diff options
Diffstat (limited to '43971.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 43971.txt | 4809 |
1 files changed, 0 insertions, 4809 deletions
diff --git a/43971.txt b/43971.txt deleted file mode 100644 index ef9ac4f..0000000 --- a/43971.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4809 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, One Man's View, by Leonard Merrick - - -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 - - - - - -Title: One Man's View - - -Author: Leonard Merrick - - - -Release Date: October 18, 2013 [eBook #43971] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ONE MAN'S VIEW*** - - -E-text prepared by Clare Graham and Marc D'Hooghe -(http://www.freeliterature.org) from page images generously made available -by Internet Archive (http://archive.org) - - - -Note: Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - http://archive.org/details/onemansviewwithi00merruoft - - - - - -ONE MAN'S VIEW - -by - -LEONARD MERRICK - -With an Introduction by Granville Barker - - - - - - - -Hodder & Stoughton -London--New York--Toronto - -1922 - - - - -INTRODUCTION - - -This story can be said to date, though quite in the sense that a -story legitimately may. It is historic, though that is not to say -old-fashioned. If one searches by internal evidence for the time of -its writing, 1889 might be a safe guess. It was about then that many -Londoners (besides the American girls in the story) were given their -first glimpse of Niagara at the Panorama near Victoria Street. The -building is a motor garage now; it lies beneath the cliffs of Queen -Anne's Mansions; aeroplanes may discover its queer round roof. And it -was in an ageing past too--for architectural ages veritably flash by in -New York--that Broadway could be said to spread into the "brightness -of Union Square." To-day there is but a chaos of dingy decay owning -to that name. Soon it will be smart skyscrapers, no doubt; when the -tide of business has covered it, as now the tide of fashion leaves -it derelict. Duluth, too, with its "storekeepers spitting on wooden -sidewalks"! Duluth foresees a Lake Front that will rival Chicago. - -But in such honest "dating," and in the inferences we may draw from it, -lie perhaps some of the peculiar merits of Mr. Merrick's method--his -straight telling of a tale. And digging to the heart of the book, the -One Man's View of his faithless wife--more importantly too, the wife's -view of herself--is, in a sense, an "historic" view. Not, of course, in -its human essentials. Those must be true or false of this man and this -woman whenever, however they lived and suffered. Such sufferings are -dateless. And whether they are truly or falsely told, let the reader -judge. No preface-writer need pre-judge for him. For in such things, -the teller of the tale, from the heart of his subject, speaks straight -to the heart and conscience of his audience, and will succeed or fail -by no measurable virtue of style or wit, but by the truth that is in -him, by how much of it they are open to receive. - -Look besides with ever so slightly an historical eye at the -circumstances in which the lives of these two were set to grow, and -to flourish or perish, as it was easier or harder to tend them. See -the girl with her simple passion for the theatre--so apt a channel -for her happy ambition as it appears--and that baulked, her very life -baulked. To-day, this war-day, and most surely for the immediate -enfranchised to-morrow breaking so close, the same girl will turn her -back light-heartedly on the glamour of that little tinselled world to -many another prospect of self-fulfilment. - -And the lawyer, lost in his law. If a Solicitor-Generalship is his -aim, he will be worldly-wise enough, one hopes, to come home not too -tired to make at least a passably attractive figure at his wife's -well-chosen dinner-parties. Or is that phase of English government now -also to pass? No; for probably a country will always be governed from -its dinner-tables, while its well-being is finally determined by their -quality! Mamie to-day, though, would be doing more than give dinners. -It is a question if the Mamie of to-morrow will have time to. - -And the literary flaneur--the half-hearted seducer of passionless -ladies--is he out of date? Mr. Merrick implies the quite wholesome -truth that he always was. Through books and bookish dreams--beautiful, -wise dreams--lies the passage to life of many boys and girls. But the -healthiest instincts in them are seeking still a real world in which -it will be both sane and fine to live. Their dreams are mostly a hard -test of it when it is found; and, oh, the pity if the finding it quite -breaks their dream! - -In sum, then, it was Mamie's tragedy to seek her realities during a -phase of art and letters which, in their utter unreality, seemed to -deny the very existence of any real world at all. Neither true art nor -true letters then; they were so turning from reality with fear. - -Are they still denying it to-day? If so this story does not date at -all, and Mamie's tragedy is a tragedy of our time. For tragedy it is, -even though in _One Man's View_ she finds at last reposeful salvation -of a sort. But our hope is better. And half our pleasure in the story -and in its historical truth is the thought that, true author as he -is, were he writing it to-day, and of to-day, Mr. Merrick would have -written it just so much differently. - -Granville Barker. - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -The idea was so foreign to his temperament that Heriot was reluctant -to believe that he had entertained it even during a few seconds. He -continued his way past the big pink house and the girl on the balcony, -surprised at the interest roused in him by this chance discovery of -her address. Of what consequence was it where she was staying? He had -noticed her on the terrace, by the band-stand one morning, and admired -her. In other words, he had unconsciously attributed to the possessor -of a delicious complexion, and a pair of grey eyes, darkly fringed, -vague characteristics to which she was probably a stranger. He had seen -her the next day also, and the next--even hoped to see her; speculated -quite idly what her social position might be, and how she came beside -the impossible woman who accompanied her. All that was nothing; his -purpose in coming to Eastbourne was to be trivial. But why the sense of -gratification with which he had learnt where she lived? - -As to the idea which had crossed his brain, that was preposterous! -Of course, since the pink house was a boarding establishment, he -might, if he would, make her acquaintance by the simple expedient -of removing there, but he did not know how he could have meditated -such a step. It was the sort of semi-disreputable folly that a man a -decade or so younger might commit and describe as a "lark." No doubt -many men a decade or so younger would commit it. He could conceive -that a freshly-painted balcony, displaying a pretty girl for an hour -or two every afternoon, might serve to extend the clientele of a -boarding-house enormously, and wondered that more attention had not -been paid to such a form of advertisement. For himself, however---- His -hair was already thinning at the temples; solicitors were deferential -to him, and his clerk was taking a villa in Brixton; for himself, it -would not do! - -Eastbourne was depressing, he reflected, as he strolled towards the -dumpy Wish Tower. He was almost sorry that he hadn't gone to Sandhills -and quartered himself on his brother for a week or two instead. Francis -was always pleased to meet him of recent years, and no longer remarked -early in the conversation that he was "overdrawn at Cox's." On the -whole, Francis was not a bad fellow, and Sandhills and pheasants would -have been livelier. - -He stifled a yawn, and observed with relief that it was near the -dinner-hour. In the evening he turned over the papers in the -smoking-room. He perceived, as he often did perceive in the vacations, -that he was lonely. Vacations were a mistake: early in one's career -one could not afford them, and by the time one was able to afford -them, the taste for holidays was gone. This hotel was dreary, too. The -visitors were dull, and the cooking was indifferent. What could be more -tedious than the meal from which he had just risen?--the feeble soup, -the flaccid fish, the uninterrupted view of the stout lady with the -aquiline nose, and a red shawl across her shoulders. Now he was lolling -on a morocco couch, fingering the _The Field_; two or three other men -lay about, napping, or looking at the _The Graphic_. There was a great -deal of tobacco-smoke, and a little whisky; he might as well have -stopped in town and gone to the Club. He wondered what they did in -Belle Vue Mansion after dinner. Perhaps there was music, and the girl -sang? he could fancy that she sang well. Or they might have impromptu -dances? Personally he did not care for dancing, but even to see others -enjoying themselves would be comparatively gay. After all, why should -he not remove to Belle Vue Mansion if he wished? He had attached a -significance to the step that it did not possess, making it appear -absurd by the very absurdity of the consideration that he accorded it. -He remembered the time when he would not have hesitated--those were -the days when Francis was always "overdrawn at Cox's." Well, he had -worked hard since then, and anything that Francis might have lent him -had been repaid, and he had gradually acquired soberer views of life. -Perhaps he might be said to have gone to an extreme, indeed, and taken -the pledge! He sometimes felt old, and he was still in the thirties. -Francis was the younger of the two of late, although he had a boy in -the Brigade; but elder sons often kept young very long--it was easy for -them, like the way of righteousness to a bishop.... A waiter cast an -inquiring glance round the room, and, crossing to the sofa, handed him -a card. Heriot read the name with astonishment; he had not seen the man -for sixteen years, and even their irregular correspondence had died a -natural death. - -"My dear fellow!" he exclaimed in the hall. "Come inside." - -In the past, of which he had just been thinking, he and Dick Cheriton -had been staunch friends, none the less staunch because Cheriton was -some years his senior. Dick had a studio in Howland Street then, and -was going to set the Academy on fire. In the meanwhile he wore a yellow -necktie, and married madly, and smoked a clay pipe; he could not -guarantee that he would be an R.A., but at least he was resolved that -he would be a bohemian. He had some of the qualifications for artistic -success, but little talent. When he discovered the fact beyond the -possibility of mistake, he accepted a relative's offer of a commercial -berth in the United States, and had his hair cut. The valedictory -supper in the studio, at which he had renounced ambition, and solemnly -burned all his canvases that the dealers would not buy, had been a very -affecting spectacle. - -"My dear fellow!" cried Heriot. "Come inside. This is a tremendous -pleasure. When did you arrive?" - -"Came over in the _Germanic_, ten days ago. It _is_ you, then; I saw -'George Heriot' in the Visitors' List, and strolled round on the -chance. I scarcely hoped---- How are you, old man? I'm mighty glad to -see you--fact!" - -"You've been here ten days?" - -"Not here, no; I've only been in Eastbourne a few hours." - -"You should have looked me up in town." - -"I tried. Your chambers were shut." - -"The hall-porter at the Club----" - -"What club? You forget what an exile I am!" - -"Have a drink? Well, upon my word, this is very jolly! Sit down; try -one of these." - -"Would you have recognised me?" asked Cheriton, stretching his legs, -and lighting the cigar. - -"You've changed," admitted Heriot; "it's a long time. I've changed too." - -They regarded each other with a gaze of friendly criticism. Heriot -noted with some surprise that the other's appearance savoured little -of the American man of business, or of the man of business outside -America. His hair, though less disordered than it had been in the -Howland Street period, was still rather longer than is customary in the -City. It was now grey, and became him admirably. He wore a black velvet -jacket, and showed a glimpse of a deep crimson tie. He no longer looked -a bohemian, but he had acquired the air of a celebrity. - -"Have you come home for good, Cheriton?" - -Cheriton shook his head. - -"I guess America has got me for life," he answered; "I'm only making a -trip. And you? You're still at the Bar, eh?" - -"Oh, yes," said Heriot drily; "I'm still at the Bar." It is not -agreeable, when you have succeeded in a profession, to be asked if you -are in it still. "I've travelled along the lines on which you left -me--it doesn't make an exciting narrative. Chambers, court, and bed. A -laundress or two has died in the interval. The thing pays better than -it used to do, naturally; that's all." - -"You're doing well?" - -"I should have called it 'doing well' once; but we are all Olivers in -our hearts. To-day----" - -"Mistake!" said the elder man. "You wanted the Bar--you've got the Bar; -you ought to be satisfied. Now _I_----" - -"Yes?" said Heriot, as he paused. "How's the world used you, Cheriton? -By the way, you never answered my last letter, I think." - -"It was _you_ who didn't answer _me_." - -"I fancy not. You were going to Chicago, and I wrote----" - -"I wrote after I arrived in Chicago." - -"Well, it must be five years ago; we won't argue. What did you do in -Chicago, Cheriton?" - -"No good, sir. I went there with a patent horse-collar. Capital -invention--not my own, I never invented anything!--but it didn't catch -on. They seemed to take no interest in horse-collars; no money in it, -not a cent! After the horse-collar I started in the dry-goods trade; -but I was burned out. From Chicago I went to Duluth; I've an hotel -there to-day." - -"An hotel?" - -"That's so. It isn't a distinguished career, running a little hotel, -but it's fairly easy. Compared with hustling with horse-collars it's -luxurious. Duluth is not ideal, but what would you have! I make my way, -and that's all I ask now. If I had my life over again----" He sighed. -"If we could have our lives over again, eh, Heriot?" - -"Humph!" said Heriot doubtfully; he was wondering if he could make any -better use of his own--if he would be any livelier the next time he was -eight-and-thirty. "I suppose we all blunder, of course." - -"_You_ are a young man yet; it's different for you; and you're in the -profession of your choice: it's entirely different. We don't look at -the thing from the same standpoint, Heriot." - -"You don't mean that you regret giving up Art?" - -"Sir," said Cheriton mournfully, "it was the error I shall always -regret. I wouldn't say as much to anybody else; I keep it here"--he -tapped his velvet jacket--"but I had a gift, and I neglected it; I -had power, and--and I run an hotel. When I reflect, man, there are -hours--well, it's no use crying over spilt milk; but to think of the -position I should have made, and to contrast it with what I am, is -bitter!" He swept back his wavy hair impatiently, and in the momentary -pose looked more like a celebrity still. - -Heriot could see that the cherished delusion gave him a melancholy -pleasure, and was at a loss how to reply. "It was uphill work," he said -at last. "Who can tell? Luck----" - -"I was a lad, an impetuous lad; and I was handicapped--I married." The -man with a failure to explain is always grateful to have married. "But -I had the stuff in me, I had the temperament. 'Had' it? I have it now! -I may keep an hotel, but I shall never be an hotel-keeper. God gave -me my soul, sir; circumstances gave me an hotel. I mayn't paint any -more, but an artist by nature I shall always be. I don't say it in any -bragging spirit, Heriot; I should be happier if I didn't feel it. The -commonplace man may be contented in the commonplace calling: he fills -the role he was meant for. It's the poor devil like myself, who knows -what he _might_ have been, who suffers." - -Heriot didn't pursue the subject; he puffed his cigar meditatively. -After the effervescence subsides, such meetings must always have a -little sadness; he looked at the wrinkles that had gathered on his -friend's face, and realised the crow's-feet on his own. - -"You lost your wife, you wrote me?" he remarked, breaking a rather -lengthy silence. - -"In New York, yes--pneumonia. _You_ never married, eh?" - -"No. Do you stay over here long?" - -"A month or two; I can't manage more. But I shall leave my girl in -London. I've brought her with me, and she'll remain." - -"Of course," said Heriot, "you have a child--of course you have! I -remember a little thing tumbling about in Howland Street. She must be a -woman, Cheriton?" - -"Mamie is twenty-one. I want to see if I can do anything for her before -I go back. She loathes Duluth; and she has talent. She'll live with my -sister. I don't think you ever saw my sister, did you? She's a widow, -and stagnates in Wandsworth--Mamie will be company for her." - -"Your daughter paints?" - -"No, not paints; she wants to be an actress. I wasn't very keen on it; -but she's got the material in her, and I concluded I'd no right to say -'no.' Still, she's not very strong--takes after her mother, I'm afraid, -a little; I'd rather she'd had a gift for something else." - -"Was it necessary for her to have a gift at all?" asked Heriot, a shade -sarcastically. "Couldn't she stop at home?" - -"Well," said Cheriton, "she tried it, but it's a hard thing for a girl -like Mamie to content herself with the life in Duluth. There isn't -much art in that, Heriot; there isn't much anything. There's the lake, -and Superior Street, and the storekeepers lounging in the doorways -and spitting on the wooden sidewalks. And there's a theatre of a -sort--which made her worse. For a girl panting to be famous, Duluth is -a hell. She's been breaking her heart in it ever since she was sixteen; -and after all, it's in the blood. It would have been odd if my daughter -_hadn't_ had the artistic temperament, I suppose!" - -"I suppose it would," said Heriot. "Well, why doesn't she go on the -stage in America? I shouldn't think she'd find it easy here." - -"She wouldn't find it easy there. There's no stock company in Duluth; -only the travelling companies come sometimes for a few nights. There's -no bigger opportunity for her on the other side than on this. Besides, -she wants the English stage. I wonder if you know anybody who could -give her any introductions?" - -"I? Not a soul!" - -"I'm sorry to hear you say that," said Cheriton blankly; "I was -counting on you some." - -Heriot looked at him. - -"You counted on _me_? For Heaven's sake, why?" - -"Well, I don't know many people over here to-day, you see; the fellows -I used to knock against have died, gone to the Colonies--fizzled out. -You were solid; and you were a swell, with connections and all that. I -understand the stage has become very fashionable in London--I thought -you might meet actor-managers at dinners and things. That was the idea; -I daresay it was very stupid, but I had it. I mentioned your name to -Mamie as soon as it was settled we should come. However, we'll fix the -matter somehow." - -"I'm sorry to prove a disappointment," said Heriot. "Tell your daughter -so for me. I'd do what you want with pleasure, if I were able. You know -that, I'm sure?" - -"Oh, I know that," said Cheriton; "it can't be helped. Yes, I'll -tell her. She _will_ be disappointed, of course; she understands how -difficult the thing is without influence, and I've talked about you a -lot." - -"Do you think you were wise to--to----" - -"Oh, it was a mistake as it turns out!" - -"I don't mean that only. I mean, do you think you were wise to -encourage her hopes in such a direction at all? Frankly, if _I_ had a -daughter---- Forgive me for speaking plainly." - -"My dear fellow! your daughter and mine!--their paths would be as wide -apart as the poles. And you don't know Mamie!" - -"At all events I know that the stage is more overcrowded every year. -Most girls are stage-struck at some time or other; and there are -hundreds of actresses who can't earn bread-and-cheese. A man I know -has his type-writing done by a woman who used to be on the stage. She -played the best parts in the country, I believe, and, I daresay, nursed -the expectation of becoming a Bernhardt. She gets a pound a week in his -office, he tells me, and was thankful to obtain the post." - -"Mamie is bound to come to the front. She's got it--she's an artist -born. I tell you, I should be brutal to stand in the way of her career; -the girl is pining, really pining, for distinction! When you've talked -to her you'll change your views." - -"Perhaps," said Heriot, as the shortest way of ending the discussion; -"very likely I'm wrong." The budding genius bored him. "Mind you -explain to the young lady that my inability, and not my will, refuses, -at any rate." - -"That's all right," declared Cheriton, getting up. "I told her I was -coming round to see if it was you." He laughed. "I bet she's picturing -me coming back with a bushel of letters of introduction from you by -now! Well, I must be going; it's getting late." - -"You brought her down to Eastbourne to-day?" - -"Oh, I've been dangling about town a little by myself; Mamie and -my sister have been here a week. Good-night, old chap; shall I see -you to-morrow? You might give us a look in if you will--say in the -afternoon. Belle Vue Mansion; don't forget!" - -"Where?" exclaimed Heriot, startled into interest. - -"Belle Vue Mansion," repeated Cheriton, gripping his hand. "You can't -miss it: a big pink house on the Esplanade." - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -Heriot betook himself there on the following day with a curious -eagerness. If the girl he had noticed should prove to be Cheriton's -daughter, how odd it would be! He at once hoped for the coincidence, -and found the possibility a shade pathetic. It emphasised his years to -think that the ill-kept child of the dirty studio might have become -the girl he had admired. His progress during the interval appeared -momentarily insignificant to him; he felt that while a brat became a -woman he ought to have done much more. He was discouraged to reflect -that he had not taken silk; for he had always intended to take silk, -and had small misgivings that he would have cause to repent it. His -practice had indicated for some time that he would not suffer by the -step, and yet he had delayed his application. His motto had been, "Slow -and sure," but it seemed to him suddenly that he had been too slow; his -income as a Junior should not have contented him so long. - -He pulled the bell, and was preceded up the stairs by a maid-servant, -who opened a door, and announced him to the one occupant of the room. -Heriot saw that she was the girl of the balcony and the terrace, and -that she moved towards him smiling. - -"I am Mamie Cheriton," she said. "My father is expecting you." - -Her intonation was faintly American, but her voice was full and sweet. -He took her hand with pleasure, and a touch of excitement that did not -concord with his countenance, which was formal and impassive. - -"I am glad to make your acquaintance, Miss Cheriton." - -"Won't you sit down?" she said. "He will be here in a minute." - -Heriot took a seat, and decided that her eyes were even lovelier than -he had known. - -"When I saw you last, you were a child," he remarked inaccurately. - -"Yes; it must have astonished you meeting my father again after so many -years. It was funny, your being here, wasn't it?... But perhaps you -often come to Eastbourne?" - -"No," said Heriot, "no, I don't often come. How does it strike you, -Miss Cheriton? I suppose you can hardly remember England, can you?" - -"Well, I shan't be sorry to be settled in London; it was London I was -anxious to go to, not the sea-shore.... Do you say 'sea-shore' in -Europe, or is it wrong? When I said 'sea-shore' this morning, I noticed -that a woman stared at me." - -"One generally says 'seaside' over here; I don't know that it's -important." - -"Well, the 'seaside' then. The seaside was my aunt's wish. -Well---- Well, I'm saying 'well' too often, I guess?--that's American, -too! I've got to be quite English--that's my first step. But at least I -don't talk like Americans in your comic papers, do I?" - -"You talk very delightfully, I think," he said, taken aback. - -"I hope you mean it. My voice is most important, you know. It would be -very cruel if I were handicapped by having anything the matter with my -voice. I shall have difficulties enough without!" - -"I'm afraid," he said, "that I'm unfortunate. I wish I could have done -something to further the ambitions your father mentioned." - -She smiled again, rather wistfully this time. - -"They seem very absurd to you, I daresay?" - -He murmured deprecation: "Why?" - -"The stage-struck girl is always absurd." - -Recognising his own phrase, he perceived that he had been too -faithfully reported, and was embarrassed. - -"I spoke hastily. In the abstract the stage-struck girl may be absurd, -but so is a premature opinion." - -"Thank you," she said. "But why 'stage-struck,' anyhow? it's a term I -hate. I suppose you wanted to be a barrister, Mr. Heriot?" - -"I did," he confessed, "certainly. There are a great many, but I -thought there was room for one more." - -"But you weren't described as 'bar-struck'?" - -"I don't think I ever heard the expression." - -"It would be a very foolish one?" - -"It would sound so to me." - -"Why 'stage-struck' then? Is it any more ridiculous to aspire to one -profession than another? You don't say a person is 'paint-struck,' or -'ink-struck,' or anything else '-struck'; why the sneer when one is -drawn towards the theatre? But perhaps _no_ form of art appears to you -necessary?" - -"I think I should prefer to call it 'desirable,' since you ask the -question," he said. "And 'art' is a word used to weight a great many -trivialities too! Everybody who writes a novel is an artist in his own -estimation, and personally, I find existence quite possible without -novels." - -"Did you ever read _Mademoiselle de Maupin_?" asked Miss Cheriton. - -"Have _you_?" he said quickly. - -"Oh yes; books are very cheap in America. 'I would rather grow roses -than potatoes,' is one of the lines in the preface. _You_ would rather -grow potatoes than roses, eh?" - -"You are an enthusiast," said Heriot; "I see!" He pitied her for being -Dick Cheriton's daughter. She was inevitable: the pseudo-artist's -discontent with realities--the inherited tendencies, fanned by -thinly-veiled approval! He understood. - -Cheriton came in after a few minutes, followed by the aunt, to whom -Heriot was presented. He found her primitive, and far less educated -than her brother. She was very happy to see dear Dick again, and she -was sorry that she must lose him again so soon. Dear Mamie, though, -would be a consolation. A third-rate suburban villa was stamped upon -her; he could imagine her making hideous antimacassars for forbidding -armchairs, and that a visit to an Eastbourne boarding-house was the -event of her life. She wore jet earrings, and stirred her tea with vast -energy. With the circulation of the tea, strangers drifted into the -room, and the conversation was continued in undertones. - -"Have you been talking to Mamie about her intentions?" Cheriton -inquired. - -"We've been chatting, yes. What steps do you mean to take, Miss -Cheriton? What shall you do?" - -"I propose to go to the dramatic agents," she said, "and ask them to -hear me recite." - -"Dramatic agents must be kept fairly busy, I should say. What if they -don't consent?" - -"I shall recite to them." - -"You are firm!" he laughed. - -"I am eager, Mr Heriot. I have longed till I am sick with longing. -London has been my aim since I was a little girl. I have dreamt of -it!