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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 48845 ***</div>
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<img src='images/cover.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0000' style='width:350px;height:auto;'/>
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<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;margin-top:10em;font-size:1.3em;'>A GIRL OF THE NORTH</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;font-size:1.2em;'>POPULAR NOVELS.</p>
<div class='literal-container' style=''><div class='literal'> <!-- rend=';fs:.8em;' -->
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'><span class='bold'>Miss Malevolent.</span></p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'> By the Author of “The Hypocrite.”</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'> Second Edition. 3s. 6d.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'><span class='bold'>The Hypocrite.</span></p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'> By the Author of “Miss Malevolent.”</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'> Sixth Edition. 2s. 6d.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'><span class='bold'>Shams.</span></p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'> By ——?</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'> Fourth Edition. 3s. 6d.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'><span class='bold'>Mora: or One Woman’s History.</span></p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'> By <span class='sc'>T. W. Speight</span>. 6s.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'><span class='bold'>In Monte Carlo.</span></p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'> By <span class='sc'>Henryk Sienkiewicz</span>.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'> Second Edition. 2s. 6d.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'><span class='bold'>A Cry in the Night.</span></p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'> By <span class='sc'>Arnold Golsworthy</span>. 3s. 6d.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'><span class='bold'>A Man Adrift.</span></p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'> By <span class='sc'>Bart Kennedy</span>. 6s.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'><span class='bold'>The Wandering Romanoff.</span></p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'> By <span class='sc'>Bart Kennedy</span>. 2s. 6d.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'><span class='bold'>Ashes Tell No Tales.</span></p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'> By Mrs. <span class='sc'>Albert S. Bradshaw</span>. 3s. 6d.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'><span class='bold'>An Obscure Apostle.</span></p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'> By Madame <span class='sc'>Orieszko</span>. 6s.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'><span class='bold'>Daughters of Pleasure.</span></p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'> By <span class='sc'>Anna: Comtesse de Brémont</span>. 6s.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'><span class='bold'>A Son of Africa.</span></p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'> By <span class='sc'>Anna: Comtesse de Brémont</span>. 6s.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'><span class='bold'>The Gentleman Digger.</span></p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'> By <span class='sc'>Anna: Comtesse de Brémont</span>.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'> Third Edition. 3s. 6d.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'><span class='bold'>A Virtue of Necessity.</span></p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'> By <span class='sc'>Herbert Adams</span>. 3s. 6d.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'><span class='bold'>Lord Jimmy.</span></p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'> By <span class='sc'>George Martyn</span>.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'> Second Edition. 2s.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'><span class='bold'>Seven Nights With Satan.</span></p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'> By J. L. O. 3s. 6d.</p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div class='literal-container' style=''><div class='literal'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line0' style='margin-top:1em;font-size:2em;'>A GIRL OF</p>
<p class='line0' style='margin-top:.1em;font-size:2em;'>THE NORTH</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line0' style='text-align:left;margin-left:8em;'><span class='it'>A STORY OF</span></p>
<p class='line0' style='text-align:left;margin-left:8em;margin-top:.2em;'><span class='it'>LONDON AND CANADA</span></p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<div class='lgc' style=''> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line0' style='margin-top:4em;font-size:.6em;'>BY</p>
<p class='line0' style='margin-top:.2em;margin-bottom:.2em;'>HELEN MILECETE</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.6em;'>AUTHOR OF “A DETACHED PIRATE,” ETC.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.9em;'>SECOND EDITION</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line0'>LONDON</p>
<p class='line0'>GREENING & CO., LTD.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'>20 CECIL COURT, CHARING CROSS ROAD, W.C.</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'>1900</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.6em;'>[<span class='it'>All rights reserved</span>]</p>
</div> <!-- end rend -->
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div class='literal-container'>
<p class='toch'>Table of Contents</p>
<div class='literal'>
<p class='toc'><a href='#ch01'>Chapter One</a></p>
<p class='toc'><a href='#ch02'>Chapter Two</a></p>
<p class='toc'><a href='#ch03'>Chapter Three</a></p>
<p class='toc'><a href='#ch04'>Chapter Four</a></p>
<p class='toc'><a href='#ch05'>Chapter Five</a></p>
<p class='toc'><a href='#ch06'>Chapter Six</a></p>
<p class='toc'><a href='#ch07'>Chapter Seven</a></p>
<p class='toc'><a href='#ch08'>Chapter Eight</a></p>
<p class='toc'><a href='#ch09'>Chapter Nine</a></p>
<p class='toc'><a href='#ch10'>Chapter Ten</a></p>
<p class='toc'><a href='#ch11'>Chapter Eleven</a></p>
<p class='toc'><a href='#ch12'>Chapter Twelve</a></p>
<p class='toc'><a href='#ch13'>Chapter Thirteen</a></p>
<p class='toc'><a href='#ch14'>Chapter Fourteen</a></p>
<p class='toc'><a href='#ch15'>Chapter Fifteen</a></p>
<p class='toc'><a href='#ch16'>Chapter Sixteen</a></p>
<p class='toc'><a href='#ch17'>Chapter Seventeen</a></p>
<p class='toc'><a href='#ch18'>Chapter Eighteen</a></p>
<p class='toc'><a href='#ch19'>Chapter Nineteen</a></p>
<p class='toc'><a href='#ch20'>Chapter Twenty</a></p>
<p class='toc'><a href='#ch21'>Chapter Twenty-One</a></p>
<p class='toc'><a href='#ch22'>Chapter Twenty-Two</a></p>
<p class='toc'><a href='#ch23'>Chapter Twenty-Three</a></p>
<p class='toc'><a href='#h_1'></a></p>
</div>
</div>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;margin-top:4em;font-size:1.5em;'>A GIRL OF THE NORTH</p>
<div><h1 id='ch01'>CHAPTER I</h1></div>
<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>The</span> world called it failure: he called it
success, and the thought evolved itself into
happiness for a time.</p>
<p class='pindent'>George Archer was a man of unusual talent
and power. He had translated the most
recent book by a celebrated Danish naturalist,
besides which he had acquired some fame as
a naturalist on his own account; and the
small world of men, who trouble about such
things, mentioned his name with a certain
amount of respect as that of one to whom
mysteries are revealed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He was rich. He had travelled all over
the world. At last, wishing to go to Canada,
the idea of writing a book on the different
varieties of Canadian fish came to him with
the charm of inspiration, of freedom, and of
novelty.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He was singularly unpractical, and given
to great enthusiasms.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The glamour of Canada fell upon him; he
was fascinated by the long cold winter, with
its tempests and swinging winds, its drifting
snow, and the endless battle with the princes
and powers of the air: by the spring, too,
with its force when all the brooks ran and
overflowed with the melting of the snow in
the hot sun, and the glorious long, light,
glowing days, when everything broke into
life with suddenness. After this came a
gorgeous summer, with hot vibrating days,
which brought magnificent flowers into
blossom; and then autumn with its Indian
summer and stillness—a sort of grey stillness,
as if the dear dead came back for a space.
The wind died then, and there was only
a movement of the air laden with sweetness
as it passed over blueberry barrens and lonely
stretches of black, still lakes, which possessed
the charm of the unknown, the fascination of
the forest crowded with moose and bears.
George Archer loved the country with its
colouring of triumph—trees, sky, and water,
all shared in the same glory.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When he came out, he brought letters to
various people in Canada, and he collected
many important facts for his piscatorial work
during his first summer—in the autumn he
met Naomi Fontaine, one quarter French,
more than a quarter English (her enemies
added one half Indian). Archer loved her
and married her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They settled down in an old house, which
he rebuilt and made more than comfortable.
It stood near an arm of the sea, about two
miles from a town called Musquodobit, and in
the middle of woods, of salmon rivers, and
lakes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They were happy—perfectly, gloriously
happy. They made no plans for the future.
To-day was theirs; they loved it, and for
three years their happiness lasted. Then
Naomi died of pneumonia, and left him alone
with their daughter Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Archer stayed at Musquodobit, for he
had no desire to return to England, his relations
having received the news of his
marriage with certain questions—was Naomi
a native? Their idea of natives was hazy,
and ran to wild orgies, cannabalism, and no
clothing. Had she any relations? George
said she was a Roman Catholic and a
Canadian, then the letters grew fewer and
fewer. Archer did not remember his people.
He loved his life; the freedom of it enthralled
him. He fished and hunted at the same
time he pursued the research about bones,
which brought him many letters, much contradiction,
and labour.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He could not bear to leave the land which
Naomi had loved, whilst dwelling there without
her was misery and torment, and yet he
loved it too. That land exercises an indescribable
fascination over impressionable folk;
its intenseness, its wild beauty and passion,
the rapid, boiling rivers full of fish, and the
quiet, still lakes; the grandeur of the granite
rocks, the hills, and vast forests of pine, fir,
and maple; and, above all, the turbulent
rapture and stormy joy of the sea, crashing
against the iron-bound coast. Archer’s home
was situated about one hundred yards from
the shore. The bay was well sheltered, and
two miles below lay the open sea. It was
near enough to be within reach when Archer
wearied of the calm of the bay; and near
enough for them to hear it surge, moan, and
roar at times, and to be always in sun and
storm—altogether loveable.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa Archer was an ugly baby. When
her mother died she was a year old, and soon
became intelligent enough to interest her
father. He was often away, and left her in
charge of her nurse Eliza, who loved her;
and the child grew from babyhood into a
sprite of mischief, always cheerful, always
laughing, often naughty, and fond of forgiving
Eliza, with much kindness and bounteousness,
when she reproved her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Archer’s house, “Solitude,” was a
large building, with an appearance of care
and comfort. There were neighbours three
and four miles away. But he cared little
for them while Naomi lived, and less after
her death. So Launa grew from infancy
into childhood alone. She played with the
dogs, and in summer let them run among
the long grass, which was for hay, and which
their wild bounding did not improve. How
she loved to see them tearing through it and
chasing each other. And then she spent
days by the brook, sailing boats and paddling
and splashing. Many mighty fleets she
launched, which sailed away and never came
back, drifting down the current to the sea.
She played with the big white daisies in the
pasture, and gathered them with huge yellow
buttercups. She dabbled in the salt water,
and ran up and down the beach, while the
dogs hunted the kingfishers and yapped in
vain at the crows. It was a heavenly life for
a child—lonely never, solitary, perhaps, for
she had but frequent glimpses of her father,
who journeyed north, south, east, and west,
seeking many things, principally forgetfulness,
or rather a memory that should revive
no pain.</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch02'>CHAPTER II</h1></div>
<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>When</span> Launa Archer was ten years old her
father realised that she must be taught; so
he went forth to seek a governess.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Archer had grown into a silent man,
as is often very naturally the case with men
who spend much of their lives in the woods.
But Launa found him an excellent companion,
full of knowledge about all the beasts
of the field and fowls of the air, and able to
tell wonderful stories of “Ring, the king’s
son,” Norwegian fairy stories, and Indian
legends. Archer found the governess problem
hard to solve. For once in his life he
distrusted his own inclinations, and asked
advice of Mrs. Butler, the wife of one of his
neighbours. She had no children, but she
longed to be consulted about Launa, on the
principle that childless women know most
about children. Mrs. Butler disapproved of
Launa, for she was shy, had retired under the
table during one of Mrs. Butler’s visitations,
and refused to come forth until the lady had
left, giving as an excuse that Mrs. Butler
shook hands too much and too often.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Butler grew voluble, and George
Archer somewhat distressed. She strongly
advised school; indeed, it was her war-cry.
School would endow Launa with lady-like
habits. Her listener frowned. School would
give her pleasant companionship, and a
knowledge of all those things which it was
necessary for young ladies to acquire.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is not curiosity, the hereditary tendency
of Mother Eve strongly inherent in all
women?” asked Mr. Archer. “Launa will
learn for herself.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, perhaps,” vaguely murmured Mrs.
Butler. “Still, if I were you I would send
her to school.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>George Archer immediately became conscious
of many things he did not want his
Launa to become or to learn. She would
either be miserable at school or dislike
“Solitude” on her return thither; either
result would be disagreeable. He wanted
Launa to remain natural; consequently he
did not advertise for a governess. He had
an idea he might meet a suitable teacher.
Mrs. Butler told him that in all probability
he would marry such a paragon as he desired,
and he smiled without contradicting
her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He visited his friends at Baltimore, New
York, and Halifax, which was near where he
lived, and in New York he found what he
sought. Her name was Black; she was a
German-American. Her age was thirty,
though her face suggested forty and her
figure twenty. When she played the piano
Archer almost worshipped her talent. He
had found the long-looked-for solace—in the
music he saw Naomi; they were together
again. And whenever Miss Black played he
seemed to lose himself in a heavenly dream.
If she could teach the wild little lady at
“Solitude” to play! Miss Black could row
and paddle; she had read, and did read;
she could walk far, and play tennis. She
was full of intelligence, and her German was
good.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It seemed to the perplexed parent that the
day of the millennium was about to dawn
when he went, home with this trophy. If
the dogs and Launa liked her then he could
dare to be content.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa had never known anyone she did
not like except Mrs. Butler, who reciprocated
the feeling. The idea of a governess
had no dreaded associations for her; a companion
was her greatest desire. Eliza had
grown too fat to climb fences and to go out
in the canoe—a form of pleasure she dreaded
and detested, for Eliza could not swim,
nor would she learn.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Miss Black—Launa christened her
“Whitey”—was a success. When Mrs.
Butler heard of her she said the world would
talk, but when she saw Whitey’s livid face
and weather-beaten countenance, she wanted
to know what her history was, and talked
about Mr. Archer’s lonely and defenceless
situation as though he were a castle facing
north-east.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The dogs loved Miss Black; her sitting-room
was always a haven of refuge when
they were wet and tired, also when Launa had
steeplechases and Fatsey, an old dog, would
not and could not jump over a broomstick
three feet from the ground, then, he too,
sought sanctuary with Whitey.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Whitey taught Launa music, and the child
worked earnestly, undismayed by the
drudgery, with the hope of some day being
able to play like her teacher, and her reward
always came in the form of freedom for a
while. With Whitey, she read many books,
stories, history, and poetry. And as Miss
Black had travelled far and wide she made
all she taught interesting.</p>
<p class='pindent'>This odd couple were very happy together.
In the winter they snowshoed, going for long
tramps through the woods. They were
frequently out in stormy weather, for Miss
Black loved the wind as much as Launa did,
and the wild turmoil of snow and tempest
attracted them both. They explored the
whole surrounding country together. Miss
Black and Launa were also very fond of
wandering to the far away lakes—the big
black lakes with long shadows and deep
reflections of trees and rocks—lakes whose
solitude and silence filled one with a sort of
apprehension, that whispered of horrors, past
or to come—the ghosts of dead braves might
wander there as a foretaste of the happy
hunting ground. The hills were high and
steep, covered with brushwood which was
very thick, and at intervals there were rocks
and holes that made climbing perilous, but
Launa and Miss Black did not mind difficulties.
On one occasion Mr. Archer took
them to camp out for a week and to fish.
How they loved it! The queer smell of the
wood smoke, the joy of cooking in the ashes,
and the talk round the fire in the twilight
before bedtime, when the stars came out and
the moon hung half-way up in the sky, while
the firelight threw shadows all around,
making the white birch trees look ghostly in
the dim light, while in the distance the little
stream rushed on to the sea.</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch03'>CHAPTER III</h1></div>
<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>When</span> Launa, who had a queer, passionate
temper, a horror of restraint of any kind,
and a great dislike to being disappointed or
thwarted, was fifteen, she was tall, and slight,
all arms and legs, with long thin fingers, and
well-shaped feet. Her skin was tanned, with
a tinge of red in her cheeks, her eyes were
brown, as was her hair. She could paddle,
and walk on snowshoes like an Indian, her
voice had a low soft richness in it that
reminded Mr. Archer of a squaw—which
made him wonder whether there had been
Indian blood in Naomi or not?</p>
<p class='pindent'>But Launa had a stronger look than her
mother; she was less of the dainty French
girl, and she possessed a greater desire to
rise, to achieve something, possessing a less
sublime acquiescence in fate or destiny than
Naomi, who had been sweeter, more yielding,
and fulfilling Mr. Archer’s preconceived,
primeval idea of a woman. Sometimes he
feared for his daughter, and that curious
belief in herself, which she displayed with
a half-expressed idea, that she would be
able to command fate, an early sign of her
masterful independence.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“When I am big,” Launa said to her
father one day, “I shall write a book about
the woods and the Indians; no one writes
about them, or seems to know how.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her father smiled.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You must learn to keep still.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The arranging and selecting of ideas
must be difficult,” she said, “and I always
come to grief over commas. I love full
stops, but Whitey says my sentences are
jerky. It must be difficult to disguise one’s
mood when writing books, to write when
one is tired or weary; I could not do it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You will perhaps be glad to do it some
day.” Then changing the subject, he said,
“I am going to the Reserve to-day, will you
come?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What time shall we go?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“At three,” he answered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa rushed off to order tea to take with
them, as well as some tea and sugar for
presents to the Indians.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They drove about six miles to the
Reserve. It was a desolate piece of country,
and lay along the side of a large lake, from
which ran a little trout stream. The Indians
lived in cottages, poorly built shanties, and
they welcomed the Archers with joy. There
was an old grandmother, a terrible old person
in a red flannel bed-jacket, a very short skirt,
and a short pipe, which she smoked with
fervour. Her grey hair hung down on both
sides of her brown face, and she waved her
long thin fingers as she related tales of her
magic cures, for she was a doctor and made
herb decoctions for anyone who was ailing.
She talked in a low mysterious voice.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I give him little medicine, yer know,” she
said, with a leer and a drawl, nodding her
funny old head with an air of confidence in
her listener’s understanding and belief.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Miss Black was afraid of her, and always
felt sure that Mrs. Andrew would not be too
good to omit mixing poison with her medicine,
if she considered it desirable the sick person
should not recover.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa listened to the old grandmother’s
stories with rapt attention, until Andrew, the
witch’s husband, came to say he had lighted
a fire by the lake, and that Abram had
launched his canoe to take Launa in it after
tea.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Andrew and Launa caught some trout,
which they cooked at the wood fire, and
Launa made tea. She presented Mrs. Andrew
with a large parcel of it to that lady’s joy,
though she merely grunted her thanks, and
then offered Launa a cup out of her own tea-pot.
But as the Indians seldom or never
empty the tea-pot (they consider it a waste
to throw away the old leaves, and keep on
adding a few new ones, which they let boil
to get their full flavour), Launa knew better
than to drink it. It was, in truth, a deadly
concoction.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Abram pushed his canoe into the water,
and taking a paddle in one hand started with
a little run and then jumped into the end of
the canoe, which shot out into the middle of
the lake. It was a wonderful jump, and
Launa never tired of seeing it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There is no one who can do that as
Abram does,” she said with admiration.
“He is splendid, isn’t he, Andrew? Abram,
Abram!” called Launa. “Take me up to
the end of the lake!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He brought the canoe in again, and she
took her paddle and knelt in the bow. They
went off together, her firm figure, with its
graceful arm movement, erect, muscular, and
supple. Oh! the joy of those days! The
joy of living and of doing! The rapid, firm
strokes, and the movement!</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>Launa paid her visit to the opera house in
New York, whither her father took her with
Miss Black for a winter, and then her dreams
were realised. She heard the “Nibelungenlied,”
“The Meistersinger,” “Tannhauser,”
besides selections from “Parsifal”; she also
attended numerous concerts. Music took
the place of her out-of-door life, and she
became so absorbed in it that she only occasionally
missed and regretted her former
wanderings. It was as if she had experienced
its wonderful power for the first time, and
drank from a cup of intoxicating sweetness.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She went to dances, and discovered that
men found her attractive, and naturally she
soon learned how to make herself agreeable.
At the same time she realised that most men
love a woman for her bodily charm.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Men are very animalish, Whitey,” said
Launa one day, after having made a successful
appearance at an evening reception.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Miss Black gasped. She had ignored the
existence of men as lovers, except in history
and in books, while teaching Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“All men are not alike,” she said vaguely.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, of course not. Father is perfect.
Few men are like him.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>When they returned to “Solitude,” Launa
worked with renewed ardour, and practised
with joy—she wanted to play well. She
read all sorts of books, and after a course of
lectures on Greek literature, she turned with
avidity to Plato, to Epictetus. Of German
books she read many; to Miss Black’s regret
she had outgrown Marlitt. For a woman
who could do things, who did not fear storm
or rain, Miss Black was singularly afraid of
the knowledge of good and evil. Evil
belonged especially to the poor and low, and
to men, who gave it up when they put on
dress-clothes, and were in the society of
ladies—the humanising influence of ladies!
A dress suit was the veneer that completely
covered the brute-beast in a man.</p>
<p class='pindent'>About this time Launa turned affectionately
to her father. She found him sympathetic,
for he understood her, and he never gasped.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You remind me of your mother,” he
said one day to her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Tell me about her,” she said, flushing
with pleasure.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She was very sweet—how can I tell you?
I loved her; half of me, the best, the happy
half died with her; it was as if I were killed.
. . . And we were so happy.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It was terrible,” said Launa. “Life,
father, seems sometimes to be horribly,
terribly sad.” She said this with the air of
one who has made a new discovery, and it
amused her father.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why is it?” she asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I do not know.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And what is the good?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He did not answer.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It dawned upon the small world round
“Solitude” that Launa was attractive, and
so the inhabitants came to visit and to
criticise. They all went to Quebec, and
they stayed several nights at different
houses, where she enjoyed herself, and where
she was admired—especially at one of the
balls she attended.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Among all the men she met, English as
well as Canadian, for there was a garrison in
Halifax, a man named Paul Harvey interested
her most. He was a Canadian,
who possessed a place about twenty miles
from “Solitude.” He was tall and dark.
His skin was tanned from the out-of-door
life he led; he had a peculiarly high forehead,
and high cheek bones, and his body
had the lithe look common to men who
spend their lives in doing, and who are never
troubled with superfluous flesh. His keen
eyes glanced into one’s inner consciousness,
and seemed hard, until he smiled. He
walked with the Indian stride, which is quick
and quiet. Of course he could ride, and he
had the strong capable hands of a man who
has been brought up to do things, and who
could do them well. Paul Harvey and Launa
soon became firm friends, for they understood
each other. They loved the same things; the
witchery of the woods, of the canoe, and of
the sea was real and tangible to them both,
and he loved music, as did she. In the long
spring days they often met, and he was full of
admiration for this girl, who was so strong
and so fearless.</p>
<p class='pindent'>George Archer frequently invited Paul to
“Solitude,” without the least idea of encouraging
any feeling on Paul’s part for
Launa, who in her father’s eyes was still a
child; that any man should think of her as a
possible wife never occurred to him, but
then Archer’s idea of a wife (the other man’s
wife) was a submissive woman, and Launa
was not that.</p>
<p class='pindent'>One day in May Mr. Archer had gone to
Chezettcook to fish, and Launa was anxious
to pay him a visit. Paul expressed himself
desirous of driving her down to the river
which her father owned.</p>
<p class='pindent'>So the two left “Solitude” at two o’clock
on a still day, very sultry and hot; a haze
lay thick over the land, and the sun shone
red with a lurid glare, for the haze was the
smoke of fires in the woods.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They drove along very rapidly, not talking
much, though occasionally Paul would look
at her and she at him, and they smiled with
a sense of well-being and mutual bliss.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I think,” said Paul at last, “that the
Bible makes a mistake when it says, ‘Godliness
with contentment is great gain’; it
should be love.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Paul,” she exclaimed. “The smoke!
it is getting so thick.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Paul was holding his head down.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Shall we turn back? The fire is crossing
the road in front of us. I am afraid we can’t
get through it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He turned his horse quickly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Launa, it seems as if it were cutting us
off.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They were in a winding road, a crosscut.
He started Micmac at a gallop. If the fire
were before them! There was a long hill to
climb.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The trap swayed and jolted, for the road
was bad. They were tearing along; the
wind was behind them, and they could hear
the crackle which was getting nearer, rising
to a hideous roar. A river crossed the road
below the hill—had they time to get to
it?</p>
<p class='pindent'>Paul wrapped the rug round his companion,
put it over her head, and covered her mouth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Keep it tight,” he exclaimed, “and sit
still.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then he began to use his whip, having
tied his own handkerchief over his mouth.
Micmac was going more slowly in spite of
the whip; it seemed as if he were terrified
and paralysed by the pursuing fiend.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are not afraid,” said Paul with difficulty,
through his handkerchief.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No,” gasped Launa, “not with you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He put his hand on her shoulder.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Keep your mouth well covered; the fire
is before us. We must go through it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>On, on they tore; the smoke almost
choked her. It was so terribly thick that
Paul could not see Micmac, though his eyes
burnt, and he kept them open with difficulty.
Then the flames ran up a dead pine tree in
front of him, and shed a lurid light through
the smoke. The heat was intense; he shut
his smarting eyes, and trusted Micmac would
keep the road.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, if the bridge—a wooden bridge—were
not down!” “Were not down!” repeated
itself; “Were not down!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They were in the midst of the fire now;
the roaring was tremendous, and the trees
were flaming and crackling on all sides.
Paul covered his eyes with one hand, and
used the whip with the other. It was like
the finish of a race, a race for life, down the
hill at a gallop. But the bridge? It had
already caught, and the wood was smoking,
when Micmac stopped with a jerk, and Paul
jumped out and took hold of him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You must, old boy, you must,” he murmured.
“Once over we are pretty safe.
Good horse, good horse!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The trembling Micmac refused again; the
bridge was hot, and frightened him. Then
he went at it with a rush, with Paul still
at his head, half-running, half-dragged by
the horse. The river was wide, and the
wind was from the north, blowing the fire
down on them over the road, but not across
the stream in the direction in which they
were going.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Paul got into the trap quickly, and Micmac
galloped on and on and on until, though
the smoke was still thick, they were safe.
At last Paul pulled up, and looked back.
The road along which they had come was
a sheet of flame, and he shuddered as he
thought of what might have happened.
There were so many pine trees to burn,
and to fall burning, while the side of the
river on which they were was covered with
alder bushes and rocks, and the wind, too,
was blowing that way.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Now!” he gasped hoarsely, for his throat
was dry and parched. “Now!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And Launa threw off her rug. Paul was
black, his face was flaming and smutty, his
cap had blown off, and his hair stood on end.
Her rug was singed. Micmac had a burn,
where a piece of wood had fallen on him, and
he was trembling when Launa got out and
patted him, talking while she did it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My darling,” murmured Paul, going up
to her, “you are safe; you behaved like an
angel.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He looked at his hands and did not touch
her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So did Micmac. Look at him, and you—you
are burnt, your hands are sore. Oh,
I am so sorry! Do, do drive back to
‘Solitude,’ and—and—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, drive back!” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They took a short cut across a half made
road, and so got behind the fire. Paul
talked very little, and she not at all, though
she heard “My darling” over and over
again, and wondered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Paul stayed at “Solitude,” and after dinner
Launa, Whitey, and he sat on the veranda
and watched the fire, still burning in the
distance. The whole sky was in a blaze, but
luckily the wind was dying down. They
could see the flames running from tree to
tree; they could hear the roar, but they were
quite safe, for the water was between them.
In the dark, Paul silently, secretly took her
hand, and they talked to Miss Black of the
annual regatta, and of Canadian ferns. A
few stars blazed high up in the sky, the
others were dimmed by the lurid glow, and
the aspen tree quivered in the dying breeze,
while the waves of the incoming tide tapped
the boats gently below.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa felt in that state of happiness, which
says, “<span class='it'>Last, last, last.</span>”</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>The annual regatta came off that year in
July. Everyone knows the St. Aspenquid
Regatta. There were the usual boat races,
and excitements and innocent fooleries; but
the best of all was the canoe race for the
championship of Canada. Paul Harvey had
entered for it with his friend Jack Howston.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Before the start they both came to the
steam launch, from which Launa was viewing
the races. Harvey, with his strong half-brown,
half-white arms bare above his
elbows, looked like work. After a word or
two with Launa, as she leaned down to him,
they paddled away to the start. She heard
the pistol shot and the hoarse murmur of the
crowd, proclaiming the race had begun.
Far away in the distance the brown canoes
could be seen; Launa watched breathlessly
as they came nearer. The paddles flashed
in the sun and on the gleaming dancing
water. To Launa, the long, strong, slow
strokes with the absence of haste was
maddening; she stood, not daring to move,
watching the white forms as they came
nearer, nearer, the iron muscles in each man
showing up as he paddled on and on. Paul’s
canoe was third in the contest.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Third,” announced Launa. Her voice
sounded level, she was just able to hide her
apprehension lest he might fail, and her
longing for his success, which, nevertheless,
made her desirous of burying her face in her
hands until the race was over. Her hostess,
Mrs. Montmorency, stood near her, serene,
alert, and slight, enjoying her successful
party with a little interest in the races, and a
little curiosity as to Launa’s attitude towards
Paul Harvey.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The men ahead were doing their utmost;
in the second canoe, too, they were working
hard; but the men in the dark canoe seemed
to be dead, dull—what was it?</p>
<p class='pindent'>The crowd shouted “St. John, St. John!”
for the canoe owned by that town was in
front. Disappointment was in the cry. But
suddenly the third canoe gave a spring; it
shot forward with a leap, and a bound, and a
swirl through the water, and then on and on.
The two men were working, straining. They
passed the second canoe, and the finish was
near; the strong sinews under the arms of
the two men showed up clearly. Had they
waited too long? . . . On they crept, and
at last with a final, splendid rush—oh, the
ease of it, the seeming lack of effort—the
brown canoe shot ahead of the other. They
had won, won. Amid shrieks, cheers, and
waving of handkerchiefs the heroes, the
winners paddled away to change.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa had been on the verge of tears,
caused by excitement, fear, apprehension,
and heaven knows what besides. She was
unable to drink her tea because of a lump in
her throat. Paul paddled alone over to her,
and climbed on board the <span class='it'>Lethe</span>.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’ve won,” she said. “I am very glad.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And so am I—glad. I am more than
glad. It means good luck; it means I shall
win my heart’s desire; it means—” he almost
said “You.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa did not answer; she gave him her
hand as if they had met for the first time,
and he held it longer than a man does when
saying, “How do you do?” It was like an
involuntary childish caress.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He stayed with her until it was time for
the single canoe race, for which he was acting
umpire. She was sweet, with a delightful
unexpectedness which fascinated him, as
did her varying good looks, her firm, lithe
body.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I wish they had a ladies’ canoe race,” he
said. “You would enter for it, would you
not?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh yes.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They will certainly have one next year,
and you will win.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa laughed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I must go,” he said with regret. “But
I shall soon come back.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We shall leave soon now,” said Mrs.
Montmorency. “Will you come and dine at
Paradise to-morrow, Paul? We are going
over there, and shall drive home by moonlight.
Perhaps you will come and meet us?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thank you,” he replied. “I will.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then he got into his canoe, and Launa
watched him paddle away with slow strokes—regretful
strokes they seemed to her. His
paddling was so unlike that of the other men,
so strong, and his body swayed to the
motion. Mrs. Montmorency brought up a
Mr. Evans and introduced him to Launa.
He was a young Englishman, with a respect
for the institutions of his country, a love for
his dinner, and for pretty women.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He began by asking whether Launa considered
Miss Montmorency pretty, and
whether she liked Wagner. His theories
were that a man can tell a woman’s character
most quickly from her ideas on the subject of
other women, as well as from the music she
affects.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Near them sat Mr. Archer and the hostess
talking. Launa heard a word here and there
as she listened to Mr. Evans’ agreeable remarks,
and then she heard her father say:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Harvey is a fool or worse. The Indians
will not stand it. Peter Joe came to me
about it; he says he would kill him,
only that he is sure he would be hanged
for it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You think they will take some quiet
revenge,” said Mrs. Montmorency, “and
more deadly.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, I do.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“In their mind a child constitutes marriage?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If its father does not want to marry anyone
else,” he answered. “They will be
satisfied if he lets things alone, but he won’t.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He does want to marry?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I think so. Money will considerably
improve his house, and pay off some of the
mortgages; he will, I expect, take a wife
with money.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is terrible, and such a pity. I always
liked Mr. Harvey for his mother’s sake, and
I have ever made him welcome.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I advised him to marry her—the squaw,”
said Mr. Archer. “It will finish him socially,
but in other ways it will make a man of him.
Harvey is—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Here they walked away to the bow of the
<span class='it'>Lethe</span>, and Launa’s companion talked on, and
she answered him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She impressed him with her interest, her
air of being fascinated by him, and all the
while she was in torment. Harvey had held
her hand! She took off her pale tan suede
glove and threw it into the water. It burnt
her; her hands felt hot.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her quick action puzzled Mr. Evans.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Miss Archer, your glove! Is it a
challenge? Do you mean me to go after it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, no,” she answered. “I hate it; I
do not want it. Oh, we are going.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The <span class='it'>Lethe</span> had steam up, and was puffing
and moving slowly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am so glad. It is very hot. How
cool the air is.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They passed Paul in his canoe. He
waved his hand to Launa, who was staring
into the water, and appeared absorbed in the
depths or in her companion.</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch04'>CHAPTER IV</h1></div>
<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>That</span> night Launa could not sleep. She
was so angry with Paul Harvey and with
herself; she loathed herself. Her ideas of
men and their passions were those of a young
girl, to whom passion is unknown, to whom
men appear as gods. She considered a man
must love a woman by whom he has a child.
Love, love! Paul was the father of a
squaw’s child—of a squaw’s child; it reiterated
in her brain until she almost writhed
with anguish. She had thought of him
as always her own. The shame of it! And
worse than shame, the pain, because she
would have to give him up. Oh, to get
home! To be able to wander about alone!
Away on the big barrens where she could
move as she liked, and tire herself out.
Their wind-laden sweetness would revive her,
their vastness would bring peace; she was
so tired of the life away from “Solitude.”
She forgot how much joy hope had always
given to her. She had hoped. The past
tense is easily conjugated once, but to live
in the past for ever, to regret for ever is
torment, death-like torment. She resolved
not to regret, not to suffer, and so she read
Carlyle until daylight.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Next day Mrs. Montmorency’s party drove
to Paradise. There were wonderful beech
woods in which to walk. Paul met them
there. His first look was for Launa; she
was standing talking to two men, and he
joined them and waited with patience, until
at last he asked her to go for a walk.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, thank you,” she said. “I am too
tired to walk.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I want to show you the trees. Come
into the wood and sit down, you can rest
there.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, I will walk,” she answered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She looked at him with an involuntary air
of appeal. She was not afraid of him, she
assured herself, only afraid of herself. Some
day he might tell her things, ask her
questions, and she, through weakmindedness,
might answer. They started to walk, and
she still meditated. Why should she think
he cared for her? Ah yes, and why did she
want him to care? These questions opened
an endless vista of ideas and feelings before
her. She felt indifferent for the moment, as
no doubt he did.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The view is lovely,” she exclaimed at
last. “Let us go to the village.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What are you thinking about?” he asked,
coming nearer and looking at her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Of many things. I think in heaven I
should miss the sweetness of the air which
is here.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So should I.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They walked down the road past a cluster
of Indian cottages. A young squaw with a
baby in her arms sat in front of one of them.
Launa looked at her and at the child; its
hair was more curly, and not quite so
black as the long, straight locks of Indian
children.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What a queer baby!” she exclaimed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She looked at her companion. He was
digging with his stick in the red clay of the
road; his eyes were hidden; a red flush
mounted to his forehead, and he was singularly
embarrassed. She turned away and
walked slowly on, followed by him in silence.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What is that noise?” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They heard a sound like a moan quite near
them, and it grew louder; something—some
animal—was suffering intensely.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Look!” she cried.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In a ditch by the roadside lay a horse, thin,
so thin that his bones seemed as if they
would come through his skin. A few children
clustered round, throwing stones at it at
intervals and poking it with sticks. Blood
slowly oozed from a wound in its head, and
its poor body was covered with sores.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do something,” she said, and her voice
quivered with the horror of it. “Can’t we
put it out of its misery? Whose horse
is it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Paul had driven away the children, and
gone close to it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Someone has half shot it; it must be in
torture.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Go and borrow a rifle,” she said. “I
will stay here and keep away those little
fiends. Do go.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are not afraid?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Afraid? No, only so sorry. What horrible,
unavailing suffering! Go, and be quick.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He walked briskly away, and she strolled
up and down. The children came near to
stare at her, but they ceased to torment the
horse. She could not bear its eyes; they
seemed to beg of her to kill it, and she could
do nothing. She clasped her hands together
with such force that they hurt her as she
longed and longed for Paul’s return. It began
to grow dusk. She had forgotten tea,
and the rest of the party—would they be
looking for her, and imagining all sorts of
things? Meanwhile the horse’s moans grew
louder; the young squaw with the baby came
slowly down the road—the baby was crying.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa asked if she knew who owned the
horse.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A man named Morris, who lives down
the road four miles away. He turned him
out to die; he is too old to work or eat.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The baby wailed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Your child is ill,” said Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” grunted the girl, who was so young
and almost pretty; “my grandmother cursed
him.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Cursed him?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Because of his father, he—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh,” interrupted the other, “will Paul
never come? If he would only be quick.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She could not bear these revelations. The
moans of the horse and the shrill misery of
the child were torturing her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Someone suddenly threw a stone from
behind the shelter of a spruce tree; it struck
the horse, which gave a sharp scream. In the
distance Launa heard footsteps. She ran
down the road. It was Paul.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am so glad you have come,” she said
breathlessly, quickly. “Hurry. Did you
get a rifle?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Are you <span class='it'>glad</span>?” his voice changed.
“Yes, I have it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The horse is suffering so terribly.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He looked at her with a certain wistfulness
which was unusual.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He is going to tell me he is sorry for <span class='it'>that</span>,
she thought, remembering the squaw and the
child who had come near them.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Go, go and put him out of his misery,”
she said, with quick anger and excitement.
“There is so much torture, so much suffering
for animals, women, and children. Oh, God!
it is awful!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He turned and saw the Indian girl.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You,” he said merely, but with bitterness,
almost hatred, in his tone. “Go away.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are a brute,” said Launa, “to talk
to her in that way. What has she done?
Go and kill the horse.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not until you are further away,” he said,
with gentleness. “He may, and probably
will, scream. That woman is not fit for you
to talk to or to touch.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>For one moment Launa felt afraid, and she
wanted to ask him to come with her down the
road out of earshot, away from it all. The
twilight was growing dense. The horse
would scream; ugh! how horrible the suffering!
There were witches abroad in the
night—witches of selfishness, of pain, of
terror. She wanted Paul to put his arms
round her, to kiss her, even with the girl
near with his child in her arms. She felt
degraded, and yet loath to let him leave her,
until she remembered the horse.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come with me,” said Paul, and he took
her hand and led her down the road.
“There is a big rock here. You will wait
for me? Sit down and I will wrap your
cloak round you; you are cold.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her teeth chattered with apprehension as
he walked firmly back. She listened with
her fingers in her ears, hearing only the
thump of her heart beating. One, two sharp
reports and a sort of checked scream told her
it was over before he came back.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They walked quickly to the hotel, where
the rest of the party were waiting dinner.
They were curious as well as hungry, and
anxious to hear the result of all this wood
walking. They discovered nothing; neither
Launa nor Paul appeared happy, or at ease.
He ate his dinner with indifference; she ate
nothing, and felt as if all her body, beginning
with her teeth, was beyond her control.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Before they left to drive home he said:—</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You misunderstood me to-night. I want
to tell you about that squaw.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know it. Do not tell me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are angry with me because of her.
I could not help it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I despise a man who could not help it,”
she answered. “I am sorry for her and for
you. You could shoot the horse.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are angry about her?” he asked
again.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am outraged, not merely angry.
Why,” she continued suddenly, “should
there be one law for me and one for her?
I could not bear anyone who treated her
claim as nothing. She will belong to you,
be one of you—” she paused.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I would never treat her claim as of no
value,” he said quickly, “but—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You will never come again to me,” she
said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Had she said too much? Would he
understand? She continued:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do not explain. Be careful—they may
think of revenge.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That is enough. And so it is good-bye?
Good-bye, then.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Montmorency took Launa home with
her in the brougham. They talked about
clothes, while Launa remembered the queer
dark evening, the half-pretty Indian girl, and
heard the wailing sobs of her baby, and
then she saw Paul’s face full of anger. Love
was there, hatred as well, as he said, “Go
away,” to the girl. She shuddered, and he
thought her angry—simply angry—good that
he could think she felt so slight an emotion.
Women are angry every day with their
maids, and their dressmakers, and their
rivals, and it leaves no impression, not even
a wrinkle; there remains no ache whatever,
unless it be weariness.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I <span class='it'>love</span> crepon,” she said to Mrs. Montmorency.
“It is so soft and graceful.”</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>Paul Harvey did not go again to
“Solitude.” Miss Black lamented his absence
loudly. From inquiries she made she
learned that he had gone away to the
Restigouche with some Englishmen to fish.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa took up shorthand as a sedative,
and worked with great diligence. But she
learned nothing. However, as neither her
father nor Miss Black was aware of this,
because of their utter ignorance of shorthand,
its failure as an attainable subject caused no
surprise to them.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Archer went to New York, and then
Launa frequently took long wandering walks—over
stretches of rocky country with
narrow, gloomy, cuttings full of granite
boulders, where there were caves.</p>
<p class='pindent'>One day she went, in her canoe, up a
stream, until she reached a chain of lakes
where she could paddle on and on—far away
into space—where the stillness was maddening
yet restful.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The peace of autumn, of approaching
death, lay on the woods. The maples, with
their gorgeous colouring, shone and flamed
in the bright sun; the birches were yellow,
almost gold, in the brilliant light; occasionally
a leaf fell slowly, it reminded Launa of a
ghost of the end; there was dread in the
creeping slowness, as of the invincible,
powerful march of a quiet enemy. The breeze
sprung up gently, it rippled the water, and
stirred the tall pine trees slowly with a
rhythmic movement, and the sun began to
sink. She gazed again and again at the
warm rapturous colouring, the triumph of the
trees at the end of their summer life, for the
leaves have a glorious finish, and then she
turned her canoe round and paddled swiftly
back to “Solitude.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Everything there was in confusion; Miss
Black had been taken suddenly ill. She was
still unconscious, and they had sent for the
doctor, who arrived only to tell them she was
dead.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa did not know her father’s address.
Miss Black’s relations were merely cousins,
to whom her death and funeral were matters
of indifference.</p>
<p class='pindent'>So Launa stayed alone with the dead
woman weeping tears of sorrow—some tears
were for the loss of companionship, some for
the love and never ceasing care. The idea
of a funeral was terrible to her; death meant
earth and creepy things. At last Mr. Archer
got his telegram, and came home.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa felt as if the end had come to her.
