LORD ARTHUR SAVILE'S CRIME AND OTHER STORIES

Contents

Lord Arthur Savile's CrimeThe Canterville GhostThe Sphinx Without a SecretThe Model MillionaireThe Portrait of Mr. W. H. 

LORD ARTHUR SAVILE'S CRIME

CHAPTER I

It was Lady Windermere's last reception before Easter, and BentinckHouse was even more crowded than usual. Six Cabinet Ministers hadcome on from the Speaker's Levee in their stars and ribands, all thepretty women wore their smartest dresses, and at the end of thepicture-gallery stood the Princess Sophia of Carlsruhe, a heavyTartar-looking lady, with tiny black eyes and wonderful emeralds, talking bad French at the top of her voice, and laughingimmoderately at everything that was said to her. It was certainly awonderful medley of people. Gorgeous peeresses chatted affably toviolent Radicals, popular preachers brushed coat-tails with eminentsceptics, a perfect bevy of bishops kept following a stout prima-donna from room to room, on the staircase stood several RoyalAcademicians, disguised as artists, and it was said that at one timethe supper-room was absolutely crammed with geniuses. In fact, itwas one of Lady Windermere's best nights, and the Princess stayedtill nearly half-past eleven. 

As soon as she had gone, Lady Windermere returned to the picture-gallery, where a celebrated political economist was solemnlyexplaining the scientific theory of music to an indignant virtuosofrom Hungary, and began to talk to the Duchess of Paisley. Shelooked wonderfully beautiful with her grand ivory throat, her largeblue forget-me-not eyes, and her heavy coils of golden hair. Or purthey were--not that pale straw colour that nowadays usurps thegracious name of gold, but such gold as is woven into sunbeams orhidden in strange amber; and they gave to her face something of theframe of a saint, with not a little of the fascination of a sinner. She was a curious psychological study. Early in life she haddiscovered the important truth that nothing looks so like innocenceas an indiscretion; and by a series of reckless escapades, half ofthem quite harmless, she had acquired all the privileges of apersonality. She had more than once changed her husband; indeed, Debrett credits her with three marriages; but as she had neverchanged her lover, the world had long ago ceased to talk scandalabout her. She was now forty years of age, childless, and with thatinordinate passion for pleasure which is the secret of remainingyoung. 

Suddenly she looked eagerly round the room, and said, in her clearcontralto voice, 'Where is my cheiromantist?'

'Your what, Gladys?' exclaimed the Duchess, giving an involuntarystart. 

'My cheiromantist, Duchess; I can't live without him at present. '

'Dear Gladys! you are always so original, ' murmured the Duchess, trying to remember what a cheiromantist really was, and hoping itwas not the same as a cheiropodist. 

'He comes to see my hand twice a week regularly, ' continued LadyWindermere, 'and is most interesting about it. '

'Good heavens!' said the Duchess to herself, 'he is a sort ofcheiropodist after all. How very dreadful. I hope he is aforeigner at any rate. It wouldn't be quite so bad then. '

'I must certainly introduce him to you. '

'Introduce him!' cried the Duchess; 'you don't mean to say he ishere?' and she began looking about for a small tortoise-shell fanand a very tattered lace shawl, so as to be ready to go at amoment's notice. 

'Of course he is here; I would not dream of giving a party withouthim. He tells me I have a pure psychic hand, and that if my thumbhad been the least little bit shorter, I should have been aconfirmed pessimist, and gone into a convent. '

'Oh, I see!' said the Duchess, feeling very much relieved; 'he tellsfortunes, I suppose?'

'And misfortunes, too, ' answered Lady Windermere, 'any amount ofthem. Next year, for instance, I am in great danger, both by landand sea, so I am going to live in a balloon, and draw up my dinnerin a basket every evening. It is all written down on my littlefinger, or on the palm of my hand, I forget which. '

'But surely that is tempting Providence, Gladys. '

'My dear Duchess, surely Providence can resist temptation by thistime. I think every one should have their hands told once a month, so as to know what not to do. Of course, one does it all the same, but it is so pleasant to be warned. Now if some one doesn't go andfetch Mr. Podgers at once, I shall have to go myself. '

'Let me go, Lady Windermere, ' said a tall handsome young man, whowas standing by, listening to the conversation with an amused smile. 

'Thanks so much, Lord Arthur; but I am afraid you wouldn't recognisehim. '

'If he is as wonderful as you say, Lady Windermere, I couldn't wellmiss him. Tell me what he is like, and I'll bring him to you atonce. '

'Well, he is not a bit like a cheiromantist. I mean he is notmysterious, or esoteric, or romantic-looking. He is a little, stoutman, with a funny, bald head, and great gold-rimmed spectacles;something between a family doctor and a country attorney. I'mreally very sorry, but it is not my fault. People are so annoying. All my pianists look exactly like poets, and all my poets lookexactly like pianists; and I remember last season asking a mostdreadful conspirator to dinner, a man who had blown up ever so manypeople, and always wore a coat of mail, and carried a dagger up hisshirt-sleeve; and do you know that when he came he looked just likea nice old clergyman, and cracked jokes all the evening? Of course, he was very amusing, and all that, but I was awfully disappointed;and when I asked him about the coat of mail, he only laughed, andsaid it was far too cold to wear in England. Ah, here is Mr. Podgers! Now, Mr. Podgers, I want you to tell the Duchess ofPaisley's hand. Duchess, you must take your glove off. No, not theleft hand, the other. '

'Dear Gladys, I really don't think it is quite right, ' said theDuchess, feebly unbuttoning a rather soiled kid glove. 

'Nothing interesting ever is, ' said Lady Windermere: 'on a fait lemonde ainsi. But I must introduce you. Duchess, this is Mr. Podgers, my pet cheiromantist. Mr. Podgers, this is the Duchess ofPaisley, and if you say that she has a larger mountain of the moonthan I have, I will never believe in you again. '

'I am sure, Gladys, there is nothing of the kind in my hand, ' saidthe Duchess gravely. 

'Your Grace is quite right, ' said Mr. Podgers, glancing at thelittle fat hand with its short square fingers, 'the mountain of themoon is not developed. The line of life, however, is excellent. Kindly bend the wrist. Thank you. Three distinct lines on therascette! You will live to a great age, Duchess, and be extremelyhappy. Ambition--very moderate, line of intellect not exaggerated, line of heart--'

'Now, do be indiscreet, Mr. Podgers, ' cried Lady Windermere. 

'Nothing would give me greater pleasure, ' said Mr. Podgers, bowing, 'if the Duchess ever had been, but I am sorry to say that I seegreat permanence of affection, combined with a strong sense ofduty. '

'Pray go on, Mr. Podgers, ' said the Duchess, looking quite pleased. 

'Economy is not the least of your Grace's virtues, ' continued Mr. Podgers, and Lady Windermere went off into fits of laughter. 

'Economy is a very good thing, ' remarked the Duchess complacently;'when I married Paisley he had eleven castles, and not a singlehouse fit to live in. '

'And now he has twelve houses, and not a single castle, ' cried LadyWindermere. 

'Well, my dear, ' said the Duchess, 'I like--'

'Comfort, ' said Mr. Podgers, 'and modern improvements, and hot waterlaid on in every bedroom. Your Grace is quite right. Comfort isthe only thing our civilisation can give us. 

'You have told the Duchess's character admirably, Mr. Podgers, andnow you must tell Lady Flora's'; and in answer to a nod from thesmiling hostess, a tall girl, with sandy Scotch hair, and highshoulder-blades, stepped awkwardly from behind the sofa, and heldout a long, bony hand with spatulate fingers. 

'Ah, a pianist! I see, ' said Mr. Podgers, 'an excellent pianist, butperhaps hardly a musician. Very reserved, very honest, and with agreat love of animals. '

'Quite true!' exclaimed the Duchess, turning to Lady Windermere, 'absolutely true! Flora keeps two dozen collie dogs at Macloskie, and would turn our town house into a menagerie if her father wouldlet her. '

'Well, that is just what I do with my house every Thursday evening, 'cried Lady Windermere, laughing, 'only I like lions better thancollie dogs. '

'Your one mistake, Lady Windermere, ' said Mr. Podgers, with apompous bow. 

'If a woman can't make her mistakes charming, she is only a female, 'was the answer. 'But you must read some more hands for us. Come, Sir Thomas, show Mr. Podgers yours'; and a genial-looking oldgentleman, in a white waistcoat, came forward, and held out a thickrugged hand, with a very long third finger. 

'An adventurous nature; four long voyages in the past, and one tocome. Been ship-wrecked three times. No, only twice, but in dangerof a shipwreck your next journey. A strong Conservative, verypunctual, and with a passion for collecting curiosities. Had asevere illness between the ages sixteen and eighteen. Was left afortune when about thirty. Great aversion to cats and Radicals. '

'Extraordinary!' exclaimed Sir Thomas; 'you must really tell mywife's hand, too. '

'Your second wife's, ' said Mr. Podgers quietly, still keeping SirThomas's hand in his. 'Your second wife's. I shall be charmed';but Lady Marvel, a melancholy-looking woman, with brown hair andsentimental eyelashes, entirely declined to have her past or herfuture exposed; and nothing that Lady Windermere could do wouldinduce Monsieur de Koloff, the Russian Ambassador, even to take hisgloves off. In fact, many people seemed afraid to face the oddlittle man with his stereotyped smile, his gold spectacles, and hisbright, beady eyes; and when he told poor Lady Fermor, right outbefore every one, that she did not care a bit for music, but wasextremely fond of musicians, it was generally felt that cheiromancywas a most dangerous science, and one that ought not to beencouraged, except in a tete-a-tete. 

Lord Arthur Savile, however, who did not know anything about LadyFermor's unfortunate story, and who had been watching Mr. Podgerswith a great deal of interest, was filled with an immense curiosityto have his own hand read, and feeling somewhat shy about puttinghimself forward, crossed over the room to where Lady Windermere wassitting, and, with a charming blush, asked her if she thought Mr. Podgers would mind. 

'Of course, he won't mind, ' said Lady Windermere, 'that is what heis here for. All my lions, Lord Arthur, are performing lions, andjump through hoops whenever I ask them. But I must warn youbeforehand that I shall tell Sybil everything. She is coming tolunch with me to-morrow, to talk about bonnets, and if Mr. Podgersfinds out that you have a bad temper, or a tendency to gout, or awife living in Bayswater, I shall certainly let her know all aboutit. '

Lord Arthur smiled, and shook his head. 'I am not afraid, ' heanswered. 'Sybil knows me as well as I know her. '

'Ah! I am a little sorry to hear you say that. The proper basisfor marriage is a mutual misunderstanding. No, I am not at allcynical, I have merely got experience, which, however, is very muchthe same thing. Mr. Podgers, Lord Arthur Savile is dying to havehis hand read. Don't tell him that he is engaged to one of the mostbeautiful girls in London, because that appeared in the Morning Posta month ago. 

'Dear Lady Windermere, ' cried the Marchioness of Jedburgh, 'do letMr. Podgers stay here a little longer. He has just told me I shouldgo on the stage, and I am so interested. '

'If he has told you that, Lady Jedburgh, I shall certainly take himaway. Come over at once, Mr. Podgers, and read Lord Arthur's hand. '

'Well, ' said Lady Jedburgh, making a little moue as she rose fromthe sofa, 'if I am not to be allowed to go on the stage, I must beallowed to be part of the audience at any rate. '

'Of course; we are all going to be part of the audience, ' said LadyWindermere; 'and now, Mr. Podgers, be sure and tell us somethingnice. Lord Arthur is one of my special favourites. '

But when Mr. Podgers saw Lord Arthur's hand he grew curiously pale, and said nothing. A shudder seemed to pass through him, and hisgreat bushy eyebrows twitched convulsively, in an odd, irritatingway they had when he was puzzled. Then some huge beads ofperspiration broke out on his yellow forehead, like a poisonous dew, and his fat fingers grew cold and clammy. 

Lord Arthur did not fail to notice these strange signs of agitation, and, for the first time in his life, he himself felt fear. Hisimpulse was to rush from the room, but he restrained himself. Itwas better to know the worst, whatever it was, than to be left inthis hideous uncertainty. 

'I am waiting, Mr. Podgers, ' he said. 

'We are all waiting, ' cried Lady Windermere, in her quick, impatientmanner, but the cheiromantist made no reply. 

'I believe Arthur is going on the stage, ' said Lady Jedburgh, 'andthat, after your scolding, Mr. Podgers is afraid to tell him so. '

Suddenly Mr. Podgers dropped Lord Arthur's right hand, and seizedhold of his left, bending down so low to examine it that the goldrims of his spectacles seemed almost to touch the palm. For amoment his face became a white mask of horror, but he soon recoveredhis sang-froid, and looking up at Lady Windermere, said with aforced smile, 'It is the hand of a charming young man. 

'Of course it is!' answered Lady Windermere, 'but will he be acharming husband? That is what I want to know. '

'All charming young men are, ' said Mr. Podgers. 

'I don't think a husband should be too fascinating, ' murmured LadyJedburgh pensively, 'it is so dangerous. '

'My dear child, they never are too fascinating, ' cried LadyWindermere. 'But what I want are details. Details are the onlythings that interest. What is going to happen to Lord Arthur?'

'Well, within the next few months Lord Arthur will go a voyage--'

'Oh yes, his honeymoon, of course!'

'And lose a relative. '

'Not his sister, I hope?' said Lady Jedburgh, in a piteous tone ofvoice. 

'Certainly not his sister, ' answered Mr. Podgers, with a deprecatingwave of the hand, 'a distant relative merely. '

'Well, I am dreadfully disappointed, ' said Lady Windermere. 'I haveabsolutely nothing to tell Sybil to-morrow. No one cares aboutdistant relatives nowadays. They went out of fashion years ago. However, I suppose she had better have a black silk by her; italways does for church, you know. And now let us go to supper. They are sure to have eaten everything up, but we may find some hotsoup. Francois used to make excellent soup once, but he is soagitated about politics at present, that I never feel quite certainabout him. I do wish General Boulanger would keep quiet. Duchess, I am sure you are tired?'

'Not at all, dear Gladys, ' answered the Duchess, waddling towardsthe door. 'I have enjoyed myself immensely, and the cheiropodist, Imean the cheiromantist, is most interesting. Flora, where can mytortoise-shell fan be? Oh, thank you, Sir Thomas, so much. And mylace shawl, Flora? Oh, thank you, Sir Thomas, very kind, I'm sure';and the worthy creature finally managed to get downstairs withoutdropping her scent-bottle more than twice. 

All this time Lord Arthur Savile had remained standing by thefireplace, with the same feeling of dread over him, the samesickening sense of coming evil. He smiled sadly at his sister, asshe swept past him on Lord Plymdale's arm, looking lovely in herpink brocade and pearls, and he hardly heard Lady Windermere whenshe called to him to follow her. He thought of Sybil Merton, andthe idea that anything could come between them made his eyes dimwith tears. 

Looking at him, one would have said that Nemesis had stolen theshield of Pallas, and shown him the Gorgon's head. He seemed turnedto stone, and his face was like marble in its melancholy. He hadlived the delicate and luxurious life of a young man of birth andfortune, a life exquisite in its freedom from sordid care, itsbeautiful boyish insouciance; and now for the first time he becameconscious of the terrible mystery of Destiny, of the awful meaningof Doom. 

How mad and monstrous it all seemed! Could it be that written onhis hand, in characters that he could not read himself, but thatanother could decipher, was some fearful secret of sin, some blood-red sign of crime? Was there no escape possible? Were we no betterthan chessmen, moved by an unseen power, vessels the potter fashionsat his fancy, for honour or for shame? His reason revolted againstit, and yet he felt that some tragedy was hanging over him, and thathe had been suddenly called upon to bear an intolerable burden. Actors are so fortunate. They can choose whether they will appearin tragedy or in comedy, whether they will suffer or make merry, laugh or shed tears. But in real life it is different. Most menand women are forced to perform parts for which they have noqualifications. Our Guildensterns play Hamlet for us, and ourHamlets have to jest like Prince Hal. The world is a stage, but theplay is badly cast. 

Suddenly Mr. Podgers entered the room. When he saw Lord Arthur hestarted, and his coarse, fat face became a sort of greenish-yellowcolour. The two men's eyes met, and for a moment there was silence. 

'The Duchess has left one of her gloves here, Lord Arthur, and hasasked me to bring it to her, ' said Mr. Podgers finally. 'Ah, I seeit on the sofa! Good evening. '

'Mr. Podgers, I must insist on your giving me a straightforwardanswer to a question I am going to put to you. '

'Another time, Lord Arthur, but the Duchess is anxious. I am afraidI must go. '

'You shall not go. The Duchess is in no hurry. '

'Ladies should not be kept waiting, Lord Arthur, ' said Mr. Podgers, with his sickly smile. 'The fair sex is apt to be impatient. '

Lord Arthur's finely-chiselled lips curled in petulant disdain. Thepoor Duchess seemed to him of very little importance at that moment. He walked across the room to where Mr. Podgers was standing, andheld his hand out. 

'Tell me what you saw there, ' he said. 'Tell me the truth. I mustknow it. I am not a child. '

Mr. Podgers's eyes blinked behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, and hemoved uneasily from one foot to the other, while his fingers playednervously with a flash watch-chain. 

'What makes you think that I saw anything in your hand, Lord Arthur, more than I told you?'

'I know you did, and I insist on your telling me what it was. Iwill pay you. I will give you a cheque for a hundred pounds. '

The green eyes flashed for a moment, and then became dull again. 

'Guineas?' said Mr. Podgers at last, in a low voice. 

'Certainly. I will send you a cheque to-morrow. What is yourclub?'

'I have no club. That is to say, not just at present. My addressis -, but allow me to give you my card'; and producing a bit ofgilt-edge pasteboard from his waistcoat pocket, Mr. Podgers handedit, with a low bow, to Lord Arthur, who read on it, Mr. SEPTIMUS R. PODGERSProfessional Cheiromantist103a West Moon Street

'My hours are from ten to four, ' murmured Mr. Podgers mechanically, 'and I make a reduction for families. '

'Be quick, ' cried Lord Arthur, looking very pale, and holding hishand out. 

Mr. Podgers glanced nervously round, and drew the heavy portiereacross the door. 

'It will take a little time, Lord Arthur, you had better sit down. '

'Be quick, sir, ' cried Lord Arthur again, stamping his foot angrilyon the polished floor. 

Mr. Podgers smiled, drew from his breast-pocket a small magnifyingglass, and wiped it carefully with his handkerchief

'I am quite ready, ' he said. 

CHAPTER II

Ten minutes later, with face blanched by terror, and eyes wild withgrief, Lord Arthur Savile rushed from Bentinck House, crushing hisway through the crowd of fur-coated footmen that stood round thelarge striped awning, and seeming not to see or hear anything. Thenight was bitter cold, and the gas-lamps round the square flared andflickered in the keen wind; but his hands were hot with fever, andhis forehead burned like fire. On and on he went, almost with thegait of a drunken man. A policeman looked curiously at him as hepassed, and a beggar, who slouched from an archway to ask for alms, grew frightened, seeing misery greater than his own. Once hestopped under a lamp, and looked at his hands. He thought he coulddetect the stain of blood already upon them, and a faint cry brokefrom his trembling lips. 

Murder! that is what the cheiromantist had seen there. Murder! Thevery night seemed to know it, and the desolate wind to howl it inhis ear. The dark corners of the streets were full of it. Itgrinned at him from the roofs of the houses. 

First he came to the Park, whose sombre woodland seemed to fascinatehim. He leaned wearily up against the railings, cooling his browagainst the wet metal, and listening to the tremulous silence of thetrees. 'Murder! murder!' he kept repeating, as though iterationcould dim the horror of the word. The sound of his own voice madehim shudder, yet he almost hoped that Echo might hear him, and wakethe slumbering city from its dreams. He felt a mad desire to stopthe casual passer-by, and tell him everything. 

Then he wandered across Oxford Street into narrow, shameful alleys. Two women with painted faces mocked at him as he went by. From adark courtyard came a sound of oaths and blows, followed by shrillscreams, and, huddled upon a damp door-step, he saw the crook-backedforms of poverty and eld. A strange pity came over him. Were thesechildren of sin and misery predestined to their end, as he to his?Were they, like him, merely the puppets of a monstrous show?

And yet it was not the mystery, but the comedy of suffering thatstruck him; its absolute uselessness, its grotesque want of meaning. How incoherent everything seemed! How lacking in all harmony! Hewas amazed at the discord between the shallow optimism of the day, and the real facts of existence. He was still very young. 

After a time he found himself in front of Marylebone Church. Thesilent roadway looked like a long riband of polished silver, fleckedhere and there by the dark arabesques of waving shadows. Far intothe distance curved the line of flickering gas-lamps, and outside alittle walled-in house stood a solitary hansom, the driver asleepinside. He walked hastily in the direction of Portland Place, nowand then looking round, as though he feared that he was beingfollowed. At the corner of Rich Street stood two men, reading asmall bill upon a hoarding. An odd feeling of curiosity stirredhim, and he crossed over. As he came near, the word 'Murder, 'printed in black letters, met his eye. He started, and a deep flushcame into his cheek. It was an advertisement offering a reward forany information leading to the arrest of a man of medium height, between thirty and forty years of age, wearing a billy-cock hat, ablack coat, and check trousers, and with a scar upon his rightcheek. He read it over and over again, and wondered if the wretchedman would be caught, and how he had been scarred. Perhaps, someday, his own name might be placarded on the walls of London. Someday, perhaps, a price would be set on his head also. 

The thought made him sick with horror. He turned on his heel, andhurried on into the night. 

Where he went he hardly knew. He had a dim memory of wanderingthrough a labyrinth of sordid houses, of being lost in a giant webof sombre streets, and it was bright dawn when he found himself atlast in Piccadilly Circus. As he strolled home towards BelgraveSquare, he met the great waggons on their way to Covent Garden. Thewhite-smocked carters, with their pleasant sunburnt faces and coarsecurly hair, strode sturdily on, cracking their whips, and callingout now and then to each other; on the back of a huge grey horse, the leader of a jangling team, sat a chubby boy, with a bunch ofprimroses in his battered hat, keeping tight hold of the mane withhis little hands, and laughing; and the great piles of vegetableslooked like masses of jade against the morning sky, like masses ofgreen jade against the pink petals of some marvellous rose. LordArthur felt curiously affected, he could not tell why. There wassomething in the dawn's delicate loveliness that seemed to himinexpressibly pathetic, and he thought of all the days that break inbeauty, and that set in storm. These rustics, too, with theirrough, good-humoured voices, and their nonchalant ways, what astrange London they saw! A London free from the sin of night andthe smoke of day, a pallid, ghost-like city, a desolate town oftombs! He wondered what they thought of it, and whether they knewanything of its splendour and its shame, of its fierce, fiery-coloured joys, and its horrible hunger, of all it makes and marsfrom morn to eve. Probably it was to them merely a mart where theybrought their fruits to sell, and where they tarried for a few hoursat most, leaving the streets still silent, the houses still asleep. It gave him pleasure to watch them as they went by. Rude as theywere, with their heavy, hob-nailed shoes, and their awkward gait, they brought a little of a ready with them. He felt that they hadlived with Nature, and that she had taught them peace. He enviedthem all that they did not know. 