--I've gone to sleep hoping that I might; I couldn't recall one of -its streets, but in dreams I've reached it over and over again. The way -was generally across Lincoln Park, in Chicago; and all of a sudden I -was among theatres and lights, and it was London!" - -"And you were an actress. And the audience showered bouquets!" - -"I always woke up before I was an actress. But now I'm here really, I -mean to try to wake London up." - -"I hope you will," he said. Her faith in herself was a little -infectious, since she was beautiful. If she had been plain, he would -have considered her conceited. - -"Have I gushed?" she said, colouring. - -He was not sure but what she had. - -"She's like her father," said Cheriton gaily; "get her on the subject -of art, and her tongue runs away with her. We're all children, we -artists--up in the skies, or down in the dumps. No medium with us! She -must recite to _you_ one of these days, Heriot; I want you to hear her." - -"Will you, Miss Cheriton?" - -"If you like," she said. - -"Dear Mamie must recite to _me_," murmured Mrs. Baines; "I'm quite -looking forward to it. What sort of pieces do you say, dear? Nice -pieces?" - -"She knows the parts of Juliet, and Rosalind, and Pauline by heart," -said Cheriton, ignoring his sister. "I think you'll say her Balcony -Scene is almost as fine a rendering as you've ever heard. There's a -delicacy, a spiritual----" - -"Has she been trained?" asked Heriot; "I understood she was quite a -novice." - -"I've coached her myself," replied Cheriton complacently. "I don't -pretend to be an elocutionist, of course; but I've been able to give -her some hints. All the arts are related, you know, my boy--it's only -a difference in the form of expression. They're playing _Romeo and -Juliet_ at the theatre here to-night, and we're going; she never loses -an opportunity for study. It's been said that you can learn as much by -watching bad acting as good. Will you come with us?" he added, lowering -his voice. "You'll see how she warms up at the sight of the footlights." - -"I don't mind," said Heriot, "if I shan't be in the way. Suppose we all -dine together at the hotel, and go on from there? What do you say?" He -turned to the ladies, and the widow faltered: - -"Lor, I'm sure it's very kind of you to invite me, Mr. Heriot. That -_would_ be gay, wouldn't it!" - -She smoothed her flat hair tremulously, and left the decision to her -brother and her niece. - -Heriot took his leave with the understanding that he was to expect -them, and sauntered along the Parade more cheerfully than was his wont. -The girl had not failed to impress him, though he disapproved of her -tendencies; nor did these appear quite so preposterous to him now, -albeit he thought them regrettable. He did not know whether he believed -in her or not yet, but he was conscious that he wished to do so. His -paramount reflection was that she would have been a wholly charming -girl if she had had ordinary advantages--a finishing governess, and a -London season, and a touch of conventionality. He disliked to use the -word "conventionality," for it sounded priggish; but "conventionality" -was what he meant. - -At dinner, however, and more especially after it, he forgot his -objections. In the theatre he watched Miss Cheriton more attentively -than the stage. She herself sat with her eyes riveted on it, and he -could see that she was the prey to strong excitement. He wondered -whether this was created by the performance, which seemed to him -indifferent, or by the thoughts that it awoke, and he resolved to ask -her. When the curtain fell, and they went out, he wasn't sorry that -Cheriton derided his suggestion of a cab and declared that the walk -back would be agreeable. He kept by the girl's side, and the others -followed. - -She did not speak, and after a minute he said: - -"Will it jar upon you if I say, 'Let us talk'?" - -She turned to him with a slight start. - -"Of course not! How can you think me so ridiculous?" - -"Yet it did!" said Heriot; "I could see." - -"I know exactly how I appear," she said constrainedly. "I look an -affected idiot. If you knew how I hate to appear affected! I give -you my word I don't put it on; I can't help it. The theatre gives me -hot and cold shivers, and turns me inside out. That isn't prettily -expressed, but it describes what I mean as nearly as possible. Am I -'enthusing' again?" - -"I never said you 'enthused' before. You're not my idea of--of 'the -gushing girl' at all." - -"I'm glad to hear it. I was very ashamed when you had gone this -afternoon." She hesitated painfully. "I wish I could explain myself, -but I can't--without a pen. I can write what I feel much better than I -can say it. I began to write a play once, and the girl said just what -I felt. It was a bad play, but a big relief. I've sometimes thought -that if I walked about with a pen in my hand, I should be a good -conversationalist." - -"Try to tell me what you feel without one," said Heriot. - -"You encourage me to bore you. Mr. Heriot, I yearn, I crave, to do -something clever. It isn't only vanity: half the craving is born of -the desire to live among clever people. Ever since I can remember -I've ached to know artists, and actors, and people who write, and do -things. I've been cooped among storekeepers without an idea in their -heads; I've never seen a man or woman of talent in my life, excepting -my father; I've never heard anybody speak who knew what art or ambition -meant. You may laugh, but if I had it, I would give five hundred -dollars to go home with some of those actresses to-night, and sit mum -in a corner and listen to them." - -"Don't you think it very likely you might be disappointed?" he asked. - -"I don't. I don't expect they would talk blank-verse at supper, but -they would talk of their work, of their hopes. An artist must be an -artist always--on the stage, or off it; in his studio, or in his club. -My father is an instance: he could not be a philistine if he tried. He -once said something I've always remembered; he said: 'God gave me my -soul, child; circumstances gave me an hotel.' I thought it happily put." - -Heriot perceived that Cheriton had thought so too, as the "impromptu" -had been repeated. - -"What a different world we should have lived in by now if he had kept -in his profession!" she exclaimed. "I quiver when I realise what I've -missed. People that I only know through their books, or the newspapers, -would have been familiar friends. I should have seen Swinburne smoking -cigars in our parlour; and Sarah Bernhardt would have dropped in to tea -and chatted about the rehearsal she had just left, and showed me the -patterns of the new costumes she was ordering. Isn't it wonderful?" - -In sympathy for her he said: - -"It's possible your father might have remained in England without -becoming intimate with celebrities." - -She looked doubtful. "Even if he hadn't--and one likes to believe -in one's own father--the atmosphere would have been right. They -mightn't have been Swinburnes and Bernhardts that were at home in our -place--they might have been people the world hasn't heard of yet. But -they would have talked of the time when the world was _going_ to hear -of them. One can respect an obscure genius as much as a famous one." - -They had reached the door of Belle Vue Mansion; and when he was -begged to go in for half an hour, Heriot did not demur. They had the -drawing-room to themselves now, and Cheriton descanted with relish -on the qualifications for a successful actress. He had no knowledge -of the subject, but possessed great fluency, and he spoke of "broad -effects," and "communicable emotion," and "what he might call a matter -of perspective" with an authority which came near to disguising the -fact that there was little or no meaning in what he said. The girl sat -pale and attentive, and Mrs. Baines listened vaguely, as she might have -done to a discourse in Chinese. Relatives who came back from America -and invited her to stay with them in a house where she cost two guineas -a week, must be treated with deference; but the stage and the circus -were of equal significance to her mind, and she would have simpered -just as placidly if her niece had been anxious to jump through a hoop. -Her chief emotion was pride at being in a room with a barrister who, -she had learnt, was the brother of a baronet; and she watched him -furtively, with the anticipation of describing the event in Lavender -Street, Wandsworth, where the magnate was a gentleman who travelled in -a brougham, and haberdashery. - -"Would it be inconsiderate to ask you to recite to-night, Miss -Cheriton?" inquired Heriot. "Don't, if you are too tired." - -She rose at once, as if compelling herself to subdue reluctance, and -moved towards the bay of the window slowly. For a second or two after -she stood there she did not speak, only her lips trembled. Then she -began Portia's speech on Mercy. In recitation her voice had the slight -tremolo that is natural to many beginners who feel deeply; but its -quality was delicious, and her obvious earnestness was not without -effect. Conscious that her gestures were stiff, she had chosen a -speech that demanded little action, and it was not until she came to -"Therefore, Jew, though justice be thy plea," that her hands, which -she had clasped lightly in front of her, fell apart. With the change -of position she seemed to acquire a dignity and confidence that made -the climax triumphant, and though Heriot could see that she had much to -learn, his compliments were sincere. - -When he bade her good-night, she looked at him appealingly. - -"Tell me the truth," she said under her breath; "I've only had my -father's opinion. Tell me the truth!" - -"I honestly believe you're clever," he answered. "I'm sure of it." He -felt his words to be very cold compared with the sympathy that was -stirring in him. - -The proprietress, who had entered, hovered about with an eye on the -gas, and he repeated his adieux hurriedly. The interest that he already -took in the question of Miss Cheriton's success surprised him. The -day had had a charm that was new, and he found that he was eagerly -anticipating the morrow. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -On the pavements of the Strand the snow had turned to slush; and from -the river a fog was blowing up, which got into the girl's throat, and -made her cough. She mounted a flight of gloomy stairs, and pulled a -bell. Already her bearing had lost something that had distinguished it -in the summer: something of courage. She rang the bell deprecatingly, -as if ashamed. - -The anteroom into which she passed had become painfully familiar to -her, like the faces of many of the occupants. They all wore the same -expression--an air of repressed eagerness, of diffidence striving to -look assured. The walls were covered with theatrical photographs, -and in a corner a pimply youth sat writing at a table. What he wrote -nobody knew or cared. The crowd had but one thought--the door that -communicated with the agent's private office, to which they prayed, -though they were no longer sanguine, that they would gain admission. -It was four o'clock, and at five the office would close. There were -so many of them that it was impossible for Mr. Passmore to interview -everybody. Which of them would be lucky to-day? - -Mamie also looked towards the door, and from the door back to -her companions in distress. A little fair woman in a light fawn -costume--terribly unsuitable to the season, but her least shabby--met -her eyes and spoke. - -"Have you got an appointment?" she asked in a low voice. - -"No." - -"Oh, then you won't see him," said the little woman more cheerfully. "I -thought, as you'd come in so late, that you had an appointment. _I've_ -been here since twelve." - -The door opened, and Mr. Passmore appeared on the threshold. He did not -say "good-afternoon" to his clients; he cast an indifferent gaze round -the room, and signed to a cadaverous man who sat sucking the handle of -his umbrella. - -"Here! _You!_" he said, retiring again. The cadaverous man rose -hurriedly, among envious glances, and twenty-five heads that had been -lifted in expectation drooped dejectedly. The men whose watches were -not pawned looked to see the time. - -"What's your line?" said the little woman, addressing Mamie once more. - -"I beg your pardon? Oh, I'm trying for my first engagement; I haven't -acted yet at all." - -The other showed surprise and some contempt. - -"A novice, are you! Good Lord, it's no good your coming to the agents, -my dear; they can't find shops for _us_." - -"I paid Mr. Passmore the usual fee," said Mamie; "he promised he'd do -what he could." - -The little woman smiled, and turned her shoulder to her, declining -further discussion. Another girl rang the bell, but withdrew with a -sigh as she perceived the futility of waiting. The cadaverous man came -out, with "an engagement" writ large upon his features. He stowed a -type-written part into the pocket of his overcoat, and nodded good-bye -to an acquaintance, whose cast of countenance proclaimed him a low -comedian. - -"Got anything, dear boy?" inquired the latter in a husky whisper. - -"They want me for the _White Slaves_ Company--the Father. Offered four. -Of course I refused point-blank. 'No,' I said, 'six.' 'Oh,' he said, -'impossible!' I wouldn't budge; what do _you_ think! Why, I had eight -with Kavanagh, and she's as good as booked me for her next tour. '_I_ -don't mind,' I said; 'I'll go to the Harcourts!' They've been trying to -get me back, and he knows it. 'Don't do that,' he said; 'say five, my -boy!' 'Six!' I said, 'and I only take it then to fill in.' 'Well, they -want you,' he said; 'you're the only man for the part, and I suppose -you've got to have your own terms; but they wouldn't pay it to anybody -else.'" His salary was to be three-pounds-ten, and he could have shed -tears of relief to get it. - -"Damn fine, old chap!" said the low comedian, who didn't believe him. -"Is the comedy part open, do you know? I might----" - -"Don't think so; fancy they're complete." His manner was already -condescending. "Olive oil!" - -"Now, I can't see you people to-day!" exclaimed Mr. Passmore, putting -up his hands impatiently. "No good, Miss Forbes," as a girl made a dart -towards him with a nervous smile that was meant to be ingratiating; -"got nothing for you, it's no use.... What do _you_ want, my dear?" - -Another lady, who found it embarrassing to explain her anxiety in -public, faltered "that she had just looked in to hear if Mr. Passmore -could kindly----" - -"Nothing doing! perhaps later on. I'll let you know." - -"You _will_ bear me in mind, _won't_ you, Mr. Passmore?" she pleaded. - -"What?" he said. "Oh, yes, yes; I'll drop you a postcard--I won't -forget you. Good-day." He did not even recollect her name. - -"Can I speak to you, Mr. Passmore?" said Mamie, rising. - -"You?" he said questioningly. "Oh, I can't do anything for you yet! -Everything's made up--things are very quiet just now.... Here, Miss -Beaumont, I want a word with you." - -"Give me a minute," persisted Mamie. "I want an engagement; I don't -care how small the part is. I'll be a servant, I'll be anything, I want -a beginning! I recited to you, if you remember, and----" - -"Did you?" he said. "Oh, yes, yes, I remember--very nice. You wanted to -play Juliet!" He laughed. - -"I'll be _anything!_" she said again. "I'll give you double the -commission if----" - -"Have you got enough voice for chorus?" he asked testily. "How are your -limbs?" - -"I want to be an actress," she said, flushing. "I mean to work!" - -"Come on, Miss Beaumont!" he cried. And Miss Beaumont swept past her -into the sanctum. - -The girl who six months ago had looked forward to playing Juliet made -her way down the dingy staircase drearily. This was but one of many -dramatic agents with whom she had gone through the form of registering -her name. Mr. Passmore's booking-fee had been five shillings; the -booking-fee of most of the others had been five shillings; one had -charged a guinea. All had been affable when she paid her first visit, -and forgotten who she was when she paid her second; all had been -reminded who she was, and failed to recognise her when she called -again. She called on one or another of them every day, and contrived to -gain such an interview as she had just had about once a week. She had -taken in the theatrical papers and replied to shoals of advertisements, -but as she had to state that she was a novice, nobody ever took any -notice of her applications. She had haunted the stage-doors when -she read that a new piece was to be produced, begging in vain to be -allowed to see the manager. She had, in fine, done everything that was -possible; and she was as far from securing an engagement as on the day -that she arrived in England. And she had talent, and she was beautiful, -and was prepared to begin upon the lowest rung of the ladder. - -The stage is generally supposed to be the easiest of all callings to -enter. The girl who is unhappy at home, the boy who has been plucked -for the army, the woman whose husband has failed on the Stock Exchange, -all speak of "going on the stage" as calmly as if it were only -necessary to take a stroll to get there. As a matter of fact, unless an -extraordinary piece of luck befalls her, it is almost as difficult for -a girl without influence, or a good deal of money, to become an actress -as it is for her to marry a duke. She may be in earnest, but there are -thousands who are in earnest; she may be pretty, but there are hundreds -of pretty actresses struggling and unrecognised; she may be a genius, -but she has no opportunity to display her gift until the engagement is -obtained. And this is the tremendous obstacle. She can prove nothing; -she can only say, "I feel I should succeed." If she is allowed to -recite--and it is very rarely that she is--a recital is little or no -test of her qualifications for the stage. She may recite cleverly, and -as an actress be very indifferent. She has to beg to be taken on trust, -while a myriad women, eager for the vacant part, can cry, "I can refer -you to so-and-so; I have experience!" Though other artistic professions -may be as hard to rise in, there is probably none other in which it is -quite so difficult to make the first steps. If a girl is able to write, -she can sit alone in her bedroom, and demonstrate her capability; if -she can paint, her canvases speak for her; if she pants to be a prima -donna, she can open her mouth and people hear her sing. The would-be -actress, alone among artists, can do nothing to show her fitness -for the desired vocation until her self-estimate has been blindly -accepted--and she may easily fail to do herself justice then, cast, as -she will be, for minor parts entirely foreign to her bent. - -To succeed on the stage requires indomitable energy, callousness to -rebuffs, tact, luck, talent, and facilities for living six or nine -months out of the year without earning a shilling. To get on to the -stage requires valuable introductions or considerable means. If a woman -has neither, the chances are in favour of her seeking an opening vainly -all her life. And as to a young man so situated who seeks it, he is -endeavouring to pass through a brick wall. - -Mamie descended the dingy staircase, and at the foot she saw the girl -who had been addressed as "Miss Forbes." She was standing on the -doorstep, gathering up her skirts. It had begun to snow again, and -she contemplated the dark, damp street shrinkingly. An impulse seized -Mamie to speak as she passed. From such trifles great things sometimes -followed, she remembered. She was at the age when the possibility of -the happy accident recurs to the mind constantly--a will-o'-the-wisp -that lightens the gloom. The reflection takes marvellous forms, and at -twenty-one the famous actor--of the aspirant's imagination--who goes -about the world crying, "A genius! you must come to me!" may be met in -any omnibus. The famous actor of the aspirant's imagination is like the -editor as conceived by the general public: he spends his life in quest -of obscure ability. - -"If we're going the same way, I can offer you a share of my umbrella," -she said. - -"Oh, thanks!" said the girl in a slightly surprised voice; "I'm going -to Charing Cross." - -"And _I'm_ going to Victoria, so our road is the same," said Mamie. - -A feeling of passionate pleasure suffused her as she moved away by -the girl's side through the yellow fog. The roar of the Strand had -momentarily the music of her dreams while she yearned in Duluth; the -greatness of the city--the London of theatres, art, and books--throbbed -in her veins. She was walking with an actress! - -"Isn't it beastly?" said the girl. "I suppose you've got to train it?" - -"Yes; I'm living at Wandsworth. Have _you_ far to go?" - -"Notting Hill. I take the bus. Passmore hadn't got anything for you, -had he?" - -Mamie shook her head. "We were both unlucky; but perhaps it doesn't -matter so much to you?" - -"Doesn't it!... Have you been on his books long, Miss----?" - -"Miss Cheriton--Mamie Cheriton." - -"That's a good name; it sounds like a character in a play--as if she'd -have a love-scene under the apple blossom! Where were you last?" - -"At Mr. Faulkner's; but he didn't know of any vacancy either." - -"I don't mean that," said Miss Forbes; "I mean, how long have you been -out?" - -"Oh," answered Mamie, "I left home at one o'clock; that's the worst of -living such a long way off!" - -The other stared. - -"Don't you understand?" she exclaimed. "I mean, what company were you -in last, and when did it finish?" - -"Oh, I see," stammered Mamie. "I'm sorry to say I've everything in -front of me! I've never had a part yet at all. I'm that awful thing--a -novice." - -"Crumbs!" said Miss Forbes. - -"I guess you actresses look down on novices rather?" - -"Well, the profession is full enough already, goodness knows! Still, I -suppose we've all got a right to begin. I don't mind a novice who goes -to the agents in the snow; it shows she means business anyhow. It's the -amateurs who go to the managers in hansoms that I hate. But it's an -awful struggle, my dear, take my word for it; you'd better stop at home -if you can afford to. And Passmore will never be any use to you. Look -at _me!_ I've been going to him for four months; and I played Prince -Arthur on tour with Sullivan when I was nine." - -"I _am_ looking at you," said Mamie, smiling, "and envying you till I'm -ill. You say Passmore is no use: let me into a secret. What _can_ I do -to get an engagement?" - -"Blest if _I_ know, if you haven't got any friends to pull the strings! -I'd like to know the secret myself. Well," she broke off, "perhaps we -shall meet again. I must say 'good evening' here; there's my bus." - -"Don't go yet!" begged Mamie. "Won't you come and have some tea first?" - -Miss Forbes hesitated eloquently. - -"I shall get tea when I reach home," she murmured, "and I'm rather -late." - -"Oh, let me invite an actress to tea! Do, please! It will be the next -best thing to getting a part." - -"You're very kind. I don't mind, I'm sure. There's a place close by -where they give you a pot for two for fourpence. You're American, -aren't you?" - -"I've lived in America; I'm English really." - -They were soon seated at a table. Mamie ordered a pot of tea, and -muffins. - -"It's nice and warm in here," she said. - -"Isn't it! I noticed you in the office. My name is Mabel Forbes; but I -daresay you heard Passmore speak to me?" - -"Yes; he didn't speak very nicely, did he?" - -"They never do; they're all alike. They know we can't do without them, -and they treat us like dirt. I tell you, it's awful; you don't know -what you're letting yourself in for, my dear." - -"To succeed I'd bear anything, all the snubs and drudgery imaginable. I -do know; I know it's not to be avoided. I've read the biographies of so -many great actresses. I should think of the future--the reward. I'd set -my teeth and _live_ for that time; and I'd work for it morning, noon, -and night." - -"It would do me good to live with you, if we were on tour together," -said Miss Forbes cheerfully; "you'd keep my pecker up, I think. I -loathe sharing diggings with another girl, as a rule--one always -quarrels with her, and, with the same bedroom, one has nowhere to go -and cry. After they've been in the profession a few years they don't -talk like you. Not that there's really much in it," she added with a -sigh. "To set your teeth and work morning, noon, and night sounds very -fine, but what does it amount to? It means you'd get two-ten a week, -and study leading business on the quiet till you thought you were as -good as Ellen Terry. But if nobody made you an offer, what then?" - -"You mean it's possible to be really clever, and yet not to come to the -front?" asked Mamie earnestly. - -"How can you come to the front if no one gives you the opportunity? -You may be liked where you are--in what you're doing--but you can't -play lead in London unless a London manager offers you an engagement to -play lead, can you? You can't make him! Do you suppose the only clever -actresses alive are those who're known? Besides, if leading business is -what you are thinking of, I don't believe you've the physique for it; -you don't look strong enough. I should have thought light comedy was -more your line." - -"It isn't. If I'm meant for anything, it's for drama, and--and tragedy. -But I'd begin in the smallest way and be grateful. The ideas I had when -I came to London have been knocked out of me--and they were moderate -enough, too! I'd begin by saying that the 'dinner was ready.' Surely it -can't be so difficult to get an opening like that, if one knows how to -set about it?" - -"Well, look here, my dear. I played Prince Arthur with Sullivan when I -was nine, as I tell you, and I've been in the profession ever since. -But I've been out of an engagement for four months now; all I could -save out of my last screw has gone in bus fares and stamps--and my -people haven't got any more money than they know how to spend. If an -engagement to announce the dinner had been offered _me_ to-day, I'd -have taken it and I'd be going back to Notting Hill happy." - -"I'm awfully sorry," said Mamie sympathetically. "Shall we have another -muffin?" - -"No, I don't want any more, thanks. But you've no idea what a business -it is! I've got talent and experience, and I'm not bad-looking, and yet -you see how I've got to struggle. One is always too late everywhere. I -was at the Queen's this morning. There are always any number of small -parts in the Queen's things, you know, and I thought there might be a -chance for _The Pride of the Troop_. They'd got everybody except the -extra ladies. By the way, you might try to get on at the Queen's as an -extra, if you like. With your appearance you'd have a very good chance, -I should say." - -Mamie felt her heart stirring feverishly. "Do you mean it?" she asked. -"What are 'extras'--you don't mean 'supers'?" - -"Oh, they're better than supers--different class, you know. Of -course they've nothing to say, except in chorus. They come on in the -race-course scene and the ball-room and look nice. They wear swagger -frocks--the management finds their dresses--and are supposed to murmur, -and laugh, and act in dumb-show in the background. _You_ know! They're -frightful fools--a girl who _could_ act a bit would stand out among -extra ladies like a Bernhardt at the Ladbroke Hall." - -"If they'd take me," said Mamie, clasping her hands; "if they'd only -take me! Do you really think they will?" - -"It couldn't hurt to try. Ask for Mr. Casey and tell him you want to -'walk on.' There, I've given you a hint, after all!" she exclaimed, as -she got up; "one can't think of everything right off. It might prove -a start for you; who knows? If Casey sees you're intelligent, he may -give you a line or two to speak. You go up to one of the principals, -and say, 'Lord Tomnoddy, where's that bracelet you promised to send me -when I saw you at Kempton Park?' Then the low-comedy merchant--it's -generally the low-comedy merchant you speak to--says something that -gets a laugh, and bustles up the stage, and you run after him angrily. -But don't be sanguine, even of getting on as an extra! There's always a -crowd of women besieging the Queen's at every production--you won't be -the only pretty one. Well, I must be going, my dear. I wish you luck." - -"And luck to _you!