Death, the intruder, had entered into her life;
he was a powerful enemy, and hitherto she
had only regarded him as a sleeping brother.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Archer’s grief was not perfunctory, he
grieved honestly and really. Miss Black was
his friend—if any longing for a nearer and
perhaps dearer connection (the dearness
thereof is wont to depart when the nearness
is an accomplished fact) had ever crossed
his mind, it had crossed only and never
taken root. The constancy of man is more
frequently attributable to circumstances than
to everlasting love.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Archer observed that Launa had
grown different—older, more absorbed in
something, more sympathetic. Always a
child of deep emotions, she had developed
into a woman. But because her heart was
not navigable to floundering old women, the
world near “Solitude” called her cold, unfeeling,
and indifferent.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her father regretted this alteration. She
had been a child, but apparently death had
stepped in and changed her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He studied her gravely and with attention.
“Solitude” was dreary. Launa’s admirers
grew weary of vain visits, of fruitless attempts
to see her, and they ceased to come. They
said she was in love with an unknown man;
they had to account for her refusal to see
them, and pique and vanity suggested this
solution.</p>
<p class='pindent'>After a long, cold winter, spring was beginning.
All life was breaking out again.
The world was glad, triumphant, new, and
Mr. George Archer’s mind turned to England.
Launa must go there for change of
scene and air, so they left Canada on the
first of May.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa and Paul had never met since the
memorable day he had shot the horse. Mr.
Archer casually mentioned that Paul was in
Montreal. Launa had a burning desire to
hear tidings of him, but she repressed it; she
pushed it back, back, back in her mind, far
away into those cupboards everyone has, and
keeps locked and sealed always, by sheer
force of will.</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch05'>CHAPTER V</h1></div>
<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>The</span> long streak of smoke from the steamer’s
funnel lay black on the calm sea; the strong
throb of the engines sounded like the
measure of a waltz to Launa. She sat on
deck every day after the first woe of sea-sickness
was over, and felt utterly and completely
miserable. She wanted to go back
again, for the ache of unconquered pain remained
in her heart. She gave herself a
little shake and tried to make herself agreeable
to a young man who was returning to
England to be married. He told her happily
that the engines were playing the “Wedding
March”; to her it was a hateful discord,
with the refrain of a waltz to which she
had danced with Paul. The young man
hummed Mendelssohn, and she heard Paul’s
voice, and fancied his kisses on the warm
cheek of the squaw.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“When I am married I would rather have
the ‘Dead March in Saul’ played than
that,” said Launa at last.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The triumphant whistler gazed incredulously
at her. He found her irresponsive, so
he left her alone, and went to get a whisky
and soda. No doubt the poor girl was feeling
sick. She would not argue about anticipation
and realisation, or time and love.
She seemed so cold. He could imagine her
sailing on through life alone. She evidently
did not care for men; anyhow she did not
encourage him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa was occupied with her thoughts.
She was trying to seal up her life as if it
were a book and could be put away. The
long, uneventful days were good for reflection,
but they were trying and full of remorse
and regret.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am young,” she said to herself; “only
nineteen, and I will forget,” said her mind,
“and I wish for Paul,” said her heart, which
was like the ship’s engines—an essential part
of movement and life.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hearts,” she said to the young man with
anticipations, when he returned, “are only
necessary to one’s being as the engines are
to a steamer.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She considered herself very wise.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are so young,” he answered, wondering
why she should mention her heart.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Just then Mr. Archer appeared at the
companion door to breathe the air. He was
writing a paper on the intestines of salmon
and grayling. The young man turned to
him and said:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Miss Archer compares our hearts to the
engines.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A very good way,” murmured the father.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The young man left them and went to
play poker; they were an unsuitable pair.
Mr. Archer came over to Launa, who turned
quickly to him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Father, I heard you talking to Mrs.
Montmorency that day on the <span class='it'>Lethe</span>—about
Mr. Harvey—was it true?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Archer frowned.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What did you hear?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Something about—a squaw and a child.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It was quite true about the squaw and
the child,” he answered slowly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah!” she exclaimed with a little gasp.
“Then a man can think of two women at
the same time.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then he turned and looked at her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Men are very brutal.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You said he was thinking of marriage?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He is.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She turned her face away from him, for his
kind, penetrating look hurt her, and just then
she needed him to be cross to her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why do you ask me these questions,
child?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Because it seemed so strange to me—I
could not understand him.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Merely strange and not brutal? Nothing
to you? Well, you hardly knew him,
Launa.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nothing to me,” she repeated, and her
father returned to his writing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The young man with anticipations saw his
departure, and hastened to talk to Launa.
He was singularly anxious to realise the
pleasure of Miss Archer’s society; she was
quite original.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You look pale,” he said, with solicitude.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do I?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And worried. As if someone were dead.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Some one is dead.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Relations of yours? Cheer up. Wait
until you get to London.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And then?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then? Oh, you can have a good time.
You can have the best of good times in London—the
very best—and forget everything
disagreeable, too. I give you my word, it is
just like morphia. When I am in a hole, and
feel down on my luck, I go to town.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is that the fog? I think I should not
like the after effect of morphia.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Fog?” he asked. “No, it isn’t fog, and
yet it is fog, too; it deadens the brain.
When someone threw me over, you bet I
felt bad. I went up to town and forgot for a
week. I did, really.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A week! It lost its effect in a week, so
quickly?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, she wrote then and forgave me,
and <span class='it'>I</span> hadn’t done anything wrong; <span class='it'>she</span>
flirted. But she took me back, and I just
licked her boots.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But suppose she had not taken you
back?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then I should have lived and forgotten
her; I’m hanged if I wouldn’t,” he said, with
energy. “Life does it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Life?—you mean time.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I mean living it down.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But suppose you could not forget? Suppose
you were so fond that you thought of
her always?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I would forget. I mean—Well, I
couldn’t, you know,” he said, and laughed.
“Now I’ve got her, you see, and don’t need
to try. I do not mind telling you—you
seem so interested, and are so sympathetic
to-day—that I only forgot her when it was
noisy and all that. But when I was alone
and quiet—at night, you know—I was miserable.
You have nothing like that to worry
you, Miss Archer? It is very kind of you to
take so much interest in my trouble. You
won’t think of your relations when you get to
town. Are they in Canada?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And one died—a girl, I suppose? And
the others want to interfere with you; they
want you to be dull because they are? Relations
always do that. Now, I have an
aunt—she’s a caution; she thinks I ought
not to marry. But I would not stand that.
Have you any aunts in town?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No. My father has a cousin; Mrs.
Carden is her name.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She won’t bother you, I expect. You are
lucky. Your father adores you. You have
plenty of money, and are young. My Aunt
Maria is a—Oh, the very deuce.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Here he launched forth into anecdotes of
his relations, and Launa murmured a polite
accompaniment to his reminiscences until the
bell rang for dinner.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We’ll meet after dinner, won’t we, and
finish our talk? It’s very jolly,” he said.
“You have such a nice voice, too.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You have done me a great deal of
good,” she answered. “Time is all one
wants.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And life, amusement, and love,” he added
softly, with a glance at her, which, considering
the state of his feelings for another lady, was
unnecessarily kind.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Leave out love,” she answered. “I am
hungry.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>On deck after dinner when he looked for
her she was not to be seen, so he concluded
she was tired and had gone to bed, wherefore
he played poker.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But Launa was not tired. She had hidden
from him. His talks about his Aunt Maria
had no interest for her, except when she regarded
them as a narcotic, and then his
musings were soothing. That evening she
wanted to think and to be alone.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her father had insisted on her drinking
champagne at dinner. Mr. Archer said a
voyage was exhausting, and he looked weary.
He had not recovered from the surprise which
his daughter’s questions had produced. Were
they caused merely by curiosity—the curiosity
of an ignorant girl—or by interest? Curiosity
is merely an inheritance from Eve; interest
is the first instinct towards a man when a
woman loves him or is going to love him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Launa must drink champagne to-night,”
he decided. “And soon we shall be in
London. But why did she ask those curious
questions?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa took some cushions and rugs and
went forward behind the boats. The
steamer was surging on, the wind was rising,
and the waves were breaking below with big
white heads of foam. She began to think;
she drew a picture of it all for herself in her
mind and called herself a fool. Suppose
Paul were there on the steamer, suppose he
came to her with love in his eyes, and he
were hers for the time—and that was it, that
was what hurt—for the time, perhaps only
for a time. Would she be willing to take
him at the price of another woman’s shame?
And to know and to remember what was
between her and him, like a bar, or a hand—the
warm soft hand of a woman! No, it was
over. She would shut up the book. Paul
was dead, her Paul, the Paul she loved—she
would think of him as she did of her dead
mother—sometimes. But her mother was
with the angels, and Paul was alive. She
shivered a little; it was cold and damp, and
the swirl of the waves as the steamer rushed
through them was cruel.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She resolved to begin again, to rub out the
writing of the first episode of life—such a
new book to her—and to make the page
ready for London and fresh impressions.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When the Archers arrived in London they
took a flat near the Thames Embankment,
and Launa revelled in new clothes, music, and
horses. Her father soon had many friends.
His wee world was exciting itself about the
question of bones of fish, and he flung himself
with ardour into the controversy.</p>
<p class='pindent'>After some days of continual absence on
his part, and loneliness on Launa’s, she went
to him and said:—</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I want to know some women. I love
nice women. Don’t you know some?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He looked surprised.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There is your cousin, Lavinia Carden;
she lives in town. I will take you to see
her. Her husband is dead; poor man, he
never was happy. He yearned for the
country and for pigs—Lavinia only appreciated
bacon, and would not live out of
Bayswater. A month at the seaside was all
poor Carden got in the way of country.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I shall not like her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She will give you good advice, Launa,”
he said, laughing. “You don’t like that.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Carden lived in a semi-detached
house, beyond Bayswater, far from the
region of the fashionable, in the heart of
cheap villadom, where twelve pennies had to
make a little over a shilling. Endeavouring
to save a farthing on one’s rolls or one’s fire-lighters
is an absorbing occupation, and it
seems to have most interest for those to
whom it is immaterial whether they do save
their farthing or not. Mrs. Carden had one
son. When he was at home she saw what
she considered life—an occasional visit to the
theatre, or a dull dinner party, both reached
with due propriety in a four-wheeler.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Carden was a selfish woman, with a
firm belief in her own opinions, and her own
importance; anyone who contradicted her
or disagreed with her was at once a detestable
person. Her affection for her son was
expressed in long letters, and the frequent
use of “dearest.” But her love was variable,
and when he was at home he disturbed her
breakfasts, while her nights were made
feverish by his late hours, which kept the
hall gas a-light until sometimes past twelve
o’clock. Her servants assumed a more
frivolous demeanour on his arrival, and it
seemed to her that while their caps were
coquettishly crooked and smart, her stiff
house became sometimes slightly untidy.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Charlie Carden was in a line regiment
stationed at Malta, with one hundred and
fifty pounds a year besides his pay. His
mother wondered why he never became
dashing, or soldier-like, or anything of a
hero, with a sprinkling from the pepper-pot
of wickedness—to possess this is the bounden
duty of every man when he puts on a red
coat or a sword. Carden remained dull, and
his mother almost despised him; he was not
even selfish, nor did he bully her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>George Archer and Lavinia Carden were
second cousins, she was the only relation left
whom he had known as a boy. His recollections
of her were hazy. In these she figured
as a muslin-fichued, sandy-haired girl, in
whose face piety and cruelty struggled for
mastery; now she parted her hair
deliberately in the middle, and indulged in
them both. In her youth she had regarded
George as a possible husband, and, not
loving him, had forgotten him, therefore
when reminded of his existence she felt
angry with him. Was it not his fault that
she had married a man whose only inclinations
were to have a farmyard, against which
she had had to struggle all her life?</p>
<p class='pindent'>The day before the Archers went to 52
Lancaster Road a note was sent to Lavinia
to prepare her for their visit. Mrs. Carden
therefore left off her cap for the afternoon,
braving the smile of her parlourmaid with
the fortitude of a widow who has given up
hope of a second marriage, and who suddenly
finds the wonderful idea returning with unwonted
sweetness—brought back to her by
the visit of a man who was long ago considered
a possibility. His fondness for a
walk from church on Sunday evenings with
her had more than proclaimed this fact.
She forgot he had a daughter, and that it
was five and twenty years since they had
met.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The outside of Lavinia’s house was grey.
Inside her drawing-room suggested the past
and dust, which was constantly being removed;
its mark was on the carpet, the
walls and the furniture. Only the red blinds
shed a little cheerful light, which the drab
curtains chastened and subdued.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Carden began by relating reminiscences
of the family, and then pitied
George Archer for his long residence among
Colonists. He explained that his residence
was quite voluntary, and that he regarded it
as the happiest period of his life.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Did you think my father was obliged to
live in Canada whether he liked it or not?”
asked Launa; “that he was suffering an
unwilling exile?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not exactly that,” said Mrs. Carden.
“Where are you staying?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>When she heard of the flat, and contemplated
Launa’s boots and dress, she murmured
to herself, “Money.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“George, sometimes when you are busy I
should be so glad to take care of Launa; I
would take her to—” She paused. Where
could she take Launa? “We might go to
the Zoo.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thank you very much,” said Launa
politely. She did not press Mrs. Carden to
name the day for this expedition; she was
not favourably impressed by her relative.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You will come and dine with us, Mrs.
Carden,” said Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Call me Lavinia,” said Mrs. Carden.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come any evening next week; which
one will suit you?” asked Mr. Archer.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Next Thursday,” answered Lavinia.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then they talked of Mr. Archer’s old
home, and looked at photographs of the
whole of the family.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Those happy days,” murmured Mrs.
Carden, not without an uneasy feeling that
her hair was growing thin at the parting;
besides, she began to feel cold without her
cap.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They drank weak tea, and Lavinia asked
Launa her impressions of England.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I think London is perfectly delightful,”
she answered. “I don’t like the horses
much. You use bearing reins. The river is
quite perfect, and so different from ours.
And yet sometimes I long for a stretch of
rocky country, for more freedom. But the
music and the life are so interesting. Yes, I
love London.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Horses, river, life,” repeated Mrs.
Carden.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A horse to her was a vehicle of locomotion,
like an engine; it conveyed her to the
station or to a party. Some deluded beings
owned horses; she preferred hers hired, with
no responsibility as to legs or grooms.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You love boating and freedom,” remarked
Mrs. Carden. “They are both
often dangerous.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“In this country, yes—where freedom
frequently ends in trespassing,” answered
Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Or worse—the loss of one’s reputation,”
Lavinia said with decision.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then she turned to George and told him
anecdotes. She conversed rapidly and
loudly; when she was a girl her family had
told her she was arch.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When they rose to go she said: “George,
my dear son will be at home in a few days.
May I bring him to dine? Launa, he is
your cousin.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do bring him,” said Mr. Archer; “Launa
will be glad to see him, I know.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>What a name—Launa! reflected Lavinia
after their departure. What a fatality there
is in our annexing the Colonies! Still, there
is money behind the girl, and she is
young.</p>
<p class='pindent'>By which reflection we may infer that
Mrs. Carden thought of her son in connection
with the money and Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The Archers went home in a hansom.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You call her a woman, daddy; now I
call her a fossil,” said Launa. “She is not
the sort of woman friend I need. I want a
living woman—not one who has existed on
husks until she withers everyone who goes
near her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She is a type,” he answered vacantly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She is an imitation. Show me some one
who is brave—who has or knows life.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Would you like Mrs. Phillips to come
and see you? She is Sir John Blomfield’s
daughter, a widow and young. She wants
to know you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am doubtful, not whether she will like
me,” with sublime conceit, “but whether I
shall like her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You must try her,” he laughed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>His daughter amused him with her odd
ideas.</p>
<p class='pindent'>However, when Mrs. Phillips did come,
Launa approved of her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>All this time Launa was learning. She
was filled with a desire to know and see more;
people and life were so interesting. It was
like a new play. She noticed how differently
her father, herself, and the others were
affected by it, and the noise was soothing,
even at times deadening.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa found Mrs. Phillips entertaining.
She explained some of the parts in this
vast human drama. She found Miss Archer
absurdly young in many of her notions, and
absurdly old in others.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I want to see everything,” said Launa,
“and to live myself. It is terrible to feel
oneself growing old. It will soon be over,
and I haven’t done what I meant to do.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Phillips laughed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Go on. What did you mean to do?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I should like,” said Launa, “to be
happy.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So should we all. Tell me more.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I want to play a little first, and then—to
make the world a little brighter for
someone.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If I were you, I would simply play myself
and leave the others alone. Playing is
real and not difficult. Once you begin to
mix other people in your life, with your or
their happiness depending on you, you will
probably be very miserable.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The admiration of one woman for another
is sincere when it is felt when with her, and
not merely expressed to a man.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Phillips admired Launa for her youth,
for her length of limb, and for her slight, graceful
body and her warm brown skin. Launa’s
mind was attractive. She made friends
quickly; she seemed very adaptable; everyone
interested her. Some men adored her
as they had done at Musquodobit. To others,
with a taste for sensuality, she was an indefinite
slight girl, while to the few she was
wholly desirable—madly desirable. Of course
to the crowd she was just a girl.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Music exercised all its old fascination for
her. She practised with diligence, and she
listened greedily. It transported her to
“Solitude,” to the wild sea there, to the
rivers and lakes, the life which she loved and
missed, which life and Paul she strove every
day to forget. And in music she was with
him. It was a dream life—she lived in it.
Paul was dead to her, but for all that he existed
sometimes. She was stared at in her
canoe on the river, her paddling was so strong
and vigorous, her body so lithe, her arms so
round and firm as she took long, almost
masculine, strokes, and nowhere did she miss
Paul so much as she did there.</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch06'>CHAPTER VI</h1></div>
<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>The</span> Cardens both went to dinner.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Captain Carden was a nondescript. He
might have been attractive if he had ever
appeared interested. He was tall, fair, with
grey eyes, and very ugly hands, which were
forced into notice because of his constant
endeavour to hide them. Launa regarded
mother and son with curiosity, for they were
English and new, and reminded her of the
characters in Trollope’s novels. Neither
Charlie Carden nor his mother appeared to
have found much to interest them in this
world. They were ignorant as well as
superior, and gloried in knowing nothing,
unlike Mrs. Phillips’s friends, who were
anxious to know everything, and to impress
outsiders with their knowledge.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The Archers talked first about the opera.
Mrs. Carden’s ideas of it were limited to
“Pinafore” as new and “Martha” as old.
German opera and Wagner were nothing to
her, nor did she care about books.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Captain Carden talked about horses to
Launa, who gathered that he fancied his
own opinion as well as his own horses and
prowess.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Carden thought George should ask
her to take the head of the table; she considered
Launa too young. She was disappointed
when she found the table was round.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Phillips and Mr. Herbert were the
other guests. Mr. Herbert was an ugly,
short man, with a square face, and a stubbly
black moustache. He was a journalist—besides
which he was clever. Shortly he
was going to Canada to write articles for
some papers on the country and its resources.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are going to write to me, too,” said
Mrs. Phillips.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” he replied, with a glance, full of—what?</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa saw it; here was a man and a
woman who clearly were of moment to each
other. Launa was so absolutely ignorant of
men; she knew only one man, and she tried
to forget him. She had believed in them
all as a class, and in their chivalrous respect
for women—indefinite women—and in their
everlasting love for one particular woman at
last, but her belief was tottering.</p>
<p class='pindent'>That all men were brave she believed, too,
it was part, an essential part, of her idea of
a man, as all women are lovely and good.
Of course she knew women existed with
protruding teeth, who have no attraction,
but men do not <span class='it'>love</span> them. Mrs. Carden
she classed among them.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Captain Carden talked to her with assiduity.
He told her he found London
dull.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I hate the people; they are so difficult to
know. I have called over and over again on
the Huntingdons. You know who he is?
Lord Huntingdon in the War Office. And
I go often to the club for billiards, but no
one is friendly, and society is very difficult
to get into.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But do you not go in for something?
Don’t you ride, or row, or play golf? I
think all men should care for things of that
sort, even for making love.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I never make love; that means marriage,
and I have no money.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do you ride?” she asked, feeling perfectly
indifferent as to his reply. “All
soldiers do.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>This conversation was so profoundly insipid.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sometimes; but I hate it. I am always
afraid of falling off. I go in for it because
the regiment would not think much of me if
I didn’t. But I hope I have not bored you,”
with a sudden change of tone. “We are
cousins, you know, and it is so funny how
intimate I can be with you; there are so few
women I like, or with whom I can be confidential.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa ate an almond with deliberation.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Perhaps some day you will come for a
drive with me. I might hire a safe horse.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, no, thank you. Please do not
trouble, I do not like safe horses.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Archer turned to Captain Carden and
asked about Malta, and Launa watched Mrs.
Phillips, who was talking very little, while
Mr. Herbert’s conversation was incessant.
His air was persuasive, his eyes eager,
ardent, full of desire.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At ten the Cardens departed. Charley
Carden had time to assure Launa again that
she was the only woman with whom he could
be confidential. Mrs. Phillips was to stay
the night. Launa and she had bedrooms
adjoining, with a door of communication.
They both put on dressing-gowns, and Lily
Phillips went into Launa’s room.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are not sleepy, are you? Shall we
talk?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sit here,” said Launa, “in this comfortable
chair.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was a small fire.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am always cold,” said Launa. “I
love a fire.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What do you think of Mr. Herbert?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I think him clever, and he evidently
likes you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, he is clever. But tell me, Launa,
are you modern?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“In what way?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Would you ask a man who loved you if he
had a past? Would you object to it if he had?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If a past were a present I would object.
Can’t men be without past? Is there always
a woman they have loved first?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She seemed to hear the wailing of a child
and the rustling of the trees, and to feel the
fresh breeze. She shuddered. Mrs. Phillips
observed the shudder and the look.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I do not object. Men are different;
they are coarse. They like kissing—indiscriminate
kissing.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa laughed, and said, “Go on.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If I love a man I shall not care what he
has—past, present, anything, if he loves me.
I would like one man to really love me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You have been married,” suggested
Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But not loved. My husband was nice;
we never quarrelled, but we never made it
up. Nice men do not love women; they
ask us to marry them, to be mothers to their
children. Devils love us and often leave
us.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>For some time there was silence.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You like Mr. Herbert?” again asked
Mrs. Phillips.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He wants to marry you,” said Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He thinks he does. I am afraid of
marriage. I am four-and-twenty and I feel
fifty; he is thirty and seems twenty.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If I were a man,” said Launa, “I would
love you. You are not merely beautiful;
you are more—not only attractive, you will
never grow old.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thank you, dear,” said Mrs. Phillips;
“that is a compliment.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Phillips was small and slight; her
hair was a very dark brown, her lips were
red, her eyes large and dark blue. Her
mouth was the most beautiful part of her
face. Her fascination was great; men loved
her, went mad over her, and loved her still.
She was not good-tempered; a man would
never have chosen her for his friend merely.
She was variable; not the least of her attraction
was that men never could tell how she
would treat them. Some women lose their
power by their variableness; Mrs. Phillips
gained hers. She was cold, yet she could
have been passionately fond; but she worshipped
self-control, and considered a man
ceases to care for a woman when once he is
sure of her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I shall marry him,” she said. “I think
I shall. He is not poor, but I shall never
live with him.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why not? What will you do?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Though he cares for me, he will grow
tired of marriage, and so shall I. The accessibility
of a wife is so dull. I shall live in
my own flat, and he can keep his rooms.
Our marriage notice in all the papers will be
followed by a week’s honeymoon, and then
he can go back to his work, and I can play.
He must love me better for not being sure of
me at breakfast, weary of me at dinner, and
asleep in the drawing-room at night. All
the attraction of the—” she paused—“of
the others will be mine. I shall be his wife.
We can entertain, and he will be sure of me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do men always grow tired of us?” asked
Launa, “even if or when they love us?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not always tired, but secure. If they
were merely tired, they would let us alone.
They cease to desire to please us; we belong
to them. Ah, my dear, love! do men love
us? Yes, they love us, but do they love one
woman?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa’s clock struck twelve.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I must go to bed,” said Lily Phillips.
“I shall not kiss you. Women should never
kiss each other. Good-night.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Good-night,” repeated Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That Carden man will want to marry you,
Launa. Beware of them both. He is a
worm, and has awful legs!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>A few nights after this, Mrs. Phillips took
Launa to a ball given by some bachelors—eligible,
delightful young men—whose reputation
for wickedness was wholly obliterated
by their fortunes or the want thereof.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Captain Carden was there. He had procured
his invitation with great difficulty.
The mother of one bachelor had cause for
gratitude towards him. Her son was in his
regiment, and when his reputation promised
to become inconveniently large, Captain
Carden for once used his wits, saved him
from the consequences thereof, and the
family felt they owed Captain Carden something.
Mrs. Carden rejoiced. She thanked
Providence for having delivered the sons of
the enemy into her hand, and piously glanced
at the ceiling (where a brass chandelier hung,
symbolic of the worship of light, also brass)
when Charlie related his success. He disliked
Mrs. Phillips. She circumvented him
by introducing several men to Launa before
Captain Carden could demand more dances
than he had a right to expect. But then she
could give him only two.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mr. George will amuse you, dear,” said
Mrs. Phillips to Launa. “He is clever, and
will tell you about his books.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. George appeared young, and looked
not more than two-and-twenty. He was tall,
with a pink and white skin, yellow hair, and
an infantile smile. He seemed to have
vacated the pinafores of the nursery only the
day before; but this was not the case, for he
had really left them long ago, and he was
thirty years old. He told Miss Archer he
was writing a book.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“About what? Is it a novel?” she
asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“About Beginnings,” he replied; “they
are so neglected. Everyone writes about
Pasts and Probable Futures, but Beginnings
are so interesting. The first love-making is
a joy, afterwards it palls. The Beginning—the
doubt of how she will take it, and how
one can make it—is rapture.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You think there is joy in uncertainty?”
she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I do,” he replied.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But when men love, they—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>George interrupted her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Dear Miss Archer, I have taken to you
at once. I notice you do not use that detestable
expression ‘in love.’ This is our
Beginning. You were saying—?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I was going to say, when men love they
are never happy until they discover whether
she loves them in return; uncertainty gives
them no joy.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It does, they <span class='it'>think</span> it does not. That is
just what I want to illustrate; when a man does
know it, and she does love him, then he
marries her, he is certain of her. He may
become resigned, but he is not happy, and
then—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, and then?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He is forever dissatisfied.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I thought women only were dissatisfied.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Men are, too,” said Mr. George; “I want
to show the unhappiness of certainty. I
know it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This is our dance, Launa,” said Captain
Carden, standing before her and endeavouring
to show his proprietorship.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She did not rise. She looked at him and
resented his calling her “Launa” as he did.
He was not her friend. She disliked him.
His jerky manner and his shifty eyes repelled
her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Launa,” murmured Mr. George, “your
name? and it was surely not given by your
godfathers and godmothers?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Our dance,” said Captain Carden again.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will tell you about my name,” she said,
“by and by.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The band was playing a waltz. In spite
of herself she felt gay, inspirited. To
Captain Carden it was as all other waltzes.
He was tired of dancing with young ladies
who bored him, and equally weary of ladies
who plainly showed they thought him not
worthy of a look or a word.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa came as a change and a relief. She
had intense vitality and energy; a waltz
always affected her; it made her glad or sad.
She loved the music, the motion, and she
looked so desirable.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Captain Carden was not sure whether she
was beautiful or not. He wanted to hear
someone else say it; he distrusted his own
opinion; he had no self-confidence. She
was eligible, virtue of virtues; he was a man,
she a woman, and as such glad to get him.
Did a woman ever refuse a man with his
advantages? Never.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Dancing gave Launa more colour. She
waltzed several times round the room with
him. He danced badly, and held her too
close. They stopped. Her hair was ruffled.
She stood near him, and he longed to possess
her, to own her, to kiss her until she was
breathless. His eyes shone as he looked at
her. How he would reform her. She would
long for his words; she would yearn for his
caresses.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Isn’t that a reviving waltz?” she asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” he replied almost impulsively.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her presence was reviving, not the music.
After this she danced with Mr. George, and
explained her captivating name to him. He
said he adored it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“As a Beginning,” she suggested.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” he answered instantly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then he asked leave to call upon her
father to explain his recently published book
of Proverbs. He offered to bring a copy
with him, and she accepted his offer, for
he greatly amused her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She met another man, called Wainbridge.
He also expressed his intention of calling at
Victoria Mansions. He called himself a
musician, though he did not play any
instrument; she promised to play for him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He will be Lord Wainbridge some day,”
said Mrs. Phillips, as they drove home together.
“His uncle has no children by
this wife. If she were to die!” Lily Phillips
shuddered, “there is another, a young
woman with sons.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He must be a beast,” said Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, not necessarily, only a victim to circumstances,
and she is very pretty. I think
Mr. Wainbridge knows her. Lady Wainbridge
is a horror; she is a Plymouth sister,
and wears bombazine always, and a front.
She was only evangelical when he married
her, and he considered she possessed the
possibilities of the good wife, and he expected
an heir. He has suffered intensely.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Rubbish,” said Launa, “the other woman
suffers.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You may be sure he has settled all he
can on her,” said Lily Phillips, “for I suppose
she does suffer, principally because she
is not his wife. I often wish I knew her.
I wonder if she feels wicked. It would be
interesting to know any one living on a
volcano, as she does. His wife might die,
he might marry a young and innocent girl.
Men like their wives to be ignorant of their
vices and peculiar passions until after marriage—then—Well,
good-night. It was a
very cheery ball. You liked it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Immensely,” answered Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are very young, Launa. You think
men love once. You would not care for a
man who could love you and kiss another
woman?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He could not love me then.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My dear, men are different. There is
passion and love, and not always felt for the
same woman. Love and passion last; passion
alone—Bah! it is nothing.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nothing,” repeated Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is an impulse; it goes, and they love
you again.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Some days after the ball they were all at tea
at Mrs. Phillips’s—Mr. Wainbridge, Launa,
Mr. George, and others. The two men had
already called on Mr. Archer, and had been
invited to dine.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I want above all things in the world,”
said Launa slowly, “to drive a hansom, to
sit up high and see the world.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I bet you five pounds you can’t,” said
Mr. George. “I beg your pardon. But I
am sure you can’t.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She laughed. “I will.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How will you climb up?” asked Mrs.
Phillips.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Easily. I will do it at night.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And drive me,” Mr. George said. “I
will pay you. Don’t overcharge.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Take me too,” said Mr. Wainbridge.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You may both come,” answered Launa
gaily.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You must all dine here to-morrow
night,” said Lily Phillips. “Launa, make
your arrangements, and get it over.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was after dinner. Launa and Mr.
George had been delightful. Mr. Wainbridge
was suffering from his feelings for her;
he could not be frivolous. The carriage
came for Miss Archer, who sent it away.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come,” she said. “Good-night, Lily, I
am going to drive. Jacobs got me a hansom,
and has arranged it all for me. Do
hurry,” she said to Mr. George. “I feel so
excited.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She put on a long driving coat, a little
cap, and a very large silk handkerchief,
which went round her neck, and covered the
lower part of her face completely.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Phillips came out to the door.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We can’t start here,” said Launa; “the
hansom is in a narrow street close by.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They found it waiting just round the
corner.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Get in quickly,” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I won’t,” said Mr. Wainbridge, “until
you are up. Don’t do it. I wish you
wouldn’t.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Rubbish,” she replied. “I am going by
the back streets. I know the way, so does
the mare. I am driving Nell, you know.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She climbed up and arranged the rugs.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is splendid, it gives one such a grip.
Let her go.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They dashed off with a clatter. The mare
evidently was pulling.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I never thought she would do it,” said
Mr. George.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I wish to Heaven she had not tried,”
said the other.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Get out, then,” said Mr. George. “Shall
I stop her?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No! If she is killed, I’ll be killed too!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. George laughed quietly with intense
enjoyment. They drove through dark streets.
Launa had been coached by Jacobs which
way to go. In one place where it was
brightly lighted there was a public-house
and a policeman. She drove slowly. Mr.
Wainbridge glanced with apprehension at the
stalwart supporter of law.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then they turned a corner, and stopped in
front of Victoria Mansions. Jacobs was
waiting. Launa got down.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It was perfectly celestial,” she said. “I
never enjoyed anything so much in my life.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nor I,” said Mr. George, “though I
owe you five pounds. There is something
romantic in being driven by a woman, and
that woman you, and you drive so well. I
am callous when I remember that five
pounds, though I was alarmed about you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Of course I would not take it,” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Wainbridge looked white. He helped
her to take off her coat.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You will never do it again,” he said.
“Promise—never.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She laughed softly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I shall do it perhaps if I want to.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Only with me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The tone was beseeching.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, no, with anyone I choose.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>After they left, Launa went into her
father’s work-room.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I drove to-night,” she said. “Mr. George
and Mr. Wainbridge came in the hansom,
and I drove it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You drove a hansom cab?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, I feel very proud, so don’t tell me I
ought not to be.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You should be ashamed, and I must
scold you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah, no. You are a dear.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Was it a successful party? You like
Mrs. Phillips?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I like her very much. . . . Do men love
women—often?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her father looked at her, but it was
evidently a problem question, not as it
affected herself, but others.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” he replied.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They talk so much about it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I suppose so. You have . . . no
theories, no experience, I suppose?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, I think a man in love must be rather
a bore. Good-night, I am very sleepy.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t drive any more hansoms, Launa.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Very well, father, I won’t.”</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch07'>CHAPTER VII</h1></div>
<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Mr. Archer</span> had gone on a trip to Norway.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Phillips was at Marlow with some
friends, Mr. Herbert was there also.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Phillips had written to Launa telling
her the new shirts were becoming and the
new punt a success. From this Launa
gathered that Mr. Herbert, as well as the
punt, was agreeable. Lily had too much
experience to give in to his supplications at
once, or to agree with him that love was of
any avail in life. She said marriage rhymed
with carriage very properly, and love with
nothing. Besides, she was aware that after
a woman has said “I love you” frequently
there is nothing left to say.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa was all alone.</p>
<p class='pindent'>This particular afternoon she had arrayed
herself in a wonderful tea-gown—a combination
of Greece and Paris with flashes of
audacity thrown in, green and cream and
gold—it was loose where it is pretty to be
loose, and tight where it showed the curves
of her figure.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She was playing to herself—Chopin and
Wagner. Her wrists had gained in strength,
her tone in volume, and her mind—that,
too, had gained in experience and insight.
The world was opening to her—undreamt of
possibilities intruded sometimes—but Lily’s
ideas of taking the goods the gods give
to-day while never thinking of to-morrow,
were attractive. Yet Launa could not
forget Paul; in her heart she believed in the
future “Goldene Zeit” which <span class='it'>must</span> come.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was impossible for her to realise that
she could not command fate—destiny. She
had assumed the command once, that day
with Paul, and now she regretted it. She
could not write to him; everything was
against that, and if he were to come over,
as she often hoped he would, how much
better would it be? The Indian girl came
between them. She knew her father would
never consent to any marriage between herself
and Paul. Launa had cultivated an ideal
of women’s behaviour to other women; they
should always support the wronged woman,
even when it means losing a hearts desire.
Until it meant losing her own heart’s desire
she had derived much joy from this theory,
now she realised that no one can be happy
on a theory.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She played a Chopin study: relentless
fate—a chilling, creeping fiend of Impossibility—went
through it, which mocked
the delusive sound of far-away joy and
happiness somewhere—the indefinite somewhere.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She heard a faint rustle of a <span class='it'>portière</span>
behind her, but she played on. When it
was over she put her head in her hands,
then let her hands fall with a crash upon the
keys. The sound expressed her feelings,
the discord was a relief.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How do you do?” said some one softly
behind her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She started and turned round to see Mr.
Wainbridge. There were tears in her eyes
enough to soften them as she looked up
at him. She did not rise hurriedly, or look
startled as the majority of women would have
done, but held out her hand, which he took.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Shall I go away?” he asked. He
admired every detail of her appearance,
and the look in her eyes surprised him.
“You would like to be alone and I cannot
bear to leave you,” he said slowly, while
still holding her hand.</p>
<p class='pindent'>His expression and intonation were not
lost on her—they meant power in herself; he
could not leave her; and the desire of power
comes after love in the aspirations of some
women.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, stay,” she said. “Sit down.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He chose a chair near her and the silence
was restful—most women consider it fatal.
He had begun to compare her with other
women.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You heard my discord?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I heard it,” he replied.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And interpreted it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, I cannot say that.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will play to you,” she said, rising with
a quick litheness which reminded him of a
serpent.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She played Liszt’s arrangement of
Mendelssohn’s “Auf Flügeln des Gesanges.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thank you; I have enjoyed it intensely,”
he said, when she had finished.
“ ‘Thank you’ is poor—it cannot express my
meaning. You play magnificently.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am glad you think so,” she replied.
“When you came I was wishing I could do
nothing. You understand? To acquiesce
is happiness if one knows no better.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But if one does know? Believe me,
acquiescence is misery. The wings of song
carried you somewhere far away?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How do you know?” she asked suddenly.
“To fight, to be, and to do, are the
best.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Like our childish friend the verb; you
have left out to suffer,” he suggested
softly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She laughed, and he felt baffled.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Let us go and have tea.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“On the principle of feed a man when
he bores you,” Mr. Wainbridge said with
irritation.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, not at all. I love my tea, and it
will be cold. Tell me first how you like
my music-room? It is my own particular
abode; you were admitted by mistake.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“May I be admitted again?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Perhaps—tell me about my room?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He had forgotten to look at the surroundings.
The room was long, and rather high—the
walls were a dull rich cream colour;
quantities of flowers were arranged everywhere,
principally irises with their long
leaves, in immense dull brown jars. Standing
near the piano was a eucalyptus tree, its
dull grey-green leaves hung over Launa.
Green, brown, and cream were the colours
in the room, with red here and there—the
warm red of autumn leaves.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The room suits you,” he replied.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Wainbridge found personal conversation
was over with the change of room.
She talked of the last new book, and of
bicycling. He made himself agreeable. He
was a prudent young man, and well received
everywhere; plain daughters of dukes and
marquises were glad to talk to him—he was
a Possibility; there was a doubt owing to
his uncle and the Plymouth Sister. There
was a legend about Mr. Wainbridge that he
once had loved someone of the lower classes—the
someone was indefinite—it was supposed
she had died or married. Some
people gave Mr. Wainbridge credit for the
virtue of forsaking her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They had finished tea when Mr. George
was announced. He had a large book with
him. It was his own book of proverbs, and
he brought it to present to Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Precept is better than example,” he
began. “Don’t you think so, Wainbridge?
I always have set a good example,
but—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mrs. Carden,” said the maid, and the
rest of Mr. George’s sentence was lost in the
rustle of that lady’s entrance.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She was arrayed principally in bugles.
She looked war-like, and as if she might
suddenly sound the call to battle on one of
her ornaments.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa introduced the men to her. Mrs.
Carden accepted tea, and observed that
George was away.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am here,” whispered Mr. George softly.
“Does she want me?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa frowned at him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” she replied; “he is in Norway.
I heard from him to-day.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am sure Mrs. Carden will agree with
me,” said Mr. George agreeably, “about
proverbs. Precept <span class='it'>is</span> better than example.
Miss Launa, your father plainly thinks so.
He is away enjoying himself. He sets you
a bad example, but his precepts are excellent.
My edition of the proverbs is so convincing.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Carden gazed at him, her cake in her
hand half-way to her mouth, which was open.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is it really precept is better than
example? Did Solomon say it? I only
know his proverbs. I brought my son up on
them.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She was rather at sea as to Mr. George’s
position, he seemed so self-assured and so
moral. Could he be the head of a new sect,
or the editor of a paper?</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Solomon says, ‘The lips of a strange
woman drop as an honeycomb,’ ” said Mrs.
Carden. “He is a very wise man.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That is not a mere precept,” said Mr.
Wainbridge softly. “He said it from experience.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Solomon’s example was variable,” said
George.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But he was very wise,” observed Mrs.
Carden.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Very,” said George solemnly. “Precept
is better than example.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What?” she asked, “surely you have
made a mistake, and the true version is
‘example is better than precept.’ ”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She wore an air of triumph, and glanced
proudly round her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mr. George is writing a book,” said
Launa, “on proverbs. He is—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Correcting the faults of the world,” said
Mr. George, humbly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A necessary task,” said Mrs. Carden,
“in these degenerate days. Mr. M<sup>c</sup>Carthy,
who preaches at St. Luke’s, Launa (I advise
you to go and hear him), is a son of Dr.
Willis, in the faith—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What a good name. I did not know that
was what they called it,” said Mr. George
softly; “but add in love—in faith and love.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Miss Archer was playing to me,” said
Mr. Wainbridge. “Have you heard her?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He addressed his question to Mrs. Carden,
who appeared perturbed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No. I am sure she can play. But I dislike
music excessively. I played myself once;
and my son has a flute. I find it disturbing.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There is so much wind needed for the
flute,” said Mr. George. “It is an instrument
which reminds one of a hurricane.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I love a penny whistle,” said Launa. “I
can play ‘Honey, my honey,’ on mine.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Play it now,” said Mr. George. “Please,
Miss Archer. I really cannot call you Miss
Archer any longer. Miss Launa is so much
prettier; and Launa is the prettiest name in
the world.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You may call me Launa if you like. I
never was called Miss Archer as much as I
have been since I came to England. I will
play the penny whistle for you some day.
Mrs. Carden would not like it now.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Pray do not mind me; I must go. I am
always at home at half-past five; I dine at
six. I came, my dear Launa, to ask you to
come and spend a few quiet days with me while
your father is away. Charlie is also away.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thank you. It is very kind of you to
think of me,” replied Launa. “I cannot
come and stay, for I promised my father I
would not leave the flat just now. You see
all our servants are new, and he would not
like me to leave them alone.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How terrible if they danced in your
music room,” said Mr. Wainbridge, with a
smile.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Terrible,” said Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There is no reason why we should not
dance there,” observed Mr. George. “Example!
precept! Let us dance.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I think, Launa, it would be much better
for you to come to the shelter of an English
home, during the time of your father’s absence.
It is not proper for you to remain here alone.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I prefer a Canadian shelter,” said Launa,
with sweetness.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Are you having music lessons, dear
Launa?” asked Mrs. Carden. “And have
you taken up any serious study, yet?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I go to Herr Winderthal’s twice a week
and play for him, and with him. He has
two other men for the violin and the ’cello;
we play trios and quartettes. You know the
quartette with ‘Die Forelle,’ motif by
Schubert?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Alone?” inquired Mrs. Carden, with
apprehension.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Alone? No. Three people play in a
trio, and four in a quartette,” said Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. George laughed, and said:—</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No one will listen to me. And I do so
want to explain my proverb to you, Miss
Launa. You see, if a woman has a brutal
temper she does absolutely as she likes, and
never sets an example; her precepts are
obeyed, she has a good time, the best; and
you see a saint whose example is quite
heavenly, does any one imitate her? No,
they only make her do more, work harder,
and set a better example. Then they admire
her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You have met that woman?” said Mr.