By the time he had reached Belgrave Square the sky was a faint blue, and the birds were beginning to twitter in the gardens. 

CHAPTER III

When Lord Arthur woke it was twelve o'clock, and the midday sun wasstreaming through the ivory-silk curtains of his room. He got upand looked out of the window. A dim haze of heat was hanging overthe great city, and the roofs of the houses were like dull silver. In the flickering green of the square below some children wereflitting about like white butterflies, and the pavement was crowdedwith people on their way to the Park. Never had life seemedlovelier to him, never had the things of evil seemed more remote. 

Then his valet brought him a cup of chocolate on a tray. After hehad drunk it, he drew aside a heavy portiere of peach-colouredplush, and passed into the bathroom. The light stole softly fromabove, through thin slabs of transparent onyx, and the water in themarble tank glimmered like a moonstone. He plunged hastily in, tillthe cool ripples touched throat and hair, and then dipped his headright under, as though he would have wiped away the stain of someshameful memory. When he stepped out he felt almost at peace. Theexquisite physical conditions of the moment had dominated him, asindeed often happens in the case of very finely-wrought natures, forthe senses, like fire, can purify as well as destroy. 

After breakfast, he flung himself down on a divan, and lit acigarette. On the mantel-shelf, framed in dainty old brocade, stooda large photograph of Sybil Merton, as he had seen her first at LadyNoel's ball. The small, exquisitely-shaped head drooped slightly toone side, as though the thin, reed-like throat could hardly bear theburden of so much beauty; the lips were slightly parted, and seemedmade for sweet music; and all the tender purity of girlhood lookedout in wonder from the dreaming eyes. With her soft, clinging dressof crepe-de-chine, and her large leaf-shaped fan, she looked likeone of those delicate little figures men find in the olive-woodsnear Tanagra; and there was a touch of Greek grace in her pose andattitude. Yet she was not petite. She was simply perfectlyproportioned--a rare thing in an age when so many women are eitherover life-size or insignificant. 

Now as Lord Arthur looked at her, he was filled with the terriblepity that is born of love. He felt that to marry her, with the doomof murder hanging over his head, would be a betrayal like that ofJudas, a sin worse than any the Borgia had ever dreamed of. Whathappiness could there be for them, when at any moment he might becalled upon to carry out the awful prophecy written in his hand?What manner of life would be theirs while Fate still held thisfearful fortune in the scales? The marriage must be postponed, atall costs. Of this he was quite resolved. Ardently though he lovedthe girl, and the mere touch of her fingers, when they sat together, made each nerve of his body thrill with exquisite joy, he recognisednone the less clearly where his duty lay, and was fully conscious ofthe fact that he had no right to marry until he had committed themurder. This done, he could stand before the altar with SybilMerton, and give his life into her hands without terror ofwrongdoing. This done, he could take her to his arms, knowing thatshe would never have to blush for him, never have to hang her headin shame. But done it must be first; and the sooner the better forboth. 

Many men in his position would have preferred the primrose path ofdalliance to the steep heights of duty; but Lord Arthur was tooconscientious to set pleasure above principle. There was more thanmere passion in his love; and Sybil was to him a symbol of all thatis good and noble. For a moment he had a natural repugnance againstwhat he was asked to do, but it soon passed away. His heart toldhim that it was not a sin, but a sacrifice; his reason reminded himthat there was no other course open. He had to choose betweenliving for himself and living for others, and terrible though thetask laid upon him undoubtedly was, yet he knew that he must notsuffer selfishness to triumph over love. Sooner or later we are allcalled upon to decide on the same issue--of us all, the samequestion is asked. To Lord Arthur it came early in life--before hisnature had been spoiled by the calculating cynicism of middle-age, or his heart corroded by the shallow, fashionable egotism of ourday, and he felt no hesitation about doing his duty. Fortunatelyalso, for him, he was no mere dreamer, or idle dilettante. Had hebeen so, he would have hesitated, like Hamlet, and let irresolutionmar his purpose. But he was essentially practical. Life to himmeant action, rather than thought. He had that rarest of allthings, common sense. 

The wild, turbid feelings of the previous night had by this timecompletely passed away, and it was almost with a sense of shame thathe looked back upon his mad wanderings from street to street, hisfierce emotional agony. The very sincerity of his sufferings madethem seem unreal to him now. He wondered how he could have been sofoolish as to rant and rave about the inevitable. The only questionthat seemed to trouble him was, whom to make away with; for he wasnot blind to the fact that murder, like the religions of the Paganworld, requires a victim as well as a priest. Not being a genius, he had no enemies, and indeed he felt that this was not the time forthe gratification of any personal pique or dislike, the mission inwhich he was engaged being one of great and grave solemnity. Heaccordingly made out a list of his friends and relatives on a sheetof notepaper, and after careful consideration, decided in favour ofLady Clementina Beauchamp, a dear old lady who lived in CurzonStreet, and was his own second cousin by his mother's side. He hadalways been very fond of Lady Clem, as every one called her, and ashe was very wealthy himself, having come into all Lord Rugby'sproperty when he came of age, there was no possibility of hisderiving any vulgar monetary advantage by her death. In fact, themore he thought over the matter, the more she seemed to him to bejust the right person, and, feeling that any delay would be unfairto Sybil, he determined to make his arrangements at once. 

The first thing to be done was, of course, to settle with thecheiromantist; so he sat down at a small Sheraton writing-table thatstood near the window, drew a cheque for 105 pounds, payable to theorder of Mr. Septimus Podgers, and, enclosing it in an envelope, told his valet to take it to West Moon Street. He then telephonedto the stables for his hansom, and dressed to go out. As he wasleaving the room he looked back at Sybil Merton's photograph, andswore that, come what may, he would never let her know what he wasdoing for her sake, but would keep the secret of his self-sacrificehidden always in his heart. 

On his way to the Buckingham, he stopped at a florist's, and sentSybil a beautiful basket of narcissus, with lovely white petals andstaring pheasants' eyes, and on arriving at the club, went straightto the library, rang the bell, and ordered the waiter to bring him alemon-and-soda, and a book on Toxicology. He had fully decided thatpoison was the best means to adopt in this troublesome business. Anything like personal violence was extremely distasteful to him, and besides, he was very anxious not to murder Lady Clementina inany way that might attract public attention, as he hated the idea ofbeing lionised at Lady Windermere's, or seeing his name figuring inthe paragraphs of vulgar society--newspapers. He had also to thinkof Sybil's father and mother, who were rather old-fashioned people, and might possibly object to the marriage if there was anything likea scandal, though he felt certain that if he told them the wholefacts of the case they would be the very first to appreciate themotives that had actuated him. He had every reason, then, to decidein favour of poison. It was safe, sure, and quiet, and did awaywith any necessity for painful scenes, to which, like mostEnglishmen, he had a rooted objection. 

Of the science of poisons, however, he knew absolutely nothing, andas the waiter seemed quite unable to find anything in the librarybut Ruff's Guide and Bailey's Magazine, he examined the book-shelveshimself, and finally came across a handsomely-bound edition of thePharmacopoeia, and a copy of Erskine's Toxicology, edited by SirMathew Reid, the President of the Royal College of Physicians, andone of the oldest members of the Buckingham, having been elected inmistake for somebody else; a contretemps that so enraged theCommittee, that when the real man came up they black-balled himunanimously. Lord Arthur was a good deal puzzled at the technicalterms used in both books, and had begun to regret that he had notpaid more attention to his classics at Oxford, when in the secondvolume of Erskine, he found a very interesting and complete accountof the properties of aconitine, written in fairly clear English. Itseemed to him to be exactly the poison he wanted. It was swift--indeed, almost immediate, in its effect--perfectly painless, andwhen taken in the form of a gelatine capsule, the mode recommendedby Sir Mathew, not by any means unpalatable. He accordingly made anote, upon his shirt-cuff, of the amount necessary for a fatal dose, put the books back in their places, and strolled up St. James'sStreet, to Pestle and Humbey's, the great chemists. Mr. Pestle, whoalways attended personally on the aristocracy, was a good dealsurprised at the order, and in a very deferential manner murmuredsomething about a medical certificate being necessary. However, assoon as Lord Arthur explained to him that it was for a largeNorwegian mastiff that he was obliged to get rid of, as it showedsigns of incipient rabies, and had already bitten the coachman twicein the calf of the leg, he expressed himself as being perfectlysatisfied, complimented Lord Arthur on his wonderful knowledge ofToxicology, and had the prescription made up immediately. 

Lord Arthur put the capsule into a pretty little silver bonbonnierethat he saw in a shop window in Bond Street, threw away Pestle andHambey's ugly pill-box, and drove off at once to Lady Clementina's. 

'Well, monsieur le mauvais sujet, ' cried the old lady, as he enteredthe room, 'why haven't you been to see me all this time?'

'My dear Lady Clem, I never have a moment to myself, ' said LordArthur, smiling. 

'I suppose you mean that you go about all day long with Miss SybilMerton, buying chiffons and talking nonsense? I cannot understandwhy people make such a fuss about being married. In my day we neverdreamed of billing and cooing in public, or in private for thatmatter. '

'I assure you I have not seen Sybil for twenty-four hours, LadyClem. As far as I can make out, she belongs entirely to hermilliners. '

'Of course; that is the only reason you come to see an ugly oldwoman like myself. I wonder you men don't take warning. On a faitdes folies pour moi, and here I am, a poor rheumatic creature, witha false front and a bad temper. Why, if it were not for dear LadyJansen, who sends me all the worst French novels she can find, Idon't think I could get through the day. Doctors are no use at all, except to get fees out of one. They can't even cure my heartburn. '

'I have brought you a cure for that, Lady Clem, ' said Lord Arthurgravely. 'It is a wonderful thing, invented by an American. '

'I don't think I like American inventions, Arthur. I am quite sureI don't. I read some American novels lately, and they were quitenonsensical. '

'Oh, but there is no nonsense at all about this, Lady Clem! Iassure you it is a perfect cure. You must promise to try it'; andLord Arthur brought the little box out of his pocket, and handed itto her. 

'Well, the box is charming, Arthur. Is it really a present? Thatis very sweet of you. And is this the wonderful medicine? It lookslike a bonbon. I'll take it at once. '

'Good heavens! Lady Clem, ' cried Lord Arthur, catching hold of herhand, 'you mustn't do anything of the kind. It is a homoeopathicmedicine, and if you take it without having heartburn, it might doyou no end of harm. Wait till you have an attack, and take it then. You will be astonished at the result. '

'I should like to take it now, ' said Lady Clementina, holding up tothe light the little transparent capsule, with its floating bubbleof liquid aconitine. I am sure it is delicious. The fact is that, though I hate doctors, I love medicines. However, I'll keep it tillmy next attack. '

'And when will that be?' asked Lord Arthur eagerly. 'Will it besoon?'

'I hope not for a week. I had a very bad time yesterday morningwith it. But one never knows. '

'You are sure to have one before the end of the month then, LadyClem?'

'I am afraid so. But how sympathetic you are to-day, Arthur!Really, Sybil has done you a great deal of good. And now you mustrun away, for I am dining with some very dull people, who won't talkscandal, and I know that if I don't get my sleep now I shall neverbe able to keep awake during dinner. Good-bye, Arthur, give my loveto Sybil, and thank you so much for the American medicine. '

'You won't forget to take it, Lady Clem, will you?' said LordArthur, rising from his seat. 

'Of course I won't, you silly boy. I think it is most kind of youto think of me, and I shall write and tell you if I want any more. '

Lord Arthur left the house in high spirits, and with a feeling ofimmense relief. 

That night he had an interview with Sybil Merton. He told her howhe had been suddenly placed in a position of terrible difficulty, from which neither honour nor duty would allow him to recede. Hetold her that the marriage must be put off for the present, as untilhe had got rid of his fearful entanglements, he was not a free man. He implored her to trust him, and not to have any doubts about thefuture. Everything would come right, but patience was necessary. 

The scene took place in the conservatory of Mr. Merton's house, inPark Lane, where Lord Arthur had dined as usual. Sybil had neverseemed more happy, and for a moment Lord Arthur had been tempted toplay the coward's part, to write to Lady Clementina for the pill, and to let the marriage go on as if there was no such person as Mr. Podgers in the world. His better nature, however, soon asserteditself, and even when Sybil flung herself weeping into his arms, hedid not falter. The beauty that stirred his senses had touched hisconscience also. He felt that to wreck so fair a life for the sakeof a few months' pleasure would be a wrong thing to do. 

He stayed with Sybil till nearly midnight, comforting her and beingcomforted in turn, and early the next morning he left for Venice, after writing a manly, firm letter to Mr. Merton about the necessarypostponement of the marriage. 

CHAPTER IV

In Venice he met his brother, Lord Surbiton, who happened to havecome over from Corfu in his yacht. The two young men spent adelightful fortnight together. In the morning they rode on theLido, or glided up and down the green canals in their long blackgondola; in the afternoon they usually entertained visitors on theyacht; and in the evening they dined at Florian's, and smokedinnumerable cigarettes on the Piazza. Yet somehow Lord Arthur wasnot happy. Every day he studied the obituary column in the Times, expecting to see a notice of Lady Clementina's death, but every dayhe was disappointed. He began to be afraid that some accident hadhappened to her, and often regretted that he had prevented hertaking the aconitine when she had been so anxious to try its effect. Sybil's letters, too, though full of love, and trust, andtenderness, were often very sad in their tone, and sometimes he usedto think that he was parted from her for ever. 

After a fortnight Lord Surbiton got bored with Venice, anddetermined to run down the coast to Ravenna, as he heard that therewas some capital cock-shooting in the Pinetum. Lord Arthur at firstrefused absolutely to come, but Surbiton, of whom he was extremelyfond, finally persuaded him that if he stayed at Danieli's byhimself he would be moped to death, and on the morning of the 15ththey started, with a strong nor'-east wind blowing, and a ratherchoppy sea. The sport was excellent, and the free, open-air lifebrought the colour back to Lord Arthur's cheek, but about the 22ndhe became anxious about Lady Clementina, and, in spite of Surbiton'sremonstrances, came back to Venice by train. 

As he stepped out of his gondola on to the hotel steps, theproprietor came forward to meet him with a sheaf of telegrams. LordArthur snatched them out of his hand, and tore them open. Everything had been successful. Lady Clementina had died quitesuddenly on the night of the 17th!

His first thought was for Sybil, and he sent her off a telegramannouncing his immediate return to London. He then ordered hisvalet to pack his things for the night mail, sent his gondoliersabout five times their proper fare, and ran up to his sitting-roomwith a light step and a buoyant heart. There he found three letterswaiting for him. One was from Sybil herself, full of sympathy andcondolence. The others were from his mother, and from LadyClementina's solicitor. It seemed that the old lady had dined withthe Duchess that very night, had delighted every one by her wit andesprit, but had gone home somewhat early, complaining of heartburn. In the morning she was found dead in her bed, having apparentlysuffered no pain. Sir Mathew Reid had been sent for at once, but, of course, there was nothing to be done, and she was to be buried onthe 22nd at Beauchamp Chalcote. A few days before she died she hadmade her will, and left Lord Arthur her little house in CurzonStreet, and all her furniture, personal effects, and pictures, withthe exception of her collection of miniatures, which was to go toher sister, Lady Margaret Rufford, and her amethyst necklace, whichSybil Merton was to have. The property was not of much value; butMr. Mansfield, the solicitor, was extremely anxious for Lord Arthurto return at once, if possible, as there were a great many bills tobe paid, and Lady Clementina had never kept any regular accounts. 

Lord Arthur was very much touched by Lady Clementina's kindremembrance of him, and felt that Mr. Podgers had a great deal toanswer for. His love of Sybil, however, dominated every otheremotion, and the consciousness that he had done his duty gave himpeace and comfort. When he arrived at Charing Cross, he feltperfectly happy. 

The Mertons received him very kindly. Sybil made him promise thathe would never again allow anything to come between them, and themarriage was fixed for the 7th June. Life seemed to him once morebright and beautiful, and all his old gladness came back to himagain. 

One day, however, as he was going over the house in Curzon Street, in company with Lady Clementina's solicitor and Sybil herself, burning packages of faded letters, and turning out drawers of oddrubbish, the young girl suddenly gave a little cry of delight. 

'What have you found, Sybil?' said Lord Arthur, looking up from hiswork, and smiling. 

'This lovely little silver bonbonniere, Arthur. Isn't it quaint andDutch? Do give it to me! I know amethysts won't become me till Iam over eighty. '

It was the box that had held the aconitine. 

Lord Arthur started, and a faint blush came into his cheek. He hadalmost entirely forgotten what he had done, and it seemed to him acurious coincidence that Sybil, for whose sake he had gone throughall that terrible anxiety, should have been the first to remind himof it. 

'Of course you can have it, Sybil. I gave it to poor Lady Clemmyself. '

'Oh! thank you, Arthur; and may I have the bonbon too? I had nonotion that Lady Clementina liked sweets. I thought she was far toointellectual. '

Lord Arthur grew deadly pale, and a horrible idea crossed his mind. 

'Bonbon, Sybil? What do you mean?' he said in a slow, hoarse voice. 

'There is one in it, that is all. It looks quite old and dusty, andI have not the slightest intention of eating it. What is thematter, Arthur? How white you look!'

Lord Arthur rushed across the room, and seized the box. Inside itwas the amber-coloured capsule, with its poison-bubble. LadyClementina had died a natural death after all!

The shock of the discovery was almost too much for him. He flungthe capsule into the fire, and sank on the sofa with a cry ofdespair. 

CHAPTER V

Mr. Merton was a good deal distressed at the second postponement ofthe marriage, and Lady Julia, who had already ordered her dress forthe wedding, did all in her power to make Sybil break off the match. Dearly, however, as Sybil loved her mother, she had given her wholelife into Lord Arthur's hands, and nothing that Lady Julia could saycould make her waver in her faith. As for Lord Arthur himself, ittook him days to get over his terrible disappointment, and for atime his nerves were completely unstrung. His excellent commonsense, however, soon asserted itself, and his sound, practical minddid not leave him long in doubt about what to do. Poison havingproved a complete failure, dynamite, or some other form ofexplosive, was obviously the proper thing to try. 

He accordingly looked again over the list of his friends andrelatives, and, after careful consideration, determined to blow uphis uncle, the Dean of Chichester. The Dean, who was a man of greatculture and learning, was extremely fond of clocks, and had awonderful collection of timepieces, ranging from the fifteenthcentury to the present day, and it seemed to Lord Arthur that thishobby of the good Dean's offered him an excellent opportunity forcarrying out his scheme. Where to procure an explosive machine was, of course, quite another matter. The London Directory gave him noinformation on the point, and he felt that there was very little usein going to Scotland Yard about it, as they never seemed to knowanything about the movements of the dynamite faction till after anexplosion had taken place, and not much even then. 

Suddenly he thought of his friend Rouvaloff, a young Russian of veryrevolutionary tendencies, whom he had met at Lady Windermere's inthe winter. Count Rouvaloff was supposed to be writing a life ofPeter the Great, and to have come over to England for the purpose ofstudying the documents relating to that Tsar's residence in thiscountry as a ship carpenter; but it was generally suspected that hewas a Nihilist agent, and there was no doubt that the RussianEmbassy did not look with any favour upon his presence in London. Lord Arthur felt that he was just the man for his purpose, and drovedown one morning to his lodgings in Bloomsbury, to ask his adviceand assistance. 

'So you are taking up politics seriously?' said Count Rouvaloff, when Lord Arthur had told him the object of his mission; but LordArthur, who hated swagger of any kind, felt bound to admit to himthat he had not the slightest interest in social questions, andsimply wanted the explosive machine for a purely family matter, inwhich no one was concerned but himself. 

Count Rouvaloff looked at him for some moments in amazement, andthen seeing that he was quite serious, wrote an address on a pieceof paper, initialled it, and handed it to him across the table. 

'Scotland Yard would give a good deal to know this address, my dearfellow. '

'They shan't have it, ' cried Lord Arthur, laughing; and aftershaking the young Russian warmly by the hand he ran downstairs, examined the paper, and told the coachman to drive to Soho Square. 

There he dismissed him, and strolled down Greek Street, till he cameto a place called Bayle's Court. He passed under the archway, andfound himself in a curious cul-de-sac, that was apparently occupiedby a French Laundry, as a perfect network of clothes-lines wasstretched across from house to house, and there was a flutter ofwhite linen in the morning air. He walked right to the end, andknocked at a little green house. After some delay, during whichevery window in the court became a blurred mass of peering faces, the door was opened by a rather rough-looking foreigner, who askedhim in very bad English what his business was. Lord Arthur handedhim the paper Count Rouvaloff had given him. When the man saw it hebowed, and invited Lord Arthur into a very shabby front parlour onthe ground floor, and in a few moments Herr Winckelkopf, as he wascalled in England, bustled into the room, with a very wine-stainednapkin round his neck, and a fork in his left hand. 

'Count Rouvaloff has given me an introduction to you, ' said LordArthur, bowing, 'and I am anxious to have a short interview with youon a matter of business. My name is Smith, Mr. Robert Smith, and Iwant you to supply me with an explosive clock. '

'Charmed to meet you, Lord Arthur, ' said the genial little German, laughing. 'Don't look so alarmed, it is my duty to know everybody, and I remember seeing you one evening at Lady Windermere's. I hopeher ladyship is quite well. Do you mind sitting with me while Ifinish my breakfast? There is an excellent pate, and my friends arekind enough to say that my Rhine wine is better than any they get atthe German Embassy, ' and before Lord Arthur had got over hissurprise at being recognised, he found himself seated in the back-room, sipping the most delicious Marcobrunner out of a pale yellowhock-glass marked with the Imperial monogram, and chatting in thefriendliest manner possible to the famous conspirator. 

'Explosive clocks, ' said Herr Winckelkopf, 'are not very good thingsfor foreign exportation, as, even if they succeed in passing theCustom House, the train service is so irregular, that they usuallygo off before they have reached their proper destination. If, however, you want one for home use, I can supply you with anexcellent article, and guarantee that you will he satisfied with theresult. May I ask for whom it is intended? If it is for thepolice, or for any one connected with Scotland Yard, I am afraid Icannot do anything for you. The English detectives are really ourbest friends, and I have always found that by relying on theirstupidity, we can do exactly what we like. I could not spare one ofthem. '

'I assure you, ' said Lord Arthur, 'that it has nothing to do withthe police at all. In fact, the clock is intended for the Dean ofChichester. '

'Dear me! I had no idea that you felt so strongly about religion, Lord Arthur. Few young men do nowadays. '

'I am afraid you overrate me, Herr Winckelkopf, ' said Lord Arthur, blushing. 'The fact is, I really know nothing about theology. '

'It is a purely private matter then?'

'Purely private. '

Herr Winckelkopf shrugged his shoulders, and left the room, returning in a few minutes with a round cake of dynamite about thesize of a penny, and a pretty little French clock, surmounted by anormolu figure of Liberty trampling on the hydra of Despotism. 