_" said Mamie, squeezing her hand gratefully; "and -many, many thanks. I look forward to telling you the result. I suppose -we're sure to see each other at Mr. Passmore's?" - -"Oh, we're bound to run against each other somewhere before long," -returned Miss Forbes cordially. "Yes, I shall be curious to hear what -you do; I've enjoyed our chat very much. Take care of yourself!" - -She hurried towards her bus, waving au revoir, and Mamie crossed the -road. London widened between the girls--and their paths in it never met -again. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -As she reached the opposite pavement Heriot exclaimed: "Miss Cheriton! -Are you going to cut me?" - -"You?" she cried with surprise. "It was--it was the fog's fault; I -didn't see. What a stranger you are! it's a fortnight since you came -out to us. A 'fortnight,' you observe--I'm 'quite English, you know,' -now." - -"You're in good spirits," he said. "What have you been doing?" - -"I've been rising in my career," she answered gaily; "I have had tea -in a cakeshop with an actress. I have just shaken hands with her; she -has just given me a piece of advice. I am, in imagination, already a -personage." - -"Who is she?" asked Heriot. "Where does she come from?... Let me see -you to Victoria; I suppose that's where you are going?" - -He stopped a hansom, and scrutinised her sadly as they took their -seats. "Have you been out in this weather long?" he said. "You poor -child, how wet you must be! Well, you know an actress. Aren't you going -to tell me all about it?" - -She was as voluble as he wished; he had become in the last few months -her confidant and consoler. Lavender Street, Wandsworth, or those -residents who commanded a view of No. 20, had learnt to know his -figure well. Awhile ago he had marvelled at the role he was filling; -latterly he had ceased to marvel. He realised the explanation--and as -he listened to her tale her words smote him. It hurt him to think of -the girl beside him cringing to a theatrical agent, forming a chance -acquaintance in the streets, and contemplating so ignoble a position as -the one of which she spoke. He looked at her yearningly. - -"You are not pleased," she said. - -"Is there a great deal to be pleased at? Is this sort of thing worthy -of you?" - -"It is the first step. Oh, be nice about it, do! If you understood ... -can I be Juliet at once! If I'm to succeed----" - -"I have sympathised with you," he said; "I've entered into your -feelings; I do understand. But you don't know what you're meditating. -Admitting it's inevitable--admitting, if you're to be an actress, that -you must begin, since you've no influence, where you're content to -begin--can you bear it? These women you'll be thrown amongst----" - -"Some, at least," she said, "will be like myself, surely? I am not the -only girl who has to begin. And ... Whatever they are, it can't be -helped! Remember, I'm in earnest! I talked at first wildly; I see how -childish I was. What should I be if I faltered because the path isn't -strewn with roses? An actress must be satisfied to work." - -"It isn't decreed that you need be an actress," answered Heriot. "After -all, there is no necessity to fight for your bread-and-butter. If you -were compelled----" - -"There are more compelling forces than poverty. Can't you recognise -ambition?" - -"Haven't I?" he said. "Have I been wood?" - -"Ah," she smiled, "forgive me. I didn't mean that. But be nice still. -Am I to reject a career because I'm not starving? I'm starving with my -soul. I'm like a poor mute battling for voice. I want--I want to give -expression to what I feel within me." She beat her hands in her lap. -"I'm willing to struggle--eager to! You've always known it. Why do -you disappoint me now? I have to begin even lower than I understood, -that's all. And what is it? I shall be surrounded by artists then. By -degrees I shall rise. 'You are in the right way, but remember what I -say, Study, study, study! Study well, and God bless you!' Do you know -who said that?--Mrs. Siddons to Macready. It was at Newcastle, and it -was about her performance the same night that he wrote: 'The violence -of her emotion seemed beyond her power longer to endure, and the words, -faintly articulated, "Was he alive?" sent an electric thrill through -the audience.' Think what that means; three words! I can't do it, I've -tried--oh, how I've tried! For months after I read that book, I used to -say them dozens of times every day, with every intonation I could think -of. But there was no effect, no thrill even to myself. 'Study, study, -study! Keep your mind on your art, do not remit your study, and you are -certain to succeed!' I _will_ keep my mind on it, I'll obey her advice, -I _will_ succeed. Heaven couldn't be so cruel as to let me fail after -putting such longings into me." - -Heriot sighed. The impulse to tell her that he loved her, to keep her -to himself, was mastering him. Never before had her hold on him been -displayed so vividly, nor had the temptation to throw prudence to the -winds been quite so strong. - -"If you had a happier home," he said, "there would be other influences. -Don't think me impertinent, but it can't be very lively for you in that -house." - -"It isn't a whirl of gaiety, and Aunt Lydia is not ideal. But--but I -was just the same in Duluth." - -"Duluth!" he echoed; "it was dreary in Duluth, too." - -"At all events I had my father there." - -"What does he write?" asked Heriot. "Have you had a letter since I saw -you?" - -"He gives no news. The news is to come from _me_." - -"I think there's a little," he said; "I can tell it by your tone." - -"It's cheerful to be with some one who _can_ tell things by one's tone. -Well, he thinks, if I can't make a beginning, that I may as well go -back." - -"I see," he said. "I won't ask you if you mean to." - -She laughed a shade defiantly. "Duluth has many charms--I've been -remembering them since his letter. There is my father, and there's -strawberry-shortcake. My father will be disappointed in me if I have -to go; the strawberry-shortcake--well, there's a tiny shop there where -they sell it hot. I've never seen it hot anywhere else--and they turn -on the cream with a tap, out of a thing that looks like a miniature -cistern." - -"You're not going back," he said. "You're going on the stage as a -supernumerary instead?" - -In the flare of the station lamps her eyes flashed at him; he could see -the passionate trembling of her mouth. The cab stopped, and they got -out, and threaded their way among the crowd to the barriers. There was -a train in ten minutes, Heriot learnt. - -"Shall we go to the waiting-room?" - -"No," said Miss Cheriton. - -"Forgive me what I said just now. I am sorry." - -"What does it matter?" - -"It was brutal." - -"Rather, perhaps. It was unexpected. You have failed me when I wanted -you most." - -He took two first-class tickets--he wished to be alone with her, and he -knew that she travelled "second." - -"I'm coming with you," he said. - -"But you can't have dined? Our suppers are not extensive." - -"Let us get in!" he answered. - -They had the compartment to themselves when the door banged, and he -regarded her silently, with nerves that had escaped control. - -"I have warned you," she said. "It will be something out of a tin for -certain, with vinegar over it." - -"Mamie!" - -There was rebuke in her expression. - -"Mamie," he repeated, "I love you. Why I dislike your going on the -stage is because I want you myself. I was 'brutal' because I'm fond of -you. Will you marry me?" - -She lay back against the darkness of the cushions, pale and startled. - -"Are you serious?" she said. "You--want to marry me? do you mean it?" - -"I mean it. I don't seem able to tell you how much I mean it. Can you -like me well enough to be my wife?" - -"I do like you," she stammered; "but I hadn't an idea.... I never -thought you thought----Oh, I'm sorry!" - -"Why? Why can't you say 'yes'?" - -"To marry you?" - -"I'll be very gentle to you," he said shakily. "I--for God's sake, -don't judge my love for you by the way I put it! I haven't had much -practice in love-making; it's a pity, perhaps. There's a word that -says it all--I 'worship' you. My darling, what have you to look -forward to? You've seen, you've tried, you know what an uphill life -it will be. It's not as if I begged you to waive your hopes while -you had encouragement to hope--you've made the attempt, and you know -the difficulties now. Come to me instead. You shall live where you -like--you can choose your own quarter. You can have everything you care -for--books, pictures, theatres too. Oh, my sweet, come to me, and I'll -fulfil every wish! Will you, Mamie?" - -"I can't," she said tremulously, "it wouldn't be fair." Her eyes shone -at him, and she leant forward with parted lips. "I like you, I like you -very much, but I don't--I'm not---- I've never been in love with anyone." - -"I'll be grateful for small mercies," said Heriot, with an unhappy -laugh. - -"And I _could_ not do what you ask. If I fail, I fail; but I must -persevere. I can't accept failure voluntarily--I can't stretch out my -arms to it. I should despise myself if I gave in to-day. Even you----" - -"You know better than that!" he said. - -"Well, yes," she owned, "perhaps I'm wrong there; to you it would seem -a sensible step. But I believe in myself. All my life I've had the -thought, and I should be miserable, I should hate myself! I should be -like my father--I should be always thinking of the 'might have been.' -You'd be good to me, but you'd know you had been a fool. I'm not a bit -the sort of woman you should marry, and you'd repent it." - -Heriot took her hand and held it tightly. - -"I love you," he said. "Consider your own happiness only. I love you." - -"I am quite selfish--I know it wouldn't content me; I'm not pretending -to any nobility. But I'm sorry; I may say that? I didn't dream you -liked me in this way. I'm not hard, I'm not a horror, and I can see--I -can see that I'm a lot to you." - -"I'm glad of that," he said simply. "Yes, you're 'a lot to me,' Mamie. -If you know it, and you can't care for me enough, there's no more for -me to say. Don't worry yourself. It's not unusual for a man to be fond -of a woman who doesn't want to marry him." - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -She betook herself to the Queen's next morning less buoyantly than -she had anticipated. Her meeting with Heriot had depressed her. She -retained much of the nature of a child, and laughed or cried very -easily. She had met Heriot laughing, and he had been serious and sad. -With some petulance she felt that it was very unfortunate for her that -he had fallen in love with her, and chosen that particular day to tell -her so. - -She entered the stage-door with no presentiment of conquest, and -inquired of the man in the little recess if Mr. Casey was in the -theatre. Stage-door keepers are probably the surliest class in -existence. They have much to try them, and they spend their official -lives in a violent draught; but if there is a stage-door keeper sweet -and sunny in his home, he provides an interesting study for the -dramatic authors. - -The man took her measure in an instant, saving in one particular--she -was prepared to give him a shilling and he did not guess it. - -"Mr. Casey's on the stage," he said; "he won't be disturbed now." - -"If I waited, do you think I might see him?" - -"I couldn't tell you, I'm sure." - -He resumed his perusal of a newspaper, and Mamie looked at him through -the aperture helplessly. There was the usual knot of loafers about -the step--a scene-hand or two in their shirt-sleeves; a girl in her -pathetic best dress, also hoping for miracles; a member of the company, -who had slipped out from rehearsal to smoke a cigarette. - -Cerberus was shown where his estimate had been at fault. He said "Miss" -now: "If you write your business on one of these forms, Miss, I'll send -it in to Mr. Casey." - -He gave her a stump of pencil, and a printed slip, specially designed -to scare intruders. She wrote her name, and Mr. Casey's name, and could -find no scope for euphemisms regarding the nature of the interview she -sought. She added, "To obtain engagement as extra lady," and returned -the paper with embarrassment; she was sufficiently unsophisticated in -such matters to assume that her object had not been divined. - -"'Ere, Bill!" One of the scene-hands turned. "Take it in to Mr. Casey -for this lady." - -The man addressed as Bill departed through a second door with a grunt -and a bang, and she waited expectantly. The girl in her best frock -sneered; she could not afford to dispense shillings, herself, and -already her feet ached. The door swung back constantly. At intervals -of a few seconds a stream of nondescripts issued from the unknown -interior, and Mamie stood watching for the features of her messenger. -It was nearly a quarter of an hour before he reappeared. - -"Mr. Casey can't see you," he announced. - -The stage-door keeper heard the intelligence with absolute -indifference; but the girl on the step looked gratified. - -"What shall I do?" asked Mamie. - -"I can't do no more than send in for you, Miss. It ain't much good your -waiting--the call won't be over till three o'clock." - -"Could I see him then?" - -"He'll come out. If you like to take your chance----" - -"I'll come back at three o'clock," she said. It was then eleven. - -She turned into the Strand--the Strand that has broken more hearts than -Fleet Street. Here a young actor passed her, who was also pacing the -inhospitable pavements until the hour in which he hoped to see patience -and importunity bear fruit. He wore a fashionable overcoat, and swung -his cane with a gloved hand. Presently he would seek a public-house -and lunch on a scone, and a glass of "mild-and-bitter." If he had -"bitter," he would be a halfpenny short in his homeward fare to Bow. -There a musical comedy actress went by, who had "married a swell." -His family had been deeply wounded, and showed their mortification by -allowing her to support him. She had had three children; and when he -was drunk, which was frequently, he said, "God forbid that they should -ever become damned mummers like their mother!" A manager had just told -her that "she had lost her figure, and wouldn't look the part!" and she -was walking back to Islington, where the brokers were in the house. A -popular comedian, who had been compelled to listen to three separate -tales of distress between Charing Cross and Bedford Street, and had -already lent unfortunate acquaintances thirty shillings, paused, and -hailed a hansom from motives of economy. It was the typical crowd -of the Strand, a crowd of the footlights. The men whose positions -had been won were little noticeable, but the gait and costume of -the majority--affected Youth, and disheartened Age--indicated their -profession to the least experienced eyes. Because she grew very tired, -and not that she had any expectation of hearing good news, Mamie went -into Mr. Passmore's office, and sat down. - -And she did not hear any. After an hour she went away, and rested next -in the anteroom of another of the agents, who repeated that "things -were very quiet," and that "he wouldn't forget her." Seven or eight -other girls were waiting their turn to be told the same thing. At a -quarter to three she went back to the Queen's. - -"Is he coming out now?" she said. "Am I too soon?" - -"Eh?" said the stage-door keeper. - -"You told me he'd be out about three. I was asking for Mr. Casey this -morning." - -"Oh, were you?" he said. "There's been a good many asking for him since -then." He gradually recalled her. "Mr. Casey's gone," he added; "they -finished early. He won't be here till to-night." - -There was a week in which she went to the stage-door of the Queen's -Theatre every day, at all hours, and at last she learnt casually -that as many extra ladies as were required for the production had -been engaged. There were months during which she persisted in her -applications at other stage-doors and hope flickered within her still. -But when September came, and a year had passed since her arrival, the -expiring spark had faded into lassitude. She tried no longer. Only -sometimes, out of the sickness of her soul, the impulse to write was -born, and she picked up a pen. - -Then it was definitely decided that she should return to America. -It was characteristic of her that she had no sooner dried her eyes -after the decision than she was restless to return at once; Duluth -was no drearier than Wandsworth. Externally it was even picturesque, -with the blue water and the sunshine, and the streets of white houses -rising in tiers like a theatre; in Duluth the residents "looked down -on one another" literally. The life was appalling, but when all was -said, was it more limited than Aunt Lydia? And if, in lieu of acting, -she dared aspire to dramatic authorship--the thought stirred her -occasionally--she could work as well in Minnesota as in Middlesex. -Cheriton had remitted the amount of her passage, and suggested that she -should sail in a week or two. She had not received the draft two hours -when she went up to town and booked a berth in the next steamer. - -When it was done, she posted a note to Heriot, acquainting him with her -intention. His visits had not been discontinued, but he came at much -longer intervals latterly, and she could not go without bidding him -good-bye. - -She sat in the Lavender Street parlour the next evening, wondering if -he would come. Almost she hoped that he would not. She had written, -and therefore done her duty. To see him would, in the circumstances, -humiliate her cruelly, she felt. She remembered how she had talked to -him twelve months before--recalled her confidence, her pictures of a -future that she was never to know, and her eyes smarted afresh. She had -even failed to obtain a hearing. "What a fool, what an idiot I look!" -she thought passionately. - -Tea was over, but the maid-of-all-work had not removed the things; and -when Heriot entered, the large loaf and the numerous knives, which are -held indispensable to afternoon tea in Lavender Street, were still on -the big round table. The aspect of the room did not strike him any -more. He was familiar with it, like the view of the kitchen when the -front door had been opened, and the glimpse of clothes-line in the yard -beyond. - -"May I come in?" he said. "Did you expect me?" - -"Lor, it's Mr. Heriot!" said Mrs. Baines. "Fancy!" - -She told the servant to take away the teapot, and to bring in another -knife. He wondered vaguely what he was supposed to do with it. - -"I thought it likely you'd be here," said Mamie; "won't you sit down?" - -"I only had your letter this morning. So you are going away?" - -"I am going away. I bow, more or less gracefully, to the inevitable." - -"To bow gracefully to the inevitable is strong evidence of the -histrionic gift," he said. - -"I came, I saw, I was conquered; please don't talk about it.... It was -only settled yesterday. I sail on Saturday, you know." - -"Yes, you wrote me," murmured Heriot. "It's very sudden." - -"I'm crazy to do something, if only to confess myself beaten." - -"May I offer you a cup o' tea, Mr. Heriot?" asked Mrs. Baines. - -She always "offered" cups of tea, and was indebted to neighbours for -their "hospitality." - -He thanked her. - -"You will miss your niece?" he said, declining a place at the table, to -which she had moved a chair. - -"Yes, I'm sure!" she answered. "I say now it's a pity she didn't go -with her father last October. Going in a vessel by herself, oh, dear! I -say I wouldn't have got accustomed to having her with me if she'd gone -with her father. Though that's neither here nor there!" - -"Yes, I think you may believe you'll be missed, Miss Cheriton," he said. - -"I say it's very odd she couldn't be an actress as she wanted," -continued Mrs. Baines. "Seems so unfortunate with all the trouble that -she took. But lor, my dear, we can't see what lies ahead of us, and -perhaps it's all for the best! I say perhaps it's all for the best, Mr. -Heriot, eh? Dear Mamie may be meant to do something different--writing, -or such like; it's not for us to say." - -"Have you been writing again?" asked Heriot, turning to the girl. - -"A little," she said bitterly. "My vanity dies hard--and Aunt Lydia has -encouraged me." - -Heriot looked a reproach; her tone hurt him, though he understood of -what it was the outcome. - -"I should be glad if you had encouragement," he replied; "I think you -need it now." - -But it hurt him, also, to discuss her pain in the presence of the -intolerable third. He knew that if he remained to supper there would be -a preparatory quarter of an hour in which he was alone with her; and it -was for this quarter of an hour that he hungered, conscious that during -the opening of the lobster-tin two destinies would be determined. - -"That's right, Mr. Heriot," said Mrs. Baines placidly. "I'm glad -to hear you say so. That's what I've been telling her. I say she -mustn't be disheartened. Why, it's surprising, I'm sure, how much -seems to be thought of people who write stories and things nowadays; -they seem to make quite a fuss of them, don't they? And I'm certain -dear Mamie could write if she put her mind to it. I was reading in -the paper, _Tit-Bits_, only last week, that there was a book called -_Robert Ellis_, or some such name, that made the author quite talked -about. Now, I read the piece out to you, dear, didn't I? A book about -religion, it was, by a lady; and I'm sure dear Mamie knows as much -about religion as anyone." - -"My aunt means _Robert Elsmere_," said Mamie, in a laboured voice. "You -may have heard it mentioned?" - -"You mustn't expect Mr. Heriot to know much about it," said Mrs. -Baines; "Mr. Heriot is so busy a gentleman that very likely he doesn't -hear of these things. But I assure you, Mr. Heriot, the story seems to -have been read a great deal; and what I say is, if dear Mamie can't be -an actress, why shouldn't she write books, if she wants to do something -of the sort? I wonder my brother didn't teach her to paint, with her -notions and that--but, not having learnt, I say she ought to write -books. That's the thing for her--a nice pen and ink, and her own home." - -"I agree with you, Mrs. Baines. If she wants to write, she can do that -in her own home." - -"Not to compare it with such a profession as yours, Mr. Heriot," she -said, "which, of course, is sensible and grave. But girls can't be -barristers, and----" - -"Will you open the window for me?" exclaimed Mamie; "it's frightfully -warm, don't you think so?" - -She stood there with her head thrown back, and closed eyes, her foot -tapping the floor restlessly. - -"Are you wishing you hadn't come?" she asked under her breath. - -"Why?" - -"One must suffer to be polite here." - -"Aren't you a little unjust?" said Heriot deprecatingly. - -"You have it for an hour," she muttered; "_I_ have had it for twelve -months. Have you ever wanted to shriek? _I_ wanted to shriek just now, -violently!" - -"I know you did," he said. "Well, it's nearly over.... Are you glad?" - -"Yes, and no--I can't say. If----" - -"Won't you go on?" - -"If I dared hope to do anything else.... But I'm not going to talk like -that any more! I'm ridiculous enough already." - -"To whom are you ridiculous?" - -"To my own perception--you!" - -"Not to me," he said. - -"'Pathetic'? Yes, to you I'm 'pathetic.' You pity me as you might pity -a lunatic who imagined she was the Queen of England." - -"I think you know," said Heriot diffidently, "that neither the Queen -nor a lunatic inspires in me quite the feeling that I have for you." - -She changed her position, and spoke at random. - -"This street is awfully stupid, isn't it?" she said. "Look at that man -going up the steps!" - -"Yes, he is very stupid, I daresay. What of it?" - -"He is a clerk," she said; "and wheels his babies out on Sunday." - -"Mamie!" - -"Come and talk to Aunt Lydia again. How rude we are!" - -"I want to talk to _you_," he demurred. "Aren't you going to ask me to -stay to supper?" - -The suggestion came from the widow almost at the same moment. - -"I think we had better have the lamp," she went on. "The days are -drawing in fast, Mr. Heriot, aren't they? We shall soon have winter -again. Do you like the long evenings, or the long afternoons best? Just -about now I always say that I can't bear to think of having to begin -lighting up at five or six o'clock--it seems so unnatural; and then, -next summer, somehow I feel quite lost, not being able to let down -the blinds and light the lamp for tea. Mamie, dear, shut the window, -and let down the blinds before I light the lamp--somebody might see -in!" She suggested the danger in the same tone in which she might have -apprehended a burglary. - -Under a glass shade a laggard clock ticked drearily towards the crisis, -and Heriot provoked its history by the eagerness with which he looked -to see the time. It had been a wedding-present from "poor dear Edward's -brother," and only one clockmaker had really understood it. The man had -died, and since then---- - -He listened, praying for the kitchen to engulf her. - -When she withdrew at last, with an apology for leaving him, he rose, -and went to the girl's side. - -"Do you know why I came this afternoon?" he said. - -She did know--had known it in the moment that he opened the window for -her: - -"To say 'good-bye,'" she murmured. - -"I came to beg you not to go! Dearest, what do you relinquish by -marrying me now? Not the stage--your hope of the stage is over; not -your ambition in itself--you can be ambitious as my wife. You lose -nothing, and you give--a heaven. Mamie, won't you stay?" - -She leant on the mantelpiece without speaking. In the pause, Mrs. -Baines' voice reached them distinctly, as she said, "Put the brawn on a -smaller dish." - -"You are forgetting. There was ... a reason besides the stage." - -"It is you who've forgotten. I