Wainbridge.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Several of them,” said the other.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Good-bye,” began Mrs. Carden. “I am
disappointed in you, Launa.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa did not inquire the reason of her
disappointment, but shook hands with her,
accompanying her to the door, followed by
the two men.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come to me when you are in difficulties,”
said Mrs. Carden. “Your housemaids—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She waved her parasol as the lift bore her
down, and went home in a state of agitation;
for in the future Launa would have great
possessions, and the Carden exchequer was
low. Could it be that the young man with
the proverbs had discovered this? That he
would desire Launa?</p>
<p class='pindent'>She resolved to invite herself to lunch with
Launa the next Sunday, and to make Charlie
call the day of his return.</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch08'>CHAPTER VIII</h1></div>
<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Mrs. Carden</span> drove home in a hansom, a
strange and unusual extravagance. At
Launa’s she had been bewildered—the conversation
was so difficult to understand, so
full of proverbs and of Solomon.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In the hansom Mrs. Carden would think
well. She turned the situation over in her
mind and stopped at a telegraph office to
send Charlie a telegram. He was fishing
with some uninteresting cousins in Kent.
Mrs. Carden sent for her friend and confidante,
Miss Sims. Miss Sims had been
fat, she now was thin, and weighed only
seven stone—she gloried in thin arms and
a scraggy neck, and told everybody about
herself in a sad voice. It is better to be
poor and lean than poor and fat, the rich ask
one to dine more frequently.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Carden told her lean friend as much of
the subject as was necessary for her to know.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Carden’s principles were good—on
principle. She was firmly persuaded that
Charlie was deeply, virginly in love with
Launa, and that Launa was wandering—was
being attracted by strange men who
talked of books and pianos with intimacy,
and of proverbs. At first she had an idea
that Mr. George was a leader of some kind.
From the sheltered seclusion of beyond
Bayswater she had read the papers, and had
heard that at one fashionable church the
clergyman lectured on dress in the pulpit,
while his wife wore a becoming cassock in
the chancel. Miss Sims and Mrs. Carden
took counsel together, and the result thereof
was that Charlie loved Launa, and Launa
must see the advantage of such affection.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Carden sent Launa a post-card, saying
she would go to lunch the next Sunday
at two o’clock. If Launa was obliged to go
out, she must leave lunch for her relative,
and empty rooms—Mrs. Carden adored
rooms without their owners.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Phillips was still staying at Marlow;
Mr. Herbert, too, was there. She was in
the uncomfortable situation of indecision; he
in an equally uncomfortable one. He had
made up his mind, but a solitary mind which
has determined on its own course of action
is weariness, because for happiness it requires
the acquiescence of the other person, and
Lily would not agree that what would make
him happy would necessarily make her so.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her doubt had not spoiled her appetite,
the arrangement of her neckties, nor any
one of those details to which a well-dressed
woman is always attentive, but it did spoil
the sunshine and the river; the wind in the
rushes made her shiver, and the backwaters
were lonely and too convenient for episodes.
The locks and people were delightful; the
puffing of steam launches was a sound of joy.
She took to rowing, and suffered tortures
afterwards from stiff arms and a stiffer back.
When she did not row, Mr. Herbert did;
she sat in the stern and discoursed to him, and
he enjoyed her conversation. The boat was
delightful: it was quite cranky, and neither
person dared to move about; conversation
with three yards between them must be of
the day and not of the feelings, or if feelings
are mentioned, one means those delightful,
unexplainable sensations which are merely
useful as subjects of conversation, and do
not agitate one sufficiently to make one
uncomfortable.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At the end of a month Mrs. Phillips went
up to Paddington. Mr. Herbert accompanied
her; they sat in opposite corners of
the carriage, and she read the <span class='it'>Lady’s
Pictorial</span> while he smoked. At Paddington
they parted, and she drove to Victoria
Mansions to stay with Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Wainbridge was there, and they were
having tea. Mrs. Phillips found it cool and
restful, and the sensation of being not the
first and only woman was novel and possessed
a reposeful charm. They were arguing
about music, and the room was full of
flowers.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When Launa received Mrs. Carden’s
post-card she threw it to her friend Lily.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There,” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Phillips groaned.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I cannot endure that woman. Who are
you having to lunch as well?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mr. Herbert, Mr. Wainbridge, you and
I.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Shall I ask papa? He is so cheerful.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do, if you think he will not be bored.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My dear, he admires you immensely.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Sir John Bloomfield was a cheerful old
gentleman; he took this world as it treated
him, and that was well. He had been
married twice. The second lady, Lily’s
stepmother, had money, and did not live
long. She had taken life seriously, and it
killed her. Sir John’s curly hair was white,
and also his moustache; he wore his hat
with a gentle incline to one side of his head.
It gave him a rakish air of joviality; he
affected the society of young married women,
all except his daughters—he took no interest
in either of them. He came to lunch on Sunday,
fresh from a stroll with a delightful young
woman, after an hour’s contemplation of the
smartest bonnets in church, and having
listened to the cleverest preacher in London,
whose sermons lasted ten minutes only.
He was a brilliant man.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They were all in the drawing-room when
Mrs. Carden rustled in.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Sir John attached himself to Launa as he
objected to elderly ladies, because they were
so apt to take it for granted that his opinions
were like theirs—middle-aged—and Sir John
was quite modern.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At lunch Mrs. Carden sat between Mr.
Herbert and Sir John, who devoted himself
to Launa. There was another reason to
account for his youthful air—he had not the
gluttonous enjoyment of food the middle-aged
and old acquire.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Herbert was absorbed in his lunch.
Mrs. Carden began to talk. She was hungry,
but the waves of Sir John’s anecdotes threatened
to engulf her and to reduce her to
silence.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She talked of music halls and of morality.
In those days both were subjects of conversation
and of argument.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I hate morality,” said Launa. “It
means nothing. It is only a name. Maud
is so fond of talking of it. Maud is very
vulgar.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Carden pushed away her plate with
impatience. She ate the pudding afterwards,
for it was excellent. She was horrified.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Sir John helped himself to cream with
deliberation. Mr. Wainbridge looked at
Launa. Mrs. Phillips saw the look and interpreted
it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My dear Miss Archer,” said Sir John,
“the world is very hard; its rules are firm
and not easily broken.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I do not agree with you,” said Mrs.
Carden. “They are broken with impunity
very easily.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Probably you do not agree with me,”
said Sir John. “I haven’t tried to break
any. I do not speak from experience.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The world does not mind its rules being
broken,” said Mrs. Phillips. “It minds only
when it discovers the hole and is obliged to
notice it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There are saints to whom the good
people would not, could not speak,” said Sir
John.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Purity and morality are often mistaken,”
said Launa, “by the world. It is unjust,
and justice is cruelty.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is law,” observed Mr. Wainbridge,
with a sigh.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Law and the promises,” said Sir John.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Prophets,” corrected Mrs. Carden.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Promises are interesting,” he continued,
talking rapidly because he knew he had made
a mistake. “A man should always keep a
promise.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No,” said Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” said Mr. Wainbridge.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I would rather hear the truth,” said
Launa, “even if it hurt. One moment’s
pain would be better than days of regret.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Carden shook her head and waved
her hands. Pantomime was her only resource.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Sir John assumed his spritely air.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We are too sad; we are discussing such
uninteresting subjects. No man ever breaks
a promise to such charming ladies as there
are here. Lily, tell us about your river
adventures.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ask Jack.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Herbert smiled.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We went out in the boat every day—Lily
rowed occasionally and I rowed frequently.
We disagreed on various subjects
every day, on the marriage question and on—on—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“On what?” said Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“On that—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They laughed together.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What is ‘that’?” said Mrs. Carden.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A preposition,” answered Mr. Herbert
shortly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, no,” said Lily, “it’s a pronoun.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“ ‘That’ is an adverb,” said Mrs. Carden.
“Launa, I shall tell Maud that you called
her—vulgar.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh! do.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Women always tell,” said Mr. Herbert.
“I told a woman something once and she
told. She—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am not a woman,” said Mrs. Carden,
“who carries tales.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But you are going to tell someone what
Miss Archer said of her,” observed Mr.
Herbert. “Men don’t do that.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nobody tells, really.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>I</span> did not tell, Jack,” said Mrs. Phillips.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Tell us now,” said Sir John. “If you
get the credit of telling we may as well
derive some amusement from the story.
Miss Archer, what do men usually tell you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Different things. They do not confide
in me. I am not sympathetic enough.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Are you not?” inquired Mr. Wainbridge.
“I think you are. I should love to confide
in you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He looked again at her, so did Mr. Herbert,
and Lily observing both looks concerned
herself with Mr. Herbert’s, which was one of
admiration—developing admiration.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was then that marriage with him appeared
desirable, or rather the owning of
him would be pleasant. Mrs. Phillips
imagined her wedding and the wedding
dress! He could admire another woman!</p>
<p class='pindent'>They got up from the table, and Mrs.
Phillips stayed with the men to smoke.
After his cigarette Sir John went to the
Club. Mrs. Carden seated herself on a sofa
and demanded a footstool, then when Launa
announced an engagement for the afternoon,
Lavinia arose and took her departure.
Launa and Mr. Wainbridge drove off in a
hansom.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do you think they are really going to
hear music?” asked Mr. Herbert, when
Lily and he were alone.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why not?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Because it is so hot, and because <span class='it'>I</span> would
much rather talk to you here, so I naturally
suppose every other man would rather talk
to the woman he loves than listen to any
music. I have made up my mind to marry
you in a month.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She smiled enigmatically.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Very well. You know my bargain. I
cannot live with my sister; she swamps me.
Her mind and her life are like a bog. It is
dull living alone; you would provide an
element of excitement.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You say marriage is not love. Is it exciting?”
he asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A husband should be reviving,” she
answered, “and should endeavour to be—a
lover—always.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Herbert came over to her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I shall always be your lover.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And you agree to my conditions?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are to keep your rooms; I am to
keep mine. Is that it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes. What else?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We are seldom to have breakfast
together.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Very seldom,” she answered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“After our honeymoon?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“After our—after that—yes,” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But dinner always.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Dinner often,” she corrected.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Take off your rings,” he said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Phillips frowned.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are too commanding.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Please.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You do it,” and she held out her hand.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He gravely pulled off first one with two
large turquoises—he had given it to her—next
a small one with a diamond, then her
wedding ring which he put in his pocket, and
replaced it with one almost exactly like it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“With my body I thee worship,” he said,
and he added a ring with three large sapphires
in a light gold setting. The stones were set
high and they shone.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You do not wear his ring now.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How beautiful the stones are,” she
answered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have always been jealous of that ring,”
he said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Have you? ‘Jealousy is as cruel as the
grave,’ saith Solomon. Do not be cruel.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I could not be anything with you but
kind,” he replied, with a sort of unsteadiness,
for though she was not lovely she was
alluring, fascinating. He could have followed
her away from everything, through disasters
and fire without feeling it, until she left him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The honeymoon was invented for Adam
and Eve before the Fall,” she said slowly,
“and before the appearance of the serpent.
Is there necessarily a serpent now?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You spoil everything by analysing it,”
he replied. “You should look on things as
a whole, and not dissect them; that is one of
your own maxims. You told it to me when
I asked of what your new hat was made.
You said it was a whole and a creation.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But honeymoons are not wholes, nor are
emotions. Everything is largely constituted
of them.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They are moments. Live for one
moment.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It passes so quickly,” she said, and
sighed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then, in a month,” he suggested, with
an outward air of boldness, though inwardly
he was doubtful and quaking, “you will
marry me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“In a month! How soon!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How far away. Where shall we go for
our tour?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not to Paris. I hate Paris.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Shall we stay in London?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, no! How commonplace! We shall
live in London. Suggest something new.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Shall we go into the country? To the
real country, where there are nightingales
and roses?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She sang softly:</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''><div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line0'>“The nightingale in fervent song</p>
<p class='line0'>Doth woo the rose the whole night long.”</p>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>“Rubinstein, isn’t it?” he asked. “Well,
will you come?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, it is risky, but I will for once hear
the nightingales and feel young again.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I love you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do you? Love—it is so old, so new,
so impossible.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“For always,” he said, not answering her,
only following the train of thought in his
own mind.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, not for always,” she said sadly,
“Love me really for a week, a day, a year—while
the nightingales sing. I would rather
have a man’s whole love for <span class='it'>one</span> day, than
his toleration for years, his agreeable acceptation
of my presence.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A man usually loves his wife.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Does he? Does he? You know that
is rubbish. You love me now, and you
think you will always. A wife is associated
with a man’s disagreeable pleasures, his duty
dinners, his dull breakfasts. When he goes
to dine at his Colonel’s, or with the man who
has influence, and runs the papers, she goes
and bores him too. If you were compelled
to take the other man’s wife out to dinner
you would appreciate the attributes of your
own when you returned to her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A man loves his future wife before
matrimony. But, Lily, afterwards I think it
is your own fault.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mine?” she exclaimed. “Mine—you
forget—you—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Dearest, I did not mean you. I meant indefinite
woman. It will never be your fault.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She looked at him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You apologised in time—I was haughty.
Sit there, near, but not too near me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He seated himself in a little chair.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That chair will break. Sit somewhere
else.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To return to the subject of matrimony,”
she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Of breakfast.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A woman lets her husband see too much
of her, and know too much about her. She
frequently looks ugly. Oh, Dr. Jaegar, thou
art answerable for much woe! Breakfast is
a disturbing meal, for we sometimes are
weary at breakfast and—you may have yours
alone.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I would like it better with you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That is it,” she exclaimed. “Now you
would. Soon you would not. You must
make a man do without what he loves, to
keep his love. Men are so unreasonable.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do you believe in anyone, Lily?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No. Yes, I do.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Tell me,” he asked eagerly, “in whom
do you believe?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“In myself.”</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch09'>CHAPTER IX</h1></div>
<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Launa</span> and Mr. Wainbridge drove to the
concert—a private one—where Herr Donau
was going to play the piano for his hostess—Lady
Blake, Launa, and a friend.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The day was hot, terribly so. The heat
rose from the ground, the houses, and the
pavement; it struck one like a fiery draught
from a furnace. Launa and Mr. Wainbridge
were silent; they knew each other well
enough to be so. He was pondering.
Though he found her interesting he did not
agree with her at all about many things, but
therein lay her power of attracting him, for
she did not care whether she did or not.
She did not pretend this as many women do,
when men always are aware of it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am hot,” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And you look cool.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am wishing to be where I could hear
the river ripple, and hear the sound of the
water as it curls over the rocks. I wish I
could see the big lake where it widens, where
the pines and the maples grow. Oh, the
smell of the wind there!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why won’t you come and sit in the park
instead of going to hear Donau?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Because I can imagine myself in that
far-off land when Donau is playing,” she
answered. “I can shut my eyes and feel the
wind; I see the water just rippled and then
still. In the park it is civilised and hot; the
trees are beautiful, but not like those I love.
The grass is green, but the wind is parching,
and it is town-laden; it is—” She stopped.
“Who is that?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He started at the tone of her voice. It
was full of apprehension, of a sort of cold
joy, as if she had fought, and was glad to be
beaten.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He asked, “Where?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I thought I saw someone—someone I
knew—someone—Oh, I want to stop, to
get out. It is stifling here.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There are so many people,” he replied.
“I did not notice anyone. Was it a woman?
We are nearly there now. Do not get out.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No—never mind. It was imagination.
I thought I saw—it could not have been
really.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah,” he said, “imagination is deceiving
and becoming. You have grown most
beautifully flushed. You are very good to
look at, Miss Archer.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You must talk to Lady Blake,” said
Launa. “I am tired.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The room into which they were shown
was dark, cool, and flower-scented. Lady
Blake was dressed in black. She was a
woman men loved for an hour, a dance, or a
day. Sir Godfrey Blake had married her
after a short acquaintance. Immediately
afterwards he went into Parliament, and now
sat out all the debates, and was seldom at
home. Men pitied her, women shook their
heads, while she loudly lamented a cold
husband, and was consoled by other men.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We have been waiting for you,” she
said. “Herr Donau is ready to begin.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She gloried in her riches, and she was
musical, though in the days of her poverty
she had not been. Shilling seats and deprivations
did not suit her; but to be able to
pay the most expensive successful pianist in
London for a whole afternoon to play to her
and one or two chosen ones, what a triumph!
That was success. And if she did not
enjoy the music she did derive great satisfaction
from saying, “Donau played for us on
Sunday; he played marvellously. Of course
we paid him.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Miss Archer’s imagination has been causing
her to see people—a person,” said Mr.
Wainbridge, as he shook hands with Lady
Blake.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He wanted to see Launa grow red again,
as well as to discover who she thought she
had seen.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She laughed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Was it a ghost?” asked Lady Blake.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She looked uncomfortable. She had some
ghosts behind her—a brother and sister who
were poor, and who lived at Clapham.
They worked, and she ignored them.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A ghost!” repeated Wainbridge. “Do
you believe in ghosts, Miss Archer?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do I? Souls of the dead! I wish I
could see them.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t!” exclaimed Lady Blake. I believe
in premonitory warnings. You did not
see me walking, did you, Miss Archer? I
<span class='it'>hope</span> not.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, I only saw an old friend—an old
Canadian friend. But it was only in fancy,
for the next moment it was gone.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was a slight pause when she said
“it was gone.” Mr. Wainbridge noticed
she used “it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Lady Blake said “Oh” sadly, and then
continued: “Premonitory warnings are so
interesting. Was the friend an old, I mean
an ancient grey-headed friend, or only old as
regards the time of friendship? Was it a
woman?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It was a spirit,” said Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You will hear of a death,” said Lady
Blake with solemnity.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is already dead,” replied Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To you?” asked Mr. Wainbridge.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Are we not going to hear Herr Donau
play?” inquired Launa. “You have not
forgotten you are to play the Waldstein
Sonata for me?” she said to Herr Donau.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have not forgotten. Shall I begin?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do,” said Lady Blake, seating herself
in a chair covered with cream-coloured
material.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her black dress, yellow hair, and white
skin had an ideal, an arranged background.
Ideals have to be well arranged, otherwise
they are deficient. Launa sat in a dim
corner; Mr. Wainbridge chose a chair from
which he could observe her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She was listening intently; she had often
played the Waldstein to Paul, and she wanted
to see how Donau would play the octave run.
Through it all she could think of Paul. Had
she really seen him? No, he was not in
England. Could he be dead? . . . Donau
played the run beautifully. . . . Could Paul
be dead? Donau played the octaves with
one hand—glïssando. Wonderful! Launa
glanced round her; no one appeared to have
noticed. Lady Blake was keeping time with
her head and her foot. Time in the Waldstein!
Launa felt a great wave of longing,
of desire for the woods, lakes, and the vastness
of the real forest, and for the air. Oh!
that air! Keen sometimes, sweet, full of the
smell of wild flowers, of the pine woods—and
where was Paul?</p>
<p class='pindent'>The Waldstein went on and on. To her
it meant spring days, movement, hope, but
not in the overcrowded old land. To the
others it meant different things—music
always does—and Launa’s mind returned to
the impression of the afternoon. It could
not have been Paul alive that she had seen?
Could it be that he was dead, and because
she loved him, he came to her? Did she
love him? She heard the wailing of the
Indian child. But if Paul were dead, he was
hers—hers—hers—</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her thoughts were interrupted by the
ceasing of the piano and the compliments of
Lady Blake and Mr. Wainbridge.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You were asleep,” said Mr. Wainbridge
to Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No. My thoughts were wandering.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“With more spirits?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mr. Wainbridge, come here,” said Lady
Blake. “Come and see this; it is by Herr
Donau. Play it, do, Herr Donau, and then
Miss Archer has promised to play ‘Warum.’ ”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There is a history in that,” said Launa,
when the great man had finished. “There
is an unravelled thread in it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah, yes,” he said, “there is. You have
understanding, Miss Archer.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And now, will you play ‘Warum?’ ”
asked Lady Blake.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To hear Miss Archer play ‘Warum’ is
one of the world’s desires,” said Mr. Wainbridge,
“because you puzzle it—the world,
I mean.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She did not answer. Lady Blake rehearsed
speeches to all her dear and jealous
friends while the music lasted. She would
say “Donau and Miss Archer played for
us during a whole afternoon.” She <span class='it'>had</span>
triumphed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa drove home alone. Mr. Wainbridge
to his regret had an engagement. He
said good-bye to her with sorrow, while she
was indifferent. There was something in
the spirit theory after all.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Phillips and Mr. Herbert were still
sitting at Victoria Mansions. She had changed
her dress for a tea-gown and invited him to
dinner. The evening was hot. Launa
dressed in white and went to the music-room.
Conversation did not appeal to her. She
began to play, to work hard at an impossible
sonata. The hard work was taking away
her weariness, the feeling of misery and longing
when the door was opened and Captain
Carden came in.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I did not let your maid announce me. I
wanted to surprise you, Launa,” he said,
advancing with an air of expectation. “She
said you were not at home, but I heard
the piano, and I knew you would see me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He held out his hand.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will finish this page,” she said, not
taking the hand thus affably extended, and
playing on.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Captain Carden seated himself near and
stared at her. She could feel his eyes taking
her in, all over, gloating over her, but she
finished and sat on the music-stool, turning
herself round until she faced him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Your mother was here to lunch.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, Launa, she told me so.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Did you want to see me particularly?”
she asked. “I suppose you did, because
I said ‘not at home.’ I am very tired and
in a musical mood.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He smiled languidly and leaned back.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You don’t mean that, Launa.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>His detestable habit of repeating her name
irritated her. She looked at him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why do you never call me Charlie?
We are relations.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Are we?” she asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes. That is one reason why I came,
and then my mother asked me to come
and see you. She and I are both worried.
Mother thinks—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do think yourself; you remind me of
Uriah Heep.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My mother thinks,” he continued with a
sort of leer, “that you are lonely. She
fears the friends you have, the contamination
of their talk about no morals—she says—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa got up.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You will either go away or else you will
talk of something else. Speak for yourself,
pray. I do not care what your mother
thinks.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Captain Carden looked at her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t get cross. You know I am in
love with you, and I want to marry you. It
will be such an advantage to you, an unknown
Canadian, to marry into a good old
English family, and to be well looked after.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She was silent, first from surprise, then
from anger. It was as if the words would
not come rapidly enough.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thank you,” she said. “I decline your
insulting offer. Now will you go?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Now, Launa, you know it is the best
thing you can do. I am really in love with
you. You will have some of your own
money settled on you, of course, and you
will have an excellent position and be
thought a great deal of as my wife.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will never be your wife,” she answered.
“<span class='it'>Never.</span>”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“All girls want to marry; you do. They
all do. I like a girl who pretends to
be backward, but this is enough, Launa.
Give in now, you know how I love you,
you—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa’s cheeks were blazing, she got up
and rang the bell violently. He followed,
unseen by her, until she felt his arm on her
waist; his face was detestably close, his eyes
staring into hers, glaring like an animal’s,
and his breath was hot against her face.
She gave him one firm push; she had not
paddled so much in vain; her arms were
very strong, and he did not expect it. He
staggered across the room, upsetting a little
table and breaking some china ornaments
which fell with a crash as he sprawled on the
floor. Just then the maid opened the door,
and Mr. Wainbridge walked in.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Curtis, show Captain Carden out,” said
Launa, apparently with calm indifference.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She looked very tall, slight, and angry, as
she stood waiting. Captain Carden gathered
himself together with a sheepish look, and
advanced towards her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Good-bye, Launa.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Go,” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Launa, say good-bye.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And as the door closed she threw herself
into a big chair and laughed. Captain
Carden heard it as he left the flat and detected
nothing but ridicule in it. Mr. Wainbridge
went over to her; he saw she would
have cried had she not laughed, and that
her nerves were all unstrung.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why didn’t you tell me to kick him out?
He deserved it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why didn’t you do it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She put her hands over her face, and
began to sob. He stroked her hair gently,
tenderly, and she liked it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am an idiot! I am an idiot!” she
said at last.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What did he do?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How did you come? You were dining
at the Grays’, I thought you said?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I came because I wanted to see you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She dried her eyes and leaned back in her
chair and looked out at the night, feeling the
curious rest of exhaustion. The greyness of
twilight crept into the room, it was peaceful
though still sultry. He took her hand and
said:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am glad I came.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So am I,” she said, cheerfully. Her
mood had changed. “You saved me from
unknown bother. He was most impertinent.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>In the other room Mrs. Phillips was
becoming impatient. She was hungry. At
tea-time Herbert’s conversation engrossed
her, and now where was dinner?</p>
<p class='pindent'>She was also anxious to create a sensation,
to surprise Launa and everyone by telling of
her speedy marriage, which was to take place
in one month exactly. And so she went
into the music-room.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Has that awful Carden man gone? I
am so hungry, Launa dear. Do say you
are hungry too, Mr. Wainbridge. I am
going to be married in a month.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She sighed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No wonder, then, that you are hungry,”
said Mr. Wainbridge, “with that awful
prospect you need restoratives of all sorts.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Lucky Mr. Herbert,” said Launa. “I
congratulate him.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How nice of you,” said Mrs. Phillips.
“I feared you might be small minded enough
to congratulate me. He is in the drawing-room—starving
too.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Let us go, then, to dinner,” said Launa.
“Mr. Herbert, you are so lucky.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That is good of you,” he answered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Merely decent of her,” said Mrs. Phillips.
“She knows my worth.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How are the spirits?” asked Wainbridge,
as Launa and he followed the other two into
the dining-room.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Good. Look at my eyes. Are they
red?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They are beautiful.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He took her hand for one moment; it was
an involuntary caress.</p>
<p class='pindent'>And they drank to the perfect happiness
of Mrs. Phillips and Mr. Herbert.</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch10'>CHAPTER X</h1></div>
<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>The</span> wedding was over. Mrs. Phillips had
become Mrs. Herbert. The accounts were
in all the papers, the guests were mentioned,
and the bride’s attire was described. She
wore mauve, a bonnet, and what was not
mentioned, a nervous air. The known
dangers of matrimony are worse in anticipation,
and more true, than the maiden bride’s
assurance of eternal bliss.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Miss Archer, an American beauty,” said
the Chronicler, “accompanied her to the
altar, and handed her a smelling-bottle.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. and Mrs. Herbert departed amid no
rice and no old slippers. Lily would not
have them. They went to hear the nightingales,
and to remember Rubinstein’s song:</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''><div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line0'>“The nightingale with fervent song</p>
<p class='line0'>Doth woo the rose the whole night long.”</p>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>For one whole week the weather was
glorious and unchangeable.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa was alone in Victoria Mansions.
Mr. George visited her with frequency, and
so did Mr. Wainbridge.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. George often came in the morning.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am at my worst early, Launa,” he
said, “and then I long for strong measures.
You are a strong measure. Your name
is so perfect, I could not spoil it with a
Miss,” he added apologetically.</p>
<p class='pindent'>All the old women would have called her
a bold Canadian had they not remembered
her money and success. England conquered
and annexed her Colonies; do not their
maidens annex her young men?</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa missed her father; between them
there was a perfect relationship; their minds
were in tune; she was so certain of his love
and care that she feared no diminution thereof.
He wrote to her often, and she thought
of shutting up the flat and going to join him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>On Lily’s wedding day, Mr. Wainbridge
told her he was obliged to travel with his
uncle for six weeks. The uncle, Lord
Wainbridge, had just constructed a novel;
it contained a pinch of all the crazes of the
day, and was clever, but not moral. Lord
Wainbridge became uneasy, and Lady
Wainbridge rampant with rage (designated
in this case Christian solicitude about his
fall) when she read it. She said the want
of morals was his own. She said many
things which he did not mind when she
only gave utterance to them; but he feared
ridicule as he feared nothing else; she said
he would be laughed at, so he fled to his
nephew, who always had sympathy for him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa received the tidings of Mr. Wainbridge’s
departure with indifference, though
she did feel it. And he decided that her
lack of vanity was her one fault. She really
appeared as if she did not care whether she
attracted him or not. But she thought very
much about him. His interest in her was
pleasant. It was more. It was necessary to
her, as much as anything can be necessary
over which we have no control, and without
which we must live if it is withdrawn.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The day of his last visit they spent in
reading, when he would have much rather
talked. But she had a new book.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How queer it is that the charm of so
few poems lasts,” she said. “What I loved
at sixteen I loathe now, and I suppose what
I love now I shall hate at thirty-five.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We change. You do not love a comic
song when your heart aches.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have no heart.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Because I said that, you think I meant
your heart,” he replied. “I did not.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Your own then?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Perhaps. Do you believe we are responsible
for evil?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I do not know. Are we responsible for
what we cannot help? I could not condemn
any one but myself. The existence of evil is
true, but how horrible! And how it spoils
our lives.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Spoils our lives,” he repeated. “You
are quite right! Tell me, can a man or
a woman love two people at once? Is it
possible to love evil and good?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa grew pale.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No one can <span class='it'>love</span> evil.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are right,” he said, with triumph.
“It is not love then. To do right, one
should love something, <span class='it'>someone</span>.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” she half whispered, “love someone,
even if they are beyond one’s reach.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You have comforted me. I must say
good-bye, now. No, I will see you once
again, to-night. In six weeks I shall come
back, and I shall be glad—glad. What shall
you be?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She did not answer, but stood up and
walked across the room to look at a photograph.
She would never go back to Canada,
<span class='it'>never</span>.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Where did you get that photograph?”
he asked. “Is it new? Who is it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was Paul. She had kept it locked up
until now.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is no one you know. It is only a
picture which reminds me of evil.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Take it down—shall I?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, no,” she said sharply. “We are
terribly in earnest,” she added, and gave a
little laugh.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She went to the window and looked out.
The lights were flashing, and the roar of the
city came up to her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Good-bye,” he said, taking her hand.
“Good-bye—<span class='it'>Behüt dich Gott</span>.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>That night Launa went to a dance, which
lasted until three in the morning. She wore
pink, and looked beautiful. The lust for
slaughter, for conquest, for admiration entered
into her. She could not love any man, she
assured herself, while she knew that she
thought only of Paul. But she possessed
power. She could <span class='it'>hurt</span>, and for that one
night she gloried in it. This was what the
man on the steamer had meant; this was
deadening; this was life and din; there was
no time to think.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Wainbridge was there; she gave him
one dance only, and he was angry, though
he rejoiced when Mr. George said to him:—</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Launa is miserable. Her eyes are unhappy;
she is feeling something.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She had expressed herself as yearning for
Norway, and that was all; but Mr. Wainbridge
thought she wanted him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The next morning she slept until it was
late; she was very tired; When her letters
were brought to her she did not open them.
She lazily drank her tea and looked at the
post-marks, wondering from whom they
were. She sent a wire to her father, saying
she would like to join him at once.</p>
<p class='pindent'>While she was dressing her maid brought
her a telegram. It might be about her new
dress, or Lady Blake’s picnic, or the concert
at which she was to play.</p>
<p class='pindent'>This was what she read:—</p>
<div class='literal-container' style=''><div class='literal'> <!-- rend=';fs:.9em;' -->
<p class='line' style='font-size:.9em;'> “Your father accidentally shot. Dying.</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:.9em;'>Come.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:2em;font-size:.9em;'>“<span class='sc'>Stevens.</span>”</p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='pindent'>Stevens was a friend who had joined her
father.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa looked at it; dying—not <span class='it'>dead</span>.
She drank her tea. It was, it must be some
detestable, horrible dream.</p>
<p class='pindent'>By twelve o’clock her boxes were packed;
and Launa and her maid started on their
long, almost useless, journey. To sit still and
wait was impossible, it was like watching for
someone who never came. The train tore
along, and the trees seemed to wave their
branches like hungry, relentless demons, as
if they would clutch all men; the sea was
cruel, and the steamer outrageously slow.</p>
<p class='pindent'>And Launa was too late.</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>After an absence of one week she came
back to London, crushed, weary, and heart-sick.
Her life seemed to be over. She had
seen him again, but he was dead. There
was nothing she could do, it was all over.
If only she had Paul! She could have
screamed with the torture of fate. She
realised the disappointment of life, that
nothing could be as it had been. A new life
might come to her, but she could never gather
the old one together again. Perhaps some
day she would be reminded of the past when
she had forgotten. To be reminded it is
necessary to have forgotten. But now she
suffered—now she wanted everything she
had not. She felt the torture of the vain
longing for the impossible; a blister on her
body would have been a relief; there was
one on her soul. She wished she had told
her father about Paul; she wished she could
forget Paul; she wished he were there with
her, and then she resolved again to forget
him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She wrote to Mr. Wainbridge and told
him of her terrible trouble. It was a relief
to pour out her mind to someone who
understood, and to whom she could say mad
things—whether he sympathised or not she
did not care.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She was rich, and inundated with letters of
sympathy. Each writer considered herself
the one consoler Launa required. Men do
not write that kind of letter; they merely
leave cards.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Carden sent pages of lamentation
and exhortation, interspersed with demands
for one interview, just one, with her dearest
Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Lily Herbert came up to town for the day.
She was sorry for Launa when she could
remember to be so. It was with great
difficulty she could disguise the cheerful grin
her countenance had assumed since her
marriage. She could not understand Launa’s
abandonment to grief. If Sir John had died
Lily would have wept, when reflecting on
her lonely position, and then have smiled
over the patterns of new mourning.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa remained dumb to her and with
her; Lily realised at last, with a certain sort
of awe, that Launa was stricken; that she
was full of sorrow which was not easily ended,
and that she could not bear attempts at consolation,
which were merely, and only could
be, attempts. Who can raise the dead?
Launa passed through the lonely dark valley
of nevermore—of hunger for one face, for
one word, which is so intense as to be
torture, and to which was added the desire
for the presence of a man whom she felt was
unfaithful to her. Could <span class='it'>she</span> bear another
man’s kisses? How could he then kiss
another woman?</p>
<p class='pindent'>To stay in London was impossible for her,
and so she chose to go to a little village in
Derbyshire which her father had loved as a
boy. The Black Country, with its barren
moors and lonely stonewalled hills, attracted
her; the warm valleys full of bracken and
alder bushes, through which the rushing
mountain streams tore, had a wild beauty
and a lulling power. It was very lonely and
bleak. She could walk for miles without
seeing anyone, and the people she did meet
were for the most part only villagers. Much
as she longed to see “Solitude” again, she
felt the impossibility of going there.</p>
<p class='pindent'>During all these long, long days of sorrow
and direful longing, Mr. Wainbridge wrote
to her. Almost every day a letter came, and
she began to look for them and to answer
them. At first she had only sent him
scrawls, but he had gradually drifted into an
intimate—a most intimate friend.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She often re-read his letters, and there was
more in them than the actual words said.
She gave him credit for an intuition which
he did not possess. He loved her, and he
divined that she did not love him; she could
almost love him for that. Women usually
love men for imaginary qualities. She
thought him brave and pure; she fancied he
loved what she did, instead of which he
loved her. <span class='it'>Her</span> personality made life interesting;
<span class='it'>her</span> playing made music an everlasting
joy.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The day after she was settled at Fair
View she had a long letter from him in
answer to her first coherent one.</p>
<div class='blockquoter9'>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:2em;'>“<span class='sc'>Schweitzerhof, Lucerne,</span></p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:6em;'>“<span class='it'>July 3rd</span>.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“At last! I was so glad to get your
letter this morning. First, I am going to
thank you from my heart for telling me
everything, and please remember that I can
never be bored by anything that concerns
you. Just believe that, and you will trust
me, and I may be able to help you with my
sympathy at any rate. Dear, I do sympathise,
and it is as if the trouble were my
own. I can dimly guess what a terrible loss
you have had, and I know that your relationship
with him was a perfect one. I am so
sorry that the letters I have written since I
left London have been so selfish and full of
my own feelings, while you are in such grief;
forgive them. I should love to hear that the
knowledge of my sympathy and care is something
to you. I need not tell you that I
would spare no trouble and no thought if I
could help you in the smallest degree, or if I
could save you one ounce of care or pain. I
know the hardness of it appals you. Can
I say or do anything to make you happier?</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have just been reading for the tenth
time ‘Andrea del Sarto.’ It is wonderful;
but how he longed for a soul in his wife, and
yet he loved her for her beauty, and she—‘again
the cousin’s whistle.’ It is so sad,
but how could she love him when she did
not understand him? And I suppose it
bored her to sit by the window with him
while he talked to her, and all the time she
was listening for the cousin’s whistle, and
wishing her husband would begin to paint
again. Surely ‘a man’s reach does always
exceed his grasp.’ If it did not, we
should not want a Heaven at all. Browning
knew things, didn’t he?</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We are not coming back for some weeks
yet, and it makes me sad, for I long to hear
your voice again. I love your voice.—</p>
<p class='noindent'>“Yours,</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:2em;'>“C. H. W.”</p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>A course of these letters was very comforting.
To be necessary to someone is what
many women are obliged to be, instead of
being loved.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The days were long and full of pain. She
did not grow accustomed to it. The wound
was as open and sore as at first. It was a
relief to be alone, and to be allowed to be
sorrowful. There was no peace, no joy
anywhere.</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch11'>CHAPTER XI</h1></div>
<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Lily Herbert</span> as Lily Phillips had realised
the importance of keeping her husband’s
love, not his toleration. Mr. Phillips had
been affectionate always, and she had tolerated
him. She remembered it all; she had
been so relieved and glad when he was away
from her, his kisses nauseated her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>With Herbert life was joy, and, had she
not firmly believed it could not last, real
happiness would have been hers.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Their honeymoon had lasted for three
weeks, three weeks of absolute happiness,
tempered only by her husband’s reflections
of sorrow for Launa—for he admired Launa.
Lily did likewise, and she feared her, too.
Lily wondered whether she was to be the
one who cared most; in all marriages one
cares more than the other. She had always
felt a contempt for women who show they
care while their husbands seem indifferent.
She blamed them; they were no longer
desirable to their husbands; they were within
reach. Someone must lead, so she took
it: fear lest he should change or grow tired
lent terror to all her ideas and movements.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They were staying in Surrey. The house
was small, with a garden which was a bower
of roses, with beautiful lawns and large cedar
trees. They lived out of doors. Mr. Herbert
did not work, and she took to embroidery.
He told her she looked absolutely lovely
when she sewed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She laughed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There is something syren-like about
you,” he said. “You will never grow old;
you could not become unattractive.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thank you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is that all—is that all you are going to
say to me, only thank you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“All,” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He came over by her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Your hands are so beautiful. I would
like to live like this always.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It would not be always June and warm,”
she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I love you, love you absolutely—what
can change it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What?” she repeated, even while she
feared. “Don’t ask, you will spoil it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You never—will not often let me kiss
you. Why is it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I hate kissing.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will kiss you,” he said masterfully.
“You are mine, mine, mine. You are an
enchantress, a witch. When I am with you,
or away from you, I think of nothing but
you. My life is all you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He took her in his arms gently. She remembered
with a shudder those horrible
embraces of her first marriage. He kissed
her lips, those warm red lips which were one
of her chief beauties; but it was all done so
gently.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You were afraid of me,” he said.
“Heavens! here is someone coming to call.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And you have crushed my blouse,” she
said reproachfully.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was Lady Blake.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How are you both?” she asked, as she
rustled towards them, pretty, smiling, and
glancing from one to the other.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Very happy,” said Mr. Herbert. “The
nightingales are still singing.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah,” said Lady Blake, as she seated
herself in his chair, and accepted a cushion
from him. “Happy—there is something
subdued about happiness. I want you to
come and stay with me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“When is your uncle coming home?”
Lily said to her husband.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“In a week,” he replied.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“In a week then,” said Mrs. Herbert,
“we would like to come to you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>After Lady Blake left he said:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And now it is over.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not over,” she answered, “just beginning.
We stay at Blake House for two
weeks, and then papa wants us.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Herbert acquiesced. He had given
in to her conditions, and he knew what she
did not or pretended not to believe, that he
loved her with all his soul. He would go
with cheerfulness to Lady Blake’s, anything
to prolong the honeymoon, and he hoped
Lily would forget her proposed arrangement
when they returned to town. That oblivion
might descend on her mind he prayed!</p>
<p class='pindent'>After their visits they went back to
London.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They arrived one morning about twelve,
and drove to her flat in Sloane Street, he
had his luggage sent to his rooms which
were two streets further on.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I think we might take a larger flat,” he
suggested. “It would be cheaper and less
trouble.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She laughed and answered:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“By and by. You remember our bargain?
We are not to grow tired like other
people or to see too much of each other—enough
of each other.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And so one of us is to be always miserable,”
he said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Isn’t it better?” she asked. “Isn’t
anything better than for either of us to be
tired?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>There were tears in her eyes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, my beloved, it is not better. Will
you not think it over? Will you—” he held
her hand. “We are so happy, we shall be
always. It will last, I swear it will—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The cab stopped and she got out.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She gave herself a little shake as she went
up in the lift. How perilously near giving
in she had been! What would it be to her
to lose the lover? A husband is a poor
exchange. No, she would be firm.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The little flat looked very pretty, there
were flowers everywhere. Her two maids
welcomed her with smiles and blushes.
Lunch was ready.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Herbert went to take off her hat.
Her own room was decorated with white
flowers; it was a dear little white and green
room.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I should like to wash my hands,” said
her husband meekly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, you may. I will show you my
room. Now that we are married I can show
you everything. There is a delightful
sensation of freedom as well as of bondage in
matrimony.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She took him into her room and left him
there.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That is my spare room,” she said, and
pointed to a door. “It will be your room
when I ask you to stay here.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There is something unusually novel in
being asked to stay with one’s wife. It is as
if you had me on approval.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t say that,” she suggested. “No,
you belong to me now.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I wish I did. You are like the angel
with the drawn sword at the gate of the
Garden of Eden. He was not placed there
until after Eve had eaten the apple. I suppose
I have had a bite of my apple.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are anticipating. You are borrowing
trouble. Wash your hands and come to
lunch.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He looked into the next room. It was
yellow and white, and dainty and fresh. A
row of his boots would disfigure it. His
bachelor quarters seemed so dull in comparison.
The faint smell of violets came from
her clothes, he used her hair brush, and
looked at her shoes lingeringly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They ate their lunch and smoked afterwards.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This is lovely!” he said, with a sigh.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And how unlike matrimony. The
average husband likes to use his authority at
first, and says he will have the pictures
altered, and he cannot sleep in a bed which
runs from east to west, or from north to
south or—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He looked at her rather sadly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are not an average wife, and I am
little more than a bachelor even now.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are a very nice one.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Will you come and see my abode? You
have seen my sitting-room, but Mrs. Grant
has it all done up, and so you must pay
me a visit.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do you remember one day when I went
to have tea with you, and Mrs. Carson disappointed
us? How terrified I was that
someone might see me, though you told the
minion to say you were out. Every time
the bell rang I thought it was a man who
would force his way in; do you remember?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do I not remember? Put on your
hat.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will change my dress. You will wait?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“For ever,” with a smile and a glance.</p>
<p class='pindent'>So far they both felt matrimony a success;
desire had not failed. When would it?</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joy was clouded by apprehension in her
mind; in his there was no doubt, no fear.