Lord Arthur's face brightened up when he saw it. 'That is just whatI want, ' he cried, 'and now tell me how it goes off. '

'Ah! there is my secret, ' answered Herr Winckelkopf, contemplatinghis invention with a justifiable look of pride; 'let me know whenyou wish it to explode, and I will set the machine to the moment. '

'Well, to-day is Tuesday, and if you could send it off at once--'

'That is impossible; I have a great deal of important work on handfor some friends of mine in Moscow. Still, I might send it off to-morrow. '

'Oh, it will be quite time enough!' said Lord Arthur politely, 'ifit is delivered to-morrow night or Thursday morning. For the momentof the explosion, say Friday at noon exactly. The Dean is always athome at that hour. '

'Friday, at noon, ' repeated Herr Winckelkopf, and he made a note tothat effect in a large ledger that was lying on a bureau near thefireplace. 

'And now, ' said Lord Arthur, rising from his seat, 'pray let me knowhow much I am in your debt. '

'It is such a small matter, Lord Arthur, that I do not care to makeany charge. The dynamite comes to seven and sixpence, the clockwill be three pounds ten, and the carriage about five shillings. Iam only too pleased to oblige any friend of Count Rouvaloff's. '

'But your trouble, Herr Winckelkopf?'

'Oh, that is nothing! It is a pleasure to me. I do not work formoney; I live entirely for my art. '

Lord Arthur laid down 4 pounds, 2s. 6d. On the table, thanked thelittle German for his kindness, and, having succeeded in decliningan invitation to meet some Anarchists at a meat-tea on the followingSaturday, left the house and went off to the Park. 

For the next two days he was in a state of the greatest excitement, and on Friday at twelve o'clock he drove down to the Buckingham towait for news. All the afternoon the stolid hall-porter keptposting up telegrams from various parts of the country giving theresults of horse-races, the verdicts in divorce suits, the state ofthe weather, and the like, while the tape ticked out wearisomedetails about an all-night sitting in the House of Commons, and asmall panic on the Stock Exchange. At four o'clock the eveningpapers came in, and Lord Arthur disappeared into the library withthe Pall Mall, the St. James's, the Globe, and the Echo, to theimmense indignation of Colonel Goodchild, who wanted to read thereports of a speech he had delivered that morning at the MansionHouse, on the subject of South African Missions, and theadvisability of having black Bishops in every province, and for somereason or other had a strong prejudice against the Evening News. None of the papers, however, contained even the slightest allusionto Chichester, and Lord Arthur felt that the attempt must havefailed. It was a terrible blow to him, and for a time he was quiteunnerved. Herr Winckelkopf, whom he went to see the next day wasfull of elaborate apologies, and offered to supply him with anotherclock free of charge, or with a case of nitro-glycerine bombs atcost price. But he had lost all faith in explosives, and HerrWinckelkopf himself acknowledged that everything is so adulteratednowadays, that even dynamite can hardly be got in a pure condition. The little German, however, while admitting that something must havegone wrong with the machinery, was not without hope that the clockmight still go off, and instanced the case of a barometer that hehad once sent to the military Governor at Odessa, which, thoughtimed to explode in ten days, had not done so for something likethree months. It was quite true that when it did go off, it merelysucceeded in blowing a housemaid to atoms, the Governor having goneout of town six weeks before, but at least it showed that dynamite, as a destructive force, was, when under the control of machinery, apowerful, though a somewhat unpunctual agent. Lord Arthur was alittle consoled by this reflection, but even here he was destined todisappointment, for two days afterwards, as he was going upstairs, the Duchess called him into her boudoir, and showed him a letter shehad just received from the Deanery. 

'Jane writes charming letters, ' said the Duchess; 'you must reallyread her last. It is quite as good as the novels Mudie sends us. '

Lord Arthur seized the letter from her hand. It ran as follows:-

THE DEANERY, CHICHESTER, 27th May. 

My Dearest Aunt, Thank you so much for the flannel for the Dorcas Society, and alsofor the gingham. I quite agree with you that it is nonsense theirwanting to wear pretty things, but everybody is so Radical andirreligious nowadays, that it is difficult to make them see thatthey should not try and dress like the upper classes. I am sure Idon't know what we are coming to. As papa has often said in hissermons, we live in an age of unbelief. 

We have had great fun over a clock that an unknown admirer sent papalast Thursday. It arrived in a wooden box from London, carriagepaid, and papa feels it must have been sent by some one who had readhis remarkable sermon, 'Is Licence Liberty?' for on the top of theclock was a figure of a woman, with what papa said was the cap ofLiberty on her head. I didn't think it very becoming myself, butpapa said it was historical, so I suppose it is all right. Parkerunpacked it, and papa put it on the mantelpiece in the library, andwe were all sitting there on Friday morning, when just as the clockstruck twelve, we heard a whirring noise, a little puff of smokecame from the pedestal of the figure, and the goddess of Libertyfell off, and broke her nose on the fender! Maria was quitealarmed, but it looked so ridiculous, that James and I went off intofits of laughter, and even papa was amused. When we examined it, wefound it was a sort of alarum clock, and that, if you set it to aparticular hour, and put some gunpowder and a cap under a littlehammer, it went off whenever you wanted. Papa said it must notremain in the library, as it made a noise, so Reggie carried it awayto the schoolroom, and does nothing but have small explosions allday long. Do you think Arthur would like one for a wedding present?I suppose they are quite fashionable in London. Papa says theyshould do a great deal of good, as they show that Liberty can'tlast, but must fall down. Papa says Liberty was invented at thetime of the French Revolution. How awful it seems!

I have now to go to the Dorcas, where I will read them your mostinstructive letter. How true, dear aunt, your idea is, that intheir rank of life they should wear what is unbecoming. I must sayit is absurd, their anxiety about dress, when there are so many moreimportant things in this world, and in the next. I am so glad yourflowered poplin turned out so well, and that your lace was not torn. I am wearing my yellow satin, that you so kindly gave me, at theBishop's on Wednesday, and think it will look all right. Would youhave bows or not? Jennings says that every one wears bows now, andthat the underskirt should be frilled. Reggie has just had anotherexplosion, and papa has ordered the clock to be sent to the stables. I don't think papa likes it so much as he did at first, though he isvery flattered at being sent such a pretty and ingenious toy. Itshows that people read his sermons, and profit by them. 

Papa sends his love, in which James, and Reggie, and Maria allunite, and, hoping that Uncle Cecil's gout is better, believe me, dear aunt, ever your affectionate niece, JANE PERCY. 

PS. --Do tell me about the bows. Jennings insists they are thefashion. 

Lord Arthur looked so serious and unhappy over the letter, that theDuchess went into fits of laughter. 

'My dear Arthur, ' she cried, 'I shall never show you a young lady'sletter again! But what shall I say about the clock? I think it isa capital invention, and I should like to have one myself. '

'I don't think much of them, ' said Lord Arthur, with a sad smile, and, after kissing his mother, he left the room. 

When he got upstairs, he flung himself on a sofa, and his eyesfilled with tears. He had done his best to commit this murder, buton both occasions he had failed, and through no fault of his own. He had tried to do his duty, but it seemed as if Destiny herself hadturned traitor. He was oppressed with the sense of the barrennessof good intentions, of the futility of trying to be fine. Perhaps, it would be better to break off the marriage altogether. Sybilwould suffer, it is true, but suffering could not really mar anature so noble as hers. As for himself, what did it matter? Thereis always some war in which a man can die, some cause to which a mancan give his life, and as life had no pleasure for him, so death hadno terror. Let Destiny work out his doom. He would not stir tohelp her. 

At half-past seven he dressed, and went down to the club. Surbitonwas there with a party of young men, and he was obliged to dine withthem. Their trivial conversation and idle jests did not interesthim, and as soon as coffee was brought he left them, inventing someengagement in order to get away. As he was going out of the club, the hall-porter handed him a letter. It was from Herr Winckelkopf, asking him to call down the next evening, and look at an explosiveumbrella, that went off as soon as it was opened. It was the verylatest invention, and had just arrived from Geneva. He tore theletter up into fragments. He had made up his mind not to try anymore experiments. Then he wandered down to the Thames Embankment, and sat for hours by the river. The moon peered through a mane oftawny clouds, as if it were a lion's eye, and innumerable starsspangled the hollow vault, like gold dust powdered on a purple dome. Now and then a barge swung out into the turbid stream, and floatedaway with the tide, and the railway signals changed from green toscarlet as the trains ran shrieking across the bridge. After sometime, twelve o'clock boomed from the tall tower at Westminster, andat each stroke of the sonorous bell the night seemed to tremble. Then the railway lights went out, one solitary lamp left gleaminglike a large ruby on a giant mast, and the roar of the city becamefainter. 

At two o'clock he got up, and strolled towards Blackfriars. Howunreal everything looked! How like a strange dream! The houses onthe other side of the river seemed built out of darkness. One wouldhave said that silver and shadow had fashioned the world anew. Thehuge dome of St. Paul's loomed like a bubble through the dusky air. 

As he approached Cleopatra's Needle he saw a man leaning over theparapet, and as he came nearer the man looked up, the gas-lightfalling full upon his face. 

It was Mr. Podgers, the cheiromantist! No one could mistake thefat, flabby face, the gold-rimmed spectacles, the sickly feeblesmile, the sensual mouth. 

Lord Arthur stopped. A brilliant idea flashed across him, and hestole softly up behind. In a moment he had seized Mr. Podgers bythe legs, and flung him into the Thames. There was a coarse oath, aheavy splash, and all was still. Lord Arthur looked anxiously over, but could see nothing of the cheiromantist but a tall hat, pirouetting in an eddy of moonlit water. After a time it also sank, and no trace of Mr. Podgers was visible. Once he thought that hecaught sight of the bulky misshapen figure striking out for thestaircase by the bridge, and a horrible feeling of failure came overhim, but it turned out to be merely a reflection, and when the moonshone out from behind a cloud it passed away. At last he seemed tohave realised the decree of destiny. He heaved a deep sigh ofrelief, and Sybil's name came to his lips. 

'Have you dropped anything, sir?' said a voice behind him suddenly. 

He turned round, and saw a policeman with a bull's-eye lantern. 

'Nothing of importance, sergeant, ' he answered, smiling, and hailinga passing hansom, he jumped in, and told the man to drive toBelgrave Square. 

For the next few days he alternated between hope and fear. Therewere moments when he almost expected Mr. Podgers to walk into theroom, and yet at other times he felt that Fate could not be sounjust to him. Twice he went to the cheiromantist's address in WestMoon Street, but he could not bring himself to ring the bell. Helonged for certainty, and was afraid of it. 

Finally it came. He was sitting in the smoking-room of the clubhaving tea, and listening rather wearily to Surbiton's account ofthe last comic song at the Gaiety, when the waiter came in with theevening papers. He took up the St. James's, and was listlesslyturning over its pages, when this strange heading caught his eye:

SUICIDE OF A CHEIROMANTIST. 

He turned pale with excitement, and began to read. The paragraphran as follows:

Yesterday morning, at seven o'clock, the body of Mr. Septimus R. Podgers, the eminent cheiromantist, was washed on shore atGreenwich, just in front of the Ship Hotel. The unfortunategentleman had been missing for some days, and considerable anxietyfor his safety had been felt in cheiromantic circles. It issupposed that he committed suicide under the influence of atemporary mental derangement, caused by overwork, and a verdict tothat effect was returned this afternoon by the coroner's jury. Mr. Podgers had just completed an elaborate treatise on the subject ofthe Human Hand, that will shortly be published, when it will nodoubt attract much attention. The deceased was sixty-five years ofage, and does not seem to have left any relations. 

Lord Arthur rushed out of the club with the paper still in his hand, to the immense amazement of the hall-porter, who tried in vain tostop him, and drove at once to Park Lane. Sybil saw him from thewindow, and something told her that he was the bearer of good news. She ran down to meet him, and, when she saw his face, she knew thatall was well. 

'My dear Sybil, ' cried Lord Arthur, 'let us be married to-morrow!'

'You foolish boy! Why, the cake is not even ordered!' said Sybil, laughing through her tears. 

CHAPTER VI

When the wedding took place, some three weeks later, St. Peter's wascrowded with a perfect mob of smart people. The service was read inthe most impressive manner by the Dean of Chichester, and everybodyagreed that they had never seen a handsomer couple than the brideand bridegroom. They were more than handsome, however--they werehappy. Never for a single moment did Lord Arthur regret all that hehad suffered for Sybil's sake, while she, on her side, gave him thebest things a woman can give to any man--worship, tenderness, andlove. For them romance was not killed by reality. They always feltyoung. 

Some years afterwards, when two beautiful children had been born tothem, Lady Windermere came down on a visit to Alton Priory, a lovelyold place, that had been the Duke's wedding present to his son; andone afternoon as she was sitting with Lady Arthur under a lime-treein the garden, watching the little boy and girl as they played upand down the rose-walk, like fitful sunbeams, she suddenly took herhostess's hand in hers, and said, 'Are you happy, Sybil?'

'Dear Lady Windermere, of course I am happy. Aren't you?'

'I have no time to be happy, Sybil. I always like the last personwho is introduced to me; but, as a rule, as soon as I know people Iget tired of them. '

'Don't your lions satisfy you, Lady Windermere?'

'Oh dear, no! lions are only good for one season. As soon as theirmanes are cut, they are the dullest creatures going. Besides, theybehave very badly, if you are really nice to them. Do you rememberthat horrid Mr. Podgers? He was a dreadful impostor. Of course, Ididn't mind that at all, and even when he wanted to borrow money Iforgave him, but I could not stand his making love to me. He hasreally made me hate cheiromancy. I go in for telepathy now. It ismuch more amusing. '

'You mustn't say anything against cheiromancy here, Lady Windermere;it is the only subject that Arthur does not like people to chaffabout. I assure you he is quite serious over it. '

'You don't mean to say that he believes in it, Sybil?'

'Ask him, Lady Windermere, here he is'; and Lord Arthur came up thegarden with a large bunch of yellow roses in his hand, and his twochildren dancing round him. 

'Lord Arthur?'

'Yes, Lady Windermere. '

'You don't mean to say that you believe in cheiromancy?'

'Of course I do, ' said the young man, smiling. 

'But why?'

'Because I owe to it all the happiness of my life, ' he murmured, throwing himself into a wicker chair. 

'My dear Lord Arthur, what do you owe to it?'

'Sybil, ' he answered, handing his wife the roses, and looking intoher violet eyes. 

'What nonsense!' cried Lady Windermere. 'I never heard suchnonsense in all my life. '

THE CANTERVILLE GHOST

CHAPTER I

When Mr. Hiram B. Otis, the American Minister, bought CantervilleChase, every one told him he was doing a very foolish thing, asthere was no doubt at all that the place was haunted. Indeed, LordCanterville himself, who was a man of the most punctilious honour, had felt it his duty to mention the fact to Mr. Otis when they cameto discuss terms. 

'We have not cared to live in the place ourselves, ' said LordCanterville, 'since my grandaunt, the Dowager Duchess of Bolton, wasfrightened into a fit, from which she never really recovered, by twoskeleton hands being placed on her shoulders as she was dressing fordinner, and I feel bound to tell you, Mr. Otis, that the ghost hasbeen seen by several living members of my family, as well as by therector of the parish, the Rev. Augustus Dampier, who is a Fellow ofKing's College, Cambridge. After the unfortunate accident to theDuchess, none of our younger servants would stay with us, and LadyCanterville often got very little sleep at night, in consequence ofthe mysterious noises that came from the corridor and the library. '

'My Lord, ' answered the Minister, 'I will take the furniture and theghost at a valuation. I come from a modern country, where we haveeverything that money can buy; and with all our spry young fellowspainting the Old World red, and carrying off your best actresses andprima-donnas, I reckon that if there were such a thing as a ghost inEurope, we'd have it at home in a very short time in one of ourpublic museums, or on the road as a show. '

'I fear that the ghost exists, ' said Lord Canterville, smiling, 'though it may have resisted the overtures of your enterprisingimpresarios. It has been well known for three centuries, since 1584in fact, and always makes its appearance before the death of anymember of our family. '

'Well, so does the family doctor for that matter, Lord Canterville. But there is no such thing, sir, as a ghost, and I guess the laws ofNature are not going to be suspended for the British aristocracy. '

'You are certainly very natural in America, ' answered LordCanterville, who did not quite understand Mr. Otis's lastobservation, 'and if you don't mind a ghost in the house, it is allright. Only you must remember I warned you. '

A few weeks after this, the purchase was completed, and at the closeof the season the Minister and his family went down to CantervilleChase. Mrs. Otis, who, as Miss Lucretia R. Tappan, of West 53rdStreet, had been a celebrated New York belle, was now a veryhandsome, middle-aged woman, with fine eyes, and a superb profile. Many American ladies on leaving their native land adopt anappearance of chronic ill-health, under the impression that it is aform of European refinement, but Mrs. Otis had never fallen intothis error. She had a magnificent constitution, and a reallywonderful amount of animal spirits. Indeed, in many respects, shewas quite English, and was an excellent example of the fact that wehave really everything in common with America nowadays, except, ofcourse, language. Her eldest son, christened Washington by hisparents in a moment of patriotism, which he never ceased to regret, was a fair-haired, rather good-looking young man, who had qualifiedhimself for American diplomacy by leading the German at the NewportCasino for three successive seasons, and even in London was wellknown as an excellent dancer. Gardenias and the peerage were hisonly weaknesses. Otherwise he was extremely sensible. MissVirginia E. Otis was a little girl of fifteen, lithe and lovely as afawn, and with a fine freedom in her large blue eyes. She was awonderful amazon, and had once raced old Lord Bilton on her ponytwice round the park, winning by a length and a half, just in frontof the Achilles statue, to the huge delight of the young Duke ofCheshire, who proposed for her on the spot, and was sent back toEton that very night by his guardians, in floods of tears. AfterVirginia came the twins, who were usually called 'The Stars andStripes, ' as they were always getting swished. They were delightfulboys, and with the exception of the worthy Minister the only truerepublicans of the family. 

As Canterville Chase is seven miles from Ascot, the nearest railwaystation, Mr. Otis had telegraphed for a waggonette to meet them, andthey started on their drive in high spirits. It was a lovely Julyevening, and the air was delicate with the scent of the pine-woods. Now and then they heard a wood pigeon brooding over its own sweetvoice, or saw, deep in the rustling fern, the burnished breast ofthe pheasant. Little squirrels peered at them from the beech-treesas they went by, and the rabbits scudded away through the brushwoodand over the mossy knolls, with their white tails in the air. Asthey entered the avenue of Canterville Chase, however, the skybecame suddenly overcast with clouds, a curious stillness seemed tohold the atmosphere, a great flight of rooks passed silently overtheir heads, and, before they reached the house, some big drops ofrain had fallen. 

Standing on the steps to receive them was an old woman, neatlydressed in black silk, with a white cap and apron. This was Mrs. Umney, the housekeeper, whom Mrs. Otis, at Lady Canterville'searnest request, had consented to keep on in her former position. She made them each a low curtsey as they alighted, and said in aquaint, old-fashioned manner, 'I bid you welcome to CantervilleChase. ' Following her, they passed through the fine Tudor hall intothe library, a long, low room, panelled in black oak, at the end ofwhich was a large stained-glass window. Here they found tea laidout for them, and, after taking off their wraps, they sat down andbegan to look round, while Mrs. Umney waited on them. 

Suddenly Mrs. Otis caught sight of a dull red stain on the floorjust by the fireplace and, quite unconscious of what it reallysignified, said to Mrs. Umney, 'I am afraid something has been spiltthere. '

'Yes, madam, ' replied the old housekeeper in a low voice, 'blood hasbeen spilt on that spot. '

'How horrid, ' cried Mrs. Otis; 'I don't at all care for blood-stainsin a sitting-room. It must be removed at once. '

The old woman smiled, and answered in the same low, mysteriousvoice, 'It is the blood of Lady Eleanore de Canterville, who wasmurdered on that very spot by her own husband, Sir Simon deCanterville, in 1575. Sir Simon survived her nine years, anddisappeared suddenly under very mysterious circumstances. His bodyhas never been discovered, but his guilty spirit still haunts theChase. The blood-stain has been much admired by tourists andothers, and cannot be removed. '

'That is all nonsense, ' cried Washington Otis; 'Pinkerton's ChampionStain Remover and Paragon Detergent will clean it up in no time, 'and before the terrified housekeeper could interfere he had fallenupon his knees, and was rapidly scouring the floor with a smallstick of what looked like a black cosmetic. In a few moments notrace of the blood-stain could be seen. 

'I knew Pinkerton would do it, ' he exclaimed triumphantly, as helooked round at his admiring family; but no sooner had he said thesewords than a terrible flash of lightning lit up the sombre room, afearful peal of thunder made them all start to their feet, and Mrs. Umney fainted. 

'What a monstrous climate!' said the American Minister calmly, as helit a long cheroot. 'I guess the old country is so overpopulatedthat they have not enough decent weather for everybody. I havealways been of opinion that emigration is the only thing forEngland. '

'My dear Hiram, ' cried Mrs. Otis, 'what can we do with a woman whofaints?'

'Charge it to her like breakages, ' answered the Minister; 'she won'tfaint after that'; and in a few moments Mrs. Umney certainly cameto. There was no doubt, however, that she was extremely upset, andshe sternly warned Mr. Otis to beware of some trouble coming to thehouse. 

'I have seen things with my own eyes, sir, ' she said, 'that wouldmake any Christian's hair stand on end, and many and many a night Ihave not closed my eyes in sleep for the awful things that are donehere. ' Mr. Otis, however, and his wife warmly assured the honestsoul that they were not afraid of ghosts, and, after invoking theblessings of Providence on her new master and mistress, and makingarrangements for an increase of salary, the old housekeeper totteredoff to her own room. 

CHAPTER II

The storm raged fiercely all that night, but nothing of particularnote occurred. The next morning, however, when they came down tobreakfast, they found the terrible stain of blood once again on thefloor. 'I don't think it can be the fault of the ParagonDetergent, ' said Washington, 'for I have tried it with everything. It must be the ghost. ' He accordingly rubbed out the stain a secondtime, but the second morning it appeared again. The third morningalso it was there, though the library had been locked up at night byMr. Otis himself, and the key carried upstairs. The whole familywere now quite interested; Mr. Otis began to suspect that he hadbeen too dogmatic in his denial of the existence of ghosts, Mrs. Otis expressed her intention of joining the Psychical Society, andWashington prepared a long letter to Messrs. Myers and Podmore onthe subject of the Permanence of Sanguineous Stains when connectedwith Crime. That night all doubts about the objective existence ofphantasmata were removed for ever. 