told you I would be content.... It -wouldn't be repugnant to you?" - -"To refuse while I thought I had a future, and to say 'yes,' now -that----How can you ask me? It would be an insult to your love." - -"I do ask you," he urged; "I implore." - -"You implore me to be contemptible. You would have a disappointed woman -for your wife. You deserve something better than that." - -"Oh, my God," said Heriot, in a low voice, "if I could only tell you -how I ache to take you in my arms--as softly as if you were a child! -If I could tell you what it is to me to know that you are passing out -of my life and that in two days' time I shall never see you again!... -Mamie?" - -The heavy shuffle of the servant was heard in the passage. - -"Mamie?" he repeated desperately. "It will be worse over there." - -Her eyes were big with perplexity and doubt. - -"Mamie?" - -"Are you sure you--sure----" - -"I love you; I want you. Only trust me!... Mamie?" - -"If you're quite sure you wish it," she faltered,--"yes!" - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -When Heriot informed his brother of his approaching marriage, Sir -Francis said, "I never offer advice to a man on matters of this sort"; -and proceeded to advise. He considered the union undesirable, and used -the word. - -Heriot replied, "On the contrary, I desire it extremely." - -"You're of course the best judge of your own affairs. I'll only say -that it is hardly the attachment I should have expected you to form. It -appears to me--if I may employ the term--romantic." - -"I should say," said Heriot, in his most impassive manner, "that that -is what it might be called. Admitting the element of romance, what of -it?" - -"We are not boys, George," said Sir Francis. He added, "And the lady -is twenty-two! The father is an hotel-keeper in the United States, you -tell me, and the aunt lives in Wandsworth. Socially, Wandsworth is -farther than the United States, but geographically it is close. This -Mrs. Payne--or Baynes--is not a connection you will be proud of, I take -it?" - -"I shall be very proud of my wife," said Heriot, with some stiffness. -"There are more pedigrees than happy marriages." - -The Baronet looked at his watch. "As I have said, it's not a matter -that I would venture to advise you upon. Of course I congratulate you. -We shall see Miss Cheriton at Sandhills, I hope? and--er--Catherine -will be delighted to make her acquaintance. I have to meet Phil at -the Club. He's got some absurd idea of exchanging--wants to go out to -India, and see active service. And I got him into the Guards! Boys are -damned ungrateful.... When do you marry?" - -"Very shortly--during the vacation. There'll be no fuss." - -Sir Francis told his wife that it was very "lamentable," and Lady -Heriot preferred to describe it as "disgusting." But in spite of -adjectives the ceremony took place. - -The honeymoon was brief, and when the bride and bridegroom came back to -town, they stayed in an hotel in Victoria Street while they sought a -flat. Ultimately they decided upon one in South Kensington, and it was -the man's delight to render this as exquisite as taste and money made -possible. The furniture for his study had simply to be transferred from -his bachelor quarters, but the other rooms gave scope for a hundred -consultations and caprices; and like a lad he enjoyed the moments in -which he and Mamie bent their heads together over patterns and designs. - -She would have been more than human, and less than lovable, if in those -early weeks her disappointment had not been lost sight of; more than a -girl if the atmosphere of devotion in which she moved had not persuaded -her primarily that she was content. Only after the instatement was -effected and the long days while her husband was away were no longer -occupied by upholsterers' plans, did the earliest returning stir of -recollection come; only as she wandered from the drawing-room to the -dining-room and could find no further touches to make, did she first -sigh. - -A gift of Heriot's--he had chosen it without her knowledge, and it had -been delivered as a surprise--was a writing-table; a writing-table -that was not meant merely to be a costly ornament. And one morning she -sat down to it and began another attempt at a play. The occupation -served to interest her, and now the days were not so empty. In the -evening, as often as he was able, Heriot took her out to a theatre, -or a concert, or to houses from which invitations came. The evenings -were enchantingly new to her; less so, perhaps, when they dined at -the solemn houses than when a hansom deposited them at the doors of a -restaurant, and her husband's pocket contained the tickets for a couple -of stalls. She was conscious that she owed him more than she could ever -repay; and though she had casually informed him that she had begun a -drama, she did not discuss the subject with him at any length. To dwell -upon those eternal ambitions of hers was to remind him that she had -said she would be dissatisfied, and he deserved something different -from that; he deserved to forget it, to be told that she had not an -ungratified wish! She felt ungrateful to realise that such a statement -would be an exaggeration. - -In the November following the wedding it was seen that "Her Majesty had -been pleased, on the recommendation of the Lord Chancellor, to approve -the name of George Langdale Heriot to the rank of Queen's Counsel," and -Heriot soon found reason to congratulate himself on his step. A man -may earn a large income as a Junior, and find himself in receipt of a -very poor one as a Leader. There is an instance cited in the Inns of -Court of a stuff-gownsman, making eight thousand a year, whose income -fell, when he took silk, to three hundred. But Heriot's practice did -not decline. Few men at the Bar could handle a jury better, or showed -greater address in their dealings with the Bench. He knew instinctively -the moment when that small concession was advisable, when the attitude -of uncompromising rigour would be fatal to his case. He had his tricks -in court: the least affected of men out of it, in court he had his -tricks. Counsel acquire them inevitably, and one of Heriot's had been a -favourite device of Ballantyne's: in cross-examination he looked at the -witness scarcely at all, but kept his face turned to the jury-box. Why -this should be persuasive is a mystery that no barrister can explain, -but its effectiveness is undeniable. Nevertheless, he was essentially -"sound." As he had been known as "a safe man" while a Junior, so, now -that he had taken silk, he was believed in as a Leader. The figures -on the briefs swelled enormously; his services were more and more in -demand. Then by-and-by there came a criminal case that was discussed -day by day throughout the length and breadth of the kingdom--in -drawing-rooms and back parlours, in clubs and suburban trains, and -Heriot was for the Defence. The Kensington study had held him until -dawn during weeks, for he had to break down medical evidence. And on -the last day he spoke for five hours, while the reporters' pens flew, -and the prisoner swayed in the dock; and the verdict returned was "Not -Guilty." - -When he unrobed and left the court, George Heriot walked into the -street the man of the hour; and he drove home to Mamie, who kissed him -as she might have kissed her father. - -He adored his wife, and his wife felt affection for him. But the claims -of his profession left her to her own resources; and she had no child. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -When they had been married three years she knew many hours of boredom. -She could not disguise from herself that she found the life she led -more and more unsatisfying--that luxury and a devoted husband, who was -in court during the day, and often in his study half the night, were -not all that she had craved for; that her environment was philistine, -depressing, dull! - -And she lectured herself and said the fault was her own, and that it -was a very much better environment than her abilities entitled her -to. She recited all the moral precepts that a third person might have -uttered; and the dissatisfaction remained. - -To write plays ceases to be an attractive occupation when they are -never produced. She had written several plays by this time, and -submitted them, more or less judiciously, to several West End theatres. -There had even been an instance of a manager returning a manuscript in -response to her fourth application for it. But she was no nearer to -success, or to an artistic circle. - -A career at the Bar is not all causes celebres, and the details of -Heriot's briefs were rarely enthralling to her mind, even when he -discussed them with her; and when he came into the drawing-room he did -not want to discuss his briefs. He wanted to talk trifles, just as -he preferred to see a musical comedy or a farce when they went out. -Nor did he press her for particulars of her own pursuits during his -absence. She never sighed over him, and as she appeared to be cheerful, -he thought she was contented. That such allusions to her literary work -as she made were careless, he took to mean that she had gradually -acquired staider views. Once he perceived that it was perhaps quieter -for her than for most women, for she had no intimate acquaintances; -but then she had never been used to any! There were her books, and -her music, and her shopping--no, he did not think she could be bored. -Besides, her manner at dinner was always direct evidence to the -contrary! - -She was now twenty-five years old, and the Kensington flat, and -abundant means had lost their novelty. She was never moved by a -clever novel without detesting her own obscurity; never looked at the -window of the Stereoscopic Company without a passion of envy for the -successful artists; never accompanied Heriot to the solemn houses -without yearning for a passport to Upper Bohemia instead. She was -twenty-five years old, and marriage, without having fulfilled the -demands of her temperament, had developed her sensibilities. It was at -this period that she met Lucas Field. - -If her existence had been a story, nothing could have surprised her -less than such a meeting. It would have been at this juncture precisely -that she looked for the arrival of an artist, and Lucas Field would -probably have been a brilliant young man who wore his hair long and -wrote decadent verse. The trite in fiction is often very astonishing -in one's own life, however, and, as a matter of fact, she found their -introduction an event, and foresaw nothing at all. - -Lucas Field was naturally well known to her by reputation--so well -known that when the hostess brought "Mr. Field" across to her, Mamie -never dreamed of identifying him with the dramatist. She had long since -ceased to expect to meet anybody congenial at these parties, and the -fish had been reached before she discovered who it really was who had -taken her down. - -Field was finding it a trifle dreary himself. He had not been bred -in the vicinity of the footlights---his father had been a physician, -and his mother the daughter of a Lincolnshire parson--but he had -drifted into dramatic literature when he came down from Oxford, and -the atmosphere of the artistic world had become essential to him by -now. Portman Square, though he admitted its desirability, and would -have been mortified if it had been denied to him, invariably oppressed -him a shade when he entered it. He was at the present time foretasting -hell in the fruitless endeavour to devise a scenario for his next -play, and he had looked at Mamie with a little interest as he was -conducted across the drawing-room. A beautiful woman has always an air -of suggestion; she is a beginning, a "heroine" without a plot. Regarded -from the easel she is all-sufficing--contemplated from the desk, she is -illusive. After you have admired the tendrils of hair at the nape of -her neck, you realise with despondence that she takes you no farther -than if she had been plain. - -Field had realised that she left him in the lurch before his soup plate -had been removed. Presently he inquired if she was fond of the theatre. - -"Please don't say 'yes' from politeness," he added. - -"Why should I?" - -She had gathered the reason in the next moment, and her eyes lit -with eagerness. He had a momentary terror that she was going to be -commonplace. - -"I couldn't dream that it was you--here!" she said apologetically. - -"Isn't a poor playwright respectable?" he asked. - -There was an instant in which she felt that on her answer depended the -justification of her soul. She said afterwards that she could have -"fallen round an epigram's neck." - -"I should think the poor playwright must be very dull," she replied. - -This was adequate, however, and better than his own response, which was -of necessity conventional. - -"I have seen your new comedy," she continued. - -"I hope it pleased you?" - -"I admired it immensely--like every one else. It is a great success, -isn't it?" - -"The theatre is very full every night," he said deprecatingly. - -"Then it _is_ a success!" - -"Does that follow?" - -"You are not satisfied with it--it falls short of what you meant? I -shouldn't have supposed that; it seemed to me entirely clear!" - -"That I had a theory? Really? Perhaps I have not failed so badly as I -thought." He did not think he had failed at all, but this sort of thing -was his innocent weakness. - -"Miss Millington is almost perfect as 'Daisy,' isn't she?" - -"'Almost'? Where do you find her weak?" - -She blushed. - -"She struck me--of course I am no authority--as not quite fulfilling -your idea in the first act--when she accepted the Captain. I thought -perhaps she was too responsible there--too grown up." - -"There isn't a woman in London who could play 'Daisy,'" said Field -savagely. "In other words, you think she wrecked the piece?" - -"Oh no, indeed!" - -"If 'Daisy' isn't a child when she marries, the play has no meaning, no -sense. That is why the character was so difficult to cast--in the first -act she must be a school-girl, and in the others an emotional woman." - -"Perhaps I said too much." - -"You are a critic, Mrs. Heriot." - -"Oh, merely----" - -"Merely?" - -"Merely very interested in the stage." - -"To be interested in the stage is very ordinary; to be a judge of it -is rather rare. No, you didn't say too much: Miss Millington _doesn't_ -fulfil my idea when she accepts 'Captain Arminger.' And to be frank, -_I_ haven't fulfilled Miss Millington's idea of a consistent part." - -"I can understand," said Mamie, "that the great drawback to writing -for the stage is that one depends so largely on one's interpreters. A -novelist succeeds or fails by himself, but a dramatist----" - -"A dramatist is the most miserable of created beings," said Field, "if -he happens to be an artist." - -"I can hardly credit that. I can't credit anybody being miserable who -is an artist." (He laughed. It was not polite, but he couldn't help -it.) "Though I can understand his having moods of the most frightful -depression!" she added. - -"Oh, you can understand that?" - -"Quite. Would he be an artist if he didn't have them!" - -"May I ask if you write yourself?" - -"N--no," she murmured. - -"Does that mean 'yes'?" - -"It means 'only for my own amusement.'" - -"The writer who only writes for his own amusement is mythical, I'm -afraid," said Field. "One often hears of him, but he doesn't bear -investigation. You don't write plays?" - -"No--I try to!" - -He regarded her a little cynically. - -"I thought ladies generally wrote novels?" - -"I wish to be original, you see." - -"Do you send them anywhere?" - -"Oh, yes; I _send_ them; I suppose I always shall!" - -"You're really in earnest then? You're not discouraged?" - -"I'm earnest, and discouraged, too.... Is it impertinent to ask if -_you_ had experiences like mine when you were younger?" - -"I wrote plays for ten years before I ever passed through a -stage-door--one must expect to work for years before one is -produced.... Of course, one may work all one's life, and not be -produced then!" - -"It depends how clever one is, or whether one is clever at all?" - -"It depends on a good many things. It depends sometimes on advice." - -If she had been less lovely, he would not have said this, and he knew -it; if she had not been Mrs. Heriot, he would not have said it either. -The average woman who "wants a literary man's advice" is the bane of -his existence, and Field was, not only without sympathy for the tyro as -a rule--he was inclined to disparage the majority of his colleagues. He -was clever, and was aware of it; he occupied a prominent position. He -had arrived at the point when he could dare to be psychological. "It -depends sometimes on advice," he said. And the wife of George Heriot, -Q.C., murmured: "Unfortunately, I have nobody to advise me!" - -Even as it was, he regretted it when he took his leave; and the -manuscript that he had offered to read lay in his study for three -weeks before he opened it. He picked it up one night, remembering that -the writer had been very beautiful. The reading inspired him with a -desire to see her again. That the play was full of faults goes without -saying, but it was unconventional, and there was character in it. He -recollected that she had interested him while they talked after dinner -on a couch by the piano; and, as her work was promising, he wrote, -volunteering to point out in an interview, if she liked, those errors -in technique which it would take too long to explain by letter. It -cannot be made too clear that if she had sent him a work of genius and -had been plain Miss Smith in a home-made blouse, he would have done -nothing of the sort. He called upon her with no idea that his hints -would make a dramatist of her, nor did he care in the slightest degree -whether they did, or did not. She was a singularly lovely woman, and as -her drama had not been stupid--stupidity would have repelled him--he -thought a tete-a-tete with her would be agreeable. - -To Mamie, however, the afternoon when he sat sipping tea in her -drawing-room, like an ordinary mortal, was the day of her life. She -told him that she had once hoped to be an actress, and believed that -the avowal would advance her in his esteem. He answered that he should -not be astonished if she had the histrionic gift; and was secretly -disenchanted a shade by what he felt to be banal. Then they discussed -his own work, and he found her appreciation remarkably intelligent. To -talk about himself to a woman, who listened with exquisite eyes fixed -upon his face, was very gratifying to him. Field had rarely spent a -pleasanter hour. It is not intimated that he was a vain puppy--he -was not a puppy at all. He had half unconsciously felt the want of a -sympathetic confidant for a long while, though, and albeit he did not -instantaneously realise that Mrs. Heriot supplied the void, he walked -back to his chambers with exhilaration. - -He realised it by degrees. He had never married. He had avoided -matrimony till he was thirty because he could not afford it; and during -the last decade he had escaped it because he had not met a woman whom -he desired sufficiently to pay such a price. When he had seen Mamie -several times--and in the circumstances it was not difficult to invent -reasons for seeing her--he wondered whether he would have proposed to -her if she had been single. - -Heriot was very pleased to have him dine with them; and he was not -ignorant that during the next few months Field often dropped in about -five o'clock. Mamie concealed nothing--knowingly--and the subject of -her writing was revived now. She told George that Mr. Field thought she -had ability. She repeated his criticisms; frankly admired his talent; -confessed that she was proud to have him on her visiting list--and fell -in love with him without either analysing her feelings, or perceiving -her risk. - -And while Mrs. Heriot fell in love with him, Lucas Field was not -blind. He saw a great deal more than she saw herself--he saw, not only -the influence he exercised over her, but that she had moped before -he appeared. He did not misread her; he was conscious that she would -never take a lover from caprice--that she was the last woman in the -world to sin lightly, or under the rose. He saw that, if he yielded to -the temptation that had begun to assail him, he must be prepared to -ask her to live with him openly. But he asked himself whether it was -impossible that he could prevail on her to do that, had he the mind to -do so--whether she was so impregnable as she believed. - -He was by this time fascinated by her. His happiest afternoons were -spent in South Kensington, advancing his theories, and talking of his -latest scenes; nor was it a lie when he averred that she assisted him. -To be an artist it is not necessary to be able to produce, and if -her own attempts had been infinitely more futile than they were, she -might still have expressed opinions that were of service to another. -Many of her views were impracticable, naturally. Psychological as his -tendencies were, he was a dramatist, and he could not snap his fingers -at the laws imposed by the footlights, though he might affect to -deride them in his confidences. The only dramatist alive was Ibsen, he -said; yet he did not model himself on Ibsen, albeit he was delighted -when she exclaimed, "How Ibsenish that is!" Many of her views were -impracticable, because she was ignorant about the stage; but many were -intensely stimulating. The more he was with her, the less he doubted -her worthiness of sinning for his sake. He was so different from the -ordinary dramatic author! On the ordinary dramatic author, with no -ideas beyond "curtains" and "fees," she would have been thrown away. -He did not wish to be associated with a scandal--it would certainly be -unpleasant--but she dominated him, there was no disguising the fact. -And he would be very good to her; he would marry her. She was adorable! - -His meditations had not progressed so far without the girl's eyes being -opened to her weakness; and now she hated herself more bitterly than -she had hated the tedium of her life. She knew that she loved him. She -was wretched when he was not with her, and ashamed when he was there. -She wandered about the flat in her solitude, frightened as she realised -what an awful thing had come to her. But she was drunk--intoxicated by -the force of the guilty love, and by the thought that such a man as -Lucas Field could be in love with _her_. She revered him for not having -told her of the feelings that she inspired. Her courage was sustained -by the belief that he did not divine her own--that she would succeed in -stamping them out without his dreaming of the danger she had run. Yet -she was "drunk"; and one afternoon the climax was reached--he implored -her to go away with him. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -If a woman sins, and the chronicler of her sin desires to excuse the -woman, her throes and her struggles, her pangs and her prayers always -occupy at least three chapters. If one does not seek to excuse her, the -fact of her fall may as well be stated in the fewest possible words. -Mamie did struggle--she struggled for a long time--but in the end she -was just as guilty as if she hadn't shed a tear. Field's pertinacity -and passion wore her resistance out at last. Theirs was to be the ideal -union, and of course he cited famous cases where the man and woman -designed for each other by Heaven had met only after one of them had -blundered. He did not explain why Heaven had permitted the blunders, -after being at the pains to design kindred souls for each other's -ecstasy; but there are things that even the youngest curate cannot -explain. He insisted that she would never regret her step; he declared -that, with himself for her husband, she would become celebrated. Art, -love, joy, all might be hers at a word. And she spoke it. - -When Heriot came in one evening, Mamie was not there, and he wondered -what had become of her, for at this hour she was always at home. But he -had not a suspicion of evil--he was as far from being prepared for the -blow that was in store as if Field had never crossed their path. He had -let himself in with his latch-key, and after a quarter of an hour it -occurred to him that she might be already in the dining-room. When he -entered it, he noted with surprise that the table was laid only for one. - -"Where is Mrs. Heriot?" he said to the servant who appeared in response -to his ring. - -"Mrs. Heriot has gone out of town, sir." - -"Out of town!" he exclaimed. "What do you mean?" - -"Mrs. Heriot left a note for you, sir, to explain. There it is, sir." - -Heriot took it from the mantelpiece quickly; but still he had no -suspicion--not an inkling of the truth. He tore the envelope open and -read, while the maid waited respectfully by the door. - -"Your mistress has been called away," he said when he had finished; -"illness! She will be gone some time." - -His back was to her; he could command his voice, but his face was -beyond his control. He felt that if he moved he would reel, perhaps -fall. He stood motionless, with the letter open in his hand. - -"Shall I serve dinner, sir?" - -"Yes, serve dinner, Odell; I'm quite ready." - -When the door closed, it was his opportunity to gain the chair; he -walked towards it slowly, like a blind man. The letter that he held -had left but one hope possible--the last hope of despair--to keep the -matter for awhile from the servants' knowledge. As yet he was not -suffering acutely; indeed, in these early moments, the effect of the -shock was more physical than mental. There was a trembling through his -body, and his head felt queerly light--empty, not his own. - -The maid came back, and he forced himself to dine. The first spoonfuls -of the soup he took were but heat, entirely tasteless, to his mouth, -and at the pit of his stomach a sensation of sickness rose and writhed -like something living. When she retired once more, his head fell -forward on his arms; it was a relief to rest it so. He did not know how -he could support the long strain of her vigilance. - -By degrees his stupor began to pass, as he stared at the vacant -place where his wife should have sat; the dazed brain rallied to -comprehension. His wife was not there because she was with her -lover! Oh, God! with her "lover"--Mamie had given herself to another -man! _Mamie!_ Mamie had gone to another man. His face was grey and -distorted now, and the glass that he was lifting snapped at the stem. -She had gone. She was no longer his wife. She was guilty, shameless, -defiled--Mamie! - -He rose, an older, a less vigorous, figure. - -"I shall be busy to-night," he muttered; "don't let me be disturbed." - -He went to his study, and dropped upon the seat before his desk. Her -photograph confronted him, and he took it down and held it shakenly. -How young she looked! was there ever a face more pure? And Heaven knew -that he had loved her as dearly only an hour ago as on the day that -they were married! Not a whim of hers had been refused; not a request -could he recollect that he had failed to obey. Yet now she was with a -lover! She smiled in the likeness; the eyes that met his own were clear -and tender; truth was stamped upon her features. He recalled incidents -of the past three years, incidents that had been rich in the intimacy -of their life. Surely in those hours she had loved him? That had not -been gratitude--a sense of duty merely?