He knew himself better than she did. They
walked together to his rooms. He showed
her all over them. His housekeeper, Mrs.
Grant, welcomed her. She too had arranged
flowers in plenty.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How will you have this room furnished?”
he asked, as he threw open the door. It
was a large room, the best one in a set of
four. It had been his work-room, but he
had given it up for another, and a dark
one.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This is to be your room when you come
to stay.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She smiled. There was a touch of genius
in his suggestion—more a touch of impropriety—which
appealed to her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You will ask me to stay?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sometimes,” he replied. “Not too often,
lest you grow weary of me and find fault
with the housekeeping.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Pale pink would be pretty for the room
decorations, and also be becoming. I would
come more frequently if it were becoming.”
She turned to look at his pictures. “Oh!
here is a photograph of Launa. She gave it
to you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” he replied.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She is beautiful, and what a queer girl!
I had no idea her father’s death would make
her so wretched. She was perfectly crushed.
She behaved as if he were her lover.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He was very fond of her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He was devoted to her. I cannot quite
make her out. She is—there is a history
somewhere. I did not know she had given
you her photograph. I suppose she gave
them to everyone. She did not keep them
only for people she cared for. I am glad,”
she said suddenly, “that I have enough
money to do without yours.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I can give you presents.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And ask me to stay.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“For always. I ask you now,” he said.
“I beg you. Will you stay always with me?
Not in these rooms, but we can have one
flat together.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You promised,” she answered, with a
slightly unsteady voice. “You promised—don’t.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>To remind a man of his promise when he
wants to break it, frequently means the
woman would not mind if he did, and if he
insists she will give in. It betrays weakness.
He put his arms round her and said nothing,
but he gave no orders for the immediate
furnishing of one large flat. Her experiment
should be tried. He had no desire or intention
of forcing her to give in nor of being
master; just then she would have liked him
to be master, but how can a man know these
things?</p>
<p class='pindent'>They went back to her rooms for dinner.
She put on a creamy gown trimmed with
lace; he gave her some pale pink roses and
fastened them on. He never forgot her
flowers.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In the evening they sat in the big window
and looked out at the moon—it rose, a
big round shining moon. They were silent.
At last she said:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The stars are larger than the moon, but
how faint beside it. The moon is nearer.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That is what one feels sometimes,” he
answered. “One loves the stars, but the
moon is nearer.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, it is nearer. Would you feel so?
Am I the moon or a star? Of what are you
thinking?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Of you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Of me. Think of something nice.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are not nice. You are original, and
that is never nice. How lonely I shall be
to-night!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And I.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Here Mr. George walked in.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have come,” he said, “to condole with
you both on being married.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How kind of you!” said Lily.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And to ask you, Mrs. Herbert, whether
the bird in the hand is worth two in the
bush? There were two in your bush. Do
gratify my desire—my ardent desire—for
information.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will,” she replied. “First I must give
you some coffee and ask you to look at
the moon.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Moon,” repeated Mr. George. “There
are many moons; this is the old moon, not
your kind, and this one is lovely. Was your
moon full of honey?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No,” replied Mr. Herbert, lighting a
cigarette, “ours was without anything sickly
or monotonous.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Or satiating?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Exactly,” answered Mr. Herbert.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Tell me now, Mrs. Herbert, about the
bush. Is it not better to have two in the
bush than the bird in your hand?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Are you asking merely as a journalist,
Mr. George? Or do you honestly desire
information?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I desire honest information and information
honestly.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Two in the bush,” she repeated.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sir Ralph and Mr. Buxton,” suggested
the inquirer softly. “Perhaps you prefer the
bird in your hand as well as the two in
the bush, for they are still there. They have
returned to town, and are looking more
cheerful than they appeared at your wedding.
If you remember, they left that festive scene
early, before your departure for the desert of
matrimony.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The bird in the hand is enough for me,”
said Lily, “enough now.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah!” said her husband, with an air of
abstraction, “now.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, now,” she said defiantly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Now,” repeated Mr. George, with exaggerated
emphasis. “Why are we all talking
of now? Tell me about Launa, Mrs.
Herbert? Where is she?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” said Mr. Herbert, “where is she?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will make you both a present of her
address,” said Lily. “She will not see you;
you can both write volumes to her, and you,
Mr. George, will at once rush by the night
or the morning train to see her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, time and distance will merely mellow
her affection for me. I am very fond of her,
too fond, for I love her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Dear me,” said Lily. “In what way do
you love her? Hopelessly, madly, platonically,
or matrimonially?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not matrimonially, because I could never
tire of her; not platonically, platonic people are
too clever and enjoy their experiences too
much to be indifferent, but they never want
to kiss each other. I might—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“These are revelations,” said Mr. Herbert.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Go on,” commanded Lily.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I can’t. Launa is perfect. I fear she
does not love me. When I call her Launa,
her eyelids never quiver. Did you ever
quiver, Mrs. Herbert?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Never.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are intellectual. I am going to
write a book and call it ‘Marriage.’ There
will be various assortments in it. Platonic
matrimony is interesting.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Very,” said Lily.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She went away to get the address for him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wainbridge is very fond of Miss Archer,”
said George, when he was alone with Herbert.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She looked ill when I last saw her. I am
going to write to her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Tell her—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Tell her what?” asked Lily, returning as
he spoke.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That we are perfectly, indefinitely happy.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How unlucky of you, Jack. You never
should boast about happiness. It will go.
How dreadful of you. I know something
will go wrong.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You have no nerve,” said Mr. Herbert.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“These connubial differences so early in
your matrimonial career are most embarrassing,”
said Mr. George. “Later you will
seldom or never differ, or differ altogether.
Thus do the early quarrels of husband and
wife evolve themselves. I must go.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Shall we ever become indifferent?” she
asked. “Shall we ever grow old and cold
and—?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Grey,” interrupted Herbert. “The
moon will change and not shine.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They gazed at each other as if appalled by
their remarks.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Anyway the moon does not shine solely
for you,” said Mr. George. “Farewell.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Herbert accompanied him to the
door, and when he came back to her, Lily
said:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Good-night, you must go home.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is so late for me to be out, and I want
to stay with you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No. You must go,” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“May I come to breakfast?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“At a quarter-past nine.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Good-night, my darling, my—good-night.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He lingered. He was loath to go, and she
almost said, “Stay, never go;” but she did
not say it, and so he left her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She missed him. He had gone away indifferently,
and had not seemed to mind.
She had ordered a special breakfast for him
next day. Where had he gone after leaving
her? The moon and the star comparison
returned to her mind. Then she wrote to
Sir Ralph Egerton, telling him to come to
see her. Had Jack borne their first parting
with indifference?</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was part of the plan that the wife should
not worry whether her husband suffered indifference
or any other malady. Worry
causes sleepless nights and wrinkles. Mrs.
Herbert went to bed, but the moon shone in
and she could not sleep. She hoped he
could not; nor did he.</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch12'>CHAPTER XII</h1></div>
<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Mrs. Herbert</span> was at home. Her drawing-room
had been crowded. Sir Ralph Egerton
had paid his first visit, and was more admiring,
more devoted than ever. Lily had
increased in value in his eyes now that
another man had appropriated her. Her
desirability was greater because she was out
of reach.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Lily was looking particularly well. Sir
Ralph had brought her a wedding present
and an invitation to go to the play with him.
The guests had all left, and he had not succeeded
in persuading her to come when Mr.
Wainbridge came in, followed by Mr. Herbert.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sir Ralph wants me to go to the theatre
to-night,” she said, turning to her husband.
“You are not asked.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I shall be delighted if you will come,”
said Sir Ralph politely.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I cannot,” answered Mr. Herbert. “You
have forgotten your engagement, Lily, to
come with me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So I have. Sir Ralph, will you dine
here to-morrow night and we can go somewhere?
I won’t ask you, dear,” she said
to her husband, “for you would not be
amused.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Many thanks, I will come at eight to-morrow,”
said Sir Ralph. “Good-bye.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Tell me about yourself,” said Lily to Mr.
Wainbridge. “How are you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Herbert left them alone.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am very well. I want you to help me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To help you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Will you try to get Miss Archer to
come back to town? I cannot go to Derbyshire
to see her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You want to see her?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Very much.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will do what I can. You want to
marry her?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Perhaps.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Marriage is not peace—not always.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is better than separation and distance,”
he replied. “Where are you and
your husband going?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Out—to the opera and then to supper
somewhere.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>After he went away Lily wrote to Launa
and then dressed and went out with her
husband. They were so happy when they
were together, and his absences, ordered by
herself, were so trying—he was kind and
strong, moreover he loved her. How
terrible if he were to forget, to grow cold!
She hardened her heart—her way was the
best. She forgot that a day comes when
passion must grow cooler; then it is that
friendship seasoned by passion takes its
place, and makes life rest and sweetness.
She was torn with jealousy lest he might
care for some other woman, for if he were to,
he would not settle down to the dull, assured
matrimonial existence when he grew used to
her, and probably seek amusement elsewhere.
This was her way of keeping his
love. She let him see her seldom, not
often alone. He heard of her flirtations
from herself. She loved him absolutely,
and she feared the force of her love might
cause his to grow cold, therefore she kept
him at a distance and hungered for a sign,
for a caress from him, while she never
betrayed her feelings.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The next day Launa received the following
letter. She was starting for a long walk
when it came, and read it on the way.</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<div class='blockquoter9'>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='sc'>My Dearest Launa</span>,—How are you?
We are longing to see you. Do come to
London. Are you not coming for your
music? Mr. Wainbridge was here to-day.
He is much concerned, dear, that you do not
come back to town. He fears you may
be going to Canada to leave us all. Jack is
most anxious to see you too. We are still
happy, madly, gloriously, interruptedly
happy. Interruptions are salutary—they
add joy to the everydayness of life. Dear
Launa, <span class='it'>do</span> come back soon.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:4em;'>“Thine as ever,</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:2em;'>“L. H.”</p>
</div>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>Launa went across the moor to the “Cat
and Fiddle.” Only by long walks could she
kill the restlessness which overcame her.
She was longing to hear some music again,
and Lily’s letter arrived at exactly the very
best time for Mr. Wainbridge.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Wainbridge wrote almost every day.
He sent her books, music, and flowers. He
tried to induce her to come to town. He
told her that he loved her with a love of
the soul, that his one longing was to comfort
her, to endeavour to make up for the grief
and despair of the past. She thought of
him with interest. He possessed the
glamour of a lover for her without any of
the disadvantages of being enamoured herself.
This was an affection of the mind—a
soul-love that he felt for her; it lulled
her into security. She resolved to leave in
a week for London, there to begin her music
again.</p>
<p class='pindent'>As she walked home across the moor, she
thought of the days at “Solitude” with her
father—she felt old and sad. Work only
was left; her aspirations on first coming to
London seemed the foolish yearnings of a
child for the moon. She would <span class='it'>do</span> something—play,
work, and forget with her heart
and soul, and also she <span class='it'>would</span> care for some
person. This unsatisfied longing for the
woods, for her father and the old life must
be crushed, and speedily. How easy it was
to label her longings! She did not add the
desire for one word from Paul to them, and
yet that was the greatest one of all. Lily’s
suggestion that she might intend to go to
Canada again filled her with loathing. How
could she face “Solitude”?</p>
<p class='pindent'>And so she and her maid journeyed to
Victoria Mansions. Lily came to welcome
her, and expressed herself as being enchanted
with life, though really Jack and she were
starting on an unsatisfactory wild-goose
chase. Occasionally they had a day together—sometimes
he merely came to dine when
she was having a party. Sir Ralph spent
many and long days with her; they went
about together, and Jack waited. He had a
firm belief in his own future with her. She
would tire of this life and be glad to rest,
and know he would care always.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When Launa had set her house in order,
and had the piano tuned, she began to take
music lessons again.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Wainbridge came at once to see her.
She wanted to take up their friendship where
they had left it before their letter-writing;
he had added the letters, the wishes and
imaginings of their separation to it. At first
this intentional game of cross-purposes
amused him. She would not understand
what any one might have seen.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She wanted friendship, only bounded by
all the old opinions, with love-making confined
to books. There was a grey shadow
between her and love-making. Mr. Wainbridge
saw it and was patient.</p>
<p class='pindent'>About this time Launa met the Coopers.
Mrs. Cooper was a relic as well as a relict—her
one daughter Sylvia was of the present
day. They were very poor, and Sylvia
worked very hard.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Cooper knew how to dress in silk or
satin, decorated with lace; but to adapt herself
to serge was quite beyond her capabilities.
She was a woman who could only order a
dinner of an era which is passing away.
Clear soup, turbot, or cod-fish, with thick
sauce, roast beef, a heavy pudding, plum or
cabinet—no savoury—and for dessert candied
fruit and oranges. Dainty dinners and
economy were unknown to her. Sylvia did
the housekeeping, and Mrs. Cooper wept.
Her husband had been angelic, with a
decided turn for unpunctuality, which is the
prerogative of angels. This was a daily
cross to his wife, and her husband bore her
revilings with a saintly and irritating fortitude.
Sylvia Cooper was pretty. She was
small and pale, with browny green eyes and
brown hair. She met Mr. George at Victoria
Mansions; he had vainly tried to get introduced
to her. He went to the editor of
the <span class='it'>Signal</span>, the new paper which was to be
the signal for every one’s opinions—lords and
ladies, ballet girls, actresses and actors, all
wrote for it; only managers did not write
for it, and they disliked it. The notoriety
the publication of opinions brought was not
always agreeable.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. George thought of interviewing Miss
Cooper, as she sang in the chorus of the
newest and most dull opera.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The editor of the <span class='it'>Signal</span> said if she were
pretty he would have her photograph, and
if she had broken any of the commandments,
he would allow the interview to be published.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. George said she was pretty, and as
for the commandments, Miss Cooper looked
as if she had never heard of them. So he
started for the Fulham Road, where she lived.</p>
<p class='pindent'>First he saw Mrs. Cooper. She received
him with the graciousness his clothes and
boots deserved. When he explained his
errand she gasped with horror.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Fortunately at this moment Sylvia entered
and the tragic situation ended. Mr. George
asked questions and obtained her photograph
for the paper.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will not repeat any of the opinions you
confide in me,” he said. “If I did, and you
said you preferred fine days to rainy ones,
you would see in all the papers that Miss
Cooper owns to a fondness for fine days, but
she need not imagine that Heaven will be
gracious to <span class='it'>her</span> at the expense of the farmers.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Or cab drivers,” said Sylvia. “Showery
weather must be their harvest time. Still
no paper will notice my opinions. Why
did you come to interview me? I am
nobody.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I want to get your ideas on chorus
work.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes? Well, you shall have them by
and by. We need not talk of my feelings or
of my preferences—but will you have some
tea?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He owned to being a friend of Launa’s
and a cousin of Sir Anthony Howard’s.
Mrs. Cooper forgave everything then, and
found his visit of over an hour too short.
As soon as he left he drove to Victoria
Mansions.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa had just come in. She had lunched
at the Herberts’. Mr. Wainbridge as usual
was with her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You will never guess where I have
been,” said Mr. George, with complacency,
accepting a third cup of tea. Launa’s tea
was always good; at Sylvia’s there was no
cream. “I suppose,” he reflected, “there
are lives without cream.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Tell me where you have been.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Interviewing Miss Cooper for the
<span class='it'>Signal</span>, and here is her photograph.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not really,” said Launa, with interest.
“How naughty of you when I refused to
introduce you to her, for I do not approve
of you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Now, Miss Launa, you are real mean,
as you Yankees say.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am a Canadian.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know it. Haven’t I kept your secret?
Did I ever tell Mr. Wainbridge how you fell
violently in love with me and told me so,
and how you would hold my hand? And
how I did stroke yours? I was obliged to
that night of the Fulton’s ball. The night
you cried—you had just been dancing with
Mr. Wainbridge—you said you were tired—you
said—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is nothing new for Miss Archer to be
tired,” interrupted Mr. Wainbridge. “Did
she see a ghost? She saw one, I remember,
on a Sunday afternoon.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And you are base,” said Launa. “I will
not invite you to any of my parties to meet
Sylvia. You have thus betrayed my
tenderest feelings and my tears. For what
paper was your interview?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The <span class='it'>Signal</span>, I told you. Now, don’t roll
your eyes, Launa; you are not shocked, I
know. What could I do? You see you
would not introduce me to her; Wainbridge
said he could not; Mrs. Herbert is so much
married <span class='it'>à la mode</span>, that I, a young and
innocent young man, cannot risk my slender
reputation in her company. Then I thought
of the <span class='it'>Signal</span>. Their leave was easily procured;
they have no intention of paying me,
and they will publish her photograph some
day. Her mother was alarmed when she
heard why I had come. I trotted out my
cousin, Sir Anthony, and you, Launa. We
had tea, and I am going again soon; perhaps
they may come with me some Sunday
afternoon somewhere.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Indefinite,” said Mr. Wainbridge, “but
convincing of your affection for her. Take
care.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Tell me about Sylvia,” said Mr. George.
“Wainbridge, you know her well. Isn’t
there a story attached to her?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Tell us,” said Launa. “Do.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“When the Coopers were well off, only
two years ago, Sylvia met Lord Fairmouth.
He is in Africa, or somewhere.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Go on,” said Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are quite safe, I know; but that
young ruffian, will he tell?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Tell,” repeated Mr. George. “I long
to kick you down the stairs, Mr. Wainbridge.
Go on.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sylvia did not know he was married,
and they met every day. He loved her.
His wife was a woman who—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Who belonged to every and any man
as well as to him,” suggested Mr. George.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sylvia, then,” continued Mr. Wainbridge,
“was very religious. She did not
believe in marriage after divorce. Fairmouth
could easily have got rid of his wife;
but Sylvia was firm, so he left her and then
went away. She probably sent him.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How terrible!” said Launa. “Could
they not have met sometimes? Might not
his love have been a comfort to her?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Moralists say not,” said Mr. Wainbridge.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Such love cannot be real,” said Launa.
“I used to think love was immortal.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It would be immortal,” said Mr. George.
“Too pure for this earth.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The two men looked at her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Almost thou persuadest me that such
things can be,” said Mr. George.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have learned such a lot,” she said, “in
London. Love is marriage and an end.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am not going to murmur marriage to
Sylvia,” said Mr. George. “I have left it
out altogether in my new book, the difficulty
was to dispose of my man and woman. I
overcame that by saying, ‘The end is the
usual one.’ To return to Sylvia. I am not
afraid of a breach of promise, but nowadays
marriage is labelled a ‘question,’ and the reviewers
are so tired of it; they are all
married. I fear I must leave you now,
Miss Launa. Good-bye.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Be a good boy! Don’t chase the cat
or—Good-bye.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Suppose you were situated as they
were,” said Mr. Wainbridge, “would you
have sent him away? Would you have
been afraid?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Afraid?” she repeated, with a contempt
for fear. “No, I would have loved him—forever
and ever. Why, because a man is
bound to a vile woman, need he make the
woman he loves vile because he loves her,
or because he is bound?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She looked at him, flushed with excitement,
and doing battle for truth, and he
realised that to some women love does not
mean temptation because they are usually
ignorant—at first. It would be difficult to
explain this to Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know not,” he whispered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I often wish,” she said, half to herself,
“that we knew more of what will happen
after death, if we were only told—should we
try more? There is such temptation to become
lethargic—to drown remembrance in
the waters of Lethe.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You have no temptation. Do you want
a reward? That is the lowest type of
religion.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I do not want crowns, and vast seas of
gold have no charm for me. Do you not
suppose that Sylvia often wonders whether
she will meet and know the man she loves
again?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Certainly she does, and she will see him
and know him here. He won’t be able to
stay away.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You don’t believe in a future anywhere?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I believe in another world,” he said, “in
another life where a verdict of temporary insanity
as regards the foolishness of man’s
doings in this life will be given with frequency.
Most of us are not responsible for
what we do. You know if a man or a
woman kills his or herself the jury usually
call it suicide while temporarily insane. Many
of us commit self-murder for this life, but,
in the eyes of the higher jury, if it exist at
all, we are temporarily insane.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t say if it exist; it must, else it
were never worth one’s while to give up
anything.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is giving up worth it? Is it?” he
asked. “Why not take all one can get? it
is little enough. I love you,” he added
softly, and put one arm round her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t,” she said sharply, “<span class='it'>don’t</span>; I cannot
bear being touched.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You love me?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, I love no one. I like you, we are
friends. You like what I do. You must not
spoil it by loving me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What did George mean when he said
you had cried one night after dancing with
me?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I cannot tell you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I did not offend you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No; oh, no. It had nothing to do with
you personally. Can’t we be as we were?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have always loved you. I long to
help and comfort you, to make you happy.
Do you think that impossible?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why ask inconvenient questions?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is it inconvenient? My dearest, I did
not mean it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Because she cares for me she was afraid
happiness was never coming,” he thought.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A man always attributes a woman’s
refusing to tell him how much she cares to
her being too shy to talk of it; never to her
not caring enough. “Yet does she care?”
he wondered. That he might still doubt,
and not be obliged to think of settlements
and the wedding ring was satisfactory, it left
an element of uncertainty in their relations;
he could dare to be tender, yet not too
loving. Men marry because there is nothing
else to do, he thought. They know all
about their future wives, their affection is
returned, it is satiating—there is nothing
new.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Ten minutes afterwards Launa was
singing Darkey songs for him, and laughing
as if her quest for happiness were over—successfully.</p>
<p class='pindent'>As he bade her good-bye, she gave him
her hand.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is that all?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes; all. Next time I shall not shake
hands, between friends it is unnecessary.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I can wait.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do,” she replied. “You could not well
do anything else.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He could not feel sure that it was time
even to think a wedding ring would ever be
required.</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch13'>CHAPTER XIII</h1></div>
<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>London</span> and December—fogs and fires—cosy
rooms and misery, side by side.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Lily came to breakfast, and found her
husband waiting with her letters.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Good-morning,” she said politely.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Bad-morning,” returned he morosely.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why have you come? I said neither of
us was to disturb the other when either was
ill.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am not ill. I have arrived because
you chose me for better, for worse, and now
you let me have my breakfast alone. I hate
breakfast, and I love you. You do not greet
me with joy.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He came over to put his arm round her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“After breakfast. It is too early for anything
except tea.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That cup which does not inebriate. I
wish to Heaven it would or could inebriate
you. You might be less cold, less—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Married.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You speak as though you expected this—as
though this phase of ours is not new to
you. Is it a phase?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I do not know. I fear—oh, Jack, why
is it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>This cry for information was at least
human.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is this detestable flat system. Let us
go and live in a house—with stairs,” said
Jack.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She laughed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How amusing. The stairs would not
make me—or you—different.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am tired of being alone.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I thought you were going to say of being
married. Loneliness is the philosopher’s joy.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am a man, not a philosopher.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And my husband.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, your husband.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why do you sigh?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Did I sigh?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Have some more tea.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will. I do feel cheered. Perhaps if I
stayed here all day, and you made tea for
me, I should feel contented.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You have not yet told me why you
came.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hans Breitmann gib ein barty. Where
is that barty now?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Who is going to ‘gib ein barty’?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am,” he replied.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Am I to be invited?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If you are good.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am always good. I am not always
happy.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And the pious books say, if you were
the one you would be the other. Bertie’s
play is to come off on the 16th. He has got
me a box. You want to see it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes. It is said to be clever.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Bertie isn’t,” said Herbert.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He did not write it, Miss Fisher did.
She will get half the profits. But who are
the ‘barty’?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You and I, Sylvia, George, Wainbridge,
and Launa.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Too respectable, married and dull. We
are to do wedded felicity, while they seek to
imitate us. They are known to be desirous
of so doing.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Who else can I ask?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sir Ralph, Lady Hastings. Leave out
Launa and Mr. Wainbridge. Sylvia and
Mr. George will do, if she can come. She is
still moon-struck, or lord-struck, or virtue-struck.
Why did she send him away? She
will never marry Mr. George.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I thought Launa was your friend?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So she is.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I do not advise anyone to marry, do
you? It is an uncertain, disquieting bondage,
even our way.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Even our way,” she repeated.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jack thought he detected a sign of disappointment
in her acquiescence. It is all
very well to abuse oneself while seeking contradiction,
but to have one’s husband call the
joy of matrimony uncertain—that brings
uneasiness into the mind of the wife.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Lily ate some toast, and felt disappointed.
He did not love her more because of her
inaccessibility.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You will come to see the play with me?
We shall have supper at the Savoy.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Very well. You will ask Sir Ralph and
Lady Hastings?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I think not.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sir Ralph is very fond of me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So am I.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Are you? I want to sit next to him
at supper.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You can sit by me, dear.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why not call me ‘my love’? That is
what a husband usually calls his wife, ‘my
love’—it is a sort of mockery—‘my love’
when it is dead and gone.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My love is not dead nor gone.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yet you will not please me about Sir
Ralph. If we gave up this detestable flat
system, the inviting and arranging of parties
would be left to me, my lord.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You may ask all the people you like,
dear. You may give a ball, if you will, only
live in a house with stairs.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not yet, dear.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I must go now, and leave you. Every
time I leave you it grows harder. Why
must it be?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will come to your party on the 16th,
and I will bring Sir Ralph.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I do not want him.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, you do. Did you get my gloves?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They will come to-day. Good-bye.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Quickly he put his arm round her and
rapidly kissed her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Go home,” she replied. “Matrimonial
endearments thus early in the morning are
unusual and uncomfortable.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then she sat down and read her letters.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He won’t ask Sir Ralph,” she thought.
“Shall I go? I am tired of Sir Ralph, and
Jack never bores me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She ordered her husband’s favourite
pudding for lunch, and arranged the flowers,
but he did not come. He was afraid of
wearying her, and sat in his rooms, wanting
to go to what he called the Haven, but
not daring. A drawn sword hovered over
his Paradise. After lunch Lily wrote to him.</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<div class='blockquoter9'>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='sc'>My Dearest</span>,—You thought me a cold
brute this morning, I know. Can’t you
understand how it is? I am so terribly
afraid of your ceasing to care that I seem so
indifferent? Marriage we all know does not
increase love. And I feel that if I were once
to show you how much I love you you would
change. Your love would grow less; we
cannot stand still; and I am trying to control
fate, to hold you and to keep you forever. I
know that my power over you would vanish
if you were sure of me, and if we were to
settle down in a house with stairs, you would
soon regard me as an article of furniture—necessary
perhaps to your comfort, but to be
easily replaced if broken. You are such a
husband now; that is what I resent, and you
are too fond of coming to breakfast; why are
you not my lover still? If I were your
mistress you would come and dine with me,
and we should be perfectly happy. You
would not dream of inquiring what men
or man had called, and the duration of each
visit; you must make love to me as you used
to do and trust me absolutely. I am yours—I
think of you always, not sometimes but
<span class='it'>always</span>, and I hunger for your presence,
for your touch. But I could not bear your
toleration, and I loathe the husband attitude
you sometimes assume. Do you do it because
you fear to weary me with your caresses?
I think so, but you are wrong. I love
you, love you. What a fool I am!—</p>
<p class='noindent'>“Yours,</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:2em;'>“L.”</p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>After writing this she went to call on her
husband’s aunts. They as usual reduced her
to a state of irritability, and she walked home
full of reflections upon boredom. This was
rapidly dispersed by Sir Ralph, who was waiting
for her with a new book. Tea restored
her mind to its normal balance, and conversation,
with a cigarette, brought back her
belief in herself. That morning she had
been singularly near leaning on Jack. Sir
Ralph amused her, he was so easily hurt,
and in such open bondage to her. While
talking with him, the impossibility of a
<span class='it'>grande passion</span> in these days manifested
itself to her. She got up and went to her
writing-table—in a drawer was her letter to
Jack. She had intended to send it to him
after dinner; it would have brought him to
her at once. For one night anyway she
would have experienced exquisite happiness.
She shut her eyes, remembering the perfect
joy; it was almost pain to think of her love
for him. Then she hurriedly tore up the
letter, and burned it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is strange how many phases one’s
mind goes through in a day,” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her letter burned quickly and curled up,
as if the flames hurt it, and it was in pain.
She moved uneasily, for it almost hurt her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This morning I was different.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Were you?” asked Sir Ralph. “My
mind never changes. I am always the
same.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How very dull! I am never the same.
Are you asked to the party of my lord and
master on the 16th?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You have heard nothing of it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not yet. I wanted you to come with
me to see the new ballet on the 16th. I
came to ask you. Now, I suppose, you will
not come.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know not. Shall I not? Yes, I will
come—alone!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Alone! So much the better, and to
supper afterwards at the Savoy?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Good. You will wear?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Black.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will send you some flowers.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The advantages of matrimony are supreme.
I am enjoying it immensely.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Really? I should have thought it might
be dull for you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, no; not with all of you to amuse
me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>After he left she dressed and went to a
party, where she met him again. It was a
cheerful entertainment, without any dull
people to ask questions. Mrs. Herbert found
several ladies took much interest in her
affairs, and in her husband’s whereabouts.
They did not ask such questions twice, but
it annoyed her to know of what they thought.
They blamed Jack. As a husband he ought
to look after that young woman.</p>
<p class='pindent'>For the next few days, Mrs. Herbert
avoided being alone with her husband. She
invited him to lunch when other people
were present, and he did not enjoy it, though
he comforted himself by thinking of the
16th. Mr. Herbert made arrangements for
his wife to stay all night at his abode, and
found himself strung up to a pitch of joyful
expectation.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In those days of waiting, her mood was
uncertain, morose, absurd, and cross at
intervals. Mr. Herbert waited for his day of
reckoning; he intended to settle all things
on that eventful night, to have all or
nothing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They were at the theatre watching the
new play. Launa, Sylvia, Mr. George, and
Mr. Wainbridge. Mr. Herbert was watching
for Lily. She was often late.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A note was brought to him; he opened it
with indifference, which did not last. His
wife had sent it as she drove off with Sir
Ralph to see the ballet.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Herbert left the theatre and walked
up and down outside, mad with rage and
heartache. Fool, fool, that he had been; to
love her, to trust her. She had killed love
and trust, he assured himself; while all the
time he knew she had not, that was the
greatest torture.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Herbert and Sir Ralph had a box at
the Grosvenor. Her dress was most becoming,
which is the wine that maketh glad the
heart of woman; but, strange to say, she
could not forget her husband. It is usually
so easy to forget.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She planned a breakfast party next day.
Jack would come to take her out; she loved
a cockney day with him, when they travelled
first-class and called it cockney. There was
skating, they would go together; and she
would forgive him with effect and solemnity.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Herbert’s party comprises Miss Archer
as the only lady,” said Mrs. Herbert.
“Well, she is beautiful.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He thinks so.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And so do I,” she replied. “Launa
alone, how odd!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why? I am very liberal; I cannot see
why Launa and your husband should not
have a party as you and I are doing.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We are old friends.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes. Are we anything else? We are
old friends.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And they are new ones.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The length of time makes no difference,”
he said. “I could love a new friend in a
week better than an old friend in a year.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How true!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>How glad I am, she reflected, that Jack
and I have two flats. If we were in one
small space to-night we should quarrel.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She went home feeling sad. Would Jack
be waiting for her? A few strong words, a
few strong kisses, and where would her
philosophy have been? Repentance would
have replaced it.</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>The weather was very cold. Near Polton
there was a lake, on which the skating was
good. Launa and Lily had arranged to
meet at Paddington, and go down there for
a few days. Launa waited an hour for Lily,
and then went without her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The Polton Arms was a celebrated hotel,
because the landlady was a celebrated cook.
Launa took her maid, and resolved to stay
and skate without Mrs. Herbert. Mr.
Wainbridge did not know her address.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The luxury of solitude for a short space
was pleasant to her, and the landlady had
known her father. Launa spent all the day
on the lake; the days were wonderfully clear
and cold, and the air and the motion were as
new life to her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>One day when she came back to the
Polton Arms, and entered the big warm hall,
in which burned a wood fire, Mr. Wainbridge
came forward and took her hand.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How are you?” he asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Surprised, and well.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have come to see you. I could not get
on any longer without you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How did you discover me? Come and
have tea now.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her sitting-room was very pleasant, the
usual hotel adornments had vanished. There
was peace; and they sat and talked until it
was time to dress for dinner.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Propriety,” said Launa, “demands that
you should dine downstairs, and I in my
sitting-room alone; but the claims of propriety
are not imperious. We will dine
together.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wainbridge felt perfectly happy, perfectly
content; Launa was feeling soothed and
lulled by the sensation that someone cared
excessively for her. It was so desolate to be
always alone, and she wanted someone to
take care of her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>For the rest of the week they met every
day, and spent it together skating. As Mr.
Wainbridge could not waltz on skates she
taught him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This is a sort of honeymoon,” he
said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Without any bother. Honeymoons are
troublesome.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That depends on the moon and the
honey. I like it in the comb.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>One day they were just starting for the
lake when they met Captain Carden. Launa
bowed to him, and did not appear uncomfortable
at what he considered an inopportune
meeting for her. Captain Carden went back
to town that night, and told Mr. George,
whom he met, that Launa was staying at
Polton with Mr. Wainbridge.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They are staying together,” he said.
“How lucky for her she is not married, for I
saw them.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. George promptly remarked that unless
Captain Carden wanted kicking, he had better
go, which he did.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The Cardens still felt a tender interest, an
endless curiosity about Launa. They regretted
her fall from grace, and Mrs. Carden
felt with sorrow that she had wandered far
from the safe haven of her protection; but
when Charlie told her Launa was with Mr.
Wainbridge, then did she mingle tears and
rejoicings.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We shall get her yet,” he said at last.
“When no one else will know her, she will
be glad to be Mrs. Carden.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A Mrs. Carden whom no one will know,”
said his mother. “How terrible!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But her money,” he suggested.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They were drinking tea together—a pale,
straw-coloured liquid. For once Mr. Carden
had not grumbled; for the present they were
united. The maid announced, “Mr. Harvey.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Carden rose and bowed. Mr. Harvey
advanced with the self-possession of a Somebody,
and the assurance of an American.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I must apologise,” he said, “for troubling
you. I came to get Miss Archer’s address.
Her father once gave me yours as the means
of finding him in town. I am a friend of
theirs, and live near them in Canada.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Launa’s address?” repeated Carden.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Address,” echoed his mother. “Please
sit down.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Her address,” replied Harvey.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Launa was in the country,” said Mrs.
Carden. “She lives at Victoria Mansions,
but I am sorry to say she is a very odd girl.
She loves the world.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is beautiful,” said the Canadian.
“Then she has not changed.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Beautiful, is it?” observed Mrs. Carden.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If you will kindly give me her exact
address, I will not trouble you any further.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Carden went to her writing-table and
wrote it. As she handed it to him she said:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Are you her relation or her guardian?
I believe my cousin married a Canadian.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am not her guardian.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We—my son and I—are much worried
about her. He met her down at Polton.
She was staying there, and so was a man
called Mr. Wainbridge.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Here she paused for exclamations.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well?” said Paul.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not well,” said Mrs. Carden. “It is
very wrong of Launa to stay at an hotel with
a man—with—a—man. Do you understand?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No,” replied Paul. “Not what you mean
me to understand.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They frequently had their meals together.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Quite right.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My son is in love with Miss Archer.
He is as careful about her reputation as about
his own.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He had better be,” answered Paul. “He
should have held his tongue, and not have
invented vile stories.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then he went away. Captain Carden
immediately became furious, because Harvey
had said he had invented stories.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Paul had been in London a week. He was
determined to find Launa, to make her love
him. It was only that one day she had been
different. Her words, her look had been as
if he were an outcast, a glance of loathing she
had thrown at him. He remembered it always,
but he loved her, longed for her
intensely; and now he was determined to
know what she had meant when she said she
felt outraged. He had no reason to suppose
she could care for him. Indeed, her absence
from Canada, her rebuke the day after he had
shot the horse, all showed that she did not
love him. Yet she had not always seemed
to hate him. Love and hate are closely connected,
and he would know what she really
felt, because he could not live without her.
He had tried the North-West big game
shooting; he had rushed madly about, and
cried for madder music, stronger wine to help
him forget; and through it all she was
there.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Now these detestable people said untrue
things about her; nevertheless he shuddered
slightly as he remembered what they had
insinuated.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He drove back to the Metropolis and
walked past Victoria Mansions. Then he
went in. He saw her name on the doorpost,
and boldly marched up the stairs, disdaining
the porter’s suggestion of the lift. Outside
her door he could hear her playing and
singing:</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''><div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line0'>“Long is it I have loved thee,</p>
<p class='line0'>Thee shall I love alway,</p>
<p class='line0'>            My dearest;</p>
<p class='line0'>Long is it I have loved thee,</p>
<p class='line0'>Thee shall I love alway.”</p>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='noindent'>It was a Canadian song, he knew it well.
He whistled it softly as he went down the
stairs. Outside it was cold and beginning
to rain. He did not feel it.</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''><div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line0'>“Long is it I have loved thee.”</p>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch14'>CHAPTER XIV</h1></div>
<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Captain Carden</span> found himself in an unusual
and delightful situation: he had something
to say, and that something interested various
people. Launa had attracted a certain
amount of attention, from the British matron
upwards, but being a Canadian, which, after
all, is as bad as being an American, all things
were expected of her, and being rich, all
things were forgiven her. She had appropriated
young men, but seemed to prefer
quality to quantity.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Since her father’s death, she had lived in
great seclusion. The world gave her no
credit for it, it was the seclusion, no doubt,
of one who is well amused. People talked
uncertainly to her about art and music, for
it was rumoured that she was composing,
and in truth she was working and having
lessons from Herr Donau.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Captain Carden had never forgiven her
laugh that night. Ridicule to this gallant
son of Mars was torture. He sallied forth
garnished with importance, and carrying a
full card-case to call on his many friends.
He went first to Lady Blake’s. He had
murmured to many people, “Have you
heard about Miss Archer?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He had no cause to think that Lady Blake
would receive him with rapture, but his news
would interest her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Lady Blake was at home. She was alone
and hating it, so she welcomed Captain
Carden with joy. Her last party had been a
failure. Mr. Wainbridge had plainly taken
no interest in her latest quarrel with her
husband, and Herr Donau talked of
nothing but Miss Archer’s wonderful execution.
Captain Carden was a man, and as
such, available for conquest, and she welcomed
him as a relief to her feelings.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They talked of the weather, of the opera,
and finally he mentioned Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is there no other girl in London? Must
you all talk of her?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why?” he asked. “Have you heard?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Heard what? Tell me,” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I thought you knew. I really cannot
tell you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I never would believe anything about
another woman, it is so cruel to one’s own
self—so low, I think. Unless, of course, it
were absolutely true, and then I should feel
sorry.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She uttered her words with a sublime air
of pity.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes; I know you would. Still, some
women—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Some women?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Are queer.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Are they?” she inquired.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Free—strange in their ideas of propriety.
Miss Archer is, I think.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We all know that Canadians are free.
Canada is not exactly a Republic—not a
Monarchy. The country has no institutions,
and that must affect the women—don’t you
think so?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She had the sweetest, most appealing way
of saying “don’t you think so,” with an
accent on the “don’t” and on the “you”
which men and old women found very
attractive.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There is an atmosphere of a wigwam and
the wilderness about them, that is the reason
men like them—before they marry them.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They skate so well, too,” he said.
“Have you been skating? I spent a day
or two at Polton. I met Miss Archer with
Mr. Wainbridge, and they were staying
together at the inn. She skates splendidly.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He then said “Good-bye,” and left her
considering the subject and all its various
possibilities. Launa and Mr. Wainbridge
together at the same hotel. There is only
one way in which a man and a woman can
be staying together at an hotel. Either they
are married or they ought to be. She
laughed and told her next visitor.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Captain Carden then went to see Mrs.
Herbert. Sir Ralph, Mr. George, and
various other men were there, and two
women.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Captain Carden, quietly but sorrowfully,
related his story to Mrs. Herbert.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Miss Archer and Mr. Wainbridge!” she
repeated, “alone at the inn. Well, what
matter? If they like to be foolish, why
shouldn’t they? It sounds very terrible;
but if I were you, Captain Carden, I would
not repeat it. Let it go. Believe me, the
path of a reformer is a difficult one, and
reformation is uninteresting, especially if it is
impossible. Good-bye,” she added. “I am
sorry you have to go.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Sir Ralph and Mr. George stayed after
everyone had left, and talked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Herbert did not believe Captain
Carden’s story, at least not in the way he
wanted her to; but she was jealous of Launa,
and rather glad to hear anything to her discredit.
She turned to Mr. George, and
asked:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How is your Proverb book?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not progressing very rapidly,” he answered.
“I have taken to interviewing. I
find it more amusing.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Whom do you interview?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Young and interesting women—the
women of the future.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is it true what they are saying of
Launa?” she asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What do they say?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That she and Mr. Wainbridge were
alone at Polton together at the hotel there.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That is all. You must acknowledge
that if a girl stays with a man at a country
hotel—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A country hotel! Is that bad?” he interrupted.
“The town is always respectable.
I understand. What a pity they had
not stayed at the Grand or the Metropole.
I am so glad I live in town. Aren’t you,
Egerton?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Rubbish,” she replied. “You misunderstand
me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not at all. Tell me more,” said George.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am worried about Launa. Her reputation
will suffer.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Sir Ralph rose and said:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Good-bye—to-morrow at ten.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He hated the mere idea of moral reflections.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Has Launa a reputation yet?” asked
George. “A woman must be talked about
for three seasons, and have four married men
in love with her. That is a reputation. It
is eating your cake and having it too, and
you are endeavouring to do that.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What do you mean?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You tell me what they say of Launa.
They say far worse of you. They say Sir
Ralph lives here—not that you stay in the
same hotel—by accident, simultaneously—which
happened to her. They say that
Buxton and Sir Ralph are partners, and that
Herbert is useful. It is like the women in
the Bible, you remember? ‘We will eat our
own bread and wear our own apparel, only
let us be called by thy name.’ Herbert gives
the name.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You had better go,” she said. “You
are a coward to say all these things to a
woman. You would not dare say them if I
were a man, or if Jack were here.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No; but he seldom is here, and he is
useful as a shelter. I would not have said
this if you had not made me angry about
Launa. She is one of the best women I ever
knew.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Your experience then is limited.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Good-bye. You live in too large a
glass-house to throw stones, unless you are
absolutely reckless and desire the smashing
of your own roof.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>With this he left her, and she sat and
thought it all over. She was very angry
with Mr. George, and yet she laughed. She
felt so absolutely sure of herself, and knew
her husband was the one man in the world
she loved. These others were merely to
keep herself from thinking—they were to
her what embroidery is to some women.
Why should people talk of her? And Mr.
