There are signs that our English -literature has reached that point, when, like the literatures of all -the nations that have been, it must fall at length into the hands of -the decadents. The qualities that I tried in my essay to -travesty--paradox and marivaudage, lassitude, a love of horror and all -unusual things, a love of argot and archaism and the mysteries of -style--are not all these displayed, some by one, some by another of -les jeunes écrivains? Who knows but that Artifice is in truth at our -gates and that soon she may pass through our streets? Already the -windows of Grub Street are crowded with watchful, evil faces. They are -ready, the men of Grub Street, to pelt her, as they have pelted all -that came before her. Let them come down while there is still time, -and hang their houses with colours, and strew the road with flowers. -Will they not, for once, do homage to a new queen? By the time this -letter appears, it _may_ be too late! - -Meanwhile, Sir, I am, your obedient servant, - - MAX BEERBOHM. - -Oxford, May '94. - - - - -A Study - - By Bernhard Sickert - -[Illustration: A Study] - - - - - _EPIGRAM_ - - _TO A LADY RECOVERED FROM A DANGEROUS - SICKNESS_ - - - - _Life plucks thee back as by the golden hair--_ - - _Life, who had feigned to let thee go but now._ - - _Wealthy is Death already, and can spare_ - - _Ev'n such a prey as thou._ - - - _WILLIAM WATSON_ - - - - -The Coxon Fund - - By Henry James - - - I - -"They've got him for life!" I said to myself that evening on my way -back to the station; but later, alone in the compartment (from -Wimbledon to Waterloo, before the glory of the District Railway), I -amended this declaration in the light of the sense that my friends -would probably after all not enjoy a monopoly of Mr. Saltram. I won't -pretend to have taken his vast measure on that first occasion; but I -think I had achieved a glimpse of what the privilege of his -acquaintance might mean for many persons in the way of charges -accepted. He had been a great experience, and it was this perhaps that -had put me into a frame for divining that we should all have the -honour, sooner or later, of dealing with him as a whole. Whatever -impression I then received of the amount of this total, I had a full -enough vision of the patience of the Mulvilles. He was staying with -them for the winter; Adelaide dropped it in a tone which drew the -sting from the temporary. These excellent people might indeed have -been content to give the circle of hospitality a diameter of six -months; but if they didn't say that he was staying for the summer as -well it was only because this was more than they ventured to hope. I -remember that at dinner that evening he wore slippers, new and -predominantly purple, of some queer carpet-stuff; but the Mulvilles -were still in the stage of supposing that he might be snatched from -them by higher bidders. At a later time they grew, poor dears, to fear -no snatching; but theirs was a fidelity which needed no help from -competition to make them proud. Wonderful indeed as, when all was -said, you inevitably pronounced Frank Saltram, it was not to be -overlooked that the Kent Mulvilles were in their way still more -extraordinary; as striking an instance as could easily be encountered -of the familiar truth that remarkable men find remarkable -conveniences. - -They had sent for me from Wimbledon to come out and dine, and there -had been an implication in Adelaide's note (judged by her notes alone -she might have been thought silly), that it was a case in which -something momentous was to be determined or done. I had never known -them not to be in a state about somebody, and I daresay I tried to be -droll on this point in accepting their invitation. On finding myself -in the presence of their latest revelation I had not at first felt -irreverence droop--and, thank heaven, I have never been absolutely -deprived of that alternative in Mr. Saltram's company. I saw, however -(I hasten to declare it), that compared to this specimen their other -phoenixes had been birds of inconsiderable feather, and I afterwards -took credit to myself for not having even in primal bewilderments made -a mistake about the essence of the man. He had an incomparable gift; I -never was blind to it--it dazzles me at present. It dazzles me perhaps -even more in remembrance than in fact, for I'm not unaware that for a -subject so magnificent the imagination goes to some expense, inserting -a jewel here and there or giving a twist to a plume. How the art of -portraiture would rejoice in this figure if the art of portraiture had -only the canvas! Nature, however, had really rounded it, and if -memory, hovering about it, sometimes holds her breath, this is because -the voice that comes back was really golden. - -Though the great man was an inmate and didn't dress he kept dinner on -this occasion waiting long, and the first words he uttered on coming -into the room were a triumphant announcement to Mulville that he had -found out something. Not catching the allusion and gaping doubtless a -little at his face, I privately asked Adelaide what he had found out. -I shall never forget the look she gave me as she replied: -"Everything!" She really believed it. At that moment, at any rate, he -had found out that the mercy of the Mulvilles was infinite. He had -previously of course discovered, as I had myself for that matter, that -their dinners were soignés. Let me not indeed, in saying this, neglect -to declare that I shall falsify my counterfeit if I seem to hint that -there was in his nature any ounce of calculation. He took whatever -came, but he never plotted for it, and no man who was so much of an -absorbent can ever have been so little of a parasite. He had a system -of the universe, but he had no system of sponging--that was quite hand -to mouth. He had fine, gross, easy senses, but it was not his -good-natured appetite that wrought confusion. If he had loved us for -our dinners we could have paid with our dinners, and it would have -been a great economy of finer matter. I make free in these connections -with the plural possessive because, if I was never able to do what the -Mulvilles did, and people with still bigger houses and simpler -charities, I met, first and last, every demand of reflection, of -emotion--particularly perhaps those of gratitude and of resentment. No -one, I think, paid the tribute of giving him up so often, and if it's -rendering honour to borrow wisdom I have a right to talk of my -sacrifices. He yielded lessons as the sea yields fish--I lived for a -while on this diet. Sometimes it almost appeared to me that his -massive, monstrous failure--if failure after all it was--had been -intended for my private recreation. He fairly pampered my curiosity; -but the history of that experience would take me too far. This is not -the large canvas I just now spoke of, and I would not have approached -him with my present hand had it been a question of all the features. -Frank Saltram's features, for artistic purposes, are verily the -anecdotes that are to be gathered. Their name is legion, and this is -only one, of which the interest is that it concerns even more closely -several other persons. Such episodes, as one looks back, are the -little dramas that made up the innumerable facets of the big -drama--which is yet to be reported. - - - II - -It is furthermore remarkable that though the two stories are -distinct--my own, as it were, and this other, they equally began, in a -manner, the first night of my acquaintance with Frank Saltram, the -night I came back from Wimbledon so agitated with a new sense of life -that, in London, for the very thrill of it, I could only walk home. -Walking and swinging my stick, I overtook, at Buckingham Gate, George -Gravener, and George Gravener's story may be said to have begun with -my making him, as our paths lay together, come home with me for a -talk. I duly remember, let me parenthesise, that it was still more -that or another person, and also that several years were to elapse -before it was to extend to a second chapter. I had much to say to him, -none the less, about my visit to the Mulvilles, whom he more -indifferently knew, and I was at any rate so amusing that for long -afterwards he never encountered me without asking for news of the old -man of the sea. I hadn't said Mr. Saltram was old, and it was to be -seen that he was of an age to outweather George Gravener. I had at -that time a lodging in Ebury Street, and Gravener was staying at his -brother's empty house in Eaton Square. At Cambridge, five years -before, even in our devastating set, his intellectual power had seemed -to me almost awful. Some one had once asked me privately, with -blanched cheeks, what it was then that after all such a mind as that -left standing. "It leaves itself!" I could recollect devoutly -replying. I could smile at present at this reminiscence, for even -before we got to Ebury Street I was struck with the fact that, save in -the sense of being well set up on his legs, George Gravener had -actually ceased to tower. The universe he laid low had somehow bloomed -again--the usual eminences were visible. I wondered whether he had -lost his humour, or only, dreadful thought, had never had any--not -even when I had fancied him most Aristophanesque. What was the need of -appealing to laughter, however, I could enviously inquire, where you -might appeal so confidently to measurement? Mr. Saltram's queer -figure, his thick nose and hanging lip were fresh to me: in the light -of my old friend's fine cold symmetry they presented mere success in -amusing as the refuge of conscious ugliness. Already, at hungry -twenty-six, Gravener looked as blank and parliamentary as if he were -fifty and popular. In my scrap of a residence (he had a wordling's eye -for its futile conveniences, but never a comrade's joke), I sounded -Frank Saltram in his ears; a circumstance I mention in order to note -that even then I was surprised at his impatience of my enlivenment. As -he had never before heard of the personage, it took indeed the form of -impatience of the preposterous Mulvilles, his relation to whom, like -mine, had had its origin in an early, a childish intimacy with the -young Adelaide, the fruit of multiplied ties in the previous -generation. When she married Kent Mulville, who was older than -Gravener and I, and much more amiable, I gained a friend, but Gravener -practically lost one. We were affected in different ways by the form -taken by what he called their deplorable social action--the form (the -term was also his) of nasty second-rate gush. I may have held in my -_for intérieur_ that the good people at Wimbledon were beautiful -fools, but when he sniffed at them I couldn't help taking the opposite -line, for I already felt that even should we happen to agree it would -always be for reasons that differed. It came home to me that he was -admirably British as, without so much as a sociable sneer at my -bookbinder, he turned away from the serried rows of my little French -library. - -"Of course I've never seen the fellow, but it's clear enough he's a -humbug." - -"Clear _enough_ is just what it isn't," I replied: "if it only were!" -That ejaculation on my part must have been the beginning of what was -to be later a long ache for final frivolous rest. Gravener was -profound enough to remark after a moment that in the first place he -couldn't be anything but a Dissenter, and when I answered that the -very note of his fascination was his extraordinary speculative breadth -he retorted that there was no cad like your cultivated cad and that I -might depend upon discovering (since I had had the levity not already -to have inquired), that my shining light proceeded, a generation back, -from a Methodist cheesemonger. I confess I was struck with his -insistence, and I said, after reflection: "It may be--I admit it may -be; but why on earth are you so sure?"--asking the question mainly to -lay him the trap of saying that it was because the poor man didn't -dress for dinner. He took an instant to dodge my trap and come blandly -out the other side. - -"Because the Kent Mulvilles have invented him. They've an infallible -hand for frauds. All their geese are swans. They were born to be -duped, they like it, they cry for it, they don't know anything from -anything, and they disgust one (luckily perhaps!) with Christian -charity." His intensity was doubtless an accident, but it might have -been a strange foreknowledge. I forget what protest I dropped; it was -at any rate something which led him to go on after a moment: "I only -ask one thing--it's perfectly simple. Is a man, in a given case, a -real gentleman?" - -"A real gentleman, my dear fellow--that's so soon said!" - -"Not so soon when he isn't! If they've got hold of one this time he -must be a great rascal!" - -"I might feel injured," I answered, "if I didn't reflect that they -don't rave about _me_." - -"Don't be too sure! I'll grant that he's a gentleman," Gravener -presently added, "if you'll admit that he's a scamp." - -"I don't know which to admire most, your logic or your benevolence." - -My friend coloured at this, but he didn't change the subject. "Where -did they pick him up?" - -"I think they were struck with something he had published." - -"I can fancy the dreary thing!" - -"I believe they found out he had all sorts of worries and -difficulties." - -"That, of course, was not to be endured, and they jumped at the -privilege of paying his debts!" I replied that I knew nothing about -his debts, and I reminded my visitor that though the dear Mulvilles -were angels they were neither idiots nor millionaires. What they -mainly aimed at was re-uniting Mr. Saltram to his wife. "I was -expecting to hear that he has basely abandoned her," Gravener went on, -at this, "and I'm too glad you don't disappoint me." - -I tried to recall exactly what Mrs. Mulville had told me. "He didn't -leave her--no. It's she who has left him." - -"Left him to _us_?" Gravener asked. "The monster--many thanks! I -decline to take him." - -"You'll hear more about him in spite of yourself. I can't, no, I -really can't, resist the impression that he's a big man." I was -already learning--to my shame perhaps be it said--just the tone that -my old friend least liked. - -"It's doubtless only a trifle," he returned, "but you haven't happened -to mention what his reputation's to rest on." - -"Why, on what I began by boring you with--his extraordinary mind." - -"As exhibited in his writings?" - -"Possibly in his writings, but certainly in his talk, which is far and -away the richest I ever listened to." - -"And what is it all about?" - -"My dear fellow, don't ask me! About everything!" I pursued, reminding -myself of poor Adelaide. "About his idea of things," I then more -charitably added. "You must have heard him to know what I mean--it's -unlike anything that ever _was_ heard." I coloured, I admit, I -overcharged a little, for such a picture was an anticipation of -Saltram's later development and still more of my fuller acquaintance -with him. However, I really expressed, a little lyrically perhaps, my -actual imagination of him when I proceeded to declare that, in a cloud -of tradition, of legend, he might very well go down to posterity as -the greatest of all great talkers. Before we parted George Gravener -demanded why such a row should be made about a chatterbox the more and -why he should be pampered and pensioned. The greater the windbag the -greater the calamity. Out of proportion to all other movements on -earth had come to be this wagging of the tongue. We were drenched with -talk--our wretched age was dying of it. I differed from him here -sincerely, only going so far as to concede, and gladly, that we were -drenched with sound. It was not, however, the mere speakers who were -killing us--it was the mere stammerers. Fine talk was as rare as it -was refreshing--the gift of the gods themselves, the one starry -spangle on the ragged cloak of humanity. How many men were there who -rose to this privilege, of how many masters of conversation could he -boast the acquaintance? Dying of talk?