--had she not loved him then? He -remembered their wedding-day. How pale she had been, how innocent--a -child. Yet now she was with a lover! A sob convulsed him, and he nodded -slowly at the likeness through his tears. Presently he put it back; -he was angered at his weakness. He had deserved something better at -her hands! Pride forbade that he should mourn for her. He had married -wildly, yes, he should have listened to advice; Francis had warned him. -Perhaps while he wept, they were laughing at him together, she and -Field! How did he know that it was Field--had she mentioned his name -in the letter? He knew that it was Field instinctively; he marvelled -that he had not foreseen the danger, and averted it. How stupid had the -petitioners in divorce suits often appeared to him in his time!--he -had wondered that men could be so purblind--and he himself had been as -dense as any!... But she would not laugh. Ah, guilty as she was, she -would not laugh--she was not so vile as that! The clock in the room -struck one. He heard it half unconsciously--then started, and threw -out his arms with a hoarse cry. He sprang to his feet, fired with the -tortures of the damned. The sweat burst out on him, and the veins in -his forehead swelled like cords. He was a temperate man, at once by -taste and by necessity, but now he walked to where the brandy was kept -and drank a wineglassful in gulps. "Mamie!" he groaned again; "Mamie!" -The brandy did not blot the picture from his brain; and he refilled the -glass.... Nothing would efface the picture. - -He knew that it was hopeless to attempt to sleep, yet he went to the -bedroom. The ivory brushes were gone from the toilet-table--she had -been able to think of brushes! In the wardrobe the frocks were fewer, -and the linen was less; the jewellery that he had given to her had -been left behind. All was orderly. There were no traces of a hurried -departure; the room had its usual aspect. He looked at the pillows. -Against the one that had been hers lay the bag of silk and lace that -contained her night-dress. Had she forgotten it; or was it that she had -been incapable of transferring that? He picked it up, and dropped it -out of sight in one of the drawers. - -He did not go to bed; he spent the night in an armchair, re-reading -the letter, and thinking. When the servant knocked at the door, he -went to his dressing-room, and shaved. He had a bath, and breakfasted, -and strolled to the station. Outwardly he had recovered from the blow, -and his clerk who gave him his list of appointments remarked nothing -abnormal about him. In court, Heriot remembered that Mamie and he were -to have dined in Holland Park that evening, and during the luncheon -adjournment he sent a telegram of excuse. If any one had known what had -happened to him, he would have been thought devoid of feeling. - -He had scarcely re-entered the flat when Mrs. Baines called. His first -impulse was to decline to see her; but he told the maid to show her in. - -A glance assured him that she was ignorant of what had occurred. - -"Dear Mamie is away, the servant tells me," she said, simpering. "I -hadn't seen her for such a long time that I thought I'd look in to-day. -Not that I should have been so late, but I missed my train! I meant to -come in and have a cup of tea with her at five o'clock. Well, I _am_ -unfortunate! And how have you been keeping, Mr. Heriot?" - -"I'm glad to see you. I hope you are well, Mrs. Baines." - -"Where has dear Mamie gone?" she asked. "Pleasuring?" - -"She is on the Continent, I believe. May I tell them to bring you some -tea now?" - -"On the Continent alone?" exclaimed Mrs. Baines. "Fancy!" - -"No, she is not alone," said Heriot. "You must prepare yourself for a -shock, Mrs. Baines. Your niece has left me." - -She looked at him puzzled. His tone was so composed that it seemed to -destroy the significance of his words. - -"Left you? How do you mean?" - -"She has gone with her lover." - -"Oh, my Gawd!" said Mrs. Baines.... "Whatever are you saying, Mr. -Heriot? Don't!" - -"Your niece is living with another man. She left me yesterday," he -continued quietly. "I am sorry to have to tell you such news." - -He was sorrier as he observed the effect of it, but he could not soften -the shock for her by any outward participation in her grief. Since he -must speak at all, he must speak as he did. - -"Oh, to hear of such a thing!" she gasped. "Oh, to think -that--well---- Oh, Mr. Heriot, I can't ... it can't be true. Isn't -it some mistake? Dear Mamie would never be so wicked, I'm sure she -wouldn't! It's some awful mistake, you may depend." - -"There's no mistake, Mrs. Baines. My authority is your niece herself. -She left a letter to tell me she was going, and why." - -The widow moaned feebly. - -"With another man?" - -He bowed. - -"Oh, Heaven will punish her, Mr. Heriot! Oh, what will her father -say--how could she do it! And you--how gentle and kind to her you were -_I_ could see." - -"I did my best to make her happy," he said; "evidently I didn't -succeed. Is it necessary for us to talk about it much? Believe me, you -have my sympathy, but talking won't improve matters." - -"Oh, but I can't look at it so--so calmly, Mr. Heriot! The disgrace! -and so sudden. And it isn't for _me_ to have _your_ sympathy, I'm sure. -I say it isn't for _you_ to sympathise with _me_. My heart bleeds for -you, Mr. Heriot." - -"You're very good," he answered; "but I don't know that a faithless -wife is much to grieve for after all." - -"Ah, but you don't mean that! you were too fond of her to mean it. -She'll live to repent it, you may be certain--the Lord will bring it -home to her. Oh, how could she do it! You don't--you don't intend to -have a divorce?" - -"Naturally I intend it. What else do you propose?" - -"Oh, I don't know," she quavered, rocking herself to and fro, and -smearing the tears down her cheeks with a forefinger in a black silk -glove; "but the disgrace! And all Lavender Street to read about it! Ah, -you won't divorce her, Mr. Heriot? It would be so dreadful!" - -"Don't you want to see the man marry her?" - -"How 'marry her'?" she asked vaguely. "Oh, I understand! Yes, I suppose -he _could_ marry her then, couldn't he? I'm not a lawyer like you--I -didn't look so far ahead. But I don't want a divorce." - -"Ah, well, _I_ want it," he said; "for my own sake." - -"Then you don't love her any more, Mr. Heriot?" - -He laughed drearily. - -"Your niece has ended her life with me of her own accord. I've nothing -more to do with her." - -"Those are cruel words," said Mrs. Baines; "those are cruel words about -a girl who was your lawful wife--the flesh of your bone in the sight -of Gawd and man. You're harder than I thought, Mr. Heriot; you don't -take it quite as I'd have supposed you'd take it.... So quiet and stern -like! I think if you'd loved her tenderly, you'd have talked more -heart-broken, though it's not for me to judge." - -Heriot rose. - -"I can't discuss my sentiments with you, Mrs. Baines. Think, if you -like, that I didn't care for her at all. At least my duty to her is -over; and I have a duty to myself to-day." - -"To cast her off?" The semi-educated classes use the phrases of -novelettes habitually. Whether this is the reason the novelettes trade -in the phrases, or whether the semi-educated acquire the phrases from -the novelettes, is not clear. - -"To----" He paused. He could not trust himself to speak at that moment. - -"To cast her off?" repeated Mrs. Baines. "Oh, I don't make excuses for -her--I don't pity her. Though she is my brother's child, I say she -is deserving of whatever befalls her. I remember well that when Dick -married I warned him against it; I said, 'She isn't the wife for you!' -It's the mother's blood coming out in her, though my brother's child. -But ... What was I going to say? I'm that upset that---- Oh yes! I make -no excuses for her, but I would have liked to see more sorrow on your -part, Mr. Heriot; I could have pitied you more if you'd have taken it -more to heart. You may think me too bold, but it was ever my way to -say what was in my mind. I don't think I'll stop any longer. The way -you may take it is between you and your Gawd, but----" She put out her -hand. "I don't think I'll stop." - -"Good-evening," he said stonily. "I'm sorry you can't stay and dine." - -She recollected on the stairs that she had not inquired who the man -was; but she was too much disgusted by Heriot's manner to go back. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -When a naturally pure woman, who is not sustained by any emancipated -views, consents to live with a man in defiance of social prejudices, -she probably obtains as clear an insight as the world affords into -the enormous difference that exists between the ideal and the actual. -Matrimony does not illumine the difference so vividly, because -matrimony, with all its disillusions, leaves her an unembarrassed -conscience. With her lover such a woman experiences all the prose of -wedlock, and a sting to boot. A man cannot be at concert-pitch all day -long with his mistress any more easily than with his wife. She has -to submit to bills and other practical matters just as much with a -smirched reputation as she had with a spotless one. The romance does -not wear any better because the Marriage Service is omitted. A lover -is no less liable to be commonplace than a husband when the laundress -knocks the buttons off his shirts. - -Yes, Mamie was infatuated by Field; she had not sinned with a cool head -simply to procure a guide up Parnassus. But she had hoped to pick a -few laurels there all the same. She found herself in a little flat in -the rue Tronchet. They had few visitors, and those who did come were -men who talked a language that she did not understand, but who looked -things that she understood only too well. - -The remorse and humiliation that she felt was not leavened by any -consciousness of advancing in her art. Field rather pooh-poohed her -art, as the months went by after the decree _nisi_ was pronounced. He -still discussed his work with her--perhaps less as if she had been a -sybil, but still with interest in her ideas. Her own work, however, -bored him now. He had no intention of being cold, but the subject -seemed puerile to his mind. If she did write a play that was produced -one day, or if she didn't, what earthly consequence was it? She would -never write a great one; and these panting aspirations which begot such -mediocre results savoured to him of a storm in a teacup--of a furnace -lit to boil the kettle. - -He was rather sorry that he had run away with her, but he did not -regret it particularly. Of course he would marry her as soon as he -could--he owed her that; and, since he was not such a blackguard as to -contemplate deserting her by-and-by, he might just as well marry her -as not. The whole affair had been a folly certainly. He was not rich, -and he was extravagant; he would have done better to remain as he was. -Still many men envied him. He trusted fervently she would not have -children, though! It didn't seem likely; but if she ever did, the error -would be doubled. He did not want a son who had cause to be ashamed of -his mother when he grew up. - -It was curious that she did not refer more often to his legalising -their union. Her position pained her, he could see, and made her very -frequently a dull companion. That was the worst of these things! One -paid for the step dearly enough to expect lively society in return, -and yet, if one complained of mournfulness, one would be a brute. He -would write a drama some time or other to show that it was really the -man who was deserving of sympathy in such an alliance. It would be very -original, as he would treat it. The lover should explain his situation -to another woman whom he had learnt to love since, and--well, he didn't -see how it should end:--with the dilemma repeated? And it didn't -matter, after all, for nobody would have the courage to produce it! - -He made these reflections in his study. In the salon--furnished in -accordance with the tastes of the lady who had sub-let the flat to them -for six months--Mamie stood staring down at the street. It was four -o'clock, and, saving for half an hour at luncheon, she had not seen -him since ten. For distraction she could make her choice among some -Tauchnitz novels, her music, and a walk. Excepting that the room was -tawdry and ill-ventilated, and that she had lost her reputation, it was -not unlike her life in South Kensington. - -In her pocket was a letter from her father--the most difficult -letter that it had ever fallen to Dick Cheriton's lot to compose. -Theoretically he thought social prejudices absurd--as became an artist -to whom God had given his soul--and he had often insisted on their -ineptitude. In the case of his own daughter, however, he would have -preferred to see them treated with respect. There was a likeness to -Lucas Field here. Field also dwelt on the hill-top, but he wanted his -son, if he ever had one, to boast a stainless mother. Cheriton had not -indited curses, like the fathers in melodrama, and the people who have -"found religion"; only parents in melodrama, and some "Christians" who -go to church twice every Sunday, are infamous enough to curse their -children; he had told her that if she found herself forsaken, she was -to cable for her passage-money back to Duluth. But that he was ashamed -and broken by what she had done, he had not attempted to conceal; -and as she stood there, gazing down on the rue Tronchet, Mamie was -recalling the confession to which this was an answer. Phrases that she -had used came back to her:--"I have done my best, but my love was too -strong for me"; "Wicked as it may be to say it, I know that, even in -my guilt, I shall always be happy. I met the right man too late, but I -am so young--I could not suffer all my life without him. Forgive me if -you can." Had she--it was a horrible thought--had she been mistaken? -Had she blundered more terribly than when she married? For, unless her -prophecies of joy to the brim were fulfilled--unless her measure of -thanksgiving overflowed--the blunder _was_ more terrible, infinitely -more terrible: she was a gambler who had staked her soul, in her -conviction of success. - -The question was one that she had asked herself many times before, -without daring to hear the answer; but that the answer was in her -heart, though she shrank from acknowledging it, might be seen in her -expression, in her every pose; it might be seen now, as she drooped -by the window. She sighed, and sat down, and shivered. Yes, she knew -it--she had thrown away the substance for the shadow; she could deceive -herself no longer. Lucas Field was not so poetical a personality as -she had imagined; guilt had no glamour; her devotion had been a flash -in the pan--a madness that had burned itself out. She had no right -to blame her lover for that; only, the prospect of marriage with him -filled her with no elation; it inspired misgiving rather. If she had -made a blunder, would it improve matters to perpetuate it? He was -considerate to her, he spared her all the ignominy that was possible; -but instinctively she was aware that, if they parted, he would never -miss her as her husband had done. In _his_ life she would never make a -hole! She guessed the depth of Heriot's love better now that she had -obtained a smaller one as plummet. Between the manner of the man who -was not particularly sorry to have run away with her, and his whose -pride she had been, the difference was tremendous to a woman whose -position was calculated to develop her natural sensitiveness to the -point of a disease. - -Should she marry Lucas or not? Hitherto she had merely avoided the -query; now she trembled before it. Expedience said, "Yes"; something -within her said, "No." The decree would be made absolute in two months' -time. What was to become of her if they separated? To Duluth she could -never go, to be pointed at and despised! She sighed again. - -"Bored, dear?" asked Field, in the doorway. - -"I was thinking." - -"That was obvious. Not of your--er--work?" - -"No, not of my--'er--work.'" - -He pulled his moustache with some embarrassment. - -"I didn't mean anything derogatory to it." - -"Oh, I know," she said wearily; "don't--it doesn't matter. You can't -think much less of it than I am beginning to do myself. You can't take -much less interest in it." - -"You are unjust," said Field. - -"I am moped. Take me out. Take me out of myself if you can, but take me -out of doors at any rate! I am yearning to be in a crowd." - -"We might go to a theatre to-night," he said; "would you like to?" - -"It doesn't amuse me very much; I don't understand what they say. Still -it would be something. But I want to go out now, for a walk. I don't -like walking here alone; can't you come with me?" - -"I'm afraid I can't. You forget I promised an interview to that paper -this afternoon. I expect the fellow here any moment." - -"You promised it?" she exclaimed, with surprise. "Why, I thought -you said that the paper was a 'rag' and that you wouldn't dream of -consenting?" - -"After all, one must be courteous; I changed my mind. There's some talk -of translating _A Clever Man's Son_ into French. An interview just now -would be good policy." - -"You are going to be adapted? _A Clever Man's Son_?" - -"Translated," he said. "I may adapt. I _am_--translated." - -She smiled, but perceived almost at the same instant that she had not -been intended to do so and that he had said it seriously. - -"I make a very good interview," he continued, lighting a cigarette; -"I daresay you've noticed it. I never count an epigram or two wasted, -though they do go into another chap's copy. That's where many men make -a mistake; or very likely they can't invent the epigrams. Anyhow, they -don't! The average interview is as dull as the average play. People -think it's the journalists' fault, but it isn't. It's the fault of the -deadly dull dogs who've got nothing to tell them. I ought to have gone -a good deal further than I have: I've the two essential qualities for -success--I'm an artist and a showman." - -"Don't!" she murmured; "Don't!" - -He laughed gaily. - -"I'm perfectly frank; I admit the necessities of life--I've told you so -before. My mind never works so rapidly as it does in prospect of a good -advertisement. There the fellow is, I expect!" he added, as the bell -rang. "The study is quite in disorder for him, and there are a bunch -of Parma violets and a flask of maraschino on the desk. I'm going to -remark that maraschino and the scent of violets are indispensable to me -when I work. He won't believe it, unless he is very young, but he'll be -immeasurably obliged; that sort of thing looks well in an interview. -Violets and maraschino are a graceful combination, I think." - -She did not reply; she sat pale and chagrined. He was renowned enough, -and more than talented enough to dispense with these stage-tricks in -the library. She knew it, and _he_ knew it, but he could not help them. -Awhile ago they had caused her the cruellest pain; now she was more -contemptuous than anything else, although she was still galled that -he should display his foibles so candidly. "I am quite frank," he had -said. She found such "frankness" a milestone on the road that she had -travelled. - -"My dear child," said Field, "among the illusions of a man's youth -is the belief that, if he goes through life doing his humble best in -an unobtrusive way, the Press will say what a jolly fine fellow he -is, and hold him up as a pattern to all the braggarts and poseurs who -are blowing their own trumpets, and scraping on their own fiddles. -Among the things he learns as he grows older is the fact that, if -he does his best in an unobtrusive way, the Press will say nothing -about him at all. The fiddle and the trumpet are essential; but it is -possible to play them with a certain amount of refinement. It is even -possible--though a clever man cannot dispense with the fiddle and the -trumpet--for the fiddle and the trumpet to be played so dexterously -that he may dispense with cleverness. I do not go to such lengths -myself----" - -"You have no need to do so," she said coldly. - -"I have no need to do so--thank you. But I can quite conceive that, -say, violets and maraschino, worked for all they were worth, might -alone make a man famous. A mouse liberated a lion, and things smaller -than a mouse have created one before now. The violet in the hedgerow -'bloomed unseen,'--or 'died unknown,' was it? it did something modest -and unsuccessful, I know. The violet assiduously paragraphed and -paraded might lead to fortune." - -"I would rather be obscure and do honest, conscientious work," answered -Mamie, "than write rubbish, and finesse myself into popularity." - -"It is much easier," he said tranquilly. "To be obscure is the one -thing that _is_ easy still. You don't mind my saying that I hate -the adjectives you used, though, do you? The words 'honest' and -'conscientious,' applied to literature, dearest, make me shudder. I am -always afraid that 'wholesome' is coming in the next sentence." - -"Are you going to say so to your interviewer?" - -"The remark isn't brilliant. It was sincere, and to be sincere and -brilliant at the same time is a little difficult.... I've been both, -though, in the scene I've just done; you must read it, or rather I'll -read it to you. You'll be pleased with it. As soon as the piece is -finished I must write to Erskine. It will suit the Pall Mall down to -the ground, and I should like it done there, only----" - -"Only what?" - -Field hesitated. - -"I meant it for Erskine from the start. He saw the scenario, and the -part fits him like a glove." - -"But what were you going to say?" - -"Well, I fancy he has some idea that a piece of mine just now---- You -understand, with the case so fresh in people's minds!... Erskine's a -fool. What on earth does the public care? Of course he'll do it when he -reads the part he's got! Only I know he's doubting whether my name'd be -a judicious card to play yet awhile." - -There was a pause, in which her heart contracted painfully. - -"I see," she rejoined, in a low voice. - -He fidgeted before the mirror, and glanced at his watch. - -"That fellow must be getting impatient." - -"You had better go in to him," she said. - -"Well, we'll go to the Vaudeville, or somewhere to-night, Mamie--that's -arranged?" - -"Yes, to the Vaudeville, or somewhere," she assented, with another sigh. - -She went back to the window, and stared at the rue Tronchet with wet -eyes. - - - - -CHAPTER X - - -Some weeks afterwards Field went to England. He did not take Mamie with -him, for he intended to remain only a few days, nor had she been at all -desirous of accompanying him. She had begun, indeed, to see that she -did not know what she did desire. Her life in Paris oppressed her; the -notion of Duluth was horrible; and the thought of living with Lucas in -London, where she might meet an acquaintance of Heriot's at any turn, -was repugnant in an almost equal degree. - -Field was unexpectedly detained in London. The business that had been -responsible for his journey constantly evaded completion, and after -he had been gone about a month a letter came, in which he mentioned -incidentally that he had a touch of influenza. After this letter a -fortnight went by without her hearing from him; and, rendered anxious -at last, she wrote to inquire if his silence was attributable to his -indisposition--if the latter was of a serious nature. - -Her mind did not instantaneously grasp the significance of the telegram -that she tore open a few hours later. It ran: - -"My nephew dangerously ill. If you desire to see him, better -come.