The day had been warm and sunny; and, in the cool of the evening, the whole family went out for a drive. They did not return hometill nine o'clock, when they had a light supper. The conversationin no way turned upon ghosts, so there were not even those primaryconditions of receptive expectation which so often precede thepresentation of psychical phenomena. The subjects discussed, as Ihave since learned from Mr. Otis, were merely such as form theordinary conversation of cultured Americans of the better class, such as the immense superiority of Miss Fanny Davenport over SarahBernhardt as an actress; the difficulty of obtaining green corn, buckwheat cakes, and hominy, even in the best English houses; theimportance of Boston in the development of the world-soul; theadvantages of the baggage check system in railway travelling; andthe sweetness of the New York accent as compared to the Londondrawl. No mention at all was made of the supernatural, nor was SirSimon de Canterville alluded to in any way. At eleven o'clock thefamily retired, and by half-past all the lights were out. Some timeafter, Mr. Otis was awakened by a curious noise in the corridor, outside his room. It sounded like the clank of metal, and seemed tobe coming nearer every moment. He got up at once, struck a match, and looked at the time. It was exactly one o'clock. He was quitecalm, and felt his pulse, which was not at all feverish. Thestrange noise still continued, and with it he heard distinctly thesound of footsteps. He put on his slippers, took a small oblongphial out of his dressing-case, and opened the door. Right in frontof him he saw, in the wan moonlight, an old man of terrible aspect. His eyes were as red burning coals; long grey hair fell over hisshoulders in matted coils; his garments, which were of antique cut, were soiled and ragged, and from his wrists and ankles hung heavymanacles and rusty gyves. 

'My dear sir, ' said Mr. Otis, 'I really must insist on your oilingthose chains, and have brought you for that purpose a small bottleof the Tammany Rising Sun Lubricator. It is said to be completelyefficacious upon one application, and there are several testimonialsto that effect on the wrapper from some of our most eminent nativedivines. I shall leave it here for you by the bedroom candles, andwill be happy to supply you with more should you require it. ' Withthese words the United States Minister laid the bottle down on amarble table, and, closing his door, retired to rest. 

For a moment the Canterville ghost stood quite motionless in naturalindignation; then, dashing the bottle violently upon the polishedfloor, he fled down the corridor, uttering hollow groans, andemitting a ghastly green light. Just, however, as he reached thetop of the great oak staircase, a door was flung open, two littlewhite-robed figures appeared, and a large pillow whizzed past hishead! There was evidently no time to be lost, so, hastily adoptingthe Fourth Dimension of Space as a means of escape, he vanishedthrough the wainscoting, and the house became quite quiet. 

On reaching a small secret chamber in the left wing, he leaned upagainst a moonbeam to recover his breath, and began to try andrealise his position. Never, in a brilliant and uninterruptedcareer of three hundred years, had he been so grossly insulted. Hethought of the Dowager Duchess, whom he had frightened into a fit asshe stood before the glass in her lace and diamonds; of the fourhousemaids, who had gone off into hysterics when he merely grinnedat them through the curtains of one of the spare bedrooms; of therector of the parish, whose candle he had blown out as he was cominglate one night from the library, and who had been under the care ofSir William Gull ever since, a perfect martyr to nervous disorders;and of old Madame de Tremouillac, who, having wakened up one morningearly and seen a skeleton seated in an arm-chair by the fire readingher diary, had been confined to her bed for six weeks with an attackof brain fever, and, on her recovery, had become reconciled to theChurch, and broken off her connection with that notorious scepticMonsieur de Voltaire. He remembered the terrible night when thewicked Lord Canterville was found choking in his dressing-room, withthe knave of diamonds half-way down his throat, and confessed, justbefore he died, that he had cheated Charles James Fox out of 50, 000pounds at Crockford's by means of that very card, and swore that theghost had made him swallow it. All his great achievements came backto him again, from the butler who had shot himself in the pantrybecause he had seen a green hand tapping at the window pane, to thebeautiful Lady Stutfield, who was always obliged to wear a blackvelvet band round her throat to hide the mark of five fingers burntupon her white skin, and who drowned herself at last in the carp-pond at the end of the King's Walk. With the enthusiastic egotismof the true artist he went over his most celebrated performances, and smiled bitterly to himself as he recalled to mind his lastappearance as 'Red Ruben, or the Strangled Babe, ' his debut as'Gaunt Gibeon, the Blood-sucker of Bexley Moor, ' and the furore hehad excited one lovely June evening by merely playing ninepins withhis own bones upon the lawn-tennis ground. And after all this, somewretched modern Americans were to come and offer him the Rising SunLubricator, and throw pillows at his head! It was quite unbearable. Besides, no ghosts in history had ever been treated in this manner. Accordingly, he determined to have vengeance, and remained tilldaylight in an attitude of deep thought. 

CHAPTER III

The next morning when the Otis family met at breakfast, theydiscussed the ghost at some length. The United States Minister wasnaturally a little annoyed to find that his present had not beenaccepted. 'I have no wish, ' he said, 'to do the ghost any personalinjury, and I must say that, considering the length of time he hasbeen in the house, I don't think it is at all polite to throwpillows at him'--a very just remark, at which, I am sorry to say, the twins burst into shouts of laughter. 'Upon the other hand, ' hecontinued, 'if he really declines to use the Rising Sun Lubricator, we shall have to take his chains from him. It would be quiteimpossible to sleep, with such a noise going on outside thebedrooms. '

For the rest of the week, however, they were undisturbed, the onlything that excited any attention being the continual renewal of theblood-stain on the library floor. This certainly was very strange, as the door was always locked at night by Mr. Otis, and the windowskept closely barred. The chameleon-like colour, also, of the stainexcited a good deal of comment. Some mornings it was a dull (almostIndian) red, then it would be vermilion, then a rich purple, andonce when they came down for family prayers, according to the simplerites of the Free American Reformed Episcopalian Church, they foundit a bright emerald-green. These kaleidoscopic changes naturallyamused the party very much, and bets on the subject were freely madeevery evening. The only person who did not enter into the joke waslittle Virginia, who, for some unexplained reason, was always a gooddeal distressed at the sight of the blood-stain, and very nearlycried the morning it was emerald-green. 

The second appearance of the ghost was on Sunday night. Shortlyafter they had gone to bed they were suddenly alarmed by a fearfulcrash in the hall. Rushing downstairs, they found that a large suitof old armour had become detached from its stand, and had fallen onthe stone floor, while, seated in a high-backed chair, was theCanterville ghost, rubbing his knees with an expression of acuteagony on his face. The twins, having brought their pea-shooterswith them, at once discharged two pellets on him, with that accuracyof aim which can only be attained by long and careful practice on awriting-master, while the United States Minister covered him withhis revolver, and called upon him, in accordance with Californianetiquette, to hold up his hands! The ghost started up with a wildshriek of rage, and swept through them like a mist, extinguishingWashington Otis's candle as he passed, and so leaving them all intotal darkness. On reaching the top of the staircase he recoveredhimself, and determined to give his celebrated peal of demoniaclaughter. This he had on more than one occasion found extremelyuseful. It was said to have turned Lord Raker's wig grey in asingle night, and had certainly made three of Lady Canterville'sFrench governesses give warning before their month was up. Heaccordingly laughed his most horrible laugh, till the old vaultedroof rang and rang again, but hardly had the fearful echo died awaywhen a door opened, and Mrs. Otis came out in a light blue dressing-gown. 'I am afraid you are far from well, ' she said, 'and havebrought you a bottle of Dr. Dobell's tincture. If it isindigestion, you will find it a most excellent remedy. ' The ghostglared at her in fury, and began at once to make preparations forturning himself into a large black dog, an accomplishment for whichhe was justly renowned, and to which the family doctor alwaysattributed the permanent idiocy of Lord Canterville's uncle, theHon. Thomas Horton. The sound of approaching footsteps, however, made him hesitate in his fell purpose, so he contented himself withbecoming faintly phosphorescent, and vanished with a deep churchyardgroan, just as the twins had come up to him. 

On reaching his room he entirely broke down, and became a prey tothe most violent agitation. The vulgarity of the twins, and thegross materialism of Mrs. Otis, were naturally extremely annoying, but what really distressed him most was, that he had been unable towear the suit of mail. He had hoped that even modern Americanswould be thrilled by the sight of a Spectre In Armour, if for nomore sensible reason, at least out of respect for their nationalpoet Longfellow, over whose graceful and attractive poetry hehimself had whiled away many a weary hour when the Cantervilles wereup in town. Besides, it was his own suit. He had worn it withgreat success at the Kenilworth tournament, and had been highlycomplimented on it by no less a person than the Virgin Queenherself. Yet when he had put it on, he had been completelyoverpowered by the weight of the huge breastplate and steel casque, and had fallen heavily on the stone pavement, barking both his kneesseverely, and bruising the knuckles of his right hand. 

For some days after this he was extremely ill, and hardly stirredout of his room at all, except to keep the blood-stain in properrepair. However, by taking great care of himself, he recovered, andresolved to make a third attempt to frighten the United StatesMinister and his family. He selected Friday, the 17th of August, for his appearance, and spent most of that day in looking over hiswardrobe, ultimately deciding in favour of a large slouched hat witha red feather, a winding-sheet frilled at the wrists and neck, and arusty dagger. Towards evening a violent storm of rain came on, andthe wind was so high that all the windows and doors in the old houseshook and rattled. In fact, it was just such weather as he loved. His plan of action was this. He was to make his way quietly toWashington Otis's room, gibber at him from the foot of the bed, andstab himself three times in the throat to the sound of slow music. He bore Washington a special grudge, being quite aware that it washe who was in the habit of removing the famous Canterville blood-stain, by means of Pinkerton's Paragon Detergent. Having reducedthe reckless and foolhardy youth to a condition of abject terror, hewas then to proceed to the room occupied by the United StatesMinister and his wife, and there to place a clammy hand on Mrs. Otis's forehead, while he hissed into her trembling husband's earthe awful secrets of the charnel-house. With regard to littleVirginia, he had not quite made up his mind. She had never insultedhim in any way, and was pretty and gentle. A few hollow groans fromthe wardrobe, he thought, would be more than sufficient, or, if thatfailed to wake her, he might grabble at the counterpane with palsy-twitching fingers. As for the twins, he was quite determined toteach them a lesson. The first thing to be done was, of course, tosit upon their chests, so as to produce the stifling sensation ofnightmare. Then, as their beds were quite close to each other, tostand between them in the form of a green, icy-cold corpse, tillthey became paralysed with fear, and finally, to throw off thewinding-sheet, and crawl round the room, with white bleached bonesand one rolling eye-ball, in the character of 'Dumb Daniel, or theSuicide's Skeleton, ' a role in which he had on more than oneoccasion produced a great effect, and which he considered quiteequal to his famous part of 'Martin the Maniac, or the MaskedMystery. '

At half-past ten he heard the family going to bed. For some time hewas disturbed by wild shrieks of laughter from the twins, who, withthe light-hearted gaiety of schoolboys, were evidently amusingthemselves before they retired to rest, but at a quarter past elevenall was still, and, as midnight sounded, he sallied forth. The owlbeat against the window panes, the raven croaked from the old yew-tree, and the wind wandered moaning round the house like a lostsoul; but the Otis family slept unconscious of their doom, and highabove the rain and storm he could hear the steady snoring of theMinister for the United States. He stepped stealthily out of thewainscoting, with an evil smile on his cruel, wrinkled mouth, andthe moon hid her face in a cloud as he stole past the great orielwindow, where his own arms and those of his murdered wife wereblazoned in azure and gold. On and on he glided, like an evilshadow, the very darkness seeming to loathe him as he passed. Oncehe thought he heard something call, and stopped; but it was only thebaying of a dog from the Red Farm, and he went on, muttering strangesixteenth-century curses, and ever and anon brandishing the rustydagger in the midnight air. Finally he reached the corner of thepassage that led to luckless Washington's room. For a moment hepaused there, the wind blowing his long grey locks about his head, and twisting into grotesque and fantastic folds the nameless horrorof the dead man's shroud. Then the clock struck the quarter, and hefelt the time was come. He chuckled to himself, and turned thecorner; but no sooner had he done so, than, with a piteous wail ofterror, he fell back, and hid his blanched face in his long, bonyhands. Right in front of him was standing a horrible spectre, motionless as a carven image, and monstrous as a madman's dream!Its head was bald and burnished; its face round, and fat, and white;and hideous laughter seemed to have writhed its features into aneternal grin. From the eyes streamed rays of scarlet light, themouth was a wide well of fire, and a hideous garment, like to hisown, swathed with its silent snows the Titan form. On its breastwas a placard with strange writing in antique characters, somescroll of shame it seemed, some record of wild sins, some awfulcalendar of crime, and, with its right hand, it bore aloft afalchion of gleaming steel. 

Never having seen a ghost before, he naturally was terriblyfrightened, and, after a second hasty glance at the awful phantom, he fled back to his room, tripping up in his long winding-sheet ashe sped down the corridor, and finally dropping the rusty daggerinto the Minister's jack-boots, where it was found in the morning bythe butler. Once in the privacy of his own apartment, he flunghimself down on a small pallet-bed, and hid his face under theclothes. After a time, however, the brave old Canterville spiritasserted itself, and he determined to go and speak to the otherghost as soon as it was daylight. Accordingly, just as the dawn wastouching the hills with silver, he returned towards the spot wherehe had first laid eyes on the grisly phantom, feeling that, afterall, two ghosts were better than one, and that, by the aid of hisnew friend, he might safely grapple with the twins. On reaching thespot, however, a terrible sight met his gaze. Something hadevidently happened to the spectre, for the light had entirely fadedfrom its hollow eyes, the gleaming falchion had fallen from itshand, and it was leaning up against the wall in a strained anduncomfortable attitude. He rushed forward and seized it in hisarms, when, to his horror, the head slipped off and rolled on thefloor, the body assumed a recumbent posture, and he found himselfclasping a white dimity bed-curtain, with a sweeping-brush, akitchen cleaver, and a hollow turnip lying at his feet! Unable tounderstand this curious transformation, he clutched the placard withfeverish haste, and there, in the grey morning light, he read thesefearful words:-

YE OLDE GHOSTE

Ye Onlie True and Originale Spook. Beware of Ye Imitationes. All others are Counterfeite. 

The whole thing flashed across him. He had been tricked, foiled, and outwitted! The old Canterville look came into his eyes; heground his toothless gums together; and, raising his withered handshigh above his head, swore, according to the picturesque phraseologyof the antique school, that when Chanticleer had sounded twice hismerry horn, deeds of blood would be wrought, and Murder walk abroadwith silent feet. 

Hardly had he finished this awful oath when, from the red-tiled roofof a distant homestead, a cock crew. He laughed a long, low, bitterlaugh, and waited. Hour after hour he waited, but the cock, forsome strange reason, did not crow again. Finally, at half-pastseven, the arrival of the housemaids made him give up his fearfulvigil, and he stalked back to his room, thinking of his vain hopeand baffled purpose. There he consulted several books of ancientchivalry, of which he was exceedingly fond, and found that, on everyoccasion on which his oath had been used, Chanticleer had alwayscrowed a second time. 'Perdition seize the naughty fowl, ' hemuttered, 'I have seen the day when, with my stout spear, I wouldhave run him through the gorge, and made him crow for me an 'twerein death!' He then retired to a comfortable lead coffin, and stayedthere till evening. 

CHAPTER IV

The next day the ghost was very weak and tired. The terribleexcitement of the last four weeks was beginning to have its effect. His nerves were completely shattered, and he started at theslightest noise. For five days he kept his room, and at last madeup his mind to give up the point of the blood-stain on the libraryfloor. If the Otis family did not want it, they clearly did notdeserve it. They were evidently people on a low, material plane ofexistence, and quite incapable of appreciating the symbolic value ofsensuous phenomena. The question of phantasmic apparitions, and thedevelopment of astral bodies, was of course quite a differentmatter, and really not under his control. It was his solemn duty toappear in the corridor once a week, and to gibber from the largeoriel window on the first and third Wednesday in every month, and hedid not see how he could honourably escape from his obligations. Itis quite true that his life had been very evil, but, upon the otherhand, he was most conscientious in all things connected with thesupernatural. For the next three Saturdays, accordingly, hetraversed the corridor as usual between midnight and three o'clock, taking every possible precaution against being either heard or seen. He removed his boots, trod as lightly as possible on the old worm-eaten boards, wore a large black velvet cloak, and was careful touse the Rising Sun Lubricator for oiling his chains. I am bound toacknowledge that it was with a good deal of difficulty that hebrought himself to adopt this last mode of protection. However, onenight, while the family were at dinner, he slipped into Mr. Otis'sbedroom and carried off the bottle. He felt a little humiliated atfirst, but afterwards was sensible enough to see that there was agreat deal to be said for the invention, and, to a certain degree, it served his purpose. Still, in spite of everything, he was notleft unmolested. Strings were continually being stretched acrossthe corridor, over which he tripped in the dark, and on oneoccasion, while dressed for the part of 'Black Isaac, or theHuntsman of Hogley Woods, ' he met with a severe fall, throughtreading on a butter-slide, which the twins had constructed from theentrance of the Tapestry Chamber to the top of the oak staircase. This last insult so enraged him, that he resolved to make one finaleffort to assert his dignity and social position, and determined tovisit the insolent young Etonians the next night in his celebratedcharacter of 'Reckless Rupert, or the Headless Earl. '

He had not appeared in this disguise for more than seventy years; infact, not since he had so frightened pretty Lady Barbara Modish bymeans of it, that she suddenly broke off her engagement with thepresent Lord Canterville's grandfather, and ran away to Gretna Greenwith handsome Jack Castleton, declaring that nothing in the worldwould induce her to marry into a family that allowed such a horriblephantom to walk up and down the terrace at twilight. Poor Jack wasafterwards shot in a duel by Lord Canterville on Wandsworth Common, and Lady Barbara died of a broken heart at Tunbridge Wells beforethe year was out, so, in every way, it had been a great success. Itwas, however, an extremely difficult 'make-up, ' if I may use such atheatrical expression in connection with one of the greatestmysteries of the supernatural, or, to employ a more scientific term, the higher-natural world, and it took him fully three hours to makehis preparations. At last everything was ready, and he was verypleased with his appearance. The big leather riding-boots that wentwith the dress were just a little too large for him, and he couldonly find one of the two horse-pistols, but, on the whole, he wasquite satisfied, and at a quarter past one he glided out of thewainscoting and crept down the corridor. On reaching the roomoccupied by the twins, which I should mention was called the BlueBed Chamber, on account of the colour of its hangings, he found thedoor just ajar. Wishing to make an effective entrance, he flung itwide open, when a heavy jug of water fell right down on him, wettinghim to the skin, and just missing his left shoulder by a couple ofinches. At the same moment he heard stifled shrieks of laughterproceeding from the four-post bed. The shock to his nervous systemwas so great that he fled back to his room as hard as he could go, and the next day he was laid up with a severe cold. The only thingthat at all consoled him in the whole affair was the fact that hehad not brought his head with him, for, had he done so, theconsequences might have been very serious. 

He now gave up all hope of ever frightening this rude Americanfamily, and contented himself, as a rule, with creeping about thepassages in list slippers, with a thick red muffler round his throatfor fear of draughts, and a small arquebuse, in case he should beattacked by the twins. The final blow he received occurred on the19th of September. He had gone downstairs to the great entrance-hall, feeling sure that there, at any rate, he would be quiteunmolested, and was amusing himself by making satirical remarks onthe large Saroni photographs of the United States Minister and hiswife, which had now taken the place of the Canterville familypictures. He was simply but neatly clad in a long shroud, spottedwith churchyard mould, had tied up his jaw with a strip of yellowlinen, and carried a small lantern and a sexton's spade. In fact, he was dressed for the character of 'Jonas the Graveless, or theCorpse-Snatcher of Chertsey Barn, ' one of his most remarkableimpersonations, and one which the Cantervilles had every reason toremember, as it was the real origin of their quarrel with theirneighbour, Lord Rufford. It was about a quarter past two o'clock inthe morning, and, as far as he could ascertain, no one was stirring. As he was strolling towards the library, however, to see if therewere any traces left of the blood-stain, suddenly there leaped outon him from a dark corner two figures, who waved their arms wildlyabove their heads, and shrieked out 'BOO!' in his ear. 

Seized with a panic, which, under the circumstances, was onlynatural, he rushed for the staircase, but found Washington Otiswaiting for him there with the big garden-syringe; and being thushemmed in by his enemies on every side, and driven almost to bay, hevanished into the great iron stove, which, fortunately for him, wasnot lit, and had to make his way home through the flues andchimneys, arriving at his own room in a terrible state of dirt, disorder, and despair. 

After this he was not seen again on any nocturnal expedition. Thetwins lay in wait for him on several occasions, and strewed thepassages with nutshells every night to the great annoyance of theirparents and the servants, but it was of no avail. It was quiteevident that his feelings were so wounded that he would not appear. Mr. Otis consequently resumed his great work on the history of theDemocratic Party, on which he had been engaged for some years; Mrs. Otis organised a wonderful clam-bake, which amazed the whole county;the boys took to lacrosse, euchre, poker, and other Americannational games; and Virginia rode about the lanes on her pony, accompanied by the young Duke of Cheshire, who had come to spend thelast week of his holidays at Canterville Chase. It was generallyassumed that the ghost had gone away, and, in fact, Mr. Otis wrote aletter to that effect to Lord Canterville, who, in reply, expressedhis great pleasure at the news, and sent his best congratulations tothe Minister's worthy wife. 

The Otises, however, were deceived, for the ghost was still in thehouse, and though now almost an invalid, was by no means ready tolet matters rest, particularly as he heard that among the guests wasthe young Duke of Cheshire, whose grand-uncle, Lord Francis Stilton, had once bet a hundred guineas with Colonel Carbury that he wouldplay dice with the Canterville ghost, and was found the next morninglying on the floor of the card-room in such a helpless paralyticstate, that though he lived on to a great age, he was never able tosay anything again but 'Double Sixes. ' The story was well known atthe time, though, of course, out of respect to the feelings of thetwo noble families, every attempt was made to hush it up; and a fullaccount of all the circumstances connected with it will be found inthe third volume of Lord Tattle's Recollections of the Prince Regentand his Friends. The ghost, then, was naturally very anxious toshow that he had not lost his influence over the Stiltons, withwhom, indeed, he was distantly connected, his own first cousinhaving been married en secondes noces to the Sieur de Bulkeley, fromwhom, as every one knows, the Dukes of Cheshire are lineallydescended. Accordingly, he made arrangements for appearing toVirginia's little lover in his celebrated impersonation of 'TheVampire Monk, or, the Bloodless Benedictine, ' a performance sohorrible that when old Lady Startup saw it, which she did on onefatal New Year's Eve, in the year 1764, she went off into the mostpiercing shrieks, which culminated in violent apoplexy, and died inthree days, after disinheriting the Cantervilles, who were hernearest relations, and leaving all her money to her Londonapothecary. At the last moment, however, his terror of the twinsprevented his leaving his room, and the little Duke slept in peaceunder the great feathered canopy in the Royal Bedchamber, anddreamed of Virginia. 

CHAPTER V

A few days after this, Virginia and her curly-haired cavalier wentout riding on Brockley meadows, where she tore her habit so badly ingetting through a hedge, that, on her return home, she made up hermind to go up by the back staircase so as not to be seen. As shewas running past the Tapestry Chamber, the door of which happened tobe open, she fancied she saw some one inside, and thinking it washer mother's maid, who sometimes used to bring her work there, looked in to ask her to mend her habit. To her immense surprise, however, it was the Canterville Ghost himself! He was sitting bythe window, watching the ruined gold of the yellowing trees flythrough the air, and the red leaves dancing madly down the longavenue. His head was leaning on his hand, and his whole attitudewas one of extreme depression. Indeed, so forlorn, and so much outof repair did he look, that little Virginia, whose first idea hadbeen to run away and lock herself in her room, was filled with pity, and determined to try and comfort him. So light was her footfall, and so deep his melancholy, that he was not aware of her presencetill she spoke to him. 