George—what a brute he was!</p>
<p class='pindent'>What she hardly dared acknowledge to
herself was her husband’s daily increasing
indifference. He had been away since the
16th, and he had not told her where he was
going.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Was he often with Launa? Jealousy, a
raging, burning hatred of the woman who
was liked so much, filled her mind, and she
stamped her foot with rage. Then she
wanted to cry. To feel herself powerless,
to know herself mistaken, both were new
emotions, both were uncomfortably true and
horrible.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Marriage, she reflected, was always a
failure; to keep one’s husband as a lover is
impossible. At this moment Mr. Herbert
came in.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You!” she exclaimed, with mixed feelings
of pleasure and surprise.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are alone?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How do you do?” she said. She always
remembered the observances of polite society.
“I am alone. Look behind the curtain or
under the sofa if you think I have a man
hidden anywhere.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She resisted an impulse which said,
“Speak, say you love him.” He looked in
one of his critical moods, so she summoned
all her energies to her aid and crushed away
any feeling she possessed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am very well,” he answered. He
looked tired. “I am going to Cairo to-night
to do some writing for the <span class='it'>Signal</span>.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are going . . . and I?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You will stay here,” he answered, with
cheerful unconcern. “You have all you
want.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“All—Jack! don’t go. They say—I
will even live in a house with stairs.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You have heard! What have you
heard?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She got up and came near him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I shall miss you terribly.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You want me to stay?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, I do want you to stay with me, or
I will go with you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This is only a mood—to show your
own power. When I come back, in six
months, then we shall see.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Six months? And I am to wait. No,
thank you. You will have lost me for ever
then. Oh! you are cruel.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are mistaken; I am not cruel. We
have tried our experiment, and it has failed
for me—for you, perhaps it is what you
wanted. It will be all the better for you if
I am not here. They—the all-powerful—will
say less about you, if you are decently
careful. Have you seen anything of Launa?
Perhaps you will be good to her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To Launa? What is she to you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My friend. You cannot understand that.
I—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A man is never the friend of a
woman.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You have no friends then?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I—I am different. Why should I console
her for your departure? Is she broken-hearted?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No,” he replied. “Why will you misunderstand
me?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Isn’t it enough for her to have Mr.
Wainbridge, and to stay at hotels with him
alone.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Take care what you say, and what you
insinuate. Launa is perfectly innocent, she
never stayed at an hotel—that is, lived with
Mr. Wainbridge as you suggest. Someone
may have seen them dining together. You
dine with men sometimes. But I must go
now.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She walked up and down in front of him.
She was like a panther, with the same quick,
nervous, gliding steps, and she was raging.
She wore a tea-gown; he had once admired
it. The light accentuated her piercing eyes,
her mocking red lips.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I shall not come to you until you send
for me,” he said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And I shall never send for you. Marriage
is a mistake. You believe all they say
of me. I have never kissed any man but
you, I did love you, I might love you if—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Your virtue in not kissing men is
wonderful, but they may kiss you. I believe
nothing about you, nor in your love for me,
nor for anyone.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Daily life is so absorbing, the fine dust
sifts in and deadens all feeling,” she said
sadly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Does it? Well, now I must say good-bye.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He took her hand.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I trust you always. I cannot stay in this
way. It is best for me to go and to forget.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And so he left her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She threw herself down on her sofa and
buried her face in the cushions. “Best to
go and to forget—to go and to forget.”
This was the reward of a Regenerator of
Matrimony.</p>
<p class='pindent'>That night Mrs. Herbert went to a dance.
The waltzes all seemed to be played to the
measure of a train—every minute took him
further away—in intervals, when she was not
talking, she composed letters which she
never sent, and she hated herself for having
let him go. Where was her power? Had
she lost it?</p>
<p class='pindent'>She tried to use it on Sir Ralph, and the
result more than justified her expectations.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You deserve a good scolding,” said Mr.
George, when he asked for a dance and she
refused to give it to him. “You are eating
your cake now. I hope it is bitter. Jack
has gone.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Sir Ralph went home with her, but he did
not go in, as she shook hands by the lift and
thanked him in an absent-minded, perfunctory
way. Then she went to her room and wept.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She was a fool. It was all too horrible.
The next morning life was not worth living,
it was black and dreary. Excitement and
Sir Ralph were all she had left. She was
jealous of the unknown, of Jack’s gladstone
bag, and of his boots, of everything; and
then she remembered Launa, and she was
jealous of her. It was quite delightful to
find a person to hurt, someone tangible at
whom to throw speeches. Mrs. Herbert
resolved to rise early, and go to see Launa.</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>Meanwhile Captain Carden’s remarks and
suggestions had an effect. Mr. Wainbridge
noticed it—men looked coldly or with a
certain amount of curiosity at him—some
women turned the other way, others were
interested. He did not realise the meaning
of this, until Mr. George brought it before
him. Mr. George was by no means one of
the crowd. He knew Launa well; it was
doubtful whether she had refused him or not.
He adored Sylvia now. He frequented
Launa’s abode, scolded her when she appeared
weary, and forbade her to sit up late.
By this time people said that Miss Archer
and Mr. Wainbridge had spent a week in
Paris together, as Mr. and Mrs. Claude.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Wainbridge heard this tale in silence,
and at the end he expressed himself as
anxious to horsewhip the whole town. Mr.
George reminded him that the town is large,
and chiefly composed of women.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Damn them,” said Mr. Wainbridge,
briefly but expressively.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That relieves your feelings,” said Mr.
George, “and is of no other avail. You
must be accepted or refused by Launa sooner
than you meant to be.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But she will not do either—and if she
hears or guesses—she will be hard to manage.
Don’t you suppose I would have married her
long ago, if she would have had me?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You have been prolonging the joys of
uncertainty—an engagement is an uncertain
certainty—marriage is a certain uncertainty.
It has claims, sure and everlasting I know,
but they are unattractive.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa was rearranging her books when
Mr. Wainbridge called to see her after this
conversation.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I feel particularly depressed to-day,” she
said, “so I am clearing up. That will produce
a halo of virtue. I have tidied my work
basket, and arranged my music. Now I
will play to you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She went to the piano and began to play.
It was something strong and full of power—urging,
urging what seems to be the search
for happiness—on and on—like life—it went
full of longings and regrets, until suddenly a
clear still melody rang out, the Never Never
country at last.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Wainbridge went over to her. The
music thrilled him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How beautifully you play!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He looked down at her. She was young,
strong, beautiful, and a wild feeling for her
swept over him; all the love and passion that
was in the music seemed to be one with him.
He loved her, loved her, loved her, and he
had kept it down. It had never held full
sway; not until this day had he felt quite
powerless to control himself. She must be
his. The longing of weeks and days engulfed
him, and he tried to speak.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Dearest—Launa. I love you. God forgive
me, I love you more than my soul.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He fell on his knees beside her, his head
in his hands.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t,” she said, “don’t,” putting out
her hand. There was aversion in her voice.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What, don’t love you? That is impossible.
I beg you, I pray you to give me
your love. Trust me, help me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My love. Oh! love—what is it? Listen,
I cannot tell you what I feel. . . . I do not
love you. I am at peace when I am with
you—I trust you; that is all.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And you will always.” He took her
hand and kissed it. “My beautiful lady, you
are mine, <span class='it'>mine</span>. How can I be glad enough?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t be . . . anything.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do you love me?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I trust you. I do not want you to kiss me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He laughed a little.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What is love?” she asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Madness.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Peace,” she replied.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, peace. Oh! my dearest, with you,
peace.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He rose from her side. She let her hands
go over the keys, playing snatches of things.
The prelude to tea appeared, the table and
the cloth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Wainbridge walked to the window,
and Launa was playing “Warum.” “Das
bange bittere Warum,” with its ceaseless
unanswered questions. It was one of the
things she had always played and felt she had
not understood. Through what a century
of emotions she had gone, and “Warum”
brought her back. She understood it now
as she never had done before.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She had been drifting down a rapid quiet
stream, hurrying past the old landmarks,
soothed by the swift dark water, lulled by its
swirl, and rush, comforted by Mr. Wainbridge’s
care of her and for her. Now she
was out on the sea, the broad sea of love,
with its indefiniteness. She had awakened
with a start to find herself there; to know
that he loved her and wanted to marry her,
and she also knew that to turn back was
impossible.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am so happy, my darling,” he said,
turning round as he spoke. “I have loved
you for so long, and I have feared.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Feared what?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I feared you. That you did not care,
and you do not care as I do.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No,” she replied; “I do not, I cannot
care as you do. Why is it? I want to, and
I want to remember only you. Only I can’t,
I can’t.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You do not want to remember the old
life?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I want to forget everything, everyone.
Listen, I must tell you—I don’t want to
marry you, because I cannot bear it, because
I’ve once loved—” she stopped; he waited—“I
once loved someone else. I think he is
dead to me—but I know if he were to call
me I would go, even if I married you and
he came. I have forgotten him sometimes,
but it all comes back again and again.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will make you love me—he is dead; he
will never come. You will marry me, you
will? Promise—you can’t draw back now.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I promise to marry you? I cannot forget
so soon—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You promise?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes. Now you will have tea?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mrs. Herbert,” said the maid.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How are you?” cried Launa, with joy.
An interruption just then was most convenient.
“You have not been here for so
long.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Wainbridge could have borne a longer
absence with philosophy. He gave Mrs.
Herbert one glance, and looked again. She
was looking handsome and flushed, yet the
emotion which plainly affected her savoured
not of joy nor of peace.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have not been here since you—how
long is it since you were away?” said Mrs.
Herbert. “Did you enjoy yourself? What
were you doing? Skating?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It seems so long ago,” said Launa.
“To-day has been so warm. Who could
believe we have ever skated?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, who?” inquired Mrs. Herbert.
“The ice has gone, and the skate-marks
are melted; there is no track on the
water.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I hear Herbert has gone to Cairo,” said
Mr. Wainbridge.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Has he?” asked Launa. “How
horrible for you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>It is a wife’s duty to feel horribly something
at her husband’s departure for Egypt
or Hong-Kong, and Launa expressed the
proper sympathy in her voice.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He did not tell you?” asked Mrs.
Herbert.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No,” answered Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He did,” said Mrs. Herbert, with some
excitement.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She had refused tea.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was silence. Mr. Wainbridge
glanced at Launa. His look infuriated Mrs.
Herbert, whose anger threatened to become
quite beyond her power of control.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I came to-day, Launa, to tell you that I
will no longer know you. You have poisoned
my husband’s mind against me, and a girl
who goes to the country and stays alone
there with a man, under his name, as his—well,
I leave the name to you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Wainbridge jumped up. Launa grew
scarlet—bright, flaming red, up, up, into her
hair. Mrs. Herbert was mad with anger;
she wanted a whip, to hear it lashed, to
make a noise with it, and hurt somebody.
She clenched her hands violently.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Miss Archer has just promised to be my
wife,” said Mr. Wainbridge, “and she would
prefer you left us. As for me, I hope you
will never come into her house again; you
certainly never shall enter mine.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He rang the bell.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Bah!” said Mrs. Herbert. “Virtue is
not always triumphant. You made him love
you—you took him from me!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Open the door for Mrs. Herbert,” said
Mr. Wainbridge to the maid.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Herbert rose.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Your announcement is rather late. You
may as well marry her—now.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What does she mean?” asked Launa, in
a bewildered way. She had risen and stood in
front of Mr. Wainbridge, her eyes on his face.
“Do they say things about me? Do they?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He did not answer her question. He had
nothing to say.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa heard a step and turned round
quickly to see if Mrs. Herbert were returning.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Paul! Paul!” she cried. There was
joy in her voice which Mr. Wainbridge had
never heard in it before. “Oh, Paul!”
She moved quickly towards him and gave
him her hand. “I am so glad, so glad.
When did you come? Why did you not
come long ago?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Wainbridge inspected Paul Harvey
during this crisis. He was brown, strong,
and lithe; standing by him Mr. Wainbridge
appeared weak, effeminate.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This is Mr. Wainbridge,” said Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She wished him just then at Cairo or
anywhere else.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How do you do?” said both men.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Miss Archer has just promised to marry
me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He wore an air of ownership and went
nearer Launa. There was a slight degree of
defiance in his attitude.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I congratulate you,” said Paul; “you
are very lucky. The most fortunate of
men.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sit down,” said Launa, with a smile at
Paul which Mr. Wainbridge endeavoured to
imagine was merely kind. Launa assured
herself that hers was the smile of a married
woman to some brother of whom she is fond.
“Tell me about home, about ‘Solitude,’
about the canoe, and the rivers.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They talked, while Mr. Wainbridge
listened, not uninterested, but surprised.
Launa was new, different. Paul had introduced
another element into the game—an
element of doubt.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But I shall win,” thought Mr. Wainbridge;
“she has promised.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have known Paul for years,” said
Launa, turning to Mr. Wainbridge, as if to
explain the situation, and he knows all about
the land I dwelt in and my old home.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>This explanation was as much for Paul as
for Mr. Wainbridge, and also for herself.
She was convinced now of good reasons for
her joy.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The returned traveller’s welcome was
delightful to Paul more than he had dared
hope for, less than that for which he longed,
though to be received as the friend of the
family was not his only aspiration. It was
the stone instead of the bread, the hand of
fellowship instead of the kiss of passion. He
left Mr. Wainbridge with Launa, no doubt
waiting for his kiss. Paul winced at the
idea, and he was dining with the Canadian
Commissioner.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But Mr. Wainbridge did not kiss Launa—he
left her alone. She threw herself down
on the sofa. The idea of marriage had
appealed to her as a narcotic. Paul’s coming
had changed it into a scourge. He was
here; perhaps the girl was dead! She
flushed with joy, then hid her face with
shame. Perhaps he did not love her, had
never loved her, and she belonged to Mr.
Wainbridge. Paul had found her—and it
was too late.</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch15'>CHAPTER XV</h1></div>
<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>The</span> winter passed quickly—spring came,
a soft, slow, gentle coming. Paul Harvey
was a constant visitor at Victoria Mansions.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Sometimes he was there when Mr. Wainbridge
was not, and then that was a “white
day.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Wainbridge found Paul’s appreciation
of Launa gave life a zest—it added uncertainty
and attractiveness, though <span class='it'>he</span> intended
to win. A man can appropriate
another man’s wife for walks and talks with
much greater ease than he can the girl the
other man is going to marry. But Mr.
Wainbridge was enduring an amount of
worry and annoyance about his uncle’s affairs,
and he was not free, while Paul was. Mr.
Wainbridge never connected him with the
someone Launa had loved—was he not dead?
Had she not implied as much, more than
once?</p>
<p class='pindent'>Paul had promised to remain in England
until Launa’s marriage; the indefinite prolongation
was therefore borne by him with
a placid demeanour. He also had been
requested to give her away—there is a
certain amount of excitement in giving “this
woman to this man,” when longing to keep
her oneself, a form of death on the battlefield.
Paul liked it as well as a man can like
anything he dreads and detests, and yet with
the feeling that he would not like another
man to do it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The April day was lovely. Paul was at
Victoria Mansions, ready to do what Launa
wanted, hoping Mr. Wainbridge might not
come.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I want to go out,” she said; “to go far
away, where I can paddle and see the catkins
on the trees and listen to the sound of the
river. I cannot stay at home and practise or
do anything. I must go out.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“ ‘Let me taste the old immortal indolence
of life once more,’ ” he quoted.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come,” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Where?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Anywhere.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They drove to Paddington, and then went
by train.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The river was looking lovely—ruffled and
irregular—the trees wore a wind-swept fluffy
look. The grass was fresh and green; it was
spring, and all was new.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This is glorious,” she said, as she paddled
up the stream.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The movements of her lithe body were
beautiful to him—to her the motion and
spring of the canoe were splendid, as it
answered every stroke and went through the
rippling water with a hiss and a rush.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The lift of the long red swan,” he said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t,” she replied. “How he loved it!
How he loved that life!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And will you never come back to it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I do not know. Afterwards, perhaps—yet
no, never.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The Indians miss you. Mrs. Abram and
Mrs. John often ask me about you. In the
winter there is no one to be good to them.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I sent them money and blankets,” she
answered. “I did all I could.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They want <span class='it'>you</span>. Mrs. Andrew gave me
a charm to bring you back. ‘A little
medicine yer know—a love potion of
herbs.’ ”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She laughed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is life here successful?” he asked. “Do
you like it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, for some things I do. I came full
of plans, and I have learned and worked.
Now I am going to be married.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You have, then, been successful?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have learned that life is cruel.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They, my friends, believed evil of me.
Did you hear it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I heard it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And believed?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t ask me such questions,” he replied.
“You know I could not believe them. I
think you—well, I think you the purest, best
woman in the world.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That is not what you were going to say.
You began and you changed it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You were cruel once, but you are the one
woman—for me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Tell me about the lakes and the woods;
I long to see them, to feel the air, and to
smell the pines,” she said quietly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They paddled on and on, sometimes talking;
and it seemed like a triumphal journey
into a far-away world, with the sun and the
rippling water, glorious movement and peace,
and, above all, it was perfect because they
were alone together, and away from the rest
of the world.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Paul made no pretence to himself of not
knowing why he was happy and why he was
miserable—happy while with Launa, miserable
when away from her—while the knowledge
that she belonged to someone else was
always obtruding itself.</p>
<p class='pindent'>And Launa? To her Paul meant the old
life (so she assured herself with great frequency),
her father, the Indians, the woods—everything
she loved. She was glad to have
Paul with her. It was a good ending to the
chapter of singleness. And though perhaps
it was not quite as she would have liked to
have planned things, perhaps all would be
for the best. The present was full of joy,
the future—she could not bear to think of
it—would be blank.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How long have you been in England?”
she inquired at last.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was odd she had never asked this
question before.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I spent two months here in the summer,
then I had to go home. My cousin, Jim
Harvey—you remember him?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I never heard of him.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I thought you knew all about him. He
got himself mixed up in some row with the
Indians, and so I went back. There was an
Indian girl, too; he should have married her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And his name was Harvey?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, Jim Harvey. He has married the
girl. The worst of it is she is far too good
for him, and he will lead her a terrible life;
but I suppose it is best. You saw her once
at that picnic at Paradise that night I shot
the horse. Do you remember?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I remember. Why didn’t you tell
me?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I thought you knew. I thought that
was what you meant—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No,” she answered. “I meant—never
mind now what I meant.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She put down her paddle.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am tired. You can paddle back,” she
said wearily. “It is time to go home.
Sylvia is coming to dinner, and so is Mr.
George.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She was kneeling in the bow with her back
to him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Launa, will you move? You will be
more comfortable if you do, and I will keep her
steady,” he said. “We shall soon get back.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I cannot move, I am so tired.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She almost gave a sob. Suddenly she felt
impotent and weary. His explanation had
made it worse, and she ached with the hopelessness
of it all.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He paddled into the bank, got out, and
pulled the canoe in sideways; then he
arranged the cushions for her in the middle.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Now, get out while I hold the canoe, and
sit there where I can see you. Light of my
eyes,” he added in a whisper, but she
heard it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He gave her a hand, put a rug over her,
and asked:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Are you comfy?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>But she could not speak, and they started
again.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The lift and sweep of the paddle, and the
smooth regularity thereof, were soothing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, the sorrow of the world!” she said.
“It is unavailing. The awful mistakes, the
terrible partings—it is too dreadful. When
did you come back to London?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“In December.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why did you not come to see me before—in
the summer?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Because I did not know your address—is
that reason enough?—and I was rather
afraid of you. I could not come.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sylvia is my only woman friend.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You imagine that.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I do not imagine it; but I do not care.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>At dinner that night they were an uneven
number.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We must all go in together,” said Launa.
“Sylvia, come with me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She put her hand on Sylvia’s arm and
they went first.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Wainbridge came last; he wore depression
ostentatiously until after the soup,
and asked if they believed in ghosts.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“In ghosts,” inquired Mr. George. “In
some ghosts. Do you believe in them?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Launa does,” said Mr. Wainbridge.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I wish I could,” she answered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Did you ever see one?” asked Paul.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“One Sunday—it was a hot Sunday in
July,” related Mr. Wainbridge, “we were
going to Lady Blake’s, and Launa said she
saw one.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“One what?” asked Paul.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“One ghost.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What did she do?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She said it was dead. Are ghosts ‘it’?”
inquired Mr. Wainbridge.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“When people die they become ‘it,’ ” said
Mr. George. “They cannot—do not love.
A man or a woman is neuter when love is
over—when it is impossible.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They are maligning you, Launa,” said
Sylvia, with a smile. A poet had written
lines on her smile and called it divine.
“Contradict them.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I did see a ghost,” she answered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ghosts are indigestion,” said Mr. George
slowly. “Have you read the new book, Miss
Cooper?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Whose new book?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is by an unknown author who writes
of the love of a married man for some other
woman. We know so much now, everyone
writes of life’s miseries; if they would only
write of happiness.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How wrong for a man to love the other
woman,” said Sylvia.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wrong,” repeated Mr. George; “not at
all; how unavoidable!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What happened?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nothing.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How did they end it or begin it?” asked
Sylvia.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I hate a man who does nothing,” said
Launa. “Love is either a secondary consideration
or the passion of a moment to
them. We are merely adjuncts—minor
adjuncts.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Chromatic scales,” said Mr. George.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Paul ate his dinner with resolution. Launa
was flushed—no doubt by the breeze on the
river, and it was very becoming. She was
not a minor adjunct.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Sylvia had grown grey looking.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She pushed away her plate quickly, and
when Launa with her was leaving the room,
Launa said:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do not hurry into us. We are so happy
together and have so much to say.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The men talked with indifference. They
were anxious to go to the drawing-room.
Mr. George at last said impatiently:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come on. I am tired of sport.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>With a conversation thereupon had they
concealed their anxiety to be gone. Sport is
absorbing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In the drawing-room Sylvia, Paul Harvey,
and Mr. George entertained each other.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa sat by the window and was talked
to by Mr. Wainbridge.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Paul and Sylvia. Paul and Sylvia.
Paul and Sylvia,” sounded with dreadful
monotony in her brain. She went to the
piano and played “Warum.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How you have changed!” said Mr.
Wainbridge. “Sometimes I feel as if I did
not know you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Are you tired of me?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Launa darling! tired—no, never. You
are more uncertain in your moods—you are
more fascinating. I never know what you
will do next. To-day has been long without
you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Women take an age to learn that game
killing would have no attraction for men
if the game walked up to be killed willingly.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Where have you been to-day, my
dearest?” he asked, taking no notice of her
speech.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“On the river with Paul. And you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have been very busy and worried.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am sorry. Worry is detestable.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” he replied, “and never ending.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Your aunt is still odd?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Very odd. She is terrible sometimes.
Talk of to-morrow, dear.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am going to see Sylvia.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Wainbridge looked at her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Did you mind what I said about the
ghosts? There are none between you and
me?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ghosts? no, none.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And so I may not come here to-morrow?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No. The next day you may.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Paul spent the evening talking to Sylvia.
He left early. Mr. George and she were
alone.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why are you so silent?” he asked at
last.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Am I? I was thinking.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Of what I said at dinner?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What did you say?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Now you are offended.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am very fond of dark blue serge,” said
Sylvia, “very, and it is so becoming.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What has that to do with what I said at
dinner?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How can I tell what you said at dinner?
Did you know I have a sister, Mr. George?
She lives in Eaton Square and is very
respectable, which means she does not
work for her living, and is never in an
omnibus after four. I seldom visit her;
the Square and her surroundings satisfy
her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And you told me this?” asked Mr.
George.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To interest you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I see, I understand,” he answered.</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>“We need not decide yet what we shall
do,” said Lady Blake.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nor do it,” said Mrs. Herbert. “I hate
doing things.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Still it is necessary for someone to take
notice of Miss Archer’s behaviour, now that
she is engaged to Mr. Wainbridge.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They do not talk of being married,” said
Lily, with a laugh.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Lady Blake was having tea with her, it
was hot and June. They were both dressed
in crepon and muslin. Lady Blake’s hat
was a flower garden.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Herbert looked bored. The heat
was excessive, and she was weary.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jack wrote to her occasionally, but he did
not return, and she was tired of Sir Ralph.
Other people were also afflicted in the same
way, and Mrs. Herbert was often left out
where before she had been first.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Women said her first husband had been
an angel, and died to continue one, and her
second went to Cairo.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Sir Ralph was beginning to take too much
for granted, and he had no mind—pink
books and papers of a light and airy kind
were his literature. Mrs. Herbert had been
intellectual when desirous of attracting Jack,
and, after her long acquaintance with Sir
Ralph, she told him that old families are
becoming ignorant and corrupt.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Have you seen Launa’s voyageur?”
asked Lady Blake.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Who is he? Have I seen him?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“An indefinite relation of hers. Have
you read the <span class='it'>Signal</span> this week? I have
not.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Here it is. Look at it now.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Listen, listen,” said Lady Blake. “ ‘At
the Duchess of Oldharris’ small evening
party Miss Archer looked particularly well in
white and black. She delighted everyone
with her playing of ‘Warum.’ She has
been in mourning for some time for her
father, and has been much missed by
society!’ ”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Lady Blake put down the paper with slow
concern.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The Duchess of Oldharris, the <span class='it'>Duchess</span>,”
she said. “My musical party next week!
When does your husband return?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I do not know.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Soon? I cannot think that it is good
for you—or for him—to stay away so long.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Probably not,” said Lily. “Do you
always do what is good for you? I have no
doubt Cairo disagrees with him intensely.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I would go out to him if I were you,”
said Lady Blake. “Your honeymoon was
in that Surrey garden. How blissful it was
that day I called upon you, but how short a
time it lasted! You were sewing; you
never sew now. Not even a little shirt like
Becky Sharp.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The days are no longer perfect, as they
were during my honeymoon,” said Mrs.
Herbert, “though it is June.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You must have been misinformed,” said
Lady Blake.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, no, it was June, I assure you. One
does not forget that.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I mean about Launa. The Duchess is
so particular, and it happened so long ago.
Good-bye, dear.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She rustled away to call at the House for
her husband.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Next day Launa received an invitation for
the musical party—she was even asked to
play. She refused that honour.</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch16'>CHAPTER XVI</h1></div>
<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Sylvia</span> had become necessary to Launa, who
had at first used her as a screen, for Mr.
Wainbridge was there always, and with
Sylvia present naturally there were no
demonstrations.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Paul made his appearance only a degree
less frequently—Launa did not mind being
alone with him. He was waiting in London
for her wedding day, for which no date
was appointed, and Paul was not anxious to
arrange this.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Sylvia talked to Paul when Mr. Wainbridge
was in possession, and it occurred to Launa
that Sylvia was very attractive—probably
Paul thought this also.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In these days Launa felt that meditation
and thought were unprofitable; she turned to
Sylvia for something, not for protection, but
for companionship. Sylvia was restless,
Launa was restless also; the days were unsatisfactory
if one hour were unoccupied. A
day of inaction was Launa’s present idea
of torment. Sylvia and she agreed on
this subject.</p>
<p class='pindent'>One night Launa had come in very tired;
too tired to eat. She drank some chocolate,
and sat in the music-room.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Wainbridge appeared. It was late,
and he had been at his uncle’s. The room
was full of poppies; the heavy odour was
oppressive, and the flowers were falling—slowly,
slowly they tumbled down every few
minutes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They are the ghosts of the past,” said
Launa at last, as one or two flowers fell
simultaneously, and yet as it were with
reluctance. “Do you hear the slow sound
they make as they fall? I am very tired.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Your tea-gown is like moonlight, and
you look divine.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And unearthly? I would rather be
human.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are lovely.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Tell me something new,” she replied,
with a laugh of confidence, and a look—“something
that I do not already know.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What have you been doing to-day?” he
asked, feeling the commonplace safe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I went with Sylvia to see a woman who
is dying—and yet it is not certain she will
die—to die is peace.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She was suffering. Why did you go,
dearest? It is not fit for you to see such
things.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That is the cry of the whole world,” she
replied, getting up and moving the flowers
near her. “Why go? Why see it? Peace,
peace, and there is no peace.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You cannot help her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are right, I am powerless, and I
have promised to send her jelly. Ridiculous!
Jelly!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Who is she?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Her name was Bertram. She was once
pretty and sang well. Sylvia knew her.
Some man made love to her, and promised
her the usual things. She left her work for
him, and because of him, and he left her
alone. She has starved, frozen, and been
half-murdered, yet she lives.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I cannot help thinking, dear, that it was
her fault, too. A woman does not—should
not yield.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A woman wants to love and to be loved.
. . . Then,” she added, “I could never
love a man who would promise and never
keep it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To promise,” he repeated. “What is a
promise? It is an impossibility. I promise
to love someone for ever. You will some
day—may it be soon?—promise to cleave to
me only. I cease to love someone—the
promise is broken. I am not responsible.
Who is? You promised me once you would
not go out alone when it is dark, and you do
not keep it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What is love? When I cannot keep my
promise of cleaving to you, will you blame
me? You say the keeping of promises is
impossible. I never promised to love
you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Blame</span> you? No. You love me—do
you love me?—and women, thank God, are
mostly constant.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thank God,” she repeated.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She did not answer his question—to seek
to acquire information was most simple.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Love is all things—the joy of life—the
sting of death,” he said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Friendship is a joy, too. It is like
autumn after the midsummer heat is over.
Do you not know the peace and stillness of
a clear autumn day? There is a blue sky,
and merely a suspicion of cold in the air.
You know the air on a lake coming over a
long sweep of country.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She paused.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There is a chill about autumn—a suspicion
of indifference.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, no,” she answered quickly. “What
is the most perfect relationship in this world?
Which is the happiest?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Who can tell? To me it is you; to you
it is—I wish I could feel sure the stone
of happiness you seek for is my love.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She did not answer immediately.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The stone of happiness when one finds it
is still a stone. How can a stone bring
happiness?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Your ring—to see the sapphire brings
me happiness,” he answered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He felt of late an intangible something
between them—as if he were fighting with
the powers of the air, with unknown forces—would
he win, or they? The dead are quiet
for ever, and yet something seemed to come
between him and Launa. Do the dead
watch over those they love? Mr. Wainbridge
shivered; he was sometimes superstitious.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Paul was not an acquiescent lover, and
since his day in the canoe with Launa he
had pondered long and frequently. Was she
happy? No; nor was he.</p>
<p class='pindent'>One afternoon when with her, like an
inspiration it came to him that he was
master. He would not give in, he loved
her; love was power, and she did not
love Mr. Wainbridge, of that he was
sure.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa was alone.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They talked for some moments, the
conversation was led by her to Newfoundland,
but he took no interest in that.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“When are you going to be married?” he
asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“When? I know not. Talk of something
else.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will talk about you. It is of no use for
you to change the subject. I love you, love
you, and you are mine. You have no right
to marry anyone but me. You belong to
me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Paul was as a god, knowing not merely
good and evil, but love and light.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is my kisses you will long and hunger
for, my arms which should be round you, not
his.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He looked at her. She had started when
he began.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“His never are,” she said, while she
longed to ask how he knew this, but she felt
to acknowledge he knew was to acknowledge
him right.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You won’t let him now, but his arms will
be round you. There is no escape from
them once you are married. Think how you
will feel when he is with you always, and
you can never get away. You will see my
face when his is close to you, you will
feel—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Paul! Paul!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You would like to say, ‘Why persecutest
thou me?’ They say girls often marry from
ignorance and wish they had not. Launa,
you will not be ignorant. Without love
marriage is a loathsome Hell; with it,
darling, it is Heaven. Such a Heaven!
You are mine, as much mine as if five
priests had read hundreds of words over us.
Give him up! give him up!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I wish I could die, knowing you love
me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I would rather see you dead than his
wife.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Paul, I love you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She held out her hands.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My darling; my darling. How I love
you. And you will give him up?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She stood still, her eyes raised to his;
hers were full of trouble, his full of
love. He would face the world and
count the loss of all things nothing for
her. His was a love worth having, and
he was brave and true, worthy of love.
He came nearer. He had not touched
her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come to me, Launa.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She turned and let him fold her in his
arms, such strong arms.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You take away my individuality. You
are a brute, Paul. Let me look into your
eyes; they are true. It is your eyes I see
when I talk to him, your voice I hear, your
kisses I feel. . . . Paul, don’t tempt me. I
have degraded myself enough. Leave me—go.
I am wicked, I am wrong.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Tempt you? My God, Launa! Am I
not tempted?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“When you hold me I am strong. A
woman loves a man who has a strong arm
for her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He bent down and kissed her face, then
her lips, a long, long kiss.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Launa, can you marry any other man?
Be true, dear.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sit down, Paul, by me. Let me hold
your hand. I feel so weak and so afraid.
And when you have gone and I am alone
with him. . . . You know I love you. . . .
But I have promised myself to him. I
cannot break my word. I can ask him to
give me up. I will do that.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You must tell him you cannot marry
him. Why should one man insist on making
three people miserable? For he will
not be happy. I shall not leave you now
until you have promised to marry me. I kiss
you, I hold you, I take you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He lifted her in his arms and carried her
to a sofa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He put pillows under her head and knelt
beside her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You cannot get up. I will not let you
go—you must rest.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Paul!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He kissed her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Launa, if you could know, could guess
how I hunger for you. How I dream of you
and long for you until the day is a long dreary
reality, and night is life when I see you and
hear your voice—gentle and soft—I love
your voice. In my dreams I hold you in my
arms.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Paul, you forget that I have promised.
I have given myself to him.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You mean?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My word to him. How can I take
it back?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Easily; by not keeping it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They both laughed, and so Mr. Wainbridge
found them when he entered the
room.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is Launa ill?” he asked, in well-bred
tones of surprise.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She felt she hated him; his upper lip was
too long, his manner too unctuous, and his
shoulders were so round.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He glanced from Paul to Launa, and it
seemed to him as if his appearance were just
what was required to turn the scale in his
own favour. She sat up. Paul put a cushion
behind her and kissed her hand. Mr. Wainbridge
advanced with disapproval and another
cushion, which Launa refused with mild
gratitude.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The men glared at each other. Mr. Wainbridge
was uneasy, Paul triumphant.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Shall I stay, Launa?” said Paul.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No; I have a headache,” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Paul left the room, and Mr. Wainbridge
waited in silence.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I hope you are better,” he said, at last.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have something to tell you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t want to hear it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You must hear it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Look here, Launa, I know what you are
going to say. You are going to say . . .
what you will regret. Something about Mr.
Harvey. I mean to marry you; you have
promised. That is all.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You do not consider me responsible for
my feelings; you have said it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“For your feelings, no; but for your
promises, yes.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Suppose I have changed?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Suppose you never felt what you
promised; suppose it was merely a refuge
from loneliness, from—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, suppose it was,” she answered.
“But I never promised to feel anything—simply
to marry you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What do you want me to do now?” he
asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I want you to set me free.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Never, never. To do that would be
ruin for me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They faced each other; she was excited,
flushed—with a new look of a half-born, half-understood
joy. He was sullen.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why—tell me why? You could not hold
me to my bargain—unwillingly.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It would be ruin for me to release you.
My uncle would cut me off—leave me
nothing, and give me nothing, if you or I
break off our engagement. He has heard
several things about me—things which—well,
I have told you enough. Darling, you
would not, you could not ruin me. I love
you so intensely. Think of my life, my
prospects, without you!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To live without me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What could I do?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The joy had left her face—the flush was
gone. She was pale, and her face looked
haggard.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Go, go. I will not ruin your prospects
and devastate your life—go. But you must
leave me alone now. Yes, I hate
you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He went to his Club. On the way he
meditated writing a novel or a play—his
inventive powers were so great. He had
impressed Launa—she believed him. He
had constructed the first chapter when he
reached his Club.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa went for a long drive.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Paul was defeated. That night he received
this note.</p>
<div class='literal-container' style=''><div class='literal'> <!-- rend=';fs:.9em;' -->
<p class='line' style='font-size:.9em;'> “We have made a mistake, you and I.</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:.9em;'>Forget it. It is too late. Remember only</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:.9em;'>your promise to stay until my wedding.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:2em;font-size:.9em;'>“L.”</p>
</div></div> <!-- end rend -->
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch17'>CHAPTER XVII</h1></div>
<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Lady Blake</span> had started evening receptions,
and once a fortnight she was at home. She
had some idea of founding a <span class='it'>salon</span>, but her
ignorance of the necessary steps was appalling.
She thought it would have something
to do with school-books and asking questions
on abstruse subjects.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa went frequently, and took Sylvia
with her, who was now second leading lady in
the new play “Some Cabbages and a Weed.”
The interview in the <span class='it'>Signal</span> had been of
much assistance to her career. Formerly
she had an existence—now she had a career.
Mr. George devoted himself to her. This
evening they met at Lady Blake’s. Launa
was quickly surrounded by her friends, by her
enemies, and people who could be either, had
they known her. She was charming—the
self-possession of a duchess, combined with
the amiability and cleverness of the unknown
woman wishing to be successful.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. George was amusing them by relating
the triumphs of the interviewer.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He had been the one to hear the aims and
aspirations of the newest “Lady Temperance
Lecturer.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is she a Lady Temperance Lecturer?”
he asked, “or a Temperance Lady Lecturer?
The last way sounds as if one might suspect
her of imbibing, and a Lady Temperance
Lecturer does not sound—well, is nice the
word? Women like that word; it expresses
untold things to them, daintinesses and pretty
undergarments. To a man it means a
woman does not bore him. He does not call
his best beloved ‘nice’ merely—angels are
not nice.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Tell me about the Temperate Lady,”
said Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I think Temperate Lady Lecturer would
be a good name,” said Sylvia. “She might
have an idea when to stop.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It was late,” said Mr. George, “when I
interviewed her. She had been lecturing.
Her window blinds were not down, and the
moon shone in. There appeared to be much
temperance in her mansion. We observed
the moon with attention and in silence.
After she had told me several details of her
own life, ‘There is no water in the moon,’
she said, with a solemn air, ‘and nothing to
drink. <span class='it'>The people in the moon have nothing
to drink.</span>’ This whole sentence was in the
largest of italics. I suggested that our best
astronomers are in doubt as to the fact of
human beings living in the moon. ‘Such a
beautifully mountainous world,’ she said,
‘must be inhabited. Think of their Switzerland
and of their Himalayas! They never
have typhoid, for there is no water.’</p>
<p class='pindent'>“ ‘No drinks,’ I said. ‘Nothing to drink,’
she replied. ‘Not even the sea to bathe in,
to picnic by in summer,’ I suggested. I
won’t publish it all. I asked if the moon
were fruitful, and she said, ‘Undoubtedly.’
Then I replied, ‘They are obliged to drink
their brandy raw. If it is fruitful there must
be grapes, if grapes, brandy’—you see the
connection? ‘There is no water to make
brandy,’ she observed. ‘Pardon me,’ I said,
‘you do not require water to make brandy
only to dilute it, if you have temperance
yearnings.’ She gasped, and I left her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How glad she must have been,” said
Launa, moving as she spoke to talk to Mr.
Wainbridge’s cousin.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The rooms were becoming empty. Sylvia,
Launa, Mr. Wainbridge, and Mr. George
were standing together. The Member for
Hackney joined Launa. He had developed
an affection, nay, an inclination towards her.
He was too cold for affection; he admired
her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The Under-Secretary for the Home Department
came up behind them.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Bolton, have you heard?” he asked, and
kept his eyes fixed on Launa. He might
have kept his information to himself had not
Mr. Bolton been occupied with her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What?” asked the Member for Hackney.
He did not desire to know anything further.
His interest in the Colonies, as exemplified
by Launa, was absorbing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She smiled at the Under-Secretary, who
wondered if Mr. Bolton would leave her
when he heard the news.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There has been a skirmish somewhere in
Africa, and Fairmouth is, the telegram says,
dead. You are Lord Fairmouth. I thought
you would like to hear it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He waited. Sylvia gave a sort of moan
and put out her hands.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I loved him,” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The Member for Hackney started, and
Launa said:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Miss Cooper and I must go home. Mr.
George, will you give her your arm? Hugh,
you will get us our carriage?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Bolton stayed by Launa; the Under-Secretary
had vanished.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So that is the girl,” he said; “I have
heard of her. That was somewhat dramatic.
May I not be of some use to you, Miss
Archer? Shall I take you to Lady Blake?
You will want to say good-night to her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He offered her his arm, and they found
the hostess. Launa apologised for Sylvia.
The Member for Hackney said she looked
quite pale. Lady Blake suggested sal volatile,
and expressed her great concern.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will come and see you to-morrow,”
said the Member for Hackney, as he held
Launa’s hand at parting. “I am much
interested in the Colonies and in the New
World.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. George stared after their carriage,
then he lighted a cigarette. Mr. Wainbridge
had disappeared.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She has a blister on now,” said Mr.
George, “I wonder if it will ever heal.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Bolton nodded and said:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Miss Archer is engaged to Mr. Wainbridge?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” replied George.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They walked away together.</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>“Sylvia, don’t try to talk,” said Launa,
as they drove home.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Let me alone,” she moaned. “I am a
fool to break down. You cannot tell what a
joy it has been to me to feel to be sure of his
love. It was all I had—all—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa left her alone, after giving her a
brandy and soda.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Fortunately “Some Cabbages and a
Weed” was over, and the theatre shut up.
It would open with a new play in September.
Sylvia had her part to study and could rest,
but not with her mother.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Cooper could not have believed her
daughter was in trouble—trouble which she
should not share. A mother’s heart is the
resting and the confiding-place for her
daughter. She forgot a mother’s tongue
often prevents confidences. She would have
labelled her daughter “lost” had she known.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa had decided on taking a house by
the river—a cottage with drains and hot
water, as well as roses!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Cooper and Sylvia would come too.
Launa hoped Mr. Bolton would not talk of
this accident and betray Sylvia. She waited
with apprehension for the morrow and the
Member for Hackney.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Sylvia besought her to find out the circumstances.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Find out if he is dead. How he died:
when and where. Oh, God! It is torture!
Torture! Find out all about him.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Wainbridge, Mr. George, and Paul
came next day. Launa dispatched them for
particulars. There was nothing in the paper.
Mr. Wainbridge went to the Club, Mr.
George to his newspaper, and Paul to the
High Commissioner for Canada. This was
his first meeting with Launa since their day
of confession. He asked for no further
explanation and she gave none.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He returned in an hour. The High Commissioner
had been gracious. It was said
that Paul knew too much about him to allow
of his being anything else. There were
episodes; the lady was happily married, and
the Commissioner was High. The news
was confirmed—Lord Fairmouth was dead.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I must tell her,” said Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Paul went down to the cottage to inspect
it and to order it to be immediately prepared
for them.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In all this they had quite forgotten Mrs.