--Porteous." - -She stood gazing at it. Who had telegraphed? Who---- Then she understood -that it was Lucas who was meant. Lucas was "dangerously ill"! She must -go to him. She must go at once! She was so staggered by the suddenness -of the intelligence that she was momentarily incapable of recollecting -when the trains left, or how she should act in order to ascertain. All -she realised was that this was Paris, and Lucas lay "dangerously ill" -in London, and that she had to reach him. Her head swam, and the little -French that she knew seemed to desert her; the undertaking looked -enormous--beset with difficulties that were almost insuperable. - -The stupidity of the _bonne_, for whom she pealed the bell, served to -sharpen her faculties a trifle, but she made her preparations as in a -dream. When she found herself in the train, it appeared to her unreal -that she could be there. The interval had left no salient impressions -on her brain, nothing but a confused sense of delay. It was only now -that she felt able to reflect. - -The telegram was crumpled in her pocket, and she took it out and -re-read it agitatedly. How did this relative come to be at the hotel? -Lucas had scarcely spoken of his relations. "If you desire to see him"! -The import of those words was frightful--he could not be expected to -recover. Her stupefaction rolled away, and was succeeded by a fever of -suspense. The restriction of the compartment was maddening, and she -looked at her watch a dozen times, only to find that not ten minutes -had passed since she consulted it last. - -It seemed to her that she had been travelling for at least two days, -when she stood outside a bedroom in a little hotel off Bond Street and -tapped at the door with her heart in her throat. - -The door was opened by a woman whose dress proclaimed her to be an -institution nurse. Field slept, and Mamie sank into a chair, and waited -for his wakening. - -"How is he?" she asked in a low tone. - -The nurse shook her head. - -"He's not doing as well as we could wish, ma'am." - -"Is Mr. Porteous here?" - -"_Mrs._ Porteous. She'll be coming presently. She lives close by." - -So it was a woman who had telegraphed! Somehow she had assumed -unquestioningly that it was a man. "If you desire to see him----" -Ah, yes, she might have known it! An aunt, who would be frigid and -contemptuous, of course. Well, she deserved that, she would have no -right to complain; nor was it to be expected that Lucas's family should -show her much consideration, though she could not perceive that she had -done them any injury. - -Two hours passed before she had an interview with the lady. Mamie was -in the room that she had engaged in the meanwhile. She had bathed her -face, and was making ready to return to the sick-room, when she was -told that Mrs. Porteous was inquiring for her. - -"Won't you come in?" she asked. "Our voices won't disturb him here." - -Mrs. Porteous entered gingerly. She was a massive woman, of middle age, -fashionably dressed. Her expression suggested no grief, only a vague -fear of contamination. She had telegraphed to Paris because she felt -that it was her duty to do so; but she had not telegraphed until it was -almost certain that the patient would not rally sufficiently to make a -will. - -"You are--er--Mrs. Heriot?" she said, regarding her curiously. "The -doctor thought that Mr. Field's condition ought to be made known to -you; so I wired." - -"Thank you; it was very kind." - -"The doctor advised it," said Mrs. Porteous again, significantly. - -"Is he--is there no hope?" - -"We fear not; my nephew is sinking fast--it's as well you should -understand it. If you think it necessary to remain---- I see you have -taken a room? As--as 'Mrs. Field,' I presume?" - -"I should have been 'Mrs. Field,' if Lucas----" - -His aunt shivered. - -"There are things we need not discuss. Of course I'm aware that you are -living under my nephew's name. I was about to say that if you think it -necessary to remain till the end, I have no opposition to offer; but -the end is very near now. My telegram must have prepared you? I should -not have wired unless----" - -"I understood," answered Mamie, "yes. I am glad that your nephew had a -relative near him, though your name was quite strange to me. He never -mentioned it." - -"Really! Lucas called to see us at once. Our house is in the -neighbourhood." - -"He wrote me," said Mamie, "that he had a touch of influenza. It seems -extraordinary that influenza should prove so serious? He was strong, he -was in good health----" - -The other's air implied that she did not find it necessary to discuss -this either. - -"People die of influenza, or the results of it, every year," she said. -"The doctor will give you any information you may desire, no doubt. You -must excuse me--I may be wanted." - -While Field lingered she never left his side, after Mamie's arrival. -Men committed preposterous actions on their death-beds, and though he -was not expected to recover consciousness, there was the possibility -that he might do so. If an opportunity occurred, his mistress would -doubtless produce a solicitor and a provision for herself with the -rapidity of a conjuring trick. As it was, Mrs. Porteous had small -misgivings but what he would die intestate. There might not be much, -but at any rate, what he had should not swell the coffers of guilty -wives! - -Events proved that her summons had not been precipitate, however. Field -spoke at the last a few coherent words, and took Mamie's hand. But that -was all. Then he never spoke any more. Even as she stood gazing at the -unfamiliar face on the pillow, the swiftness of the catastrophe made -it difficult for the girl to realise that all was over. The calamity -had fallen on her like a thunderbolt--it seemed strange, inexplicable, -untrue. The last time but one that he had talked to her he had been -full of vigour, packing a portmanteau, humming a tune, alluding to -fees, some details of the theatre, the prospect of a smooth crossing. -And now he was dead. There had been little or no transition; he was -well--he was dead! The curtain had tumbled in the middle of the -play--and it would never go up any more. - -It was not till after the funeral that she was capable of meditating on -the change that Lucas Field's death had wrought in her life. She did -not ask herself whether he had left her anything, or not. The idea that -he might have done so never occurred to her, nor would she have felt -that she could accept his bequest if he had made one. She perceived -that she had nobody to turn to but her father, and to him she cabled. - -Cheriton replied by two questions: What was Field's will? And would she -like to return to Duluth? To the second she made a definite answer. -"Impossible; pray don't ask me." And then there was an interval of -correspondence. - -While Mrs. Porteous rejoiced to find that her confidence was justified -and that her nephew had died intestate, Mamie was contemplating the -choice of swallowing her repugnance to going back to America, or of -living with Mrs. Baines. Cheriton had written to them both, and that -one course or the other should be adopted he was insistent. Mamie need -not live in Lavender Street; Mrs. Baines might make her home in another -neighbourhood, where they would be strangers. But that the girl should -remain alone in England was out of the question. Which line of conduct -did she prefer? - -She could not decide immediately. Both proposals distressed her. On the -whole, perhaps, the lesser evil was to resign herself to her Aunt Lydia -if, as her father declared, her aunt was willing to receive her. Mrs. -Baines, at any rate, was but one, while in Duluth half the population -would be acquainted with her story. - -But _was_ her Aunt Lydia willing?--was she expected to write to her and -inquire? She was not entitled to possess dignity, of course; but it was -not easy to eat dust because the right to self-respect was forfeited. - -She had removed to a lodging in Bernard Street, Bloomsbury, and in the -fusty sitting-room she sat all day, lonely and miserable, reviewing -the blunder of her life. She neither wrote nor read--her writing was -an idea she hated now; she merely thought--wishing she could recall -the past, wondering how she could bear the future. One afternoon when -she sat there, pale and heavy-eyed, the maid-of-all-work announced a -visitor, and Mrs. Baines came in. - -Mamie rose nervously, and the other advanced. She had rehearsed an -interview which should be a compromise between the instructions that -had been given her by her brother, and the attitude of righteous rebuke -that she felt to be a permissible luxury, but the forlornness of the -figure before her drove her opening sentence from her head. All she -could utter was the girl's name; and then there was a pause in which -they looked at each other. - -"It is kind of you to come," Mamie murmured. - -"I hope you're well?" said Mrs. Baines. - -"Not very. I----Won't you sit down?" - -"I never thought I should see you like this, Mamie!" said the widow -half involuntarily, shaking her head. - -The girl made no answer in words. She caught her breath, and stood -passive. If the lash fell she would suffer silently. - -"We always see sin punished, though." She believed we always did; she -retained such startling optimism. "It's not for me to reproach you." - -"Thank you. I'm not too happy, Aunt Lydia." - -"I daresay, my dear. I haven't come to make it worse for you." - -She scrutinised her again. She would have been horrified to hear -the suggestion, but her niece's presence was not without a guilty -fascination, a pleasurable excitement, to her as she remembered that -here was one who had broken the Seventh Commandment. She was sitting -opposite a girl who had lived in Paris with a lover; and she was -sitting opposite her in circumstances which redounded to her own credit! - -"I have heard from your father," she went on; "I suppose you know?" - -"Yes," said Mamie; "he has written me." - -"And do you wish to make your home with me again? I'm quite ready to -take you if you like." - -"I could never live in Lavender Street any more, Aunt Lydia. You must -understand that--that it would be awful to me." - -"Your father hinted at my moving. It will be a great trouble, but I -shan't shirk my duty, dear Mamie. If it will make your burden any -easier to bear, we will live together somewhere else. I say, if I can -make your burden any easier for you, I will live somewhere else." - -"I am not ungrateful. I.... Yes, if you will have me, I should like to -come to you." - -Mrs. Baines sighed, and smoothed her skirt tremulously. - -"To Balham?" she inquired. - -"You are moving to Balham?" - -"I was thinking about it. I was over there the other day to get some -stuff for a bodice. It's nice and healthy, and the shopping is cheap." - -"It's all the same to me where we go," said Mamie, "so long as the -people don't know me." - -"I hear you were living with--with _him_ in Paris? Operas, and -drives, and all manner of things to soothe your conscience he gave -you, no doubt?" said Mrs. Baines, in an awestruck invitation to -communicativeness. "After that terrible life in Paris, Balham will seem -quiet to you, I daresay; but perhaps you won't mind that?' - -"No place can be too quiet for me. The quieter it is, the better I -shall like it." - -"That's as it should be! Though, I suppose, with _him_ you were out -among gaieties every night?" She waited for a few particulars again. As -none were forthcoming: "Then I'll try to let the house, and we'll go -over together and look at some in Balham as soon as you like, my dear," -she continued. "Your father will see that I'm not put to any expense. -In the meantime you'll stay where you are, eh? You know--you know I saw -Mr. Heriot after you'd gone, don't you?" - -"No," stammered the girl, lifting eager eyes. "You went to him?" - -"The very next day, my dear, so it seemed! I thought I'd drop in and -have a cup of tea with you, not having seen you for so long; and -through missing a train, and having such a time to wait at the station, -I was an hour and more late when I got to Kensington. He was at home. -Of course I had no idea there was anything wrong; I shall never forget -it--never! You might have knocked me down with a feather when I heard -you'd gone." - -"What," muttered Mamie, "what did he say?" - -"It was like this. I said to him, 'Dear Mamie's away, the servant tells -me?' For naturally I thought you were visiting friends; 'as likely -as not, she's with his family,' I thought to myself. 'Oh, yes,' he -said, 'you must prepare yourself for a shock, Mrs. Baines--my wife has -left me.' 'Left you?' I said. 'Yes,' said he, so cool that it turned -me a mask of blood to hear him, 'she's gone away with a lover.' 'Mr. -Heriot!' I exclaimed--'_Mister_ Heriot!' 'She left a note,' he said, -'so it's quite true. Do you think we need talk about it much? I don't -know that a worthless woman is any loss,' he said." - -"He said that?" - -"Those were his very words, my dear. And that cool! I stared at him. -I'd no mind to make excuses for you, Gawd knows; but, for all that, -one's own flesh and blood wasn't going to be talked about like niggers -in _my_ hearing. When I got my wits together, I said, 'It seems to -me I'd be sorrier for you, Mr. Heriot, if you took it different.' -'Oh,' said he in his superior way, 'would you? We needn't discuss -my feelings, madam. Perhaps you'll stay and dine?' I was so angry -that I couldn't be civil to him. 'I thank you,' I said, 'I will not -stay and dine. And I take the opportunity, Mr. Heriot, of telling -you you're a brute!' With that I came away; but there was much more -in between that I've forgotten. About the divorce it was. He said he -had 'a duty to himself,' and that the man could marry you when you -were divorced; which I suppose he _would_ have done if he had lived? -though whether your sin would have been any less, my dear, if an -archbishop had performed the ceremony is a question that I couldn't -undertake to decide. You must begin your life afresh, now that it's all -'absolute'--which I learn is the proper term--and you'll never be in a -newspaper any more. Pray to Heaven for aid, and take heart of grace! -And if it will relieve you to speak sometimes of those sinful months -with--with the other one in Paris, why, you shall talk about them to -me, my dear, and I won't reproach you." - -Mamie was no longer listening. An emotion that she did not seek to -define was roused in her as she wondered if Heriot could indeed have -taken the blow so stoically as her aunt declared. She scarcely knew -whether she wished to put faith in his demeanour or not, but the -subject was one that filled her thoughts long after Mrs. Baines's -departure. It was one to which she constantly recurred. - -With less delay than might have been anticipated, the widow found -a house in Balham to fulfil her requirements, and the removal was -effected several months before No. 20, Lavender Street was sub-let. - -The houses of this class differ from one another but slightly. -Excepting that the one in Balham was numbered "44," and that the street -was called "Rosalie Road," Mamie could have found it easy to believe -that she was re-installed in Wandsworth. It seemed to her sometimes -as if the van that had removed the furniture had also brought the -ground-floor parlour, with the miniature bay window overlooking the -shrubs and the plot of mould. The back yard with the clothes prop, and -the neighbours' yards with the continuous clatter, they too might have -been transferred from Lavender Street; and so abiding was the clatter -that even if she felt sleepy at nine o'clock, it was useless to go to -bed before eleven. In view of this unintermittent necessity for back -yards, she wondered how the inmates of more expensive houses for which -back yards were not provided managed to support the deficiency. The -women that she viewed, from the bedroom, among the clothes lines, or -across the plot of mould, as they went forth with string bags, might -have been the Lavender Street tenants. And were they not the Lavender -Street children, these who on week-days swung, unkempt, on the little -creaking gates along the road, and on Sundays walked abroad in colours -so grotesquely unsuited to them? - -Such houses are, for the most part, happily, the crown of lives too -limited to realise their limitations--too unsuccessful to be aware -that they have failed. To Rosalie Road, Balham, with her Aunt Lydia -for companion, the divorced woman at the age of twenty-six retired -to remember that she had once hoped to be an artist, and had had the -opportunity of being happy. - -To-day she hoped for nothing. There was no scope for hope. If she could -have awakened to find herself famous, her existence would have been -coloured a little--though she knew that fame could not satisfy her now -as it would once have done--but the ability to labour for distinction -was gone. She was apathetic, she had no interest in anything. When six -months had passed, she regarded death as the only event to which she -could still look forward; when she had been here a year, a glimmer of -relief entered into her depression--the doctor who had attended her, -and sounded her lungs, told her that she "must take care of herself." - -Sometimes a neighbour looked in, and spoke of dilapidations and -the indifference of the landlord; of the reductions at a High Road -linendraper's, and the whooping-cough. Sometimes a curate called to -sell tickets for a concert more elementary than his sermons. In the -afternoon she walked to Tooting Bec and stared at the bushes; in the -evening she betook herself to the "circulating library," where _Lady -Audley's Secret_ and _The Wide, Wide World_ were displayed and the -proprietor said he hadn't heard of Meredith--"perhaps she had made a -mistake in the name?" God help her! She was guilty and she had left -a husband desolate; but the music that she had dreamed of was the -opera on Wagner nights; the books that she had expected were copies -containing signatures that were the envy of the autograph-collector; -the circle that had been her aim was the world of literature and art. -She lived at Balham; she saw the curate, and she heard about the -dilapidations in the neighbour's roof. One year merged into another; -and if she lived for forty more, the neighbour and the curate would be -her All. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - - -When five years had passed after the divorce, the Liberal Party -came into power again, and George Heriot, Q.C., M.P., was appointed -Solicitor-General. His work and ambitions had not sufficed to mend -the gap in his life; but it had been in work and ambition that he -endeavoured to find assuagement of the wound. Perhaps eagerness -had never been so keen in him after his wife went as while he was -contesting the borough that he represented now; perhaps he had never -realised the inadequacy of success so fully as he did to-day when one -of the richest prizes of his profession was obtained. Conscious that -the anticipated flavour was lacking, the steps to which he might look -forward still lost much of their allurement. Were he promoted to the -post of Attorney-General, and raised to the Bench, he foresaw that it -would elate him no more than it elated him now, as Sir George Heriot, -and a very wealthy man, to recall the period when, as a struggling -Junior, he had sat up half the night to earn a guinea. - -The five years had left their mark upon him; the hours of misery which -no one suspected had left their mark upon him. The lines about his eyes -and mouth had deepened; his hair was greyer, his figure less erect. Men -who, in their turn, sat up half the night to earn a guinea, envied him, -cited his career as an example of brilliant luck--the success of others -is always "luck"--and, though they assumed that a fellow was "generally -cut up a bit when his wife went wrong," found it difficult to conceive -that Sir George had permitted domestic trouble to alloy his triumphs -to any great extent. Nobody imagined that there were still nights when -he suffered scarcely less acutely than on the one when he returned to -discover that Mamie had gone; nobody guessed that there were evenings -when his loneliness was almost unbearable to the dry, self-contained -man--that moments came when he took from a drawer the likeness that -had once stood on his desk and yearned over it in despair. That was -his secret; pride forbade that he should share it with another. He -contemned himself that he did suffer still. A worthless woman should -not be mourned. Out of his life should be out of his memory; such -weakness shamed him! - -In August, a week or so after the vacation began, he went to stay at -Sandhills. His object in going to Sandhills was not wholly to see -his brother, and still less was it to see his sister-in-law. He was -solitary, he was wretched, and he was only forty-seven years of age. He -had been questioning for some time whether the wisest thing he could -do would not be to marry again; he sought no resumption of rapture, -but he wanted a home. An estimable wife, perhaps a son, would supply -new interests; and the vague question that had entered his mind had -latterly been emphasised by his introduction to Miss Pierways, who, he -was aware, was now the guest of Lady Heriot. - -Miss Pierways was the daughter of a lady who had been the Hon. Mrs. -Pierways, and whose straitened circumstances had debarred her from the -suite in Hampton Court that she might otherwise have had at the period -of her husband's death. The widow and the girl had retired to obscure -lodgings; the only break in the monotony of the latter's existence -being an occasional visit to some connections, or friends, at whose -places it was hoped she might form a desirable alliance. The most -stringent economies had to be practised in order to procure passable -frocks for these visits, but the opportunities had led to no result, -though she had beauty. And then an extraordinary event occurred. When -the girl was twenty-eight, the widow who, for once, had reluctantly -accepted an invitation to accompany her, received an offer of marriage -herself, and became the wife of an American who was known to be several -times over a millionaire. - -For one door that had been ajar to the daughter of the Hon. Mrs. -Pierways, with nothing but her birth and her appearance to recommend -her, a hundred doors flew open to the step-daughter of Henry Van Buren; -and it was shortly after the startling metamorphosis in the fortunes of -the pair that Heriot had first met them. - -The dowry that Agnes Pierways might bring to her husband weighed -with him very little, for he was in a position to disregard such -considerations. But Miss Pierways' personality appeared to him -suggestive of all the qualifications that he sought in the lady whom -he should marry. Without her manner being impulsive or girlish, she -was sufficiently young to be attractive. She was handsome, and in a -slightly statuesque fashion that bore promise of the serenity which he -told himself was now his aim. Certainly if he did re-marry--and he was -contemplating the step very seriously--it would be difficult to secure -a partner to fulfil his requirements more admirably than Miss Pierways. -Whether he fulfilled hers, he could ascertain when he had fully made up -his mind. It was with the intention of making up his mind, in proximity -to the lady, that he had gone to Sandhills; and one evening, when he -was alone in the smoking-room with his brother, the latter blundered -curiously enough on to the bull's-eye of his meditations. - -"I wonder," said Sir Francis, "that you've never thought of -re-marrying, George?" - -"My experience of matrimony was not fortunate," answered Heriot, -smoking slowly, but with inward perturbation. - -"Your experience of matrimony was a colossal folly. All things -considered, the consequences might easily have been a good deal worse." - -"I don't follow you." - -"Between ourselves, the end never seemed to me so regrettable as you -think it." - -"My wife left me." - -"And you divorced her! And you have no children." - -"If I had had children," said Heriot musingly, "it is a fact that the -consequences would have been worse." - -"But in any case," said the Baronet, "it was a huge mistake. Really one -may be frank, in the circumstances! You married madly. The probability -is that if your wife had been--if you were living together still, you -would be a miserable man to-day. It was a very lamentable affair, of -course, when it happened, but regarding it coolly--in looking back on -it--don't you fancy that perhaps things are just as well as they are?" - -"I was very fond of my wife," replied Heriot, engrossed by his cigar. - -"To an extent," said Sir Francis indulgently, "no doubt you had an -affection for her. But, my dear fellow, what companionship had you? Was -she a companion?" - -"I don't know." - -"Was she interested in your career? Could she understand your ways of -thought? Was she used to your world? One doesn't ask a great deal of -women, but had you any single thing in common?" - -"I don't know," said Heriot again. - -Sir Francis shrugged his shoulders. - -"Take my word for it that, with such a girl as you married, your -divorce wasn't an unmixed evil. It wasn't the release one would have -chosen, but at least it was better for you than being tied to her for -life. Damn it, George! what's the use of blinking the matter now? She -was absolutely unsuited to you in every way; you must admit it!" - -"I suppose she was. At the same time I was happy with her." - -"How long would the infatuation have lasted?" - -"It lasted more than three years." - -"Would it have lasted another five?" - -"Speaking honestly, I believe it would." - -"Though you had nothing in common?" - -"I don't explain," said Heriot. "I tell you, I was happy with her, -that's all. Viewing it dispassionately, I suppose she _was_ unsuited to -me--I don't know that we did have anything in common; I don't see any -justification for the fool's paradise I lived in. But for all that, if -I married again, I should never care for the woman as--as I cared for -_her_. In fact, I should merely marry to----" He was about to say "to -try to forget her"--"to make a home for myself," he said, instead. - -"Have you considered such a step?" asked Sir Francis. - -"Sometimes, yes." - -"The best thing you could do--a very proper thing for you to do.... -Anybody in particular?" - -"It's rather premature----" - -"You're not in chambers, old fellow!" - -"What do you think of Miss Pierways?" inquired Heriot after a scarcely -perceptible pause. - -"A very excellent choice! I should congratulate you heartily. We had -not noticed the---- And Catherine is very acute in these matters----" - -"There has been nothing to notice; probably she would refuse me -point-blank. But in the event of my determining to marry again, I've -wondered whether Miss Pierways wouldn't be the lady I proposed to." - -"I don't think you could do better." - -"Really? You don't think I'm too old for her?" - -"On my honour! 'Too old for her'? Not a bit, a very sensible marriage! -I'm not surprised that you should be attracted by her." - -"'Attracted by her,'" said Heriot, "suggests rather more than the -actual facts. I appreciate her qualities, but I can't say I'm sensible -of any attachment. I'm sorry that I'm not. I appreciate her so fully -that I am anxious to be drawn towards her a little more. I'm somewhat -past the age for ardent devotion, but I couldn't take a wife as I -might buy a horse. Of course, I've not been very much in her society. -Er--down here, I daresay, when I come to know her better---- Have you -met Van Buren?" - -"In town, before he sailed. He is in New York, you know. I like them -all. We were very pleased to have the mother and the girl come to -us.... Well, make your hay while the sun shines!" - -"It isn't shining," said Heriot; "I'm just looking east, waiting for -it to rise. But I'm glad to have talked to you; as soon as the first -ray comes I think I'll take your advice. I _ought_ to marry, Francis; I -know you're right." - - - - -CHAPTER XII - - -The more he reflected, the more he was convinced of it; in marriage -lay his chance of contentment. And during the ensuing fortnight his -approval of Miss Pierways deepened. The house would not fill until the -following month, and the smallness of the party there at present was -favourable to the development of acquaintance. - -Excepting that she was a trifle cold, there was really no scope for -adverse criticism upon Miss Pierways. She was unusually well read, -took an intelligent interest in matters on which women of her age were -rarely informed, and was accomplished to the extent that she played -the piano after dinner with brilliant execution and admirable hands -and wrists. Her coldness, theoretically, was no drawback to him, and -Heriot was a little puzzled by his own attitude. Her air was neither -so formal as to intimate that his advances would be unwelcome, nor so -self-conscious as to repel him by the warmth of its encouragement; yet, -in spite of his admiration, the idea of proposing to her dismayed him -when he forced himself to approach the brink. - -His vacillation was especially irritating since he had learned that -the ladies were at the point of joining Van Buren in New York. The -opportunity of which he was failing to take advantage would speedily -be past, and he dreaded that if he suffered it to escape him, he would -recall the matter with regret. He perceived as well, however, that if -he were precipitate, he might regret that too, and he was sorry that -they were not remaining in Europe longer. - -One evening, when their departure was being discussed, the mother -expressed surprise that he had never visited America, though she had -had no curiosity about it, herself, until she married an American; and -in answer Heriot declared that he had frequently thought of "running -across during the long vacation." - -"If you ever do," she said, "I hope you will choose a year when we are -there." - -"To tell you the truth, I was thinking of it this year." - -"We may see you in New York, Sir George?" said Miss Pierways. "Really? -How strange that will seem! I've been eager to go to New York all my -life; but now that I'm going, I'm rather afraid. The idea of a great -city where I haven't any friends----" - -"But you will have many friends, Agnes." - -"By-and-by," answered Miss Pierways. "Yes, I suppose so. But it's very -fatiguing _making_ friends, don't you think so? And I tremble at the -voyage." - -"How delightful it would be," remarked Mrs. Van Buren, "if we were -going by the same steamer, Sir George!" - -Heriot laughed. - -"It would be very delightful to me to make the voyage in your company. -But I might bore you frightfully; a week at sea must be a severe test. -I should be afraid of being found out." - -"We are promised other passengers," observed Miss Pierways, looking -down with a faint smile. Her archness was a shade stiff, but her neck -was one of her chief attractions. - -"Why don't you go, George?" said Lady Heriot cheerfully. "You'd much -better go by Mrs. Van Buren's boat than any other; and you've been -talking of making a trip to America 'next year' ever since I've known -you!" - -This amiable fiction was succeeded by fresh protestations from Mrs. -Van Buren that no arrangement could be more charming, and Heriot, -half against his will, half with pleasure, found himself agreeing to -telegraph in the morning to inquire if he could obtain a berth. - -He hardly knew whether he was sorry or glad when he had done so. That -the step would result in an engagement might be predicted with a -tolerable degree of certainty, and he would have preferred to arrive at -an understanding with himself under conditions which savoured less of -coercion. - -Since a state-room proved to be vacant, however, he could do no less -now than engage it; and everybody appeared so much pleased, and Miss -Pierways was so very gracious, that the misgivings that disturbed him -looked momentarily more unreasonable than ever. - -The night before he sailed, in their customary chat over whisky and -cigars, Sir Francis said to him: - -"'Ask, and it shall be given unto you'!" - -"I'm inclined to think you're right," said his brother. "I suppose it -will end in it.... She's a trifle like a well-bred machine--doesn't -it strike you so?