'I am so sorry for you, ' she said, 'but my brothers are going backto Eton to-morrow, and then, if you behave yourself, no one willannoy you. '

'It is absurd asking me to behave myself, ' he answered, lookinground in astonishment at the pretty little girl who had ventured toaddress him, 'quite absurd. I must rattle my chains, and groanthrough keyholes, and walk about at night, if that is what you mean. It is my only reason for existing. '

'It is no reason at all for existing, and you know you have beenvery wicked. Mrs. Umney told us, the first day we arrived here, that you had killed your wife. '

'Well, I quite admit it, ' said the Ghost petulantly, 'but it was apurely family matter, and concerned no one else. '

'It is very wrong to kill any one, ' said Virginia, who at times hada sweet Puritan gravity, caught from some old New England ancestor. 

'Oh, I hate the cheap severity of abstract ethics! My wife was veryplain, never had my ruffs properly starched, and knew nothing aboutcookery. Why, there was a buck I had shot in Hogley Woods, amagnificent pricket, and do you know how she had it sent up totable? However, it is no matter now, for it is all over, and Idon't think it was very nice of her brothers to starve me to death, though I did kill her. '

'Starve you to death? Oh, Mr. Ghost, I mean Sir Simon, are youhungry? I have a sandwich in my case. Would you like it?'

'No, thank you, I never eat anything now; but it is very kind ofyou, all the same, and you are much nicer than the rest of yourhorrid, rude, vulgar, dishonest family. '

'Stop!' cried Virginia, stamping her foot, 'it is you who are rude, and horrid, and vulgar, and as for dishonesty, you know you stolethe paints out of my box to try and furbish up that ridiculousblood-stain in the library. First you took all my reds, includingthe vermilion, and I couldn't do any more sunsets, then you took theemerald-green and the chrome-yellow, and finally I had nothing leftbut indigo and Chinese white, and could only do moonlight scenes, which are always depressing to look at, and not at all easy topaint. I never told on you, though I was very much annoyed, and itwas most ridiculous, the whole thing; for who ever heard of emerald-green blood?'

'Well, really, ' said the Ghost, rather meekly, 'what was I to do?It is a very difficult thing to get real blood nowadays, and, asyour brother began it all with his Paragon Detergent, I certainlysaw no reason why I should not have your paints. As for colour, that is always a matter of taste: the Cantervilles have blue blood, for instance, the very bluest in England; but I know you Americansdon't care for things of this kind. '

'You know nothing about it, and the best thing you can do is toemigrate and improve your mind. My father will be only too happy togive you a free passage, and though there is a heavy duty on spiritsof every kind, there will be no difficulty about the Custom House, as the officers are all Democrats. Once in New York, you are sureto be a great success. I know lots of people there who would give ahundred thousand dollars to have a grandfather, and much more thanthat to have a family Ghost. '

'I don't think I should like America. '

'I suppose because we have no ruins and no curiosities, ' saidVirginia satirically. 

'No ruins! no curiosities!' answered the Ghost; 'you have your navyand your manners. '

'Good evening; I will go and ask papa to get the twins an extraweek's holiday. '

'Please don't go, Miss Virginia, ' he cried; 'I am so lonely and sounhappy, and I really don't know what to do. I want to go to sleepand I cannot. '

'That's quite absurd! You have merely to go to bed and blow out thecandle. It is very difficult sometimes to keep awake, especially atchurch, but there is no difficulty at all about sleeping. Why, evenbabies know how to do that, and they are not very clever. '

'I have not slept for three hundred years, ' he said sadly, andVirginia's beautiful blue eyes opened in wonder; 'for three hundredyears I have not slept, and I am so tired. '

Virginia grew quite grave, and her little lips trembled like rose-leaves. She came towards him, and kneeling down at his side, lookedup into his old withered face. 

'Poor, poor Ghost, ' she murmured; 'have you no place where you cansleep?'

'Far away beyond the pine-woods, ' he answered, in a low dreamyvoice, 'there is a little garden. There the grass grows long anddeep, there are the great white stars of the hemlock flower, therethe nightingale sings all night long. All night long he sings, andthe cold, crystal moon looks down, and the yew-tree spreads out itsgiant arms over the sleepers. '

Virginia's eyes grew dim with tears, and she hid her face in herhands. 

'You mean the Garden of Death, ' she whispered. 

'Yes, Death. Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brownearth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen tosilence. To have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace. You can help me. You can open forme the portals of Death's house, for Love is always with you, andLove is stronger than Death is. '

Virginia trembled, a cold shudder ran through her, and for a fewmoments there was silence. She felt as if she was in a terribledream. 

Then the Ghost spoke again, and his voice sounded like the sighingof the wind. 

'Have you ever read the old prophecy on the library window?'

'Oh, often, ' cried the little girl, looking up; 'I know it quitewell. It is painted in curious black letters, and it is difficultto read. There are only six lines:

When a golden girl can winPrayer from out the lips of sin, When the barren almond bears, And a little child gives away its tears, Then shall all the house be stillAnd peace come to Canterville. 

But I don't know what they mean. '

'They mean, ' he said sadly, 'that you must weep for me for my sins, because I have no tears, and pray with me for my soul, because Ihave no faith, and then, if you have always been sweet, and good, and gentle, the Angel of Death will have mercy on me. You will seefearful shapes in darkness, and wicked voices will whisper in yourear, but they will not harm you, for against the purity of a littlechild the powers of Hell cannot prevail. '

Virginia made no answer, and the Ghost wrung his hands in wilddespair as he looked down at her bowed golden head. Suddenly shestood up, very pale, and with a strange light in her eyes. 'I amnot afraid, ' she said firmly, 'and I will ask the Angel to havemercy on you. '

He rose from his seat with a faint cry of joy, and taking her handbent over it with old-fashioned grace and kissed it. His fingerswere as cold as ice, and his lips burned like fire, but Virginia didnot falter, as he led her across the dusky room. On the faded greentapestry were broidered little huntsmen. They blew their tasselledhorns and with their tiny hands waved to her to go back. 'Go back!little Virginia, ' they cried, 'go back!' but the Ghost clutched herhand more tightly, and she shut her eyes against them. Horribleanimals with lizard tails, and goggle eyes, blinked at her from thecarven chimney-piece, and murmured 'Beware! little Virginia, beware!we may never see you again, ' but the Ghost glided on more swiftly, and Virginia did not listen. When they reached the end of the roomhe stopped, and muttered some words she could not understand. Sheopened her eyes, and saw the wall slowly fading away like a mist, and a great black cavern in front of her. A bitter cold wind sweptround them, and she felt something pulling at her dress. 'Quick, quick, ' cried the Ghost, 'or it will be too late, ' and, in a moment, the wainscoting had closed behind them, and the Tapestry Chamber wasempty. 

CHAPTER VI

About ten minutes later, the bell rang for tea, and, as Virginia didnot come down, Mrs. Otis sent up one of the footmen to tell her. After a little time he returned and said that he could not find MissVirginia anywhere. As she was in the habit of going out to thegarden every evening to get flowers for the dinner-table, Mrs. Otiswas not at all alarmed at first, but when six o'clock struck, andVirginia did not appear, she became really agitated, and sent theboys out to look for her, while she herself and Mr. Otis searchedevery room in the house. At half-past six the boys came back andsaid that they could find no trace of their sister anywhere. Theywere all now in the greatest state of excitement, and did not knowwhat to do, when Mr. Otis suddenly remembered that, some few daysbefore, he had given a band of gypsies permission to camp in thepark. He accordingly at once set off for Blackfell Hollow, where heknew they were, accompanied by his eldest son and two of the farm-servants. The little Duke of Cheshire, who was perfectly franticwith anxiety, begged hard to be allowed to go too, but Mr. Otiswould not allow him, as he was afraid there might be a scuffle. Onarriving at the spot, however, he found that the gypsies had gone, and it was evident that their departure had been rather sudden, asthe fire was still burning, and some plates were lying on the grass. Having sent off Washington and the two men to scour the district, heran home, and despatched telegrams to all the police inspectors inthe county, telling them to look out for a little girl who had beenkidnapped by tramps or gypsies. He then ordered his horse to bebrought round, and, after insisting on his wife and the three boyssitting down to dinner, rode off down the Ascot Road with a groom. He had hardly, however, gone a couple of miles when he heardsomebody galloping after him, and, looking round, saw the littleDuke coming up on his pony, with his face very flushed and no hat. 'I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Otis, ' gasped out the boy, 'but I can't eatany dinner as long as Virginia is lost. Please, don't be angry withme; if you had let us be engaged last year, there would never havebeen all this trouble. You won't send me back, will you? I can'tgo! I won't go!'

The Minister could not help smiling at the handsome youngscapegrace, and was a good deal touched at his devotion to Virginia, so leaning down from his horse, he patted him kindly on theshoulders, and said, 'Well, Cecil, if you won't go back I supposeyou must come with me, but I must get you a hat at Ascot. '

'Oh, bother my hat! I want Virginia!' cried the little Duke, laughing, and they galloped on to the railway station. There Mr. Otis inquired of the station-master if any one answering thedescription of Virginia had been seen on the platform, but could getno news of her. The station-master, however, wired up and down theline, and assured him that a strict watch would be kept for her, and, after having bought a hat for the little Duke from a linen-draper, who was just putting up his shutters, Mr. Otis rode off toBexley, a village about four miles away, which he was told was awell-known haunt of the gypsies, as there was a large common next toit. Here they roused up the rural policeman, but could get noinformation from him, and, after riding all over the common, theyturned their horses' heads homewards, and reached the Chase abouteleven o'clock, dead-tired and almost heart-broken. They foundWashington and the twins waiting for them at the gate-house withlanterns, as the avenue was very dark. Not the slightest trace ofVirginia had been discovered. The gypsies had been caught onBrockley meadows, but she was not with them, and they had explainedtheir sudden departure by saying that they had mistaken the date ofChorton Fair, and had gone off in a hurry for fear they might belate. Indeed, they had been quite distressed at hearing ofVirginia's disappearance, as they were very grateful to Mr. Otis forhaving allowed them to camp in his park, and four of their numberhad stayed behind to help in the search. The carp-pond had beendragged, and the whole Chase thoroughly gone over, but without anyresult. It was evident that, for that night at any rate, Virginiawas lost to them; and it was in a state of the deepest depressionthat Mr Otis and the boys walked up to the house, the groomfollowing behind with the two horses and the pony. In the hall theyfound a group of frightened servants, and lying on a sofa in thelibrary was poor Mrs. Otis, almost out of her mind with terror andanxiety, and having her forehead bathed with eau-de-cologne by theold housekeeper. Mr. Otis at once insisted on her having somethingto eat, and ordered up supper for the whole party. It was amelancholy meal, as hardly any one spoke, and even the twins wereawestruck and subdued, as they were very fond of their sister. Whenthey had finished, Mr. Otis, in spite of the entreaties of thelittle Duke, ordered them all to bed, saying that nothing more couldbe done that night, and that he would telegraph in the morning toScotland Yard for some detectives to be sent down immediately. Justas they were passing out of the dining-room, midnight began to boomfrom the clock tower, and when the last stroke sounded they heard acrash and a sudden shrill cry; a dreadful peal of thunder shook thehouse, a strain of unearthly music floated through the air, a panelat the top of the staircase flew back with a loud noise, and out onthe landing, looking very pale and white, with a little casket inher hand, stepped Virginia. In a moment they had all rushed up toher. Mrs. Otis clasped her passionately in her arms, the Dukesmothered her with violent kisses, and the twins executed a wildwar-dance round the group. 

'Good heavens! child, where have you been?' said Mr. Otis, ratherangrily, thinking that she had been playing some foolish trick onthem. 'Cecil and I have been riding all over the country lookingfor you, and your mother has been frightened to death. You mustnever play these practical jokes any more. '

'Except on the Ghost! except on the Ghost!' shrieked the twins, asthey capered about. 

'My own darling, thank God you are found; you must never leave myside again, ' murmured Mrs. Otis, as she kissed the trembling child, and smoothed the tangled gold of her hair. 

'Papa, ' said Virginia quietly, 'I have been with the Ghost. He isdead, and you must come and see him. He had been very wicked, buthe was really sorry for all that he had done, and he gave me thisbox of beautiful jewels before he died. '

The whole family gazed at her in mute amazement, but she was quitegrave and serious; and, turning round, she led them through theopening in the wainscoting down a narrow secret corridor, Washingtonfollowing with a lighted candle, which he had caught up from thetable. Finally, they came to a great oak door, studded with rustynails. When Virginia touched it, it swung back on its heavy hinges, and they found themselves in a little low room, with a vaultedceiling, and one tiny grated window. Imbedded in the wall was ahuge iron ring, and chained to it was a gaunt skeleton, that wasstretched out at full length on the stone floor, and seemed to betrying to grasp with its long fleshless fingers an old-fashionedtrencher and ewer, that were placed just out of its reach. The jughad evidently been once filled with water, as it was covered insidewith green mould. There was nothing on the trencher but a pile ofdust. Virginia knelt down beside the skeleton, and, folding herlittle hands together, began to pray silently, while the rest of theparty looked on in wonder at the terrible tragedy whose secret wasnow disclosed to them. 

'Hallo!' suddenly exclaimed one of the twins, who had been lookingout of the window to try and discover in what wing of the house theroom was situated. 'Hallo! the old withered almond-tree hasblossomed. I can see the flowers quite plainly in the moonlight. '

'God has forgiven him, ' said Virginia gravely, as she rose to herfeet, and a beautiful light seemed to illumine her face. 

'What an angel you are!' cried the young Duke, and he put his armround her neck and kissed her. 

CHAPTER VII

Four days after these curious incidents a funeral started fromCanterville Chase at about eleven o'clock at night. The hearse wasdrawn by eight black horses, each of which carried on its head agreat tuft of nodding ostrich-plumes, and the leaden coffin wascovered by a rich purple pall, on which was embroidered in gold theCanterville coat-of-arms. By the side of the hearse and the coacheswalked the servants with lighted torches, and the whole processionwas wonderfully impressive. Lord Canterville was the chief mourner, having come up specially from Wales to attend the funeral, and satin the first carriage along with little Virginia. Then came theUnited States Minister and his wife, then Washington and the threeboys, and in the last carriage was Mrs. Umney. It was generallyfelt that, as she had been frightened by the ghost for more thanfifty years of her life, she had a right to see the last of him. Adeep grave had been dug in the corner of the churchyard, just underthe old yew-tree, and the service was read in the most impressivemanner by the Rev. Augustus Dampier. When the ceremony was over, the servants, according to an old custom observed in the Cantervillefamily, extinguished their torches, and, as the coffin was beinglowered into the grave, Virginia stepped forward and laid on it alarge cross made of white and pink almond-blossoms. As she did so, the moon came out from behind a cloud, and flooded with its silentsilver the little churchyard, and from a distant copse a nightingalebegan to sing. She thought of the ghost's description of the Gardenof Death, her eyes became dim with tears, and she hardly spoke aword during the drive home. 

The next morning, before Lord Canterville went up to town, Mr. Otishad an interview with him on the subject of the jewels the ghost hadgiven to Virginia. They were perfectly magnificent, especially acertain ruby necklace with old Venetian setting, which was really asuperb specimen of sixteenth-century work, and their value was sogreat that Mr. Otis felt considerable scruples about allowing hisdaughter to accept them. 

'My lord, ' he said, 'I know that in this country mortmain is held toapply to trinkets as well as to land, and it is quite clear to methat these jewels are, or should be, heirlooms in your family. Imust beg you, accordingly, to take them to London with you, and toregard them simply as a portion of your property which has beenrestored to you under certain strange conditions. As for mydaughter, she is merely a child, and has as yet, I am glad to say, but little interest in such appurtenances of idle luxury. I am alsoinformed by Mrs. Otis, who, I may say, is no mean authority uponArt--having had the privilege of spending several winters in Bostonwhen she was a girl--that these gems are of great monetary worth, and if offered for sale would fetch a tall price. Under thesecircumstances, Lord Canterville, I feel sure that you will recognisehow impossible it would be for me to allow them to remain in thepossession of any member of my family; and, indeed, all such vaingauds and toys, however suitable or necessary to the dignity of theBritish aristocracy, would be completely out of place among thosewho have been brought up on the severe, and I believe immortal, principles of republican simplicity. Perhaps I should mention thatVirginia is very anxious that you should allow her to retain the boxas a memento of your unfortunate but misguided ancestor. As it isextremely old, and consequently a good deal out of repair, you mayperhaps think fit to comply with her request. For my own part, Iconfess I am a good deal surprised to find a child of mineexpressing sympathy with mediaevalism in any form, and can onlyaccount for it by the fact that Virginia was born in one of yourLondon suburbs shortly after Mrs. Otis had returned from a trip toAthens. '

Lord Canterville listened very gravely to the worthy Minister'sspeech, pulling his grey moustache now and then to hide aninvoluntary smile, and when Mr. Otis had ended, he shook himcordially by the hand, and said, 'My dear sir, your charming littledaughter rendered my unlucky ancestor, Sir Simon, a very importantservice, and I and my family are much indebted to her for hermarvellous courage and pluck. The jewels are clearly hers, and, egad, I believe that if I were heartless enough to take them fromher, the wicked old fellow would be out of his grave in a fortnight, leading me the devil of a life. As for their being heirlooms, nothing is an heirloom that is not so mentioned in a will or legaldocument, and the existence of these jewels has been quite unknown. I assure you I have no more claim on them than your butler, and whenMiss Virginia grows up I daresay she will be pleased to have prettythings to wear. Besides, you forget, Mr. Otis, that you took thefurniture and the ghost at a valuation, and anything that belongedto the ghost passed at once into your possession, as, whateveractivity Sir Simon may have shown in the corridor at night, in pointof law he was really dead, and you acquired his property bypurchase. '

Mr. Otis was a good deal distressed at Lord Canterville's refusal, and begged him to reconsider his decision, but the good-natured peerwas quite firm, and finally induced the Minister to allow hisdaughter to retain the present the ghost had given her, and when, inthe spring of 1890, the young Duchess of Cheshire was presented atthe Queen's first drawing-room on the occasion of her marriage, herjewels were the universal theme of admiration. For Virginiareceived the coronet, which is the reward of all good littleAmerican girls, and was married to her boy-lover as soon as he cameof age. They were both so charming, and they loved each other somuch, that every one was delighted at the match, except the oldMarchioness of Dumbleton, who had tried to catch the Duke for one ofher seven unmarried daughters, and had given no less than threeexpensive dinner-parties for that purpose, and, strange to say, Mr. Otis himself. Mr. Otis was extremely fond of the young Dukepersonally, but, theoretically, he objected to titles, and, to usehis own words, 'was not without apprehension lest, amid theenervating influences of a pleasure-loving aristocracy, the trueprinciples of republican simplicity should be forgotten. ' Hisobjections, however, were completely overruled, and I believe thatwhen he walked up the aisle of St. George's, Hanover Square, withhis daughter leaning on his arm, there was not a prouder man in thewhole length and breadth of England. 

The Duke and Duchess, after the honeymoon was over, went down toCanterville Chase, and on the day after their arrival they walkedover in the afternoon to the lonely churchyard by the pine-woods. There had been a great deal of difficulty at first about theinscription on Sir Simon's tombstone, but finally it had beendecided to engrave on it simply the initials of the old gentleman'sname, and the verse from the library window. The Duchess hadbrought with her some lovely roses, which she strewed upon thegrave, and after they had stood by it for some time they strolledinto the ruined chancel of the old abbey. There the Duchess satdown on a fallen pillar, while her husband lay at her feet smoking acigarette and looking up at her beautiful eyes. Suddenly he threwhis cigarette away, took hold of her hand, and said to her, 'Virginia, a wife should have no secrets from her husband. '

'Dear Cecil! I have no secrets from you. '

'Yes, you have, ' he answered, smiling, 'you have never told me whathappened to you when you were locked up with the ghost. '

'I have never told any one, Cecil, ' said Virginia gravely. 

'I know that, but you might tell me. '

'Please don't ask me, Cecil, I cannot tell you. Poor Sir Simon! Iowe him a great deal. Yes, don't laugh, Cecil, I really do. Hemade me see what Life is, and what Death signifies, and why Love isstronger than both. '

The Duke rose and kissed his wife lovingly. 

'You can have your secret as long as I have your heart, ' hemurmured. 

'You have always had that, Cecil. '

'And you will tell our children some day, won't you?'

Virginia blushed. 

THE SPHINX WITHOUT A SECRET

One afternoon I was sitting outside the Cafe de la Paix, watchingthe splendour and shabbiness of Parisian life, and wondering over myvermouth at the strange panorama of pride and poverty that waspassing before me, when I heard some one call my name. I turnedround, and saw Lord Murchison. We had not met since we had been atcollege together, nearly ten years before, so I was delighted tocome across him again, and we shook hands warmly. At Oxford we hadbeen great friends. I had liked him immensely, he was so handsome, so high-spirited, and so honourable. We used to say of him that hewould be the best of fellows, if he did not always speak the truth, but I think we really admired him all the more for his frankness. Ifound him a good deal changed. He looked anxious and puzzled, andseemed to be in doubt about something. I felt it could not bemodern scepticism, for Murchison was the stoutest of Tories, andbelieved in the Pentateuch as firmly as he believed in the House ofPeers; so I concluded that it was a woman, and asked him if he wasmarried yet. 

'I don't understand women well enough, ' he answered. 

'My dear Gerald, ' I said, 'women are meant to be loved, not to beunderstood. '

'I cannot love where I cannot trust, ' he replied. 

'I believe you have a mystery in your life, Gerald, ' I exclaimed;'tell me about it. '

'Let us go for a drive, ' he answered, 'it is too crowded here. No, not a yellow carriage, any other colour--there, that dark green onewill do'; and in a few moments we were trotting down the boulevardin the direction of the Madeleine. 

'Where shall we go to?' I said. 

'Oh, anywhere you like!' he answered--'to the restaurant in theBois; we will dine there, and you shall tell me all about yourself. '

'I want to hear about you first, ' I said. 'Tell me your mystery. '

He took from his pocket a little silver-clasped morocco case, andhanded it to me. I opened it. Inside there was the photograph of awoman. She was tall and slight, and strangely picturesque with herlarge vague eyes and loosened hair. She looked like a clairvoyante, and was wrapped in rich furs. 

'What do you think of that face?' he said; 'is it truthful?'

I examined it carefully. It seemed to me the face of some one whohad a secret, but whether that secret was good or evil I could notsay. Its beauty was a beauty moulded out of many mysteries--thebeauty, in fact, which is psychological, not plastic--and the faintsmile that just played across the lips was far too subtle to bereally sweet. 

'Well, ' he cried impatiently, 'what do you say?'