--why, we were dying of the lack -of it! Bad writing wasn't talk, as many people seemed to think, and -even good wasn't always to be compared to it. From the best talk, -indeed, the best writing had something to learn. I fancifully added -that we too should peradventure be gilded by the legend, should be -pointed at for having listened, for having actually heard. Gravener, -who had looked at his watch and discovered it was midnight, found to -all this a response beautifully characteristic of him. - -"There is one little sovereign circumstance," he remarked, "which is -common to the best talk and the worst." He looked at this moment as if -he meant so much that I thought he could only mean once more that -neither of them mattered if a man wasn't a real gentleman. Perhaps it -was what he did mean; he deprived me, however, of the exultation of -being right by putting the truth in a slightly different way. "The -only thing that really counts for one's estimate of a person is his -conduct." He had his watch still in his hand, and I reproached him -with unfair play in having ascertained beforehand that it was now the -hour at which I always gave in. My pleasantry so far failed to mollify -him as that he presently added that to the rule he had just enunciated -there was absolutely no exception. - -"None whatever?" - -"None whatever." - -"Trust me then to try to be good at any price!" I laughed as I went -with him to the door. "I declare I will be, if I have to be horrible!" - - - III - -If that first night was one of the liveliest, or at any rate was the -freshest, of my exaltation, there was another, four years later, that -was one of my great discomposures. Repetition, I well knew by this -time, was the secret of Saltram's power to alienate, and of course one -would never have seen him at his finest if one hadn't seen him in his -remorses. They set in mainly at this season and were magnificent, -orchestral. I was perfectly aware that one of these great sweeps was -now gathering; but none the less, in our arduous attempt to set him on -his feet as a lecturer, it was impossible not to feel that two -failures were a large order, as we said, for a short course of five. -This was the second time, and it was past nine o'clock; the audience, -a muster unprecedented and really encouraging, had fortunately the -attitude of blandness that might have been looked for in persons whom -the promise (if I am not mistaken) of an Analysis of Primary Ideas had -drawn to the neighbourhood of Upper Baker Street. There was in those -days in that region a petty lecture-hall to be secured on terms as -moderate as the funds left at our disposal by the irrepressible -question of the maintenance of five small Saltrams (I include the -mother) and one large one. By the time the Saltrams, of different -sizes, were all maintained, we had pretty well poured out the oil that -might have lubricated the machinery for enabling the most original of -men to appear to maintain them. - -It was I, the other time, who had been forced into the breach, -standing up there, for an odious lamplit moment to explain to -half-a-dozen thin benches, where the earnest brows were virtuously -void of guesses, that we couldn't put so much as a finger on Mr. -Saltram. There was nothing to plead but that our scouts had been out -from the early hours and that we were afraid that on one of his walks -abroad--he took one, for meditation, whenever he was to address such a -company--some accident had disabled or delayed him. The meditative -walks were a fiction, for he never, that anyone could discover, -prepared anything but a magnificent prospectus; so that his circulars -and programmes, of which I possess an almost complete collection, are -as the solemn ghosts of generations never born. I put the case, as it -seemed to me, at the best; but I admit I had been angry, and Kent -Mulville was shocked at my want of attenuation. This time therefore I -left the excuses to his more practised patience, only relieving myself -in response to a direct appeal from a young lady next whom, in the -hall, I found myself sitting. My position was an accident, but if it -had been calculated the reason would scarcely have eluded an observer -of the fact that no one else in the room had an appearance so -charming. I think indeed she was the only person there who looked at -her ease, who had come a little in the spirit of adventure. She seemed -to carry amusement in her handsome young head, and her presence quite -gave me the sense of a sudden extension of Saltram's sphere of -influence. He was doing better than we hoped and he had chosen this -occasion, of all occasions, to succumb to heaven knew which of his -infirmities. The young lady produced an impression of auburn hair and -black velvet, and had on her other hand a companion of obscurer type, -presumably a waiting-maid. She herself might perhaps have been a -foreign countess, and before she spoke to me I had beguiled our sorry -interval by thinking that she brought vaguely back the first page of -some novel of Madame Sand. It didn't make her more fathomable to -perceive in a few minutes that she could only be an American; it -simply engendered depressing reflections as to the possible check to -contributions from Boston. She asked me if, as a person apparently -more initiated, I would recommend further waiting, and I replied that -if she considered I was on my honour I would privately deprecate it. -Perhaps she didn't; at any rate something passed between us that led -us to talk until she became aware that we were almost the only people -left. I presently discovered that she knew Mrs. Saltram, and this -explained in a manner the miracle. The brotherhood of the friends of -the husband were as nothing to the brotherhood, or perhaps I should -say the sisterhood, of the friends of the wife. Like the Kent -Mulvilles I belonged to both fraternities, and even better than they I -think I had sounded the dark abyss of Mrs. Saltram's wrongs. She bored -me to extinction, and I knew but too well how she had bored her -husband; but she had her partisans, the most inveterate of whom were -indeed the handful of poor Saltram's backers. They did her liberal -justice, whereas her peculiar comforters had nothing but hatred for -our philosopher. I am bound to say it was we, however--we of both -camps, as it were--who had always done most for her. - -I thought my young lady looked rich--I scarcely knew why; and I hoped -she had put her hand in her pocket. But I soon discovered that she was -not a partisan--she was only a generous, irresponsible inquirer. She -had come to England to see her aunt, and it was at her aunt's she had -met the dreary lady we had all so much on our minds. I saw she would -help to pass the time when she observed that it was a pity this lady -wasn't intrinsically more interesting. That was refreshing, for it was -an article of faith in Mrs. Saltram's circle--at least among those who -scorned to know her horrid husband--that she was attractive on her -merits. She was really a very common person, as Saltram himself would -have been if he hadn't been a prodigy. The question of vulgarity had -no application to him, but it was a measure that his wife kept -challenging you to apply to _her_. I hasten to add that the -consequences of your doing so were no sufficient reason for his having -left her to starve. "He doesn't seem to have much force of character," -said my young lady; at which I laughed out so loud that my departing -friends looked back at me over their shoulders as if I were making a -joke of their discomfiture. My joke probably cost Saltram a -subscription or two, but it helped me on with my interlocutress. "She -says he drinks like a fish," she sociably continued, "and yet she -admits that his mind is wonderfully clear." It was amusing to converse -with a pretty girl who could talk of the clearness of Saltram's mind. -I tried to tell her--I had it almost on my conscience--what was the -proper way to regard him; an effort attended perhaps more than ever on -this occasion with the usual effect of my feeling that I wasn't after -all very sure of it. She had come to-night out of high curiosity--she -had wanted to find out this proper way for herself. She had read some -of his papers and hadn't understood them; but it was at home, at her -aunt's, that her curiosity had been kindled--kindled mainly by his -wife's remarkable stories of his want of virtue. "I suppose they ought -to have kept me away," my companion dropped, "and I suppose they would -have done so if I hadn't somehow got an idea that he's fascinating. In -fact Mrs. Saltram herself says he is." - -"So you came to see where the fascination resides? Well, you've seen!" - -My young lady raised her fine eyebrows. "Do you mean in his bad -faith?" - -"In the extraordinary effects of it; his possession, that is, of some -quality or other that condemns us in advance to forgive him the -humiliation, as I may call it, to which he has subjected us." - -"The humiliation?" - -"Why mine, for instance, as one of his guarantors, before you as the -purchaser of a ticket." - -"You don't look humiliated a bit, and if you did I should let you off, -disappointed as I am; for the mysterious quality you speak of is just -the quality I came to see." - -"Oh, you can't _see_ it!" I exclaimed. - -"How then do you get at it?" - -"You don't! You mustn't suppose he's good-looking," I added. - -"Why, his wife says he is!" - -My hilarity may have struck my interlocutress as excessive, but I -confess it broke out afresh. Had she acted only in obedience to this -singular plea, so characteristic, on Mrs. Saltram's part, of what was -irritating in the narrowness of that lady's point of view? "Mrs. -Saltram," I explained, "undervalues him where he is strongest, so -that, to make up for it perhaps, she overpraises him where he's weak. -He's not, assuredly, superficially attractive; he's middle-aged, fat, -featureless save for his great eyes." - -"Yes, his great eyes," said my young lady attentively. She had -evidently heard all about them. - -"They're tragic and splendid--lights on a dangerous coast. But he -moves badly and dresses worse, and altogether he's strange to behold." - -My companion appeared to reflect on this, and after a moment she -inquired: "Do you call him a real gentleman?" - -I started slightly at the question, for I had a sense of recognising -it: George Gravener, years before that first flushed night, had put me -face to face with it. It had embarrassed me then, but it didn't -embarrass me now, for I had lived with it and overcome it and disposed -of it. "A real gentleman? Decidedly not!" - -My promptitude surprised her a little, but I quickly felt that it was -not to Gravener I was now talking. "Do you say that because he's--what -do you call it in England?--of humble extraction?" - -"Not a bit. His father was a country schoolmaster and his mother the -widow of a sexton, but that has nothing to do with it. I say it simply -because I know him well." - -"But isn't it an awful drawback?" - -"Awful--quite awful." - -"I mean, isn't it positively fatal?" - -"Fatal to what? Not to his magnificent vitality." - -Again there was a meditative moment. "And is his magnificent vitality -the cause of his vices?" - -"Your questions are formidable, but I'm glad you put them. I was -thinking of his noble intellect. His vices, as you say, have been much -exaggerated: they consist mainly after all in one comprehensive -misfortune." - -"A want of will?" - -"A want of dignity." - -"He doesn't recognise his obligations?" - -"On the contrary, he recognises them with effusion, especially in -public: he smiles and bows and beckons across the street to them. But -when they pass over he turns away, and he speedily loses them in the -crowd. The recognition is purely spiritual--it isn't in the least -social. So he leaves all his belongings to other people to take care -of. He accepts favours, loans, sacrifices, with nothing more -restrictive than an agony of shame. Fortunately we're a little -faithful band, and we do what we can." I held my tongue about the -natural children, engendered, to the number of three, in the -wantonness of his youth. I only remarked that he did make -efforts--often tremendous ones. "But the efforts," I said, "never come -to much; the only things that come to much are the abandonments, the -surrenders." - -"And how much do they come to?" - -"I've told you before that your questions are terrible! They come, -these mere exercises of genius, to a great body of poetry, of -philosophy, a notable mass of speculation, of discovery. The genius is -there, you see, to meet the surrender; but there's no genius to -support the defence." - -"But what is there, after all, at his age, to show?" - -"In the way of achievement recognised and reputation established?" I -interrupted. "To 'show' if you will, there isn't much, for his -writing, mostly, isn't as fine as his talk. Moreover, two-thirds of -his work are merely colossal projects and announcements. 'Showing' -Frank Saltram is often a poor business; we endeavoured, you will have -observed, to show him to-night! However, if he _had_ lectured, he -would have lectured divinely. It would just have been his talk." - -"And what would his talk just have been?" - -I was conscious of some ineffectiveness as well perhaps as of a little -impatience as I replied: "The exhibition of a splendid intellect." My -young lady looked not quite satisfied at this, but as I was not -prepared for another question I hastily pursued: "The sight of a great -suspended, swinging crystal, huge, lucid, lustrous, a block of light, -flashing back every impression of life and every possibility of -thought!" This gave her something to think about till we had passed -out to the dusky porch of the hall, in front of which the lamps of a -quiet brougham were almost the only thing Saltram's treachery hadn't -extinguished. I went with her to the door of her carriage, out of -which she leaned a moment after she had thanked me and taken her seat. -Her smile even in the darkness was pretty. "I do want to see that -crystal!" - -"You've only to come to the next lecture." - -"I go abroad in a day or two with my aunt." - -"Wait over till next week," I suggested. "It's worth it." - -She became grave. "Not unless he really comes!" At which the brougham -started off, carrying her away too fast, fortunately for my manners, -to allow me to exclaim "Ingratitude!" - - - IV - -Mrs. Saltram made a great affair of her right to be informed where her -husband had been the second evening he failed to meet his audience. -She came to me to ascertain, but I couldn't satisfy her, for in spite -of my ingenuity I remained in ignorance. It was not till much later -that I found this had not been the case with Kent Mulville, whose hope -for the best never twirled its thumbs more placidly than when he -happened to know the worst. He had known it on the occasion I speak -of--that is immediately after. He was impenetrable then, but he -ultimately confessed--more than I shall venture to confess to-day. It -was of course familiar to me that Saltram was incapable of keeping the -engagements which, after their separation, he had entered into with -regard to his wife, a deeply wronged, justly resentful, quite -irreproachable and insufferable person. She often appeared at my -chambers to talk over his _lacunæ_, for if, as she declared, she had -washed her hands of him, she had carefully preserved the water of this -ablution and she handed it about for inspection. She had arts of her -own of exciting one's impatience, the most infallible of which was -perhaps her assumption that we were kind to her because we liked her. -In reality her personal fall had been a sort of social rise, for there -had been a moment when, in our little conscientious circle, her -desolation almost made her the fashion. Her voice was grating and her -children ugly; moreover she hated the good Mulvilles, whom I more and -more loved. They were the people who by doing most for her husband had -in the long run done most for herself; and the warm confidence with -which he had laid his length upon them was a pressure gentle compared -with her stiffer persuadability. I am bound to say he didn't criticise -his benefactors, though practically he got tired of them; she, -however, had the highest standards about eleemosynary forms. She -offered the odd spectacle of a spirit puffed up by dependence, and -indeed it had introduced