--warranted never to get out of order!" The other's -look was significant, and Heriot added, "Very desirable in a wife, of -course! Only somehow----" - -"'Only somehow' you're eccentric, George--you always were!" - -"It's not my reputation," said Heriot drily; "I believe that I'm -considered particularly practical." - -"Reputations," retorted the Baronet, attempting an epigram, as he -sometimes did in the course of his second whisky-and-potash, and -failing signally in the endeavour, "are like tombstones--generally -false." He realised the reality of tombstones, and became -controversial. "_I've_ known you from a boy, and I say you were always -eccentric. It was nothing but your eccentricity that you had to thank -before. Here's a nice girl, a girl who will certainly have a good -settlement, a girl who's undeniably handsome, ready to say 'yes' at the -asking, and you grumble--I'm hanged if you don't grumble!--because you -see she is to be depended on. What the devil do you want?" - -"I want to be fond of her," answered Heriot. "I admit all you've said -of her; I want to like her more." - -"So you ought to; but what does it matter if you don't? All women are -alike to the men who've married them after a year or two. She'll make -an admirable mother, and that's the main thing, I suppose?" - -Was it? - -Heriot recalled the criticism during his first day on board. Neither -of the ladies was visible until Queenstown was reached, and he paced -the deck, pursuing his reflections by the aid of tobacco. She would -"make an admirable mother, and that was the main thing"! Of the second -half of the opinion he was not so sure. To marry a woman simply because -one believed she would shine in a maternal capacity was somewhat too -altruistic, he thought. However, he was fully aware that Miss Pierways -had other recommendations. - -She appeared with her mother at the head of the companion-way while he -was wishing that he hadn't come, and he found their chairs for them, -and arranged their rugs, and subsequently gave their letters to the -steward to be posted. - -After leaving Queenstown, Mrs. Van Buren's sufferings increased, and -the girl, who, saving for a brief interval, was well and cheerful, was -practically in his charge. It was Heriot who accompanied her from the -saloon after breakfast, and strolled up and down with her till she was -tired. When the chair and the rug--the salient features of a voyage are -the woman, the chair, and the rug--were satisfactorily arranged, it was -he who sat beside her, talking. Flying visits she made below, while her -mother kept her cabin; but for the most part she was on deck--or in the -saloon, or in the reading-room--and for the most part Heriot was the -person to whom she looked for conversation. If he had been a decade or -two younger, he would probably have proposed to her long before they -sighted Sandy Hook, and it surprised him that he did not succumb to the -situation as it was. A woman is nowhere so dangerous, and nowhere is a -man so susceptible, as at sea. The interminable days demand flirtation, -if one is not to perish of boredom. Moonlight and water are notoriously -potent, even when viewed for only half an hour; and at sea, the man and -the girl look at the moonlight on the water together regularly every -evening. And it is very becoming to the girl. Miss Pierways' face was -always a disappointment to Heriot at breakfast. The remembrance of -its factitious softness the previous night made its hardness in the -sunshine look harder. He wondered if it was the remembrance of its -hardness at breakfast that kept him from proposing to her when they -loitered in the moonlight. He was certainly doing his best to fall in -love with her, and everything conspired to assist him; but the days -went on, and the momentous question remained unuttered. - -"We shall soon be there," she said one evening as they strolled about -the deck after dinner. "I'm beginning to be keen. Have you noticed how -everybody is saying, 'New York' now? At first no one alluded to it--we -mightn't have been due for a year--and since yesterday nobody's talking -of anything else!" - -"Nearly everyone I've spoken to seems to have made the trip half a -dozen times," said Heriot. "I feel dreadfully untravelled in the -smoking-room. When are you going to Niagara? Niagara is one of the -things I'm determined not to miss." - -"I was talking to some girls who have lived in New York all their -lives--when they weren't in Europe--and they haven't been there yet. -They told me they had been to the panorama in Westminster!" - -"I have met a Londoner who had never been to the Temple." - -"No? How perfectly appalling!" she exclaimed, none the less fervently -because she hadn't been to it herself. "Oh yes, I know I shall adore -Niagara! I want to see a great deal of America while I'm there." - -"I wish _I_ had time to see more; I should like to go to California." - -"I wouldn't see California for any consideration upon earth!" she -declared. "California, to me, is Bret Harte--I should be so afraid of -being disillusioned. When we went to Ireland once, do you know, Sir -George, it was a most painful shock to me! My ideas of Ireland were -founded on Dion Boucicault's plays--I expected to see all the peasants -in fascinating costumes, with their hair down their backs, just as one -sees them on the stage. The reality was terrible. I shudder when I -recall the disappointment." - -"I sympathise." - -"Of course you're laughing at me! I shall have my revenge, if you don't -like New York. But, I don't know--I may feel guilty. You mustn't blame -us if you don't like New York, Sir George. Fortunately you won't have -time to be very bored, though; will you?" - -"'Fortunately'?" - -"Fortunately if it doesn't amuse you, I mean. When does the--how do you -say it? When does your holiday end?" - -"I must be back in London on the twenty-fourth of next month; I'm -almost American myself. I shall have such a fleeting glimpse of the -country, that I must really think of writing a book about it." - -"You have something better to do than write vapid books. To me your -profession seems the most fascinating one there is. If I were a man, -I'd rather be called to the Bar than anything. You'd be astonished -if you knew how many biographies of eminent lawyers I've read--they -enthralled me as a child. I don't know any career that suggests such -power to me as the Bar. Don't smile: sometimes, when we're talking and -I remember the tremendous influence you wield, I tremble." - -She lifted her eyes to him, deprecating her enthusiasm, which was too -palpably a pose, and again Heriot was conscious that the opportunity -was with him, if he could but grasp it. They had paused by the -taffrail, and he stood looking at her, trying to speak the words that -would translate their relations to a definite footing. He no longer had -any doubt as to her answer; he could foresee her reply--at least the -manner of her reply--with disturbing clearness. He knew that she would -hesitate an instant, and droop her head, and ultimately murmur correct -phrases that would exhilarate him not at all. In imagination he already -heard her tones, as she promised to be his wife. He supposed, as they -were screened from observation, that he might take her hand. How -passionless, how mechanical and flat it would all be! He replied with a -commonplace, and after a few moments they continued their stroll. When -he turned in, however, he reproached himself more forcibly than he had -done yet, and his vacillation was by no means at an end. He was at war, -not with his judgment, but with his instinct, and it was the perception -of this fact that always increased his perturbation. - -They landed the following day, and, after being introduced to Mr. Van -Buren in the custom-house, Heriot drove to an hotel. The hotel he -found excellent; New York he found wonderful, but a city different -from what he had expected. He had vaguely pictured New York as a Paris -where everybody talked English. This was before the introduction of -the automobile had changed the face of Paris, and the face of the -Parisian--before it incidentally reduced the number of half-fed horses -barbarously used in that city, which is the negro's paradise, and -the "horse's hell"--and the Boulevard was even more unlike Broadway -then than now. Broadway, broad in name only till it spread into the -brightness of Union Square, suggested London more than Paris--London in -an unprecedented burst of energy. The tireless vigour of the throng, -the ubiquitous rush of the Elevated Railway confused him. Though he -paid homage to the cuisine of America, which proved as much as much -superior to that of England as the worst transatlantic train was to -our best of that period, he told himself that he was disappointed. The -truth was that, not wishing to take the Van Burens' invitations too -literally, and having no other acquaintances here, he was dull. - -American hospitality, however, is the most charming in the world, -and he spent several very agreeable hours inside the big brownstone -house. Nothing could have exceeded the geniality of Van Buren's manner, -nor was this due solely to the position of his visitor and a hope -of their becoming connected. The average American business man will -show more kindness to a stranger, who intrudes into his office, than -most Englishmen display to one who comes to them with a letter of -introduction from a friend, and Van Buren's welcome was as sincere as -it was attractive. - -Heriot stayed in New York a week, and then fulfilled his desire to -visit Niagara. On his return he called in Fifth Avenue again. He was -already beginning to refer to his homeward voyage, and he was still -undetermined whether he would propose to Miss Pierways or not. The days -slipped by without his arriving at a conclusion; and then one morning -he told himself he had gone too far to retreat now--that the step, -which was doubtless the most judicious he could take, should be made -without delay. - -He called at the house the same afternoon--for on the next day but -one the _Etruria_ sailed--and he found the ladies at home. He sat -down, wondering if he would be left alone with Miss Pierways and take -his departure engaged to her. But for half an hour there seemed no -likelihood of a tete-a-tete. Presently there were more callers and they -were shown into another room. Mrs. Van Buren begged him to excuse her. -He rose to leave, but was pressed to remain. - -"I want to talk to you when they've gone," she said; "I haven't half -exhausted my list of messages to London." - -Heriot resumed his seat, and Miss Pierways smiled. - -"Poor mamma wishes she were going herself, if she told the truth! Now -that we're here, it is I who like New York, not she." - -"We're creatures of custom," he said; "your mother has lived in London -too long to accustom herself to America very easily... Of course you'll -be over next season?" - -"Oh yes. Shall you ever come to America again, Sir George?" - -"I--I hardly know," he answered. "I certainly hope to." - -"Oh, then, you will! You're your own master." - -"Is anybody his own master?" - -"To the extent of travelling to America, many people, I should think!" - -He remembered with sudden gratification that he had never said a word -to her that might not have been spoken before a crowd of listeners. -What was there to prevent him withholding the proposal if he liked! - -"I've no doubt I shall come," he said abstractedly. - -She looked slightly downcast. It was not the reply that she had hoped -to hear. - -"I shall always owe a debt of gratitude to you and to Mr. and Mrs. Van -Buren for making my visit so pleasant to me," he found himself saying -next. "My trip has been a delightful experience." - -She murmured a conventional response, but chagrin began to creep about -her heart. - -Heriot diverged into allusions which advanced the position not at all. -They spoke of New York, of England, of the voyage--she perfunctorily, -and he with ever-increasing relief. And now he felt that he had been on -the verge of the precipice for the last time. He had escaped--and by -the intensity of his gratitude he realised how ill-judged had been his -action in playing around it. - -When Mrs. Van Buren reappeared, followed by her husband, her daughter's -face told her that the climax had not been reached; and bold in -thanksgiving, Heriot excused himself when he was asked to dine with -them that evening. Had he been offered the alternative of the next -evening, he could not without rudeness have found a pretext for -refusing; but on the morrow, as luck would have it, the Van Burens were -dining out. - -The footman opened the big door, and Heriot descended the steps with a -sensation that was foreign to him, and not wholly agreeable. He knew -that he did not want to marry Miss Pierways, and that he had behaved -like a fool in trying to acquire the desire, but he was a little -ashamed of himself. His conduct had not been irreproachable; and he was -conscious that when the steamer sailed and the chapter was closed for -good and all, he would be glad to have done with it. He had blundered -badly. Nevertheless he would have blundered worse, and been a still -greater fool, if the affair had terminated in an engagement. Of course -his brother would say distasteful things when they met, and Lady Heriot -would convey her extreme disapproval of him without saying anything. -That he must put up with! Of two evils, he had at any rate chosen the -lesser. - -He repeated the assurance with still more conviction on Saturday -morning during the quarter of an hour in which the cab rattled him to -the boat. The experience had been a lesson to him, and he was resolved -that henceforward he would dismiss the idea of marriage from his mind. -He saw his portmanteau deposited in his cabin, and he returned to the -deck as the steamer began to move. The decks were in the confusion -that obtains at first. Passengers still hung at the taffrail, taking a -farewell gaze at friends on the landing-stage. The chairs were huddled -in a heap, and stewards bustled among stacks of luggage, importuned at -every second step with instructions and inquiries. - -The deep pulsations sounded more regular; the long line of sheds -receded; and the figures of the friends were as little dark toys, -waving specks of white. Even the most constant among the departing -began to turn away now. The hastening stewards were importuned more -frequently than before. Everybody was in a hurry, and all the women in -the crowd that flocked below seemed to be uttering the words "baggage" -and "state-room" at the same time. - -A few men were temporarily in possession of the deck, striding to and -fro behind pipes or cigars. The regulation as to "No smoking abaft -this" was not in force yet, or was, at least, disobeyed at present. -Heriot sauntered along the length of deck until it began to fill -again. The pile of chairs received attention--they were set out in a -row under the awning. The deck took a dryness and a whiteness, and a -few passengers sat down, and questioned inwardly if they would find -one another companionable. He bent his steps to the smoking-room. But -it was empty and uninviting thus early, and he forsook it after a few -minutes. As the door slammed behind him, he came face to face with the -woman who had been his wife. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - - -She approached--their gaze met--he had bowed, and passed her. Perhaps -it had lasted a second, the mental convulsion in which he looked in -her eyes; he did not know. He found a seat and sank into it, staring -at the sky and sea, acutely conscious of nothing but her nearness. He -could not tell whether it was despair or rejoicing that beat in him; he -knew nothing but that the world had swayed, that life was in an instant -palpitating and vivid--that he had seen her! - -Then he knew that, in the intensity of emotion that shook him body and -brain, there was a thrill of joy, inexplicable but insistent. But when -he rose at last, he dreaded that he might see her again. - -He did not see her till the evening--when he drew back at the door of -the saloon as she came out. His features were imperturbable now and -betrayed nothing, though her own, before her head drooped, were piteous -in appeal. - -He noted that she looked pale and ill, and that she wore a black dress -with crape on it. He wondered whether she had lost her father, or her -aunt. Next morning he understood that it was her father, for he saw -her sitting beside Mrs. Baines. So Dick Cheriton was dead. He had once -been fond of Dick Cheriton.... The stranger in the black frock had once -slept in his arms, and borne his name.... The sadness of a lifetime -weighed on his soul. - -He perceived that she shunned him by every means in her power. But they -were bound to meet; and then across her face would flash the same look -that he had seen at the foot of the companion-way; its supplication -and abasement wrung him. Horrible as the continual meetings grew, in -the reading-room, on deck, or below, their lines crossed a dozen times -between breakfast and eleven o'clock at night. It became as torturous -to Heriot as to her. He felt as if he had struck her, as he saw her -whiten and shrink as he passed her by. Soon he hated himself for being -here to cause her this intolerable pain. - -It was on the evening of the third day that her endurance broke down -and she made her petition. With a pang he recognised the voice of her -messenger before he turned. - -"Mrs. Baines!" - -"You're surprised I should address you, Mr. Heriot," she said. "I -shouldn't have, but _she_ wants me to beg you to speak to her, if it's -only for five minutes. She implores you humbly to let her speak to you. -She made me ask you; I couldn't say 'no.'" - -His pulses throbbed madly, and momentarily he couldn't reply. - -"What purpose would it serve?" he said in tones he struggled to make -firm. - -"She can't bear it, Mr. Heriot--_Sir_ Heriot, I should say; I was -forgetting, I'm sure I beg your pardon! She 'implores you humbly to let -her speak to you'; I was to use those words. Won't you consent? She is -ill, she's dying." - -"Dying?" whispered Heriot by a physical effort. - -She nodded slowly. "The doctor has told her. She won't be here long, -poor girl. But whether she's to be pitied for it or not, it's hard to -say; I don't think she'll be sorry to go.... My brother is gone, Sir -Heriot." - -His answer was inarticulate. - -"We got there just at the end. If we had been too late, she----She has -been ailing a long while, but we didn't know it was so serious. When -she saw you, it was awful for her. I---- Oh, what am I to tell her? -She's waiting now!" - -"Where?" said Heriot, hoarsely. - -"Will you come with me?" - -"Show me," he said; "show me where she is." - -He still heard the knell of it--"Dying!" He heard it as the lonely -figure in the darkness rose: - -"Thank you, I am grateful." - -The familiar voice knocked at his heart. - -"Mrs. Baines has told me you are ill. I am grieved to learn how ill you -are." - -"It doesn't matter. It was good of you to come; I thought you would. -I--I have prayed to speak to you again!" - -"It wasn't much to ask," he said; "I--am human." - -He could see that she trembled painfully. He indicated the chair that -she had left, and drew one closer for himself. Then for a minute there -was silence. - -"Do you hate me?" she said. - -He shook his head. "Should I have come to tell you so?" - -"But you can never forgive me?" - -"Why distress yourself? If for a moment I hesitated to come, it was -because I _knew_ it would be distressing for you. Perhaps a refusal -would have been kinder after all." - -"No, no; I was sure you wouldn't refuse. She doubted; but _I_ was sure. -I said you'd come when you heard about me." - -"Is it so serious? What is it? Tell me; I know nothing." - -"It's my lungs: they were never very strong, you remember. The doctor -told me in Duluth: 'Perhaps a year,' if I am 'very careful.' I'm _not_ -very careful--it'll soon be all over. Don't look like that! Why should -you care? _I_ don't care--I don't want to live a bit. Only----Do you -think, if--if there's anything afterwards, that a woman who's gone -wrong like me will be punished?" - -"For God's sake," he said, "don't talk so!" - -"But _do_ you? It makes one think of these things when one knows one -has only a very little time to live. _You_ can't forgive me--you said -so." - -"I do," he said; "I forgive you freely. If I could undo your -wretchedness by giving my life for you, I'd give it. You don't know how -I loved you--what it meant to me to find you gone! Ah, Mamie, how could -you do it?" - -The tears stood in her eyes, as she lifted her white face to him. - -"I'm ashamed!" she moaned. "What can I say?" - -"Why?" said Heriot, at the end of a tense pause. "Why? Did you care for -him so much? If he had lived and married you, would you be happy?" - -"Happy!" she echoed, with something between a laugh and a sob. - -"Tell me. I hoped you'd be happy. That's true. I never wanted you to -suffer for what you'd done. I suffered enough for both." - -"I don't think I should have married him. I don't know; I don't think -so. I knew I'd made a mistake before--oh, in the first month! If _you_ -haven't hated me, I have hated myself." - -"And since? You've been with _her_?" - -"Ever since. My poor father wanted me to go home. I wish I had! You -know I've lost him--she told you that? He wanted me to go home, but I -couldn't--where everybody knew! You understand? And then she moved to -Balham, and we never left it till two months ago, when the cable came. -We were in time to see him die. My poor father!" - -He touched her hand, and her fingers closed on it. - -"You oughtn't to be up here at night," he said huskily, looking at her -with blinded eyes. "Didn't the man tell you that the night air was bad? -And that flimsy wrap--it's no use so! Draw it across your mouth." - -"What's the difference?--there, then! Shall you--will you speak to me -again after this evening, or is this the last talk we shall have? I -had so much to say to you, but I don't seem able to find it now you're -here.... If you believe that I ask your pardon on my knees, I suppose, -after all, that that's everything. If ever a man deserved a good -wife it was you; I realise it more clearly than I did while we were -together--though I think I knew it then.... You never married again?" - -"No," he answered; "no, I haven't married." - -"But you will, perhaps? Why haven't you?" - -"I'm too old, and--I cared too much for _you_." - -The tears were running down her face now; she loosed his hand to wipe -them away. - -"Don't say I've ruined your life," she pleaded; "don't say that! My -own--yes; my own--it served me right! but I've tried so hard to believe -that _you_ had got over it. When I read of your election, and then that -you were made Solicitor-General, I was glad, ever so glad. I thought, -'He's successful; he has his career.' I've always wanted to believe -that your work was enough--that you had forgotten. It wasn't so?" - -"No, it wasn't so. I did my best to forget you, but I couldn't." - -"Aunt Lydia said you weren't cut up at all when she saw you. You -deceived her very well. 'A worthless woman,' you called me; I 'wasn't -any loss'! It was quite true; but I knew you couldn't feel like -that--not so soon. 