Cooper.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The Member for Hackney arrived before
tea. His business engagements were many,
but he was in need of refreshment.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He found Launa in the music-room. He
took her hand with sympathy. He knew
how to express his emotion with the ease of
a ladies’ doctor. Some people said he had
no real emotions, only fictitious ones.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What a charming room!” he said, as he
viewed it and her with admiration. He
changed his tone as he added, “How is she
to-day?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Broken-hearted.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah! In what way?” His experience
had not provided him with any symptoms of
such a thing. “The defeat of a measure,”
he began, when Launa interrupted him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Mr. Bolton, does anyone know?
Did the other man tell of what happened
last night?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Fear of discovery is a woman’s broken heart,
he made a note of it, while he answered:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No one knows. You may be quite sure
of that. I arranged it with my friend. You
may tell Miss Cooper I am glad I can set
her—mind at rest.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He meant at first to say heart.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She does not care, she does not think of
that,” she answered. “She has not seen
him for six months . . . she loves him, he
loved her . . . she made him leave
her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Really!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is terrible to hear her. She does not
cry, she merely moans. . . . You will have
some tea?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I would like some tea,” he answered.
“I am very tired.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He felt much refreshed. Miss Archer had
discrimination, and evidently was a good
housekeeper.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You stay in town for some time?” he
asked. “Miss Archer, are you not the
hansom girl? Mr. George told me about it,
I remember. It applies to you both with
and without a ‘d’.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She smiled, and did not thank him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have taken a house at Shelton, and as
Miss Cooper is so wretched I intend to take
her there.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She is related to you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No; I am sorry for her. She is my
friend.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah, that is better. Will you not be
sorry for me? I, too, am alone, and sometimes
lonely.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She had never associated any frivolity
with the Member for Hackney. He was one
of those mysterious men who assisted in the
governing of the country, and as such
beyond much emotion. She looked at him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do you need my sorrow?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I want it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We often want what we do not need. I
want more tea, it is not good for me, I do
not need it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Can I do anything to help you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If you would. I had forgotten Mrs.
Cooper, her mother. You could interview
her for me. She may hear Sylvia is ill. I
do not want her to come to see her daughter.
Mrs. Cooper would believe you. She is an
old lady who believes in a man’s opinion.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“ ‘Man was made in the image of God.’
She believes it still?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” said Launa, “and she accepts with
thankfulness ideas from any man.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If she were a young woman this might
be attractive and new. I will go to see this
Adamite. What must I say?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Be indefinite.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Headache and weariness for disease;
absolute quiet and rest for the remedies,” he
replied. “I quite understand. May I come
again? Above all I would like to be with
you at Shelton.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do come. I should be so glad.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I could wish you would not—could not
express it so easily. Where does this lady
live?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“In the Fulham Road.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He sighed. The prospect of the long
drive did not cheer him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You will take my brougham. I have
ordered it for you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thank you,” he replied, and let his
glance say more.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The Colonies were interesting. It was
the year of new fishery arrangements with
America and France. The Member for
Hackney made a point of knowing all about
them. He intended to ask Launa for information;
he felt singularly elated at the
prospect of seeing her again.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He was not particularly fond of fishing
nor of bills, but information on all subjects
was acceptable to him. He prided himself
on knowing the views of the people for
whom he was legislating.</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch18'>CHAPTER XVIII</h1></div>
<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Shelton</span> cannot be described; it lay along
the river, near heavenly back waters, where
reeds rustled, and the rushes sighed softly,
and it was within reach of the woods.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They all went there, each one hiding their
real feelings from the others, except Mrs.
Cooper. Her feelings were described by
the word blissful; she derived much satisfaction
from the donning of her best dress
every day. It was made of silk; in her
youth a lady was dressed in nothing but silk.
Driving every day with a footman, and
having a maid to button her boots, completed
her happiness. She never noticed her
daughter’s depression. Sylvia had recovered.
She was more silent, just as good-looking,
and Mr. George hovered about her with
sympathy in his eye and with sorrowful
attentions.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Wainbridge, Paul, and the Member
for Hackney each felt the inhabitants of the
cottage were under his special protection,
and each one frowned at the frequent visits
of the others.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Paul had received and accepted his invitation
before he had told Launa to give up
Mr. Wainbridge, and he came to Shelton.
All was not yet lost. Mr. Wainbridge was
obviously nervous. Launa looked unhappy.
To her life in the country was a relief. Of
late the strain on her mind had been trying.
Paul’s presence was a comfort to her, with
an underlying feeling of torture, of the intolerableness
of fate, life, destiny.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Wainbridge made continual demands
on her feelings—demands which sometimes
were hard, impossible to fulfil, especially that
she should love him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He was quite aware that he frequently
asked for the impossible and obtruded himself
in a way which was foolish, and before
Paul he was often reckless. A mad joy
because of his possession of Launa filled
his mind, for he knew a mad anguish filled
the breast of Paul Harvey.</p>
<p class='pindent'>To Launa Mr. Bolton was like an invigorating
breeze after a hot day. He knew that
she was appropriated. He expected scars
from an intimacy with her, but they were
worth it. He was waiting for news from
Africa before formally becoming Lord Fairmouth.
Meanwhile he forgot ambition and
wandered about the fields with her, looking
for mushrooms which he never saw, because
he found her so much more delightful. She
was original and charming, her voice was
soft and low. Had it a sound of sadness or
of joy? One day one thing, the next
another. What was she—heart-whole, heart-divided,
or only a woman without a
heart?</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Bolton found some amusement from
the comedy—or was it a tragedy?—that was
being played. He had no fear for his own
emotions: they were pretty much the same
as those possessed by the other two, and he
kept them under excellent control. He
sometimes wondered if ambition had any
part in Miss Archer’s plans. Would he, as
Lord Fairmouth, have any chance? He
enjoyed most of her society. Mr. Wainbridge’s
visits were uncertain, and whenever
Paul and Mr. Bolton were there, Paul took
Sylvia out in the canoe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Cooper fortunately discovered an
ancient enemy living four miles away, and
she drove with frequency and glory, because
of the footman, to discuss the past and its
joys. The enemy’s joys were present ones.
Together they found argument unconvincing
and therefore agreeable.</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>It was Sunday.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They were all walking across the fields
coming from church. Launa and Mr. Bolton
were first; Mr. Wainbridge had been detained
by his uncle at the church door. He
caught up to Mrs. Cooper, who insisted on
discussing the sermon—which was on
“Eternal Damnation.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The preacher was staying at the Court—Lord
Wainbridge’s place—and was specially
favoured by her ladyship, who had nodded
with frequency and approval at each point to
which he gave utterance, and which she considered
reduced her husband to ashes here,
and to flames hereafter. In her theology
there was nothing so quiet and peaceful as
ashes afterwards. But Lord Wainbridge had
not observed these signs of approval. He
regarded his nephew with attention, and Miss
Archer with admiration. He looked at his
wife—a faded unhealthy specimen of an
aristocratic worn-out family, in black
bombazine and a dowdy bonnet, and he
thought of the other woman and of Launa.
He observed her intently; her head well
carried, and her hair well dressed, her
pretty soft throat—he could not see her
face, but she was certainly desirable, and
he had never met her. So he stopped his
nephew on his way to join Miss Archer,
and suggested that Hugh should come over
to the Court that afternoon.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Wainbridge listened to Mrs. Cooper’s
remarks in silence. He did not care about
the sermon, but he did care for Launa’s
society, and she would spend the afternoon
with Mr. Bolton or Mr. Harvey. He regretted
he had not refused his uncle’s invitation,
but that gentleman had appeared so sad,
so old, and Lady Wainbridge sniffed with
such depressing regularity, that to have refused
would have been cruel.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I dislike that church,” said Launa to Mr.
Bolton. “It already makes me feel as if
religion were contemptible and as if it were
merely useful to occupy old women. I am
sorry I went to it to-day.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It would be very wrong and very radical
of you to neglect your own church. A good
Conservative always supports the institutions
of his country,” he said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That is the good of being women,” she
answered, looking at him with a mixture of
friendship and mischief. “We are not
allowed to vote, and we need not be a
Conservative or anything, and as for the
institutions of the country, I am not sure that
I like them, or even know what they are.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Marriage is one.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“With or without love? For love is not
an institution.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sometimes; well, you know as well as I
do that we can get on without love.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Love,” said Launa, “is <span class='it'>the</span> thing in
life, it is—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What do you love?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Whom? What? I love life and movement—the
wind and the sea. The being
alive to-day is joy. Look at the grass, the
river, the water! If I could only be at
‘Solitude,’ to smell the air as it comes across
that sweep of woods!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To smell it alone?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Alone,” she replied.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You arrange life on a basis of love.”
He laughed. “It is not always fine. In
winter the wind is cold and it shrieks unpleasantly;
it is not warm like love—real
love—and then there is success. Not to-day,
nor to-morrow, but in a month or a year
you would, I think, grow weary of your
paradise alone.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why did you laugh?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“At myself and your basis of love.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>His philosophy kept him amused, because
he was aware of his own foolishness.
If there was a certain amount of pain in the
laughter no one noticed it. The others
caught up to them.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I do not like that preacher,” said Mrs.
Cooper.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He is one of my aunt’s favourites,”
answered Mr. Wainbridge. “She says his
descriptions of hell are so reviving for the
sinner.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So is lunch,” said Launa, “and I am
hungry.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>After lunch Mr. Wainbridge followed
Launa to her own sitting-room. He intended
to conduct a parting. Emotions
brighten the desert of life.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He put his arms round her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I like your necktie and your pin,” she
said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will give you the pin.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He took it out and handed it to her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Here, dearest.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Now go and sit there. It is too hot
for—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You never kiss me or let me kiss
you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I hate kissing—indiscriminate kissing.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You will not always hate it,” he
answered. “I must go, I want to settle
things with my uncle. You will accept
their invitation to stay there?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He found it best to forget the day she had
asked him to set her free. She remembered
it and his confession always.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not yet. I could not leave here until
Mrs. Cooper and Sylvia go.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You will have me with you there all
day—it will be perfect.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nothing is perfect,” she answered.
“You will be back—when?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“After dinner. How I wish I could stay
here now, but my uncle is so lonely. Good-bye.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He put his arms round her gently and she
let him—he stifled her, while he protected
her. To suffer any embrace was unusual
for her. He was still, glad to hold her.
She was sorry he was leaving her; with him
near, certain things were impossible—he was
an anchor. But there was the rest of the
afternoon and Paul.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Institutions are good sometimes,” she
said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That is obscure to me. Good-bye.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And Launa sang a little song to herself:</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''><div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line0'>“Love light come, light go,</p>
<p class='line0'>Love light come, light go.”</p>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
</div>
<p class='pindent'>As it was the fashion to observe love
critically, with unbelief, she would do it too.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Paul came in at the window. He had a
book in his hand.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am lonely,” he said. “May I stay?
I never see you alone now, Launa.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Are the others all right? We will talk
about the war. Where is Mrs. Cooper?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They are all asleep, Sylvia too. Bolton
is writing letters, answering the bundle he
got this morning. Wainbridge, thank
Heaven, has gone to see his uncle.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Probably to arrange about our marriage.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She seated herself opposite him and said
this rather defiantly. She wanted to remember
Mr. Wainbridge and her marriage.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are not married yet. . . . To-day is
ours.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What shall we do now? You and I?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You and I,” he repeated, with joy.
“Talk. Be glad we are together.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And can talk—about Canada.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, about Canada,” he replied. “The
products or the people?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The people,” she answered slowly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We will talk of the women.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“About you, for you are a woman.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I wish I were not.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Because—because men have so much
the best of it. . . . Do men like independent
women? No, men like them clinging.
What does a clinging woman do?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t take the faintest interest in inscrutable
women,” he replied. “Come out
and sit among the pine trees and think of
‘Solitude’ and the lake—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And forget everything except <span class='it'>now</span> which
is ours?” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come then—come.”</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch19'>CHAPTER XIX</h1></div>
<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>The</span> Court, the ancestral home of the Wainbridges,
was purchased by the present owner’s
father (with the furniture and the portraits)
from a family whose possessions consisted of
a very ancient title and many debts.
Common sense was not included in their
inheritance. That they could ever live with
a plain cook and a house-parlourmaid and
pay their debts never occurred to them.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The Court was built in a circular shape,
with what Lady Wainbridge called “heathen
pillars,” and a long flight of steps led up to
the door. The gardens were beautiful and
the flowers took prizes at shows. The house
was dreary and not clean. The servants
were celebrated for their piety, therefore
other virtues were not required; most of them
were “reclaimed.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Lord Wainbridge was in the garden when
his nephew arrived. Lady Wainbridge
considered fresh air on Sunday a sin, except
what little was imbibed when going to and
from church in a brougham at eleven o’clock.
She held a “Gospel Reunion” in the drawing-room
after lunch, which her husband
refused to attend.</p>
<p class='pindent'>For some time the two men admired the
roses; they were late ones, and a new kind.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I did not come to see Miss Archer,” said
the elder man, “because you never asked me
to do so. You made no formal announcement
of your engagement to me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Launa has been in mourning for her
father. Nothing is settled—yet.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It will be soon? I am tired of this life,”
said Lord Wainbridge. “I want to be free.
I am going to make this place over to you,
Hugh.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>His nephew started.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To me? I cannot express my sense of
your goodness to me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Get married soon,” answered his uncle;
“when there is an heir I shall feel happy.
Your aunt dislikes the Court, and after you
marry I shall not feel the need of being even
respectable. I can live as I like.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are too good to me. I cannot tell
you what I feel.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He felt his thanks were poor, stilted, and
feeble, but he did not know how to express
himself better.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I should like to come and see Miss
Archer.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Call her Launa,” said his nephew. . . .
“You believe in marriage?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I believe in yours, of course, and in my
own—we all believe in what is. Marriage
exists—is it a failure? For individuals
sometimes, for the many—no, I suppose
not, for they still marry. You will be
happy.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I hope so.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I admired Miss Archer—she is a living
girl. Your aunt will also go to see her—I
believe this week is a week of solitude and
seclusion with your aunt, but afterwards she
will go. You must prepare Miss Archer for
some disagreeableness and loud prayers.
Your aunt is afflicted in that way on these
interesting occasions.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” said the other.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I should like to have Launa here to stay
for a few days; but I fear she might not be
very happy. What is your opinion?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will tell her. I am sure she will be
grateful to you for all your kindness to us
both, but—she is uncertain, and aunt Jane’s
remarks might affect her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Uncertain! She loves you? I felt
sure when I saw her that it was love. Why
is she uncertain?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I do not know . . . perhaps I am
wrong. Girls often are . . . odd.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sometimes I have hoped you would
marry someone with a title, but I like that
girl. I received the announcement of your
engagement with indifference—it seemed to
be only the binding of another man; but
now—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You wish my marriage to take place
soon? You feel as if it would leave you
freer—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It would make you happier, and me also.
I should not be backward about settlements.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My aunt may die, and you probably will
marry again—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Lord Wainbridge shook his head.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No. I shall settle two thousand a year
on Miss Archer. She has money, also, I
understand?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You really desire my marriage?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Certainly.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then I will arrange it as quickly as
possible.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And I may come and see Launa?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My dear uncle, do not ask if you may.
I am so grateful, more than grateful to you.
I hope, and I am sure Launa will feel as I
do, that you will make a second home with
us.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And so they parted.</p>
<p class='pindent'>For some days after his conversation with
his uncle Mr. Wainbridge found that solitary
discourse with his beloved was impossible.
She eluded him, and his news grew stale and
lost its power of delighting him. Launa had
killed his triumph. She let him kiss her
forehead sometimes, but they had no twilight
walks and no talks.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Any reminder of their approaching marriage
was received by her in silence, and he discovered
that whereas formerly his love for a
woman always cooled at the idea of the
approach of matrimony—his pre-matrimonial
love was but a star which paled before the
heat and light of the rising hymeneal sun.
<span class='it'>Now</span> his love was the sun, hot sun, which
dried up and withered everything; it made
his life one intense longing for her. His
passion mastered him; everything was
subservient to it. He was possessed by one
idea, and longed to marry her and soon. He
wanted her for his own—absolutely—body
and soul. She did not love as he loved; he
would kiss her into it—kiss her to know
nothing but his love for her. Oh, God, that
it should take so long, and need so much
patience!</p>
<p class='pindent'>If Launa were only alone! There were
Harvey and Bolton—and Paul he feared most
of all. He was a prey to uncomfortably apprehensive
thoughts, and all day long he had
to talk of the garden or of croquet, while
the sun of desire was burning him up, and
the days were a weariness.</p>
<p class='pindent'>One day Launa was writing letters.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He came in.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Allein,” he quoted, “zum ersten mal
allein.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She rose hurriedly and glanced at the door
which he had shut. It was raining; the
windows were closed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am seriously thinking of looking after
my affairs in Canada. It would be a long
journey,” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“In Canada?” he repeated. “What
about your promise to me? Our marriage?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I thought you had forgotten about
marriage. It is some time since we talked of
love—we have talked very little about
marriage.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She undid her scent bottle on her
chatelaine.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Dearest,” he murmured, taking her hand
while his heart beat tumultuously. He
thought she was jealous, even though he
knew she did not love him as he loved her,
yet he believed, with the invincible belief of
man, that she could be jealous of him. “You
must not go to Canada alone. We will go
there on our honeymoon!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>This proposition, sweet as it appeared to
him, evidently did not raise any feeling of exhilaration
in her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Canada is too far away for a honeymoon.
You would have nothing to do
there.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We will go to Paris.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Very well,” she replied.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her calmness maddened him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Launa, darling, try to love me. I care
for you so much; you are all the world to
me. I love you—I love you!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He took her in his arms, and it had all
the appearance of a passionate, willing
embrace. Paul was just going to open the
window to come in. Launa did not see him—he
turned round and walked away, and
Mr. Wainbridge let her go.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t do that,” she said. “I hate it,
loathe it, and if it were not for you and my
pity—my pity, do you hear? I would . . .
Sit there and talk rationally. I am a cold
stone. I hate love-making, and you are
going to be my husband. Have you forgotten
the conversation you and I had at
Victoria Mansions?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He sat down by her, and did not answer
her question. Instead, he told her all that
Lord Wainbridge had said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Darling! my beloved! May I tell him
it will be soon? Our marriage.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Soon?” she repeated drawing away her
hand. . . . “I am so lonely, and you are no
help. I wish I had someone to help me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Let me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You can’t; don’t you see that? Well,
no matter. Will you wait until after lunch—until
this evening? Then I will give you
an answer.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My uncle is anxious to know you. He
has been so good to us. We will repay him
by being good to him. He needs it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know; I know.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Have you seen the <span class='it'>Times</span>?” asked the
Member for Hackney, advancing with assurance
and sitting down. The <span class='it'>Times</span>, he
knew, was in the drawing-room; he had just
put it down. He had also seen Paul
Harvey’s face as he passed the window.
Mr. Bolton had no particular feeling for
Paul except that of wishing him out of the
way. Harvey’s countenance looked as if he
meant to go—somewhere. Such a resolution
could only portend various developments
with Mr. Wainbridge.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Bolton had just heard and seen in the
<span class='it'>Times</span>, that he was beyond all doubt Lord
Fairmouth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Miss Cooper had hay fever for two days;
no doubt this was due to the second crop of
hay having just been cut. Her mother
explained this at great length. Sylvia
suffered intensely, and her eyes were very
red. Everyone pitied her, and she stayed
all day in her room; Mrs. Cooper could not
stay with her for long, because hay fever is
infectious.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Poor Fairmouth is really dead,” said the
Member for Hackney.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And you are Lord Fairmouth now,”
said Launa slowly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She was thinking of something else; but
it appeared to him as if her meditations were
about him and his good fortune.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” he replied.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Wainbridge left the room. The
house was very quiet. He looked for Paul,
but he could not find him. Paul had gone
away in the canoe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Wainbridge, therefore, was obliged to
control the irresistible desire to confide in
Paul, and in him only. Paul took such an
interest in Launa, so did Lord Fairmouth,
but Mr. Wainbridge did not fear him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was after dinner, during which meal
Mrs. Cooper again discussed hay fever, and
the depression consequent thereupon. Mr.
Wainbridge was very silent. Lord Fairmouth
recommended eucalyptus, and Launa
looked pale, even anxious. Paul and the
canoe had not returned, and it was growing
dark, with a strong wind from the north-east.
After dinner she was very restless and
wandered about, then she began to play the
piano.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Lord Fairmouth went away to write, and
Mrs. Cooper retired to bed. She had old-fashioned
ideas as to lovers, and regarded
them as something almost indecent, requiring
constant and frequent privacy.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa played on. The wind was shrieking,
and then roaring through the tree tops.
At last it gave a sudden scream and a yell.
She jumped up, and her hands fell on the
keys with a crash. A door banged, and a
gust of wind clamoured against the window
and howled outside.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Where is Paul?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She had been playing a Chopin study—number
XI.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Chopin is sometimes hysterical,” said
Mr. Wainbridge.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Here I am, Launa,” and Paul came in.
“You were frightened. The wind is making
a tremendous noise. When I opened the
front door it was howling and shrieking, and
nearly blew the lamps out.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He took both her hands, and held them
firmly. Her colour had come back, and she
breathed quickly. There was a pause. Mr.
Wainbridge strolled across the room.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Launa, now is the time to tell Harvey
your decision. When shall we be
married?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Paul let her hands go.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“When?” he asked. “Before I return
to Canada? I am going soon.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“In September,” said Mr. Wainbridge.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” said Launa. “Paul, you have not
forgotten your promise. You will give me
away?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Wainbridge gave a sigh of relieved
tension. He had dreaded something different.
The wind and the <span class='it'>étude</span> had affected his
nerves also.</p>
<p class='pindent'>After he retired to his bed that night he
remembered that Launa had said she was
going to Canada. Paul had said so too.
Had there been anything in this mutual
resolve to go to Canada. Would he have
lost her? The possibility—nay, the certainty—of
this showed him his proposal for
their marriage was only just in time. Her
indifference was not the least of her attractions
for him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In two days Lord Wainbridge came to see
her. They talked of the weather and of
marriage, both of them changeable varieties,
and of absorbing interest.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Lord Fairmouth went up to town, and as
he went he remembered the Fisheries.
Launa and he had talked very little about
them. He had left the House of Commons,
and she was going to be married.</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch20'>CHAPTER XX</h1></div>
<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Mrs. Herbert</span> was unhappy. She clothed
herself with discrimination, and drove frequently
with Sir Ralph. She had given up
her reputation, and cared nothing for what
people thought or said, and they said all they
could say. The subject of the behaviour of
a woman whose husband is away, and who is
continually (they said always) with another
man, is inexhaustible. Sir Ralph was kind
to her. His was the kindness of stupidity,
and he did not mind her being very silent.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She despised herself. It would have been
brave of her to have sent him away. Sir
Ralph never kissed her, and he seldom
stayed later than eleven o’clock. No one
knew this, nor would they have believed it if
she said so.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Lily bore the cold and indifferent greetings
of her friends with an absence of notice which
could only be attributed to guilt.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was September. Mrs. Herbert was in
town, with occasional days at the sea. She
preferred to remain at her flat. Sir Ralph
thought she stayed because town was empty,
therefore a constant recognition of him and
of her, when together, by their mutual friends
was impossible, and they could meet in peace
and in half secret.</p>
<p class='pindent'>This was not Mrs. Herbert’s real reason.
She was waiting for her husband. She was
always expecting him, always hoping that he
might come back, and very often she seemed
to hear his step on the stairs, to hear the
click of his latch-key, and that was all. She
feared to be away for long; he would perhaps
come, and not finding her waiting would
imagine things. She tolerated Sir Ralph
while she slightly despised him. Love
always bored her; he had told her he loved
her. She had replied that love was a detail.
He might love her if he liked; it kept him
from mischief, no doubt.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And you?” he asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, me! From suicide, perhaps.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The day was fine. Mrs. Herbert put on
her newest dress to drive and lunch and dine
with Sir Ralph somewhere out of town.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Have you seen the papers?” he asked,
when they had shaken hands, and he had not
kept the resolution, which he made every day,
of kissing her. It was easy to resolve when
he came up in the lift.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I never read them in the morning. In
the evening I do—advertisements and everything.
Tell me the news.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Perhaps it would be as well for you not
to drive to-day. . . . It would not look well
for one’s future wife to be seen even while
there is any uncertainty. It would look as if
you had no respect for the world’s arrangements.
I will stay here with you. You may
do as you like, but it is as well to respect
etiquette.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What are you talking about? Tell
me. Who is your future wife? Is she a
nun?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Sir Ralph handed her the <span class='it'>Morning
Post</span>.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Read that.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“ ‘Yacht gone down of Mr. Blakeley’s,’ ” she
read. “Well? What has that to do with
me? ‘All hands lost, and the names of the
passengers.’ ”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Read them! Read them!” he said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>And she read:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Blakeley and his wife—together—lucky
souls. Mrs. Grey, I never liked her. John
Colquhoun—Herbert!—Herbert! What!”
she exclaimed. “Jack—it can’t be—is it
true? Jack. . . . God! it is cruel, cruel,
and I have waited—waited, believing he
would come—believing, and he was only
cruising about with Mrs. Grey. Go away,”
she said, with sudden energy and anger.
“Go now. I hate you, hate you, hate you!
It is for you that he thinks I have given him
up; fool—as if I would or could. Now, it is
forever—why is it? Why is it? I must
hurt something!” She picked up a yellow
vase full of sweet peas, and threw it away
from her. It crashed against the brass
fender. “Jack loathed that vase, now it is
broken—but the sweet peas are spilt. Help
me to pick up the flowers—do help me.
They look so red—they are bruised and half-dead—they
seem human—they suffer. They
are Jack’s favourite flower. Go! go—why
don’t you go?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I cannot bear to leave you. Lily, think
of me—a little—think of—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Leave me. Go now, and never come
back.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She threw herself down on the floor,
crushing her fresh dress and knocking down
another vase, which broke. She lay there
and could not cry—could only moan, long
shuddering moans of sorrow. Alone, alone—always
now, and forever, and he never
would know that she had loved him—loved
him! If only she had written to him!</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>Launa was busy with her clothes, and
people were giving her teaspoons.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Paul had gone to Germany. He would
return in time for her wedding. Hugh Wainbridge
and Lord Wainbridge, who liked his
future niece very much, had her all to themselves.
Lady Wainbridge sent her volumes
of sermons and books on the disappointments
of the marriage state.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I suppose it is wretched,” said Launa; “but
people seem to bear it fairly well after a time.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I could,” said her lover, “with you.
Don’t believe all you read in my aunt’s
books.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thank you,” she replied gaily.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They were alone in the music-room. The
piano had vases of flowers, and a strip—a
beautiful deadening strip—of velvet upon it.
Launa’s piano had hitherto been bare.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Matrimony and music—more often matrimony
and discord. She did not play very
much, only little things for Lord Wainbridge;
Chopin and ghosts went together.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How do you like my dress?” she asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Wainbridge inspected her critically.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is too black,” he said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It fell in long straight folds made of some
soft black material. It was becoming and
yet dreary, like the robe of a sister of charity.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It suits you; but you look like a widow.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Death,” she said; “how unlucky of you
to say that! I dreamed of a coffin last night—my
own—and I was getting in and out of
it to see if it fitted.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Dearest, you and I shall always be together.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Always?” she repeated, with a little
shiver, as if some ghost of the past was near,
“always.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Already his mind did not answer hers.
She did not want him always.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It was a horrid dream. It frightened
me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You will never be frightened with me.
Have you heard about Herbert?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have heard nothing about him.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He was yachting with Blakeley in the
Mediterranean, and the yacht went down.
They were all drowned.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“All? Mr. Herbert too?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How terrible! I am so sorry for Lily,
and I liked him very much. What will she
do? She loves him, I am sure of that. It
is terrible.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Darling you feel for all women. But for
her—she has Sir Ralph.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, but she does not love him. I must
go to her. I may as well go now.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Now? It is tea-time.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, why not? With her it is probably
no time, simply a long, dreary future
through which she must exist. I will change
my dress; ring for tea, and then you can come
with me—in a hansom.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mrs. Herbert has said vile things about
you and me. She said you were—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know. But now she is in trouble, and
I am sorry for her. I can forget what she
has said. She was once my friend, and so
I will go to her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She dressed quickly, and they drove to
Mrs. Herbert’s.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa did not ask whether Lily would see
her. She sent him away and went in alone.
A bewildered maid, whose eyes were red
with weeping, led the way to the drawing-room.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Herbert lay, face downwards, on the
big sofa. She had stayed on the floor until
the maids lifted her on to it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In her mind was a galloping medley of
thoughts and regrets, of ungratified desires;
a repetition of words she had not said, and
now could never say, hurried through her
brain with torturing reiteration.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa kneeled by her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have come to you to try and comfort
you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Herbert moaned—and then started.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You! you! Oh Launa, I am so wretched.
He is dead—dead without knowing how I
love him. . . . He will never know. Is it
really you, Launa? I was a brute to you; I
was jealous of you. Can you forgive me?
I am alone, alone. I thought he was fond
of you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He used to talk of you,” said Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Help me!” said the other. “It is all over.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>For some days Launa stayed with her.
Lily was more than miserable; she was
crushed, and could not bear to be alone.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was so much inaction, none of those
details which have to be fulfilled when anyone
dies at home, no work was to be done
except the purchasing of black, no beautiful
flowers to arrange, no farewell look, painful,
yet a comfort, for in the last sleep the wayfarer
appears at peace. There was nothing, only
a dumb hideous sorrow and remorse, endless
torment, weary reflection on a dreadful past,
which she would have blotted out if she
could, and the tears of repentance wash away
nothing.</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>Some days had passed since the dreadful
tidings.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Herbert went exhausted to bed, and
Launa left her to go home.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Hugh Wainbridge had come to fetch
her, and stayed until after tea. Launa was
resting when Sylvia came in.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She wandered about the room touching
everything until Launa said:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sit down, Sylvia, unless you desire to be
slain.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Sylvia obediently sat down.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She had grown morose and variable. She
no longer took an interest in Mr. George
and his frivolities, and she worked very
hard.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa talked a little about Lily.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know,” said Sylvia, “that she is miserable
now, and yet I envy her. They were
together for a time, he loved her and she
loved him. She can remember it all. What
is the use of goodness? Good women live
and die without knowing love, mad real love.
Men marry them, but—why didn’t I do as he
wanted me to do? He loved me, he asked
me over and over again to belong to him
absolutely, and I refused. He promised to
settle all he had on me, and no one need
have known. I loved him—how I do still
love him! I thought I was doing right, and
I believed that God would reward us—us
mind—I <span class='it'>believed</span> that. I was sure that
together we should be rewarded. He would
never have died if I had gone, and people
could have called me bad, but I would have
been gloriously happy with him.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is awful,” said Launa, “the apparent
futility of all things.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have never lived, never had any life,
nor joy, nothing except empty applause at
the theatre. . . . I am so wretched, so
wretched. I will go to see Mrs. Herbert
and tell her I envy her. He has held her in
his arms, he has kissed her, and I ache for
the touch of those arms I shall never feel, I
hunger for the kisses I shall never have.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah, never,” said Launa softly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Sylvia continued:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I shall be sorry to-morrow when I remember
all I have said. You are lucky, you
are happy, and I—She is better off; I wish
I had had her chances—if I had lived with
him he would never have left me. Will he
ever know how I love him? Will he,
Launa? Say something. Don’t stare at
me. Will he? Do you believe it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Many waters cannot quench love, nor
death, nor parting, nor marriage, nor anything.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No,” said Sylvia, “nor marriage. He
was married to a devil. A reputation never
brought a woman comfort. You never say
to yourself ‘I am respectable!’ You do not
feel as if respectability were a new frock in
which to rejoice. Would you, Launa, have
received me if I had been—what would my
label be?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There are no men, there is no man, who
is worthy of a woman giving up everything
for him.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There is love, love, love. I will go to
see Mrs. Herbert to-morrow. It is so easy
to call men unworthy, but life is dreary when
one tries to be good.”</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch21'>CHAPTER XXI</h1></div>
<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Lily Herbert</span> had accepted her fate—one
must, no matter how rebellious the heart
may be. The days were long and black and
endless; the nights were worse, and full
of spectres. The path of life behind her
shone with the brilliancy of past happiness,
which is often imaginary; before her the
path was dark, with the gloom of hopelessness
and despair.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Sylvia’s sympathy was a light to her.
They frequently talked about Launa. How
happy she was! How fortunate! Loved by
the gods and by men. The love of men they
put last; it was first in both their minds.
The love of the gods is death, the love of
man life. They had both wilfully thrown it
away.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Once he told me I should live with him
as his sister,” said Sylvia. “I hated him for
it. I would have been his mistress, but not
his sister. He was too good, and I was
willing to risk all for him. He gave me
credit for so much goodness.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why did you not try it?” asked Lily.
“Men do not care for the brotherly pose
very long. Their resolutions are momentary.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Sylvia looked at her. <span class='it'>Then</span> she had felt
sure men mean what they say after they have
said it, as well as while they are saying it—she
had changed her mind now.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I see,” she replied, “and it is too late.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was a pause for some moments.
Each woman was thinking of those things
which usually intrude only at night, and
which we push into their corner and avoid
contemplating as much as possible.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Launa is an angel,” said Lily. “She
has been so good to me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She has never loved any one,” said Sylvia.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She would probably have married the
other man for money, if she had,” said Lily.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Her well-regulated affection for Mr.
Wainbridge is like her engagement ring. A
diamond between two sapphires—neat and
even. Have you ever seen my locket?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No. I cannot help thinking, Sylvia, he
meant to come back. He sent me a present
on my birthday, a little locket of pearls. He
would not have sent pearls if he thought me—bad—would
he? Oh, Sylvia, how
lovely!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Sylvia had unbuttoned her dress and
pulled out a locket. It was an opal in the
shape of a heart, surrounded by diamonds.
It gleamed and glowed with an unearthly
radiance. It seemed a living thing emitting
sparks of fire.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How lovely!” repeated Lily.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Sylvia hid it again.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It knew when he was dying, and grew
so dull and pale. Now it burns brighter
than ever.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then they parted. Sylvia went to the
theatre, Lily sat by the fire. The day was
cold and dark. She had cocoa instead of
dinner, that was an ordeal she could not face
alone. She sat and thought; she shut her
eyes until she imagined he was there, she
could almost feel his kisses, till a shuddering
sob of the cold reality recalled her mind to
the present. About nine o’clock her parlourmaid
came in and told her Captain Carden
wished to see her on important business.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Very well,” said Lily, “I will see him.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She disliked him—indifferently—and regarded
a visit from him as she would one
from the cabinet-maker or the plumber, so he
was admitted, when to Mr. George or Sir
Ralph she would have said “Not at home.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Captain Carden’s face was red, he appeared
excited.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have good news,” he said. “You
dislike Launa almost as much as I do?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, no, Launa and I are friends. She
is one of the noblest women I have ever met.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You have changed. Would you not be
glad to hear something which will give her
trouble, which will be a blow to her?
Women often are glad when such things
happen.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What do you mean?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If you are telling me the truth I will not
tell you what I mean. Are you not trying
to deceive me by a pretence of virtue and
friendship with Launa? <span class='it'>You</span> are slightly
under a cloud now, will <span class='it'>she</span> know what gloom
means soon?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I shall not tell you. I am waiting until—what
day is she to be married to Wainbridge?
On which day are they to be joined
together, and never put asunder by man?
When he can kiss her, touch her, and hold
her—that is what men do.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Go away. Go at once, you have had
too much to drink.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You do not want to hear? You do
not—?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No; go!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Left alone, Mrs. Herbert thought it all
over. Captain Carden was mad with rage
and jealousy.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Reflection during the night watches made
her write to him, asking him to tea, and
mentioning that she had changed her
mind.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Captain Carden came. He spent the
afternoon with her, and left in a rage because
he had not been invited to Launa’s wedding
on the 25th. He sent her a present—a
chain supposed to possess power against the
evil eye.</p>
<p class='pindent'>After this Carden visited Mrs. Herbert
frequently. Launa spent the time in receiving
presents, and trying on dresses, and
in suffering the embraces of her future lord,
who had grown more ardent and more reckless
in his love-making. Paul came back
from Norway, and Mr. George ordered a
new frock-coat, and admired Sylvia more
fervently in black than in any colour. He
went every available night to see her act,
and wished for Sunday evening performances
in London, for on that evening they seldom
met, and he had not the satisfaction of
gazing at her. Launa announced her intention
of going, soon after her marriage, to
Norway, where her father was buried.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Wainbridge was jealous—jealous of
the dead man.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He agreed to go. He reminded himself
when he promised that he was merely a
lover—when the promise was to be carried
out he would be a husband. There is a
difference between the doings of lovers and
husbands; few people—especially women—realise
this beforehand.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was the twenty-sixth of October, and
very cold. Launa had been for a long walk;
the suspicion of frost was quite Canadian and
exhilarating while it wearied her. She was
staying at Shelton.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was barely six. She was reading. She
heard a carriage drive up and wondered who
it could be.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The door opened, and announced by the
new butler—Launa always had maids, but
with the prospect of a husband she had
engaged a butler—Mrs. Herbert and Captain
Carden walked in.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The former looked very handsome; her
face was unusually pink; her crape bonnet
and long veil thrown back suited her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Lily!” said Launa, “how kind of you!
I am so very glad to see you. You will stay,
of course.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She avoided Captain Carden’s hand.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How are you?” he asked. “Well, I
hope?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa had turned to Lily, and did not
answer his inquiries.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Where is—where are the others?” asked
Lily.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Are you alone already?” added Captain
Carden.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Wainbridge came in and greeted them
with a bored air.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have come on business,” said Captain
Carden stiffly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And you, Lily, have come to stay,” said
Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If you will have me I shall be very glad
to stay.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I may as well tell you the object of my
visit,” said Carden, with importance. “Mrs.
Wainbridge, I—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Stop!” said Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Never mind,” said Lily, taking hold of
her hand and almost crushing it. “Let him
say what he has to say, and then go.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I did not tell you before, because I have
always wanted to remind you of one day
at Victoria Mansions—the day you turned
me out. I loved you, and now I am quite
willing to marry you, even after the disgrace
of having lived for some days as this man’s
mistress, for Wainbridge is married.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>A strange and awful silence settled on
them. Mr. Wainbridge’s lips were parted,
and trembled slightly as he made an effort to
speak. Captain Carden looked supremely
triumphant, and continued:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have proofs here. His wife lives in
Edinburgh; he married her legally. You,
Launa, are—what are you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not married, thank God; not married.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Turning, she saw Paul behind her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Paul!” she cried, “help me!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Paul remembered that this was the third
time that she had turned to him in an uncertain
situation. Was this the lucky time?</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Launa,” he said, “come away. Let me
settle this for you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He was already her protector, and they
both felt it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I must hear it all,” she answered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He has two children,” said Captain
Carden. “One a son. Your child, Launa—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Stop,” interrupted Wainbridge. “If you
insult Miss Archer again I shall kick you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Miss Archer!” repeated Carden, with
a laugh. “You give in very quickly—you
acknowledge she has no right to your
name.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nor has she. We are not married.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Of course not,” said Captain Carden,
with a laugh.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, not married!” said Launa.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The 30th was to be the wedding day,”
said Sylvia.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Damn you,” shouted Carden, turning to
Lily. “And you knew!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes. I have won.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Take the proofs. I don’t want them.”
He threw down a bundle of letters and turned
away. “Oh, that I had succeeded! That
you, Launa, were shamed in the sight of all
men and all women. When a man trusts a
woman she always betrays him! Beaten by
five days. Think of it—by five days.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He rushed from the room like a whirlwind—if
he had succeeded, and brought shame to
a woman and guilt to a man, he would have
faced them all bravely. The women followed
him—Launa still stood by Paul, who held
her hand. She even returned the pressure
of his fingers. Mr. Wainbridge went towards
her, and Paul left the room.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Good-bye, Launa,” said Mr. Wainbridge.
“Good-bye. I suppose it is all over; I
suppose you could not forget.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Forget. Do not say what I never can
forget.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And yet women have faced the Divorce
Court for a man they love.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“When a woman loves; but when she
pities—no. I told you once—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am not married to her,” he continued,
with what he considered much passion. “You
know I do not believe in marriage as a binding
ceremony. Love only is binding. I
went with her to a priest, and we signed our
names. How can a priest—a mortal man—marry
men and women for eternity?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Great Heaven!” said Launa, “and I
meant to marry you. Thank God, I escaped.”
Her piety would not have been so
excessive had she loved him. “You would
not have believed in your marriage with
me?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No; but I had settled all I have or will
have upon you by your name and on your
children—I love you, but I see it is all over.
. . . Good-bye. . . . Launa, my darling,
wish me well.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I pray for that woman who is your wife,
and I rejoice that I escaped. I thank
Heaven—you told me lies, you wanted my
pity, you—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Heaven had but little to do with this.
Carden was the ruling spirit.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Go!” said Launa; “go before I say all
I want to.”</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>The new butler helped him on with his
overcoat—he had listened at the key-hole,
and Mr. Wainbridge would be a lord some
day. He was a religious man, and remembered
the chief butler and Joseph, but no
quotation occurred to him which would apply
to the situation; besides, he was a good
servant and knew his place.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Wainbridge had the satisfaction of
driving away in the trap which had brought
Captain Carden to Shelton—therefore
Carden would have to walk to the station
and miss his train—unless Launa had out
her horses for him. The reflections of Mr.
Wainbridge during his journey to Paddington
were unpleasant. There was his uncle to
face, and he must make explanations to
him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Nothing was so disquieting as Launa’s cry
for help to Paul. Why Paul? Why not to
Sylvia or Lily or anyone? And the sound
of relief in her voice—relief—was there joy?
She had never loved him; if she had, she
would have loved him married or dead. She
was the sort of woman who does not—who
cannot change. Therefore if she had loved
him she could have risked all for him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>His only consolation was Carden’s walk in
the dark to the station, and journey by a slow
train at 1 <span class='sc'>a.m.</span> to town. Carden would swear;
it stopped at every station.</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch22'>CHAPTER XXII</h1></div>
<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Paul</span> consigned his beloved to Mrs. Herbert
and went up to town. Mrs. Cooper and
Sylvia were useless. The former wept over
the disgrace and made speeches beginning
with “if”—the latter said “everyone was
unfortunate and miserable.” Paul felt as if
everyone were happy, beginning with himself
and including Launa. Her cry to him had
not been the cry of disappointment and
sorrow; it had been what? He could not
define it. Relief was too mild, joy too great
a name.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Wainbridge found a certain amount of
awkwardness in the interview with his uncle,
which had to take place at once on account
of the approaching marriage, which was now
broken off. It was so difficult to explain
what had transpired and to do it with a due
regard for his own feelings.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Lord Wainbridge expressed much disappointment
at his nephew’s engagement being
broken off. He had received an announcement
thereof by telegraph.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why! why! why!” he exclaimed.
“My temper is very much upset to-day.
Your aunt is most trying.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We have disagreed about settlements,”
said the nephew.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Damn settlements. That is rubbish.