her to some excellent society. She pitied me -for not knowing certain people who aided her and whom she doubtless -patronised in turn for their luck in not knowing me. I daresay I -should have got on with her better if she had had a ray of -imagination--if it had occasionally seemed to occur to her to regard -Saltram's manifestations in any other manner than as separate subjects -of woe. They were all flowers of his nature, pearls strung on an -endless thread; but she had a stubborn little way of challenging them -one after the other, as if she never suspected that he _had_ a nature, -such as it was, or that deficiencies might be organic; the irritating -effect of a mind incapable of a generalisation. One might doubtless -have overdone the idea that there was a general exemption for such a -man; but if this had happened it would have been through one's feeling -that there could be none for such a woman. - -I recognised her superiority when I asked her about the aunt of the -disappointed young lady: it sounded like a sentence from a -phrase-book. She triumphed in what she told me and she may have -triumphed still more in what she withheld. My friend of the other -evening, Miss Anvoy, had but lately come to England; Lady Coxon, the -aunt, had been established here for years in consequence of her -marriage with the late Sir Gregory of that ilk. She had a house in the -Regent's Park and a Bath-chair and a page; and above all she had -sympathy. Mrs. Saltram had made her acquaintance through mutual -friends. This vagueness caused me to feel how much I was out of it and -how large an independent circle Mrs. Saltram had at her command. I -should have been glad to know more about the charming Miss Anvoy, but -I felt that I should know most by not depriving her of her advantage, -as she might have mysterious means of depriving me of my knowledge. -For the present, moreover, this experience was arrested, Lady Coxon -having in fact gone abroad, accompanied by her niece. The niece, -besides being immensely clever, was an heiress, Mrs. Saltram said; the -only daughter and the light of the eyes of some great American -merchant, a man, over there, of endless indulgences and dollars. She -had pretty clothes and pretty manners, and she had, what was prettier -still, the great thing of all. The great thing of all for Mrs. Saltram -was always sympathy, and she spoke as if during the absence of these -ladies she might not know where to turn for it. A few months later -indeed, when they had come back, her tone perceptibly changed: she -alluded to them, on my leading her up to it, rather as to persons in -her debt for favours received. What had happened I didn't know, but I -saw it would take only a little more or a little less to make her -speak of them as thankless subjects of social countenance--people for -whom she had vainly tried to do something. I confess I saw that it -would not be in a mere week or two that I should rid myself of the -image of Ruth Anvoy, in whose very name, when I learnt it, I found -something secretly to like. I should probably neither see her nor hear -of her again: the knight's widow (he had been mayor of Clockborough) -would pass away, and the heiress would return to her inheritance. I -gathered with surprise that she had not communicated to his wife the -story of her attempt to hear Mr. Saltram, and I founded this reticence -on the easy supposition that Mrs. Saltram had fatigued by -over-pressure the spring of the sympathy of which she boasted. The -girl at any rate would forget the small adventure, be distracted, take -a husband; besides which she would lack opportunity to repeat her -experiment. - -We clung to the idea of the brilliant course, delivered without a -tumble, that, as a lecturer, would still make the paying public aware -of our great mind; but the fact remained that in the case of an -inspiration so unequal there was treachery, there was fallacy at -least, in the very conception of a series. In our scrutiny of ways and -means we were inevitably subject to the old convention of the -synopsis, the syllabus, partly of course not to lose the advantage of -his grand free hand in drawing up such things; but for myself I -laughed at our categories even while I stickled for them. It was -indeed amusing work to be scrupulous for Frank Saltram, who also at -moments laughed about it, so far as the rise and fall of a luxurious -sigh might pass for such a sound. He admitted with a candour all his -own that he was in truth only to be depended on in the Mulvilles' -drawing-room. "Yes," he suggestively conceded, "it's there, I think, -that I am at my best; quite late, when it gets toward eleven--and if -I've not been too much worried." We all knew what too much worry -meant; it meant too enslaved for the hour to the superstition of -sobriety. On the Saturdays I used to bring my portmanteau, so as not -to have to think of eleven o'clock trains. I had a bold theory that as -regards this temple of talk and its altars of cushioned chintz, its -pictures and its flowers, its large fireside and clear lamplight, we -might really arrive at something if the Mulvilles would only charge -for admission. But here it was that the Mulvilles shamelessly broke -down; as there is a flaw in every perfection, this was the -inexpugnable refuge of their egotism. They declined to make their -saloon a market, so that Saltram's golden words continued to be the -only coin that rang there. It can have happened to no man, however, to -be paid a greater price than such an enchanted hush as surrounded him -on his greatest nights. The most profane, on these occasions, felt a -presence; all minor eloquence grew dumb. Adelaide Mulville, for the -pride of her hospitality, anxiously watched the door or stealthily -poked the fire. I used to call it the music-room, for we had -anticipated Bayreuth. The very gates of the kingdom of light seemed to -open and the horizon of thought to flash with the beauty of a sunrise -at sea. - -In the consideration of ways and means, the sittings of our little -board, we were always conscious of the creak of Mrs. Saltram's shoes. -She hovered, she interrupted, she almost presided, the state of -affairs being mostly such as to supply her with every incentive for -inquiring what was to be done next. It was the pressing pursuit of -this knowledge that, in concatenations of omnibuses and usually in -very wet weather, led her so often to my door. She thought us -spiritless creatures with editors and publishers; but she carried -matters to no great effect when she personally pushed into back-shops. -She wanted all moneys to be paid to herself; they were otherwise -liable to such strange adventures. They trickled away into the desert, -and they were mainly at best, alas, but a slender stream. The editors -and the publishers were the last people to take this remarkable -thinker at the valuation that has now pretty well come to be -established. The former were half distraught between the desire to -"cut" him and the difficulty of finding a crevice for their shears; -and when a volume on this or that portentous subject was proposed to -the latter they suggested alternative titles which, as reported to our -friend, brought into his face the noble blank melancholy that -sometimes made it handsome. The title of an unwritten book didn't -after all much matter, but some masterpiece of Saltram's may have died -in his bosom of the shudder with which it was then convulsed. The -ideal solution, failing the fee at Kent Mulville's door, would have -been some system of subscription to projected treatises with their -non-appearance provided for--provided for, I mean, by the indulgence -of subscribers. The author's real misfortune was that subscribers were -so wretchedly literal. When they tastelessly inquired why publication -had not ensued I was tempted to ask who in the world had ever been so -published. Nature herself had brought him out in voluminous form, and -the money was simply a deposit on borrowing the work. - - - V - -I was doubtless often a nuisance to my friends in those years; but -there were sacrifices I declined to make, and I never passed the hat -to George Gravener. I never forgot our little discussion in Ebury -Street, and I think it stuck in my throat to have to make to him the -admission I had made so easily to Miss Anvoy. It had cost me nothing -to confide to this charming girl, but it would have cost me much to -confide to the friend of my youth, that the character of the "real -gentleman" was not an attribute of the man I took such pains for. Was -this because I had already generalised to the point of perceiving that -women are really the unfastidious sex? I knew at any rate that -Gravener, already quite in view but still hungry and frugal, had -naturally enough more ambition than charity. He had sharp aims for -stray sovereigns, being in view most from the tall steeple of -Clockborough. His immediate ambition was to wholly occupy the field of -vision of that smokily-seeing city, and all his movements and postures -were calculated at this angle. The movement of the hand to the pocket -had thus to alternate gracefully with the posture of the hand on the -heart. He talked to Clockborough in short only less beguilingly than -Frank Saltram talked to his electors; with the difference in our -favour, however, that we had already voted and that our candidate had -no antagonist but himself. He had more than once been at Wimbledon--it -was Mrs. Mulville's work, not mine--and, by the time the claret was -served, had seen the god descend. He took more pains to swing his -censer than I had expected, but on our way back to town he forestalled -any little triumph I might have been so artless as to express by the -observation that such a man was--a hundred times!--a man to use and -never a man to be used by. I remember that this neat remark humiliated -me almost as much as if virtually, in the fever of broken slumbers, I -hadn't often made it myself. The difference was that on Gravener's -part a force attached to it that could never attach to it on mine. He -was able to use him in short, he had the machinery; and the irony of -Saltram's being made showy at Clockborough came out to me when he -said, as if he had no memory of our original talk and the idea were -quite fresh to him: "I hate his type, you know, but I'll be hanged if -I don't put some of those things in. I can find a place for them: we -might even find a place for the fellow himself." I myself should have -had some fear, not, I need scarcely say, for the "things" themselves, -but for some other things very near them--in fine for the rest of my -eloquence. - -Later on I could see that the oracle of Wimbledon was not in this case -so serviceable as he would have been had the politics of the gods only -coincided more exactly with those of the party. There was a distinct -moment when, without saying anything more definite to me, Gravener -entertained the idea of "getting hold" of Mr. Saltram. Such a project -was factitious, for the discovery of analogies between his body of -doctrine and that pressed from headquarters upon Clockborough--the -bottling, in a word, of the air of those lungs for convenient public -uncorking in corn-exchanges--was an experiment for which no one had -the leisure. The only thing would have been to carry him massively -about, paid, caged, clipped: to turn him on for a particular occasion -in a particular channel. Frank Saltram's channel, however, was -essentially not calculable, and there was no knowing what disastrous -floods might have issued. For what there would have been to do "The -Empire," the great newspaper, was there to look to; but it was no new -misfortune that there were delicate situations in which "The Empire" -broke down. In fine there was an instinctive apprehension that a -clever young journalist commissioned to report upon Mr. Saltram might -never come back from the errand. No one knew better than George -Gravener that that was a time when prompt returns counted double. If -he therefore found our friend an exasperating waste of orthodoxy, it -was because he was, as he said, up in the clouds; not because he was -down in the dust. He would have been a real enough gentleman if he -could have helped to put in a real gentleman. Gravener's great -objection to the actual member was that he was not one. - -Lady Coxon had a fine old house, a house with "grounds," at -Clockborough, which she had let; but after she returned from abroad I -learned from Mrs. Saltram that the lease had fallen in and that she -had gone down to resume possession. I could see the faded red livery, -the big square shoulders, the high-walled garden of this decent abode. -As the rumble of dissolution grew louder the suitor would have pressed -his suit, and I found myself hoping that the politics of the late -Mayor's widow would not be such as to enjoin upon her to ask him to -dinner; perhaps indeed I went so far as to hope that they would be -such as to put all countenance out of the question. I tried to focus -the page, in the daily airing, as he perhaps even pushed the -Bath-chair over somebody's toes. I was destined to hear, however, -through Mrs. Saltram (who, I afterwards learned, was in correspondence -with Lady Coxon's housekeeper), that Gravener was known to have spoken -of the habitation I had in my eye as the pleasantest thing at -Clockborough. On his part, I was sure, this was the voice not of envy -but of experience. The vivid scene was now peopled, and I could see -him in the old-time garden with Miss Anvoy, who would be certain, and -very justly, to think him good-looking. It would be too much to say -that I was troubled by such an image; but I seem to remember the -relief, singular enough, of feeling it suddenly brushed away by an -annoyance really much greater; an annoyance the result of its -happening to come over me about that time with a rush that I was -simply ashamed of Frank Saltram. There were limits after all, and my -mark at last had been reached. - -I had had my disgusts, if I may allow myself to-day such an -expression; but this was a supreme revolt. Certain things cleared up -in my mind, certain values stood out. It was all very well to talk of -an unfortunate temperament; there were misfortunes that people should -themselves correct, and correct in private, without calling in -assistance. I avoided George Gravener at this moment, and reflected -that at such a time I should do so most effectually by leaving -England. I wanted to forget Frank Saltram--that was all. I didn't want -to do anything in the world to him but that. Indignation had withered -on the stalk, and I felt that one could pity him as much as one ought -only by never thinking of him again. It wasn't for anything he had -done to me; it was for something he had done to the Mulvilles. -Adelaide cried about it for a week, and her husband, profiting by the -example so signally given him of the fatal effect of a want of -character, left the letter unanswered. The letter, an incredible one, -addressed by Saltram to Wimbledon during a stay with the Pudneys at -Ramsgate, was the central feature of the incident, which, however, had -many features, each more painful than whichever other we compared it -with. The Pudneys had behaved shockingly, but that was no excuse. Base -ingratitude, gross indecency--one had one's choice only of such -formulas as that the more they fitted the less they gave one rest. -These are dead aches now, and I am under no obligation, thank heaven, -to be definite about the business. There are things which if I had had -to tell them--well, I wouldn't have told my story. - -I went abroad for the general election, and if I don't know how much, -on the Continent, I forgot, I at least know how much I missed, him. At -a distance, in a foreign land, ignoring, abjuring, unlearning him, I -discovered what he had done for me. I owed him, oh unmistakably, -certain noble conceptions; I had lighted my little taper at his smoky -lamp, and lo, it continued to twinkle. But the light it gave me just -showed me how much more I wanted. I was pursued of course by letters -from Mrs. Saltram, which I didn't scruple not to read, though I was -duly conscious that her embarrassments would now be of the gravest. I -sacrificed to propriety by simply putting