'Worthless'! I've heard it every day since she told -me.... I meant to do my duty when I married you, George; if I could -have foreseen----" She broke off, coughing. "If I could have foreseen -what the end would be, I'd have killed myself rather than become your -wife. I was always grateful to you; you were always good to me--and I -only brought you shame." - -"Not 'only,'" he said; "you gave me happiness first, Mamie--the -greatest happiness I've known. I loved you, and you came to me. You -never understood how much I did love you--I think that was the trouble." - -"'There's a word that says it all: I worship you'! do you remember -saying that? You said it in the train when you first proposed to me. I -refused you then--why did I ever give way!... How different everything -would be now! You 'worshipped' me, and I----" - -Her voice trailed off, and once more only the pounding of the engine -broke the stillness on the deck. The ocean swelled darkly under a -starless sky, and he sat beside her staring into space. In the steerage -someone played "Robin Adair" on a fiddle. A drizzle began to fall, to -blow in upon them. Heriot became conscious of it with a start. - -"You must go below," he said; "it's raining." - -She rose obediently, shivering a little, and drawing the white scarf -more closely about her neck. - -"Good-night," she said, standing there with wide eyes. - -He put out his hand, and her clasp ran through his blood again. - -"Good-night," he repeated gently. "Sleep well." - -Was it real? Was he awake? He looked after her as she turned -away--looked long after she had disappeared. The fiddle in the steerage -was still scraping "Robin Adair"; the black stretch of deck was -desolate. A violent impulse seized him to overtake her, to snatch her -back, to hold her in his arms for once, with words and caresses of -consolation. "Dying"! He wondered if Davos, Algiers, the Cape, anything -and everything procurable by money, could prolong her life. Then he -remembered that she did not wish to live. But that was horrible! She -should consult a specialist in town, and follow his advice; he would -make her promise it. With the gradual defervescence of his mood, he -wondered if she was properly provided for, and he resolved to question -Mrs. Baines on the point. He would elicit the information the following -day, and something could be arranged, if necessary--if not with Mamie's -knowledge, then without it. - -The morning was bright, and Mamie was in her chair when he came up -from the saloon after breakfast. As he approached, she watched him -expectantly, and it was impossible to pass without a greeting. It was -impossible, when the greeting had been exchanged, not to remain with -her for a few minutes. - -"How are you feeling?" he asked; "any better?" - -"I never feel very bad; I'm just the same to-day as yesterday, thank -you." The "thank you" was something more than a formula, and he felt -it. It hurt him to hear the gratitude in her tone, natural as it might -be. - -"I want you to go to a good physician when you arrive," he said, "say, -to Drummond; and to do just as he tells you. You _must_ do that; it is -a duty you owe to yourself." - -She shrugged her shoulders. "What for? That I may last two years, -perhaps, instead of one? It is kind of you to care, but I'm quite -satisfied as things are. Don't bother about me." - -"You will have to go!" he insisted. "Before we land I shall speak to -your aunt about it." - -He had paused by her seat with the intention of resuming his saunter -as soon as civility permitted, but her presence was subversive of the -intention. He sat down beside her as he had done the previous evening. -But now it was inevitable that they should speak of other subjects than -infidelity and death. The sky was blue, and the white deck glistened in -the sunshine. The sea before them tumbled cheerfully, and to right and -left were groups of passengers laughing, flirting, doing fancy-work, or -reading novels. - -"You haven't told me how it was you came to the States?" she said -presently; "were you in New York all the time?" - -Heriot did not answer, and she waited with surprise. - -"I'll tell you, if you wish," he said hastily. "I came out half meaning -to marry." - -"Oh!" she said, as if he had struck her. - -"I thought I might be happier married. The lady and her mother were -going to New York, and I travelled with them. I--I was mistaken in -myself." - -They were not looking at each other any longer, and her voice trembled -a little as she replied: - -"You weren't fond enough of her?" - -"No," he said. "I shall never marry again; I told you so last night." - -After a long pause, she said: - -"Was she pretty?... Prettier than _I_ used to be?" - -"She was handsome, I think. Not like you at all. Why talk about it?... -I'm glad I came, though, or I shouldn't have seen you. I shall always -be glad to have seen you again. Remember that, after we part. For me, -at least, it will never be so bitter since we've met and I've heard you -say you're sorry." - -"God bless you," she murmured almost inaudibly. - -He left her after half an hour, but drifted towards her again in the -afternoon. Insensibly they lost by degrees much of their constraint in -talking together. She told him of her father's illness, of her own life -in Balham; Heriot gave her some details of his appointment, explaining -that it was the duty of an Attorney-General and Solicitor-General to -reply to questions of law in the House, to advise the Government, -and conduct its cases, and the rest of it. By Wednesday night it was -difficult to him to realise that their first interview had occurred -only forty-eight hours ago. It had become his habit on deck to turn his -steps towards her, to sip tea by her side in the saloon, to saunter -with her after dinner in the starlight. Even at last he felt no -embarrassment as he moved towards her; even at last she came to smile -up at him as he drew near. Moments there could not fail to be when such -a state of things seemed marvellous and unnatural--when conversation -ceased, and they paused oppressed and tongue-tied by a consciousness -of the anomaly of their relations. Nevertheless such moments were but -hitches in an intercourse which grew daily more indispensable to them -both. - -How indispensable it had become to herself the woman perceived as the -end of the voyage approached; and now she would have asked no better -than for them to sail on until she died. When she undressed at night, -she sighed, "Another day over"; when she woke in the morning, eagerness -quickened her pulses. On Saturday they would arrive; and when Friday -dawned, the reunion held less of strangeness than the reflection that -she and Heriot would separate again directly. To think that, as a -matter of course, they would say good-bye to each other, and resume -their opposite sides of an impassable gulf, looked more unnatural to -her than the renewed familiarity. - -Their pauses were longer than usual on Friday evening. Both were -remembering that it was the last. Heriot had ascertained that Cheriton -had been able to leave her but little; and the notion of providing her -with the means to winter in some favourable climate was hot in his mind. - -"It is understood," he said abruptly, "that you go to Drummond and do -exactly as he orders? You'll not be so mad as to refuse at the last -moment?" - -"All right!" she answered apathetically, "I'll go. Shall I--will you -care to hear what he says?" - -"Your aunt has promised to write to me. By the way, there's something -I want to say to-night. If what he advises is expensive, you must let -me make it possible for you. I claim that as my right. I intended -arranging it with Mrs. Baines, but she tells me you--you'd be bound to -know where the money came from. He'll probably tell you to live abroad." - -"Thank you," she said after a slight start, "I could not take your -money. It is very good of you, but I would rather you didn't speak of -it. If you talked forever, I wouldn't consent." - -"Mamie----" - -"The very offer turns me cold. Please don't!" - -"You're cruel," he said. "You're refusing to let me prolong your life. -Have I deserved that from you?" - -"Oh!" she cried, in a tortured voice, "for God's sake, don't press me! -Leave me something--I won't say 'self-respect,' but a vestige, a grain -of proper pride. Think what my feelings would be, living on money from -you--it wouldn't prolong my life, George; it would kill me sooner. -You've been generous and merciful to me; be merciful to me still and -talk of something else." - -"You are asking me to stand by and see you die. _I_ have feelings, too, -Mamie. I can't do it!" - -"I'm dying," she said; "if it happens a little sooner, or a little -later, does it matter very much? If you want to be very kind to me, -to--to brighten the time that remains as much as you can, tell me that -if I send to you when--when it's a question of days, you'll come to the -place and see me again. I'd bless you for that! I've been afraid to ask -you till now; but it would mean more to me than anything else you could -do. Would you, if I sent?" - -"Why," said Heriot labouredly, after another pause, "why would it mean -so much?" - -They were leaning over the taffrail; and suddenly her head was bent, -and she broke into convulsive sobs that tore his breast. - -"Mamie!" he exclaimed. "Mamie, tell me!" He glanced round and laid a -trembling touch on her hands. "Tell me, dear!" he repeated hoarsely. -"Do you love me, then?" - -Her figure was shaken by the shuddering sobs. His touch tightened to a -clasp; he drew the hands down from the distorted face, drew the shaken -figure closer, till his own met it--till her bosom was heaving against -his heart. - -"Do you love me, Mamie?" - -"Yes!" she gasped. And then for an instant only their eyes spoke, and -in the intensity of their eyes each gave to the other body and soul. - -"Yes, I love you," she panted; "it's my punishment, I suppose, to -love you too late. I shall never see you after to-morrow, till I am -dying--if then--but I love you. Remember it! It's no good to you, you -won't care, but remember it, because it's my punishment. You can say, -'When it was too late, she knew! She died detesting herself, shrinking -at her own body, her own loathsome body that she gave to another man!' -Oh!"--she beat her hands hysterically against his chest--"I hate him, -I hate him! God forgive me, he's in his grave, but I hate him when I -think what's been. And it wasn't his fault; it was mine, mine--my own -degraded, beastly self. Curse me, throw me from you! I'm not fit to be -standing here; I'm lower than the lowest woman in the streets!" - -The violence of her emotion maddened him. He knew that _he_ loved -_her;_ the truth was stripped of the disguise in which he had sought -for years to wrap it--he knew that he had never ceased to love her; and -a temptation to make her his wife again, to cherish and possess her -so long as life should linger in her veins, flooded his reason. Their -gaze grew wider, deeper still; he could feel her quivering from head -to foot. Another moment, and he would have offered his honour to her -keeping afresh. Some men left the smoking-room; there was the sharp -interruption of laughter--the slam of the door. They both regained some -semblance of self-possession as they moved apart. - -"I must go down," she said. And he did not beg her to remain. - -It was their real farewell, for on the morrow they could merely -exchange a few words amid the bustle of arrival. Liverpool was reached -early in the morning, and when he saw her, she wore a hat and veil and -was already prepared to go ashore. In the glare of the sunshine the -veil could not conceal that her eyes were red with weeping, however, -and he divined that she had passed a sleepless night. To Mrs. Baines -he privately repeated his injunctions with regard to the physician, -for he was determined to have his way; and the widow assured him that -she would write to Morson Drummond for an appointment without loss of -time. The delays and shouts came to an end while he was speaking to -her; and the gangway was lowered, and Mamie moved forward to her side. -He saw them again in the custom-house, but for a minute only, and from -a distance. Evidently they got through without trouble, for when he -looked across again, they had gone. - -As he saw that they had gone, a sensation of blankness fell upon -Heriot's mood, where he stood waiting among the scattered luggage. His -life felt newly empty and the day all at once seemed cold and dark. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - - -The truth was stripped of the disguise in which he had sought to wrap -it; he knew that he had never ceased to love her. As he had known it -while she sobbed beside him on the boat, so he knew it when the Bar -claimed him again and he wrestled with temptation amid his work. He -might re-marry her! He could not drive this irruptive idea from his -mind. It lurked there, impelled attention, dozed, woke, and throbbed -in his consciousness persistently. Were he but weak enough to make the -choice, the woman that he loved might belong to him once more. - -Were he but weak enough! There were minutes in which he was very near -to it, minutes in which the dishonour, if dishonour it were, looked as -nothing to him compared with the joy of having her for his wife again. -Yet were he but "weak" enough? Would it indeed be weakness--would it -not rather be strength, the courage of his convictions? The longing -illumined his vision, and he asked himself on what his doubt and -hesitation was based. She had sinned; but he had pardoned her sin, -not merely in words, but in his heart. And she was very dear to him; -and she had repented. Then why should it be impossible? What after -all had they done to her, what change in the beloved identity had -they wrought, those months that were past? He was aware that it was -the physical side that repelled him--there had been another man. Yet -if she had been a widow when he met her first, there would have been -another man, and it would have mattered nothing. Did this especial sin -make of a woman somebody else? Did it give her another face, another -form, another brain? Did unfaithfulness transform her personality? -The only difference was the knowledge of what had happened--the woman -herself was the same! But he would not vindicate his right to love -her--he loved her, that was enough. In its simplicity, the question was -whether he would do better to condone her guilt and know happiness, or -to preserve his dignity and suffer. He could not blink the question; -it confronted him nakedly when a week had worn by. Without her he was -lonely and wretched; with her, while she lived, he was confident that -his joy would be supreme. The step that he considered was, if any one -pleased, revolting; but if it led to his contentment, perhaps to be -"revolting" might be the height of wisdom. He must sacrifice his pride, -or his peace! And at last, quite deliberately, without misgiving or a -backward glance, Heriot determined to gain peace. - -A few days after the arrival, Mrs. Baines had written to inform him -that the physician was out of town, but now a line came to say that an -appointment had been made for "Monday" and that she would communicate -Dr. Drummond's pronouncement immediately they reached home after the -interview. It was on Monday morning that Heriot received the note, and -he resolved to go to Mamie the same evening. - -The thought of the amazement that his appearance would cause her -excited him wildly as he drove to Victoria. He could foresee the wonder -in her eyes as he entered, the incredulity on her features as she heard -what he was there to say; and the profoundest satisfaction pervaded him -that he had resolved to say it. The comments that his world would make -had no longer any place in his meditations; a fico for the world that -would debar him from delight and censure what it could not understand! -He had suffered long enough; his only regret was for the years which -had been lost before he grasped the vivid truth that, innocent or -guilty, the woman who conferred happiness was the woman to be desired. - -A criticism of his brother's recurred to him: "You hadn't a single -taste in common!" He had not disputed it at the time; he was not -certain that he could deny it now. But there was no need to consider -whether their views were kindred or opposed, whether she was defiled -or stainless, when she was the woman whose magic could transfigure his -existence. He was conscious that this marriage to be approved by his -judgment, and condemned by Society, would be a sweeter and holier union -than their first, to which she had brought purity, and indifference. -As the cab sped down Victoria Street, his excitement increased, and in -imagination he already clasped her and felt the warmth of her cheek -against his face. - -The hansom slackened, jerked to a standstill; and he leapt out and -hurried to the booking-office. A train was at the point of starting. -The sentiment of the bygone was quick in him as he found that he must -pass through a yellow barrier on to the same platform to which he used -to hasten when he went to see her in Lavender Street, Wandsworth. -He had never trodden it since. A thousand associations, sad but -delicious, were revived as he took his seat, and the guard, whose -countenance seemed familiar, sauntered with a green flag and a lantern -past the window. Victoria slipped back. It had been in one of these -compartments--perhaps in this one--that he had first asked her to be -his wife. How wet her cape had been when he touched it! A porter sang -out, "Grosvenor Road," and at the sound of it Heriot marvelled at -having forgotten that they were about to stop there. Yes, "Grosvenor -Road," and then--what next? He could not remember. But memory knocked -with a louder pang as each of the places on the line was reached. When -"Wandsworth Common" was cried, he glanced at the dimly-lighted station -while in fancy he threaded his way to the shabby villa that had been -her home. He thought that he could find it blindfold. - -After this the line was quite strange to him; and now the impatience of -his mood had no admixture and he trembled with eagerness to gain his -destination. - -"Balham!" was bawled two minutes later; and among a stream of clerks -and nondescripts, he descended a flight of steps and emerged into a -narrow street. No cab was visible, and, having obtained directions, he -set forth for Rosalie Road afoot. - -A glimpse he had of cheap commerce, of the flare of gas-jets on -oranges, and eggs, and fifth-rate millinery; and then the shops and -the masses were left behind, and he was in obscurity. The sound of -footsteps occurred but seldom here, and he wandered in a maze of little -houses for nearly half an hour before a welcome postman earned a -shilling. - -Rosalie Road began in darkness, and ended in a brickfield. He -identified Number 44 by the aid of a vesta, and pulled the bell. -Impatience was mastering him when he discerned, through the panes, a -figure advancing along the passage. - -His voice was strange in his ears, as he inquired if Mamie was in. - -"Yessir; she's in the drorin'-room. 'Oo shall I say?" - -"Sir George Heriot. Is Mrs. Baines at home?" - -His title rendered the little maid incapable of an immediate response. - -"Missis is out of a herrand, sir," she stammered; "she won't be long." - -"When she comes in, tell her that I'm talking privately to her niece. -'Privately'; don't forget!" - -She turned the handle, and Heriot followed her into the room. Vaguely -he heard her announce him; he saw the room as in a mist. Momentarily -all that was clear was Mamie's face, white and wondering in the -lamplight. She stood where she had been standing at his entrance, -looking at him; he had the impression of many seconds passing while she -only looked; many seconds seemed to go by before her colour fluttered -back and she said, "You?" - -"Yes, it's I. Won't you say you're glad to see me?" - -"Aunt Lydia has written to you," she said, still gazing at him as if -she doubted his reality. "Her letter has gone." - -"I've come to hear what Dr. Drummond says." - -She motioned him to a chair, and drooped weakly on to the shiny couch. - -"I am not going to die," she muttered. "Your sympathy has been thrown -away--I'm a fraud." - -In the breathless pause he felt deafened by the thudding of his heart. - -"He has given you hope?" - -"He said, 'Bosh!' I told him what the doctor told me in Duluth. He -said, 'Bosh!' One lung isn't quite sound, that's all; I may live to be -eighty." - -"O dear God!" said Heriot slowly, "I thank You!" - -She gave a short laugh, harsh and bitter. - -"I always posed. My last pose was as a dying woman!" - -"Mamie," he said firmly--he went across to her and sat down by her -side--"Mamie, I love you. I want you to come back to me, my darling. My -life's no good without you, and I want you for my wife again. Will you -come?" - -He heard her catch her breath; she could not speak. He took her hands, -and drew her to him. Their lips clung together, and presently he felt -tears on his cheek. - -Then she released herself with a gesture of negation. - -"You are mad!" she said. "And _I_ should be madder to accept the -sacrifice!" - -For this he was prepared. - -"I am very sane," he answered. "Dearest, when you understand, you will -see that it is the only reparation you can make me. Listen!" - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ONE MAN'S VIEW*** - - -******* This file should be named 43971.txt or 43971.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/4/3/9/7/43971 - - - -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. Special rules, -set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to -copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to -protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project -Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you -charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you -do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the -rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose -such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and -research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do -practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is -subject to the trademark license, especially commercial -redistribution. - - - -*** START: FULL LICENSE *** - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project -Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at - www.gutenberg.org/license. - - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy -all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. -If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the -terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or -entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement -and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" -or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the -collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an -individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are -located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from -copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative -works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg -are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project -Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by -freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of -this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with -the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by -keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project -Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in -a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check -the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement -before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or -creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project -Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning -the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United -States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate -access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently -whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, -copied or distributed: - -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 - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived -from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is -posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied -and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees -or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work -with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the -work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 -through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the -Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or -1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional -terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked -to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the -permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any -word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or -distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than -"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version -posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), -you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a -copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon -request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other -form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided -that - -- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is - owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he - has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the - Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments - must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you - prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax - returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and - sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the - address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to - the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." - -- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or - destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium - and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of - Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any - money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days - of receipt of the work. - -- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set -forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from -both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael -Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the -Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm -collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain -"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or -corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual -property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a -computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by -your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with -your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with -the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a -refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity -providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to -receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy -is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further -opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER -WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO -WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. -If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the -law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be -interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by -the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any -provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance -with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, -promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, -harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, -that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do -or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm -work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any -Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. - - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers -including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists -because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from -people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. -To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation -and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 -and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org - - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive -Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent -permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. -Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered -throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at 809 -North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email -contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the -Foundation's web site and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact - -For additional contact information: - Dr. Gregory B. Newby - Chief Executive and Director - gbnewby@pglaf.org - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide -spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To -SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any -particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. -To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate - - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works. - -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm -concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared -with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project -Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. -unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily -keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: - - www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. |