What else?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There is,” said his nephew slowly, “only
one insurmountable barrier and she knows
it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well? Can’t you do away with it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am married already.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Married? What a fool! You mean
that you have had an establishment which you
will give up now, of course, and she will
not forgive this. She will naturally in
time. Things will come right, do not be
alarmed.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, this will never come right for I am
really married.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yet you love Launa, and you meant to
marry her and to live with her as your wife?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To commit bigamy—in spite of the
insurmountable barrier?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” replied Wainbridge.</p>
<p class='pindent'>His uncle stared at him aghast. Admiration,
blended with contempt, showed in his
countenance—admiration for the audacity
of the plan, contempt for its failure.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I thought, when I did think,” said the
nephew, “that if we were once married, if
she were only bound to me by indissoluble
ties, she could not leave me, and if at any
time she heard rumours, well, she would
have kept quiet about it. The other woman
does not know my name.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is dreadful,” said Lord Wainbridge.
“Now there is no heir and your aunt—” he
sighed. “I wish you had not told me. I
should have preferred your being reticent
with me. It is most unfortunate. I wish I
did not know it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>His was the hopeless lament of the
aged.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How old you are,” thought his nephew,
who was more than sorry; but he did not
groan—that was of no avail.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There is an heir,” he said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are a greater fool than I thought
you. What will you tell your aunt?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nothing—or the settlement story? which
you prefer.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He regretted being found out. His god
had been the fear of discovery; he worshipped
it, and to it he had made many
sacrifices. But it was all over.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He is quiet, and bears it well,” thought
Lord Wainbridge; but then we should always
bear the result of our own wrong-doing with
philosophy. No one—Lord Wainbridge
least of all—would have pitied him had he
not endured it with patience. Inwardly
Hugh Wainbridge was raging—raging with
a wild longing to possess Launa—to have
held her in his arms alone, while she was his—to
have kissed the life and breath out
of her. It was intolerable to think that it
was over, that she was not his, and never
would be. All through his own stupidity,
which he cursed, he felt a mad wild beast,
just an animal longing to kill anyone in his
way, and to possess the one object of his
passion. How he wished he had not told
his uncle. Lord Wainbridge was so disappointed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Wainbridge sat and meditated on
the unsatisfactoriness, the dreariness of
all things. His one desire was withheld
from him, the desire which now threatened
to become madness. He was hardly aware
of his uncle’s departure—he seemed to see
Launa with a smile of triumph, of victory,
on her face, and he could not get to her; she
eluded him. How he loved her!—loved
her, would, <span class='it'>must</span> have her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Paul wrote to Launa; then he waited and
did not go down to see her, much as he
longed to do so.</p>
<p class='pindent'>One afternoon he met Sylvia alone.
She greeted him with joy. She looked
different.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You look wicked,” he said; and she
laughed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“When are you going to Launa? Go
soon. One woman may as well think she is
going to be happy in this world. As for
me, I have learned that there is no happiness
anywhere. I have vanquished my
illusions.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How is Launa?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Alone down there in this dreary weather,”
she replied. “She sent us all away—got
rid of us very cleverly, even of Mrs. Herbert,
and is there by herself.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Where are you going?” asked Paul.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Home—I am wretched. I am so lonely
and so weary of—virtue. I think it is very
dull. My thoughts annoy me, and they
continue so incessantly.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come and have some tea with me,” he
said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>For he was glad to be able to talk to her.
He could not well rush down to Shelton at
five o’clock, and he doubted the expediency
of doing so.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Launa took it quietly,” said Sylvia, as
she drank her tea. “After we were alone
she was so different—so <span class='it'>glad</span>. I rejoice
when I remember how she said, ‘Paul!’ Did
you hear the sound in her voice when she
called you?—as if she could not be relieved
and grateful enough. I am thinking of marriage—serious,
uncomfortable marriage myself.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You are? I thought—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You thought me broken-hearted. So I
am; I am wretched—tired of waiting, of
longing, and of thinking what a fool I have
been. He loved me, and it is too late. I
long for love until I feel nearly mad, so I am
going to marry. I shall be bound, tied up,
and there will be no escape, and so I must
feel peaceful.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You will not.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah, but I shall. Why did I not go with
him? Why did I not love him while I
could?”</p>
<hr class='tbk'/>
<p class='pindent'>“Who are you going to marry?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A man who knows it all. I am not
going to deceive him. He says the heart
of a woman cannot remain in a man’s grave
for ever. But . . . when he is with me I
see . . . the other. It is ghastly.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So I should think, and it will be worse.
Don’t do it, Sylvia. You will regret it
always.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, I think you are mistaken. Let us
talk of Launa.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>That night Paul wrote to her. He waited
with impatience for her answer.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When it came, she said she was leaving
for Canada and the letter was posted at
Liverpool.</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch23'>CHAPTER XXIII</h1></div>
<p class='noindent'><span class='sc'>Launa’s</span> first feeling was relief, relief—so intense,
so endless, that she felt buoyant,
joyful, secure. But after some days she felt
shame. What had Hugh Wainbridge
thought of her? What could a man think
of a woman whom he could propose to
wrong so terribly? And what had Paul
thought of her? Why did he not come?</p>
<p class='pindent'>Why should she think he cared still?
She had no reason to think so. Doubt,
misery, and loneliness, became torturing
demons; in action she saw the only relief
possible, and then she remembered Canada,
“Solitude,” the woods, the shore. Paul
despised her, she was sure; she would go
away, go home.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The penetrating depressing autumn mist
was slowly making its way over the land, it
was almost rain, it was so thick, and far
more wetting. The river was shrouded in a
white ghostly mantle. She thought of the
keen air at “Solitude,” of the clear sky, and
of the shore with the far-away landscape,
mysterious and, always to her, enticing.
And then of the storms, howling, fierce, and
powerful, like the terrible force and presence
of an unseen mighty power, the devastating
Great Spirit of the North who, for five
months of the year, reigns supreme, who is
real, tangible, brutal, unlike the horrible
slowness of this climate.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Solitude” was empty, Launa cabled to
the gardener’s wife who inhabited a lodge,
and who once had been housekeeper.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When Paul got her letter, she and her
maid were out on the Atlantic, rapidly going
farther away.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa was beginning to forget the Wainbridge
incident, though at first her anger
had seemed unending.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The weather became very cold as they
neared Halifax. The big blue harbour, with
its white-capped waves and white-covered
shores, was home. The drifting bits of ice
were gaily rushing on, tossed by the waves,
the tide, and the wash of the big steamer.
The decks and rigging were covered with
ice, the sea had swept the ship, and, after
sweeping it, the frost demon bound everything
in his cold arms. She wondered how
she had existed so long in that grey land
without sun. The sky looked higher and
more deeply blue.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Solitude” was quite ready for her, huge
fires blazed everywhere, old servants had
come back. She drove ten miles from the
nearest station, how the sleigh runners
creaked, and the bells rang clear, a big
yellow moon was up before she arrived;
everything was so strong, so intense, so cold.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Solitude” was lonely. She spent the
greater part of the days out of doors. She
was young, and the horribleness of Mr.
Wainbridge’s behaviour became dimmer.
She had only been angry, how would she
have felt if she had loved him?</p>
<p class='pindent'>After a week of driving and snowshoeing
she got out her toboggan.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The land from “Solitude” to the Bay
sloped down for about half a mile, and then
the Bay was frozen, the ice covered with
snow, and she could toboggan straight across
it. The crust of the snow was very hard.
The toboggan started slowly, then went
faster, faster, little bits of crisp snow flew in
her face, the air whistled past her as she
rushed along, the pace became swifter,—it
was glorious: the sun, the air, and the
clear blue sky were life-giving as she tore
on. The toboggan bounded over the rough
blocks of ice on the edge of the Bay which
were broken by the tide. On the flat stretch
of ice it began to move more slowly and then
stopped. It was splendid. She spent all
the afternoon at it; the thermometer was ten
below zero, but it was so still and sunny that
she could not feel cold.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was snowing hard and blowing from
the north-east; the view from “Solitude”
was dim, whirling snow hurled by the wind,
little drifting eddies of snow curled round the
top of the drifts already forming quickly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Launa started on snowshoes. The wind
knocked her about and she staggered before
it. She waited in the shelter of the porch
until the fury of the blast seemed to have
swept past, then she went on again. The
snow was loose, and the walking, even on
snowshoes, very heavy. She struggled to
the little post-office, though there was no
need for this, for they would have sent up
her letters; the one she wanted was not there.
She wandered on in the storm to pass the
time hoping to grow very tired. The road
was gone, it had disappeared in a level plain
of snow, only like black specks occasional
stones showed up in the walls. The snow
drifted and whirled, and the wind was so
keen and cold, like knives, with a stinging
burning sensation. The snow made its way
under her big fur collar and chilled her neck
and face though she was so hot.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Suddenly she saw a dark figure coming
nearer. It was a man. “Good-night,” she
said as they passed. She doubted if he
could hear, the wind crashed by them, it
roared over their heads and howled behind
them.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The man turned, and with two steps
towards her, said:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Launa, darling!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He put his arms round her, and then
walked on her snowshoes, nearly knocking
her over, and Launa lay in his arms; her
feet were most uncomfortable, one snowshoe
was on its side.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Paul!” she gasped.</p>
<p class='pindent'>His thick blanket coat against her mouth
prevented conversation.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come back to ‘Solitude,’ ” he said; “it
is too cold and too stormy for you to be out.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He took her hand, and they trudged on
for the greater part of the way in silence; it
was too windy to talk, and neither knew
when the other spoke unless their heads
were close together.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At “Solitude” Paul undid her snowshoes
and his own, then they went into the hall, all
bright with a huge fire and flowers. Paul
put his arms round her and kissed her. She
was covered with snow.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I must go. Let me go, Paul; you will
stay. There are things you can put on in
the dressing-room; but I must get them for
you. I want to tell you about him.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t want to know anything. He was
a beast; you are mine now. I am not wet,
Launa; you have forgotten the snow is dry.
Even Mrs. Grundy could not turn a man out
on a dark night, with the thermometer at
zero and a gale blowing.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>When she came down he was waiting.
He came towards her. She loved him, he
loved her; was there anything in the world
she needed now?</p>
<p class='pindent'>He put his arms round her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You have forgiven me?” he said, and he
kissed her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Paul, you won’t hate me?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Probably I shall. Tell me why?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, you know I do not like—much
kissing.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have observed that with regret, or rather
I hear you say it with sorrow; for since I came
I have kissed you several times and you—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” she interrupted, “but do you not
think we had better be careful? It might
get—common, we might grow accustomed to
it, and not—like it as much.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Paul laughed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Launa!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Tell me how you got here?” she asked.
They were sitting by the tea-table. “The
roads are blocked, and it snowed all night as
well as to-day.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Changing the subject rapidly was always
one of your accomplishments. Kissing
and roads—I see the connection to
you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Paul!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I started to drive,” he answered. “At
last we stuck in a drift near Montague’s; so
I came on snowshoes.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It was a dreadful tramp.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It was the best I ever had—with you at
the end of it. I wonder if you will ever
know? How soon will you marry me? I
cannot stay at ‘Solitude,’ and fifteen miles is
too far apart for you and me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You never came back! You never wrote
to me at ‘Shelton.’ I thought you did not
care—that you despised me, and thought me
a beast.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And you? You were going to marry
someone else. I tried to stop you—”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I believe I was going to run away the
day of the wedding,” she said. “Wasn’t it
ghastly?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Awful,” he said briefly. “Sylvia has
promised to marry the Member for Hackney.
Did she write to you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No. She will marry Lord Fairmouth?
Ugh! how can she? Is it true?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You will marry me soon,” he said. “And
we will go—where shall we go?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We shall stay here until the spring, and
then go up to the North,” she answered. “I
am glad we are ‘born Canadian.’ Aren’t
you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And Paul kissed her.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:3em;font-size:.8em;'>THE END.</p>
<hr class='tbk100'/>
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<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:.8em;'><span class='it'>Author of “The Wandering Romanoff,” “Darab’s Wine Cup,”</span></p>
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</div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='pindent'><span class='bold'>DAILY TELEGRAPH.</span>—“It is vivid and strong, touched with that
picturesque, vigorous fancy with which intellect illuminates and interprets the
life of action. . . . Mr. Bart Kennedy has talent of a strong order: He
shows it clearly in this latest book, in the strength with which he puts these
scenes before us, in his power of conveying his impressions, and his picturesque
point of view. No one can read this tramp’s reminiscences without adding to
his knowledge of human nature, and to his comprehension of a somewhat
unknown walk of life.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='bold'>ACADEMY.</span>—“The rough-and-ready, unvarnished, straightforward narrative
of a rover about the World, living from hand to mouth, getting down on his
luck, running strange risks, and meeting picturesque wastrels.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='bold'>SCOTSMAN.</span>—“The book is fascinating, and is written with a force which
seems born of sincerity, without any sensationalism. It cannot fail to interest
readers.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='bold'>MORNING LEADER.</span>—“The record of an adventurous life, when well
told, always appeals to the imagination and sympathy of the reader, and ‘A Man
Adrift’ is such a record. Presumably the adventures are real; they have all
the vividness of reality at all events, and one follows the hardships and
wanderings of the narrator with keen interest. . . . Mr. Kennedy is to be
congratulated on his ‘Man Adrift.’ ”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='bold'>TO-DAY.</span>—“I have discovered in ‘A Man Adrift’ one of the most remarkable
autobiographies ever penned. There is on every one of the incidents the
stamp of reality. There does not appear to be a page of fiction in the book, and
in his devil-may-care language the author secures the effect of absolute truth.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='bold'>UNIVERSE.</span>—“This is really one of the best books we have had the
pleasure to read for a long time. . . . The author evidently understands
what he is writing about, and the whole is so beautifully written, that as the
reader scans the pages the various scenes treated of are brought in a vivid
manner before the mind.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='bold'>REVIEW OF THE WEEK.</span>—“Each chapter is vivid with actuality. The
book is interesting by reason of its absolute sincerity, and the strange quaint
phases of life in out-of-the-way places, with which it deals. Mr. Kennedy’s
style is peculiarly his own, and we are not prepared to contest its effectiveness.
His story of the power of the human eye in obtaining a free lunch is altogether
admirable. This is a book which should be widely read, and few will lay it
down before the last page has been scanned.”</p>
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<p class='line'><span class='bold'><span class='ul'>TWO SMART STORIES.</span></span></p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:1.2em;'><span class='bold'>MY LADY RUBY - - -</span></p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:.6em;'>—AND—</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:1.2em;'><span class='bold'>- - - JOHN BASILEON</span></p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:.8em;'>CHIEF OF POLICE,</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'><span class='bold'>By G. F. MONKSHOOD,</span></p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:.8em;'><span class='it'>Author of “Rudyard Kipling: The Man and His Work,”</span></p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:.8em;'><span class='it'>“Woman and the Wits,” &c.</span></p>
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<p class='pindent'><span class='bold'>OUTLOOK.</span>—“Good work in which the influence of Mr. Saltus is perceptible.
There are whole pages of admirable rhetoric. The story illustrates
the enormous power of woman to excite and obsess man—an old theme, but an
inexhaustible one.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='bold'>SHEFFIELD TELEGRAPH.</span>—“A good half-crown’s worth of smart clever
writing. Both stories are quite off the conventional line.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='bold'>ST. PAUL’S.</span>—“The dialogue in ‘My Lady Ruby’ is crisp and distinctly
good. The second story, ‘John Basileon,’ is very striking.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='bold'>ST. JAMES’ BUDGET.</span>—“ ‘My Lady Ruby’ is a dainty trifle, of the genre
made familiar by Anthony Hope, wittily and gracefully told. . . . ‘John
Basileon’ is a lurid story in which the senses run riot, and in one of the chapters,
‘The Glory of the God of Sex,’ we have a phrase suggestive of the outlook on
life of practically all the characters engaged.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='bold'>WOMAN’S WEEKLY.</span>—“ ‘My Lady Ruby,’ by Mr. G. F. Monkshood,
whose work on Rudyard Kipling was so much appreciated, is a dainty little
study of a pair of lovers; the other story, ‘John Basileon,’ shows the author has
several styles, and while a less pleasant theme has a strength that one cannot
but admire.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='bold'>LIVERPOOL REVIEW.</span>—“ ‘My Lady Ruby’ is a little love story told in
an extremely unconventional fashion. Between the same covers is a short lurid
story of passion called ‘John Basileon,’ in which the moralities are discussed in
a very free and easy, and not altogether commendable, style. Still Mr.
Monkshood can write.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='bold'>MONITOR.</span>—“ ‘My Lady Ruby’ is charming, and as witty as she is charming.
. . . ‘John Basileon’ evinces imagination and subtlety of a highly
vivid and intense quality. The note of the book is modern, but of a modernity
far removed from that of the term understood by the French Symbolists and the
English Degenerates. Messrs. Greening & Co. are to be congratulated on a
publication which is likely to arouse considerable attention in those literary
circles from which approbation is praise indeed.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='bold'>NORTH BRITISH DAILY MAIL.</span>—“The titular story—one of two—displays
a lightness of touch and a deftness of construction that make its
perusal a source of keen mental stimulation, while the wit of its dialogue and
the gentle and kindly humour that permeates the whole of it serve to increase
and intensify the intellectual exhilaration, which every cultured man who reads
it, must feel. . . . The second tale, ‘John Basileon,’ is of a different stamp.
The language is strong, and its suggestion ever stronger, and it displays a real
power over the emotional states, and an insight into the psychology of a man’s
love, seldom arrived at by writers of Fiction.”</p>
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<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:.8em;'>AT ALL BOOKSELLERS AND LIBRARIES.</p>
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<p class='line' style='font-size:2em;'><span class='it'>BOOKS WORTH READING</span></p>
<hr class='tbk108'/>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'><span class='sc'>Being a List of the</span></p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'><span class='bold'>New and Forthcoming Publications</span></p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:.6em;'>OF</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:2em;'>GREENING & CO., <span class='sc'>Ltd.</span></p>
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<div class='lgc' style=''> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line'><span class='it'>OCTOBER 1899</span> LONDON, W.C.</p>
<hr class='tbk109'/>
<p class='line'>GENERAL LITERATURE, CRITICISM,</p>
<p class='line'>POETRY, ETC.</p>
</div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>English Writers of To-Day</span></span>:</span><br/>
Being a Series of Monographs on living Authors.
Each volume is written by a competent authority,
and each subject is treated in an appreciative,
yet critical, manner. The following are the first
volumes in the Series:—</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Rudyard Kipling.</span></span></span> The Man and His Work. Being
an attempt at an “Appreciation.” By <span class='sc'>G. F. Monkshood</span>, Author
of “Woman and The Wits,” “My Lady Ruby,” etc. Containing
a portrait of Mr Kipling and an autograph letter to the author
in facsimile. Second Impression. Crown 8vo, buckram, gilt
lettered, top edge gilt, 5s. nett.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Daily Telegraph.</span>—“He writes fluently, and he has genuine enthusiasm for his subject,
and an intimate acquaintance with his work. Moreover, the book has been submitted
to Mr Kipling, whose characteristic letter to the author is set forth on the preface. . . .
Of Kipling’s heroes Mr Monkshood has a thorough understanding, and his remarks
on them are worth quoting” (extract follows).</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Globe.</span>—“It has at the basis of it both knowledge and enthusiasm—knowledge of the
works estimated and enthusiasm for them. This book may be accepted as a generous
exposition of Mr Kipling’s merits as a writer. We can well believe that it will have
many interested and approving readers.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Scotsman.</span>—“This well-informed volume is plainly sincere. It is thoroughly well
studied, and takes pains to answer all the questions that are usually put about Mr Kipling.
The writer’s enthusiasm carries both himself and his reader along in the most agreeable
style. One way and another his book is full of interest, and those who wish to talk
about Kipling will find it invaluable, while the thousands of his admirers will read it
through with delighted enthusiasm.”</span></p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;margin-bottom:1em;'>VOLUMES OF E.W.O.T. (<span class='bold'>In preparation.</span>)</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Thomas Hardy.</span></span></span> By <span class='sc'>W. L. Courtney</span>.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>George Meredith.</span></span></span> By <span class='sc'>Walter Jerrold</span>.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Bret Harte.</span></span></span> By <span class='sc'>T. Edgar Pemberton</span>.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Richard Le Gallienne.</span></span></span> By <span class='sc'>C. Ranger Gull</span>.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Arthur Wing Pinero.</span></span></span> By <span class='sc'>Hamilton Fyffe</span>.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>W. E. Henley</span></span></span>, and the “<span class='sc'>National Observer</span>”
Group. By <span class='sc'>George Gamble</span>.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>The Parnassian School in English</span></span></span>
<span class='sc'>Poetry</span>. (<span class='sc'>Andrew Lang</span>, <span class='sc'>Edmund Gosse</span> and <span class='sc'>Robert</span>
<span class='sc'>Bridges</span>.) By Sir <span class='sc'>George Douglas</span>.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Algernon Charles Swinburne.</span></span></span> By <span class='sc'>g. f.</span>
<span class='sc'>Monkshood</span>.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Realistic Writers of To-day.</span></span></span> By <span class='sc'>Justin</span>
<span class='sc'>Hannaford</span>.</p>
<hr class='tbk110'/>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>The Wheel of Life.</span></span></span> A Few Memories and Recollections
(de omnibus rebus). By <span class='sc'>Clement Scott</span>, Author of
“Madonna Mia,” “Poppyland,” etc. With Portrait of the Author
from the celebrated Painting by <span class='sc'>J. Mordecai</span>. Third Edition.
Crown 8vo, crimson buckram, gilt lettered, gilt top, 2s.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Weekly Sun</span> (T. P. O’Connor) says:—A Book of the Week—“I have found this slight
and unpretentious little volume bright, interesting reading. I have read nearly every
line with pleasure.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Illustrated London News.</span>—“The story Mr Scott has to tell is full of varied interest,
and is presented with warmth and buoyancy.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Punch.</span>—“What pleasant memories does not Clement Scott’s little book, ‘The Wheel
of Life,’ revive! The writer’s memory is good, his style easy, and above all, which is a
great thing for reminiscences, chatty.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Referee.</span>—<span class='sc'>George R. Sims</span> (Dagonet) says:—Deeply interesting are these last
memories and recollections of the last days of Bohemia. . . . I picked up ‘The Wheel of
Life’ at one in the morning, after a hard night’s work, and flung myself, weary and worn,
into an easy-chair, to glance at it while I smoked my last pipe. As I read, all my weariness
departed, for I was young and light-hearted once again, and the friends of my young
manhood had come trooping back from the shadows to make a merry night of it once more
in London town. And when I put the book down, having read it from cover to cover, it
was ‘past three o’clock and a windy morning.’ ”</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>A Trip to Paradoxia</span></span></span>, and other Humours of the
Hour. Being Contemporary Pictures of Social Fact and Political
Fiction. By <span class='sc'>T. H. S. Escott</span>, Author of “Personal Forces
of the Period,” “Social Transformation of the Victorian Age,”
“Platform, Press, Politics, and Play,” Etc. Crown 8vo, art
cloth. Gilt, 5s. nett.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Standard.</span>—“A book which is amusing from cover to cover. Bright epigrams abound
in Mr Escott’s satirical pictures of the modern world. . . . Those who know the inner
aspects of politics and society will, undoubtedly, be the first to recognise the skill and
adroitness with which he strikes at the weak places in a world of intrigue and fashion.
. . . There is a great deal of very clever sword-play in Mr Escott’s description of
Dum-Dum (London), the capital of Paradoxia (England).”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Court Circular.</span>—“It is brilliantly written, and will afford keen enjoyment to the
discriminating taste. Its satire is keen-edged, but good-humoured enough to hurt no
one; and its wit and (may me say?) its impudence should cause a run on it at the
libraries.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>M. A. P.</span>—“A sparkling piece of political and social satire. Mr Escott besprinkles his
pages with biting epigram and humorous innuendo. It is a most amusing book.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Athenæum.</span>—“He constantly suggests real episodes and real persons. There are a
good many rather pretty epigrams scattered through Mr Escott’s pages.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Scotsman.</span>—“A bright, witty, and amusing volume, which will entertain everybody
who takes it up.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Newcastle Leader.</span>—“Messrs Greening are fortunate in being the publishers of a
volume so humorous, so dexterous, written with such knowledge of men and affairs, and
with such solidity and power of style as Mr T. H. S. Escott’s ‘A Trip to Paradoxia.’ ”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Public Opinion.</span>—“Mr T. H. S. Escott throws abundant humour blended with pungent
sarcasm into his work, making his pictures very agreeable reading to all but the victim
he has selected, and whose weaknesses he so skilfully lays bare. But the very clever
manner in which the writer hits the foibles and follies of his fellows must create admiration
and respect even from those who view his satire with a wintry smile. We like his
writing, his power of discernment, and his high literary style.”</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>People, Plays, and Places.</span></span></span> Being the Second
Series of “The Wheel of Life,” Memories and Recollections of
“People” I have met, “Plays” I have seen, and “Places” I have
visited. By <span class='sc'>Clement Scott</span>, Author of “The Stage of Yesterday
and The Stage of To-day,” “Pictures of the World,” “Thirty
Years at the Play.” Crown 8vo, cloth gilt. (In preparation.) 5s.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'>“<span class='it'><span class='bold'>Sisters by the Sea.</span></span>”</span> Seaside and Country Sketches.
By <span class='sc'>Clement Scott</span>, Author of “Blossom Land,” “Amongst the
Apple Orchards,” Etc. Frontispiece and Vignette designed by
<span class='sc'>George Pownall</span>. Long 12mo, attractively bound in cloth, 1s.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Observer.</span>—“The little book is bright and readable, and will come like a breath of
country air to many unfortunates who are tied by the leg to chair, stool, or counter.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Sheffield Telegraph.</span>—“Bright, breezy, and altogether readable. . . . East Anglia,
Nelson’s Land, etc., etc., are all dealt with, and touched lightly and daintily, as becomes
a booklet meant to be slipped in the pocket and read easily to the pleasing accompaniment
of the waves lazily lapping on the shingle by the shore.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Dundee Advertiser.</span>—“It is all delightful, and almost as good as a holiday. The
city clerk, the jaded shopman, the weary milliner, the pessimistic dyspeptic, should each
read the book. It will bring a suggestion of sea breezes, the plash of waves, and all the
accessories of a holiday by the sea.”</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Some Famous Hamlets.</span></span></span> (<span class='sc'>Sarah Bernhardt</span>,
<span class='sc'>Henry Irving</span>, <span class='sc'>Beerbohm Tree</span>, <span class='sc'>Wilson Barrett</span> and
<span class='sc'>Forbes Robertson</span>.) By <span class='sc'>Clement Scott</span>. Illustrated with
portraits. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Some Bible Stories Retold.</span></span></span> By “<span class='sc'>A Churchman</span>.”
Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Bye-Ways of Crime.</span></span></span> With some Stories from
the Black Museum. By <span class='sc'>R. J. Power-Berrey</span>. Profusely
Illustrated. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Outlook.</span>—“Decidedly you should read Mr Power-Berrey’s interesting book, taking laugh
and shudder as they come.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Sheffield Independent.</span>—“We do not remember to have ever seen a more popularly-written
summary of the methods of thieves than this bright and chatty volume. It is
the work of a writer who evidently has a most intimate knowledge of the criminal
classes, and who can carry on a plain narrative briskly and forcibly. The book fascinates
by its freshness and unusualness.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Literature.</span>—“It contains many interesting stories and new observations on the <span class='it'>modus
operandi</span> of swindlers.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Scotsman.</span>—“A most interesting account of the dodges adopted by various criminals
in effecting their purposes. The reader will find much that is instructive within its
pages.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Liverpool Review.</span>—“This is no fanciful production, but a clear, dispassionate revelation
of the dodges of the professional criminal. Illustrated by numerous pen and ink
sketches, Mr Power-Berrey’s excellent work is useful as well as interesting, for it will
certainly not assist the common pilferer to have all his little tricks made public property
in this lucid and easily rememberable style.”</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>The Art of Elocution</span></span></span> and Public Speaking. By
<span class='sc'>Ross Ferguson</span>. With an Introduction by <span class='sc'>Geo. Alexander</span>.
Dedicated by permission to Miss <span class='sc'>Ellen Terry</span>. Second Edition.
Crown 8vo, strongly bound in cloth, 1s.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Australian Mail.</span>—“A useful little book. We can strongly recommend it to the
chairmen of public companies.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Stage.</span>—“A carefully composed treatise, obviously written by one as having authority.
Students will find it of great service.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>People’s Friend.</span>—“Contains many valuable hints, and deals with every branch of
the elocutionist’s art in a lucid and intelligible manner.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Literary World.</span>—“The essentials of elocution are dealt with in a thoroughly capable
and practical way. The chapter on public speaking is particularly satisfactory.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Madame.</span>—“The work is pleasingly thorough. The instructions are most interesting,
and are lucidly expressed, physiological details are carefully, yet not redundantly, dwelt
on, so that the intending student may have some very real and definite idea of what he is
learning about, and many valuable hints may be gleaned from the chapters on ‘Articulation
and Modulation.’ Not only for actors and orators will this little book be found of
great service, but everyone may find pleasure and profit in reading it.”</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>The Path of the Soul.</span></span></span> Being Essays on Continental
Art and Literature. By S. C. de <span class='sc'>Soissons</span>, Author of
“A Parisian in America,” etc. Illustrated with portraits, etc.
Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 10s. 6d.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>A History of Nursery Rhymes.</span></span></span> By <span class='sc'>Percy
B. Green</span>. This interesting Book is the result of many years
research among nursery folklore of all nations, and traces the
origin of nursery-rhymes from the earliest times. Crown 8vo,
cloth, 4s.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>The Year Book of the Stage.</span></span></span> Being an
annual record of criticisms of all the important productions of the
English Stage, with copious Index and complete Casts of each
Play recorded. A useful compilation for students of the Drama.
About 260 pages, strongly bound in cloth, 3s. 6d.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>In Quaint East Anglia.</span></span></span> Descriptive Sketches.
By <span class='sc'>T. West Carnie</span>. Illustrated by <span class='sc'>W. S. Rogers</span>. Long
12mo, cloth, 1s.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Observer.</span>—“That East Anglia exercises a very potent spell over those who once come
under its influence is proved by the case of George Borrow, and all who share in the
fascination will delight in this brightly written, companionable little volume.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Birmingham Argus.</span>—“Interesting matter entertainingly told.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Glasgow Herald.</span>—“Mr Carnie’s book is thoroughly charming.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Literature.</span>—“An æsthetic volume as pleasant to read as to look at.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Guardian.</span>—“Just the kind of book that would help a tourist in Norfolk and Suffolk
to see what ought to be seen with the proper measure of enjoyment.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Graphic.</span>—“It is a prettily got up and readable little book.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Saturday Review.</span>—“Will be welcomed by all who have come under the charm of
East Anglia.”</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>A Man Adrift.</span></span></span> Being Leaves from a Nomad’s
Portfolio. By <span class='sc'>Bart Kennedy</span>, Author of “Darab’s Wine-Cup,”
“The Wandering Romanoff,” etc. This very entertaining book
is a narrative of adventures in all parts of the world. Crown 8vo,
cloth, 6s.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Woman and the Wits.</span></span></span> Epigrams on Woman, Love,
and Beauty. Collected and edited by <span class='sc'>G. F. Monkshood</span>, Author
of “Rudyard Kipling: The Man and His Work,” “Lady Ruby,”
etc. Small 8vo, cloth gilt extra, gilt edges, 3s. 6d. nett. Paper
boards, rough edges, 2s. 6d. nett.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Weeds and Flowers.</span></span></span> Poems by <span class='sc'>William Luther
Longstaff</span>, Author of “Passion and Reflection.” Crown 8vo,
art cloth, gilt extra, gilt top, 2s. 6d. nett.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Sun.</span>—“Mr Longstaff has real fire and passion in all of his work. He has a graceful
touch and a tuneful ear. There is exquisite melody in his metre.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Echo.</span>—“The poetry of passion is no rarity to-day, yet scarcely since the date of Philip
Bourke Marston’s ‘Song Tide’ has such an arresting and whole-hearted example of this
class of poetry been issued by any English author as the volume which Mr William
Luther Longstaff entitles ‘Weeds and Flowers.’ Passion, tumultuous and unabashed,
sensuous rapture openly flaunting its shame, love in maddest surrender risking all,
daring all, these are the dominant motives of Mr Longstaff’s muse. So wild is the
rush of his emotion—all storm and fire and blood—to such white heat does he forge his
burning phrases, so subtly varied are the constantly recurring expressions of love’s ecstasy,
its despair, its bereavement, its appetite, its scorn, so happy sometimes are the unexpected
metrical changes and experiments herein adopted, that the younger poet might
suggest discreet comparisons with the earlier Swinburne.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Morning Herald.</span>—“The book contains <span class='it'>real</span> poetry. There is always thought and
force in the work. ‘At the Gate’ is not merely Swinburnian in metre; in all things it
might well have come from that poet’s pen.”</span></p>
<hr class='tbk111'/>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:1.5em;'><span class='bold'>Greening’s Masterpiece Library</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Vathek.</span></span></span> An Eastern Romance. By <span class='sc'>Geo. Beckford</span>.
Edited with an Introduction by <span class='sc'>Justin Hannaford</span>. Full-page
illustrations by <span class='sc'>W. S. Rogers</span>. Crown 8vo, art cloth, gilt, 3s 6d.
A superb edition of this most interesting and fascinating story.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Asmodeus;</span></span></span> or, The Devil on Two Sticks. An Illustrated
Edition of the Celebrated Novel by <span class='sc'>Le Sage</span>, Author of
“Gil Blas.” Edited by <span class='sc'>Justin Hannaford</span>. Crown 8vo, 5s.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Ringan Githaize.</span></span></span> A Tale of the Covenanters. By
<span class='sc'>John Galt</span>. Edited with an Introduction by Sir <span class='sc'>George
Douglas</span>. Crown 8vo, 5s.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Rasselas</span></span></span>, Prince of Abyssinia. A Tale of Adventure.
By Dr <span class='sc'>Johnson</span>. Edited with an Introduction by <span class='sc'>Justin
Hannaford</span>. Full-page illustrations by <span class='sc'>W. S. Rogers</span>. Crown
8vo, 5s.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>The Epicurean.</span></span></span> A Tale of Mystery and Adventure.
By <span class='sc'>Thomas Moore</span>. Edited with an Introduction by <span class='sc'>Justin
Hannaford</span>. Illustrated. 8vo, art cloth, 3s. 6d.</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span class='it'>Several well known and popular works by great writers are in
active preparation for this artistic series of masterpieces.</span></p>
</div>
<hr class='tbk112'/>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:1.5em;'><span class='bold'>POPULAR FICTION</span></p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;'><span class='sc'>Novels at Six Shillings</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>An Obscure Apostle.</span></span></span> A Powerful and Dramatic
Tale, translated from the Polish of Mdme. <span class='sc'>Orzeszko</span> by S. C. de
<span class='sc'>Soissons</span>. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>A Son of Africa.</span></span></span> A Tale of Marvellous Adventures.
By <span class='sc'>Anna, Comtesse de Brémont</span>, Author of “The Gentleman
Digger,” etc. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Mora</span>:</span></span> One Woman’s History. An interesting novel by
<span class='sc'>T. W. Speight</span>, Author of “The Crime in the Wood,” “The
Mysteries of Heron Dyke,” etc. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>A Girl of the North.</span></span></span> A Tale of London and
Canada. By <span class='sc'>Helen Milicite</span>. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Ashes Tell no Tales.</span></span></span> A Novel. By Mrs <span class='sc'>Albert
S. Bradshaw</span>, Author of “The Gates of Temptation,” “False
Gods,” “Wife or Slave,” etc. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Such is the Law.</span></span></span> An Interesting Story by <span class='sc'>Marie
M. Sadleir</span>, Author of “An Uncanny Girl,” “In Lightest
London,” etc. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Fetters of Fire.</span></span></span> A Dramatic Tale. By <span class='sc'>Compton
Reade</span>, Author of “Hard Lines,” “Under which King,” etc.
Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>A Virtue of Necessity.</span></span></span> A Powerful Novel. By
<span class='sc'>Herbert Adams</span>. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>A Cry in the Night.</span></span></span> An exciting Detective Story.
By <span class='sc'>Arnold Golsworthy</span>, Author of “Death and the Woman,”
“Hands in the Darkness,” etc. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>A Social Upheaval.</span></span></span> An Unconventional Dramatic
Satirical Tale. By <span class='sc'>Isidore G. Ascher</span>, Author of “An Odd
Man’s Story,” “The Doom of Destiny,” etc. Crown 8vo, cloth
gilt, 6s.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Scotsman.</span>—“The plot is bold, even to audacity; its development is always interesting,
picturesque, and, towards the close, deeply pathetic; and the purpose and method of the
writer are alike admirable.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Eastern Morning News.</span>—“It is a clever book, splendidly written, and striking in its
wonderful power, and keeping the reader interested. . . . The author has not failed in
his effort to prove the case. The awful truth of its pages is borne home upon us as we
read chapter after chapter. The book should have a good effect in certain quarters. One
of the best features is the dividing line drawn most plainly between Socialism and Anarchism.
To its author we tender our thanks, and predict a large sale.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Daily Telegraph.</span>—“The hero is an interesting dreamer, absorbed in his schemes,
which are his one weakness. To women, save when they can further the good of his
cause, he is obdurate; in business, strong, energetic, and powerful. He is shown to us
as the man with a master mind and one absorbing delusion, and as such is a pathetic
figure. No one can dispute the prodigality and liveliness of the author’s imagination;
his plot teems with striking incidents.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Vanity Fair.</span>—“The story tells itself very clearly in three hundred pages of very
pleasant and entertaining reading. The men and women we meet are not the men and
women we really come across in this world. So much the better for us. But we are
delighted to read about them, for all that; and we prophesy success for Mr Ascher’s
book, particularly as he has taken the precaution of telling us that he is ‘only in fun.’ ”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Aberdeen Free Press.</span>—“A story in which there is not a dull page, nay, not even a
dull line. The characters are well drawn, the incidents are novel and often astounding,
and the language has a terseness and briskness that gives a character of vivacity to the
story, so that the reader is never tired going on unravelling the tangled meshes of the
intricate plot until he comes to the end. ‘A Social Upheaval’ is, indeed, a rattling good
book.”</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>A New Tale of The Terror.</span></span></span> A Powerful and
Dramatic Story of the French Revolution. By the Author of
“The Hypocrite” and “Miss Malevolent.” (In preparation.)
Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s.</p>
<hr class='tbk113'/>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:1.5em;'><span class='bold'>POPULAR FICTION</span></p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;'><span class='sc'>Novels at Three Shillings and Sixpence</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Shams!</span></span></span> A Social Satire. By ——? This is a remarkable
and interesting story of Modern Life in London Society. It
is a powerful work, written with striking vividness. The plot is
fascinating, the incidents exciting, and the dialogue epigrammatic
and brilliant. “Shams” is written by one of the most popular
novelists of the day. Crown 8vo, art cloth, gilt, 3s. 6d.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Miss Malevolent.</span></span></span> A Realistic Study. By the Author
of “The Hypocrite.” Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>A Comedy of Temptation</span></span>;</span> or, The Amateur
Fiend. A Tale by <span class='sc'>Tristram Coutts</span>, Author of “The Pottle
Papers,” etc. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>The Weird Well.</span></span></span> A Tale of To-day. By Mrs
<span class='sc'>Alec M<sup>c</sup>Millan</span>, Author of “The Evolution of Daphne,” “So
Runs my Dream,” etc. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Loroastro.</span></span></span> An Historical Romance. By <span class='sc'>Creswick J.
Thompson</span>, Author of “Poison Romance and Poison Mysteries,”
“The Mystery and Romance of Alchemy and Pharmacy,” etc.
Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>The Temptation of Edith Watson.</span></span></span> By
<span class='sc'>Sydney Hall</span>. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>The Gentleman Digger.</span></span></span> Realistic Pictures of Life
in Johannesburg, By <span class='sc'>Anna, Comtesse de Brémont</span>, Author of
“A Son of Africa,” etc. New Edition, revised to date, with a new
Preface. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>The Sword of Fate.</span></span></span> An Interesting Novel. By
<span class='sc'>Henry Herman</span>, Author of “Eagle Joe,” “Scarlet Fortune,” etc.,
and Joint Author of the “Silver King,” “Claudian.” Crown 8vo,
art cloth, 3s. 6d.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Vanity Fair.</span>—“The hand that wrote the ‘Silver King’ has by no means lost its
cunning in painting broad effects of light and shadow. The description of life in Broadmoor
is, we fancy, done from actual observation. It is quite new.” And the critic of
<span class='bold'>Black and White</span> sums it up pithily as “a story which holds our attention and interests
us right from the first chapter. The book is as exciting as even a story of sensation
has any need to be.” Speaking of the scene of Mr Herman’s drama, the beautiful
county of Devonshire, where the greater part of the story takes place, the <span class='bold'>Manchester
Courier</span> says: “The author’s descriptive powers vividly portray the lovely spots by the
winding Tamar, while the rich dialect of the district is so faithfully reproduced as to become
not the least feature of an exciting tale.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>The Weekly Mercury.</span>—“Mr Henry Herman has carefully studied the little weaknesses
of the great army of readers. Like a celebrated and much advertised medicine,
he invariably ‘touches the spot,’ and hence the popularity of his works. His latest
novel, ‘The Sword of Fate,’ contains all the essentials of a popular story. It is well
written, sufficiently dramatic, full of life and incident, and above all, right triumphs over
wrong. We must, too, congratulate the author upon the omission of all that is disagreeable
or likely to offend the susceptibilities of the most delicate minded. It is a clean and
healthy novel, a credit to the writer, and a pleasure to the reader. . . . These are quite
capable of affording anyone a pleasant evening’s reading, a remark which does not apply
to the great majority of the modern novels.”</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Seven Nights with Satan.</span></span></span> A Novel. By <span class='sc'>J. L.
Owen</span>, Author of “The Great Jekyll Diamond.” Cover designed
by <span class='sc'>W. S. Rogers</span>. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>St James’s Gazette.</span>—“We have read the book from start to finish with unflagging
interest—an interest, by the way, which derives nothing from the ‘spice,’ for though its
title may be suggestive of Zolaism, there is not a single passage which is open to objection.
The literary style is good.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Truth.</span>—“I much prefer the ghastly story ‘Seven Nights with Satan,’ a very clever
study of degeneration.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>London Morning.</span>—“The story told is a powerful one, evidently based upon close
personal knowledge of the events, places, and persons which figure in it. A tragic note
pervades it, but still there is lightness and wit in its manner which makes the book a very
fascinating as well as eventful volume.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Public Opinion.</span>—“Mr J. L. Owen has given a title to his work which will cause
many conjectures as to the nature of the story. Now, if we divulged what were the
seven nights, we should be doing the author anything but a service—in fact, we should
be giving the whole thing away; therefore, we will only state that the work is cleverly
conceived, and carried out with great literary ability. There are numerous flashes of
originality that lift the author above ordinary commonplace.”</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>The Green Passion.</span></span></span> The Study of a Jealous Soul.