them away, and this is how, -one day as my absence drew to an end, my eye, as I rummaged in my desk -for another paper, was caught by a name on a leaf that had detached -itself from the packet. The allusion was to Miss Anvoy, who, it -appeared, was engaged to be married to Mr. George Gravener; and the -news was two months old. A direct question of Mrs. Saltram's had thus -remained unanswered--she had inquired of me in a postscript what sort -of man this Mr. Gravener might be. This Mr. Gravener had been -triumphantly returned for Clockborough, in the interest of the party -that had swept the country, so that I might easily have referred Mrs. -Saltram to the journals of the day. But when I at last wrote to her -that I was coming home and would discharge my accumulated burden by -seeing her, I remarked in regard to her question that she must really -put it to Miss Anvoy. - - - VI - -I had almost avoided the general election, but some of its -consequences, on my return, had squarely to be faced. The season, in -London, began to breathe again and to flap its folded wings. -Confidence, under the new ministry, was understood to be reviving, and -one of the symptoms, in the social body, was a recovery of appetite. -People once more fed together, and it happened that, one Saturday -night, at somebody's house, I fed with George Gravener. When the -ladies left the room I moved up to where he sat and offered him my -congratulation. "On my election?" he asked after a moment; whereupon I -feigned, jocosely not to have heard of his election and to be alluding -to something much more important, the rumour of his engagement. I -daresay I coloured however, for his political victory had momentarily -passed out of my mind. What was present to it was that he was to marry -that beautiful girl; and yet his question made me conscious of some -embarrassment--I had not intended to put that before everything. He -himself indeed ought gracefully to have done so, and I remember -thinking the whole man was in this assumption, that in expressing my -sense of what he had won I had fixed my thoughts on his "seat." We -straightened the matter out, and he was so much lighter in hand than I -had lately seen him that his spirits might well have been fed from a -double source. He was so good as to say that he hoped I should soon -make the acquaintance of Miss Anvoy, who, with her aunt, was presently -coming up to town. Lady Coxon, in the country, had been seriously -unwell, and this had delayed their arrival. I told him I had heard the -marriage would be a splendid one; on which, brightened and humanised -by his luck, he laughed and said: "Do you mean for _her_?" When I had -again explained what I meant he went on: "Oh, she's an American, but -you'd scarcely know it; unless, perhaps," he added, "by her being used -to more money than most girls in England, even the daughters of rich -men. That wouldn't in the least do for a fellow like me, you know, if -it wasn't for the great liberality of her father. He really has been -most kind, and everything is quite satisfactory." He added that his -eldest brother had taken a tremendous fancy to her and that during a -recent visit at Coldfield she had nearly won over Lady Maddock. I -gathered from something he dropped later that the free-handed -gentleman beyond the seas had not made a settlement, but had given a -handsome present and was apparently to be looked to, across the water, -for other favours. People are simplified alike by great contentments -and great yearnings, and whether or no it was Gravener's directness -that begot my own, I seem to recall that in some turn taken by our -talk he almost imposed it upon me as an act of decorum to ask if Miss -Anvoy had also by chance expectations from her aunt. My inquiry -elicited that Lady Coxon, who was the oddest of women, would have in -any contingency to act under her late husband's will, which was odder -still, saddling her with a mass of queer obligations intermingled with -queer loopholes. There were several dreary people, Coxon relations, -old maids, whom she would have more or less to consider. Gravener -laughed, without saying no, when I suggested that the young lady might -come in through a loophole; then suddenly, as if he suspected that I -had turned a lantern on him, he exclaimed quite dryly: "That's all -rot--one is moved by other springs!" - -A fortnight later, at Lady Coxon's own house, I understood well enough -the springs one was moved by. Gravener had spoken of me there as an -old friend, and I received a gracious invitation to dine. The knight's -widow was again indisposed--she had succumbed at the eleventh hour; so -that I found Miss Anvoy bravely playing hostess, without even -Gravener's help, inasmuch as, to make matters worse, he had just sent -up word that the House, the insatiable House, with which he supposed -he had contracted for easier terms, positively declined to release -him. I was struck with the courage, the grace and gaiety of the young -lady left to deal unaided with the possibilities of the Regent's Park. -I did what I could to help her to keep them down, or up, after I had -recovered from the confusion of seeing her slightly disconcerted at -perceiving in the guest introduced by her intended the gentleman with -whom she had had that talk about Frank Saltram. I had at that moment -my first glimpse of the fact that she was a person who could carry a -responsibility; but I leave the reader to judge of my sense of the -aggravation, for either of us, of such a burden when I heard the -servant announce Mrs. Saltram. From what immediately passed between -the two ladies I gathered that the latter had been sent for post-haste -to fill the gap created by the absence of the mistress of the house. -"Good!" I exclaimed, "she will be put by _me_!" and my apprehension -was promptly justified. Mrs. Saltram taken in to dinner, and taken in -as a consequence of an appeal to her amiability, was Mrs. Saltram with -a vengeance. I asked myself what Miss Anvoy meant by doing such -things, but the only answer I arrived at was that Gravener was verily -fortunate. She had not happened to tell him of her visit to Upper -Baker Street, but she would certainly tell him to-morrow; not indeed -that this would make him like any better her having had the simplicity -to invite such a person as Mrs. Saltram on such an occasion. I -reflected that I had never seen a young woman put such ignorance into -her cleverness, such freedom into her modesty: this, I think, was -when, after dinner, she said to me frankly, with almost jubilant -mirth: "Oh, you don't admire Mrs. Saltram!" Why should I? She was -truly an innocent maiden. I had briefly to consider before I could -reply that my objection to the lady in question was the objection -often formulated in regard to persons met at the social board--I knew -all her stories. Then, as Miss Anvoy remained momentarily vague, I -added: "About her husband." - -"Oh yes, but there are some new ones." - -"None for me. Oh, novelty would be pleasant!" - -"Doesn't it appear that of late he has been particularly horrid?" - -"His fluctuations don't matter," I replied; "they are all covered by -the single circumstance I mentioned the evening we waited for him -together. What will you have? He has no dignity." - -Miss Anvoy, who had been introducing with her American distinctness, -looked encouragingly round at some of the combinations she had risked. -"It's too bad I can't see him." - -"You mean Gravener won't let you?" - -"I haven't asked him. He lets me do everything." - -"But you know he knows him and wonders what some of us see in him." - -"We haven't happened to talk of him," the girl said. - -"Get him to take you some day out to see the Mulvilles." - -"I thought Mr. Saltram had thrown the Mulvilles over." - -"Utterly. But that won't prevent his being planted there again, to -bloom like a rose, within a month or two." - -Miss Anvoy thought a moment. Then, "I should like to see them," she -said with her fostering smile. - -"They're tremendously worth it. You mustn't miss them." - -"I'll make George take me," she went on as Mrs. Saltram came up to -interrupt us. The girl smiled at her as kindly as she had smiled at -me, and addressing the question to her, continued: "But the chance of -a lecture--one of the wonderful lectures? Isn't there another course -announced!" - -"Another? There are about thirty!" I exclaimed, turning away and -feeling Mrs. Saltram's little eyes in my back. A few days after this, -I heard that Gravener's marriage was near at hand--was settled far -Whitsuntide; but as I had received no invitation I doubted it, and -presently there came to me in fact the report of a postponement. -Something was the matter; what was the matter was supposed to be that -Lady Coxon was now critically ill. I had called on her after my dinner -in the Regent's Park, but I had neither seen her nor seen Miss Anvoy. -I forget to-day the exact order in which, at this period, certain -incidents occurred and the particular stage at which it suddenly -struck me, making me catch my breath a little, that the progression, -the acceleration was for all the world that of a drama. This was -probably rather late in the day, and the exact order doesn't matter. -What had already occurred was some accident determining a more patient -wait. George Gravener, whom I met again, in fact told me as much, but -without signs of perturbation. Lady Coxon had to be constantly -attended to, and there were other good reasons as well. Lady Coxon had -to be so constantly attended to that on the occasion of a second -attempt in the Regent's Park I equally failed to obtain a sight of her -niece. I judged it discreet under the circumstances not to make a -third; but this didn't matter, for it was through Adelaide Mulville -that the side-wind of the comedy, though I was at first unwitting, -began to reach me. I went to Wimbledon at times because Saltram was -there and I went at others because he was not. The Pudneys, who had -taken him to Birmingham, had already got rid of him, and we had a -horrible consciousness of his wandering roofless, in dishonour, about -the smoky Midlands, almost as the injured Lear wandered on the -storm-lashed heath. His room, upstairs, had been lately done up (I -could hear the crackle of the new chintz), and the difference only -made his smirches and bruises, his splendid tainted genius, the more -tragic. If he wasn't barefoot in the mire, he was sure to be -unconventionally shod. These were the things Adelaide and I, who were -old enough friends to stare at each other in silence, talked about -when we didn't speak. When we spoke it was only about the charming -girl George Gravener was to marry, whom he had brought out the other -Sunday. I could see that this introduction had been happy, for Mrs. -Mulville commemorated it in the only way in which she ever expressed -her confidence in a new relation. "She likes me--she likes me": her -native humility exulted in that measure of success. We all knew for -ourselves how she liked those who liked her, and as regards Ruth Anvoy -she was more easily won over than Lady Maddock. - - - VII - -One of the consequences, for the Mulvilles, of the sacrifices they -made for Frank Saltram was that they had to give up their carriage. -Adelaide drove gently into London in a one-horse greenish thing, an -early Victorian landau, hired, near at hand, imaginatively, from a -broken-down jobmaster whose wife was in consumption--a vehicle that -made people turn round all the more when her pensioner sat beside her -in a soft white hat and a shawl, one of her own. This was his position -and I daresay his costume when on an afternoon in July she went to -return Miss Anvoy's visit. The wheel of fate had now revolved, and -amid silences deep and exhaustive, compunctions and condonations alike -unutterable, Saltram was reinstated. Was it in pride or in penance -that Mrs. Mulville began immediately to drive him about? If he was -ashamed of his ingratitude she might have been ashamed of her -forgiveness; but she was incorrigibly capable of liking him to be seen -strikingly seated in the landau while she was in shops or with her -acquaintance. However, if he was in the pillory for twenty minutes in -the Regent's Park (I mean at Lady Coxon's door, while her companion -paid her call), it was not for the further humiliation of anyone -concerned that she presently came out for him in person, not even to -show either of them what a fool she was that she drew him in to be -introduced to the clever young American. Her account of this -introduction I had in its order, but before that, very late in the -season, under Gravener's auspices, I met Miss Anvoy at tea at the -House of Commons. The member for Clockborough had gathered a group of -pretty ladies, and the Mulvilles were not of the party. On the great -terrace, as I strolled off a little with her, the guest of honour -immediately exclaimed to me: "I've seen him, you know--I've seen him!" -She told me about Saltram's call. - -"And how did you find him?" - -"Oh, so strange!" - -"You didn't like him?" - -"I can't tell till I see him again." - -"You want to do that?" - -She was silent a moment. "Immensely." - -We stopped; I fancied she had become aware Gravener was looking at us. -She turned back toward the knot of the others, and I said: "Dislike -him as much as you will--I see you're bitten." - -"Bitten?" I thought she coloured a little. - -"Oh, it doesn't matter!" I laughed; "one doesn't die of it." - -"I hope I sha'n't die of anything before I've seen more of Mrs. -Mulville." I rejoiced with her over plain Adelaide, whom she -pronounced the loveliest woman she had met in England; but before we -separated I remarked to her that it was an act of mere humanity to -warn her that if she should see more of Frank Saltram (which would be -likely to follow on any increase of acquaintance with Mrs. Mulville), -she might find herself flattening her nose against the clear hard pane -of an eternal question--that of the relative importance of virtue. She -replied that this was surely a subject on which one took everything -for granted; whereupon I admitted that I had perhaps expressed myself -ill. What I referred to was what I had referred to the night we met in -Upper Baker Street--the importance relative (relative to virtue) of -other gifts. She asked me if I called virtue a gift--as if it were -handed to us in a parcel on our birthday; and I declared that this -very question showed me the problem had already caught her by the -skirt. She would have help however, help that I myself had once had, -in resisting its tendency to make one cross. - -"What help do you mean?" - -"That of the member for Clockborough." - -She stared, smiled, then exclaimed: "Why, my idea has been to help -_him_!" - -She _had_ helped him--I had his own word for it that at Clockborough -her bedevilment of the voters had really put him in. She would do so -doubtless again and again, but I heard the very next month that this -fine faculty had undergone a temporary eclipse. News of the -catastrophe first came to me from Mrs. Saltram, and it was afterwards -confirmed at Wimbledon: poor Miss Anvoy was in trouble--great -disasters, in America, had suddenly summoned her home. Her father, in -New York, had had reverses--lost so much money that no one knew what -mightn't yet come of it. It was Adelaide who told me that she had gone -off, alone, at less than a week's notice. - -"Alone? Gravener has permitted that?" - -"What will you have? The House of Commons?" - -I'm afraid I damned the House of Commons: I was so much interested. Of -course he would follow her as soon as he was free to make her his -wife; only she mightn't now be able to bring him anything like the -marriage-portion of which he had begun by having the pleasant -confidence. Mrs. Mulville let me know what was already said: she was -charming, this Miss Anvoy, but really these American girls! What was a -man to do? Mr. Saltram, according to Mrs. Mulville, was of opinion -that a man was never to suffer his relation to money to become a -spiritual relation, but was to keep it wholesomely mechanical. "_Moi -pas comprendre!