'She is the Gioconda in sables, ' I answered. 'Let me know all abouther. '

'Not now, ' he said; 'after dinner, ' and began to talk of otherthings. 

When the waiter brought us our coffee and cigarettes I remindedGerald of his promise. He rose from his seat, walked two or threetimes up and down the room, and, sinking into an armchair, told methe following story:-

'One evening, ' he said, 'I was walking down Bond Street about fiveo'clock. There was a terrific crush of carriages, and the trafficwas almost stopped. Close to the pavement was standing a littleyellow brougham, which, for some reason or other, attracted myattention. As I passed by there looked out from it the face Ishowed you this afternoon. It fascinated me immediately. All thatnight I kept thinking of it, and all the next day. I wandered upand down that wretched Row, peering into every carriage, and waitingfor the yellow brougham; but I could not find ma belle inconnue, andat last I began to think she was merely a dream. About a weekafterwards I was dining with Madame de Rastail. Dinner was foreight o'clock; but at half-past eight we were still waiting in thedrawing-room. Finally the servant threw open the door, andannounced Lady Alroy. It was the woman I had been looking for. Shecame in very slowly, looking like a moonbeam in grey lace, and, tomy intense delight, I was asked to take her in to dinner. After wehad sat down, I remarked quite innocently, "I think I caught sightof you in Bond Street some time ago, Lady Alroy. " She grew verypale, and said to me in a low voice, "Pray do not talk so loud; youmay be overheard. " I felt miserable at having made such a badbeginning, and plunged recklessly into the subject of the Frenchplays. She spoke very little, always in the same low musical voice, and seemed as if she was afraid of some one listening. I fellpassionately, stupidly in love, and the indefinable atmosphere ofmystery that surrounded her excited my most ardent curiosity. Whenshe was going away, which she did very soon after dinner, I askedher if I might call and see her. She hesitated for a moment, glanced round to see if any one was near us, and then said, "Yes;to-morrow at a quarter to five. " I begged Madame de Rastail to tellme about her; but all that I could learn was that she was a widowwith a beautiful house in Park Lane, and as some scientific borebegan a dissertation on widows, as exemplifying the survival of thematrimonially fittest, I left and went home. 

'The next day I arrived at Park Lane punctual to the moment, but wastold by the butler that Lady Alroy had just gone out. I went downto the club quite unhappy and very much puzzled, and after longconsideration wrote her a letter, asking if I might be allowed totry my chance some other afternoon. I had no answer for severaldays, but at last I got a little note saying she would be at home onSunday at four and with this extraordinary postscript: "Please donot write to me here again; I will explain when I see you. " OnSunday she received me, and was perfectly charming; but when I wasgoing away she begged of me, if I ever had occasion to write to heragain, to address my letter to "Mrs. Knox, care of Whittaker'sLibrary, Green Street. " "There are reasons, " she said, "why Icannot receive letters in my own house. "

'All through the season I saw a great deal of her, and theatmosphere of mystery never left her. Sometimes I thought that shewas in the power of some man, but she looked so unapproachable, thatI could not believe it. It was really very difficult for me to cometo any conclusion, for she was like one of those strange crystalsthat one sees in museums, which are at one moment clear, and atanother clouded. At last I determined to ask her to be my wife: Iwas sick and tired of the incessant secrecy that she imposed on allmy visits, and on the few letters I sent her. I wrote to her at thelibrary to ask her if she could see me the following Monday at six. She answered yes, and I was in the seventh heaven of delight. I wasinfatuated with her: in spite of the mystery, I thought then--inconsequence of it, I see now. No; it was the woman herself I loved. The mystery troubled me, maddened me. Why did chance put me in itstrack?'

'You discovered it, then?' I cried. 

'I fear so, ' he answered. 'You can judge for yourself. '

'When Monday came round I went to lunch with my uncle, and aboutfour o'clock found myself in the Marylebone Road. My uncle, youknow, lives in Regent's Park. I wanted to get to Piccadilly, andtook a short cut through a lot of shabby little streets. Suddenly Isaw in front of me Lady Alroy, deeply veiled and walking very fast. On coming to the last house in the street, she went up the steps, took out a latch-key, and let herself in. "Here is the mystery, " Isaid to myself; and I hurried on and examined the house. It seemeda sort of place for letting lodgings. On the doorstep lay herhandkerchief, which she had dropped. I picked it up and put it inmy pocket. Then I began to consider what I should do. I came tothe conclusion that I had no right to spy on her, and I drove downto the club. At six I called to see her. She was lying on a sofa, in a tea-gown of silver tissue looped up by some strange moonstonesthat she always wore. She was looking quite lovely. "I am so gladto see you, " she said; "I have not been out all day. " I stared ather in amazement, and pulling the handkerchief out of my pocket, handed it to her. "You dropped this in Cumnor Street thisafternoon, Lady Alroy, " I said very calmly. She looked at me interror but made no attempt to take the handkerchief. "What were youdoing there?" I asked. "What right have you to question me?" sheanswered. "The right of a man who loves you, " I replied; "I camehere to ask you to be my wife. " She hid her face in her hands, andburst into floods of tears. "You must tell me, " I continued. Shestood up, and, looking me straight in the face, said, "LordMurchison, there is nothing to tell you. "--"You went to meet someone, " I cried; "this is your mystery. " She grew dreadfully white, and said, "I went to meet no one. "--"Can't you tell the truth?" Iexclaimed. "I have told it, " she replied. I was mad, frantic; Idon't know what I said, but I said terrible things to her. FinallyI rushed out of the house. She wrote me a letter the next day; Isent it back unopened, and started for Norway with Alan Colville. After a month I came back, and the first thing I saw in the MorningPost was the death of Lady Alroy. She had caught a chill at theOpera, and had died in five days of congestion of the lungs. I shutmyself up and saw no one. I had loved her so much, I had loved herso madly. Good God! how I had loved that woman!'

'You went to the street, to the house in it?' I said. 

'Yes, ' he answered. 

'One day I went to Cumnor Street. I could not help it; I wastortured with doubt. I knocked at the door, and a respectable-looking woman opened it to me. I asked her if she had any rooms tolet. "Well, sir, " she replied, "the drawing-rooms are supposed tobe let; but I have not seen the lady for three months, and as rentis owing on them, you can have them. "--"Is this the lady?" I said, showing the photograph. "That's her, sure enough, " she exclaimed;"and when is she coming back, sir?"--"The lady is dead, " I replied. "Oh sir, I hope not!" said the woman; "she was my best lodger. Shepaid me three guineas a week merely to sit in my drawing-rooms nowand then. " "She met some one here?" I said; but the woman assuredme that it was not so, that she always came alone, and saw no one. "What on earth did she do here?" I cried. "She simply sat in thedrawing-room, sir, reading books, and sometimes had tea, " the womananswered. I did not know what to say, so I gave her a sovereign andwent away. Now, what do you think it all meant? You don't believethe woman was telling the truth?'

'I do. '

'Then why did Lady Alroy go there?'

'My dear Gerald, ' I answered, 'Lady Alroy was simply a woman with amania for mystery. She took these rooms for the pleasure of goingthere with her veil down, and imagining she was a heroine. She hada passion for secrecy, but she herself was merely a Sphinx without asecret. '

'Do you really think so?'

'I am sure of it, ' I replied. 

He took out the morocco case, opened it, and looked at thephotograph. 'I wonder?' he said at last. 

THE MODEL MILLIONAIRE

Unless one is wealthy there is no use in being a charming fellow. Romance is the privilege of the rich, not the profession of theunemployed. The poor should be practical and prosaic. It is betterto have a permanent income than to be fascinating. These are thegreat truths of modern life which Hughie Erskine never realised. Poor Hughie! Intellectually, we must admit, he was not of muchimportance. He never said a brilliant or even an ill-natured thingin his life. But then he was wonderfully good-looking, with hiscrisp brown hair, his clear-cut profile, and his grey eyes. He wasas popular with men as he was with women and he had everyaccomplishment except that of making money. His father hadbequeathed him his cavalry sword and a History of the Peninsular Warin fifteen volumes. Hughie hung the first over his looking-glass, put the second on a shelf between Ruff's Guide and Bailey'sMagazine, and lived on two hundred a year that an old aunt allowedhim. He had tried everything. He had gone on the Stock Exchangefor six months; but what was a butterfly to do among bulls andbears? He had been a tea-merchant for a little longer, but had soontired of pekoe and souchong. Then he had tried selling dry sherry. That did not answer; the sherry was a little too dry. Ultimately hebecame nothing, a delightful, ineffectual young man with a perfectprofile and no profession. 

To make matters worse, he was in love. The girl he loved was LauraMerton, the daughter of a retired Colonel who had lost his temperand his digestion in India, and had never found either of themagain. Laura adored him, and he was ready to kiss her shoe-strings. They were the handsomest couple in London, and had not a penny-piecebetween them. The Colonel was very fond of Hughie, but would nothear of any engagement. 

'Come to me, my boy, when you have got ten thousand pounds of yourown, and we will see about it, ' he used to say; and Hughie lookedvery glum in those days, and had to go to Laura for consolation. 

One morning, as he was on his way to Holland Park, where the Mertonslived, he dropped in to see a great friend of his, Alan Trevor. Trevor was a painter. Indeed, few people escape that nowadays. Buthe was also an artist, and artists are rather rare. Personally hewas a strange rough fellow, with a freckled face and a red raggedbeard. However, when he took up the brush he was a real master, andhis pictures were eagerly sought after. He had been very muchattracted by Hughie at first, it must be acknowledged, entirely onaccount of his personal charm. 'The only people a painter shouldknow, ' he used to say, 'are people who are bete and beautiful, people who are an artistic pleasure to look at and an intellectualrepose to talk to. Men who are dandies and women who are darlingsrule the world, at least they should do so. ' However, after he gotto know Hughie better, he liked him quite as much for his bright, buoyant spirits and his generous, reckless nature, and had given himthe permanent entree to his studio. 

When Hughie came in he found Trevor putting the finishing touches toa wonderful life-size picture of a beggar-man. The beggar himselfwas standing on a raised platform in a corner of the studio. He wasa wizened old man, with a face like wrinkled parchment, and a mostpiteous expression. Over his shoulders was flung a coarse browncloak, all tears and tatters; his thick boots were patched andcobbled, and with one hand he leant on a rough stick, while with theother he held out his battered hat for alms. 

'What an amazing model!' whispered Hughie, as he shook hands withhis friend. 

'An amazing model?' shouted Trevor at the top of his voice; 'Ishould think so! Such beggars as he are not to be met with everyday. A trouvaille, mon cher; a living Velasquez! My stars! what anetching Rembrandt would have made of him!'

'Poor old chap!' said Hughie, 'how miserable he looks! But Isuppose, to you painters, his face is his fortune?'

'Certainly, ' replied Trevor, 'you don't want a beggar to look happy, do you?'

'How much does a model get for sitting?' asked Hughie, as he foundhimself a comfortable seat on a divan. 

'A shilling an hour. '

'And how much do you get for your picture, Alan?'

'Oh, for this I get two thousand!'

'Pounds?'

'Guineas. Painters, poets, and physicians always get guineas. '

'Well, I think the model should have a percentage, ' cried Hughie, laughing; 'they work quite as hard as you do. '

'Nonsense, nonsense! Why, look at the trouble of laying on thepaint alone, and standing all day long at one's easel! It's allvery well, Hughie, for you to talk, but I assure you that there aremoments when Art almost attains to the dignity of manual labour. But you mustn't chatter; I'm very busy. Smoke a cigarette, and keepquiet. '

After some time the servant came in, and told Trevor that theframemaker wanted to speak to him. 

'Don't run away, Hughie, ' he said, as he went out, 'I will be backin a moment. '

The old beggar-man took advantage of Trevor's absence to rest for amoment on a wooden bench that was behind him. He looked so forlornand wretched that Hughie could not help pitying him, and felt in hispockets to see what money he had. All he could find was a sovereignand some coppers. 'Poor old fellow, ' he thought to himself, 'hewants it more than I do, but it means no hansoms for a fortnight';and he walked across the studio and slipped the sovereign into thebeggar's hand. 

The old man started, and a faint smile flitted across his witheredlips. 'Thank you, sir, ' he said, 'thank you. '

Then Trevor arrived, and Hughie took his leave, blushing a little atwhat he had done. He spent the day with Laura, got a charmingscolding for his extravagance, and had to walk home. 

That night he strolled into the Palette Club about eleven o'clock, and found Trevor sitting by himself in the smoking-room drinkinghock and seltzer. 

'Well, Alan, did you get the picture finished all right?' he said, as he lit his cigarette. 

'Finished and framed, my boy!' answered Trevor; 'and, by the bye, you have made a conquest. That old model you saw is quite devotedto you. I had to tell him all about you--who you are, where youlive, what your income is, what prospects you have--'

'My dear Alan, ' cried Hughie, 'I shall probably find him waiting forme when I go home. But of course you are only joking. Poor oldwretch! I wish I could do something for him. I think it isdreadful that any one should be so miserable. I have got heaps ofold clothes at home--do you think he would care for any of them?Why, his rags were falling to bits. '

'But he looks splendid in them, ' said Trevor. 'I wouldn't paint himin a frock coat for anything. What you call rags I call romance. What seems poverty to you is picturesqueness to me. However, I'lltell him of your offer. '

'Alan, ' said Hughie seriously, 'you painters are a heartless lot. '

'An artist's heart is his head, ' replied Trevor; 'and besides, ourbusiness is to realise the world as we see it, not to reform it aswe know it. A chacun son metier. And now tell me how Laura is. The old model was quite interested in her. '

'You don't mean to say you talked to him about her?' said Hughie. 

'Certainly I did. He knows all about the relentless colonel, thelovely Laura, and the 10, 000 pounds. '

'You told that old beggar all my private affairs?' cried Hughie, looking very red and angry. 

'My dear boy, ' said Trevor, smiling, 'that old beggar, as you callhim, is one of the richest men in Europe. He could buy all Londonto-morrow without overdrawing his account. He has a house in everycapital, dines off gold plate, and can prevent Russia going to warwhen he chooses. '

'What on earth do you mean?' exclaimed Hughie. 

'What I say, ' said Trevor. 'The old man you saw to-day in thestudio was Baron Hausberg. He is a great friend of mine, buys allmy pictures and that sort of thing, and gave me a commission a monthago to paint him as a beggar. Que voulez-vous? La fantaisie d'unmillionnaire! And I must say he made a magnificent figure in hisrags, or perhaps I should say in my rags; they are an old suit I gotin Spain. '

'Baron Hausberg!' cried Hughie. 'Good heavens! I gave him asovereign!' and he sank into an armchair the picture of dismay. 

'Gave him a sovereign!' shouted Trevor, and he burst into a roar oflaughter. 'My dear boy, you'll never see it again. Son affairec'est l'argent des autres. '

'I think you might have told me, Alan, ' said Hughie sulkily, 'andnot have let me make such a fool of myself. '

'Well, to begin with, Hughie, ' said Trevor, 'it never entered mymind that you went about distributing alms in that reckless way. Ican understand your kissing a pretty model, but your giving asovereign to an ugly one--by Jove, no! Besides, the fact is that Ireally was not at home to-day to any one; and when you came in Ididn't know whether Hausberg would like his name mentioned. Youknow he wasn't in full dress. '

'What a duffer he must think me!' said Hughie. 

'Not at all. He was in the highest spirits after you left; keptchuckling to himself and rubbing his old wrinkled hands together. Icouldn't make out why he was so interested to know all about you;but I see it all now. He'll invest your sovereign for you, Hughie, pay you the interest every six months, and have a capital story totell after dinner. '

'I am an unlucky devil, ' growled Hughie. 'The best thing I can dois to go to bed; and, my dear Alan, you mustn't tell any one. Ishouldn't dare show my face in the Row. '

'Nonsense! It reflects the highest credit on your philanthropicspirit, Hughie. And don't run away. Have another cigarette, andyou can talk about Laura as much as you like. '

However, Hughie wouldn't stop, but walked home, feeling veryunhappy, and leaving Alan Trevor in fits of laughter. 

The next morning, as he was at breakfast, the servant brought him upa card on which was written, 'Monsieur Gustave Naudin, de la part deM. Le Baron Hausberg. ' 'I suppose he has come for an apology, ' saidHughie to himself; and he told the servant to show the visitor up. 

An old gentleman with gold spectacles and grey hair came into theroom, and said, in a slight French accent, 'Have I the honour ofaddressing Monsieur Erskine?'

Hughie bowed. 

'I have come from Baron Hausberg, ' he continued. 'The Baron--'

'I beg, sir, that you will offer him my sincerest apologies, 'stammered Hughie. 

'The Baron, ' said the old gentleman with a smile, 'has commissionedme to bring you this letter'; and he extended a sealed envelope. 

On the outside was written, 'A wedding present to Hugh Erskine andLaura Merton, from an old beggar, ' and inside was a cheque for10, 000 pounds. 

When they were married Alan Trevor was the best man, and the Baronmade a speech at the wedding breakfast. 

'Millionaire models, ' remarked Alan, 'are rare enough; but, by Jove, model millionaires are rarer still!'

THE PORTRAIT OF MR. W. H. 

CHAPTER I

I had been dining with Erskine in his pretty little house inBirdcage Walk, and we were sitting in the library over our coffeeand cigarettes, when the question of literary forgeries happened toturn up in conversation. I cannot at present remember how it wasthat we struck upon this somewhat curious topic, as it was at thattime, but I know that we had a long discussion about Macpherson, Ireland, and Chatterton, and that with regard to the last I insistedthat his so-called forgeries were merely the result of an artisticdesire for perfect representation; that we had no right to quarrelwith an artist for the conditions under which he chooses to presenthis work; and that all Art being to a certain degree a mode ofacting, an attempt to realise one's own personality on someimaginative plane out of reach of the trammelling accidents andlimitations of real life, to censure an artist for a forgery was toconfuse an ethical with an aesthetical problem. 

Erskine, who was a good deal older than I was, and had beenlistening to me with the amused deference of a man of forty, suddenly put his hand upon my shoulder and said to me, 'What wouldyou say about a young man who had a strange theory about a certainwork of art, believed in his theory, and committed a forgery inorder to prove it?'

'Ah! that is quite a different matter, ' I answered. 

Erskine remained silent for a few moments, looking at the thin greythreads of smoke that were rising from his cigarette. 'Yes, ' hesaid, after a pause, 'quite different. '

There was something in the tone of his voice, a slight touch ofbitterness perhaps, that excited my curiosity. 'Did you ever knowanybody who did that?' I cried. 

'Yes, ' he answered, throwing his cigarette into the fire, --'a greatfriend of mine, Cyril Graham. He was very fascinating, and veryfoolish, and very heartless. However, he left me the only legacy Iever received in my life. '

'What was that?' I exclaimed. Erskine rose from his seat, and goingover to a tall inlaid cabinet that stood between the two windows, unlocked it, and came back to where I was sitting, holding in hishand a small panel picture set in an old and somewhat tarnishedElizabethan frame. 

It was a full-length portrait of a young man in late sixteenth-century costume, standing by a table, with his right hand resting onan open book. He seemed about seventeen years of age, and was ofquite extraordinary personal beauty, though evidently somewhateffeminate. Indeed, had it not been for the dress and the closelycropped hair, one would have said that the face with its dreamywistful eyes, and its delicate scarlet lips, was the face of a girl. In manner, and especially in the treatment of the hands, the picturereminded one of Francois Clouet's later work. The black velvetdoublet with its fantastically gilded points, and the peacock-bluebackground against which it showed up so pleasantly, and from whichit gained such luminous value of colour, were quite in Clouet'sstyle; and the two masks of Tragedy and Comedy that hung somewhatformally from the marble pedestal had that hard severity of touch--so different from the facile grace of the Italians--which even atthe Court of France the great Flemish master never completely lost, and which in itself has always been a characteristic of the northerntemper. 

'It is a charming thing, ' I cried, 'but who is this wonderful youngman, whose beauty Art has so happily preserved for us?'

'This is the portrait of Mr. W. H. , ' said Erskine, with a sad smile. It might have been a chance effect of light, but it seemed to methat his eyes were quite bright with tears. 

'Mr. W. H. !' I exclaimed; 'who was Mr. W. H. ?'

'Don't you remember?' he answered; 'look at the book on which hishand is resting. '

'I see there is some writing there, but I cannot make it out, ' Ireplied. 

'Take this magnifying-glass and try, ' said Erskine, with the samesad smile still playing about his mouth. 

I took the glass, and moving the lamp a little nearer, I began tospell out the crabbed sixteenth-century handwriting. 'To the onliebegetter of these insuing sonnets. ' . . . 'Good heavens!' I cried, 'is this Shakespeare's Mr. W. H. ?'

'Cyril Graham used to say so, ' muttered Erskine. 

'But it is not a bit like Lord Pembroke, ' I answered. 'I know thePenshurst portraits very well. I was staying near there a few weeksago. '

'Do you really believe then that the sonnets are addressed to LordPembroke?' he asked. 

'I am sure of it, ' I answered. 'Pembroke, Shakespeare, and Mrs. Mary Fitton are the three personages of the Sonnets; there is nodoubt at all about it. '

'Well, I agree with you, ' said Erskine, 'but I did not always thinkso. I used to believe--well, I suppose I used to believe in CyrilGraham and his theory. '

'And what was that?' I asked, looking at the wonderful portrait, which had already begun to have a strange fascination for me. 

'It is a long story, ' said Erskine, taking the picture away from me--rather abruptly I thought at the time--'a very long story; but ifyou care to hear it, I will tell it to you. '

'I love theories about the Sonnets, ' I cried; 'but I don't think Iam likely to be converted to any new idea. The matter has ceased tobe a mystery to any one. Indeed, I wonder that it ever was amystery. '

'As I don't believe in the theory, I am not likely to convert you toit, ' said Erskine, laughing; 'but it may interest you. '

'Tell it to me, of course, ' I answered. 'If it is half asdelightful as the picture, I shall be more than satisfied. '

'Well, ' said Erskine, lighting a cigarette, 'I must begin by tellingyou about Cyril Graham himself. He and I were at the same house atEton. I was a year or two older than he was, but we were immensefriends, and did all our work and all our play together. There was, of course, a good deal more play than work, but I cannot say that Iam sorry for that. It is always an advantage not to have received asound commercial education, and what I learned in the playing fieldsat Eton has been quite as useful to me as anything I was taught atCambridge. I should tell you that Cyril's father and mother wereboth dead. They had been drowned in a horrible yachting accidentoff the Isle of Wight. His father had been in the diplomaticservice, and had married a daughter, the only daughter, in fact, ofold Lord Crediton, who became Cyril's guardian after the death ofhis parents. I don't think that Lord Crediton cared very much forCyril. He had never really forgiven his daughter for marrying a manwho had not a title. He was an extraordinary old aristocrat, whoswore like a costermonger, and had the manners of a farmer. Iremember seeing him once on Speech-day. He growled at me, gave me asovereign, and told me not to grow up "a damned Radical" like myfather. Cyril had very little affection for him, and was only tooglad to spend most of his holidays with us in Scotland. They neverreally got on together at all. Cyril thought him a bear, and hethought Cyril effeminate. He was effeminate, I suppose, in somethings, though he was a very good rider and a capital fencer. Infact he got the foils before he left Eton. But he was very languidin his manner, and not a little vain of his good looks, and had astrong objection to football. The two things that really gave himpleasure were poetry and acting. At Eton he was always dressing upand reciting Shakespeare, and when we went up to Trinity he became amember of the A. D. C. His first term. I remember I was always veryjealous of his acting. I was absurdly devoted to him; I supposebecause we were so different in some things. I was a ratherawkward, weakly lad, with huge feet, and horribly freckled. Freckles run in Scotch families just as gout does in Englishfamilies. Cyril used to say that of the two he preferred the gout;but he always set an absurdly high value on personal appearance, andonce read a paper before our debating society to prove that it wasbetter to be good-looking than to be good. He certainly waswonderfully handsome. People who did not like him, Philistines andcollege tutors, and young men reading for the Church, used to saythat he was merely pretty; but there was a great deal more in hisface than mere prettiness. I think he was the most splendidcreature I ever saw, and nothing could exceed the grace of hismovements, the charm of his manner. He fascinated everybody who wasworth fascinating, and a great many people who were not. He wasoften wilful and petulant, and I used to think him dreadfullyinsincere. It was due, I think, chiefly to his inordinate desire toplease. Poor Cyril! I told him once that he was contented withvery cheap triumphs, but he only laughed. He was horribly spoiled. All charming people, I fancy, are spoiled. It is the secret oftheir attraction. 