A Powerful Novel. By <span class='sc'>Anthony P. Vert</span>. Cover designed by
<span class='sc'>Alfred Praga</span>. Crown 8vo, art cloth, 3s. 6d.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'>Mr. <span class='sc'>Douglas Sladen</span> in <span class='bold'>The Queen</span>.—“A remarkably clever book. . . . There is no
disputing the ability with which the writer handles her subject. I say <span class='it'>her</span> subject,
because the minuteness of the touches, and the odd, forcible style in which this book is
written, point to it being the work of a female hand. The book is an eminently readable
one, and it is never dull for a minute.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Daily Telegraph.</span>—“It is a study of one of the worst passions which can ruin a life-time
and mar all human happiness—one of the worst, not because it is necessarily the
strongest, but because of its singular effect in altering the complexion of things, transforming
love into suspicion, and filling its victim with a petulant and unreasonable madness.
All this Anthony Vert understands, and can describe with very uncommon power.
The soul of a jealous woman is analysed with artistic completeness, and proved to be the
petty, intolerant, half-insane thing it really is. . . . The plot is well conceived, and well
carried out. Anthony Vert may be congratulated on having written a very clever
novel.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>The Monitor.</span>—“A wonderful piece of writing. The only modern parallel we can find
is supplied in Mr F. C. Philip’s ‘As in a Looking Glass.’ ”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>World.</span>—“As the study of a jealous soul, ‘The Green Passion’ is a success, and
psychological students will be delighted with it. . . . The tragedy which forms the
<span class='it'>dénouement</span> to this story is of such a nature as to preclude our doing more than
remotely alluding to it, for he (or is it she?) has portrayed an ‘exceedingly risky
situation.’ ”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Whitehall Review.</span>—“In ‘The Green Passion’ the author traces with much ability,
and not a little analytical insight, the progress of jealousy in the breast of a woman who
is born with a very ‘intense,’ although not a very deep, nature. . . . There is in Mr
Vert’s work a certain tendency towards realism which has its due effect in making his
characters real. They are no loosely-built fancies of the journalistic brain, but portraits—almost
snapshot portraits—of men and women of to-day.”</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Outrageous Fortune.</span></span></span> Being the Confessions of
Evelyn Gray, Hospital Nurse. A story founded on fact, proving
that truth is stranger than fiction. (In preparation.) Crown 8vo,
cloth, 3s. 6d.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>The Dolomite Cavern.</span></span></span> An Exciting Tale of Adventure.
By <span class='sc'>W. Patrick Kelly</span>, Author of “Schoolboys Three,”
etc. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Daily Telegraph.</span>—“Lovers of the sensational in fiction will find abundance of congenial
entertainment in Mr W. P. Kelly’s new story. In the way of accessories to
startling situations all is fish that comes to this ingenious author’s net. The wonders of
primitive nature, the marvels of latter-day science, the extravagances of human passion—all
these he dexterously uses for the purpose of involving his hero in perilous scrapes from
which he no less dexterously extricates him by expedients which, however far-fetched
they may appear to the unimaginative, are certainly not lacking in originality of device,
or cleverness of construction. . . . This is a specimen incident—those which succeed it
derive their special interest from the action of Rontgen rays, subterranean torrents, and
devastating inundations. The book is very readable throughout, and ends happily.
What more can the average novel reader wish for in holiday time?”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Observer.</span>—“A story full of exciting adventure.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Saturday Review.</span>—“The plot is ingenious, and the style pleasant.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Literature.</span>—“ ‘The Dolomite Cavern’ has the great merit of being very well written.
The plot is sensational and improbable enough, but with the aid of the author’s bright
literary manner it carries us on agreeably until the last chapter.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Critic.</span>—“It is a sensational novel with a dash of pseudo-scientific interest about it
which is well calculated to attract the public. It is, moreover, well written and
vigorous.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Manchester Guardian.</span>—“Mr Kelly’s fluent, rapid style makes his story of mysteries
readable and amusing. His Irish servant, one of the principal characters, speaks
a genuine Irish dialect—almost as rare in fiction as the imitation is common.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>St James’s Budget.</span>—“Truly thrilling and dramatic, Mr Kelly’s book is a cleverly
written and absorbing romance. It concludes with a tremendous scene, in which a life-and-death
struggle with a madman in the midst of a raging flood is the leading
feature.”</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Madonna Mia</span></span></span>, and other Stories. By <span class='sc'>Clement
Scott</span>, Author of “Poppyland,” “The Wheel of Life,” “The
Fate of Fenella,” “Blossomland,” etc. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Punch.</span>—“ ‘Madonna Mia’ is genuinely interesting. All the stories are good; you are
‘Scott free’ to pick ’em where you like.” (The Baron de B. W.)</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Weekly Sun.</span>—“Shows Mr Scott’s sturdy character painting and love of picturesque
adventure.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Weekly Dispatch.</span>—“The book is characteristic of the work of its author—bright,
brilliant, informing, and entertaining, and without a dull sentence in it.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>St James’s Gazette.</span>—“Full of grace and sentiment. The tales have each their
individuality and interest, and we can recommend the whole as healthy refreshment for
the idle or weary brain.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Pelican.</span>—“Full of living, breathing, human interest. Few writers possess the gift of
bringing actual existence to their characters as does Mr Scott, and in the pages of his
newest book you shall find tears and smiles, and all the emotions skilfully arranged and
put in true literary fashion.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>World.</span>—“Clement Scott is nothing if not sympathetic, and every one of the ten stories
is not only thoroughly readable, but is instinct with sentiment; for Mr Scott still retains
a wonderful enthusiasm, usually the attribute of youth. ‘Drifting’ is a very fresh and
convincing narrative, founded, we understand, upon truth, and containing within a small
compass the materials for a very stirring drama. ‘A Cross of Heather,’ too, is a charming
romance, told with real pathos and feeling.”</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>The Shadow on The Manse.</span></span></span> A Tale of
Religion and the Stage. By <span class='sc'>Campbell Rae-Brown</span>, Author of
“The Resurrection of His Grace,” “Kissing-Cup’s Race,” etc.
Crown 8vo, art cloth, gilt, 3s. 6d.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>The Lady of the Leopard.</span></span></span> A Powerful and
Fascinating Novel. By <span class='sc'>Chas. L’Epine</span>, Author of “The Devil in
a Domino.” Crown 8vo, art cloth, 3s. 6d.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Public Opinion.</span>—“A remarkable book. . . . We are plunged into a delicious and
tantalising romance; incident follows incident like a panorama of exciting pictures.
Fertility of imagination is everywhere apparent, and the <span class='it'>dénouement</span> is artfully
concealed till it bursts upon the reader with a suddenness that fairly takes away his
breath.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Liverpool Mercury.</span>—“Lovers of the marvellous will enjoy it, for it is cleverly and
dramatically written.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Dundee Advertiser.</span>—“Written with dramatic force and vigour.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>North British Advertiser.</span>—“This is a weird and strange story that interests and
fascinates the reader, with its occult fancies and marvellous experiences. . . . It may be
added, in conclusion, that it is a book well worth reading, and will easily bear a second
perusal.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Liverpool Post.</span>—“A very skilfully constructed story, mysterious and strange, with a
natural explanation suggested of all the mystery which does not spoil one’s enjoyment
(here follows analysis of plot). This is the bare outline of the story up to a certain point;
it is impossible to convey adequately an idea of the awe-inspiring characteristics of the
story. Readers can safely be recommended to turn to the book itself.”</span></p>
<hr class='tbk114'/>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:1.5em;'><span class='bold'>POPULAR FICTION</span></p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;'><span class='sc'>Half-Crown Novels</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>In Monte Carlo.</span></span></span> A Tale by <span class='sc'>Henryk Sienkiewicz</span>,
Author of “Quo Vadis,” “With Fire and Sword,”
etc., etc. Translated by S. C. de <span class='sc'>Soissons</span>. Crown 8vo, art
cloth, with a new Portrait of the Author, 2s. 6d.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>The Tragedy of The Lady Palmist.</span></span></span>
By <span class='sc'>W. Luther Longstaff</span>, Author of “Weeds and Flowers,”
etc. An exciting tale, descriptive of the “Behind-the-Scenes of
the Palmist’s Bohemia.” Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>My Lady Ruby, and Basileon, Chief of Police</span></span>.</span>
Two stories by <span class='sc'>G. F. Monkshood</span>, Author of “Nightshades,”
“Rudyard Kipling: The Man and His Work,”
“Woman and The Wits,” etc. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>The Hypocrite.</span></span></span> A Modern Realistic Novel of Oxford
and London Life. Fourth Impression. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d.</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:smaller'>⁂ <span class='it'>This book has been “boycotted” by Messrs Mudie and Messrs W. H. Smith & Son
as being “unfit to circulate in their libraries,” yet it has been praised by the press
as being “a powerful sermon and a moral book.”</span></span></p>
</div>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Daily Telegraph.</span>—“A book by an anonymous author always arouses a certain inquiry,
and when the book is clever and original the interest becomes keen, and conjecture is rife,
endowing the most unlikely people with authorship. . . . It is very brilliant, very
forcible, very sad. . . . It is perfect in its way, in style clear, sharp and forcible, the
dialogue epigrammatic and sparkling. . . . Enough has been said to show that ‘The
Hypocrite’ is a striking and powerful piece of work, and that its author has established
his claim to be considered a writer of originality and brilliance.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Daily Graphic.</span>—“A very moral book.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Court Circular.</span>—“The work is decidedly clever, full of ready wit, sparkling epigram,
and cutting sarcasm.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Echo.</span>—“The story is thoroughly interesting, the wit and epigram of the writing are not
to be denied, and altogether ‘The Hypocrite’ is so brilliant that it can only be fittingly
compared with ‘The Green Carnation’ or ‘The Babe B.A.’ ”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Liverpool Courier.</span>—“A genuinely clever book. Furthermore, it is a book with a
wholesome moral vividly enforced.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Lady.</span>—“Whoever the author may be, he has the right literary method, his work is
absolutely realistic, his style is fluent and distinctive, and he has the rare faculty of
gripping the reader’s attention at the outset and retaining it to the very last. . . . ‘The
Hypocrite’ is something more than a remarkable novel—it is, in effect, a sermon, conveying
a definite message to those who have the wit to understand it.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Morning Post.</span>—“It is entitled to be regarded as one of the clever books of the day.
The writer shows artistic perception. He maintains throughout an atmosphere perfectly
in harmony with the idea that has suggested his work.”</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>The Wandering Romanoff.</span></span></span> A Romance. By
<span class='sc'>Bart Kennedy</span>, Author of “A Man Adrift,” “Darab’s Wine-Cup,”
etc. New and Cheaper Edition, crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Dona Rufina.</span></span></span> A Nineteenth Century Romance.
Being a Story of Carlist Conspiracy. By <span class='sc'>Heber Daniels</span>, Author
of “Our Tenants.” Second Edition. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Bookman.</span>—“A highly emotional, cleverly written story.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Lady.</span>—“A thrilling romance with a mediæval atmosphere, although the scene is laid
in the Cotswolds in the year of grace 1898. The story is well constructed, and is a good
example of the widely imaginative type of fiction that is so eagerly devoured by young
people nowadays.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Lloyd’s.</span>—“The author has woven a clever story out of strange materials. . . . The
interest of the book only ceases when the end is reached.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Society.</span>—“Altogether a very intelligible and interesting story of intrigue and love.
The author has put some excellent work into the book.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Eastern Morning News.</span>—“Readers will be fascinated by the stirring scenes, the
swiftly moving panorama, the enacted tragedies, the wild, passionate, lawless loves
depicted in the most sensational manner in this volume.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Englishman</span> (Calcutta).—“It is a lurid tale of Spanish plotters. . . . Around this
central figure the author weaves an effective story with more than considerable skill.
He has achieved a brilliant success with the character of Rufina; it is a masterpiece in
its own way, and invested with freshness, grace, and a magnetic personality.”</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Lord Jimmy.</span></span></span> A Story of Music-Hall Life. By
<span class='sc'>George Martyn</span>. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Outlook.</span>—“The book is both humorous and dramatic.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Pelican.</span>—“It is amusing and interesting—two very good qualities for a novel to possess.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Sheffield Telegraph.</span>—“The book is vivaciously written, several of the characters
being human enough to look like studies from life.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Aberdeen Free Press.</span>—“The characters are skilfully depicted, and the whole book
is amusing and interesting.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Glasgow Citizen.</span>—“ ‘Decidedly clever’ will be the verdict of the reader on closing this
book.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Vanity Fair.</span>—“The author has a peculiar knowledge of the ‘Halls’ and those who
frequent them; and especially, as it seems to us, of those Jewish persons who sometimes
run them. And he has made good use of his knowledge here. But there is more than
this in the book; for ‘George Martyn’ has considerable descriptive talent. His account,
for instance, of the fight between the hero and the butcher is quite good. The story is
straightforward, convincing, and full of human nature and promise.”</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>The Lady of Criswold.</span></span></span> A Sensational Story. By
<span class='sc'>Leonard Outram</span>. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>North British Advertiser.</span>—“A thrilling tale of love and madness.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Whitehall Review.</span>—“No one can complain of lack of sensation, it is full of startling
episodes. The characters are drawn with a rapid and vigorous touch. The interest
is well maintained.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Court Circular.</span>—“It reminds us forcibly of a story in real life that engrossed public
attention many years ago. Whether this was in the author’s mind we cannot say, but
the book is deeply interesting, the characters well and strongly drawn, and we doubt
not this tale will fascinate many a reader.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>London Morning.</span>—“The story is cleverly constructed, is full of incident with more
than a dash of tragedy, and holds the attention of the reader to the close. Dealing with
modern life of the higher class, Mr Outram’s story is consistent, and though it aims at
romantic effect, is not strained or overdrawn.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Church Gazette.</span>—“We can heartily recommend ‘The Lady of Criswold.’ One likes
to meet now and again a book which forsakes the eternal sex question, or the hair-splitting
discussion of ethical or psychological problems, and treats us to simpler and
more satisfying fare. . . . There are several good hours’ reading in the book, and
plenty of excitement of the dramatic order. Another good point is that it is healthy
in tone.”</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>The Gates of Temptation.</span></span></span> A Natural Novel by
Mrs <span class='sc'>Albert S. Bradshaw</span>, Author of “False Gods,” “Wife or
Slave,” etc. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Weekly Dispatch.</span>—“This is a story full of power and pathos, the strong dramatic
interest of which is sustained from the opening chapter to the close.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Midland Mail.</span>—“The characters are vividly drawn. There are many pleasant and
painful incidents in the book, which is interesting from beginning to end.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>London Morning.</span>—“Mrs Albert Bradshaw has done such uniformly good work that
we have grown to expect much from her. Her latest book is one which will enhance her
reputation, and equally please new and old readers of her novels. It is called ‘The
Gates of Temptation,’ and professes to be a natural novel. The story told is one of deep
interest. There is no veneer in its presentation, no artificiality about it.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Aberdeen Free Press.</span>—“Mrs Bradshaw has written several good novels, and the
outstanding feature of all of them has been her skilful development of plot, and her tasteful,
pleasing style. In connection with the present story we are able to amply reiterate
those praises. The plot again is well developed and logically carried out, while the
language used by the authoress is always happy and well chosen, and never commonplace.
. . . The story is a very powerful one indeed, and may be highly commended as
a piece of painstaking fiction of the very highest kind.”</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>The Resurrection of His Grace.</span></span></span> Being the
very candid Confessions of the Honourable <span class='sc'>Bertie Beauclerc</span>.
A Sporting Novel. By <span class='sc'>Campbell Rae-Brown</span>, Author of
“Richard Barlow,” “Kissing Cup’s Race,” etc. Second Impression.
Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Gentlewoman.</span>—“Fantastic and impossible, but at the same time amusing. . . . The
whole story is strongly dramatic.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Saturday Review.</span>—“A grotesquely improbable story, but readers of sporting novels
will find much amusement in it.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Scotsman.</span>—“The book is lightly and briskly written throughout. Its pleasant
cynicism is always entertaining.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Star.</span>—“An ingeniously horrible story with a diabolically clever plot.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>St James’s Budget.</span>—“A sporting romance which is indisputably cleverly written.
. . . The book is full of interesting items of sporting life which are fascinating to lovers
of the turf.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Edinburgh Evening News.</span>—“It has certainly an audacious idea for its central
motive. . . . This bright idea is handled with no little skill, and the interest is kept up
breathlessly until the tragic end of the experiment. The whole story has a racy flavour
of the turf.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Sporting life.</span>—“The character of the heartless roué, who tells his story, is very well
sustained, and the rich <span class='it'>parvenu</span>, Peter Drewitt, the owner of the favourite that is very
nearly nobbled by the unscrupulous Beauclerc, is cleverly drawn. Altogether it is an
exciting and an uncommon tale, and is quite correct in all the sporting details.”</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Anna Marsden’s Experiment.</span></span></span> An interesting
Novel. By <span class='sc'>Ellen Williams</span>. Crown 8vo, art cloth, 2s. 6d.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Outlook.</span>—“A good story cleverly told and worked out.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Echo.</span>—“A very natural and interesting tale is carefully set forth in Ellen Williams’
clever little book.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Western Morning News.</span>—“It is a smartly written and deeply interesting story, well
out of the beaten track of novelists.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Literary World.</span>—“The story is well told. . . . Four racy chapters take us thus far,
and seven lively ones follow.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Public Opinion.</span>—“From this point the interest in the story is such that there is no
putting the book down till the <span class='it'>dénouement</span> is reached. The writing is smart, clever,
and telling.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Critic.</span>—“A powerful story, unconventional as regards both subject and treatment.
[Here the reviewer analyses the plot.] This situation is handled with extraordinary
delicacy and skill, and the book is an admirable study of repressed emotions.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Monitor.</span>—“Miss Williams has here seized on an original concept, and given it fitting
presentation. The ‘experiment’ is a novel one, and its working out is a deft piece of
writing. The psychology of the work is faultless, and this study of a beautiful temperament,
in a crude frame, has with it the verity of deep observation and acute insight. . . .
We await with considerable confidence Miss Williams’ next venture.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Sheffield Independent.</span>—“The writer has treated a delicate and unusual situation
with delicacy and originality. The heroine’s character is drawn with firmness and clearness,
and the whole story is vivid and picturesque. . . . The history of the experiment
is exceedingly well told. Keen insight into character, and cleverness in its delineation,
as well as shrewd observation and intense sympathy, mark the writer’s work, while the
style is terse and clear, and the management of trying scenes extremely good.”</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Darab’s Wine-Cup</span></span></span>, and other Powerful and
Vividly-Written Stories. By <span class='sc'>Bart Kennedy</span>, Author of “The
Wandering Romanoff,” etc. New and cheaper Edition. Crown
8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Aberdeen Free Press.</span>—“Will be welcomed as something fresh in the world of
fiction.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>St James’s Budget.</span>—“A volume characteristic of the author’s splendid powers.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>M. A. P.</span>—“Mr Kennedy writes powerfully, and can grip the reader’s imagination, or
whirl it off into the strangest domains of glamour and romance at will. . . . There is a
future for this clever young man from Tipperary. He will do great things.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Outlook.</span>—“Mr Bart Kennedy is a young writer of singular imaginative gifts, and a
style as individual as Mr Kipling’s.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Weekly Dispatch.</span>—“The author has exceptional gifts, a strong and powerful
individuality, a facile pen, rich imagination, and constructive ability of a high order.
This volume ought to find a place on every library shelf.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Critic.</span>—“Of a highly imaginative order, and distinctly out of the ordinary run. . . .
The author has a remarkable talent for imaginative and dramatic presentation. He sets
before himself a higher standard of achievement than most young writers of fiction.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Cork Herald.</span>—“Gracefully written, easy and attractive in diction and style, the
stories are as choice a collection as we have happened on for a long time. They are
clever; they are varied; they are fascinating. We admit them into the sacred circle of
the most beautiful that have been told by the most sympathetic and skilled writers. . . .
Mr Kennedy has a style, and that is rare enough nowadays—as refreshing as it is
rare.”</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'>“<span class='it'><span class='bold'>Fame, the Fiddler.</span></span>”</span> A Story of Literary and
Theatrical Life. By <span class='sc'>S. J. Adair Fitz-Gerald</span>. Crown 8vo,
cloth, new and cheaper edition, 2s. 6d.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Graphic.</span>—“The volume will please and amuse numberless people.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Pall Mall Gazette.</span>—“A pleasant, cheery story. Displays a rich vein of robust
imagination.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Sun.</span>—“Interesting all through, and the inclination is towards finishing it at one
sitting.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Scotsman.</span>—“An amusing and entertaining story of Bohemian life in London.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Standard.</span>—“There are many pleasant pages in ‘Fame, the Fiddler,’ which reminds
us of ‘Trilby,’ with its pictures of Bohemian life, and its happy-go-lucky group of good-hearted,
generous scribblers, artists, and playwrights. Some of the characters are so true
to life that it is impossible not to recognise them. Among the best incidents in the
volume must be mentioned the production of Pryor’s play, and the account of poor
Jimmy Lambert’s death, which is as moving an incident as we have read for a long
time. Altogether, ‘Fame, the Fiddler’ is a very human book, and an amusing one
as well.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Catholic Times.</span>—“We read the volume through, and at the conclusion marvelled at
the wonderful knowledge of life the author displays. For although the whole work is
written in a light, humorous vein, underneath this current of humour there is really an
astonishing amount of wisdom, and wisdom that is not displayed every day. . . . It is a
vivid description of times gay and melancholy, that occur in many lives. Mr Fitz-Gerald
has done his work well, so well that we loitered on many pages, and closed the book
finally with a feeling that it is a faithful history of the journalist, the author, the
theatrical individual, and the man who ekes out a living by playing the <span class='it'>rôle</span> of all three.”</span></p>
<hr class='tbk115'/>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:1.5em;'><span class='bold'>CHEAPER FICTION</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Pelican Tails.</span></span></span> A Collection of smart, up-to-date Tales
of Modern Life, written, edited and selected by <span class='sc'>Frank M. Boyd</span>
(Editor of “The Pelican.”) One of the most popular and entertaining
volumes of short stories that has ever been published. An
ideal companion for a railway journey or a spare hour or two.
Crown 8vo, picture wrapper designed and drawn by <span class='sc'>W. S. Rogers</span>,
1s. (In active preparation.)</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>The Devil in a Domino.</span></span></span> A Psychological Mystery.
By <span class='sc'>Chas. L’Epine</span>, Author of “The Lady of the Leopard,”
“Miracle Plays,” etc. Cover designed by <span class='sc'>C. H. Beauvais</span>.
Long 12mo, cloth, 1s.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Truth.</span>—“The story is written with remarkable literary skill, and, notwithstanding its
gruesomeness, is undeniably fascinating.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Sketch.</span>—“It is a well-written story. An admirable literary style, natural and concise
construction, succeed in compelling the reader’s attention through every line. We hope
to welcome the author again, working on a larger scene.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Star.</span>—“May be guaranteed to disturb your night’s rest. It is a gruesome, ghastly,
blood-curdling, hair-erecting, sleep-murdering piece of work, with a thrill on every page.
Read it.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Sunday Chronicle.</span>—“A very clever study by ‘Charles L’Epine,’ who should by his
style be an accomplished author not unknown in other ranks of literature. Beyond
comparison it is the strongest shilling shocker we have read for many a day. The author
has succeeded in heaping horror upon horror until one’s blood is curdled.”</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>That Fascinating Widow</span></span></span>, and other Frivolous
and Fantastic Tales, for River, Road and Rail. By <span class='sc'>S. J. Adair
Fitz-Gerald</span>. Long 12mo, cloth, 1s.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>The Scotsman.</span>—“The widow is a charmingly wicked person. The stories are well
written, with a pleasant humour of a farcical sort; they are never dull.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Whitehall Review.</span>—“Written with all the dash and ease which Mr Fitz-Gerald has
accustomed us to in his journalistic work. There is a breezy, invigorating style about
this little book which will make it a favourite on the bookstalls.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Glasgow Herald.</span>—“Nonsense, genial harmless nonsense, to which the most captious
and morose of readers will find it difficult to refuse the tribute of a broad smile, even if he
can so far restrain himself as not to burst out into genuine laughter.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>The Referee.</span>—“Another little humorous book is ‘That Fascinating Widow,’ by Mr S.
J. Adair Fitz-Gerald, who can be very funny when he tries. The story which gives the
title to the book would make a capital farce. ‘The Blue-blooded Coster’ is an amusing
piece of buffoonery.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>The Globe.</span>—“The author, Mr S. J. Adair Fitz-Gerald, has already shown himself to be
the possessor of a store of humour, on which he has again drawn for the furnishing of the
little volume he has just put together. Among the tales included are several which might
be suitable for reading or recitation, and none which are dull. Mr Fitz-Gerald frankly
addresses to that portion of the public which desires nothing so much as to be
amused, and likes even its amusements in small doses. Such a public will entertain itself
very pleasantly with Mr Fitz-Gerald’s lively tales, and will probably name as its favourites
those titled ‘Pure Cussedness,’ ‘Splidgings’ First Baby,’ and ‘The Blue-blooded Coster.’ ”</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Shadows.</span></span></span> A Series of Side Lights on Modern Society.
By <span class='sc'>Ernest Martin</span>. (Dedicated to Sir Henry Irving.) Crown
8vo, art cloth, gilt tops, 2s.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Phoœnix.</span>—“ ‘Shadows’ is a very clever work.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Western Mercury.</span>—“Clever sketches, intensely dramatic, original and forceful,
based on scenes from actual life, and narrated with much skill.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Weekly Times.</span>—“A series of pictures sketched with considerable power. The last
one, ‘Hell in Paradise,’ is terrible in the probable truth of conception.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Northern Figaro.</span>—“Mr Martin’s descriptive paragraphs are coached in trenchant,
convincing language, without a superfluous word sandwiched in anywhere. . . .
‘Shadows’ may be read with much profit, and will give more than a superficial insight
into various phases of society life and manners.”</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Death and the Woman.</span></span></span> A Powerful Tale. By
<span class='sc'>Arnold Golsworthy</span>. Picture cover drawn by <span class='sc'>Sydney H.
Syme</span>. Crown 8vo, 1s.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Scotsman.</span>—“A cleverly constructed story about a murder and a gang of diamond
robbers. . . . The tale never has to go far without a strong situation. It is a capital
book for a railway journey.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Star.</span>—“A good shilling’s worth of highly coloured sensationalism. Those readers who
want a good melodramatic story smartly told, Mr Golsworthy’s latest effort will suit down
to the ground.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Literary World.</span>—“We do not remember having read a book that possessed the
quality of <span class='it'>grip</span> in a greater degree than is the case with ‘Death and the Woman.’ . . .
Every page of every chapter develops the interest, which culminates in one of the most
sensational <span class='it'>dénouements</span> it has been our lot to read. The flavour of actuality is not
destroyed by any incredible incident; it is the inevitable thing that always happens.
‘Death and the Woman’ will supply to the brim the need of those in search of a holding
drama of modern London life.”</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>The Fellow-Passengers.</span></span></span> A Mystery and its
Solution. A Detective Story. By <span class='sc'>Rivington Pyke</span>, Author of
“The Man who Disappeared.” Long 12mo, cloth, 1s.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Whitehall Review.</span>—“Those who love a mystery with plenty of ‘go,’ and a story
which is not devoid of a certain amount of realism, cannot do better than pick up ‘Fellow-Passengers.’
The characters are real men and women, and not the sentimental and
artificial puppets to which we have been so long accustomed by our sensationalists. The
book is brightly written, and of detective stories it is the best I have read lately.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Weekly Dispatch.</span>—“If you want a diverting story of realism, bordering upon
actuality, you cannot do better than take up this bright, vivacious, dramatic volume. It
will interest you from first page to last.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Catholic Times.</span>—“This is a well-written story, with a good plot and plenty of
incident. From cover to cover there is not a dull page, and the interest keeps up to the
end.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Glasgow News.</span>—“It is a thriller. . . . The sort of book one cannot help finishing at
a sitting, not merely because it is short, but because it rivets. . . . The author uses his
materials with great ingenuity, his plot is cleverly devised, and he very effectively works
up to a striking <span class='it'>dénouement</span>.”</span></p>
<hr class='tbk116'/>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:1.5em;'><span class='bold'>Illustrated Books for Children</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Nonsense Numbers and Jocular Jingles</span></span></span> <span class='sc'>For
Funny Little Folk</span>. Written by <span class='sc'>Druid Grayl</span>, with full-page
Illustrations by <span class='sc'>Walter J. Morgan</span>. 4to, cloth boards, 5s.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>The Grand Panjandrum</span></span></span>, and other fanciful Fairy
Tales for the youthful of all Ages, Climes and Times. By <span class='sc'>S. J.
Adair Fitz-Gerald</span>, Author of “The Zankiwank and the
Bletherwitch,” “The Wonders of the Secret Cavern,” “The
Mighty Toltec,” etc. Many full-page and smaller Illustrations by
<span class='sc'>Gustave Darré</span>. Second Edition. Square 8vo, art cloth, gilt,
3s. 6d.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Truth.</span>—“A decided acquisition to the children’s library.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Ladles’ Pictorial.</span>—“Quite one of the brightest of the season’s gift books.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Spectator.</span>—“Well provided with fun and fancy.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Morning Post.</span>—“Bright and thoroughly amusing. It will please all children. The
pictures are excellent.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Echo.</span>—“Of the pile (of children’s books) before us, Mr Adair Fitz-Gerald’s ‘Grand
Panjandrum’ is the cleverest. Mr Fitz-Gerald needs no introduction to the nursery of
these days.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Times.</span>—“Very fanciful.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Church News.</span>—“This is one of the most delightful books of nonsense we have read
since we welcomed ‘The Wallypug of Why.’ ”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Scotsman.</span>—“Will make the eyes of readers open wide with wonder and delight.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Lloyd’s.</span>—“Will amuse all children lucky enough to get this neat and pretty volume.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Pall Mall Gazette.</span>—“A charming little book. Simply written, and therefore to be
comprehended of the youthful mind. It will be popular, for the writer has a power of
pleasing which is rare.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Literary World.</span>—“A handsomely bound, mouth-watering, in every way up-to-date
volume, written especially for and on behalf of the toddler or the newly breeched.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>People.</span>—“A delightful story for children, something in the style of ‘Alice in Wonderland,’
but also having some flavour of Kingsley’s ‘Water Babies.’ ”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Sun.</span>—“Good fairy stories are a source of everlasting joy and delight. Mr Adair
Fitz-Gerald breaks fresh ground and writes pleasantly. . . . The book has the added
advantage of being charmingly illustrated in colour by Gustave Darré.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Nottingham Guardian.</span>—“It is a merry book, and should keep the nursery in a good
humour for hours. It is artistically got up, the illustrations by Mr Gustave Darré being
of a high order of merit.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Manchester Courier.</span>—“It should prove a great favourite with young people, being
written by one who evidently takes the utmost interest in them and their ways. The
full-page illustrations are very pretty.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Weekly Sun.</span>—“Mr Adair Fitz-Gerald is a well-known writer of fairy stories and
humorous books for the young. ‘The Grand Panjandrum’ is just the sort of book to
please youngsters of all ages, being full of pleasant imaginings, and introducing its
readers to a host of curious people.”</span></p>
<hr class='tbk117'/>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:1.5em;'><span class='bold'>Greening’s Humorous Books</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>The Pillypingle Pastorals.</span></span></span> A Series of Amusing
Rustic Tales and Sketches. By <span class='sc'>Druid Grayl</span>. Profusely Illustrated
by <span class='sc'>Walter J. Morgan</span>. Crown 8vo, art cloth, 3s. 6d.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>The Pottle Papers.</span></span></span> Written by <span class='sc'>Tristram Coutts</span>,
Author of “A Comedy of Temptation.” Illustrated by <span class='sc'>L. Raven
Hill</span>. Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>THE POTTLE PAPERS</span>, the fourth edition of which is just ready, is a really funny
book written by Saul Smiff, and illustrated by Mr L. Raven Hill. “Anyone who wants a
good laugh should get “The Pottle Papers,” says the <span class='bold'>Sheffield Daily Telegraph</span>.
“They are very droll reading for an idle afternoon, or picking up at any time when
‘down in the dumps.’ They are very brief and very bright, and it is impossible for anyone
with the slightest sense of humour to read the book without bursting into ‘the loud
guffaw’ which does not always ‘bespeak the empty mind.’ ” The <span class='bold'>Pall Mall Gazette</span>
says it contains “Plenty of boisterous humour of the Max Adeler kind . . . humour that
is genuine and spontaneous. The author, for all his antics, has a good deal more in
him than the average buffoon. There is, for example, a very clever and subtle strain of
feeling running through the comedy in ‘The Love that Burned’—a rather striking bit of
work. Mr Raven Hill’s illustrations are as amusing as they always are.” The <span class='bold'>St
James’s Budget</span> accorded this book a very long notice, and reproduced some of the
pictures. The reviewer said: “Who says the sense of humour is dead when we have
‘The Pottle Papers’? We can put the book down with the feeling that we have spent
a very enjoyable hour and laughed immoderately. ‘The Pottle Papers’ will be in
everybody’s hands before long.” H.R.H. the Prince of Wales honoured the author by
accepting a copy of his book; and the <span class='bold'>Court Circular</span> remarked: “The Prince of
Wales has accepted a copy of Saul Smiff’s delightfully merry book, ‘The Pottle Papers.’
The Prince is sure to enjoy Raven Hill’s clever sketches.” This funniest of funny
books is published at 2s. 6d., strongly bound in cloth.</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Dan Leno, Hys Booke.</span></span></span> A volume of Frivolities:
Autobiographical, Historical, Philosophical, Anecdotal and
Nonsensical. Written by <span class='sc'>Dan Leno</span>. Profusely illustrated by
Sidney H. Sime, Frank Chesworth, W. S. Rogers, Gustave
Darré, Alfred Bryan and Dan Leno. Fifth Edition, containing a
New Chapter, and an Appreciation of Dan Leno, written by
Clement Scott. Crown 8vo, art cloth, gilt edges, 2s. Popular
Edition, sewed, picture cover, 1s.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>DAN LENO, HYS BOOKE</span>, is, says the <span class='bold'>Liverpool Review</span>, “the funniest publication
since ‘Three Men in a Boat.’ In this autobiographical masterpiece the inimitable King
of Comedians tells his life story in a style that would make a shrimp laugh.” This
enormously successful book of genuine and spontaneous humour has been received with a
complete chorus of complimentary criticisms and pleasing “Press” praise and approval.
Here are a few reviewers’ remarks: “Bombshells of fun.”—<span class='bold'>Scotsman.</span> “One long
laugh from start to finish.”—<span class='bold'>Lloyd’s.</span> “Full of exuberant and harmless fun.”—<span class='bold'>Globe.</span>
“A deliciously humorous volume.”—<span class='bold'>English Illustrated Magazine.</span> “The fun is
fast and furious.”—<span class='bold'>Catholic Times.</span> “It is very funny.”—<span class='bold'>St Paul’s.</span> These are a
few opinions taken at random from hundreds of notices. Says the <span class='bold'>Daily News</span> (Hull):
“The funniest book we have read for some time. You must perforce scream with huge
delight at the dry sayings and writings of the funny little man who has actually killed
people with his patter and his antics. Page after page of genuine fun is reeled off by the
great little man.”</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>Bachelor Ballads</span></span></span> and other Lazy Lyrics. By
<span class='sc'>Harry A. Spurr</span>, Author of “A Cockney in Arcadia.” With
Fifty Illustrations by <span class='sc'>John Hassall</span>. Crown 8vo, art cloth, 3s. 6d.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>The Pottle’s Progress.</span></span></span> Being the Further Adventures
of Mr and Mrs Pottle. By <span class='sc'>Tristram Coutts</span>, Author of
“The Pottle Papers,” etc. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. (In preparation.)</p>
<hr class='tbk118'/>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:1.5em;'><span class='bold'>Guides, Etc.</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>London.</span></span></span> A Handy Guide for the Visitor, Sportsman and
Naturalist. By <span class='sc'>J. W. Cundall</span>. Including an Article on
“Literary Restaurants,” by <span class='sc'>Clement Scott</span>. Numerous Illustrations.
Second Year of Publication. Long 12mo, cloth, 6d.</p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Vanity Fair.</span>—“A capital little guide book. No bulky volume this, but a handy
booklet full of pithy information on all the most important subjects connected with our
great city.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Outlook.</span>—“A handy booklet, more tasteful than one is accustomed to.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Pelican.</span>—“As full of useful and entertaining information as is an egg of meat.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Bookman.</span>—“A very lively and readable little guide.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>To-day.</span>—“One of the best guide books for visitors to London. It is a model of
lucidity and informativeness, and the profuse illustrations are admirably executed.”</span></p>
<p class='noindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='bold'>Glasgow Herald.</span>—“A useful little work for those who have no desire to wade
through many pages of information before getting what they want.”</span></p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>America Abroad.</span></span></span> A Handy Guide for Americans in
England. Edited by <span class='sc'>J. W. Cundall</span>. With numerous Illustrations.
Ninth Year of Publication. 6d.</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'><span class='it'><span class='bold'>In Quaint East Anglia.</span></span></span> Descriptive Sketches.
By <span class='sc'>T. West Carnie</span>. Illustrated by <span class='sc'>W. S. Rogers</span>. Long
12mo, cloth, 1s. (<span class='it'>See page 5.</span>)</p>
<p class='hang'><span style='font-size:x-large'>“<span class='it'><span class='bold'>Sisters by the Sea.</span></span>”</span> Seaside and Country Sketches.
By <span class='sc'>Clement Scott</span>, Author of “Blossom Land,” “Amongst the
Apple Orchards,” Etc. Frontispiece and Vignette designed by
<span class='sc'>George Pownall</span>. Long 12mo, attractively bound in cloth, 1s.
(<span class='it'>See page 3.</span>)</p>
<div class='lgc' style=' margin-top: 2em; '> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line'>A BOOK OF GREAT INTEREST.</p>
<hr class='tbk119'/>
<p class='line' style='font-size:.8em;'>AT ALL BOOKSELLERS AND LIBRARIES. SECOND EDITION.</p>
<hr class='tbk120'/>
<p class='line' style='font-size:1.2em;'><span class='bold'>RUDYARD KIPLING:</span></p>
<p class='line'>THE MAN AND HIS WORK.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:.8em;'>Being an Attempt at Appreciation. By G. F. MONKSHOOD.</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:.8em;'>With a Portrait of Mr Kipling, and an Autograph Letter to</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:.8em;'>the Author in facsimile.</p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:.6em;'><span class='it'>Crown 8vo, crimson buckram, gilt top, 5/- nett.</span></p>
<hr class='tbk121'/>
<p class='line' style='font-size:.8em;'>A FEW OF MANY PRESS OPINIONS</p>
</div> <!-- end rend -->
<p class='pindent'><span class='bold'>Daily Telegraph.</span>—(Mr <span class='sc'>W. L. Courtney</span> in “Books of the Day.”)—“He
writes fluently, and has genuine enthusiasm for his subject, and an intimate acquaintance
with his work. Moreover, his book has been submitted to Mr Kipling, whose
characteristic letter to the author is set forth in the Preface. . . . Of Mr Kipling’s
heroes Mr Monkshood has a thorough understanding, and his remarks on them are
worth quoting.” (Here follows a long extract.)</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='bold'>Scotsman.</span>—“This well-informed volume . . . is plainly sincere. It is thoroughly
well studied, and takes pains to answer all the questions that are usually put about
Mr Kipling. The writer’s enthusiasm carries both himself and his reader along in
the most agreeable style. . . . One way and another, his book is full of interest;
those who wish to talk about Mr Kipling will find it invaluable, while the thousands
of his admirers will read it through with delighted sympathy.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='bold'>Western Daily Press.</span>—“A very praiseworthy attempt, and by a writer imbued
with a fervent esteem for his subject. . . . This valuation of the work of our most
virile Empire author should hold the attention of those who have well studied the
subject and can appreciate accordingly.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='bold'>Sun.</span>—“The author has carefully compiled a lot of most interesting matter, which
he has edited with care and conscientiousness, and the result is a volume which every
lover of Kipling can read with pleasure.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='bold'>Spectator.</span>—“It is very readable. It tells us some things which we might not
otherwise have known, and puts together in a convenient form many things which
are of common knowledge.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='bold'>Outlook.</span>—“Something more than an attempt at appreciation. . . . Mr
Monkshood has written what all the young men at home and abroad who treasure
Mr Kipling’s writings think, but have not expressed. The volume is a striking
testimony to the hold which work that is clean and sane and virile has upon the
rising generation. And for this we cannot be sufficiently thankful.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='bold'>Globe.</span>—“It has at the basis both knowledge and enthusiasm—knowledge of the
works estimated and enthusiasm for them. . . . This book may be accepted as a
generous exposition of Mr Kipling’s merits as a writer. We can well believe that it
will have many interested and approving readers.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='bold'>Irish Times.</span>—“A well-thought-out and earnest appreciation of the great writer
and his works.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='bold'>Academy.</span>—“The book should give its subject pleasure, for Mr Monkshood is
very keen and cordial. His criticisms have some shrewdness too. Here is a
passage . . .” (Long quotation follows.)</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='bold'>Sunday Times.</span>—“Sure to attract much attention. In it we are given a sketch
of Mr Kipling’s career and the story of his various works, along with some sane
and balanced criticism. . . . The book is written brightly, thoughtfully, and
informingly.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='bold'>Bookseller.</span>—“It is acute in perception, and sympathetic to the verge of
worship, with just as much criticism as will allow that the hero has his limitations.
. . . Mr Monkshood’s well-informed and well-written critique possesses undoubted
ability and attraction.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><span class='bold'>Yorkshire Herald.</span>—“This work, which is highly appreciative, will be received
with enthusiasm. . . . From this point the biography becomes even more interesting.
. . . The author deals at length with Kipling’s works, and with sufficient forcefulness
and originality to hold the reader’s attention throughout. The biography has
undoubted merit and will be largely read.”</p>
<hr class='tbk122'/>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;font-size:.6em;'>20 Cecil Court, Charing Cross Road, London, W.C.</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='h_1'>TRANSCRIBER NOTES</h1></div>
<p class='pindent'>Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Inconsistencies in punctuation have been maintained.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A cover and Table of Contents was created for this eBook.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='noindent'>[The end of <span class='it'>A Girl of the North: A Story of London
and Canada</span>, Helen Milecete (Susan Morrow Jones).]</p>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 48845 ***</div>
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