_" I commented on this; in rejoinder to which Adelaide, -with her beautiful sympathy, explained that she supposed he simply -meant that the thing was to use it, don't you know! but not to think -too much about it. "To take it, but not to thank you for it?" I still -more profanely inquired. For a quarter of an hour afterwards she -wouldn't look at me, but this didn't prevent my asking her what had -been the result, that afternoon in the Regent's Park, of her taking -our friend to see Miss Anvoy. - -"Oh, so charming!" she answered, brightening. "He said he recognised -in her a nature he could absolutely trust." - -"Yes, but I'm speaking of the effect on herself." - -Mrs. Mulville was silent an instant. "It was everything one could -wish." - -Something in her tone made me laugh. "Do you mean she gave him -something?" - -"Well, since you ask me!" - -"Right there--on the spot?" - -Again poor Adelaide faltered. "It was to me of course she gave it." - -I stared; somehow I couldn't see the scene. "Do you mean a sum of -money?" - -"It was very handsome." Now at last she met my eyes though I could see -it was with an effort. "Thirty pounds." - -"Straight out of her pocket?" - -"Out of the drawer of a table at which she had been writing. She just -slipped the folded notes into my hand. He wasn't looking; it was while -he was going back to the carriage. Oh," said Adelaide reassuringly, -"I dole it out!" The dear practical soul thought my agitation, for I -confess I was agitated, had reference to the administration of the -money. Her disclosure made me for a moment muse violently, and I -daresay that during that moment I wondered if anything else in the -world makes people as indelicate as unselfishness. I uttered, I -suppose, some vague synthetic cry, for she went on as if she had had a -glimpse of my inward amaze at such episodes. "I assure you, my dear -friend, he was in one of his happy hours." - -But I wasn't thinking of that. "Truly, indeed, these American girls!" -I said. "With her father in the very act, as it were, of cheating her -betrothed!" - -Mrs. Mulville stared. "Oh, I suppose Mr. Anvoy has scarcely failed on -purpose. Very likely they won't be able to keep it up, but there it -was, and it was a very beautiful impulse." - -"You say Saltram was very fine?" - -"Beyond everything. He surprised even me." - -"And I know what _you've_ heard." After a moment I added: "Had he -peradventure caught a glimpse of the money in the table-drawers?" - -At this my companion honestly flushed. "How can you be so cruel when -you know how little he calculates?" - -"Forgive me, I do know it. But you tell me things that act on my -nerves. I'm sure he hadn't caught a glimpse of anything but some -splendid idea." - -Mrs. Mulville brightly concurred. "And perhaps even of her beautiful -listening face." - -"Perhaps, even! And what was it all about?" - -"His talk? It was _à propos_ of her engagement, which I had told him -about: the idea of marriage, the philosophy, the poetry, the -profundity of it." It was impossible wholly to restrain one's mirth at -this, and some rude ripple that I emitted again caused my companion to -admonish me. "It sounds a little stale, but you know his freshness." - -"Of illustration? Indeed I do!" - -"And how he has always been right on that great question." - -"On what great question, dear lady, hasn't he been right?" - -"Of what other great men can you equally say it? I mean that he has -never, but _never_, had a deviation?" Mrs. Mulville exultantly -demanded. - -I tried to think of some other great man, but I had to give it up. -"Didn't Miss Anvoy express her satisfaction in any less diffident way -than by her charming present?" I was reduced to inquiring instead. - -"Oh yes, she overflowed to me on the steps while he was getting into -the carriage." These words somehow brushed up a picture of Saltram's -big shawled back as he hoisted himself into the green landau. "She -said she was not disappointed," Adelaide pursued. - -I meditated a moment. "Did he wear his shawl?" - -"His shawl?" She had not even noticed. - -"I mean yours." - -"He looked very nice, and you know he's always clean. Miss Anvoy used -such a remarkable expression--she said his mind is like a crystal!" - -I pricked up my ears. "A crystal?" - -"Suspended in the moral world--swinging and shining and flashing -there. She's monstrously clever, you know." - -I reflected again. "Monstrously!" - - - VIII - -George Gravener didn't follow her, for late in September, after the -House had risen, I met him in a railway-carriage. He was coming up -from Scotland, and I had just quitted the abode of a relation who -lived near Durham. The current of travel back to London was not yet -strong; at any rate on entering the compartment I found he had had it -for some time to himself. We fared in company, and though he had a -blue-book in his lap and the open jaws of his bag threatened me with -the white teeth of confused papers, we inevitably, we even at last -sociably, conversed. I saw that things were not well with him, but I -asked no question until something dropped by himself made an absence -of curiosity almost rude. He mentioned that he was worried about his -good old friend Lady Coxon, who, with her niece likely to be detained -some time in America, lay seriously ill at Clockborough, much on his -mind and on his hands. - -"Ah, Miss Anvoy's in America?" - -"Her father has got into a horrid mess, lost no end of money." - -I hesitated, after expressing due concern, but I presently said, "I -hope that raises no obstacle to your marriage." - -"None whatever; moreover it's my trade to meet objections. But it may -create tiresome delays, of which there have been too many, from -various causes, already. Lady Coxon got very bad, then she got much -better. Then Mr. Anvoy suddenly began to totter, and now he seems -quite on his back. I'm afraid he's really in for some big disaster. -Lady Coxon is worse again, awfully upset by the news from America, and -she sends me word that she _must_ have Ruth. How can I give her Ruth? -I haven't got Ruth myself!" - -"Surely you haven't lost her," I smiled. - -"She's everything to her wretched father. She writes me by every post, -telling me to smooth her aunt's pillow. I've other things to smooth; -but the old lady, save for her servants, is really alone. She won't -receive her Coxon relations, because she's angry at so much of her -money going to them. Besides, she's off her head," said Gravener very -frankly. - -I don't remember whether it was this, or what it was, that made me ask -if she had not such an appreciation of Mrs. Saltram as might render -that active person of some use. - -He gave me a cold glance, asking me what had put Mrs. Saltram into my -head, and I replied that she was unfortunately never out of it. I -happened to remember the wonderful accounts she had given me of the -kindness Lady Coxon had shown her. Gravener declared this to be false: -Lady Coxon, who didn't care for her, hadn't seen her three times. The -only foundation for it was that Miss Anvoy, who used, poor girl, to -chuck money about in a manner she must now regret, had for an hour -seen in the miserable woman (you could never know what she would see -in people), an interesting pretext for the liberality with which her -nature overflowed. But even Miss Anvoy was now quite tired of her. -Gravener told me more about the crash in New York and the annoyance it -had been to him, and we also glanced here and there in other -directions; but by the time we got to Doncaster the principal thing he -had communicated was that he was keeping something back. We stopped at -that station, and, at the carriage door, some one made a movement to -get in. Gravener uttered a sound of impatience, and I said to myself -that but for this I should have had the secret. Then the intruder, for -some reason, spared us his company; we started afresh, and my hope of -the secret returned. Gravener remained silent however, and I pretended -to go to sleep; in fact, in discouragement, I really dozed. When I -opened my eyes I found he was looking at me with an injured air. He -tossed away with some vivacity the remnant of a cigarette and then he -said: "If you're not too sleepy I want to put you a case." I answered -that I would make every effort to attend, and I felt it was going to -be interesting when he went on: "As I told you a while ago, Lady -Coxon, poor dear, is a maniac." His tone had much behind it--was full -of promise. I inquired if her ladyship's misfortune were a feature of -her malady or only of her character, and he replied that it was a -product of both. The case he wanted to put me was a matter on which it -would interest him to have the impression--the judgment, he might also -say--of another person. "I mean of the average intelligent man," he -said: "but you see I take what I can get." There would be the -technical, the strictly legal view; then there would be the way the -question would strike a man of the world. He had lighted another -cigarette while he talked, and I saw he was glad to have it to handle -when he brought out at last, with a laugh slightly artificial: "In -fact it's a subject on which Miss Anvoy and I are pulling different -ways." - -"And you want me to pronounce between you? I pronounce in advance for -Miss Anvoy." - -"In advance--that's quite right. That's how I pronounced when I asked -her to marry me. But my story will interest you only so far as your -mind is not made up." Gravener puffed his cigarette a minute and then -continued: "Are you familiar with the idea of the Endowment of -Research?" - -"Of Research?" I was at sea for a moment. - -"I give you Lady Coxon's phrase. She has it on the brain." - -"She wishes to endow----?" - -"Some earnest and disinterested seeker," Gravener said. "It was a -half-baked plan of her late husband's, and he handed it on to her; -setting apart in his will a sum of money of which she was to enjoy the -interest for life, but of which, should she eventually see her -opportunity--the matter was left largely to her discretion--she would -best honour his memory by determining the exemplary public use. This -sum of money, no less than thirteen thousand pounds, was to be called -the Coxon Fund; and poor Sir Gregory evidently proposed to himself -that the Coxon Fund should cover his name with glory--be universally -desired and admired. He left his wife a full declaration of his views; -so far at least as that term may be applied to views vitiated by a -vagueness really infantine. A little learning is a dangerous thing, -and a good citizen who happens to have been an ass is worse for a -community than the small-pox. He's worst of all when he's dead, -because then he can't be stopped. However, such as they were, the poor -man's aspirations are now in his wife's bosom, or fermenting rather in -her foolish brain: it lies with her to carry them out. But of course -she must first catch her hare." - -"Her earnest, disinterested seeker?" - -"The man suffering most from want of means, want of the pecuniary -independence necessary to cause the light that is in him to shine upon -the human race. The man, in a word, who, having the rest of the -machinery, the spiritual, the intellectual, is most hampered in his -search." - -"His search for what?" - -"For Moral Truth. That's what Sir Gregory calls it." - -I burst out laughing. "Delightful, munificent Sir Gregory! It's a -charming idea." - -"So Miss Anvoy thinks." - -"Has she a candidate for the Fund?" - -"Not that I know of; and she's perfectly reasonable about it. But Lady -Coxon has put the matter before her, and we've naturally had a lot of -talk." - -"Talk that, as you've so interestingly intimated, has landed you in a -disagreement." - -"She considers there's something in it," Gravener said. - -"And you consider there's nothing?" - -"It seems to me a puerility fraught with consequences inevitably -grotesque and possibly immoral. To begin with, fancy the idea of -constituting an endowment without establishing a tribunal--a bench of -competent people, of judges." - -"The sole tribunal is Lady Coxon?" - -"And any one she chooses to invite." - -"But she has invited you." - -"I'm not competent--I hate the thing. Besides, she hasn't. The real -history of the matter, I take it, is that the inspiration was -originally Lady Coxon's own, that she infected him with it, and that -the flattering option left her is simply his tribute to her beautiful, -her aboriginal enthusiasm. She came to England forty years ago, a thin -transcendental Bostonian, and even her odd, happy, frumpy Clockborough -marriage never really materialised her. She feels indeed that she has -become very British--as if that, as a process, as a _Werden_, were -conceivable; but it's precisely what makes her cling to the notion of -the 'Fund' as to a link with the ideal." - -"How can she cling if she's dying?" - -"Do you mean how can she act in the matter?" my companion asked. -"That's precisely the question. She can't! As she has never yet caught -her hare, never spied out her lucky impostor (how should she, with the -life she has led?) her husband's intention has come very near lapsing. -His idea, to do him justice, was that it _should_ lapse if exactly the -right person, the perfect mixture of genius and chill penury, should -fail to turn up. Ah! Lady Coxon's very particular--she says there must -be no mistake." - -I found all this quite thrilling--I took it in with avidity. "If she -dies without doing anything, what becomes of the money?" I demanded. - -"It goes back to his family, if she hasn't made some other disposition -of it." - -"She may do that, then--she may divert it?" - -"Her hands are not tied. The proof is that three months ago she -offered to make it over to her niece." - -"For Miss Anvoy's own use?" - -"For Miss Anvoy's own use--on the occasion of her prospective -marriage. She was discouraged--the earnest seeker required so earnest -a search. She was afraid of making a mistake; every one she could -think of seemed either not earnest enough or not poor enough. On the -receipt of the first bad news about Mr. Anvoy's affairs she proposed -to Ruth to make the sacrifice for her. As the situation in New York -got worse she repeated her proposal." - -"Which Miss Anvoy declined?" - -"Except as a formal trust." - -"You mean except as committing herself legally to place the money?" - -"On the head of the deserving object, the great man frustrated," said -Gravener. "She only consents to act in the spirit of Sir Gregory's -scheme." - -"And you blame her for that?" I asked with an excited smile. - -My tone was not harsh, but he coloured a little and there was a queer -light in his eye. "My dear fellow, if I 'blamed' the young lady I'm -engaged to, I shouldn't immediately say so even to so old a friend as -you." I saw that some deep discomfort, some restless desire to be -sided with, reassuringly, becomingly reflected, had been at the bottom -of his drifting so far, and I was genuinely touched by his confidence. -It was inconsistent with his habits; but being troubled about a woman -was not, for him, a habit: that itself was an inconsistency. George -Gravener could stand straight enough before any other combination of -forces. It amused me to think that the combination he had succumbed to -had an American accent, a transcendental aunt and an insolvent father; -but all my old loyalty to him mustered to meet this unexpected hint -that I could help him. I saw that I could from the insincere tone in -which he pursued: "I've criticised her of course, I've contended with -her, and it has been great fun." It clearly couldn't have been such -great fun as to make it improper for me presently to ask if Miss Anvoy -had nothing at all settled upon herself. To this he replied that she -had only a trifle from her mother--a mere four hundred a year, which -was exactly why it would be convenient to him that she shouldn't -decline, in the face of this total change in her prospects, an -accession of income which would distinctly help them to marry. When I -inquired if there were no other way in which so rich and so -affectionate an aunt could cause the weight of her benevolence to be -felt, he answered that Lady Coxon was affectionate indeed, but was -scarcely to be called rich. She could let her project of the Fund -lapse for her niece's benefit, but she couldn't do anything else. She -had been accustomed to regard her as tremendously provided