'However, I must tell you about Cyril's acting. You know that noactresses are allowed to play at the A. D. C. At least they were notin my time. I don't know how it is now. Well, of course, Cyril wasalways cast for the girls' parts, and when As You Like It wasproduced he played Rosalind. It was a marvellous performance. Infact, Cyril Graham was the only perfect Rosalind I have ever seen. It would be impossible to describe to you the beauty, the delicacy, the refinement of the whole thing. It made an immense sensation, and the horrid little theatre, as it was then, was crowded everynight. Even when I read the play now I can't help thinking ofCyril. It might have been written for him. The next term he tookhis degree, and came to London to read for the diplomatic. But henever did any work. He spent his days in reading Shakespeare'sSonnets, and his evenings at the theatre. He was, of course, wildto go on the stage. It was all that I and Lord Crediton could do toprevent him. Perhaps if he had gone on the stage he would be alivenow. It is always a silly thing to give advice, but to give goodadvice is absolutely fatal. I hope you will never fall into thaterror. If you do, you will be sorry for it. 

'Well, to come to the real point of the story, one day I got aletter from Cyril asking me to come round to his rooms that evening. He had charming chambers in Piccadilly overlooking the Green Park, and as I used to go to see him every day, I was rather surprised athis taking the trouble to write. Of course I went, and when Iarrived I found him in a state of great excitement. He told me thathe had at last discovered the true secret of Shakespeare's Sonnets;that all the scholars and critics had been entirely on the wrongtack; and that he was the first who, working purely by internalevidence, had found out who Mr. W. H. Really was. He was perfectlywild with delight, and for a long time would not tell me his theory. Finally, he produced a bundle of notes, took his copy of the Sonnetsoff the mantelpiece, and sat down and gave me a long lecture on thewhole subject. 

'He began by pointing out that the young man to whom Shakespeareaddressed these strangely passionate poems must have been somebodywho was a really vital factor in the development of his dramaticart, and that this could not be said either of Lord Pembroke or LordSouthampton. Indeed, whoever he was, he could not have been anybodyof high birth, as was shown very clearly by the 25th Sonnet, inwhich Shakespeare contrasting himself with those who are "greatprinces' favourites, " says quite frankly -

Let those who are in favour with their starsOf public honour and proud titles boast, Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most. 

And ends the sonnet by congratulating himself on the mean state ofhim he so adored. 

Then happy I, that love and am belovedWhere I may not remove nor be removed. 

This sonnet Cyril declared would be quite unintelligible if wefancied that it was addressed to either the Earl of Pembroke or theEarl of Southampton, both of whom were men of the highest positionin England and fully entitled to be called "great princes"; and hein corroboration of his view read me Sonnets CXXIV. And CXXV. , inwhich Shakespeare tells us that his love is not "the child ofstate, " that it "suffers not in smiling pomp, " but is "builded farfrom accident. " I listened with a good deal of interest, for Idon't think the point had ever been made before; but what followedwas still more curious, and seemed to me at the time to disposeentirely of Pembroke's claim. We know from Meres that the Sonnetshad been written before 1598, and Sonnet CIV. Informs us thatShakespeare's friendship for Mr. W. H. Had been already in existencefor three years. Now Lord Pembroke, who was born in 1580, did notcome to London till he was eighteen years of age, that is to saytill 1598, and Shakespeare's acquaintance with Mr. W. H. Must havebegun in 1594, or at the latest in 1595. Shakespeare, accordingly, could not have known Lord Pembroke till after the Sonnets had beenwritten. 

'Cyril pointed out also that Pembroke's father did not die till1601; whereas it was evident from the line, You had a father; let your son say so, that the father of Mr. W. H. Was dead in 1598. Besides, it wasabsurd to imagine that any publisher of the time, and the preface isfrom the publisher's hand, would have ventured to address WilliamHerbert, Earl of Pembroke, as Mr. W. H. ; the case of Lord Buckhurstbeing spoken of as Mr. Sackville being not really a parallelinstance, as Lord Buckhurst was not a peer, but merely the youngerson of a peer, with a courtesy title, and the passage in England'sParnassus, where he is so spoken of, is not a formal and statelydedication, but simply a casual allusion. So far for Lord Pembroke, whose supposed claims Cyril easily demolished while I sat by inwonder. With Lord Southampton Cyril had even less difficulty. Southampton became at a very early age the lover of ElizabethVernon, so he needed no entreaties to marry; he was not beautiful;he did not resemble his mother, as Mr. W. H. Did -

Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in theeCalls back the lovely April of her prime;

and, above all, his Christian name was Henry, whereas the punningsonnets (CXXXV. And CXLIII. ) show that the Christian name ofShakespeare's friend was the same as his own--Will. 

'As for the other suggestions of unfortunate commentators, that Mr. W. H. Is a misprint for Mr. W. S. , meaning Mr. William Shakespeare;that "Mr. W. H. All" should be read "Mr. W. Hall"; that Mr. W. H. IsMr. William Hathaway; and that a full stop should be placed after"wisheth, " making Mr. W. H. The writer and not the subject of thededication, --Cyril got rid of them in a very short time; and it isnot worth while to mention his reasons, though I remember he sent meoff into a fit of laughter by reading to me, I am glad to say not inthe original, some extracts from a German commentator calledBarnstorff, who insisted that Mr. W. H. Was no less a person than"Mr. William Himself. " Nor would he allow for a moment that theSonnets are mere satires on the work of Drayton and John Davies ofHereford. To him, as indeed to me, they were poems of serious andtragic import, wrung out of the bitterness of Shakespeare's heart, and made sweet by the honey of his lips. Still less would he admitthat they were merely a philosophical allegory, and that in themShakespeare is addressing his Ideal Self, or Ideal Manhood, or theSpirit of Beauty, or the Reason, or the Divine Logos, or theCatholic Church. He felt, as indeed I think we all must feel, thatthe Sonnets are addressed to an individual, --to a particular youngman whose personality for some reason seems to have filled the soulof Shakespeare with terrible joy and no less terrible despair. 

'Having in this manner cleared the way as it were, Cyril asked me todismiss from my mind any preconceived ideas I might have formed onthe subject, and to give a fair and unbiassed hearing to his owntheory. The problem he pointed out was this: Who was that youngman of Shakespeare's day who, without being of noble birth or evenof noble nature, was addressed by him in terms of such passionateadoration that we can but wonder at the strange worship, and arealmost afraid to turn the key that unlocks the mystery of the poet'sheart? Who was he whose physical beauty was such that it became thevery corner-stone of Shakespeare's art; the very source ofShakespeare's inspiration; the very incarnation of Shakespeare'sdreams? To look upon him as simply the object of certain love-poemsis to miss the whole meaning of the poems: for the art of whichShakespeare talks in the Sonnets is not the art of the Sonnetsthemselves, which indeed were to him but slight and secret things--it is the art of the dramatist to which he is always alluding; andhe to whom Shakespeare said -

Thou art all my art, and dost advanceAs high as learning my rude ignorance, he to whom he promised immortality, Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men, -

was surely none other than the boy-actor for whom he created Violaand Imogen, Juliet and Rosalind, Portia and Desdemona, and Cleopatraherself. This was Cyril Graham's theory, evolved as you see purelyfrom the Sonnets themselves, and depending for its acceptance not somuch on demonstrable proof or formal evidence, but on a kind ofspiritual and artistic sense, by which alone he claimed could thetrue meaning of the poems be discerned. I remember his reading tome that fine sonnet -

How can my Muse want subject to invent, While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verseThine own sweet argument, too excellentFor every vulgar paper to rehearse?O, give thyself the thanks, if aught in meWorthy perusal stand against thy sight;For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee, When thou thyself dost give invention light?Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worthThan those old nine which rhymers invocate;And he that calls on thee, let him bring forthEternal numbers to outlive long date -

and pointing out how completely it corroborated his theory; andindeed he went through all the Sonnets carefully, and showed, orfancied that he showed, that, according to his new explanation oftheir meaning, things that had seemed obscure, or evil, orexaggerated, became clear and rational, and of high artistic import, illustrating Shakespeare's conception of the true relations betweenthe art of the actor and the art of the dramatist. 

'It is of course evident that there must have been in Shakespeare'scompany some wonderful boy-actor of great beauty, to whom heintrusted the presentation of his noble heroines; for Shakespearewas a practical theatrical manager as well as an imaginative poet, and Cyril Graham had actually discovered the boy-actor's name. Hewas Will, or, as he preferred to call him, Willie Hughes. TheChristian name he found of course in the punning sonnets, CXXXV. AndCXLIII. ; the surname was, according to him, hidden in the seventhline of the 20th Sonnet, where Mr. W. H. Is described as -

A man in hew, all HEWS in his controwling. 

'In the original edition of the Sonnets "Hews" is printed with acapital letter and in italics, and this, he claimed, showed clearlythat a play on words was intended, his view receiving a good deal ofcorroboration from those sonnets in which curious puns are made onthe words "use" and "usury. " Of course I was converted at once, andWillie Hughes became to me as real a person as Shakespeare. Theonly objection I made to the theory was that the name of WillieHughes does not occur in the list of the actors of Shakespeare'scompany as it is printed in the first folio. Cyril, however, pointed out that the absence of Willie Hughes's name from this listreally corroborated the theory, as it was evident from SonnetLXXXVI. That Willie Hughes had abandoned Shakespeare's company toplay at a rival theatre, probably in some of Chapman's plays. It isin reference to this that in the great sonnet on Chapman, Shakespeare said to Willie Hughes -

But when your countenance fill'd up his line, Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine -

the expression "when your countenance filled up his line" referringobviously to the beauty of the young actor giving life and realityand added charm to Chapman's verse, the same idea being also putforward in the 79th Sonnet -

Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid, My verse alone had all thy gentle grace;But now my gracious numbers are decay'd, And my sick Muse doth give another place;

and in the immediately preceding sonnet, where Shakespeare says -

Every alien pen has got my USEAnd under thee their poesy disperse, the play upon words (use=Hughes) being of course obvious, and thephrase "under thee their poesy disperse, " meaning "by yourassistance as an actor bring their plays before the people. "

'It was a wonderful evening, and we sat up almost till dawn readingand re-reading the Sonnets. After some time, however, I began tosee that before the theory could be placed before the world in areally perfected form, it was necessary to get some independentevidence about the existence of this young actor, Willie Hughes. Ifthis could be once established, there could be no possible doubtabout his identity with Mr. W. H. ; but otherwise the theory wouldfall to the ground. I put this forward very strongly to Cyril, whowas a good deal annoyed at what he called my Philistine tone ofmind, and indeed was rather bitter upon the subject. However, Imade him promise that in his own interest he would not publish hisdiscovery till he had put the whole matter beyond the reach ofdoubt; and for weeks and weeks we searched the registers of Citychurches, the Alleyn MSS. At Dulwich, the Record Office, the papersof the Lord Chamberlain--everything, in fact, that we thought mightcontain some allusion to Willie Hughes. We discovered nothing, ofcourse, and every day the existence of Willie Hughes seemed to me tobecome more problematical. Cyril was in a dreadful state, and usedto go over the whole question day after day, entreating me tobelieve; but I saw the one flaw in the theory, and I refused to beconvinced till the actual existence of Willie Hughes, a boy-actor ofElizabethan days, had been placed beyond the reach of doubt orcavil. 

'One day Cyril left town to stay with his grandfather, I thought atthe time, but I afterwards heard from Lord Crediton that this wasnot the case; and about a fortnight afterwards I received a telegramfrom him, handed in at Warwick, asking me to be sure to come anddine with him that evening at eight o'clock. When I arrived, hesaid to me, "The only apostle who did not deserve proof was St. Thomas, and St. Thomas was the only apostle who got it. " I askedhim what he meant. He answered that he had not merely been able toestablish the existence in the sixteenth century of a boy-actor ofthe name of Willie Hughes, but to prove by the most conclusiveevidence that he was the Mr. W. H. Of the Sonnets. He would nottell me anything more at the time; but after dinner he solemnlyproduced the picture I showed you, and told me that he haddiscovered it by the merest chance nailed to the side of an oldchest that he had bought at a farmhouse in Warwickshire. The chestitself, which was a very fine example of Elizabethan work, he had, of course, brought with him, and in the centre of the front panelthe initials W. H. Were undoubtedly carved. It was this monogramthat had attracted his attention, and he told me that it was nottill he had had the chest in his possession for several days that hehad thought of making any careful examination of the inside. Onemorning, however, he saw that one of the sides of the chest was muchthicker than the other, and looking more closely, he discovered thata framed panel picture was clamped against it. On taking it out, hefound it was the picture that is now lying on the sofa. It was verydirty, and covered with mould; but he managed to clean it, and, tohis great joy, saw that he had fallen by mere chance on the onething for which he had been looking. Here was an authentic portraitof Mr. W. H. , with his hand resting on the dedicatory page of theSonnets, and on the frame itself could be faintly seen the name ofthe young man written in black uncial letters on a faded goldground, "Master Will. Hews. "

'Well, what was I to say? It never occurred to me for a moment thatCyril Graham was playing a trick on me, or that he was trying toprove his theory by means of a forgery. '

'But is it a forgery?' I asked. 

'Of course it is, ' said Erskine. 'It is a very good forgery; but itis a forgery none the less. I thought at the time that Cyril wasrather calm about the whole matter; but I remember he more than oncetold me that he himself required no proof of the kind, and that hethought the theory complete without it. I laughed at him, and toldhim that without it the theory would fall to the ground, and Iwarmly congratulated him on the marvellous discovery. We thenarranged that the picture should be etched or facsimiled, and placedas the frontispiece to Cyril's edition of the Sonnets; and for threemonths we did nothing but go over each poem line by line, till wehad settled every difficulty of text or meaning. One unlucky day Iwas in a print-shop in Holborn, when I saw upon the counter someextremely beautiful drawings in silver-point. I was so attracted bythem that I bought them; and the proprietor of the place, a mancalled Rawlings, told me that they were done by a young painter ofthe name of Edward Merton, who was very clever, but as poor as achurch mouse. I went to see Merton some days afterwards, having gothis address from the printseller, and found a pale, interestingyoung man, with a rather common-looking wife--his model, as Isubsequently learned. I told him how much I admired his drawings, at which he seemed very pleased, and I asked him if he would show mesome of his other work. As we were looking over a portfolio, fullof really very lovely things, --for Merton had a most delicate anddelightful touch, --I suddenly caught sight of a drawing of thepicture of Mr. W. H. There was no doubt whatever about it. It wasalmost a facsimile--the only difference being that the two masks ofTragedy and Comedy were not suspended from the marble table as theyare in the picture, but were lying on the floor at the young man'sfeet. "Where on earth did you get that?" I said. He grew ratherconfused, and said--"Oh, that is nothing. I did not know it was inthis portfolio. It is not a thing of any value. " "It is what youdid for Mr. Cyril Graham, " exclaimed his wife; "and if thisgentleman wishes to buy it, let him have it. " "For Mr. CyrilGraham?" I repeated. "Did you paint the picture of Mr. W. H. ?" "Idon't understand what you mean, " he answered, growing very red. Well, the whole thing was quite dreadful. The wife let it all out. I gave her five pounds when I was going away. I can't bear to thinkof it now; but of course I was furious. I went off at once toCyril's chambers, waited there for three hours before he came in, with that horrid lie staring me in the face, and told him I haddiscovered his forgery. He grew very pale and said--"I did itpurely for your sake. You would not be convinced in any other way. It does not affect the truth of the theory. " "The truth of thetheory!" I exclaimed; "the less we talk about that the better. Younever even believed in it yourself. If you had, you would not havecommitted a forgery to prove it. " High words passed between us; wehad a fearful quarrel. I dare say I was unjust. The next morninghe was dead. '

'Dead!' I cried, 'Yes; he shot himself with a revolver. Some of the blood splashedupon the frame of the picture, just where the name had been painted. By the time I arrived--his servant had sent for me at once--thepolice were already there. He had left a letter for me, evidentlywritten in the greatest agitation and distress of mind. '

'What was in it?' I asked. 

'Oh, that he believed absolutely in Willie Hughes; that the forgeryof the picture had been done simply as a concession to me, and didnot in the slightest degree invalidate the truth of the theory; and, that in order to show me how firm and flawless his faith in thewhole thing was, he was going to offer his life as a sacrifice tothe secret of the Sonnets. It was a foolish, mad letter. Iremember he ended by saying that he intrusted to me the WillieHughes theory, and that it was for me to present it to the world, and to unlock the secret of Shakespeare's heart. '

'It is a most tragic story, ' I cried; 'but why have you not carriedout his wishes?'

Erskine shrugged his shoulders. 'Because it is a perfectly unsoundtheory from beginning to end, ' he answered. 

'My dear Erskine, ' I said, getting up from my seat, 'you areentirely wrong about the whole matter. It is the only perfect keyto Shakespeare's Sonnets that has ever been made. It is complete inevery detail. I believe in Willie Hughes. '

'Don't say that, ' said Erskine gravely; 'I believe there issomething fatal about the idea, and intellectually there is nothingto be said for it. I have gone into the whole matter, and I assureyou the theory is entirely fallacious. It is plausible up to acertain point. Then it stops. For heaven's sake, my dear boy, don't take up the subject of Willie Hughes. You will break yourheart over it. '

'Erskine, ' I answered, 'it is your duty to give this theory to theworld. If you will not do it, I will. By keeping it back you wrongthe memory of Cyril Graham, the youngest and the most splendid ofall the martyrs of literature. I entreat you to do him justice. Hedied for this thing, --don't let his death be in vain. '

Erskine looked at me in amazement. 'You are carried away by thesentiment of the whole story, ' he said. 'You forget that a thing isnot necessarily true because a man dies for it. I was devoted toCyril Graham. His death was a horrible blow to me. I did notrecover it for years. I don't think I have ever recovered it. ButWillie Hughes? There is nothing in the idea of Willie Hughes. Nosuch person ever existed. As for bringing the whole thing beforethe world--the world thinks that Cyril Graham shot himself byaccident. The only proof of his suicide was contained in the letterto me, and of this letter the public never heard anything. To thepresent day Lord Crediton thinks that the whole thing wasaccidental. '

'Cyril Graham sacrificed his life to a great Idea, ' I answered; 'andif you will not tell of his martyrdom, tell at least of his faith. '

'His faith, ' said Erskine, 'was fixed in a thing that was false, ina thing that was unsound, in a thing that no Shakespearean scholarwould accept for a moment. The theory would be laughed at. Don'tmake a fool of yourself, and don't follow a trail that leadsnowhere. You start by assuming the existence of the very personwhose existence is the thing to be proved. Besides, everybody knowsthat the Sonnets were addressed to Lord Pembroke. The matter issettled once for all. '

'The matter is not settled!' I exclaimed. 'I will take up thetheory where Cyril Graham left it, and I will prove to the worldthat he was right. '

'Silly boy!' said Erskine. 'Go home: it is after two, and don'tthink about Willie Hughes any more. I am sorry I told you anythingabout it, and very sorry indeed that I should have converted you toa thing in which I don't believe. '

'You have given me the key to the greatest mystery of modernliterature, ' I answered; 'and I shall not rest till I have made yourecognise, till I have made everybody recognise, that Cyril Grahamwas the most subtle Shakespearean critic of our day. '

As I walked home through St. James's Park the dawn was just breakingover London. The white swans were lying asleep on the polishedlake, and the gaunt Palace looked purple against the pale-green sky. I thought of Cyril Graham, and my eyes filled with tears. 

CHAPTER II

It was past twelve o'clock when I awoke, and the sun was streamingin through the curtains of my room in long slanting beams of dustygold. I told my servant that I would be at home to no one; andafter I had had a cup of chocolate and a petit-pain, I took downfrom the book-shelf my copy of Shakespeare's Sonnets, and began togo carefully through them. Every poem seemed to me to corroborateCyril Graham's theory. I felt as if I had my hand uponShakespeare's heart, and was counting each separate throb and pulseof passion. I thought of the wonderful boy-actor, and saw his facein every line. 

Two sonnets, I remember, struck me particularly: they were the 53rdand the 67th. In the first of these, Shakespeare, complimentingWillie Hughes on the versatility of his acting, on his wide range ofparts, a range extending from Rosalind to Juliet, and from Beatriceto Ophelia, says to him -

What is your substance, whereof are you made, That millions of strange shadows on you tend?Since every one hath, every one, one shade, And you, but one, can every shadow lend -

lines that would be unintelligible if they were not addressed to anactor, for the word 'shadow' had in Shakespeare's day a technicalmeaning connected with the stage. 'The best in this kind are butshadows, ' says Theseus of the actors in the Midsummer Night's Dream, and there are many similar allusions in the literature of the day. These sonnets evidently belonged to the series in which Shakespearediscusses the nature of the actor's art, and of the strange and raretemperament that is essential to the perfect stage-player. 'How isit, ' says Shakespeare to Willie Hughes, 'that you have so manypersonalities?' and then he goes on to point out that his beauty issuch that it seems to realise every form and phase of fancy, toembody each dream of the creative imagination--an idea that is stillfurther expanded in the sonnet that immediately follows, where, beginning with the fine thought, O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seemBy that sweet ornament which TRUTH doth give!

Shakespeare invites us to notice how the truth of acting, the truthof visible presentation on the stage, adds to the wonder of poetry, giving life to its loveliness, and actual reality to its ideal form. And yet, in the 67th Sonnet, Shakespeare calls upon Willie Hughes toabandon the stage with its artificiality, its false mimic life ofpainted face and unreal costume, its immoral influences andsuggestions, its remoteness from the true world of noble action andsincere utterance. 

Ah, wherefore with infection should he liveAnd with his presence grace impiety, That sin by him advantage should achieveAnd lace itself with his society?Why should false painting imitate his cheek, And steal dead seeming of his living hue?Why should poor beauty indirectly seekRoses of shadow, since his rose is true?