for, and -she was up to her eyes in promises to anxious Coxons. She was a woman -of an inordinate conscience, and her conscience was now a distress to -her, hovering round her bed in irreconcilable forms of resentful -husbands, portionless nieces and undiscoverable philosophers. - -We were by this time getting into the whirr of fleeting platforms, the -multiplication of lights. "I think you'll find," I said with a laugh, -"that the difficulty will disappear in the very fact that the -philosopher _is_ undiscoverable." - -He began to gather up his papers. "Who can set a limit to the -ingenuity of an extravagant woman?" - -"Yes, after all, who indeed?" I echoed as I recalled the extravagance -commemorated in Mrs. Mulville's anecdote of Miss Anvoy and the thirty -pounds. - - - IX - -The thing I had been most sensible of in that talk with George -Gravener was the way Saltram's name kept out of it. It seemed to me at -the time that we were quite pointedly silent about him; yet afterwards -I inclined to think that there had been on my companion's part no -conscious avoidance. Later on I was sure of this, and for the best of -reasons--the reason, namely, of my perceiving more completely that, -for evil as well as for good, he left Gravener's imagination utterly -cold. Gravener was not afraid of him; he was too much disgusted with -him. No more was I, doubtless, and for very much the same reason. I -treated my friend's story as an absolute confidence; but when before -Christmas, by Mrs. Saltram, I was informed of Lady Coxon's death -without having had news of Miss Anvoy's return, I found myself taking -for granted that we should hear no more of these nuptials, in which I -now recognised an element incongruous from the first. I began to ask -myself how people who suited each other so little could please each -other so much. The charm was some material charm, some affinity -exquisite doubtless, but superficial; some surrender to youth and -beauty and passion, to force and grace and fortune, happy accidents -and easy contacts. They might dote on each other's persons, but how -could they know each other's souls? How could they have the same -prejudices, how could they have the same horizon? Such questions, I -confess, seemed quenched but not answered when, one day in February, -going out to Wimbledon, I found my young lady in the house. A passion -that had brought her back across the wintry ocean was as much of a -passion as was necessary. No impulse equally strong indeed had drawn -George Gravener to America; a circumstance on which, however, I -reflected only long enough to remind myself that it was none of my -business. Ruth Anvoy was distinctly different, and I felt that the -difference was not simply that of her being in mourning. Mrs. Mulville -told me soon enough what it was: it was the difference between a -handsome girl with large expectations and a handsome girl with only -four hundred a year. This explanation indeed didn't wholly content me, -not even when I learned that her mourning had a double cause--learned -that poor Mr. Anvoy, giving way altogether, buried under the ruins of -his fortune and leaving next to nothing, had died a few weeks before. - -"So she has come out to marry George Gravener?" I demanded. "Wouldn't -it have been prettier of him to have saved her the trouble?" - -"Hasn't the House just met?" said Adelaide. Then she added: "I gather -that her having come is exactly a sign that the marriage is a little -shaky. If it were certain, so self-respecting a girl as Ruth would -have waited for him over there." - -I noted that they were already Ruth and Adelaide, but what I said was: -"Do you mean that she has returned to make it a certainty?" - -"No, I mean that I imagine she has come out for some reason -independent of it." Adelaide could only imagine as yet, and there was -more, as we found, to be revealed. Mrs. Mulville, on hearing of her -arrival, had brought the young lady out, in the green landau, for the -Sunday. The Coxons were in possession of the house in the Regent's -Park, and Miss Anvoy was in dreary lodgings. George Gravener was with -her when Adelaide called, but he had assented graciously enough to the -little visit at Wimbledon. The carriage, with Mr. Saltram in it but -not mentioned, had been sent off on some errand from which it was to -return and pick the ladies up. Gravener left them together, and at the -end of an hour, on the Saturday afternoon, the party of three drove -out to Wimbledon. This was the girl's second glimpse of our great man, -and I was interested in asking Mrs. Mulville if the impression made by -the first appeared to have been confirmed. On her replying, after -consideration, that of course with time and opportunity it couldn't -fail to be, but that as yet she was disappointed, I was sufficiently -struck with her use of this last word to question her further. - -"Do you mean that you're disappointed because you judge that Miss -Anvoy is?" - -"Yes; I hoped for a greater effect last evening. We had two or three -people, but he scarcely opened his mouth." - -"He'll be all the better this evening," I added after a moment. "What -particular importance do you attach to the idea of her being -impressed?" - -Adelaide turned her clear, pale eyes on me as if she were amazed at my -levity. "Why, the importance of her being as happy as _we_ are!" - -I'm afraid that at this my levity increased. "Oh, that's a happiness -almost too great to wish a person!" I saw she had not yet in her mind -what I had in mine, and at any rate the visitor's actual bliss was -limited to a walk in the garden with Kent Mulville. Later in the -afternoon I also took one, and I saw nothing of Miss Anvoy till -dinner, at which we were without the company of Saltram, who had -caused it to be reported that he was out of sorts and lying down. This -made us, most of us--for there were other friends present--convey to -each other in silence some of the unutterable things which in those -years our eyes had inevitably acquired the art of expressing. If an -American inquirer had not been there we would have expressed them -otherwise, and Adelaide would have pretended not to hear. I had seen -her, before the very fact, abstract herself nobly; and I knew that -more than once, to keep it from the servants, managing, dissimulating -cleverly, she had helped her husband to carry him bodily to his room. -Just recently he had been so wise and so deep and so high that I had -begun to be nervous--to wonder if by chance there were something -behind it, if he were kept straight, for instance, by the knowledge -that the hated Pudneys would have more to tell us if they chose. He -was lying low, but unfortunately it was common knowledge with us that -the biggest splashes took place in the quietest pools. We should have -had a merry life indeed if all the splashes had sprinkled us as -refreshingly as the waters we were even then to feel about our ears. -Kent Mulville had been up to his room, but had come back with a facial -inscrutability that I had seen him achieve in equal measure only on -the evening I waited in the lecture-room with Miss Anvoy. I said to -myself that our friend had gone out, but I was glad that the presence -of a comparative stranger deprived us of the dreary duty of suggesting -to each other, in respect of his errand, edifying possibilities in -which we didn't ourselves believe. At ten o'clock he came into the -drawing-room with his waistcoat much awry but his eyes sending out -great signals. It was precisely with his entrance that I ceased to be -vividly conscious of him. I saw that the crystal, as I had called it, -had begun to swing, and I had need of my immediate attention for Miss -Anvoy. - -Even when I was told afterwards that he had, as we might have said -to-day, broken the record, the manner in which that attention had been -rewarded relieved me of a sense of loss. I had of course a perfect -general consciousness that something great was going on: it was a -little like having been etherised to hear Herr Joachim play. The old -music was in the air; I felt the strong pulse of thought, the sink and -swell, the flight, the poise, the plunge; but I knew something about -one of the listeners that nobody else knew, and Saltram's monologue -could reach me only through that medium. To this hour I'm of no use -when, as a witness, I'm appealed to (for they still absurdly contend -about it), as to whether or no on that historic night he was drunk; -and my position is slightly ridiculous, for I have never cared to tell -them what it really was I was taken up with. What I got out of it is -the only morsel of the total experience that is quite my own. The -others were shared, but this is incommunicable. I feel that now, I'm -bound to say, in even thus roughly evoking the occasion, and it takes -something from my pride of clearness. However, I shall perhaps be as -clear as is absolutely necessary if I remark that she was too much -given up to her own intensity of observation to be sensible of mine. -It was plainly not the question of her marriage that had brought her -back. I greatly enjoyed this discovery and was sure that had that -question alone been involved she would have remained away. In this -case doubtless Gravener would, in spite of the House of Commons, have -found means to rejoin her. It afterwards made me uncomfortable for her -that, alone in the lodging Mrs. Mulville had put before me as dreary, -she should have in any degree the air of waiting for her fate; so that -I was presently relieved at hearing of her having gone to stay at -Coldfield. If she was in England at all while the engagement stood the -only proper place for her was under Lady Maddock's wing. Now that she -was unfortunate and relatively poor, perhaps her prospective -sister-in-law would be wholly won over. There would be much to say, if -I had space, about the way her behaviour, as I caught gleams of it, -ministered to the image that had taken birth in my mind, to my private -amusement, as I listened to George Gravener in the railway carriage. I -watched her in the light of this queer possibility--a formidable thing -certainly to meet--and I was aware that it coloured, extravagantly -perhaps, my interpretation of her very looks and tones. At Wimbledon -for instance it had seemed to me that she was literally afraid of -Saltram, in dread of a coercion that she had begun already to feel. I -had come up to town with her the next day and had been convinced that, -though deeply interested, she was immensely on her guard. She would -show as little as possible before she should be ready to show -everything. What this final exhibition might be on the part of a girl -perceptibly so able to think things out I found it great sport to -conjecture. It would have been exciting to be approached by her, -appealed to by her for advice; but I prayed to heaven I mightn't find -myself in such a predicament. If there was really a present rigour in -the situation of which Gravener had sketched for me the elements she -would have to get out of her difficulty by herself. It was not I who -had launched her and it was not I who could help her. I didn't fail to -ask myself why, since I couldn't help her, I should think so much -about her. It was in part my suspense that was responsible for this: I -waited impatiently to see whether she wouldn't have told Mrs. Mulville -a portion at least of what I had learned from Gravener. But I saw Mrs. -Mulville was still reduced to wonder what she had come out again for -if she hadn't come as a conciliatory bride. That she had come in some -other character was the only thing that fitted all the appearances. -Having for family reasons to spend some time that spring in the west -of England, I was in a manner out of earshot of the great oceanic -rumble (I mean of the continuous hum of Saltram's thought), and my -nervousness tended to keep me quiet. There was something I wanted so -little to have to say that my prudence surmounted my curiosity. I only -wondered if Ruth Anvoy talked over the idea of the Coxon Fund with -Lady Maddock, and also somewhat why I didn't hear from Wimbledon. I -had a reproachful note about something or other from Mrs. Saltram, but -it contained no mention of Lady Coxon's niece, on whom her eyes had -been much less fixed since the recent untoward events. - - - X - -Adelaide's silence was fully explained later; it was practically -explained when in June, returning to London, I was honoured by this -admirable woman with an early visit. As soon as she appeared I guessed -everything, and as soon as she told me that darling Ruth had been in -her house nearly a month I exclaimed: "What in the name of maidenly -modesty is she staying in England for?" - -"Because she loves me so!" cried Adelaide gaily. But she had not come -to see me only to tell me Miss Anvoy loved her: that was now -sufficiently established, and what was much more to the point was that -Mr. Gravener had now raised an objection to it. That is he had -protested against her being at Wimbledon, where in the innocence of -his heart he had originally brought her himself; in short he wanted -her to put an end to their engagement in the only proper, the only -happy manner. - -"And why in the world doesn't she do so?" I inquired. - -Adelaide hesitated. "She says you know." Then on my also hesitating -she added: "A condition he makes." - -"The Coxon Fund?" I cried. - -"He has mentioned to her his having told you about it." - -"Ah, but so little! Do you mean she has accepted the trust!" - -"In the most splendid spirit--as a duty about which there can be no -two opinions." Then said Adelaide after an instant: "Of course she's -thinking of Mr. Saltram." - -I gave a quick cry at this, which, in its violence, made my visitor -turn pale. "How very awful!" - -"Awful?" - -"Why, to have anything to do with such an idea oneself." - -"I'm sure you needn't!" Mrs. Mulville gave a slight toss of her head. - -"He isn't good enough!" I went on; to which she responded with an -ejaculation almost as lively as mine had been. This made me, with -genuine, immediate horror, exclaim: "You haven't influenced her, I -hope!" and my emphasis brought back the blood with a rush to poor -Adelaide's face. She declared while she blushed (for I had frightened -her again), that she had never influenced anybody and that the girl -had only seen and heard and judged for herself. _He_ had influenced -her, if I would, as he did everyone who had a soul: that word, as we -knew, even expressed feebly the power of the things he said to haunt -the mind. How could she, Adelaide, help it if Miss Anvoy's mind was -haunted? I demanded with a groan what right a pretty girl engaged to a -rising M.P. had to _have_ a mind; but the only explanation my -bewildered friend could give me was that she was so clever. She -regarded Mr. Saltram naturally as a tremendous force for good. She was -intelligent enough to understand him and generous enough to admire. - -"She's many things enough, but is she, among them, rich enough?" I -demanded. "Rich enough, I mean, to sacrifice such a lot of good -money?" - -"That's for herself to judge. Besides, it's not her own money; she -doesn't in the least consider it so." - -"And Gravener does, if not _his_ own: and that's the whole -difficulty?" - -"The difficulty that brought her back, yes: she had absolutely to see -her poor aunt's solicitor. It's clear that by Lady Coxon's will she -may have the money, but it's still clearer to her conscience that the -original condition, definite, intensely implied on her uncle's part, -is attached to the use of it. She can only take one view of it. It's -for the Endowment or it's for nothing." - -"The Endowment is a conception superficially sublime but fundamentally -ridiculous." - -"Are you repeating Mr. Gravener's words?" Adelaide asked. - -"Possibly, though I've not seen him for months. It's simply the way it -strikes me too. It's an old wife's tale. Gravener made some reference -to the legal aspect, but such an absurdly loose arrangement has no -legal aspect." - -"Ruth doesn't insist on that," said Mrs. Mulville; "and it's, for her, -exactly this weakness that constitutes the force of the moral -obligation." - -"Are you repeating her words?" I inquired. I forgot what else Adelaide -said, but she said she was magnificent. I thought of George Gravener -confronted with such magnificence as that, and I asked what could have -made two such people ever suppose they understood each other. Mrs. -Mulville assured me the girl loved him as such a woman could love and -that she suffered as such a woman could suffer. Nevertheless she -wanted to see me. At this I sprang up with a groan. "Oh, I'm so -sorry!--when?" Small though her sense of humour, I think Adelaide -laughed at my tone. We discussed the day, the nearest, it would be -convenient I should come out; but before she went I asked my visitor -how long she had been acquainted with these prodigies. - -"For several weeks, but I was pledged to secrecy." - -"And that's why you didn't write?" - -"I couldn't very well tell you she was with me without telling you -that no time had even yet been fixed for her marriage. And I couldn't -very well tell you as much as that without telling you what I knew of -the reason for it. It was not till a day or two ago," Mrs. Mulville -went on, "that she asked me to ask you if you wouldn't come and see -her. Then at last she said that you knew about the idea of the -Endowment." - -I considered a little. "Why on earth does she want to see me?" - -"To talk with you, naturally, about Mr. Saltram." - -"As a subject for the prize?" This was hugely obvious, and presently -exclaimed: "I think I'll sail to-morrow for Australia." - -"Well then--sail!" said Mrs. Mulville, getting up. - -"On Thursday at five, we said?" I frivolously continued. The -appointment was made definite and I inquired how, all this time, the -unconscious candidate had carried himself. - -"In perfection, really, by the happiest of chances: he has been a -dear. And then, as to what we revere him for, in the most wonderful -form. His very highest--pure celestial light. You _won't_ do him an -ill turn?" Adelaide pleaded at the door. - -"What danger can equal for him the danger to which he is exposed from -himself?" I asked. "Look out sharp, if he has lately been reasonable. -He will presently treat us to some exhibition that will make an -Endowment a scandal." - -"A scandal?" Mrs. Mulville dolorously echoed. - -"Is Miss Anvoy prepared for that?" - -My visitor, for a moment, screwed her parasol into my carpet. "He -grows larger every day." - -"So do you!" I laughed as she went off. - -That girl at Wimbledon, on the Thursday afternoon, more than justified -my apprehensions. I recognised fully now the cause of the agitation -she had produced in me from the first--the faint foreknowledge that -there was something very stiff I should have to do for her. I felt -more than ever committed to my fate as, standing before her in the big -drawing-room where they had tactfully left us to ourselves, I tried -with a smile to string together the pearls of lucidity which, from her -chair, she successively tossed me. Pale and bright, in her monotonous -mourning, she was an image of intelligent purpose, of the passion of -duty; but I asked myself whether any girl had ever had so charming an -instinct as that which permitted her to laugh out, as if in the joy of -her difficulty, into the _blasée_ old room. This remarkable young -woman could be earnest without being solemn, and at moments when I -ought doubtless to have cursed her obstinacy I found myself watching -the unstudied play of her eyebrows or the recurrence of a singularly -intense whiteness produced by the parting of her lips. These -aberrations, I hasten to add, didn't prevent my learning soon enough -why she had wished to see me. Her reason for this was as distinct as -her beauty: it was to make me explain what I had meant, on the -occasion of our first meeting, by Mr. Saltram's want of dignity. It -wasn't that she couldn't imagine, but she desired it there from my -lips. What she really desired of course was to know whether there was -worse about him than what she had found out for herself. She hadn't -been a month in the house with him, that way, without discovering that -he wasn't a man of starch and whalebone. He was like a jelly without a -mould, he had to be embanked; and that was precisely the source of her -interest in him and the ground of her project. She put her project -boldly before me: there it stood in its preposterous beauty. She was -as willing to take the humorous view of it as I could be: the only -difference was that for her the humorous view of a thing was not -necessarily prohibitive, was not paralysing. - -Moreover she professed that she couldn't discuss with me the primary -question--the moral obligation: that was in her own breast. There were -things she couldn't go into--injunctions, impressions she had -received. They were a part of the closest intimacy of her intercourse -with her aunt, they were absolutely clear to her; and on questions of -delicacy, the interpretation of a fidelity, of a promise, one had -always in the last resort to make up one's mind for oneself. It was -the idea of the application to the particular case, such a splendid -one at last, that troubled her, and she admitted that it stirred very -deep things. She didn't pretend that such a responsibility was a -simple matter; if it had been she wouldn't have attempted to saddle me -with any portion of it. The Mulvilles were sympathy itself; but were -they absolutely candid? Could they indeed be, in their position--would -it even have been to be desired? Yes, she had sent for me to ask no -less than that of me--whether there was anything dreadful kept back. -She made no allusion whatever to George Gravener--I thought her -silence the only good taste and her gaiety perhaps a part of the very -anxiety of that discretion, the effect of a determination that people -shouldn't know from herself that her relations with the man she was to -marry were strained. All the weight, however, that she left me to -throw was a sufficient implication of the weight that he had thrown in -vain. Oh, she knew the question of character was immense, and that one -couldn't entertain any plan for making merit comfortable without -running the gauntlet of that terrible procession of interrogation-points -which, like a young ladies' school out for a walk, hooked their -uniform noses at the tail of governess Conduct. But were we absolutely -to hold that was never, never, never an exception, never, never, never -an occasion for liberal acceptance, for clever charity, for suspended -pedantry--for letting one side, in short, outbalance another? When -Miss Anvoy threw off this inquiry I could have embraced her for so -delightfully emphasising her unlikeness to Mrs. Saltram. "Why not have -the courage of one's forgiveness," she asked, "as well as the -enthusiasm of one's adhesion?" - -"Seeing how wonderfully you have threshed the whole thing out," I -evasively replied, "gives me an extraordinary notion of the point your -enthusiasm has reached." - -She considered this remark an instant with her eye on mine, and I -divined that it struck her I might possibly intend it as a reference -to some personal subjection to our fat philosopher, to some fanciful -transfigurement, some perversion of taste. At least I couldn't -interpret otherwise the sudden flush that came into her face. Such a -manifestation, as the result of any word of mine, embarrassed me; but -while I was thinking how to reassure her the colour I speak of passed -away in a smile of exquisite good nature. "Oh, you see, one forgets so -wonderfully how one dislikes him!" she said; and if her tone simply -extinguished his strange figure with the brush of its compassion, it -also rings in my ear to-day as the purest of all our praises. But with -what quick response of compassion such a relegation of the man himself -made me privately sigh: "Ah, poor Saltram!" She instantly, with this, -took the measure of all I didn't believe, and it enabled her to go on: -"What can one do when a person has given such a lift to one's interest -in life?" - -"Yes, what can one do?" If I struck her as a little vague it was -because I was thinking of another person. I indulged in another -inarticulate murmur--"Poor George Gravener!" What had become of the -lift _he_ had given that interest? Later on I made up my mind that she -was sore and stricken at the appearance he presented of wanting the -miserable money. It was the hidden reason of her alienation. The -probable sincerity, in spite of the illiberality, of his scruples -about the particular use of it under discussion didn't efface the -ugliness of his demand that they should buy a good house with it. -Then, as for _his_ alienation, he didn't, pardonably enough, grasp the -lift Frank Saltram had given her interest in life. If a mere spectator -could ask that last question, with what rage in his heart the man -himself might! He was not, like her, I was to see, too proud to show -me why he was disappointed. - - - XI - -I was unable, this time, to stay to dinner: such, at any rate, was the -plea on which I took leave. I desired in truth to get away from my -young lady, for that obviously helped me not to pretend to satisfy -her. How _could_ I satisfy her? I asked myself--how could I tell her -how much had been kept back? I didn't even know, myself, and I -certainly didn't desire to know. My own policy had ever been to learn -the least about poor Saltram's weaknesses--not to learn the most. A -great deal that I had in fact learned had been forced upon me by his -wife. There was something even irritating in Miss Anvoy's crude -conscientiousness, and I wondered why after all she couldn't have let -him alone and been content to entrust George Gravener with the -purchase of the good house. I was sure he would have driven a bargain, -got something excellent and cheap. I laughed louder even than she, I -temporised, I failed her; I told her I must think over her case. I -professed a horror of responsibilities and twitted her with her own -extravagant passion for them. It was not really that I was afraid of -the scandal, the moral discredit for the Fund; what troubled me most -was a feeling of a different order. Of course, as the beneficiary of -the Fund was to enjoy a simple life-interest, as it was hoped that new -beneficiaries would arise and come up to new standards, it would not -be a trifle that the first of these worthies should not have been a -striking example of the domestic virtues. The Fund would start badly, -as it were, and the laurel would, in some respects at least, scarcely -be greener from the brows of the original wearer. That idea however -was at that hour, as I have hinted, not the source of anxiety it ought -perhaps to have been, for I felt less the irregularity of Saltram's -getting the money than that of this exalted young woman's giving it -up. I wanted her to have it for herself, and I told her so before I -went away. She looked graver at this than she had looked at all, -saying she hoped such a preference wouldn't make me dishonest. - -It made me, to begin with, very restless--made me, instead of going -straight to the station, fidget a little about that many-coloured -Common which gives Wimbledon horizons. There was a worry for me to -work off, or rather keep at a distance, for I declined even to admit -to myself that I had, in Miss Anvoy's phrase, been saddled with it. -What could have been clearer indeed than the attitude of recognising -perfectly what a world of trouble the Coxon Fund would in future save -us, and of yet liking better to face a continuance of that trouble -than see, and in fact contribute to, a deviation from attainable bliss -in the life of two other persons in whom I was deeply interested? -Suddenly, at the end of twenty minutes, there was projected across -this clearness the image of a massive, middle-aged man seated on a -bench, under a tree, with sad, far-wandering eyes and plump white -hands folded on the head of a stick--a stick I recognised, a stout -gold-headed staff that I had given him in throbbing days. I stopped -short as he turned his face to me, and it happened that for some -reason or other I took in as I had perhaps never done before the -beauty of his rich blank gaze. It was charged with experience as the -sky is charged with light, and I felt on the instant as if we had been -overspanned and conjoined by the great arch of a bridge or the great -dome of a temple. Doubtless I was rendered peculiarly sensitive to it -by something in the way I had been giving him up and sinking him. -While I met it I stood there smitten, and I felt myself responding to -it with a sort of guilty grimace. This brought back his attention in a -smile which expressed for me a cheerful, weary patience, a bruised -noble gentleness. I had told Miss Anvoy that he had no dignity, but -what did he seem to me, all unbuttoned and fatigued as he waited for -me to come up, if he didn't seem unconcerned with small things, didn't -seem in short majestic? There was majesty in his mere unconsciousness -of our little conferences and puzzlements over his maintenance and his -reward. - -After I had sat by him a few minutes I passed my arm over his big soft -shoulder (wherever you touched him you found equally little firmness,) -and said in a tone of which the suppliance fell oddly on my own car: -"Come back to town with me, old friend--come back and spend the -evening." I wanted to hold him, I wanted to keep him, and at Waterloo, -an hour later, I telegraphed possessively to the Mulvilles. When he -objected, as regards staying all night, that he had no things, I asked -him if he hadn't everything of mine. I had abstained from ordering -dinner, and it was too late for preliminaries at a club; so we were -reduced to tea and fried fish at my rooms--reduced also to the -transcendent. Something had come up which made me want him to feel at -peace with me, which was all the dear man himself wanted on any -occasion. I had too often had to press upon him considerations -irrelevant, but it gives me pleasure now to think that on that -particular evening I didn't even mention Mrs. Saltram and the -children. Late into the night we smoked and talked; old shames and old -rigours fell away from us; I only let him see that I was conscious of -what I owed him. He was as mild as contrition and as abundant as -faith; he was never so fine as on a shy return, and even better at -forgiving than at being forgiven. I daresay it was a smaller matter -than that famous night at Wimbledon, the night of the problematical -sobriety and of Miss Anvoy's initiation; but I was as much in it on -this occasion as I had been out of it then. At about 1.30 he was -sublime. - -He never, under any circumstances, rose till all other risings were -over, and his breakfasts, at Wimbledon, had always been the principal -reason mentioned by departing cooks. The coast was therefore clear for -me to receive her when, early the next morning, to my surprise, it was -announced to me that his wife had called. I hesitated, after she had -come up, about telling her Saltram was in the house, but she herself -settled the question, kept me reticent, by drawing forth a sealed -letter which, looking at me very hard in the eyes, she placed, with a -pregnant absence of comment, in my hand. For a single moment there -glimmered before me the fond hope that Mrs. Saltram had tendered me, -as it were, her resignation and desired to embody the act in an -unsparing form. To bring this about I would have feigned any -humiliation; but after my eyes had caught the superscription I heard -myself say with a flatness that betrayed a sense of something very -different from relief: "Oh, the Pudneys?" I knew their envelopes, -though they didn't know mine. They always used the kind sold at -post-offices with the stamp affixed, and as this letter had not been -posted they had wasted a penny on me. I had seen their horrid missives -to the Mulvilles, but had not been in direct correspondence with them. - -"They enclosed it to me, to be delivered. They doubtless explain to -you that they hadn't your address." - -I turned the thing over without opening it. "Why in the world should -they write to me?" - -"Because they have something to tell you. The worst," Mrs. Saltram -dryly added. - -It was another chapter, I felt, of the history of their lamentable -quarrel with her husband, the episode in which, vindictively, -disingenuously as they themselves had