It may seem strange that so great a dramatist as Shakespeare, whorealised his own perfection as an artist and his humanity as a manon the ideal plane of stage-writing and stage-playing, should havewritten in these terms about the theatre; but we must remember thatin Sonnets CX. And CXI. Shakespeare shows us that he too was weariedof the world of puppets, and full of shame at having made himself 'amotley to the view. ' The 111th Sonnet is especially bitter:-

O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide, The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, That did not better for my life provideThan public means which public manners breeds. Thence comes it that my name receives a brand, And almost thence my nature is subduedTo what it works in, like the dyer's hand:Pity me then and wish I were renew'd -

and there are many signs elsewhere of the same feeling, signsfamiliar to all real students of Shakespeare. 

One point puzzled me immensely as I read the Sonnets, and it wasdays before I struck on the true interpretation, which indeed CyrilGraham himself seems to have missed. I could not understand how itwas that Shakespeare set so high a value on his young friendmarrying. He himself had married young, and the result had beenunhappiness, and it was not likely that he would have asked WillieHughes to commit the same error. The boy-player of Rosalind hadnothing to gain from marriage, or from the passions of real life. The early sonnets, with their strange entreaties to have children, seemed to me a jarring note. The explanation of the mystery came onme quite suddenly, and I found it in the curious dedication. Itwill be remembered that the dedication runs as follows:-

 TO THE ONLIE BEGETTER OF

 THESE INSUING SONNETS

 MR. W. H. ALL HAPPINESSE

AND THAT ETERNITIE

PROMISED

BY

OUR EVER-LIVING POET

WISHETH

THE WELL-WISHING

ADVENTURER IN

SETTING

FORTH. 

T. T. 

Some scholars have supposed that the word 'begetter' in thisdedication means simply the procurer of the Sonnets for ThomasThorpe the publisher; but this view is now generally abandoned, andthe highest authorities are quite agreed that it is to be taken inthe sense of inspirer, the metaphor being drawn from the analogy ofphysical life. Now I saw that the same metaphor was used byShakespeare himself all through the poems, and this set me on theright track. Finally I made my great discovery. The marriage thatShakespeare proposes for Willie Hughes is the marriage with hisMuse, an expression which is definitely put forward in the 82ndSonnet, where, in the bitterness of his heart at the defection ofthe boy-actor for whom he had written his greatest parts, and whosebeauty had indeed suggested them, he opens his complaint by saying -

I grant thou wert not married to my Muse. 

The children he begs him to beget are no children of flesh andblood, but more immortal children of undying fame. The whole cycleof the early sonnets is simply Shakespeare's invitation to WillieHughes to go upon the stage and become a player. How barren andprofitless a thing, he says, is this beauty of yours if it be notused:-

When forty winters shall besiege thy browAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies, Where all the treasure of thy lusty days, To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes, Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise. 

You must create something in art: my verse 'is thine, and BORN ofthee'; only listen to me, and I will 'BRING FORTH eternal numbers tooutlive long date, ' and you shall people with forms of your ownimage the imaginary world of the stage. These children that youbeget, he continues, will not wither away, as mortal children do, but you shall live in them and in my plays: do but -

Make thee another self, for love of me, That beauty still may live in thine or thee. 

I collected all the passages that seemed to me to corroborate thisview, and they produced a strong impression on me, and showed me howcomplete Cyril Graham's theory really was. I also saw that it wasquite easy to separate those lines in which he speaks of the Sonnetsthemselves from those in which he speaks of his great dramatic work. This was a point that had been entirely overlooked by all critics upto Cyril Graham's day. And yet it was one of the most importantpoints in the whole series of poems. To the Sonnets Shakespeare wasmore or less indifferent. He did not wish to rest his fame on them. They were to him his 'slight Muse, ' as he calls them, and intended, as Meres tells us, for private circulation only among a few, a veryfew, friends. Upon the other hand he was extremely conscious of thehigh artistic value of his plays, and shows a noble self-relianceupon his dramatic genius. When he says to Willie Hughes:

But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in ETERNAL LINES to time thou grow'st:So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee; -

the expression 'eternal lines' clearly alludes to one of his playsthat he was sending him at the time, just as the concluding coupletpoints to his confidence in the probability of his plays beingalways acted. In his address to the Dramatic Muse (Sonnets C. AndCI. ), we find the same feeling. 

Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so longTo speak of that which gives thee all thy might?Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song, Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?

he cries, and he then proceeds to reproach the Mistress of Tragedyand Comedy for her 'neglect of Truth in Beauty dyed, ' and says -

Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?Excuse not silence so, for 't lies in theeTo make him much outlive a gilded tombAnd to be praised of ages yet to be. Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee howTo make him seem long hence as he shows now. 

It is, however, perhaps in the 55th Sonnet that Shakespeare gives tothis idea its fullest expression. To imagine that the 'powerfulrhyme' of the second line refers to the sonnet itself, is to mistakeShakespeare's meaning entirely. It seemed to me that it wasextremely likely, from the general character of the sonnet, that aparticular play was meant, and that the play was none other butRomeo and Juliet. 

Not marble, nor the gilded monumentsOf princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;But you shall shine more bright in these contentsThan unswept stone besmear'd with sluttish time. When wasteful wars shall statues overturn, And broils root out the work of masonry, Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burnThe living record of your memory. 'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmityShall you pace forth; your praise shall still find roomEven in the eyes of all posterityThat wear this world out to the ending doom. So, till the judgement that yourself arise, You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. 

It was also extremely suggestive to note how here as elsewhereShakespeare promised Willie Hughes immortality in a form thatappealed to men's eyes--that is to say, in a spectacular form, in aplay that is to be looked at. 

For two weeks I worked hard at the Sonnets, hardly ever going out, and refusing all invitations. Every day I seemed to be discoveringsomething new, and Willie Hughes became to me a kind of spiritualpresence, an ever-dominant personality. I could almost fancy that Isaw him standing in the shadow of my room, so well had Shakespearedrawn him, with his golden hair, his tender flower-like grace, hisdreamy deep-sunken eyes, his delicate mobile limbs, and his whitelily hands. His very name fascinated me. Willie Hughes! WillieHughes! How musically it sounded! Yes; who else but he could havebeen the master-mistress of Shakespeare's passion, {1} the lord ofhis love to whom he was bound in vassalage, {2} the delicate minionof pleasure, {3} the rose of the whole world, {4} the herald of thespring {5} decked in the proud livery of youth, {6} the lovely boywhom it was sweet music to hear, {7} and whose beauty was the veryraiment of Shakespeare's heart, {8} as it was the keystone of hisdramatic power? How bitter now seemed the whole tragedy of hisdesertion and his shame!--shame that he made sweet and lovely {9} bythe mere magic of his personality, but that was none the less shame. Yet as Shakespeare forgave him, should not we forgive him also? Idid not care to pry into the mystery of his sin. 

His abandonment of Shakespeare's theatre was a different matter, andI investigated it at great length. Finally I came to the conclusionthat Cyril Graham had been wrong in regarding the rival dramatist ofthe 80th Sonnet as Chapman. It was obviously Marlowe who wasalluded to. At the time the Sonnets were written, such anexpression as 'the proud full sail of his great verse' could nothave been used of Chapman's work, however applicable it might havebeen to the style of his later Jacobean plays. No: Marlowe wasclearly the rival dramatist of whom Shakespeare spoke in suchlaudatory terms; and that

Affable familiar ghostWhich nightly gulls him with intelligence, was the Mephistopheles of his Doctor Faustus. No doubt, Marlowe wasfascinated by the beauty and grace of the boy-actor, and lured himaway from the Blackfriars Theatre, that he might play the Gavestonof his Edward II. That Shakespeare had the legal right to retainWillie Hughes in his own company is evident from Sonnet LXXXVII. , where he says:-

Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:The CHARTER OF THY WORTH gives thee releasing;My BONDS in thee are all determinate. For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?And for that riches where is my deserving?The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, AND SO MY PATENT BACK AGAIN IS SWERVING. Thyself thou gayest, thy own worth then not knowing, Or me, to whom thou gavest it, else mistaking;So thy great gift, upon misprision growing, Comes home again, on better judgement making. Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter, In sleep a king, but waking no such matter. 

But him whom he could not hold by love, he would not hold by force. Willie Hughes became a member of Lord Pembroke's company, and, perhaps in the open yard of the Red Bull Tavern, played the part ofKing Edward's delicate minion. On Marlowe's death, he seems to havereturned to Shakespeare, who, whatever his fellow-partners may havethought of the matter, was not slow to forgive the wilfulness andtreachery of the young actor. 

How well, too, had Shakespeare drawn the temperament of the stage-player! Willie Hughes was one of those

That do not do the thing they most do show, Who, moving others, are themselves as stone. 

He could act love, but could not feel it, could mimic passionwithout realising it. 

In many's looks the false heart's historyIs writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange, but with Willie Hughes it was not so. 'Heaven, ' says Shakespeare, in a sonnet of mad idolatry -

Heaven in thy creation did decreeThat in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be, Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell. 

In his 'inconstant mind' and his 'false heart, ' it was easy torecognise the insincerity and treachery that somehow seeminseparable from the artistic nature, as in his love of praise thatdesire for immediate recognition that characterises all actors. Andyet, more fortunate in this than other actors, Willie Hughes was toknow something of immortality. Inseparably connected withShakespeare's plays, he was to live in them. 

Your name from hence immortal life shall have, Though I, once gone, to all the world must die:The earth can yield me but a common grave, When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie. Your monument shall be my gentle verse, Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read, And tongues to be your being shall rehearse, When all the breathers of this world are dead. 

There were endless allusions, also, to Willie Hughes's power overhis audience--the 'gazers, ' as Shakespeare calls them; but perhapsthe most perfect description of his wonderful mastery over dramaticart was in A Lover's Complaint, where Shakespeare says of him:-

In him a plenitude of subtle matter, Applied to cautels, all strange forms receives, Of burning blushes, or of weeping water, Or swooning paleness; and he takes and leaves, In either's aptness, as it best deceives, To blush at speeches rank, to weep at woes, Or to turn white and swoon at tragic shows. 

* * * * * * * *

So on the tip of his subduing tongue, All kind of arguments and questions deep, All replication prompt and reason strong, For his advantage still did wake and sleep, To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep. He had the dialect and the different skill, Catching all passions in his craft of will. 

Once I thought that I had really found Willie Hughes in Elizabethanliterature. In a wonderfully graphic account of the last days ofthe great Earl of Essex, his chaplain, Thomas Knell, tells us thatthe night before the Earl died, 'he called William Hewes, which washis musician, to play upon the virginals and to sing. "Play, " saidhe, "my song, Will Hewes, and I will sing it to myself. " So he didit most joyfully, not as the howling swan, which, still lookingdown, waileth her end, but as a sweet lark, lifting up his hands andcasting up his eyes to his God, with this mounted the crystal skies, and reached with his unwearied tongue the top of highest heavens. 'Surely the boy who played on the virginals to the dying father ofSidney's Stella was none other but the Will Hews to whom Shakespearededicated the Sonnets, and who he tells us was himself sweet 'musicto hear. ' Yet Lord Essex died in 1576, when Shakespeare himself wasbut twelve years of age. It was impossible that his musician couldhave been the Mr. W. H. Of the Sonnets. Perhaps Shakespeare's youngfriend was the son of the player upon the virginals? It was atleast something to have discovered that Will Hews was an Elizabethanname. Indeed the name Hews seemed to have been closely connectedwith music and the stage. The first English actress was the lovelyMargaret Hews, whom Prince Rupert so madly loved. What moreprobable than that between her and Lord Essex's musician had comethe boy-actor of Shakespeare's plays? But the proofs, the links--where were they? Alas! I could not find them. It seemed to me thatI was always on the brink of absolute verification, but that I couldnever really attain to it. 

From Willie Hughes's life I soon passed to thoughts of his death. Iused to wonder what had been his end. 

Perhaps he had been one of those English actors who in 1604 wentacross sea to Germany and played before the great Duke Henry Juliusof Brunswick, himself a dramatist of no mean order, and at the Courtof that strange Elector of Brandenburg, who was so enamoured ofbeauty that he was said to have bought for his weight in amber theyoung son of a travelling Greek merchant, and to have given pageantsin honour of his slave all through that dreadful famine year of1606-7, when the people died of hunger in the very streets of thetown, and for the space of seven months there was no rain. We knowat any rate that Romeo and Juliet was brought out at Dresden in1613, along with Hamlet and King Lear, and it was surely to noneother than Willie Hughes that in 1615 the death-mask of Shakespearewas brought by the hand of one of the suite of the Englishambassador, pale token of the passing away of the great poet who hadso dearly loved him. Indeed there would have been somethingpeculiarly fitting in the idea that the boy-actor, whose beauty hadbeen so vital an element in the realism and romance of Shakespeare'sart, should have been the first to have brought to Germany the seedof the new culture, and was in his way the precursor of thatAufklarung or Illumination of the eighteenth century, that splendidmovement which, though begun by Lessing and Herder, and brought toits full and perfect issue by Goethe, was in no small part helped onby another actor--Friedrich Schroeder--who awoke the popularconsciousness, and by means of the feigned passions and mimeticmethods of the stage showed the intimate, the vital, connectionbetween life and literature. If this was so--and there wascertainly no evidence against it--it was not improbable that WillieHughes was one of those English comedians (mimae quidam exBritannia, as the old chronicle calls them), who were slain atNuremberg in a sudden uprising of the people, and were secretlyburied in a little vineyard outside the city by some young men 'whohad found pleasure in their performances, and of whom some hadsought to be instructed in the mysteries of the new art. ' Certainlyno more fitting place could there be for him to whom Shakespearesaid, 'thou art all my art, ' than this little vineyard outside thecity walls. For was it not from the sorrows of Dionysos thatTragedy sprang? Was not the light laughter of Comedy, with itscareless merriment and quick replies, first heard on the lips of theSicilian vine-dressers? Nay, did not the purple and red stain ofthe wine-froth on face and limbs give the first suggestion of thecharm and fascination of disguise--the desire for self-concealment, the sense of the value of objectivity thus showing itself in therude beginnings of the art? At any rate, wherever he lay--whetherin the little vineyard at the gate of the Gothic town, or in somedim London churchyard amidst the roar and bustle of our great city--no gorgeous monument marked his resting-place. His true tomb, asShakespeare saw, was the poet's verse, his true monument thepermanence of the drama. So had it been with others whose beautyhad given a new creative impulse to their age. The ivory body ofthe Bithynian slave rots in the green ooze of the Nile, and on theyellow hills of the Cerameicus is strewn the dust of the youngAthenian; but Antinous lives in sculpture, and Charmides inphilosophy. 

CHAPTER III

After three weeks had elapsed, I determined to make a strong appealto Erskine to do justice to the memory of Cyril Graham, and to giveto the world his marvellous interpretation of the Sonnets--the onlyinterpretation that thoroughly explained the problem. I have notany copy of my letter, I regret to say, nor have I been able to laymy hand upon the original; but I remember that I went over the wholeground, and covered sheets of paper with passionate reiteration ofthe arguments and proofs that my study had suggested to me. Itseemed to me that I was not merely restoring Cyril Graham to hisproper place in literary history, but rescuing the honour ofShakespeare himself from the tedious memory of a commonplaceintrigue. I put into the letter all my enthusiasm. I put into theletter all my faith. 

No sooner, in fact, had I sent it off than a curious reaction cameover me. It seemed to me that I had given away my capacity forbelief in the Willie Hughes theory of the Sonnets, that somethinghad gone out of me, as it were, and that I was perfectly indifferentto the whole subject. What was it that had happened? It isdifficult to say. Perhaps, by finding perfect expression for apassion, I had exhausted the passion itself. Emotional forces, likethe forces of physical life, have their positive limitations. Perhaps the mere effort to convert any one to a theory involves someform of renunciation of the power of credence. Perhaps I was simplytired of the whole thing, and, my enthusiasm having burnt out, myreason was left to its own unimpassioned judgment. However it cameabout, and I cannot pretend to explain it, there was no doubt thatWillie Hughes suddenly became to me a mere myth, an idle dream, theboyish fancy of a young man who, like most ardent spirits, was moreanxious to convince others than to be himself convinced. 

As I had said some very unjust and bitter things to Erskine in myletter, I determined to go and see him at once, and to make myapologies to him for my behaviour. Accordingly, the next morning Idrove down to Birdcage Walk, and found Erskine sitting in hislibrary, with the forged picture of Willie Hughes in front of him. 

'My dear Erskine!' I cried, 'I have come to apologise to you. '

'To apologise to me?' he said. 'What for?'

'For my letter, ' I answered. 

'You have nothing to regret in your letter, ' he said. 'On thecontrary, you have done me the greatest service in your power. Youhave shown me that Cyril Graham's theory is perfectly sound. '

'You don't mean to say that you believe in Willie Hughes?' Iexclaimed. 

'Why not?' he rejoined. 'You have proved the thing to me. Do youthink I cannot estimate the value of evidence?'

'But there is no evidence at all, ' I groaned, sinking into a chair. 'When I wrote to you I was under the influence of a perfectly sillyenthusiasm. I had been touched by the story of Cyril Graham'sdeath, fascinated by his romantic theory, enthralled by the wonderand novelty of the whole idea. I see now that the theory is basedon a delusion. The only evidence for the existence of Willie Hughesis that picture in front of you, and the picture is a forgery. Don't be carried away by mere sentiment in this matter. Whateverromance may have to say about the Willie Hughes theory, reason isdead against it. '

'I don't understand you, ' said Erskine, looking at me in amazement. 'Why, you yourself have convinced me by your letter that WillieHughes is an absolute reality. Why have you changed your mind? Oris all that you have been saying to me merely a joke?'

'I cannot explain it to you, ' I rejoined, 'but I see now that thereis really nothing to be said in favour of Cyril Graham'sinterpretation. The Sonnets are addressed to Lord Pembroke. Forheaven's sake don't waste your time in a foolish attempt to discovera young Elizabethan actor who never existed, and to make a phantompuppet the centre of the great cycle of Shakespeare's Sonnets. '

'I see that you don't understand the theory, ' he replied. 

'My dear Erskine, ' I cried, 'not understand it! Why, I feel as if Ihad invented it. Surely my letter shows you that I not merely wentinto the whole matter, but that I contributed proofs of every kind. The one flaw in the theory is that it presupposes the existence ofthe person whose existence is the subject of dispute. If we grantthat there was in Shakespeare's company a young actor of the name ofWillie Hughes, it is not difficult to make him the object of theSonnets. But as we know that there was no actor of this name in thecompany of the Globe Theatre, it is idle to pursue the investigationfurther. '

'But that is exactly what we don't know, ' said Erskine. 'It isquite true that his name does not occur in the list given in thefirst folio; but, as Cyril pointed out, that is rather a proof infavour of the existence of Willie Hughes than against it, if weremember his treacherous desertion of Shakespeare for a rivaldramatist. '

We argued the matter over for hours, but nothing that I could saycould make Erskine surrender his faith in Cyril Graham'sinterpretation. He told me that he intended to devote his life toproving the theory, and that he was determined to do justice toCyril Graham's memory. I entreated him, laughed at him, begged ofhim, but it was of no use. Finally we parted, not exactly in anger, but certainly with a shadow between us. He thought me shallow, Ithought him foolish. When I called on him again his servant told methat he had gone to Germany. 

Two years afterwards, as I was going into my club, the hall-porterhanded me a letter with a foreign postmark. It was from Erskine, and written at the Hotel d'Angleterre, Cannes. When I had read it Iwas filled with horror, though I did not quite believe that he wouldbe so mad as to carry his resolve into execution. The gist of theletter was that he had tried in every way to verify the WillieHughes theory, and had failed, and that as Cyril Graham had givenhis life for this theory, he himself had determined to give his ownlife also to the same cause. The concluding words of the letterwere these: 'I still believe in Willie Hughes; and by the time youreceive this, I shall have died by my own hand for Willie Hughes'ssake: for his sake, and for the sake of Cyril Graham, whom I droveto his death by my shallow scepticism and ignorant lack of faith. The truth was once revealed to you, and you rejected it. It comesto you now stained with the blood of two lives, --do not turn awayfrom it. '

It was a horrible moment. I felt sick with misery, and yet I couldnot believe it. To die for one's theological beliefs is the worstuse a man can make of his life, but to die for a literary theory!It seemed impossible. 

I looked at the date. The letter was a week old. Some unfortunatechance had prevented my going to the club for several days, or Imight have got it in time to save him. Perhaps it was not too late. I drove off to my rooms, packed up my things, and started by thenight-mail from Charing Cross. The journey was intolerable. Ithought I would never arrive. As soon as I did I drove to the Hotell'Angleterre. They told me that Erskine had been buried two daysbefore in the English cemetery. There was something horriblygrotesque about the whole tragedy. I said all kinds of wild things, and the people in the hall looked curiously at me. 

Suddenly Lady Erskine, in deep mourning, passed across thevestibule. When she saw me she came up to me, murmured somethingabout her poor son, and burst into tears. I led her into hersitting-room. An elderly gentleman was there waiting for her. Itwas the English doctor. 

We talked a great deal about Erskine, but I said nothing about hismotive for committing suicide. It was evident that he had not toldhis mother anything about the reason that had driven him to sofatal, so mad an act. Finally Lady Erskine rose and said, Georgeleft you something as a memento. It was a thing he prized verymuch. I will get it for you. 

As soon as she had left the room I turned to the doctor and said, 'What a dreadful shock it must have been to Lady Erskine! I wonderthat she bears it as well as she does. '

'Oh, she knew for months past that it was coming, ' he answered. 

'Knew it for months past!' I cried. 'But why didn't she stop him?Why didn't she have him watched? He must have been mad. '

The doctor stared at me. 'I don't know what you mean, ' he said. 

'Well, ' I cried, 'if a mother knows that her son is going to commitsuicide--'

'Suicide!' he answered. 'Poor Erskine did not commit suicide. Hedied of consumption. He came here to die. The moment I saw him Iknew that there was no hope. One lung was almost gone, and theother was very much affected. Three days before he died he asked mewas there any hope. I told him frankly that there was none, andthat he had only a few days to live. He wrote some letters, and wasquite resigned, retaining his senses to the last. '

At that moment Lady Erskine entered the room with the fatal pictureof Willie Hughes in her hand. 'When George was dying he begged meto give you this, ' she said. As I took it from her, her tears fellon my hand. 

The picture hangs now in my library, where it is very much admiredby my artistic friends. They have decided that it is not a Clouet, but an Oudry. I have never cared to tell them its true history. But sometimes, when I look at it, I think that there is really agreat deal to be said for the Willie Hughes theory of Shakespeare'sSonnets. 

Footnotes:

{1} Sonnet xx. 2. 

{2} Sonnet xxvi. 1. 

{3} Sonnet cxxvi. 9. 

{4} Sonnet cix. 14. 

{5} Sonnet i. 10. 

{6} Sonnet ii. 3. 

{7} Sonnet viii. 1. 

{8} Sonnet xxii. 6. 

{9} Sonnet xcv. 1.