behaved, one had to admit that -he had put himself more grossly in the wrong than at any moment of his -life. He had begun by insulting the matchless Mulvilles for these more -specious protectors, and then, according to his wont at the end of a -few months, had dug a still deeper ditch for his aberration than the -chasm left yawning behind. The chasm at Wimbledon was now blessedly -closed; but the Pudneys across their persistent gulf, kept up the -nastiest fire. I never doubted they had a strong case, and I had been -from the first for not defending him--reasoning that if they were not -contradicted they would perhaps subside. This was above all what I -wanted, and I so far prevailed, that I did arrest the correspondence -in time to save our little circle an infliction heavier than it -perhaps would have borne. I knew, that is I divined, that they had -produced as yet as much as they dared, conscious as they were in their -own virtue of an exposed place in which Saltram could have planted a -blow. It was a question with them whether a man who had himself so -much to cover up would dare; so that these vessels of rancour were in -a manner afraid of each other. I judged that on the day the Pudneys -should cease for some reason or other to be afraid they would treat us -to some revelation more disconcerting than any of its predecessors. As -I held Mr. Saltram's letter in my hand it was distinctly communicated -to me that the day had come--they had ceased to be afraid. "I don't -want to know the worst," I presently declared. - -"You'll have to open the letter. It also contains an enclosure." - -I felt it--it was fat and uncanny. "Wheels within wheels!" I -exclaimed. "There is something for me too to deliver." - -"So they tell me--to Miss Anvoy." - -I stared; I felt a certain thrill. "Why don't they send it to her -directly?" - -Mrs. Saltram hesitated! "Because she's staying with Mr. and Mrs. -Mulville." - -"And why should that prevent?" - -Again my visitor faltered, and I began to reflect on the grotesque, -the unconscious perversity of her action. I was the only person save -George Gravener and the Mulvilles who was aware of Sir Gregory Coxon's -and of Miss Anvoy's strange bounty. Where could there have been a more -signal illustration of the clumsiness of human affairs than her having -complacently selected this moment to fly in the face of it? "There's -the chance of their seeing her letters. They know Mr. Pudney's hand." - -Still I didn't understand; then it flashed upon me. "You mean they -might intercept it? How can you imply anything so base?" I indignantly -demanded. - -"It's not I; it's Mr. Pudney!" cried Mrs. Saltram with a flush. "It's -his own idea." - -"Then why couldn't he send the letter to _you_ to be delivered?" - -Mrs. Saltram's colour deepened; she gave me another hard look. "You -must make that out for yourself." - -I made it out quickly enough. "It's a denunciation?" - -"A real lady doesn't betray her husband!" this virtuous woman -exclaimed. - -I burst out laughing, and I fear my laugh may have had an effect of -impertinence. - -"Especially to Miss Anvoy, who's so easily shocked? Why do such things -concern _her_?" I asked, much at a loss. - -"Because she's there, exposed to all his craft. Mr. and Mrs. Pudney -have been watching this; they feel she may be taken in." - -"Thank you for all the rest of us! What difference can it make, when -she has lost her power to contribute?" - -Again Mrs. Saltram considered; then very nobly: "There are other -things in the world than money," she remarked. This hadn't occurred to -her so long as the young lady had any; but she now added, with a -glance at my letter, that Mr. and Mrs. Pudney doubtless explained -their motives. "It's all in kindness," she continued as she got up. - -"Kindness to Miss Anvoy? You took, on the whole, another view of -kindness before her reverses." - -My companion smiled with some acidity. "Perhaps you're no safer than -the Mulvilles!" - -I didn't want her to think that, nor that she should report to the -Pudneys that they had not been happy in their agent; and I well -remember that this was the moment at which I began, with considerable -emotion, to promise myself to enjoin upon Miss Anvoy never to open any -letter that should come to her with a stamp worked into the envelope. -My emotion and I fear I must add my confusion quickly increased; I -presently should have been as glad to frighten Mrs. Saltram as to -think I might by some diplomacy restore the Pudneys to a quieter -vigilance. "It's best you should take _my_ view of my safety," I at -any rate soon responded. When I saw she didn't know what I meant by -this I added: "You may turn out to have done, in bringing me this -letter, a thing you will profoundly regret." My tone had a -significance which, I could see, did make her uneasy, and there was a -moment, after I had made two or three more remarks of studiously -bewildering effect, at which her eyes followed so hungrily the little -flourish of the letter with which I emphasised them, that I -instinctively slipped Mr. Pudney's communication into my pocket. She -looked, in her embarrassed annoyance, as if she might grab it and send -it back to him. I felt, after she had gone, as if I had almost given -her my word I wouldn't deliver the enclosure. The passionate movement, -at any rate, with which, in solitude, I transferred the whole thing, -unopened, from my pocket to a drawer which I double-locked would have -amounted, for an initiated observer, to some such promise. - - - XII - -Mrs. Saltram left me drawing my breath more quickly and indeed almost -in pain--as if I had just perilously grazed the loss of something -precious. I didn't quite know what it was--it had a shocking -resemblance to my honour. The emotion was the livelier doubtless in -that my pulses were still shaken with the great rejoicing with which, -the night before, I had rallied to the most potent inspirer it could -ever have been a man's fortune to meet. What had dropped from me like -a cumbersome garment as Saltram appeared before me in the afternoon on -the heath was the disposition to haggle over his value. Hang it, one -had to choose, one had to put that value somewhere; so I would put it -really high and have done with it. Mrs. Mulville drove in for him at a -discreet hour--the earliest she could presume him to have got up; and -I learned that Miss Anvoy would also have come had she not been -expecting a visit from Mr. Gravener. I was perfectly mindful that I -was under bonds to see this young lady, and also that I had a letter -to deliver to her; but I took my time, I waited from day to day. I -left Mrs. Saltram to deal as her apprehensions should prompt with the -Pudneys. I knew at last what I meant--I had ceased to wince at my -responsibility. I gave this supreme impression of Saltram time to fade -if it would; but it didn't fade, and, individually, it has not faded -even now. During the month that I thus invited myself to stiffen again -Adelaide Mulville, perplexed by my absence, wrote to me to ask why I -_was_ so stiff. At that season of the year I was usually oftener with -them. She also wrote that she feared a real estrangement had set in -between Mr. Gravener and her sweet young friend--a state of things -only partly satisfactory to her so long as the advantage accruing to -Mr. Saltram failed to disengage itself from the cold mists of theory. -She intimated that her sweet young friend was, if anything, a trifle -too reserved; she also intimated that there might now be an opening -for another clever young man. There never was the slightest opening, I -may here parenthesise, and of course the question can't come up -to-day. These are old frustrations now. Ruth Anvoy has not married, I -hear, and neither have I. During the month, toward the end, I wrote to -George Gravener to ask if, on a special errand, I might come to see -him, and his answer was to knock the very next day at my door. I saw -he had immediately connected my inquiry with the talk we had had in -the railway carriage, and his promptitude showed that the ashes of his -eagerness were not yet cold. I told him there was something I thought -I ought in candour to let him know--I recognised the obligation his -friendly confidence had laid upon me. - -"You mean that Miss Anvoy has talked to you? She has told me so -herself," he said. - -"It was not to tell so that _I_ wanted to see you," I replied; "for it -seemed to me that such a communication would rest wholly with herself. -If however she did speak to you of our conversation she probably told -you that I was discouraging." - -"Discouraging?" - -"On the subject of a present application of the Coxon Fund." - -"To the case of Mr. Saltram? My dear fellow, I don't know what you -call discouraging!" Gravener exclaimed. - -"Well, I thought I was, and I thought she thought I was." - -"I believe she did, but such a thing is measured by the effect. She's -not discouraged." - -"That's her own affair. The reason I asked you to see me was that it -appeared to me I ought to tell you frankly that decidedly I can't -undertake to produce that effect. In fact I don't want to!" - -"It's very good of you, damn you!" my visitor laughed, red and really -grave. Then he said: "You would like to see that fellow publicly -glorified--perched on the pedestal of a great complimentary fortune?" - -"Taking one form of public recognition with another, it seems to me on -the whole I could bear it. When I see the compliments that are paid -right and left, I ask myself why this one shouldn't take its course. -This therefore is what you're entitled to have looked to me to mention -to you. I have some evidence that perhaps would be really dissuasive, -but I propose to invite Miss Anvoy to remain in ignorance of it." - -"And to invite me to do the same?" - -"Oh, you don't require it--you've evidence enough. I speak of a sealed -letter which I've been requested to deliver to her." - -"And you don't mean to?" - -"There's only one consideration that would make me." - -Gravener's clear, handsome eyes plunged into mine a minute; but -evidently without fishing up a clue to this motive--a failure by which -I was almost wounded. "What does the letter contain?" - -"It's sealed, as I tell you, and I don't know what it contains." - -"Why is it sent through you?" - -"Rather than you?" I hesitated a moment. "The only explanation I can -think of is that the person sending it may have imagined your -relations with Miss Anvoy to be at an end--may have been told they -were by Mrs. Saltram." - -"My relations with Miss Anvoy are not at an end," poor Gravener -stammered. - -Again, for an instant, I deliberated. "The offer I propose to make you -gives me the right to put you a question remarkably direct. Are you -still engaged to Miss Anvoy?" - -"No, I'm not," he slowly brought out. "But we're perfectly good -friends." - -"Such good friends that you will again become prospective husband and -wife if the obstacle in your path be removed?" - -"Removed?" Gravener vaguely repeated. - -"If I give Miss Anvoy the letter I speak of she may drop her project." - -"Then for God's sake give it!" - -"I'll do so if you're ready to assure me that her dropping it would -now presumably bring about your marriage." - -"I'd marry her the next day!" my visitor cried. - -"Yes, but would she marry you? What I ask of you of course is nothing -less than your word of honour as to your conviction of this. If you -give it me," I said, "I'll place the letter in her hand to-day." - -Gravener took up his hat; turning it mechanically round, he stood -looking a moment hard at its unruffled perfection. Then, very angrily, -honestly and gallantly: "Place it in hell!" he broke out; with which -he clapped the hat on his head and left me. - -"Will you read it or not?" I said to Ruth Anvoy, at Wimbledon, when I -had told her the story of Mrs. Saltram's visit. - -She reflected for a period which was probably of the briefest, but -which was long enough to make me nervous. "Have you brought it with -you?" - -"No indeed. It's at home, locked up." - -There was another great silence, and then she said: "Go back and -destroy it." - -I went back, but I didn't destroy it till after Saltram's death, when -I burnt it unread. The Pudneys approached her again pressingly, but, -prompt as they were, the Coxon Fund had already become an operative -benefit and a general amaze; Mr. Saltram, while we gathered about, as -it were, to watch the manna descend, was already drawing the -magnificent income. He drew it as he had always drawn everything, with -a grand abstracted gesture. Its magnificence, alas, as all the world -now knows, quite quenched him; it was the beginning of his decline. It -was also naturally a new grievance for his wife, who began to believe -in him as soon as he was blighted and who to this day accuses us of -having bribed him to gratify the fad of a pushing American, to -renounce his glorious office, to become, as she says, like everybody -else. On the day he found himself able to publish he wholly ceased to -produce. This deprived us, as may easily be imagined, of much of our -occupation, and especially deprived the Mulvilles, whose want of -self-support I never measured till they lost their great inmate. They -have no one to live on now. Adelaide's most frequent reference to -their destitution is embodied in the remark that dear far-away Ruth's -intentions were doubtless good. She and Kent are even yet looking for -another prop, but everyone is so dreadfully robust. With Saltram the -type was scattered, the grander, the elder style. They have got their -carriage back, but what's an empty carriage? In short, I think we were -all happier as well as poorer before; even including George Gravener, -who, by the deaths of his brother and his nephew, has lately become -Lord Maddock. His wife, whose fortune clears the property, is -criminally dull; he hates being in the Upper House and he has not yet -had high office. But what are these accidents, which I should perhaps -apologise for mentioning, in the light of the great eventual boon -promised the patient by the rate at which the Coxon Fund must be -rolling up? - - - - -For the Backs of Playing Cards - - By Aymer Vallance - -[Illustration: Backs of Four Playing Cards] - -[Illustration: Table of Contents and Art] - - - - - Transcriber's Notes: - -Punctuation, use of hyphens, and accent marks were standardized. -Dialect, obsolete and alternative spellings were left unchanged. -Missing (unprinted) letters were added. Spelling corrections are noted -below. Words in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like this_. - -The illustration on the back cover of the magazine duplicated the -table of contents and list of illustrations, with the addition of -sketches at the top and bottom of the page. The text was not repeated -at the end of the book. - -Corrections: - - 'resourse' to 'resource' ... whatever resource he could command ... - 'do' to 'to' ... and to judge from its stout walls ... - 'Rennuf' to 'Renouf' ... But Mr. Renouf may ... - 'Chausée' to 'Chaussée' ... corner of the Chaussée d'Antin,... - 'consciouness' to 'consciousness' ... imply a consciousness of guilt ... - 'lettter' to 'letter' ... began to write a letter,... - 'you're' to 'your' ... the idea of your being a governess?... - 'musn't' to 'mustn't' ... she mustn't be oppressed ... - 'senuous' to 'sensuous' ... nervous, sensuous, trembling,... - 'architectual' to 'architectural' ... chief architectural ornaments;... - missing word 'you' added: ... only those who you really like,... - 'hackeyed' to 'hackneyed' ... employ a hackneyed, and often quite ... - 'wisdow' to 'wisdom' ... to borrow wisdom ... - 'musn't' to 'mustn't' ... You mustn't suppose he's good looking ... - 'lasping' to 'lapsing' ... has come very near lapsing.... - 'their' to 'there' ... hold that there was never ... - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Yellow Book, -edited by Henry Harland - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YELLOW BOOK *** - -***** This file should be named 41876-8.txt or 41876-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/1/8/7/41876/ - -Produced by Charlene Taylor, Carol Brown, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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